Except maybe Sudsy, who knew everything. But since the movie was made like fifty years ago, who’d even care? But, what about the teeny tiny fact the names Terry Moore and Laura de France don’t sound remotely alike? I began gnawing on my Forever Amber nail polish, not stopping until I had an incredible epiphany. Maybe Laura de France was telling the truth and really was Terry Moore! Didn’t movie stars change their names all the time? A hint of hope shot across my brain like a meteorite. That was it! Miss de France had a pseudonym to preserve her anonymity, a vocab word I adored, but never thought I’d use. Everything was going to be fine. I knew it. All I had to do was show up at the Valentine party in my cat costume, change into the coveted Cleopatra dress, drink punch for an hour, and take off. It was amazingly simple!
My euphoria lasted at least five whole minutes. But happiness has a way of evaporating, and by the time I reached the Coral Cove Mall, anger and doubt hung over my head again like angry twins. I let the twins fight it out. It didn’t matter. I wanted the dress!
Chapter Six
Laura de France’s shabby Victorian loomed up through the dark, a sad souvenir of other people’s lives. I got out of the car, the bayou breeze, soft as the center of a Valentine chocolate, nibbling at the tail of my cat costume.
Tyler, dressed as Pluto, Sudsy as Opus, and Maria as my cat twin, emerged from the Green Lady. Wordlessly, they followed me as I trotted sandal-footed up the walk. The copycat slams of another car’s doors announced the arrival of Tamara and Jamal dressed as Batwoman and Batman.
The six of us stood on Miss de France’s front porch looking like escapees from the Barnum and Bailey Circus. Corpse like, James opened the door dressed in his usual tuxedo, except he’d added Dracula teeth for the party.
“Good evening, Brooke,” he said. “We’ve been expecting you.” Then with a sweep of his white-gloved hand, waved us into the foyer. Expressionless, he gave us the onceover. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll inform Madame you’ve arrived.”
We waited for what seemed like forever. Maria played with her tail, Jamal text messaged nonstop, and Tyler took off his dog head to wipe his brow.
“This thing is hotter than hell,” he complained.
I gave him a warning look. “Tyler, please refrain from swearing. And Maria, watch your tail or you’ll break a statue.”
I was checking out my new Egyptian bangs in the mirror when the click of high heels and the swish of a skirt above made us look up to see Miss de France at the head of the stairs. Dressed in a long blue gown cut low on her wrinkled bosom, it would have made Marie Antoinette blush.
“Dahling,” she cooed in a well-articulated tone as she precariously descended the staircase on James’s arm. “So good of you and your entourage to come.”
Tamara shot me a dirty look.
“Well, we’re absolutely delighted to be here,” I drawled like a bit player in Gone With the Wind.
Miss de France tottered over, leaning forward to kiss each cheek. “Please do introduce me.”
Within a minute max, we were totally introduced and following our tiny hostess toward the French doors to the drawing room. The room was wearing its party best—huge punch bowl and hors d’oeuvres on the grand piano, a feisty fire in the fireplace, red hearts and white balloons hanging from the ceiling, and assorted cobwebs clinging companionably in the corners.
“Didn’t James do a smashing job?” our hostess said, waving a delicate hand about the room. “Spent the entire day polishing the silver.” She turned to Tamara. “So what do you think of my Victorian, you exquisite creature you?” she said, stepping forward to peer into her face.
Tamara’s signature scowl evaporated. She opened her mouth, but for once was speechless.
“Well?” Miss de France continued. “Don’t hide behind that gorgeous face, because it simply won’t work with me.”
Tamara smiled, showing a dimple we never knew existed.
“It’s fabulous, ma’am,” Tamara said. “It’s absolutely fabulous.”
“And what about you?” Miss de France asked, edging toward Maria.
Intimidated, Maria cha cha’d backwards. “I think it’s...” She hesitated struggling for a word, but was saved by her interrogator.
“You know, you remind me of an actress I worked with in Orchids Are Forever. Her name was Maria, too, or was it Carmen? A fabulous little spitfire with a figure that melted the camera lens. Howard Hughes dated her, but then Howard dated every starlet in Hollywood. Including me, of course.” She laughed as though he were standing across the room.
“I know all about Howard Hughes,” Sudsy bragged. “He was a real lady’s man.”
Miss de France blinked in acknowledgement. “Now, if we could all proceed to the grand piano, James will serve the punch. In consideration of the social mores of the decade, I’ve instructed my man to forgo the alcohol.” She nodded toward the butler who stood poised over the punch bowl, silver ladle in hand.
