The Fan Letter

by Nancy Temple Rodrigue

  Mona was quicker on the uptake than Leslie who, at that moment, was yawning. “Why now? Something happen?” asked their curious boss.

  Leslie threw a sour glance at Janice. “Thanks, Mouth.”

  Janice's feelings were hurt. “I didn't say anything. You're sure a grouch when you don't get enough sleep,” she declared with a pout as she went out front.

  Leslie sighed and muttered a “Sorry” after her. “I had a sudden inspiration and wanted to get it written down. Took longer than I thought.”

  Mona set a cup of strong tea in front of Leslie. “You're working awfully hard on that story. Shouldn't you wait until you hear on the first one?”

  Leslie looked up from the cup with just her eyes and suddenly smiled, but remained silent.

  “You heard? Why didn't you say so?”

  “Yeah. Saturday. It will be out in four or five months and they want to see the Western now,” Leslie yawned.

  “I guess you were more excited Saturday,” her boss decided at Leslie's unenthusiastic response.

  “I was awake Saturday,” was the flat reply.

  “Well, this will perk you up. Mrs. Penney asked for you. There's a dinner/dance Thursday at The Ballroom. The van is ready to go.”

  “Naw. Send Janice. I don't need this,” was the only remnant of her plan for her new attitude that she could recall.

  Mona smiled indulgently and tossed the keys onto the table. “Oh, but you get along so well with dear Mrs. Penney. She asks for you every time.”

  “Mine's the only name she can remember. It's the same as her cat,” grumbled Leslie as she headed for the back door where the van was parked.

  “Don't forget. Happy. Perky. Friendly. Smile!”

  Leslie called back, “Grumpy and Sleepy were the only two who made it,” as the door to the van slammed shut.

  Leslie looked over the information sheet on Mrs. Penney. Dress size twelve. Shoe size eight wide. Favorite color was yellow. Looks best in blue. Address. Previous purchases. Names of family members. Pet's names.

  In the van were ten different dresses, twelve pairs of shoes, twelve pairs of earrings, twelve necklaces, six bracelets, four wraps, six purses, and four shades of hosiery. Leslie groaned. She would be there for three hours. At least. But, she reminded herself, there's always that five dollar tip and all the sugar cookies she can eat. Wahoo.

  Around lunchtime Wayne wandered into the boutique. He waved a greeting to Mona and snuck up behind Janice who hadn't heard him come in.

  He said in a deep, gravely voice, “Hey, Red, you got anything in a size fourteen husky, preferably backless?”

  She was startled both by the voice and the request. “Wha…Oh, Wayne, knock it off!

  she blushed. “And don't call me Red! I hate that,” she added testily.

  “Sorry, Beautiful. Where's Madame Author?”

  Janice's feelings were still hurt. “You mean, Madame Grouch? She's out on a call.”

  “What's wrong, Jan? She write you out of her will?” he teased.

  “Madame stayed up too late writing and now she's a grump,” was the brief explanation.

  Ah, so that was what she was doing, he thought. “Well, when do you expect her?” he asked as he helped himself to a cup of coffee and a cookie.

  Mona looked up from the invoices. “You never know with Mrs. Penney.”

  “Mrs. Penney?” Wayne laughed and spilled some coffee on the antique table. “Oh, that will help her mood!” He had been told numerous stories about the different patrons and felt as if he knew them personally.

  He looked at one of the mannequins and got an idea. He stood next to it and put his arm on its shoulder.

  Janice looked back to see what he was doing since he had suddenly become quiet. “Oh, for crying out loud, Fields. We're not that kind of a store!” she exclaimed.

  “No. No. I have an idea. Do you have a blond wig for the little lady here?”

  Around one o'clock, Leslie trudged in. There was a five dollar bill sticking out of her jacket's breast pocket like a hanky. “I get there,” she started in as if she was in the midst of a conversation already, “and she's eating a sandwich. Looks over the ten dresses and claims she's been on a strict diet and is now a size eight. Don't we have anything else? Do we have a backless yellow chiffon? Are they still wearing black in Paris?”

