by Dyan Sheldon
Leone is in the family living room, pacing in front of a sofa.
“Beer!” she wails when she sees Jack. “They think she was trying to steal a six-pack of beer! How could they think something like that?”
Jack takes a chair across from where Leone is trying to wear a track in the carpet, but sits on the edge, as if he may get back on his feet at any second. “She had been drinking, you know,” he says. “Beer, as a matter of fact.”
Leone waves her hands in the air; her bracelets clink and clank. “But that doesn’t mean she was trying to steal it.”
“No. I know a lot of people who like beer who’ve never stolen a can in their lives.” Jack sighs. “But it does mean she drinks it.”
Leone collapses onto the couch. “Oh, Jack, it was hideous, just hideous.” Tears start to fall. He can’t help but think that they’ve been waiting for him. “A police car! My daughter came home in a police car! I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. Thank god they didn’t arrest her. I mean, can you imagine? Thank god the policemen recognized her.” One of them even got her autograph for his daughter. “And naturally, she denied everything,” sniffles Leone. “But of course it’s not like they could prove she was with those boys. You talked to your contact on the force, right? They can’t prove she was with them.”
He’s always admired the way Leone can cry without ruining her make-up. It’s obvious from where Paloma gets her acting talent. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t look good. Those boys aren’t exactly great criminal minds. They’ve been doing the same scam up and down the coast. They hit that store twice already. Just not with Paloma.”
“It could still just be a coincidence that she was in there at the same time,” insists Leone. “And even if they catch them, it’ll just be her word against theirs. I mean, who are they going to believe? Petty thieves or Faith Cross?”
Jack knows whom he’d believe. “Maybe. But it’s still not all good news, you know.”
“Well yes I do know that, Jack. Why do you think I’m so upset?”
Motherly love, what else? thinks Jack, but says nothing.
“It’s all over the Internet already,” Leone goes on. “Even the video from the store of her half-dressed…” Leone shudders involuntarily, thinking about all those little girls with their Faith Cross backpacks and their Faith Cross angel wings. And all their parents, watching their children’s idol wearing next to nothing and a pair of sunglasses trying to hold up a grocery store on YouTube. She can almost hear the cash registers of America go silent as a tomb.
“Don’t think the sponsors haven’t heard about it already, either. You can imagine how pleased they are,” says Jack. The sponsors are the kind of Christians who think Jesus was too liberal. “That should help us get the renewal.”
“But you explained to them, right? And you can do something about the video, can’t you?” Leone clasps her hands, almost as if she’s beseeching him. “You know people. You can do something.”
“Leone, listen to me.” Jack leans towards her. “The video isn’t the biggest problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s more to this than the beer. It seems there’s also the small matter of breaking and entering. And criminal damage. One of the beach houses along the shore. It seems they’ve been using it as a hangout for a while. Someone clocked the car.”
Leone has stopped crying. “So you mean they did find them?”
Jack shakes his head. “No. They’re obviously not quite as stupid as they seem. By the time the cops got their tip, the kids were gone.”
“But they can’t think Paloma—”
“Why not?” asks Jack. “She was somewhere drinking beer. You know, since she’s underage.”
Leone frowns, thinking. “So you mean they might want to talk to her.”
“Question her,” corrects Jack. “Yeah they might want to do that.” He looks around the room as if he’s just realized they’re the only ones in it. “Where’s Arthur? He’s her business manager. We have to do some damage control. Pronto.”
“Arty’s not here.”
“Still? Did he go to dinner or to a Hindu wedding?”
“He went out again.”
“Right.” Jack tells himself not to panic. Then he tells Leone. “There’s no need to panic yet,” he says. “We can manage this. We just have to make sure we’re all on the same page. Where’s Paloma? We have to make her understand what’s at stake here.”
“She’s in her room. I locked her in.”
“Well unlock her,” orders Jack. “Get her out here now.”
