The Stand-In

by Deborah Moggach

  She wore flat, suede boots and her overcoat; she was as silent as a cat. Passing the darkened dry cleaner’s, her little theatre of impersonation, she walked up towards the Natural History Museum. It loomed up, its columns massive in the street light. She walked a further couple of blocks, and then dared herself to look at her watch. It was ten to nine. She longed for a drink, but she didn’t trust herself to enter a bar and perform the simple transaction. She might get it wrong, she might act in an abnormal manner. This would alarm herself more than anybody else; she was frightened of losing her grip. Besides, she couldn’t possibly speak to anyone.

  At random, she chose 85th Street. She turned up it and walked a few blocks, across Amsterdam Avenue and towards the Hudson. At the DON’T WALK signals she stopped, like an obedient citizen. Wasn’t that quaint?

  Just about now, Lila would be swallowing her sleeping pills. It was nearly nine o’clock. The whole business was starting to feel deeply unreal. During breaks in filming, the illusion drains away. You have to hold on to your concentration. You may be drinking coffee and schmoozing with the extras but in your head you must be still at work. Same thing backstage, in the interval, as the minutes tick by your character dissolves. She kept herself alert by thinking about Trevor. She had avoided passing his apartment building; she couldn’t risk an attack of nerves. It was a cold night, but under her coat she was sweating. Now the moment was approaching she worked herself up into a fury. At least, I presume she did; I really can’t remember. Those last twenty minutes are blank in my memory. Maybe she was too numb to think. I don’t know. I don’t hold myself responsible.

  I remember how loud the traffic was, on Columbus. It battered at her ears. I remember someone slamming a car door and making her jump. In the lit windows people were watching her; they were lifting up their phones and dialling the police department. She didn’t dare turn her head.

  Then she looked at her watch. Christ, it was 9.25! Time moves in fits and starts, like the traffic. Suddenly she felt flustered, but she told herself to calm down. What did a few minutes’ difference make, either way?

  She strode back to the apartment building, her heart hammering. On the way, she pulled on her thin leather gloves. It unnerved her to do this; it meant business. The side doorway was so dark that for a moment she couldn’t tell if the book was still there.

  It was. She saw it jutting out, like a foot. She pushed the door wider, and stepped inside. It felt colder in here than in the street. She closed the door behind her, softly, and replaced the book in her handbag. Then she pressed the freight elevator button.

  Nothing happened. The lift shaft was silent. There was no muffled stirring, no creak of pulleys.

  She froze. It could only mean one thing. The elevator was in use. Somewhere, up in the building, goods were being loaded. Or unloaded.

  She stared at the rusty, closed doors. She couldn’t move. A smell of rotting fruit came from the garbage chute. Should she run for it?

  Hours seemed to pass. She gazed at the single light bulb, hanging from the ceiling. And then, finally, she heard the machinery crank into action. The elevator was on its way down.

  Like a rabbit, she was paralysed. In a moment the doors would open and somebody would be standing there. The janitor. A delivery boy.

  The elevator stopped, with a sigh. After a moment’s hesitation, the rusty doors slid open.

  It was empty. There was nothing in it but a pile of boxes.

  She stepped in and pressed the button to the PH floor. The elevator rose, crankingly. It was slower than the passenger one. 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . At each floor it paused, as if it were going to stop. i6 . . . 17 . . . She was sweating; her blouse stuck to her backbone.

  Finally the doors opened to the bare concrete walls of the penthouse floor. She made her way along the passage to the carpeted vestibule outside Lila’s door.

  Silence. She stood for a moment, close to the door, listening. Not a sound. Then she took out the pack of M&Ms – why hadn’t she done this in the safety of the elevator? Stupid stupid stupid.

  She tore open the pack. It was difficult, in the gloves; she had to do it with her teeth. She dropped a few M&Ms into her hand. At the bottom of her bag, wedged under the book, she found Lila’s keys. They rattled; she flinched. Surely she could be heard all over the building?

  Before she inserted the key, she paused. A strange feeling seemed to stretch the skin, all over her body. The hallway enlarged, echoingly.

