Weird.
“If that’s my herbals,” Joy said, “keep them.”
“It’s...not your herbals.”
“Susan,” Joy said firmly. “If you don’t have a doctor, you can find one easily enough—”
The secretary continued to stare at her hand, which formed a tight, rather fat fist on the table, and Joy’s eyes traveled to it.
And slowly, so only Joy could see, Susan opened her hand, revealing something in its palm. Something that made Joy gasp.
A prescription bottle with a silver cap.
“Oh, shit,” Joy murmured.
Then Susan’s fingers closed around the bottle and she withdrew her hand from the table, slipping the pills back in her purse.
“Now you know who my doctor is,” Susan said.
Swallowing, shaking her head, Joy began, “How did you—?”
“Find out you’re Dr. Green’s patient, too? When I got in your purse for the herbals, yesterday.”
Ever since that day Joy had forgotten to take her pill, she’d been carrying them with her. In future she’d have to be more discreet.
“But...but you have a family,” Joy said, thoughts tumbling. “Those photos on your desk...”
Susan smirked. “They came with the frames.”
“No Jerome? No Robbie? No Clint?”
Susan laughed, once. “I’m glad you can remember their names, ‘cause I have trouble, sometimes.”
Someday Joy might laugh at that, too; right now she didn’t seem to have the capacity.
“Look, Susan,” she began, “you know I’ll do whatever I can for you. But you really should tell Dr. Green and get on some kind of medication—even if just to ease the pain.”
“No.”
Joy leaned forward. “For Christ’s sake why not? I would.”
“He’ll...he’ll put me out to pasture.”
And the woman blubbered into her hanky again.
Susan’s self-pitying stubbornness was exasperating. How could Joy help her secretary, if this fucking woman wouldn’t help herself?
“Don’t you see, Joy?” Susan asked, dabbing with the hanky. “I have to work. I don’t have enough built up in matching funds with X-Gen to retire on.”
“How long have you been...you?”
“A little over a year.”
Joy gestured dismissively. “But Kafer’s insurance...”
“I’d have to report to somebody other than Dr. Green. What if Kafer’s insurance-company doctors discover that a fifty-seven-year-old woman has been living in a thirty-four-year-old’s body? They may not pay. Maybe I’ll even be charged with some kind of fraud. Maybe it’d risk exposure for X-Gen, and...who knows what they might do?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Joy replied. “X-Gen knows the risks in recycling the likes of us. What do you think they’d do? Toss us on a trash heap?”
Susan stared at her, then, finally, said, “Maybe.”
“That’s crazy. No, it’s silly.” Still, Joy knew Susan just might have a point: Everybody in the program could have their covers threatened if any one of them were found out.
The Sean Penn waiter brought the check, interrupting their conversation.
Now he was charming. “It’s been a pleasure serving you, ladies.”
“Fuck off,” Joy said, and as he wheeled away wide-eyed, she leaned in and took Susan’s hand, asking conspiratorially, “How many are there of us?”
Susan winced, not understanding at first, then asked, “At Kafer, you mean?”
Joy nodded.
“I don’t know. You’re the only other one I’m sure of. You know, I don’t exactly go around rifling purses....”
“What’s your guess?”
Susan shrugged. “Quite a few, I think. More than just us, anyway.”
“Humm. Well, it does make sense that if Kafer was satisfied with the results of a headhunting outfit like X-Gen, they’d keep using ‘em.”
Then she released Susan’s hand and drew away, saying, “And if there are others...of us...at Kafer, I don’t want to know who they are. I don’t even want to know about you, understand? I’ll go crazy wondering if everyone I meet is another...bride of Frankenstein.”
And Joy dug in her purse for loose bills.
“I said I’d pay,” Susan said.
“No—Dutch treat, Susan. We’re each of us on our own, understand?”
Back on the street, in front of the restaurant, the two women paused as Joy put on some lipstick, using her reflection in the storefront glass. Susan was watching luxury cars and limousines glide by, their windows tinted—movie stars or drug dealers or both could be within, advertising executives or gun runners or movie producers.
“You know,” the secretary commented, “this town is the perfect place for us.”
Joy turned to look at her.
“L.A., I mean,” Susan explained. “Hollywood-land—where everything is one big fake-out.”
“It’s a one-industry town,” Joy admitted, “and that industry is illusion.”
“That’s right—and nothing is what it seems.”
Back in her well-appointed office at her big desk, Joy was again having trouble concentrating on her work; but this time it wasn’t the hunky P.I.: Now her thoughts, her troubled thoughts, were of her luncheon conversation with Susan.
Maybe she should intercede on behalf of her secretary and enlist the help of Dr. Green; after all, Green had access to powerful new drugs—like the one both she and Susan were taking—untested but effective drugs not yet on the market. Perhaps he knew of something that could stop or even reverse Susan’s condition.
She owed that much to Susan, and to herself, and, really, to X-Gen, too, the benefactor of both their new lives.
Joy was considering her plan when Susan—suddenly a businesslike zombie—announced that Jack was in the outer office to see her.
