“Liar,” Sloan said. “That’s why you could never win playing poker. You can’t hide your feelings.”
“At least I have them.”
“If I’m not being paid to show emotion I can’t see why I should bother,” Sloan said. “Real emotions are dangerous. On the other hand, controlled emotions make excellent tools.”
“Or weapons,” Claire said. “Are you being kind to him, at least?”
“What do you care?”
“He’s a nice man, Sloan,” Claire said. “Unfortunately for him, nice men are like snack foods to you.”
“It wasn’t hard to convince him,” Sloan said. “I’m sorry if that hurts.”
“No, you’re not,” Claire said. “You’re especially pleased that it hurts.”
“That’s true,” Sloan said. “To answer the question you didn’t ask, yes, he regrets what he did.”
“He said that?”
“He didn’t have to,” Sloan said. “It’s there in his eyes: disgust and contempt.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that he looks at you that way?”
“It’s not me he’s looking at that way; it’s when he looks at himself in the mirror. He’s always perfectly divine to me.”
Claire gently washed each hairpiece, affixed them to wig blocks, and dried them to just barely damp with a diffuser on the end of the hairdryer, set to low; best to keep the heat damage to a minimum. Sloan stood up and leaned toward the mirror, where she very closely examined every pore on her face, starting at what would have been her hairline had she any hair.
“I’m thinking of having some maintenance work done,” Sloan said. “What do you think?”
“It won’t settle in time for the campaign,” Claire said.
“You’re right,” Sloan said. “Who will tell me these things if not you?”
Claire sectioned the damp hair and secured it with large clips. She used large soup-can-sized rollers and a special setting lotion that was water soluble so it wouldn’t leave any residue. Once the wigs were set she propped up each of them on a milk crate under a hood dryer set to low, and set the timers.
“Did you go to the engagement party?” Claire asked her.
“I did,” Sloan said. “I met Mario Testino; he’s shooting me for Vanity Fair.”
“Did you reschedule British Vogue?”
“It’s this weekend,” Sloan said. “We’re going up to Blenheim Palace.”
“That should be beautiful. The flowers will be blooming.”
“You could come.”
Claire didn’t answer. She was remembering one cold, rainy afternoon she and Carlyle spent in Woodstock, near Oxford, wandering through what Carlyle referred to as “a monument to Baroque excess.” They were newly in love; in that stage where it was imperative to always be touching. When parted for even a brief period of time her longing for him had been an ache in her chest. Sloan hadn’t known about it, yet; no one did. It was still their delicious secret.
“You were sweet together,” Sloan said.
Claire reflected that Sloan always had an uncanny way of reading her mind.
“I admit I was jealous,” Sloan said. “I saw how he looked at you. No one has ever looked at me that way. With lust, yes; or pride of ownership, always; but not love. I hated you for making me think about that every time I saw you together.”
“That’s amazingly honest.”
“Why not be honest?” Sloan said with a shrug. “You can’t tell anybody.”
“So you took him out of spite?”
“That was just a bonus” Sloan said. “He perfectly fits the role I need him to play. He gives me credibility in British theater circles, which I’m determined to have, and he looks great in a kilt. The mean queens who run everything will adore him. He’s got rough edges, genuine talent, and an accent.”
“I warned him,” Claire said. “I’ve seen you do it before; to business partners, costars, producers, directors, nobodies who you couldn’t care less about, and people who thought they were your closest friends.”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Sloan said. “He’s only a man, after all; and an actor. He knew what the opportunity could mean, what it does mean. He’s already getting offers.”
“I’m glad he didn’t come.”
“I didn’t tell him where I was going,” Sloan said. “He thinks I’m at a spa in Arizona.”
“Does he know Tuppy’s dead?”
“I doubt it,” Sloan said. “He was in Scotland when I left.”
“He liked Tuppy; they used to get drunk together and play pub quizzes. No one could beat them when they teamed up.”
Sloan didn’t say anything. In her examination routine she was down to her neck, holding her head this way and that, using a hand mirror to inspect all angles.
“You need to ease up on the Botox,” Claire said. “You look great in photographs but it will ruin your re-shoots.”
“It’s impossible to win,” Sloan said. “If I let myself age naturally I’ll have no work; if I fight against it I’ll work longer but lose everyone’s respect. It’s a fine line.”
“Nice pun,” Claire said. “The most important thing is to be able to emote on screen in close up. If you turn yourself into a waxworks no one will be able to see your actual talent.”
“My next project doesn’t start until after awards season,” Sloan said. “I can shoot my forehead silly between now and then, just not around the mouth. Winners need to smile.”
“Don’t go overboard with the fillers,” Claire said. “If you don’t go pumping your lips full of anything, and don’t get those awful cheek implants, you can get away with everything else for a long time.”
“You should be a plastic surgery stylist,” Sloan said. “It could be your new career.”
Claire sat in the second hydraulic chair and put her feet up on the counter.
“Those shoes,” Sloan said. “Really, Claire?”
“My feet hurt,” Claire said. “Leave me alone.”