  This was it. One twist of the key and she was a criminal. She was breaking into somebody’s home. Once she opened the door, there was no turning back. She tried to make herself realise this, to truly digest it, but she simply felt numb.

  Her hand moved, without her help. It inserted the large key, and turned it very gently in the lock. She had opened this door often enough, in the past. The big lock was easy; it glided open. The small one was trickier; you had to lean against the door to ease it.

  She pushed against the door, twisting the key in the lock. Suddenly, behind the door, Orson barked.

  He was very dose. He scratched, on the other side of the door, and barked again.

  Frantically she turned the key again. The door creaked open.

  Orson snarled at her. She knelt down, nearly overbalancing, and held out the M&Ms in the palm of her hand.

  Slobberingly, he ate them. She patted his head. ‘Good Orson,’ she whispered. ‘Good boy.’

  She wiped her slimy glove on her coat, and looked up. The lamp was on, in the lobby. This was for the dog; Lila had told her, long ago, that he hated the dark. Apart from that, the apartment seemed to be in darkness. It smelt, faintly, of Badedas. The living room door was ajar and she could see the glimmer of the white settee, and the night sky behind.

  Lila’s bedroom was to the right. Its door was ajar. She crept up to it and listened. Silence. Behind her there was a snuffling, damp sound as Orson licked up M&Ms from the marble floor. She heard his jaw clicking.

  Thank God she knew every inch of this apartment. She paused, her hand on the doorknob; it was round and cool.

  Think I didn’t dare? Think I couldn’t do it? As we used to say at school: you’ve got another think coming.

  I have to admit, I nearly turned around and made a dash for it. For a moment I was gripped by pure terror. But Jules didn’t move. She took a breath and pushed open the door, softly.

  The room was in darkness, but the light from the hallway dimly illuminated the furniture. The bed was over by the window. Jules paused on the threshold. I’m watching her; she looks surprisingly shy and hesitant, as if she’s in a hotel and gone into the wrong bedroom by mistake. Then she takes a step forward.

  Lila was in bed. There was a glimmer of pale hair, on the pillow. On the bedside table, the clock glowed. It flipped from 21.39 to 21.40. If she held her breath, Jules could see the duvet gently rising and falling. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

  How obedient of her! thought Jules. She gazed, almost fondly, at the humped duvet. A totally unexpected feeling swept over her: she was so taken aback that for a moment she couldn’t identify it. Then she realised what it was: professional camaraderie. She grunted in surprise.

  Lila knew the script. For once she wasn’t taking the starring role. Content with a non-speaking – indeed, almost non-existent – part, she had relinquished the centre stage to her colleague. Jules knew her part perfectly, of course. She had been rehearsing it since God knew when. Only that afternoon? More like months, really. Ever since she had seen Trev stepping out of that limo.

  She told herself: this is the performance of my life. She knew, now, that Lila wouldn’t wake up. Lila would act according to the script. How suddenly easy it was!

  Her stage-fright vanished. Lila lay motionless, curled on her side. Her eyes were blindfolded with an airline mask, as if she were taking a nap before going to a ball. When Jules kept still she could hear the deep, regular breathing, followed by a faint whistle as the air exhaled between Lila’s lips. She had n
ever seen Lila asleep before; ridiculously enough she felt the usual slight awkwardness, the sense of invasion. But no terror, not now.

  She moved away and tiptoed across the dimly-lit set. She opened the walk-in closet. It was dark in there, and she didn’t dare switch on the interior light. But she knew where Lila kept her sable coat; right at the back.

  She smelt perfume and leather. Like a blind woman she felt her way through the clothes, running her gloved fingers over the fabric. Silky blouses, light as tissue . . . the supple leather of Lila’s blue dress, she had tried it on herself once . . . The slippery satin of the Bill Blass . . . They smelt of Lila. As she touched them, she felt oddly aroused. She moved down the rack. Finally her fingers sank into fur, oh such soft fur. She lifted the sable coat off its hanger. It was unexpectedly heavy. The hanger clattered against its neighbour.

  She froze. No sound from the bedroom.

