Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

  But sometimes things work out just right, because the door opens and who do I find peering out at me but Senior himself. His portly person is encased in a gorgeous robe of blue paisley silk, worn over black pants and a white dress shirt. He’s not sporting a bowtie, but nevertheless it’s a theatrical ensemble for the late afternoon. Maybe that shouldn’t surprise me.

  He gives me a once-over as I thrust the roses beneath his bulbous nose. “I come bearing peace offerings, Mr. Tripp. I’m very much hoping you’ll allow me to apologize.”

  He accepts the bouquet and harrumphs. “You’re the brunette who wreaked havoc at the Longley place yesterday.”

  “What I feel worst about is that you were caught up in it,” I breathe. “When all you were trying to do was get your son to listen to advice he desperately needs.”

  Senior frowns. “What the hell do you know about that?”

  I step closer and gaze into his watery blue eyes. “A great deal.” I infuse those three words with as much portent as I can muster. “You see, I’ve been consulting for Dream Angel. For all the good that’s done.”

  My bet is that Senior would love nothing more than to dish the dirt about his son’s musical. I’ll wager that he’s panting for the inside scoop on the production, particularly whatever details cast Junior in a negative light. And here I am offering to satisfy that unseemly urge. While scantily clad.

  “What’s your name?” Senior wants to know.

  “Happy Pennington.” I decided it would be unwise to lie about my identity. I have to maintain a relationship with this man for four days and it’s too easy to find out about me online. “It’s such an honor to meet you, sir. Excuse me if I start to babble. I’m a little nervous.”

  “My son gave you this address?” Senior grumbles.

  “I had to pry it out of him,” I lie. “Between you and me, I think he’s tremendously jealous that you live in such a magnificent home.”

  “That’s not all he’s jealous of.” Senior steps back to usher me inside. “I suppose I can spare a minute or two to show you around.”

  My heart leaps. I’m in. The second I cross the threshold I shed the champagne, chocolates, and my coat, then step forward to give Senior the opportunity to ogle my miniskirted self from one of my more impressive angles. Eventually I spin back around to face him. “This is a stupendous residence,” I burble, and I’m not even faking.

  Half the main floor is two stories high. From the entry you can see all the way through the living and dining rooms to the rear garden. No doubt the furnishings are very expensive, but they’re also warm and inviting. On the right, below an enormous round mirror, is a lovely fireplace of red marble. And on the left, the wall is covered with the sort of art I see only in museums.

  “I love how the Palladian-style window at the front mirrors the archway on the opposite wall,” I tell Senior, as always glad I did my research. “And how the round mirror echoes those charming nautical windows on the façade.”

  Senior eyes me. “For a long time this place was owned by Patrick Dennis. You know who that is?”

  As of this afternoon I do, but I’ll let him tell me.

  “The creator of Auntie Mame,” he goes on. “Overrated, in my opinion. And needless to say I had to undo a lot of what he did to the property.”

  “Sadly, not everyone has your eye for design.” I reach for the chocolates and hoist them in the air. “First, let me assure you these will not explode.” Then I flourish the champagne. “But this might if we shake it hard enough.”

  That earns a chuckle. “Shall we give it a try?” he says.

  “Let’s!” I follow Senior into the kitchen, which has stainless-steel appliances and mahogany cabinetry I would die for. “Why don’t I put those roses in water,” I offer, making myself both helpful and right at home. That task achieved, I glance into the adjacent dining room, with doors that open onto a secluded garden framed by high walls covered in ivy. I see snowflakes beginning to fall. “Such a shame we can’t have a toast out back.”

  “You’d freeze in what you’re wearing.” Senior winks at me. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  I wink back. “You keep it nice and cozy in here.” Actually he has the heat cranked so high my mascara might melt.

  “I’m rich!” Senior cries. “I could heat this place to ninety degrees if I wanted.” He hands me a crystal champagne flute. “What shall we toast to?”