Claire hadn’t realized how tired she was until she sat down. It felt so familiar to hang out with Sloan, talking about her and obsessing over what she should do or wear. Despite herself, Claire could feel herself being drawn back into her old role.
“When is your Actor’s Studio interview airing?”
“In September,” Sloan said, “to coincide with the Vanity Fair, Vogue, and People covers.”
“You’re winning the trifecta there,” Claire said.
“Ayelet is worth every penny,” Sloan said. “The woman never sleeps.”
“Are you going to do that sci fi thing with the haunted space ship?”
“No,” Sloan said. “I’m doing the rom com with Clifford.”
“Aren’t you two getting a little old for romantic comedy?”
“Our last movie together did a half billion worldwide,” Sloan said. “That’s some serious chick flick coinage.”
“What are you getting out of it?”
“Ten million plus one percent of the gross,” Sloan said. “It’s my best deal, yet.”
“I’m surprised his wife is letting him off the leash for that.”
“Ticket buyers love to see us together. We’re negotiating a relationship.”
“What about Carlyle?”
“Carlyle’s contract ends after awards season. Clifford doesn’t have anything in contention this year. He’s shooting a World War II thing in Austria right now and then that Harvey remake in North Carolina right after, so he’s not available until next March; which is perfect timing.”
“Won’t stealing America’s Sweetheart’s husband create negative press?”
“It all depends on how well it’s orchestrated,” Sloan said. “Ayelet used to work for Clifford’s agent. They’re putting together a media strategy for it. Plus, his wife can use the sympathy to boost her own profile. She’s already got a younger lover on the side, and he’ll be credited with healing her broken heart. We’ll get a lot of tabloid coverage out of it, and that wi
ll boost ticket sales, so everyone wins in the end.”
“What will happen to Carlyle?”
“After award season we’ll break up, due to the Oscar curse, of course. Then I’ll cry on Clifford’s shoulder and we’ll fall madly in love, despite how wrong it is.”
“He’s so high maintenance, though, and such a drama king. You fought over every scene.”
“That was passion, darling, and it translated into onscreen chemistry. As long as I don’t forbid him from wearing women’s lingerie in private we’ll get along famously in public.”
“Is he gay?”
“No, sweetie, he just likes to feel pretty.”
“That’s dialogue.”
“It’s also the truth.”
Sloan finished her above-the-neck inspection and Claire had every reason to believe she might strip and continue downward. Claire got to her feet just as the timer dinged, removed both wigs from under the dryers, refastened them to the stands clamped to the countertop, and left them to cool. Sloan picked up a tabloid paper and some celebrity gossip magazines and sat back down in the hydraulic chair to read.
“I guess you heard that russkiy shlyuha bore Sid another girl,” she said.
“That makes five, doesn’t it?”
“She’s banging her trainer. This last one may not be Sid’s.”
“Does he know?”
“He probably doesn’t care. He’s got something going on with his new assistant.”
“Where’s Portia?”
It was Sloan’s turn to flinch, but Claire pretended not to notice.
“Boarding school somewhere,” Sloan said, feigning disinterest.
“She should be graduating soon,” Claire said. “She was five when she lived with us and that was at least twelve years ago.”
“Yes, and if it weren’t for you she’d be dead; isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
“I try not to think about it,” Claire said.
“She said she could swim.”
“She was afraid to displease you,” Claire said.
“She needed too much attention,” Sloan said. “She yapped all the time. It drove me nuts.”
“She was just a little kid,” Claire said. “That’s how they are. That’s why you shouldn’t adopt one.”
The phone rang and Claire answered, explained why Denise wasn’t there, and made an appointment for the customer.
“Are you thinking of buying this place?” Sloan asked her after she hung up.
“I’m just helping out an old friend,” Claire said.
Claire removed the rollers, combed out and styled the hairpieces, and gave them a light fixative spray. She then loosely tied a hair net around each one to support the weight of the hair so it wouldn’t flatten the style before Sloan wore it.
“I could teach you how to do most of this,” Claire said. “You’ve seen me do it enough.”
“No,” Sloan said. “I haven’t done my own hair since I met you.”
“We’ve come a long way from the Palomino Club.”
“I loved that job; it was so simple. Take off your clothes, shake your ass, and collect your money.”
“That’s how you met Sergio.”
“Good ole Sergio; he was my first submissive. I didn’t know what in the hell I was doing.”
“I never could understand why men would pay you to be mean to them.”
“Powerful men like to be worshipped in public and abused in private,” Sloan said. “Once a beautiful woman understands that she can rule the world.”
“Did you like that job better than the porn?”
“I learned a lot about lighting from doing porn.”
“And you met Vincent.”
“I still put flowers on his grave every summer. He was the best producer I’ve ever worked with.”
“He really believed in you.”
“He took Tammy Jo Hogsett and turned her into Sloan Merryweather,” she said. “I owe all I have now to him.”
Claire put the hairnet-covered hairpieces on Styrofoam forms, lowered them carefully into two shopping bags and loosely covered them with tissue paper. Sloan pulled the towel from her head and dropped it on the floor. She put on her ski jacket, flipped up the hood, slung her handbag over her shoulder, and took the shopping bags from Claire.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Sloan said, “as soon as you sign the agreement.”
