Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  “I know,” said Monica.

  “Is the man an idiot?” Gloria continued, practically foaming at the mouth. “What kind of fool books a cruise in February, for Jupiter’s sake? I’m not going,” Gloria harrumphed.

  “You have to go,” said Monica. “You can’t make me face this all alone.”

  Gloria sighed, but the look of defiance remained. “All right, my dear, I’ll do it for you. But that man is going to regret the day he ever forced me into this. Not only am I going to speak French to everyone but you, but I plan on being drunk as a skunk the whole time.”

  “I’m sure you won’t be alone.” Monica gave Gloria a hug. “I have to go get ready for my next scene.”

  A broken heart, a bone-stupid costar gunning for her, an enforced cruise . . . Yeah, life’s just great these days, thought Monica as she headed over to makeup. Gloria always said bad things happened in threes. Perhaps this was her time for a run of bad luck. It couldn’t last forever, right?

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  After a semitorturous day at work that had dragged on until 9:30 p.m., Monica, exhausted, starving, and punchy, slipped out of the back of her town car to find Eric milling anxiously on the sidewalk outside her apartment building. The sight sparked her sluggish senses immediately, putting her on high alert. Whatever he’d come for, she sure as hell didn’t want to hear about it.

  Spotting her, Eric rushed toward her. “Monica, I need to talk to you.” He sounded desperate.

  “Why? Leave some CDs or clothes in my apartment? Just wait here; I’ll open the window and throw them down to you.”

  “Two minutes,” Eric continued in an uncharacteristically pleading voice. “That’s all I ask.”

  Monica pulled up her coat sleeve and looked at her watch. “And . . . go.”

  “C’mon, Monica.” He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “Have some heart. I’ve been standing here for three hours.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “I really need to talk to you.”

  “And I really don’t want to talk to you.” Monica glanced inside at the lobby. Gene, the doorman, was watching them closely. Monica waved a hand at him to indicate that all was well, and Gene nodded his understanding, and went back to watching the multiple closed-circuit TV screens fixed on the lobby, the elevators, and the stairwells.

  “Two minutes,” Eric repeated.

  “Fine,” Monica said in exasperation.

  Not bothering to wait for him, she pushed open the door to the lobby. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was asking for trouble letting him in, somewhat akin to inviting the devil into her home. They rode the elevator in silence.

  “Well?” Monica asked as they entered her apartment. “What do you want?”

  “Can I at least take my coat off?”

  “What’s the point?” Monica asked, shedding her own jacket and putting it away in the closet. “You’re only going to be here two minutes.”

  Stomach grumbling, she strode over to her couch and sat down, frantically trying to erase the memories of the last time they’d been here together: wonderful sex, ordering in Japanese food, watching The Godfather marathon on TV. It had felt so natural, so right. Jackass, she thought angrily, though she wasn’t sure if she was addressing herself or him. Eric moved to join her on the couch, but Monica held up a hand to stay him.

  “You’re standing.”

  “I’ll do you one better: I’ll kneel.”

  Monica blinked confusedly as Eric knelt down on her Persian carpet and held his arms out to her. “Monica, I love you.”

  Monica stared down at him, then burst out laughing.

  “I’m not joking,” Eric continued, undeterred. “Last night, a bimbo came on to me—”

  “Chesty?”

  Eric looked surprised. “Yeah.”

  Monica rolled her eyes. “Figures.” The little whore never ceased to amaze.

  “Anyway, she came on to me, and I turned her down. You know why? Because I figured something out about myself: I don’t want to chase tail anymore. And the reason is because I’m in love with you. I’ve been a jerk, Monica. I know that. But if you’ll just give me a chance, I think I can prove to you that my love for you is real, not an act.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Monica, frowning. She snatched her remote from the nearest end table and clicked on the TV. “You and I both know what this is really about,” she said, not looking at him.

  “What?” Eric sounded puzzled.

  “I saw on ESPN that the Blades lost to Jersey the other night. That guy with the mullet haircut said the team’s on a losing streak, and you’re in a slump. You just want me back because you think I’m a good luck charm,” Monica accused.

