by Janice Weber
“So you’ve known this man Leo for a long time.”
“He hired me, sweetheart. I told you that already. Why do you keep asking about Leo? Did Augustine say something?”
“ I don’t understand why Leo just took off. He’s the owner, he’s the chef, Diavolina’s his baby. Have you heard from him at all?”
Ward sighed, ever so slightly beginning to lose her patience. “The last I heard from him was about two weeks ago. He called at three in the morning and said an emergency had come up. He had to leave town and I might not be hearing from him for a while. He told me to do anything necessary to keep the place running. I grabbed at a few straws and you turned up. Something of a mixed blessing, I might add.”
But that was the story of her life. “I see.” Emily returned to the kitchen.
The new menu involved lots of pasta, fish, and late summer vegetables. Mustapha worked silently on an array of compotes and ice cream, featured prominently in this month’s carte; they were hard to burn. Byron flitted around the kitchen, dispensing unsought advice. Emily went over the wine list with Zoltan and met a half dozen suppliers. At eleven o’clock, Bruna from the Peace Power Farm arrived. “Leo back yet?” she asked, heaving a few crates onto the counter.
For a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the chitter of knives on cutting boards. Then Emily wearily said, “Not yet, Bruna.”
When the supplier had left, Emily went to the bar, where Zoltan was instructing a new waitron how to pour wine. “How are your reservations for tonight?”
“Full. Ever since the accident Monday, weVe been busy. In the old days, if someone dropped dead in a restaurant, it would suffer. Now, it increases business. America is a strange country.” The phone rang. “Diavolina. One moment, please.” With a sly smile, he handed the phone to Emily.
It was Guy. “Hello, love. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Whoever answered the phone is standing two feet away, right?” Guy switched to Yes, No, and Okay questions. “Was Dana’s funeral yesterday? I thought it would be easier for you if I didn’t go. Is Ross doing all right? How’s Diavolina? Could we get together?” No answer. “Just to say hello?” Silence. “Please? I’d like to stay your friend, darling. Really.”
Emily realized that she had made a critical mistake in leaving Guy before her lust had run its course. Had she stuck around another two weeks and let that happen, perhaps they could be friends now. But the fire was still raging, undoused by familiarity and access and the million tiny discoveries that demoted ardor to coziness to, finally, platonism. Maybe Philippa was right: screw the guy blind, then get to know him. You’d find out a lot quicker which ones really loved you for your brains. “I’ll call you back,” she said, hanging up.
Dinner was a smash. First there was a run on shrimp with bitter chocolate sauce. Then they moved a ton of ziti with roast squab. Even Chess’s Mixed Tofu Grill sold nicely, although a lot of it came back uneaten and no one asked for doggie bags. Pink wine and sloe gin did particularly well; maybe it was the full moon. When the rush had ended, Emily turned the kitchen over to Byron and went home.
She found Ross out on the balcony. It was a clear, calm night, just a bit cool, shimmering with the music of crickets: summer’s death rattles. Emily poured herself some gin and sat beside him. “Hanging in there, darling?”
“Somewhat.” Major & Forbes was rebounding. Everyone who’d had a project in the pipeline with Dana had called, wanting Ross to take over. Four of the senior staff had expressed an interest in moving to Dana’s office; tomorrow, the remaining three senior staff would do the same. Ross could feel the seven of them pawing the ground, preparing to stampede. He was tempted to divide Dana’s projects among them, wait a year, and see if he had a business left. All day long he had been receiving condolences from the overseas accounts who had just read Dana’s obituary in the International Herald Tribune. Bouquets were choking the office. Tomorrow he’d try to concentrate on his current clients.
“How’s Marjorie doing?”
Ross finally smiled. “She’s running the show. I just do what she tells me.”
Emily took a long swig of gin and listened to a million crickets drone their mating calls. The loudest ones usually won. “Maybe you should put Marjorie in Dana’s office.”
“Now that’s a great idea. I might do that.”
She followed the slow lights of an airplane across the sky. “Any word from Ardith?”