Springing from her chair, Joy tripped over her purse on the floor by her feet, regained her footing, shaking her head, silently admonishing herself for acting like a lovesick schoolgirl. Then she smoothed her skirt and walked casually out to meet him.
Jack, his back to her as he chatted with Susan, turned as Joy greeted him. He wore a tan suede sport jacket and a yellow sport shirt and darker tan slacks, casual yet somehow very professional—maybe it was the small brown attaché he carried like an oversize purse.
“I was just in the neighborhood,” he said, with a goofy little smile, “and was gonna see if your secretary would make an appointment for me.”
“I’m not the dentist,” Joy said, faintly teasing, arms folded.
“I can come back. I mean, if this is a bad time.”
“It’s a good time,” Joy said with a smile. She instructed Susan to hold her calls, and would she mind bringing them some fresh coffee, and scones, if any were left?
Susan nodded.
As Joy closed the door, Jack turned and gestured toward it. “Is she all right? Your secretary, I mean?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know—she’s always been so friendly. I don’t wanna get her ass in a sling or anything, but she seemed distracted, almost...rude.”
“Do I have to explain the facts of life to you, Jack? Women do have certain moods tied to biology....”
“Oh. Well. Most women I know seem to be retaining water thirty days a month. I’m always lookin’ for that one ‘normal’ day between post-menstrual and pre-.”
She grinned at him, shaking her head. “You do have your nerve, Jack Powers.”
“You know, I love that.”
“What?”
“When a woman calls me by both names. It’s a cross between having your mom bawl you out, and the way they talk in some old movie...some movie before your time.”
“I have a sense of history, remember? Please sit.” She gestured to the round table in the corner.
She took her seat, arranging herself rather primly; but Jack made himself at home, crossing a leg, ankle on a knee, running a hand through his
thick brown hair—he didn’t use “product,” like the younger guys.
“You’re not going to be happy,” he told her, placing his brown attaché on the table.
“Really.”
“I haven’t done the athletes yet, but the actors...” He tapped the attaché with one finger. “Only one came out clean on the rest of that list you gave me.”
Joy groaned, then asked, “Who?”
He gave her the name, adding, “Hottest gal in Hollywood...ten years ago.”
Joy grunted a small, humorless laugh. “And she was my last choice.”
“Next time give me a bigger list.”
“I’m already working on that...but damn. I didn’t see this coming. You were right—finding actors in Hollywood without a past isn’t going to be easy.”
“Worse than politicians, though they got a lot in common, both bein’ professional liars.”
“Have you always been this cynical?”
“No. It didn’t start till that doctor slapped me on my baby ass.”
Shaking her head, laughing, she said, “Are you sure about your research? I mean, can you really be that thorough overnight?”
“I wouldn’t touch that line with a rake.” He gave her a comically reproachful look. “You want to see chapter and verse, lady? Did I ask to see your college diploma or your portfolio or anything? You’re good at what you do, I’m good at what I do. Have a little faith.”
She gave him a mock-offended look, touching her chest. “Oh I’m sorry...sorry to have questioned your work, impugned your integrity, when we’ve established that Hollywood is a place where you’re safe to take everything on face value. Please accept my apology!”
He grinned, shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
Susan entered with a silver tray. “No scones left,” the secretary informed her boss, placing the tray with thermos pot and cups on the table. Then a touch of perkiness returned to the secretary’s voice as she added, “They’re just too good.”
“Figures,” Joy said.
“I can run out and get some,” Susan offered.
Joy glanced at Jack, who said, “Not on my account. I won’t be here that long. I don’t even like scones.”
“As in real men don’t eat scones.”
“Not real American men.”
“Thanks, anyway, Susan,” Joy said, and the boss and secretary traded small smiles of truce.
Joy poured the aromatic coffee from the pot into a cup, which she handed to Jack. “Well, get back to me on those athletes as soon as possible,” she said. “I mean, I can’t exactly go to the client with a single name...and I’ll keep going on that second list.”
He took a sip of the steaming liquid, then said, “Well...I do have a stupid idea, if you’d like to hear it.”
“Hummm...I had a hunch you might have a stupid idea or two. Please—fire away.”
He set his cup down, shrugged. “We could work together.”
“Checking backgrounds?”
“No, making the list. I could head you off on the obvious ‘no’ choices.”
“Well, I see...that does make a certain amount of sense....”
With a shrug, he said, “Just thinking, it could save you some time, is all.”
He was right about that. “When could you start?” she asked.
“I was thinking, dinner. Or supper. Whatever the hell they call it out here.”
“Dinner? Supper?”
“You do eat, don’t you?”
“Yes.” A little.
“You know Le Perroquet on Sunset?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me there at six. That early, seating shouldn’t be a problem.”
He gave her a little wink, picked up his attaché and sauntered out. Cocky bastard.
Cute cocky bastard...
She poured herself another cup of coffee, stirring in extra cream, and wondered just how much work the two of them could do—if they really put their heads together.
Chapter Nine
“YOU CAN’T HURRY LOVE”
(The Supremes, #1 Billboard, 1966)
A little after six that evening, Susan drove Joy to Le Perroquet on Sunset.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Joy had asked her secretary, who was seated at the computer. “Easier to find a virgin walking Hollywood Boulevard than a parking space on the Strip, y’know.”