  I pretend to consider. Then: “How about to high artistic standards?”

  “Yes!” Senior bellows. “And to those who know how to meet them.”

  We clink glasses and repair to the living room, settling on the white sofa. Unlike the Longley residence, though, this place isn’t decorated to resemble the Arctic Circle. It boasts lots of jewel-toned color, from the oriental carpets to the plump pillows against which we now rest.

  “As you know, I haven’t seen Dream Angel,” Senior tells me.

  “I don’t think you’ve missed much. Have you read the early blog reviews?”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t even own a computer. All that technology is soul-killing.”

  I bat my eyes. “You are that rare man who truly thinks for himself.”

  “Computers kill the creative spirit. Woody Allen thinks the same thing. Of course he got it from me, not that he’d ever admit it.”

  Now I understand why Senior lives all by himself in such a massive home. He needs all the square footage just to house his ego.

  “I take it you’re not a big fan of Dream Angel,” he goes on.

  “I wish I could say I was, especially since your son is the director.”

  Senior drains his glass. I refill it. “He never knows what projects to take on,” Senior tells me.

  “That must be such an important element of success in a field like yours. How in the world do you make such difficult judgment calls?”

  That must be a good question, because the floodgates open. Senior talks and talks and talks. I don’t even have to ask a follow-up question. All I have to do is listen and keep my gaze adoring. That, and top off his champagne every now and again, as I pretend to refresh mine.

  He has lots to say that’s interesting, if you can get past the hot air. He’s led a fascinating life and can tell a million anecdotes. I have no idea how many of them are true, but they’re highly entertaining.

  Around seven—I know because I check my cocktail watch, a gold bangle style with a crystal-studded dial—the doorbell rings.

  Senior seems flustered. He has trouble rising to his feet, thanks in part to the bubbly I’ve helped pour down his throat. “Must be the limo,” he manages.

  “Oh dear, are you going somewhere?” I feign a look of disappointment. “What a shame! I feel like the evening was just getting started.”

  “I plan to go to the preview.”

  “You mean of Dream Angel?” I giggle. “Do you really want to ruin this lovely evening by sitting through that abomination?”

  He creases his brow. “Well—”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to go later in the week when more critics will be there?”

  “You make a good point,” he allows.

  “I’ll send the limo away.” I rise to my feet. “Or better yet, why don’t we ask the driver to bring us back some dinner?”

  Now he looks genuinely puzzled. “You’d like to stay longer?”

  For the first time, I feel a twinge of pity for Senior. For all his bluster and bravado, or maybe because of them, he might well be a lonely man. I sit back down. “I find you spellbinding, Mr. Tripp. So yes, I would like to stay longer.” I keep to myself the uncharitable truth that I need to waylay him long enough that he doesn’t catch a second wind and head late for the theater.

  He blinks. Then: “Well, beautiful women have always found a great deal to appreciate in me.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Again I rise. “What do you say to Italian food?”

  As easy as that, I dispatch the limo driver and arrange for dinner
. When Senior toddles upstairs to freshen up, I set the dining table, complete with silk placemats and napkins for two, crystal goblets, and candles. I eschew wine for mineral water since I don’t want Senior to expire of alcohol poisoning on my watch.

  Actually, by this point I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, period. The old codger is an egomaniacal jerk, but he’s also lonely and pathetic. Maybe Junior was an impossible child. Maybe he never showed enough appreciation for his father. No, I can’t excuse Senior’s behavior at the Longley’s, but I am now open to an explanation other than that Senior is a wretched father.

  When the limo driver returns with dinner—cauliflower soup, linguine vongole, and duck breast with polenta and cranberry chutney—and Senior still hasn’t returned downstairs, I call upstairs for him. Repeatedly. No response.

  Great. He could be lying up there collapsed on the hardwood. The chocolate incident he might be willing to forgive, but if I drove him to a heart attack as well he won’t be the only one in serious doo-doo.

