Marlena greets us with noisy chatter, demanding that I let her out. I lead Andrea to a table in the kitchen, find a teakettle, fill it with water and set it on the stove to boil before tending to Marlena’s bruised ego.
“I’m sorry, precious,” I whisper as I undo the cage door. “We have a bit of a crisis here.”
Marlena looks over at Andrea, who’s snuffling into a tissue, and seems to get it because she climbs up onto my shoulder, settles around my neck and watches Andrea with a thoughtful ferret gaze.
I make the tea, put out some crackers and settle down across from Andrea. It is always better to let the patient begin the session. The therapist sits in silence until the patient’s anxiety reaches the level where they feel bound to speak. I know this is an older approach, a more psychoanalytic, rather than cognitive, technique, but it works for me, and it works with Andrea, who I know is not my patient, but might as well be. She’s in a hell of a mess and just maybe her mess is connected to the catastrophe I’m trying to prevent from happening to Jeremy.
“I don’t understand,” Andrea says finally. “This isn’t like him. Oh, maybe it was once, when I first met him, but that was almost twelve years ago. He’s changed.”
“Changed?” I prompt. Marlena nibbles on my natural pearl choker, bored with the lack of attention and I try to ignore her.
“When I met him, Mark was a jerk, a real asshole who chased anything that moved. But after we had been together for just a few months, he changed. I think he began to trust me not to hurt him as his ex-wife had. I know I certainly trusted him.”
Andrea is struggling, trying hard not to cry. The tears threaten, but she sips her tea too quickly and swallows hard. Marlena says something soft, almost like a human “Awww” sound, and slowly edges down my arm and onto the table. Andrea offers her a cracker and without hesitation, Marlena takes it and munches, all the while studying our new friend and cooing softly to her.
I let the two of them bond while I think about the evening’s events. Somehow, in my gut, I know the shooting and Mark’s lapse with Diane are connected. I can’t prove it, of course, but I feel it. I am so deep in thought that it shocks me to hear Andrea begin talking again.
“I told him I didn’t like this project. There are too many variables, all of them risky, I said, but he wouldn’t listen.” Andrea looks at me, as if she really needs me to understand and agree with her, so I nod, but it’s Marlena who chatters in vehement approval.
“It was Zoe’s idea,” she says, “and while she is a brilliant actress, she’s never produced a movie. Then Jeremy jumped on board and came to Mark saying it was the opportunity of a lifetime and that he should invest, too. I thought Mark had lost his mind. Jeremy is a lunatic! He uses drugs, he drinks. He has two illegitimate children and doesn’t seem to give a damn about them or their mothers. And now he’s taken up with men. The only thing that boy does well is act. But Mark didn’t listen to my opinion and nothing’s gone right with us since.”
I lean my elbows on the table, cradle my teacup and wait for the rest. Andrea has been talking to a spot between us on the table, as if I’m not even present, and that’s good because I know that whatever she’s saying is something that’s built up inside her for a long time and needs to be said aloud. People feel so much better after they “empty their cup” of troubles.
“There’s no chemistry between Jeremy and Zoe,” she says. “How can there be? Jeremy’s too busy chasing any cute boy toy that enters his line of vision. Zoe lives her part, so she’s just following him around, mooning like the devoted disciple. It’s ridiculous! No one’s providing the leadership for this project. This movie is supposed to be an erotic thriller. At this rate, the audience will all die of boredom! Mark will be ruined. His career will be over. And he can’t see it—all he sees is that slut being dangled in front of his dick!”
Marlena picks this moment to show Andrea her favorite trick. She utters a shrill ferret shriek, clutches her chest and falls to the table, playing dead. This, of course, does not bring about the desired result. Instead of rewarding Marlena with a treat, Andrea screams, frightened, and leaps up from the table.
“Oh, good job, Marlena!” I say, scowling. “Just scare the poor woman to death!” But I slip her a piece of cracker anyway because I know she’s only trying to help.
The expression on Andrea’s face tells me she thinks we’re both nuts, and I’m about ready to agree with her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to restore some sense of order to things. “Marlena just wanted to make you laugh. She was worried about you.”