“He’s her man?” Tyler whispered to me out of the side of his mouth.
“It’s just an expression, Tyler,” I whispered back.
Forever starving, Jamal and Tyler stampeded to the piano, creating my chance to talk to our hostess.
“Miss de France,” I began, trying not to sound too pushy, “when can I change into the costume?”
“Costume? Why, you’re already in a costume, my dear Brooke. Unless you dress like a cat all the time.” She laughed at her own wit.
I forced a smile. Had she completely forgotten?
“Remember, you promised I could wear Elizabeth Taylor’s toga dress.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Silly me. James located it. He’s very efficient, you know. The perfect man. Remembers everything, discloses nothing.”
“Maybe he can give Tyler lessons.”
“Indeed. Well then, let’s trot along upstairs.”
At less than a trot, we ambled into the foyer. Miss de France lifted the hem of her blue dress, then grabbing the stair rail, placed a small high heeled shoe on the first step. After a totter or two, I grabbed her bird-like arm. Miraculously, we made it to the landing, where, after hearing a squeak, I felt something scamper across my foot.
“Yikes!” I yelled.
“Don’t be alarmed. It’s only Oliver North. He’s really quite harmless. And he eats very little.”
Well, I hope he and the moths haven’t been snacking on my Cleopatra dress. I gulped. The dress had to be fifty years old. An image of the infamous costume looking like Swiss cheese and covered with mouse doo flashed through my mind. We sashayed down the corridor until Miss de France stopped abruptly at a tall door which she flung open.
A flick of a switch revealed a large bedroom with yellowing walls and water stained ceilings. An enormous four poster monopolized the room. Covering the boat-like bed was an emerald green duvet across which lay a white sheet. It had to be the dress! Afraid, I stood at the doorway.
Maybe it won’t be too reamed out, I hoped, forcing a foot across the threshold. It will be dark at Paige’s party, so even if there’s a little mouse doo, no one should notice.
“Go ahead, darling, try it on.”
I walked to the bed and undid the safety pins that held the mummy-like sheeting. According to my English teacher, Mrs. Ethos, time stood still is a huge cliché, but when I pulled back the tissue paper and saw the Cleopatra dress, time really seemed to stop.
Shaking, I held it against me. A toga, it was made of pale green silk. Designed to be worn over the right shoulder, it cinched gently at the waist, draping softly to the floor.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I stammered. “I can’t believe that after all of these years it’s still so, so...”
“Perfect? I had no choice but to care for it. It was all I could do after Irene Sharaff smuggled it out of 20th Century Fox. She knew how I coveted that dress.”
“So, she made all the costumes for Cleopatra?”
“Basically. She was head designer. Such a fabulous talent.�
��
Frantically, I struggled to escape the cat suit.
Miss de France reached for the zipper. “Here.” One long pull and a little less skin later, I was out of my feline garb and slipping the toga over my head.
She looked at me appraisingly. “Since your breasts defy the law of gravity, you can go braless.”
“But the top is too big!” I wailed.
“Elizabeth was always well endowed.” She handed me two sheets of tissue paper. “Stick those in front and you’ll look perfect. That’s what God made tissue paper for.”
Miss de France led me to the full length mirror. “Now, what do you think?”
I gazed into the mirror. Looking back at me was a Brooke Bentley I barely recognized. A beautiful girl in a flowing sea foam green dress that transported me back to another time and place. Tears filled my eyes.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”
“I should be thanking you for the pleasure it gives me to see you. The dress still smells of Elizabeth’s perfume.”
I inhaled deeply. The faint fragrance of orchids filled the air. Ecstatic, I turned toward the door.
“Brooke, just a minute.” Miss de France led me to a small mahogany dressing table. “You need more eyeliner. Remember, you’re Cleopatra.” She raised a smoky black eye pencil to my face.
“Let me.” I took the pencil from her and in seconds had created enormous cat eyes.
“Perfect!” she said, clapping her hands. “Now we must hurry, Brooke. Your fans are waiting.”
My fans are waiting. I smiled, laughing inwardly at Miss de France’s ridiculous words and at myself for feeling so incredibly wonderful when she said them.
Chapter Seven
Transformed, I drifted down the hall. I felt totally different—unbelievably beautiful, powerful and proud. A woman who couldn’t be crossed.
Miss de France looked at me and smiled. “You look just like a starlet. If I’d thought, I would have had James play the “Processional.” You know, the background music in Cleopatra when Elizabeth made her entrance into Rome riding on that fabulous golden sphinx and wearing that monstrous headdress.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well, then I’ll add it to my list of things I need to expose you to.”