While Leone goes clickclacking across the living room and down the hall, Jack composes what he’ll say to Paloma. He doesn’t want to attack her or make her feel bad; that won’t get him any farther than a bicycle in a blizzard. But he does have to make it clear to her in no uncertain terms that she has to stop messing around. She has to pull up her socks or her leggings or whatever it is they’re wearing nowadays and get with the programme. She wouldn’t like it in jail. She wouldn’t even like it living in a house with only two bathrooms. She’s not stupid – at least he doesn’t think she’s stupid; sometimes it’s a little hard to tell. She’ll see reason. She’ll understand. After all, she has as much to lose as the rest of them.
Leone returns, her mouth like a lemon that’s been squeezed dry. “She’s not there.”
“What?”
“She’s not there. She’s gone.”
Jack misses a breath. So now would probably be the right time to start to panic. “What do you mean, she’s not there? Where is she? How could she get away? I thought you locked her in.”
“She’s an angel, remember?” Leone throws herself back on the sofa. “She probably flew.”
“This is all your fault,” says Jack. “If you’d told me what was going on I could’ve stopped it before it went this far. But oh no, you couldn’t do that. Because you’re her mother. You could handle it.” The little brat is probably out robbing a bank this time. “Well done, Leone. They’re going to make you Hollywood Mom of the ye—” He breaks off suddenly, his mind pedalling backwards. He had a thought. He had a thought that gave him an idea. Or would give him an idea if he could remember what it was.
Leone sits up a little straighter. “You’re not having a heart attack, are you, Jack?”
“Brat,” says Jack. That’s the word. Brat. “We have to send her to brat camp. Tonight. Just in case they do have second thoughts about questioning her.” Preventive rehabilitation. “Of course, we have to find her first.”
“But we can’t send her away.” Given so many choices of things to be upset about, Leone is suddenly reasonable and calm. “What about the show? She can’t break her contract. And she can’t be in brat camp and do the show. She can’t be in two places at once.”
Two places at once…
Jack stares past her, unseeing. Jack is thinking. If a herd of unicorns stampeded across the terrace he wouldn’t notice. And if he were a machine and not a Hollywood agent, you would hear wheels turning and pistons pumping and a motor humming. You might even hear the ringing of a bell.
“Well, can she?” Leone persists. “I know I failed science but—”
He holds up one hand. “Quiet, Leone. I think I have an idea.”
Leone’s smile would turn blue litmus paper pink. “What? You’re going to clone her?”
“Something like that.”
She laughs. Hahaha. “Something like cloning?”
Jack nods. “That’s right. Something like cloning.” He puts on his final-offer expression. “You remember that girl?”
“Girl? What gir—” Leone breaks off as she finally catches up with him. Now the silence is on her side of the room. It is an awed silence. “You can’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking. Can you?”
Jack nods. “I do believe I can.”
“You mean that girl in the coffee house? You mean you think that we can switch her for Paloma—”
“Exactly
.”
“But it’s impossible. People will know the difference.”
“Will they?” Jack shrugs. What makes you think that?
“Of course they will. Why wouldn’t they? She’s shorter, for one thing.”
“Not by much. She can wear lifts. Higher heels.”
“But that girl probably lives in a trailer. How is she going to impersonate Paloma Rose?”
Jack makes the face of someone trying hard not to laugh himself silly. “What? You think somebody’s going to miss Paloma’s scintillating conversation? The only time she talks to anyone is to yell at them or give an order.”
“What about Maria?”
“What about her? I can handle Maria. She’s not going to say anything. She likes this job. And I don’t think she’s in any hurry to go back to hungry Mexico.”
“But what about everybody else?”
“Everybody who? Vassily’s gone. The trainer and the drama coach – that crew – they can all be gone, too. Start again with new people who never met Paloma.”
“And the girl? If she sells her story?”
“Leone, please. I don’t work with anyone without a contract and a confidentiality agreement. Not even my dentist.”
“But the show… What if this girl can’t act?”