“I should have that to you by noon,” Claire said.
She was feeling nostalgic and soft-hearted toward Sloan, whom she couldn’t help but excuse for being no more or less than exactly what she always had been. They had been together for twenty years. Sloan had shown her the world and made her rich; that should count for something.
“Good luck, Sloan,” Claire said. “I hope everything works out for you.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Sloan said, as she paused at the door. “I banged your brother last night.”
“My brother died over twenty-five years ago,” Claire said.
“The bartender,” Sloan said. “Something Fitzpatrick: Peter? Paul? Perry?”
“Patrick,” Claire said. “Did he tell you he was my brother?”
“He didn’t have to,” Sloan said. “He looks just like you.”
Claire shook her head.
“Goodbye, Sloan,” she said.
“Call me when you’re ready to come back,” Sloan said, and as if by magic, the dark sedan appeared out of the darkness, pulled up to the curb, and swallowed Sloan whole.
Claire cleaned the shop and locked up. She walked down to the corner, where what used to be Davis’s Diner was now the Pine Mountain Cafe. It was eight o’clock and the restaurant was filled with students and tourists. Claire read the menu posted on the window and was reminded of the bistros in Aspen or Big Sky. What Patrick had referred to as “frog snot” on his sandwich had actually been pesto.
She crossed the street diagonally where Pine Mountain Road met Rose Hill Avenue, and walked past the bank, up to Maggie’s bookstore, Little Bear Books. Through the window she could see more students and tourists sitting in the café, drinking out of either very big or very little coffee cups. She walked on down the street to where Rose Hill Avenue ended at the gates of Eldridge College. She waved to the night watchman, who was an old friend of her father’s.
Claire crossed the street and walked back toward town; past the Bijou Theater, currently hosting a short films festival, and then Delvecchio’s IGA, which now had a big red movie rental kiosk outside and a sign on the door that read, “Lift passes and trail maps sold here.”
She walked past the post office, then the Rodefeffer Realty office, and turned down Pine Mountain Road toward the river. Instead of turning right on Iris Avenue she went all the way down to where the road ended in the water, between the old train depot and the glassworks. The Mountain Laurel Depot Bar and Grill seemed to be packed with people as well. A sign on the gate of the old Rodefeffer Glassworks announced it was soon to become “Wilberforce Cycles,” a bicycle factory specializing in racing and mountain bikes.
The train tracks by the river had been converted into a rail trail. Claire stood in the middle of the path and took deep breaths of cold air. Claire enjoyed the sound of the water rushing by, and how clean the cold air felt and smelled as it rolled across her face. She thought of all the oceans, lakes, rivers, and streams she had stood next to over the past twenty years. Only this particular water looked, felt, and smelled like home.
Claire backtracked and walked past the new condos on Lotus Avenue. She was trying to decide which end unit was Courtenay’s when she realized Stanley’s car was parked outside the one on the farthest end. Claire’s heart was racing as she got nearer, determined to see the license plate in order to be sure. The door to the last condo opened and Claire ducked down behind the car parked next to Stanley’s. She heard a man’s deep voice say, “We’ll be in touch.” Claire duck-walked to the front end of the car she was hiding behind and raised her head up high enough to peek thr
ough the windows. She saw Stanley’s driver get in Stanley’s car.
She only heard one car door close, so Claire surmised either Stanley had stayed in his car or the driver was alone. The car backed out and Claire stayed hidden in the shadows until it was gone. Then she quickly walked home.
When she opened her parents’ front door she was shocked to find Stanley sitting in the living room with her father. She looked back out the front door but his car wasn’t there.
“Hello, Claire,” Stanley said.
“What are you doing here?” Claire said, and then to her father, “are you alright?”
“He’s looking for that key ring your friend gave me,” Ian said. “I told him we can’t find it. My memory’s not what it used to be.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Claire said. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s actually quite a big deal to me,” Stanley said. “Sloan told me she didn’t leave her phone at the Inn. I’d like to know what you were doing in her room.”
Claire’s father was nodding his head and his exaggerated frown was back. He was also rocking a little, back and forth; this was a new behavior.
“I want you to leave,” Claire said to Stanley. “Right now.”
Stanley rose and smiled at Claire, but not with his eyes.
“Your father and I were having a nice chat,” he said.
“My parents are off limits to you and Sloan,” Claire said. “I’ll get a restraining order if I have to. I’ll call the press.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Stanley said to Ian, who looked bewildered.
Claire opened the front door. Stanley walked through it, and then paused.
“Don’t ever threaten me again,” he said in a low voice, still smiling. “You should know better than to underestimate what I can do.”
“Don’t you threaten me anymore,” Claire said. “Don’t you underestimate me or anyone else in this town. We don’t care how much money Sloan has or how mean you are. We’ll do whatever we need to in order to take care of our own.”
“Cute dog,” Stanley said to Claire. “It’s actually Sloan’s dog, I believe, isn’t it? I don’t think you ever had the paperwork changed to reflect new ownership.”
Claire closed the door in his face and locked it.
Peony Street Page 24