Andrea gives Marlena a look like she’s wondering how a rodent could be capable of empathy and smiles weakly at her anyway.
“Okay, really, the tea was nice but don’t you have anything stronger in this place? I could really use a drink!”
I walk to the small refrigerator and am surprised to find a lovely Bordeaux blend that simply screams “Drink me!” I open the bottle and find glasses while Andrea sits quietly, lost in thought.
We are about to take the first swallow when we hear an engine roar to life and take off down the driveway.
“That was Mark,” Andrea says, jumping to her feet. “He’s left without me!”
She runs to the door, flings it open and stands staring after the car as it races away from the estate.
“Son of a bitch!” she swears softly.
Marlena, sensing the tension, screams and falls dead on the table again. This time no one gives her a cracker. Andrea is watching her husband leave while I am distracted by a dark shape that is moving silently across the lawn. The form keeps close to the bushes that ring the pool deck and then disappears from view. I hear a splash as someone jumps into the water, then two male voices, one Jeremy’s, carry across to the guest cottage.
“Come here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”
The other voice answers but I can’t make out the words. When I step out a few feet from the house and stand listening in the darkness I see the shape again, this time edging toward the pool house. Something glints in the moonlight and my heart jumps to my throat. The figure in the darkness is carrying a gun.
Chapter 5
Behind me, Marlena screeches again and the sound echoes through the open doorway, out into the cool night air. Andrea isn’t paying any attention to Marlena. She is walking toward the driveway like a zombie, stiff and unsteady on her feet.
“Did you hear someone scream?” I hear Jeremy ask, his voice coming from somewhere inside the pool area. His companion says something and the two men laugh, oblivious to the danger that surrounds them.
Why am I the only one left to deal with an armed intruder? I am not a Marine or a martial arts expert. Even Renee thought Jeremy was making up this business about a death-threatening stalker.
I think all of this as I begin to move into the shadows and toward the pool. My brain comes up with a million and one possibilities. Maybe it was only my imagination. Perhaps it was Scott. No, the figure was too short; or Dave, or Sam, making their rounds and watching out for Jeremy. Could the police still be roaming the grounds? When I scan the driveway, I see that all the police cars, marked and unmarked, are long gone.
I trip over a tree root, fall with a heavy thud, then roll beneath a bush in an attempt to hide. My heart is pounding against my rib cage and I make a mental note to quit this job, if I don’t get killed in the next few minutes, that is. I will quit and leave with Marlena as soon as I can hire a car to come get us.
A tiny voice inside my head starts talking. That’s right, debutante, quit and run away! Isn’t that what everyone expects you to do? So what if Jeremy dies on your watch? You couldn’t be expected to try and save him, could you? You’re just a poor, little rich girl!
Okay, so I’ll quit in the morning.
I crawl forward on my hands and knees, behind the pool pump housing, between the latticework and the bushes that rim the pool. A rustle of leaves a short distance away startles me and I bite bac
k a scream. I see him, ten feet away, slowly rising to peer up over the edge of the pool decking.
I hold my breath, wondering what I’ll do when he raises the gun and takes aim; wondering how I’ll keep him from shooting Jeremy, or me, or both of us. I try and remember what The Heartbreaker taught me about self-defense, but the blood is pounding so loud in my ears, I’m having trouble remembering to breathe.
The guy slowly pushes the vine aside and for the first time I have a clear glimpse of his face. Oh. My. God! What a fool I am. It’s Dave, the security guard. I feel so stupid! There I was planning my big rescue of Jeremy and it’s only his bodyguard…spying on his employer! I hate when people do that. I’m about to say something when I think, no, let’s just wait and see what he’s up to.
Dave is watching the pool with an expression that doesn’t look like professional interest to me. He looks angry. I see the gun in his hand and watch his index finger slide onto the trigger, then off, then back on. I see his lips tighten and his eyes shine as he stares without blinking at Jeremy and his male friend.