“Regarding lawsuits? You don’t have a thing to worry about. The accountant told me she was ecstatic with her widow’s benefits. She’s not going to blow thousands of dollars on a lawyer who will probably lose her case with Diavolina.” Ross patted his wife’s knee. Then his face hardened. “She’s coming in tomorrow afternoon to clean out Dana’s office. Marjorie and I will have to spend the morning getting it ready. Remove the panties from his bottom desk drawer, get a couple hats out of there, confiscate his address book, rip up all the love letters he hid in the building code manuals. Things like that.”
“Why bother?” Emily said. “Ardith knows.”
“Maybe. But she doesn’t know how much. No need to rub her nose in it.” He looked at her. “Is there?”
Danger here: Emily retreated. “No, I suppose not. Were there that many?”
“Dozens.” Hundreds, actually. In retrospect, Dana was incredibly lucky. No paternity suits, no VD, no blackmail threats, nothing. Until Philippa, of course. Ross toyed with an ice cube. “How was Diavolina today?”
“Everyone keeps hoping this phantom called Leo comes back. My sous-chef’s begging for a black eye and Ward’s been hitting the bottle nonstop since the dishwasher drowned. Somehow it seems worse when a weight lifter loses it. All that discipline wasted.” Then Emily thought of the newspaper article in Ward’s files. “Do you remember anything about a girl jumping off the Darnell Building?”
Ross looked blankly at her. “What brings that up?”
“I happened to see an old clipping. Dana was mentioned.”
“Naturally. He was the architect. I vaguely remember some poor girl trying to fly off the fortieth floor. Probably on drugs.”
“When was this?”
“About ten years ago. Where’d you see the article?”
“On Ward’s desk. Kind of strange to save a clipping like that for ten years, don’t you think?”
“People hang on to all kinds of strange things for a long time. Look at you and your flannel pajamas.”
The phone rang. Ross picked it up. “Hello? Sure.” With a puzzled expression, he handed Emily the phone.
“How are you feeling?” Dr. Woo asked.
“Much better, thank you,” she said.
“You were not really yourself yesterday, I think. Not yourself at all.”
So Woo had made a house call. Emily could only guess what damage Philippa had done trying to impersonate her. “I’m very sorry if I offended you. Please forgive me. I feel fine now. Perfectly fine.”
“I recommend you avoid raw eggs and steak tartare for the moment.”
“I will. Thanks.” Emily hung up. Crap!
“What was that all about?” Ross asked.
“Philippa saw Dr. Woo yesterday. For some stupid reason, she pretended to be me.”
Ross suddenly lost his temper. “What is this, some kind of game? Why does Philippa keep masquerading as you? And you keep letting her? I hope you don’t think it’s some kind of reverse compliment.”
Ouch. “I’m not sure what she’s doing.”
“Why don’t you find out.” Ross stalked to the balcony.
Emily wandered to the bedroom, stripped, and stepped into a brutally hot shower, trying to defrost some sanity. Events of the last few days were accumulating a little too fast for proper processing. Leaving Guy would have been disorienting enough. Pile on Dana’s demise, a new job, a traumatized husband, a drowned dishwasher, Philippa serenading the whole mess like a banshee—and watch her fuses blow. Emily wished she had never left Cafe Prest
o. She missed the aroma of cinnamon and espresso in the morning, cranky Bert, lacquered Lois ... and she missed Guy. The mere absence of his voice had become a major deprivation. Forget the physical attraction: For the middle-aged, that was only icing on the cake, momentarily tasty but ultimately a strain on the digestion. She missed the sound of him, the sight of him across a noisy kitchen, she missed the click of the doorknob when he got her alone in his office. She did love him, of course. In addition to, not in subtraction of, Ross. Emily hung her head under the scalding water, aware now that she should have worked things out without leaving Cafe Presto like a besieged Turandot. Now, instead of Guy, she was staring at a stuporous Charlene Atlas every morning. Instead of Bert, she had Klepp. Ah, hell.
Meanwhile, Ross stood out on the balcony, regretting his latest outburst. Two minutes ago, as he was stomping out of the room, he had seen a flicker of disgust in Emily’s eyes; for the first time, he had felt some tremendous, irreversible doors begin to move shut. Terrifying. He had to stop blaming her for Dana, for Philippa; it might also help to stop suspecting her of—what? Adultery? He had already made one drastic misassumption in that regard. Fool! Ross almost ran into the bedroom. Emily was still in the shower. Noticing her clothes in a heap on the floor, Ross picked them up. Funny, after years of yelling at him to hang up his clothes, she was becoming more and more sloppy while he was becoming neater and neater. Soon he’d have to start yelling back. Ross lovingly placed her shoes in the closet, tenderly dropped her panties into the hamper: His sweet wife had worked all day long in them.