  There’s only one thing to do. I must check on him. That means I have to be super bold and venture upstairs.

  I don’t find Senior until I hit the third floor, which is probably why he didn’t hear me call. It’s immediately apparent I needn’t have worried about him. He’s in the library, a breathtaking room featuring crimson walls, carved bookshelves, and a mahogany desk that would look at home in the Oval Office. I am drawn to the room by the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard.

  Yes, you read that right.

  I stand at the threshold of the magnificent room and watch Senior in the circle of light cast by a desk lamp, typing away on a computer keyboard as merrily as can be. Whether from the blasting furnace, the champagne, or his current activity I couldn’t tell you, but his face is flushed and he’s chortling to himself in quite a jolly fashion.

  At least until he hears my voice.

  “Are you trying to kill your creative spirit?” I inquire.

  He slams down the lid on his laptop. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

  “The question is what are you doing up here.” I set my hands on my hips. “You lied to me!”

  “So what if I did?” He pivots the screen away from me.

  I may be in stilettos, but that’s never slowed me down before. I sprint to the desk and wrestle the screen back into a position where I can see it.

  Not only is the louse on his computer, he’s online. Visiting a website I immediately recognize. AllThatChat.com.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Senior is not only visiting the web site: he’s posting.

  “I can’t believe this!” I cry. “You’re Boardwalker2001?” That’s the screen name of the individual who for weeks has been leaving the most savage posts about Dream Angel.

  Senior glares at me. “I don’t have to explain a blessed thing to you.”

  “Maybe not. But you sure as heck have a lot to explain to your son.” I lean closer to read the post Senior is currently drafting. “ ‘I don’t know which I despise more,’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘Writer Lisette Longley, who insults the audience’s intelligence at every turn, or director Oliver Tripp Jr., who is even more witless than I thought.’ You write that about your own son? In a public forum?”

  Senior juts his chin, or should I say, chins. “If the kid can’t take the heat, he should get out of the kitchen.”

  “And this.” I click on another post by Boardwalker2001. “ ‘After seeing this soon-to-be-bomb, I doubt Oliver Tripp Jr. could get a job directing traffic.’ How unfair is that? You haven’t seen one minute of Dream Angel!”

  Senior pushes back his desk chair, rises unsteadily to his feet, and jabs a finger at my face. “You’re in no position to judge me. Who are you, anyway? A nobody from off the street who flashes her tits and ass to get what she wants.”

  Most of the time that sort of remark really fries me. But at this moment, delivered by this malicious slimeball, the insult slides off me like a drop of water on the shower tile. Though as you can imagine, I’m no longer feeling any warm fuzzies toward the stinker.

  I set my hands on my hips. “What is the problem between you and your son, anyway? I don’t understand how there can be this much bad blood between a parent and a child.”

  “I’d wager there’s a lot you don’t understand.”

  “Why can’t the two of you just enjoy each other’s success?”

  “That’ll happen the day I take leave of my senses.” He pauses to give me the evil eye but good. “Now get the hell out of my home.”

  I stare at him, my brain cranking. “Not so fast.” For in the midst of this back-and-forth I have had a genuinely good idea. It could solve two of my toughest problems in one fell swoop. “You may not care that you and your son are at each other’s throats. But very few people would look favorably on a father posting this kind of vitriol about his son’s musical. They’d think there was something wrong with him.”

  He narrows his eyes. “What are you getting at?”

  “Imagine the damage to your reputation if it got out that you’re the source of those venomous posts about Dream Angel. If, for example”—I can’t believe I’m about to blackmail Oliver Tripp Sr., but here I go—“it were reported on ‘Page Six.’ ”

  That’s the gossip column in the New York Post. The whole paper is pretty much a tabloid, but “Page Six” is the most tabloid-y part of all. It’s very widely read in the greater metropolitan area, and even across the nation, I can assure you.