  Leslie continued her monologue as she unloaded the van with Paula's help. Mona looked over the invoice. One dress, two pairs of shoes, all the hosiery, one purse, and one necklace. Not bad.

  “We've been busy, too,” Mona told her. “It was difficult keeping track of where everyone was. While we restock this, would you check over the dressing rooms, Leslie?”

  Someone always forgot something. Glasses. Sweaters. You never knew.

  Leslie quickly checked behind the velvet curtains. In dressing room number three she gasped to find a man and a woman in the middle of a passionate embrace. The man was irritated at the interruption and looked up angrily.

  “Wayne!” Leslie cried. “I…what…You…Oh!” she stammered.

  He turned his partner around. “Meet Sarah. She's a little stiff, but I think she likes me!”

  “Oh!” The curtain was thrown down. “That's not funny.”

  All the others disagreed with Leslie's assessment as they joined Wayne in laughing at his joke. Leslie was red and flustered and embarrassed by her own reaction.

  Wayne helped Mona return “Sarah” to her proper place in the shop.

  Leslie, still red, tried to change the subject. “Say, Mona, the van seemed to be smoking out the exhaust,” she told her boss and ignored Wayne who was eating another cookie and looking awfully pleased with himself.

  “I know,” Mona replied. “Our mechanic at the dealership ordered some part or other. I think he called it a Cadillac converter.”

  Wayne looked at her incredulously. “A what?” he demanded with a laugh.

  Mona waved him off. “I don't know cars. Something for the exhaust.”

  Janice piped up. “Well, order a Cadillac converter for my car, too. Mine must be broken. I've had it for five years and it still hasn't converted into a Cadillac!”

  Wayne started laughing and had to sit down. “Women! Oh, this is great! It's a…it's a catalytic converter! Cadillac converter! Oh, ow, my side!”

  The four women present failed to see what was so funny while Wayne tried to regain his composure. His face was all red as he wiped his eyes. He found himself ignored when they went about their duties.

  “Well, you've got to admit…” he started to explain, but then, wisely, decided to drop it. “Hey, Les, when are you going to be off for lunch?”

  “Don't know. When are you going to get some manners?”

  “Okay, fine,” he said good-naturedly, raising his hands in defeat. “I'll just eat alone. All by myself.”

  “Take Sarah,” four voices offered.

  “Touché!” he declared and waved his good-bye.

  Leslie watched him walk out of the shop. She sniffed. “Does that mean I don't get lunch?”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Dear Leslie,

  Congratulations on your book. That's great news. I look forward to receiving a copy. I'm glad you got your good work out there.

  I just finished another “Time Police” episode. Be sure to watch for it.

  Thanks for writing,

  Phillip Beck”

  Phillip put down his pen and looked over his brief letter. He really was glad that Leslie's book had sold. While he would have liked to have given her some of the tips she had broadly hinted about regarding scripts, he hesitated getting too involved. He knew most celebrities wouldn't have replied at all, and he knew he was taking a chance.

  Still, she wrote a nice letter and at least she asked about his career and seemed interested. Even though she had his home address, he didn't feel she was taking advantage of the situation.

  Sitting back in his chair, he wondered about this Bunny person. For some reason, her actual name
“Leslie” didn't stick in his memory once his short letters to her were written and in the mail. To him she was “Bunny.” He had learned bits and pieces about her through her letters, such as the fact that she worked in some kind of a boutique with another clerk with whom she had done some traveling. She had mentioned a trip to New York once and the Caribbean twice, and her friend had been to Europe. He also picked up that she was divorced. She had an interesting way of expressing herself. His agent Bill had thought she was funny. As Phillip looked over her latest letter once more, he wondered if she was serious about being called Madame Author. That would be a little presumptuous, he thought with a frown.

  “Handsss up, you dessspicable fiend, or I'll blassst you with my ray gun!” demanded an angry, lisping voice from the door of his study.