As he was folding her trousers, thinking of massaging her feet when she came out of the shower, several photographs dropped to the floor. Ross picked them up and felt his life go black again: Dana; Philippa. Ross dropped to the bed and switched on Emily’s reading light. The pictures had been taken in a restaurant. Must be Diavolina. Ross’s hands began to shake as, one by one, he went through the snapshots. Unposed, unaware, Dana looked so ... overwhelmed with Philippa. His eyes consumed her. His face reflected despair, bewilderment, delight; an idiot could see he was madly in love. Philippa, meanwhile, toyed with her food, smiled into the crowd, fixed her lipstick. Why was she wearing that wig? For a disguise? Her resemblance to Emily disconcerted Ross terribly. He brought the picture an inch from his eyes. That was Philippa, wasn’t it? Yes, yes; look at the red fingernails. And the ring. He remembered that Philippa was wearing their mother’s ring this year, not Emily. And Emily would never be seen in such a dress. Would she?
Ross stared at the next picture for a long time. It made no sense at first. What happened to Dana? Why was Guy Witten at Diavolina? Guy did not know Philippa. Why should he be touching her like that, with an expression exactly like Dana’s? And why should Philippa be allowing it?
The truth enveloped him slowly, coldly, as a January fog. He felt the ground slip away from him all over again. Removing the picture of Guy and Philippa, Ross put the rest of the snapshots back in Emily’s pocket, dropped her pants on the floor, and retrieved her underwear from the hamper. When the pile of clothes looked exactly as she had left it, he went back to the balcony and stared at the moon, feeling doomed as the crickets.
6
So it was Guy. I should have figured it out. He saw Emily for eight hours almost every day for the last six years. I may have spent twelve hours out of twenty-four with her, but we were asleep for most of that. He got her awake, full tilt. I got the butt end of the bologna roll. What did she see in him? Sure, he s handsome. Well, I’m no dog. He s nowhere near as rich as I am. I dont think he s any smarter. He ain’t younger. Boyish sense of humor? Irresistible perfume? Maybe it was the way he ground the coffee in the morning. Maybe none of the above. Face it. Major: He screwed her brains out. That’s what she was after. That’s what women are always after: romance and adoration, with a soupçon of lust. And don’t let me forget sensitivity. That’s the ability to come home after fifteen hours at the office—during which time you’ve lost a million-dollar deal to the competition, fired your personnel manager, been taken to the cleaner’s by your redwood dealer, had your drawings rejected by a client who couldn’t tell a penthouse from an outhouse, and been derailed by a two-bit building inspector—and be able to notice that your wife is wearing a new pair of shoes. If you were really sensitive, you’d want to cook dinner.
Well, I’m no match for the exquisitely sensitive Guy. But I’m no slouch in the romance and adoration department. Not enough for her? That infuriates me. No one’s perfect, not even Emily. She’s not the world’s most supportive wife. Never brags about me in public. When I return from a road trip, she pecks me on the cheek then goes jogging. Instead of congratulating me for earning a terrific salary, she grumbles about income taxes. So what? Do I assuage my wounded dignity by jumping into bed with Marjorie? Perhaps I should; Marjorie’s been available, seriously available, for years. The two of us should go on a long road trip together. Or we could stay at the office until midnight for a week running. I could come home with a few lipstick stains and see how long the pot refrains from calling the kettle black.
And if Emily really doesn’t care, I’ll divorce her. Marjorie wouldn’t mind coming to Paris with me on business trips. She doesn’t have an evil twin sister. And she’d be a hell of a lot more responsive when I came home at night. True, she’s no Emily. But she’s five years younger. We could have children. Emily can have her fucking Guy. They can make sticky buns all day, screw each other between meals, and live happily ever after in that oh-so-cute cafe.