Jack silently thanks his mother for teaching him patience. “Leone, with all due respect, we’re talking about Paloma Rose in Angel in the House here. Not Dame Judi Dench in Macbeth.
“But there’s so much she’ll have to learn.” Leone shudders delicately. “She doesn’t even stand properly.”
“That’s where you come in, my dear.” Jack gives her his very best smile. Just take hold of this apple, Eve. “You’ll be like Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady.”
“I’ll be more like the miracle worker if I pull this off,” mutters Leone. But the look she gives him is more calculating than doubtful. “You really think it’ll work?”
“If anyone can do it, you can.” There are a lot of things Jack Silk doesn’t like about Leone Minnick, but not having scruples isn’t one of them. He knows better than anyone that Paloma Rose’s career didn’t happen through luck, accident, or chance – and certainly not through talent. It happened because Leone Minnick wanted it to happen and made very sure that it did. Just as she now wants to keep the evil wolf of failure from the Minnicks’ ten-million-dollar door. “And in any event, it has to,” he adds. “We’re at the very bottom of the option barrel here.”
Leone gets to her feet and starts pacing again, her brain already engaged. “We can get coloured contacts. We can get some nobody to do the basic cut and dye and then I’ll maintain it myself – we don’t want any big mouth celebrity beautician selling his story to the press…”
Jack’s smile deepens. Eve has just taken her first bite. Crunch.
It’s been a normal Sunday for Oona. If it were a school child its report would read Could do better, but it’s been OK. Because her father still isn’t ready to get out of his pyjamas and leave the house, she got up early to sweep the courtyard and the stairs, fish the week’s debris off the netting over the pool, and replace the light bulbs that had burned out or been stolen in the walkways. Harriet helped her, of course, trotting behind Oona, pulling the garbage bag, and squeezing under shrubs to bring out a can or a plastic bottle. Once they’d done that, and checked on Mrs Figueroa, Oona straightened up the apartment, did some errands for her dad, and fixed his lunch. After that, she and Harriet took their usual three buses to Ferlinghetti’s. Where she has served coffee and tea and food with names all afternoon, and, now and then, looked out the window as a nice car went by, wondering about the girl driving – where she was going and whether or not when she got home she’d have to try and talk her father into changing his pyjamas since it’s been four days and he’s starting to smell.
By the end of Oona’s shift, her feet ache from so much walking, her jaw hurts from so much smiling and if she closes her eyes she sees a thick, white mug floating in the air and a disembodied voice saying, So does that come with fries? Oona believes that, some day, she’ll look back at this time in her life and if she doesn’t laugh she at least will smile. Oona has plans. She’s going to do really well in school so she gets a scholarship to go to college, and then she’s going to veterinary school, and then, after she’s got her practice going and paid off Abbot’s debts, she’s going to buy a house outside the city and her dad’s going to build a big kennel behind the house because he was a really ace carpenter before he lost his job and gave up, and she’s going to be the best vet in California and he’s going to be his old self again and everything’s going to be all right. Her mother will still be dead, of course, but aside from that things will be as close to back the way they once were as is possible.
With that thought in her head – that some day everything’s going to be all right again – Oona signs off her shift, puts Harriet and the daily doggy bag donated to her by Brightman into her backpack, says her goodbyes and walks out of the restaurant and into the almost visible air.
It isn’t until the door of the Jaguar suddenly opens in front of her that Oona even sees it.
“Excuse me, Ms Ginness?” A man leans over the passenger seat. “I need to talk to you. I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?”
“How do you know my name?” If she didn’t recognize him from yesterday, she wouldn’t stop. She’d just keep walking, and if he came after her she’d tell him to leave her alone or she’d call the cops. If he touched her, she’d set her dog on him. Harriet may have (mainly) the body of a Jack Russell, but she has the spirit of a Rottweiler. But of course Oona does recognize him. He was in Ferlinghetti’s yesterday with a woman who acted as if she was some big movie star doing a photo shoot at an inner-city McDonald’s. He paid for two espressos, an Americano and the all-day breakfast that he didn’t eat with a platinum credit card.