  Eric lowered his arms so they hung listlessly at his sides. “You really think I’m that shallow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you’re totally wrong on this one.” Eric began inching forward on his knees like some sad penitent, but Monica glared at him, and he halted.

  “Can I ask you a question?” said Eric.

  “No.”

  He asked anyway. “Since when do you watch Barry Melrose on ESPN? You’re following the team because you still care.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. They had SportsCenter on at the place Gloria and I went to dinner last night.”

  Eric’s face fell. “Oh.”

  She was lying, of course. Though she hated herself for doing it, she had been tuning in to see how the Blades were doing and was happy when she saw they lost. Maybe she was his good luck charm.

  “I love you, Monica,” Eric repeated, holding out his arms to her once again.

  “Stop saying that,” Monica snapped, rubbing her temples. “And lower your arms and get up off the rug. You look like a fool.”

  “I don’t care,” Eric maintained fiercely. “If I have to make a fool of myself to win you back, I will. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Monica narrowed her eyes suspiciously. He seemed serious. Still, no self-respecting woman would take back a man who’d done what he’d done to her, no matter what feelings she still had for him.

  “Listen to me. And get up.”

  Eric reluctantly rose, grimacing. “My knees are sore.”

  Good, thought Monica.

  “Here’s the thing,” said Monica with studied nonchalance as she glanced back and forth between Eric and the TV. “I don’t trust you. How do I know you don’t have some ulterior motive for hooking up with me again? Actually, that doesn’t matter. You can’t win me back, okay? Because I don’t want you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What you believe or feel is completely irrelevant to me.”

  “You’re acting.”

  Monica jerked her head to look at him, teeth gritted. “I am not acting, you out-of-control egomaniac. It was fun while it lasted, whatever you want to define ‘it’ as. But now it’s over. Time to move on. You cannot win me over.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Eric no longer looked or sounded imploring. Now he looked determined. “Maybe you haven’t figured this out about me yet, but I’m one tenacious bastard. I get knocked down, and I get right back up again. I’ve won a Stanley Cup, Monica. If I have what it takes to win the Cup, then I have what it takes to woo you, and I have what it takes to win you. So get ready.”

  Monica stood, stretching her arms high above her head while letting out a long, tired yawn. “Knock yourself out,” she said. She pointed to the front door. “You know your way out. Good night.”

  NINETEEN

  “I would rather have my legs plucked hair by hair than ever go through anything like that again,” Gloria told Monica. “Quel nightmare!”

  They were stretched out on their respective beds in the small cabin they were sharing on the cruise boat, The Washington Irving. It was a “sanctioned” naptime, meaning Christian had graciously allowed the cast and crew—or “hostages” as they were calling themselves—an hour’s re
spite from his lectures and exercises supposed to foster intimacy. Following a dinner of soggy vegetables and some unidentifiable meat the night before, Christian had made everyone sit in a circle in the dining room to “rap.” He asked them to share their happiest and most traumatic experience to date. What this had to do with anything mystified Monica. Still, there was no escaping.

  Many of her cohorts cited the birth of their kids as their happiest experience; others talked about the joy of getting their first part. Royce said his happiest experience was working with Monica, the biggest load of hooey Monica had ever heard in her life. Gloria said her happiest experience was having sex with Orson Welles during a break at the 1959 Academy Awards, even though his vigorous thrusting had broken the couch they were lying on. The closer it got to Monica’s turn, the more she panicked. Her happiest experience to date had also been her most traumatic: Eric. There was no way she was going to reveal that, so she lied: she said her happiest experience was getting the role on W and F; her most traumatic experience was getting mugged when she was in college. Predictably, Chesty’s happiest experience was the same as Monica’s, though their traumas did differ; Chesty’s biggest trauma to date was not making the cheerleading squad in high school.

  “I can’t believe Royce said working with me made him happiest,” Monica told Gloria. She got up on her knees to look out the porthole, but since it was the size of a dessert plate, she couldn’t really see anything. “He’s so full of it.”