Wait a moment, why should I give my wife away? I’ve invested half my life in her! Perhaps she’s just momentarily swept off her feet. He’s had the advantage of proximity for years now. He’s probably been wearing her down with sensitive, caring glances while she’s been making granola, following up with comments about how nice, or how tired, she looks. I’m sure they’ve talked his new divorce into the ground. He’s probably been planting all sorts of ideas in her head about the ecstasy of independence. And he’s got a body. I’ve been hearing for years about how much time Guy spends in the gym; Emily usually stares at my middling potbelly as she extols the virtues of exercise. I should have told her to choose between a hard stomach and a vacation home. And why the hell is he so hung up on his pectorals? Overcompensating for a microdick, perhaps? You can’t do anything about that in the gym, Guy. Nothing at all. And that’s not an area I have to worry about.
Bastard! The world is full of desperate, beautiful women. Why did he have to pick my wife? Oh Christ, I know why. It’s so obvious. But she’s mine. I earned her and I’m going to keep her. Emily’s already had second thoughts: Why else would she leave Cafe Presto to work at Diavolina? Look at that picture of the poor sap trying to sweet-talk her back. He’s so besotted that he doesn’t realize he’s doing a snow job on Philippa.
Emily, Emily. You never told him about your twin, love? Bless your proud little heart. That boyfriend of yours is in for a bumpy ride.
Philippa awoke in her New York hotel with a sore stomach and a foul disposition. Last night she had had a bad dream about Dana. He was holding on to her arm and would not let go; meanwhile, Guy Witten was knocking at the door, passionately calling her name. She woke up to find her silk negligee twisted around her neck. Guy Witten was nowhere, of course. And today she had another eight interviews for Choke Holdy which was opening this weekend in a cataract of publicity. This movie was the final Rubicon of her career; if it flopped, she’d be doing nothing but denture commercials the rest of her life.
Simon, her agent in Hollywood, had busted a gut when he heard about her trip to Boston yesterday. He refused to bend to her weeping about a tragic family affair; the least she could have done, he screamed, was take a photographer to the funeral. Worse, Philippa had seriously offended two very important journalists who had been expecting to interview her in New York. They didn’t care who had croaked—hey, happened every day. They didn’t happen to have time for leathery old actresses every day. By mortgaging his very soul,
Simon had been able to reschedule them first thing this morning, and Philippa had better be sharp. Simon suggested she play up the female/survivor angle again. If she could work in a few lines about sexual dis crimination, so much the better. Should they ask about future projects, he advised that she look smug and say it was all terribly exciting but still terribly secret. To end his lecture on a properly sobering note, Simon told Philippa that another actress had won the role of the brain surgeon in that television miniseries. No, the other actress wasn’t younger. She must have given the executive producer the mother of all blow jobs. But there were still a few roles left. Philippa could steal the show as head nurse. Simon would jump on it today. Loved her. Bye, baby.
Philippa ordered a hefty breakfast from room service and insipidly followed an aerobics workout on television. Head nurse! That was just one step above a Mother Superior! She would rather retire than play roles like that. Philippa wanted to be remembered in a bathing suit, with sand in her cleavage; she refused to bow out as some puffy Flo Nightingale in a wacko ward. Asinine profession, acting. Just when you got your chops together, they tossed you on the junk heap. What politician would try that shit on Golda Meir when she turned forty? What publisher would tell Agatha Christie to ditch Miss Marple when she was forty? Only actresses got the noose. Philippa disgustedly yanked open her door, admitting the bellboy with her breakfast.
She dug into her oatmeal. No more of this fanatical dieting either. Forget what they said about fat being a killer. It was just as life-threatening to be slim because then you got laid. Hello venereal disease, AIDS, vengeful wives, divorce and libel suits, all manner of metaphysical chancres, for what? Nothing. That episode with Dana was the last straw. No more flings, no matter how amusing. Philippa wanted someone serious, a man she could settle down with. Like Ross. Or that other one, Guy. He was definitely serious. How the hell had Emily managed to snag two of them? By being a chef? Maybe that crap about winning men’s hearts through their stomachs was true after all. Philippa sighed; that was something their mother had never told them. Emily must have discovered it by mistake. The only thing Philippa had cooked in her life was contact lenses.