  Then she felt around, amongst the shoes. Lila had a large collection. ‘Let me loose in a shoe store,’ she had said once, ‘and I’m like a kid buying candy.’ Many of them were evening shoes, shoes for premières, for stepping in and out of cars. They came from atrociously expensive shops in Madison Avenue. In some way, they were more familiar to Jules than her own. Bunching up the coat, she knelt down and ran her hand over their shiny leather. She touched their high, spiky heels. Finally she selected a black pair with slingbacks, she recognised them by their fed, and emerged from the closet.

  Lila hadn’t stirred. The light from the hallway lay across the carpet. How quiet it was! Jules had forgotten that. It was so quiet, up here, that you couldn’t even hear the traffic.

  Jules laid the coat over a chair, which nearly tipped backwards. She caught it just in time. Orson had come in. He snuffled at her ankles; she gently nudged him away.

  The blonde, shoulder-length wig glimmered on the dressing table. She sat down and pulled back her hair with clips; her gloves made her clumsy, but she did it. She lowered the wig onto her head. She was sitting in her dressing room backstage, preparing to go on. Her fingers barely shook. Lifting her head, she inspected her shadowy reflection in the mirror. Lila the imposter gazed back, smiling.

  She picked up the crimson lipstick and, leaning closer so she could see her mouth, outlined her lips generously. Lila’s fuller, riper mouth smiled back.

  Swiftly she got to her feet, picked up the coat and shoes, and took one last look at Lila. She lay there like the Sleeping Beauty. Whatever her failings as an actress, she was playing this part to perfection. Orson jumped onto the bed. She didn’t stir. Her dock bathed its surroundings in a greenish mist. It flipped: 21.55.

  Jules looked for the handbag, but it didn’t seem to be in the bedroom. She left, closing the door softly behind her, and tiptoed into the living room. Once there, she breathed freely.

  In the half-light, it seemed as vast as a ballroom. She crossed the floor, almost skidding on one of the rugs, and searched for the handbag. Finally she found it, a dark bulk on the pale upholstery of the armchair. She bent down, the long hair swinging on either side of her face.

  She couldn’t touch the bag. Not for a moment. For some reason, it felt more of a violation than anything else. Opening somebody else’s bag – it was as lawless as wetting the bed.

  She touched the bag, then jerked back as if it had stung her. There was a noise in the kitchen. A muffled clatter, as if something was shifting its position.

  It was only the ice-making machine. She reached out again for the handbag, lifted it up and clicked it open.

  Inside, she felt the dark glasses. They were folded like an insect. She took them out. Then she inserted her hand, deeper.

  The gun was surprisingly cold. Even through the gloves, she could feel it. Heavy, too. She lifted it out, gingerly. She ran her hand over the stubby metal shaft, and the safety catch. It was locked back. How curious, that it could blow off somebody’s face! It felt as unconvincingly convincing as a stage prop.

  Stage directions: she puts the loaded pistol into the pocket of the fur coat. Glancing around furtively, she takes off her own coat and boots and hides them behind the settee. She also hides her handbag. Then she puts on Lila’s shoes and wraps herself in the fur coat. She leaves the room.

  In the lobby, she selects a headscarf from the assortment lying in the copper bowl on the table. She ties it around her head: Lila’s street disguise. She puts on the dark glasses, checks her appearance in the mirror, and exits.

  Closing the door behind her, Jules felt a curious sensation. She was in an Italian Primitive painting; she was the soul, issuing forth, like an identical doll, from the mouth of a sinner. Around her, the colours glowed with an intensity that has never been recaptured. Lila, in a simple cobalt robe, had opened her mouth and her spirit had flown out from between her lips. Was it her soul? Or was it the devil?

  Jules pocketed the keys and pressed the elevator button. It took an age to arrive.

  Finally it came. The doors slid open. She stepped in and pressed the button for the ground-floor lobby. The elevator started to descend.

  Adjusting her dark glasses, she glanced up at the indicator panel. Something was wrong. After a split second, she realised: the number i6 was lit up.