Classic homophobia, I think, and turn toward the pool to confirm my suspicions; only I can’t quite see from my vantage point behind the latticework wall. I wedge one foot into a thin, wooden slat, grasp a thick vine and begin laboriously and quietly inching up the side of the pool decking.
I sigh silently and shake my head as I climb. Why are men so archaic? I mean, people love who they love. Just because some people love others of their gender, it doesn’t mean those who know them are suddenly going to “catch” homosexuality! Wake up and smell the coffee, Dave, I think, and then as my head pops up over the top of the wall, I follow Dave’s gaze and see what’s upset him. Jeremy is in the pool, locked in a very intimate clinch with Dave’s co-bodyguard, Scott!
The two men are in the pool and Jeremy has Scott wedged up against the wall by the diving board. I turn my head to look at Dave and feel the earth begin to give way beneath me. Dave is raising the gun up level with the pool. He’s taking aim!
“No-o-o!” I yell and forget all about being undercover or spying. The latticework has given way from the posts that hold it. The vines are ripping and I am falling! “Help!” I scream.
I land hard, on my back, and lie there with my eyes closed. This has so-o-o not happened to me. There is splashing in the pool as Scott and Jeremy climb out, confused and too high to do much more than fumble for towels and run to my side of the terrace. What I hear next is the sound I dread most of all. Dave is making his way toward me, crashing through the bushes and greenery, swearing mightily and yes, I think, sniffling a bit, as though fighting back sobs.
Men are so emotionally labile and impulsive. Dave is liable to shoot me in a display of misplaced aggression. He wants to shoot Scott and Jeremy, but finds this task too threatening to his well-being; so he makes me the negative object and transfers his ill will onto my poor, uncoordinated body.
Dave is standing over me, eyes wide, biting his lower lip in a fruitless attempt to keep his chin from dissolving into quivers of grief. The gun is still in his right hand and his finger caresses the trigger.
I must do the right thing, say the proper words to calm this madman before he strikes.
“What you’re feeling is perfectly normal,” I say in a squished, breathy whisper. The air has been knocked out of me by my fall, so my voice sounds like the Wicked Witch of the West after the house has fallen on her.
“Huh?” Dave looks like I’m speaking in a foreign language.
Denial is the first obstacle to insight, I remind myself, and try again.
“You have a right to your feelings,” I say cautiously. “Name them and claim them.”
“Bloody hell, lovey!” Jeremy says, rounding the side of the terrace. He is wearing a towel wrapped around his waist and beneath that; it looks like he’s hidden a roll of quarters. He grins when my gaze becomes fixed on his midsection.
“What the hell?” Scott says, but he isn’t talking to me. He’s spotted Dave. The two men are staring at each other like wary animals.
Jeremy is blustering about, making joking remarks and trying to dance past the tension that any moron would acknowledge as potentially lethal. I shoot him a frowning headshake which he totally ignores. I have seen the male ruffled grouse affect this same sad behavior when he perceives a threat to his mate’s nest. He attempts to distract the prey away from the brooding hen by puffing out his chest feathers and putting on quite a show. Sometimes it works, but Scott and Dave are no ordinary birds.
The two bodyguards are locked in silent, mortal battle. Scott is taking the belligerent, “I’ve got nothing to hide” posture while Dave seems to be adopting the “How could you do this to me?” attitude.
“Okay, okay, this is actually good,” I say, getting up and stepping into the fray. “The issue is out on the table, so to speak, and we can move forward from here. How about we all go sit by the pool and talk about this. You know, it may look bad now, but affairs are seldom what they seem…”
“Shut up!” the three men say, in unison.
“Okay, good, anger. I can deal with anger. It’s a healthy expression of…”
“How could you do this to me?” Dave says.
Scott bristles, looking more like a porcupine, and looks down on Dave.
“Oh, that!” Jeremy interrupts. “That was actually nothing. Scott was helping me go over my lines and…” He stops here, regrouping, and switches persona, adopting his more strident, firm-boss character. “Actually, I believe it’s none of your business what I was doing or with whom!”