  Startled by the unexpected voice, Phillip jerked around in his chair, dropping Leslie's letter to the floor. He frowned at Eddie Chase who, in turn, gave him a big, charming grin.

  “Amy let me in,” Eddie causally explained as he scooped up the fallen paper and plopped down on the sofa. “What's this? A smoldering love letter?” he asked as he began reading. Quickly answering himself with a grunt, he uninterestedly mumbled, “Nope. So, who's this Madame Author Leslie? Anyone I know?” He held the page out to the still-frowning Phillip who snatched it back and set it on his desk.

  “No, you don't know her,” Phillip began with a short, clipped voice. Then, remembering his manners, he calmed himself and continued in a more friendly tone, “Actually, I've never met her, either. She wrote me on the set about a year ago and sent me a script. You were there, if you recall. You called it a dog letter,” he reminded Eddie who was watching him with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

  Trying to think back, Eddie was shaking his head. “Which episode? Last season? Oh, wait, I remember you were late to the set a lot, and you were very defensive about someone you called Kitty. Puppy. No, that's not right. It was Bunny, wasn't it? Was that her?”

  Phillip nodded as he leaned back in his leather desk chair. “That's her. She took the advice I gave her back then and made that script into a novel. This letter is the latest I have heard.”

  His friend started to look a little concerned. “The latest you've heard?” he repeated, leaning forward. “Are you two regular correspondents? That isn't something we're encouraged to do, you know.”

  “No, no, no. It's not like that,” Phillip hurriedly said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “She does all the writing. I've only contacted her twice. Well, three times when I send this,” he explained, indicating the obviously brief note still on the desk in front of him.

  “Well, more power to her if she's gotten published. Just as long as she doesn't get all spooky on you all of a sudden.” Eddie silently wondered if Sarah knew anything about this Bunny. He could sell tickets to that event!

  Phillip had irritably waved off that possibility, and, pushing his chair back, put his feet up on the desk. “What's up, Edward, or did you just come over to go through my mail?”

  Eddie stretched out on the comfortable sofa, put his hands behind his head and gave an amused smile. That was the closest Phillip ever came to telling a joke. “I just wanted to tell you about the party Friday night,” he told his friend, his eyes closed.

  “Friday? What party?”

  “The one you are throwing here for all your good friends and co-workers.”

  Phillip cast a heavy sigh. This was probably another silly prank. Tom was probably hiding around the corner, waiting for him to get irritated—which was probably going to happen pretty quickly the way the conversation was going. “What are you talking about?”

  “Tom, Cindy and I figured you've kept yourself shut up in here too long, so we're giving you a party.” He paused and then added, “Actually you are giving you a party. You need to see people more often, buddy,” Eddie told him half serious, half worried. “So, we made all the arrangements. All you have to do is provide the music, food, and drinks. We've done everything else.”

  Phillip's feet abruptly came down from the desk as he jerked forward with a glazed expression on his face. “What?! You've got to be kidding! That's only two days away! I don't know how to plan all that!”

  Eddie could tell he was really getting upset and was about to lose it. He kept forgetting Phillip had no sense of humor…. “Hold on, old man! Don't lose it!” he quickly said, holding up his hands. “We've taken care of all that. Really! All you have to do is clean the bathrooms and remember to be at home.” The message delivered, he stood to go and added, “And try to wear something pretty. You never know who you might meet.”

  Having risen to see Eddie to the door, Phillip frowned at his last words and grabbed his arm. “Hey, I'll go along with your little party, Edward, but I'm not looking to meet someone. Understand? I don't know what you know or what you think you know, but I am still a married man. All right?”

  Eddie glanced at the letter on the desk. “Yeah, Phil, I know. I didn't mean anything. I just think you need to have a little fun. I'm concerned about you. We all are. Okay? So sue me.”

  Phillip dropped his hand, embarrassed by his outburst. Running a hand through his hair, he looked down. “Sorry, Edward. I know you mean well. It's just….” He hesitated, hating to make his troubles public again. “It's just that things around here are still off.” He looked at the far wall and took a deep breath. “I already told you Davey calls Martin Daddy. Well, Sarah now refers to that scum as Dear. I don't know when, or if, they are ever coming home.”