“You remember me from yesterday,” he says, ignoring her question. “My name’s—”
“Jack Silk.” Brightman and the other waitress, both of them actors, knew who he was right away. Mega major deal, wrote-the-spiel agent, said Brightman. Used to be the biggest shark in the water. Hobs with all the nobs. The waitress figured his car must have broken down. Either that or he was lost. “You’re an agent.”
This is going to be easier than he thought.
“Oh, so you know who I am.” There are times when Jack has the smile you’d expect to see on an angel plucking at a harp as he floats by on a cloud lined with silver, and this is one of them. “So if we could just talk for a couple of min—”
“I don’t want to be an actor.”
Or maybe it’s going to be harder than he thought.
“That’s not why I want to talk to you. I have a very inter—”
“Whatever. I don’t care what it is.” She should never have stopped. That’s always the first mistake. “It doesn’t matter, I have to go. I have to get home. Like, now.”
“Well hop in,” says Jack. “I’ll give you a ride. We can talk on the way.”
“You have to be nuts.” Jack Silk’s heart is not the kind to go around leaping for joy, but it does do a little skip. The girl’s perfect. She has the same why-don’t-you-eat-that-toadstool-and-die expression that endears Paloma to so many people. “You think I’m going to get in your car? I don’t know you.”
“But you know who I am.” He opens the glove compartment and reaches inside. “Look, here’s my driver’s license and my passport. You can hold them out the window while we drive. You—”
“What’s going on here? Is this guy bothering you, Oona? Are you OK?”
Oona looks over. It’s Brightman. He isn’t actually holding a knife, but he somehow looks as if he is. “It’s that guy from yesterday. That agent. He wants me to get in his car.”
Jack Silk’s heart may not be much for leaping, but it has no trouble sinking like a satellite in quicksand. “Look,” he says, “it’s not like she’s making it sound. I appreciate your— I
think it’s great that you want to protect Ms Ginness, but all I want to do is talk to her. That’s all I want to do.”
Brightman jerks his head towards Ferlinghetti’s. “Then why don’t you talk inside?”
“I have to go home,” says Oona. “My Dad—”
“I’m sure Mr Silk will pay for you to take a cab,” says Brightman. “That way you won’t be late.”
“What a good idea,” says Jack.
With nothing and everything in common, Paloma Rose and Oona Ginness consider their situations and come to the same decision
It’s a crazy idea. Jack Silk’s the agent of some TV star who, he says, looks just like Oona. Give or take an inch or two and a couple of other unimportant details. He and this girl’s parents want Oona to impersonate her. To live in her house, sleep in her bed, wear her clothes, and act in her weekly show.
They came up with this off-at-least-a-thousand-walls idea because the TV star is overworked, exhausted, hounded by that pack of hyenas known as the press, and possibly on the verge of a breakdown. It’s been all-systems-go for the last few years, with hardly an afternoon to call her own. As if that isn’t enough, she broke up with her boyfriend towards the end of last year, which she took very hard. “The poor kid,” murmurs Jack Silk, “she doesn’t know if she’s coming or going. She needs a rest.” Only yesterday the poor kid was in tears, begging them to let her get away for a few weeks. Just to be able to sit on a beach and do nothing for a while. But a new season is about to begin, and if she steps away now it could jeopardize her entire career. Jack Silk says this is because the politics of Hollywood make the intrigues and conspiracies of the old royal courts of Europe look like a bunch of four-year-olds playing musical chairs.
Which is why he and the Minnicks want Oona to pretend to be Paloma Rose. To protect her when she’s at her most fragile and vulnerable. Paloma Rose wants her to do it, too. Paloma Rose sobbed with joy when they told her their idea. And they’ll pay Oona, of course. They’ll pay her a lot. But the money doesn’t make the idea any less crazy. And that’s what Oona tells him.