  “Don’t trust him,” Gloria warned. “He wants something. I bet he’s scared of getting fired, and he’s sucking up to you so that when the axe falls, you’ll intercede on his behalf with the Antichrist.”

  “You’ve been telling me for as long as I can remember not to trust anyone in this business,” Monica pointed out, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. “Who screwed you, Gloria?”

  “You don’t want to know. You’ll be like Saul on the road to Damascus: you’ll fall to the ground, the scales will fall from your eyes, you’ll be terrified.”

  The scales were already falling. It wasn’t terror Monica was feeling; it was the slow dawning of comprehension. “It was Monty, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Gloria admitted with a reluctant sigh. “I’ve always held my tongue because I know you adore that puckered old snake, and I didn’t want to poison you against him. But the man cares only about himself. Believe me.”

  “I suppose I knew, the way you always talked about him, but I guess I didn’t really want to know.” Monica lightly kicked her feet against the bottom of the bed. “What happened?”

  Gloria looked wistful. “We worked together quite a bit in the early days, Monica. I don’t know if you knew that.”

  “Yes, you told me that.” Monica could picture it: two acting powerhouses feeding off each other’s energy. It must have been magnificent.

  “We were the best of friends. We respected each other and helped each other get parts.

  “Even though Monty preferred treading the boards to anything else, when an opportunity fell into his lap to direct a film version of Othello, he jumped at it. Who wouldn’t? He phoned right away and said he wanted me to play Desdemona. I’d played the role onstage in London two years before and had gotten rave reviews. I was thrilled.

  Gloria’s eyes looked glassy. “We’d just started filming when one of the executive producers came to Monty and told him he wanted his floozy in the part rather than me. This girl could not act, Monica. She could barely put together a sentence. And so, Monty fired me.”

  “Oh, Gloria.” Monica came to sit beside her.

  Gloria’s voice turned vehement. “The entire cast urged him to show some backbone and stand up to the producer, but he wouldn’t. He kept saying he had no choice. But he did have a choice: he chose to protect himself rather than stand up for me.

  “A few weeks later another producer visited the set and saw what an atrocity this girl was. He told Monty he was an idiot, that all he needed to have done was come to him and tell him what was going on, and he would have read the other producer the riot act. In the end the movie never got finished, and I never trusted Monty again.” Gloria pointed a warning finger at Monica. “Always watch your back. People in this business, even those who claim to be your closest friends, will kick you in the teeth if it means saving their own skin or furthering their career.”

  “Not everyone,” Monica murmured, leaning over to kiss the side of Gloria’s powdery cheek. “You wouldn’t.”

  Gloria chuckled sadly. “I’m too old to do you much harm.” Gloria patted Monica’s hand. “I’m sorry I told you that about Monty. I know you love him.”

  “It’s okay,” said Monica, though the story did make her feel ashamed of Monty. She took a deep breath. “Gloria, have you ever thought of forgiving Monty? It was a long time ago.”

  “I don’t forgive, and I don’t forget,” Gloria declared, nostrils flaring. Monica didn’t push it. When Gloria flared her nostrils, it was best to back off.

  Gloria rose creakily from the bed. “I need to walk off some of my irritation at the sheer stupidity of this weekend. Care to join me?”

  “I think I’ll pass,” said Monica. “I just want to close my eyes for a few minutes to fortify myself for whatever horrors are to come.”

  “You know,” said Gloria, posing at the door, “you haven’t said a word about your split from Eric.”

  “There’s nothing to say,” said Monica, lying down on her own bed and putting a cool pillow over her forehead. “He turned out to be a jerk like every other man I’ve ever dated.”

  “That’s too bad,” Gloria murmured sympathetically. “He really seemed to adore you.” When Monica didn’t respond, Gloria let it drop. “Pleasant dreams. If I’m not back when the fun and games resume, assume I’ve hurled myself overboard. I’ve always thought burial at sea was romantic.”

  Monica laughed and closed her eyes.