“True...but then there’s always valet parking,” Susan said, with a roll of her eyes, “for the independently wealthy.”
Despite the strained way their luncheon had ended, the two women now shared a secret—they knew the hidden life they were both living, including the financial hardships. They were sisters under the skin—under the plastic-surgery-snugged skin, that is.
So it was no surprise to Joy that Susan—not privileged with a company car, like her Jag—drove a little red Hyundai.
“You really don’t mind, then?” Joy asked. “That way, I could just leave my car here and catch a ride back with Jack.”
“No, no, it’s right on my way home.”
In the cramped little car, they chatted, Susan as perky as ever, exchanging the latest in office gossip, with no mention of X-Gen.
Jack was waiting in front of the restaurant as the two women pulled up.
“Try not to get pregnant,” Susan said to Joy with a knowing little smile.
“I just may be able to manage that.”
“Remember—on Monday, I want details!”
“You wish,” Joy said, and the women exchanged warm glances, as Jack opened the door for Joy and took her hand, helping her out.
“Have her home by ten!” Susan called out to Jack.
“Whose home?” Jack asked.
“That’s between the two of you.”
Susan laughed, and drove off.
“She’s in a better mood,” Jack said, watching the little red car disappear down the strip in a neon-kissed dusk.
“I think she has a crush on you.”
He shrugged. “Everybody does.”
As Joy entered the posh restaurant through an etched-glass door held open by Jack, boisterous laughter and pounding dance music assaulted her senses from the open, rather expansive bar, which included a dance floor. The bar was wall-to-wall with twenty- and thirty-something patrons, the restaurant filled to capacity, too.
“So much for beating the crowd,” he said, taking her elbow.
After checking with the maitre d’, Jack returned and told her the wait for a table would be an hour. “Let’s have a drink in the bar,” he suggested.
Joy didn’t want a drink, however; with her stapled tummy, she could easily fill up on a glass of wine and tempting bar nuts, then have no room left for any of the rich, French meal. Also, she wasn’t sure how long she could take the frantic music and the shoulder-to-shoulder company. Couldn’t they play something more soothing than this techno-crap—whatever happened to romantic background music, like the Association, or the Carpenters?
But instead, she smiled and said, “A drink sounds fine!”
They squeezed through the crowd of meat-market singles and cheating spouses, commandeering two stools at the sleek deco bar, sandwiched between a tall, thin woman with a diamond in her nose and short hair as shiny and black as wet tar, and a man in an Armani suit whose sniffling signaled something more lingering than a summer cold.
Everyone in the bar was already high on one thing or another, and having far too much fun for Joy’s liking. It bummed her out—she could never catch up to their level of gaiety, so why bother trying? She may have looked just as young, and just as good—better—than the rest of them, but she simply didn’t have the energy anymore, not after a hard day’s work.
Joy gazed into the mirror that lined the wall behind the bar, still shocked to see herself looking so young and fresh. Inside her head she was still the old Joyce; could she ever banish that ancient image?
“What do you want to drink?” Jack asked, raising his voice above the din, and the THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of the ba
ss line.
“Red wine,” Joy shouted back.
Jack ordered her a glass of burgundy and a gin and tonic for himself from a blond Tom Cruise in tux shirt and vest, who clearly had acting experience the way he kept his cool in the midst of the madhouse about him.
Joy leaned her head toward Jack. “Popular place,” she said. “Been here before?”
“I heard good things about it.” He gave her a one-sided smile. “So much for my great background checks.”
The bartender delivered their drinks. “Run a tab?” he asked.
“Pay as we go,” Jack said, and did.
Then Jack downed his gin and tonic, quick, like medicine. “It’s been a long day,” he pronounced.
Joy nodded in agreement, but took only a dainty sip of her wine.
And as she did, the tar-headed woman shrieked brittle laughter at some unknown witticism, poking a bony elbow in Joy’s back, spilling the red wine on the front of Joy’s cream-colored silk blouse.
Before Joy could curse or think of the dry-cleaning bill, or do anything other than just be astonished, Jack grabbed a bottle of club soda from the bar’s sideboard, poured the clear liquid on his napkin and began dabbing at the scarlet spot on her right breast.
He repeated the process until the stain was completely gone, his eyes focused only on what he was doing, oblivious to the calamity around him, his only agenda being to get the damn spot out....
And in that moment, for his simple act of chivalry, Joy fell in love with him.
“Is that better?” he asked.
His hand was poised at her breast, the damp napkin at the ready.
“I don’t remember telling you to stop,” she said.
He grinned, and she grabbed his other hand and pulled him off his stool and through the noisy crowd into the cool twilight, as other cars pulled up in front of the busy restaurant.
“Take me someplace quieter,” she said, relieved not to have to shout anymore.
“We can wait out here and not have to miss the food. They say it’s really something...you do like French food?”
“I don’t like French anything,” she said, then qualified her statement with. “Except clothes, and perfume...and kissing.”
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