  “The article,” I go on, “would no doubt mention that stunt you pulled at the celebration of Lisette Longley’s life, which lots of people witnessed. I bet several of them would provide quotes. I can see it now. ‘The legendary Broadway director, so warped that he—’ ”

  “Warped!” Senior bellows.

  “Your son would have everybody’s sympathy. But you?” I shake my head as if in regret. “Everybody would be disgusted by you. I don’t think you’d ever live it down.”

  “Not even the Post would print that. And if they did, I’d sue them till they couldn’t see straight.”

  “Like that would stop them.”

  That takes the wind out of him. He sinks back into his chair. “What do you want from me?”

  I don’t hesitate. “A few things. First, I want you to arrange a get-together with Violet Honeycutt. For tomorrow, if you can swing it. And I want to go with you. We can pretend I’m your personal assistant.”

  I figure all these legendary Manhattanites must know each other. They must run into each other at one posh event after another. So even if the two aren’t besties, surely it’s acceptable for Senior’s people to call Honeycutt’s people to set up a meeting. How I’ll get what I want out of it, I have no idea. But step one is to get my stiletto in the door.

  “On what pretext am I supposed to call her?” Senior wants to know.

  “Tell her you’re interested in the Belfer Building. She just got approved by the board for an apartment there.”

  Senior glowers at me. “The Belfer approved that purveyor of celebrity tripe?”

  “Oh, so the Belfer rejected you at some point, did it?”

  He looks away. “I don’t care to discuss it.”

  “For your information, Violet Honeycutt pretty much runs the fashion industry. Mode is the world’s fashion bible. It’s read by something like twelve million people a month.”

  “People without a brain in their head.”

  I give up. The man is impossible. Well, I hope he enjoys being better than everybody else because at the rate he’s going he’ll die alone on his mountaintop singing his own praises.

  “Anyway,” I go on, “the second thing I want is for you to stay away from Dream Angel. I don’t want you to see it until Thursday at the earliest. In other words, you are not to attend Tuesday’s preview or opening night. Nor are you to talk to any theater critics.”

  By now Senior looks apoplectic. “That devil spawn of mine put you up to this!”

&
nbsp; I throw out my arms. “How can you blame him? You’re doing everything in your power to sink his musical! Of course he’s defending himself. You’d do the same thing.”

  Senior waves a dismissive hand. “That piece of trash doesn’t need my help to disappear without a trace.”

  “You don’t really believe that. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be going to all this trouble to try to torpedo the production.”

  Senior blusters for a while, but both of us know I won this round. “I don’t know about you,” I say to him, “but I’m going downstairs to eat dinner.”

  “If you think I’ll break bread with you—”

  “Fine.” I make for the door. “If you want to stay up here and sulk, that’s your business. I’ll make up a plate for you and leave it in the fridge.”

  I am quite pleased with myself as I sashay back down to the first floor of Senior’s townhouse. For the first time in days, at least a few things in my world are going well. As if to reinforce that positive trajectory, I receive a text from Jason reporting that he and Kimberly are halfway back to the city. Not even the mention of that mischief-maker’s name spoils my mood. Jason and I arrange to meet soon at the Sofitel.

  Since Senior does not deign to reappear, I nuke only one portion of the Italian feast the limo driver delivered. In the romantic glow of the candles I lit even though I’m dining alone, I entertain myself by checking out Mode’s Twitter feed on my phone. There’s no end to the compelling reading, from “Top models share their latest street style secrets” to a guide to emojis for texting about fashion shows.

  I’ve just perused “How to Channel Your Inner Cleopatra” when it occurs to me that the stem-cell-facial salon probably has a Twitter account as well. No doubt it has a Facebook page, too. If I’d thought of this earlier in the day, I could’ve messaged privately about my mother’s fur and maybe gotten a response even though it’s Sunday. Since the salon was closed, I wouldn’t have gotten an answer to a phone call. But social media is another matter entirely.