  Her stomach lurched. She wrapped herself tightly in the coat and turned away to inspect the wall. The lift stopped on the 16th floor and the doors opened.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see a large, grizzled man. He wore a track suit and he was accompanied by an Airedale dog. He stepped in, nodding to her.

  ‘Hi!’ he said.

  She nodded back, and turned away. He was obviously a resident, taking his dog for a run. She fixed her eyes on the veneered mahogany panelling. Suddenly she jumped. The dog was sniffing her leg.

  The man jerked it away. ‘Torts!’ he said, ‘lay off!’ Then he addressed her. ‘Sorry about that. He can smell yours.’

  ‘What?’ Christ, her voice was wrong! She hadn’t practised.

  ‘Your dog,’ he said.

  ‘Ah.’

  They stood immobile as the elevator descended. 9 . . . 8. . . She could smell his aftershave. He cleared his throat. She willed him not to speak again.

  ‘Took my daughter to Fields of Desire,’ he said. ‘Beautiful picture.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered.

  . . . 4 . . . 3 . . .

  He laughed. ‘Now she wants to go and live in Wisconsin.’

  The elevator slid silkily to a halt. The doors opened. The man stood back, to let her out.

  ‘Bye,’ she said.

  ‘Take care,’ he said.

  The lobby was empty, except for the fat doorman. He was sitting behind his desk, watching TV. He jumped up as she headed for the door. It took such an age, to cross the marble floor. Her high heels beat a tattoo. She knew she was hurrying too fast, but the man with the dog was behind her.

  The doorman held the door open for her.

  ‘Night,’ she said.

  Shielding her face with her furry collar, she hurried out of the building.

  She turned to the left, and walked briskly up Central Park West. Behind her, she heard the thud of footsteps. They gathered speed. She walked faster. The footsteps thudded nearer and the man passed her, dragging his dog behind him. He raised his hand, in a half-salute.

  Her heartbeat returned to normal. I’ve done it, she thought. A wave of traffic, released from the lights, leapt past her. A cab’s loose hood bounced up and down. Across the street, the darkened park accompanied her like her tangled dreams. It was windy. The trees waved their branches against the lurid sky, as if trying to attract her attention.

  The shoes pinched – Lila’s feet were a half-size smaller than her own. But they helped to create Lila’s provocative, wriggling walk. Shoes always help – hadn’t Bette Davis said so? Or was it Audrey Hepburn?

  For the first block she didn’t meet anybody. Wooden barricades, topped with barbed wire, surrounded the next apartment building. She passed its lit entrance like an assassin at a
n airport, passing through the infra-red security system. The doorman didn’t turn.

  Crossing the next street, she stumbled on the kerb. In the dark glasses she couldn’t see clearly. Lila couldn’t, either. Shielded from the world’s stare she stumbled, half-blinded by her ostentatious attempt at anonymity. Wear shades and you can guarantee speculation. Walking up the next block, she passed a young couple. They nudged each other. What were they saying? Who did they think they had seen?

  Guess who we saw last night! They would tell their friends.

  She turned the corner into 73rd Street. Halfway up it stood the building where Trevor lived. Wedged between brownstones, it was tall and modern. Its angled balconies jutted out like ashtrays. She had scanned it so often, standing in the shadowy entrance of the underground car park opposite. But tonight, it was as if she had never seen it before. It looked as temporary as a stage set. Even the cypresses in the tubs outside looked too good to be true. It awaited her entrance.

  From across the road she could see the doorman, sitting behind his desk. He knew his part so well. Hadn’t she rehearsed it with him, often enough, in her head? He only had a few lines, and let’s hope he was going to get them right.

  She paused, before making her entrance. It was all going just fine. Down the street, an extra emerged from one of the brownstones and climbed into a waiting cab.

  And . . . action! Lila crossed the road and entered the lobby. The doorman smiled and nodded. In fact, he seemed to have no lines at all.

  She walked across the shiny floor. For a split second, she faltered. Ah! There were the elevators! She veered to the left and made her way towards them, past a sunken pool swarming with carp.

  Trevor’s apartment was i8C. That must mean that he lived on the 18th floor. She couldn’t very well ask the doorman.