  Eddie let out a low whistle as Phillip sat heavily on the sofa. “Sorry, old man, I had no idea things hadn't worked out yet. I heard through the trades how well she's going over in Japan, but now the France deal is definite? Why don't you go spend some time with them?” he offered for thought.

  The reply was a sick, despairing laugh. “I tried that, remember? I had it all worked out. Only they didn't have the time for me. They were too busy,” he said with a bitter edge. “Every time I call I get Martin. I've only talked to Sarah twice in three months. Davey has always been out on some outing. Or, so I've been told. I'm getting sick and tired of this, but I don't know what to do.”

  Eddie didn't know what to say to his friend. This further confiding from Phillip hadn't been expected. He usually never knew what was going on with this private man. But he now knew everything and was surprised by the depth of anger and hurt he was seeing. Phillip usually betrayed no emotion.

  Eddie hesitated. “Well, maybe this party isn't such a good idea. We could make some calls….”

  “No,” Phillip surprisingly interrupted. “Go ahead. You're right. It might do me some good.”

  “That's the spirit,” Eddie grinned. “Some good food and some good friends always help.”

  Phillip glanced at the papers on his desk. “Yeah. You can always count on some people to be there when you need them,” he muttered in a quiet voice that sounded far away.

  Following Phillip's glance to the letter on his desk, a worried expression wrinkled Eddie's brow once again as he looked back at Phillip. Phillip didn't notice the look on Eddie's face. He saw only the ivory-colored stationery.

  As Phillip strolled through his house chatting with the different guests, he noticed the soft classical jazz albums he had playing on the stereo system had been changed. Now hard rock blared over the hidden speakers throughout the house and terrace. The only notice the guests gave of the switch was that they were not talking a little louder and dancing a little faster out by the pool.

  He could tell the usual assortment of partiers were present: Fellow actors, directors, writers, agents, realtors, young hopefuls, lawyers, speculators, backers, patrons, and a few people whom no one knew but always showed up. The mood was relaxed and friendly. Deals would be discussed; movies would be argued over; past roles would be ribbed; lunches would be set; starlets would be introduced; real estate prices and locations would be considered; gossip would be exchanged.

  Phillip was mildly surprised t
o discover he was actually enjoying himself. Tom and Eddie were minding themselves, which was a relief all in itself. He had just had a fascinating discussion on the latest art exhibit downtown. He bypassed the lovely young hopefuls that threw wide-eyed, smiling glances at his handsome face. He had partaken in the debate about the quality of the plays coming out of New York as compared to their own here in Los Angeles.

  He found he was at ease in his role as host. Sarah had always planned and invited everyone with most of his friends never included. He was always easily bored by her models, photographers, agents, decorators and prospective employers. Almost nothing that her particular bunch discussed interested him. His world was equally unappealing to them. Phillip felt he should miss his wife's presence either at his side or mingling around the room. But, he didn't. The only twinge he felt was that Davey wasn't constantly sneaking halfway down the stairs to peek out at the colorful guests or wave at his Uncle Eddie. Phillip would always go up the stairs with some little dessert off one of the trays and carry him back up to his room. This memory was the only shadow on Phillip's evening.

  The host resisted his impulse to go look once again at Davey's room. Instead, he went out onto the terrace where ten or so couples were dancing. A few of the more adventuresome were frolicking in the heated pool, the rising steam in the cool air making it look like a misty sauna. He sat with Tom Young and a realtor introduced as Mike Upson. They were talking about some available beachfront property along the coast. Tom was interested in getting out of the hills and onto the ocean. Mike happened to know of one or two prime locations. When Mike's wife interrupted and took him away to dance, Phillip could see Tom was still contemplating the offers.

  “Say, Phil,” said Tom, suddenly looking over. “I need to make a call while this is still fresh in my mind. Can I use your phone?”

  “Sure. If you want some privacy in this madhouse, use my office in the back. Just close the door. No one should disturb you.”