  Two minutes later, there was a gentle rapping at the cabin door, prompting Monica to pull her pillow down over her face. Maybe whoever it was would go away if they thought no one was in there. Rap, rap, rap; no such luck. It was time to screen; if it was Royce or Chesty, she had a migraine. If it was Jimmy, she’d let him in.

  “Who is it?” she called out groggily, a nice touch. Maybe whoever it was would feel guilty for waking her, and they’d leave quickly.

  “It’s Christian Larkin, Monica. I was hoping I might speak with you.”

  Shit, Monica mouthed to herself, sitting up. What could Christian possibly want with her? Could he tell she was lying in the “rap” circle? No, no way. She was Monica Geary; her acting had been impeccable.

  “Just a minute.” She stood, smoothing her hair, not wanting to look like a complete wreck. She opened the cabin door, trying to look welcoming. “Come in.” You pain in the neck, she finished in her head.

  Christian smiled broadly, closing the cabin door behind him. “My God,” he said, looking around. “They’ve stuck you in a room the size of broom closet. As soon as I leave here, I’ll fix that.”

  “There’s no need.” The truth was, apart from the dollhouse-sized window, the cozy cabin was okay. As long as she had a place to lay her head and a decent roommate, she was fine.

  Monica noticed that the cabin had become somewhat chilly. Of course, Christian was clueless; he was wearing a bulky cable-knit sweater that nearly came down to his knees. Short men shouldn’t wear oversized sweaters, thought Monica. It made him look even more diminutive than he was. In fact, he appeared about three feet tall, and with his wiry orange hair, he could have passed for a homunculus of Carrot Top.

  “So,” said Monica, rubbing her arms for warmth, “what can I do for you?”

  “What can you do for me indeed,” Christian murmured thoughtfully. “That is the question.” He pointed to Gloria’s bed. “May I sit?”

  “Of course.”

  Damn damn double damn. Monica had blown her chance for escape. She should have told him she wasn’t feeling well and ask
ed if they could talk another time, rather than asking him what she could do for him. He might have gotten annoyed, but she’d have at least delayed the conversation.

  He patted the bed beside him. “Sit, sit.”

  “This is fine.” Monica sat down on her bed opposite him.

  “Well.” Christian clasped his hands and put them between his knees, leaning forward. “Let me start by telling you that I am absolutely, without a doubt, your biggest fan.”

  “Thank you.” Monica felt a small flutter of panic tickle her insides.

  “And you’re incredibly beautiful.” He came and sat beside her, despite the warning vibes Monica hoped she was emitting, his eyes raking her body. “I think we’ll make quite a team, both on and off the set.” He leisurely lifted a strand of her hair. “I’m thinking of asking the new head writer to beef up Roxie’s story line even more.” He lifted his eyes to hers, kissing her hair.

  Monica jerked away from him. “You’re disgusting.” Bounding off the bed, she flung open the cabin door. “Get the hell out. Now.”

  Christian laughed softly. “I wouldn’t say no so fast, Monica. I’m sure you’ve heard about my ‘prowess,’ as they say.”

  Yeah, I’ve heard you come in three seconds flat, Monica wanted to say, even though she’d heard no such thing. Over the years, she’d had lots of men in the industry come on to her, but this was the first one who’d ever tried to talk her into sex as a means of furthering her career. She was shaking inside, she was so angry. She bit down on her tongue to keep herself from snarling every invective she could think of at him.

  “Get out,” Monica repeated.

  Christian rose from the bed. “I really wish you’d think about this, Monica,” he said.

  He paused at the door, leaning in to touch her cheek, but Monica recoiled. “So beautiful,” he murmured with a sad sigh as Monica jerked her head away. She slammed and locked the door behind him, her stomach heaving. Maybe Gloria was wrong; maybe bad things happened in fours, not threes. She checked her watch. Half an hour until naptime was done, and she had to face that pig again. At least she would be in a group. His face had gotten so close to hers . . . she shuddered. A rogue thought entered her mind: if Eric knew, he’d kick his ass. She laughed; it came out more like a bark, actually. That would be a bright move: have your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—threaten your boss. Still, imagining it was pleasurable.