“Now, look here!” Dave says, raising his right hand. “Scott and I have an arrangement.”
For the first time, Jeremy notices Dave’s gun. The response is immediate.
“Well, I didn’t know,” Jeremy says, taking two steps back.
“Dave, maybe she’s right,” Scott says. “Maybe we should talk about this. It wasn’t what you thought.”
Dave and I think they’re lying. I can tell Dave is thinking this because his finger is still slipping in and out of the trigger guard and a tiny vein is pulsing near his right temple. But unlike me, Dave wants to believe them.
“Why not use Zoe?” he asks Jeremy. “Scott don’t know nothing about acting.”
Scott shakes his head slowly from side to side, reading Dave’s desperate hope, and begins to smile.
“Dave, Dave, Dave,” he says. “Don’t you remember me telling you I was the lead in the school play my junior year?”
Dave’s eraser-pink skull wrinkles as he frowns and tries hard to remember.
“West Side Story,” Scott prompts.
A fine bead of sweat breaks out across Jeremy’s forehead and I bet he’s praying.
“And,” Scott continues, “in case you didn’t notice, there was a lot of excitement around here tonight. Zoe went home and the others are in no shape to rehearse. I was only helping Mr. Reins, here, out. He’s got a scene to do in the morning.”
“That’s right,” Jeremy interjects. “The camera waits for no man!”
Dave’s finger has eased off the trigger.
“I am sure,” I say tentatively, “that Mr. Reins respects the sanctity of your relationship and would wish no harm to come to it, would you, Jeremy?” I give him a quick scowl, like he’d better get his lines right now because this is no dress rehearsal.
“Oh, absolutely!” Jeremy says. “Let’s go have a drink and forget about all this nonsense.” Reverting to his party boy personality, Jeremy steps between the two men, ignoring Dave’s gun, and slides his arms around Scott’s waist and across Dave’s burly shoulders.
We all have to celebrate, but no one asks either. Instead we all walk back around to the pool bar where Jeremy cranks up the music and begins pouring shots of tequila with maniacal abandon.
Less than a minute later, Andrea appears, still looking like a wild-eyed zombie, and heads straight for the bottle of tequila sitting out on the counter. She isn’t waiting for the nicety of a
glass. No. She picks up the bottle and slugs down a good inch or two of the harsh-tasting stuff before Jeremy reaches over to take it from her.
“That won’t do, honey,” he says gently. He pulls her into his arms and cradles her against him. It is the first time I have genuinely found something to like about Jeremy Reins. He is tender and warm with Andrea. He strokes her hair, whispers to her when she starts to cry and is utterly believable in his role as comforting friend.
“Why?” I hear her wail.
Jeremy raises his head slightly and our eyes meet for a moment. “I don’t know, babe. Hollywood? Stress? Midlife crisis? You name it, we all do it. We’re all assholes, babe. You know that better than anyone.”
I can’t hear her reply because her head is buried in Jeremy’s shirtfront. He bends his head to listen to her, then chuckles. “No, now, lovey…We can’t have you talking like that! You’re going to drink a little more tequila, spend the night in one of my guest rooms and get a fresh start at all of this in the morning.”
He sounds optimistic and I want to believe that everything truly will be better for Andrea in the morning, but how can it be? Her husband has just boffed a local “B” grade actress under the dining room table at dinner! How does that look any better in sunlight?
I fade farther back into the shadows, find a chaise lounge and sink down onto it, content to be an invisible observer for now. A deep weariness seeps into my body and I realize that if I were in New York it would be almost 2:00 a.m.
I close my eyes and start thinking about the Oscars, realizing I have not one gown with me that would be at all appropriate. I mentally review the possibilities—Armani, Vera, Gucci…No, none of those are just the “right” thing. No, I think I need something vintage. Something blue to match my eyes, or perhaps brown, to match Marlena’s because she will, of course, be attending. I make a mental note to call Kristy Burke, Renee’s stylist for the Roses, in the morning. She’ll find just what I need. I make another mental note to have Kristy find something for Marlena, too.
Lethally Blonde Page 8