Expose me to? Miss de France had a list? A warning whispered in my ear, but I was too busy admiring myself to listen.
Glancing down, I put a sandaled foot on the first step. Miss de France said I looked like a starlet. Maybe I can be an actress! God knows, I’m dramatic. Below me stood my fans—I mean, my friends.
Jamal gave a wolf whistle as Miss de France and I made our way down the staircase.
I looked at Sudsy for approval.
“Omigod! You look absolutely...” Sudsy stopped.
“Amazing,” Maria said, finishing her sentence.
I glanced at Tyler. His face had turned red, like he’d spent all day in the sun at swim practice.
“What do you think?” I asked him when I reached the bottom of the stairs.
“You look old, like twenty or something.”
“I want to look older, Tyler. Elizabeth Taylor was a grown woman when she wore this dress.”
He scowled. “Well, how do you think I’m going to feel walking into Paige’s party dressed like a dog when you look like a movie star?”
“Oh, my dear boy.” Miss de France grabbed Tyler’s paw. “If you’re not happy with your costume, perhaps James can find something for you.”
“No, that’s all right,” Tyler protested.
“Are you sure?” she went on. “It would be great fun!”
I grabbed Tyler’s other paw. “Tyler, it would be fun. Please, for me?”
A reluctant smile crossed his face. “Well, I guess anything would be better than this damn dog suit.”
Tyler trailed after James. Sudsy and I drifted over to a plate of tiny triangular sandwiches with no crusts.
“Now, what shall we do until Tyler comes back?” Miss de France said, looking at us where we stood in a cluster. “One of you must play,” she said, pointing to the piano.
Without a word Jamal sauntered to the piano and opened the lid to the keyboard. He played slowly at first, like he was licking an All Day Sucker. A dreamy look in his eyes reminded me how talented and brilliant he was. The rest of us stood listening, waiting for Tyler, Sudsy and I supplementing the music with watercress sandwiches.
When Jamal was through, Miss de France put her long black-gloved hands together and clapped. “Where did you ever learn to play like that? Mozart, was it not?”
Jamal nodded, and then the French doors opened and Tyler and James walked in.
I blinked. Gone was the Pluto dog costume, and in its place was a black tux with a frilly white shirt. The Sisters gasped in unison, sounding like a bike tire that just hit a nail. I was speechless. I stared at Tyler, somehow feeling I was seeing him for the first time.
“Well, look who’s coming to dinner!” Tamara announced, breaking the silence.
Blushing, Tyler returned our stares with a “don’t I look hot?” kind of smile I’d never seen before. James looked just as pleased with himself. Kind of like the professor in My Fair Lady who dressed up Eliza Doolittle.
“It fits him like a glove,” James said, brushing a bit of imaginary lint from Tyler’s shoulder. “I had it made at Carroll’s in Beverly Hills in 1984. It’s the most expensive suit I ever bought.”
“And he looks absolutely fabulous in it,” Miss de France added. “Reminds me of that darling Troy Donahue.” She sashayed forward and placed a kiss on Tyler’s cheek.
“Who’s Troy Donahue?” I asked, wondering if I could handle Tyler looking like a movie star, too.
“He was that hunky blonde guy in Summer Place,” Sudsy said. “One of my all time favorite romantic movies.”
I looked at Tyler again, suddenly feeling the overwhelming desire to drag him to the back seat of the Green Lady to make-out.
Miss de France removed her glove to wipe red lipstick from Tyler’s face. “Speaking of favorite movies, James, will you please set up the film projector for our private screening?”
“We’re going to watch movies?” Jamal said, swinging around on the piano bench. Escape was written all over his face. “I don’t think we really have the— ”
“Of course, you do, young man,” Miss de France interrupted. “Other than giving you an acting lesson, it will provide you a much needed education about sponge diving.”
The annoying squeak of a rickety cart bearing a monstrous film projector being wheeled across the wood floor announced the verdict. We were going to watch Miss de France on the big screen whether we liked it or not.
I gulped. This was it. Terrified, I watched James glide to a far wall, where, with a push of a button, a large oil painting swung back, miraculously revealing a movie screen.
“Just like in Sunset Boulevard,” Sudsy whispered, nudging me in the arm. But I had no time to be impressed, because within seconds the credits for Beneath the 12-Mile Reef would flash in front of our eyes and the whole charade would be over.
Maybe through some miracle Laura de France’s name would actually appear in the credits. Or, an even bigger miracle, Terry Moore would look just like a young Laura de France.
We sat in trapped silence watching James wrestle with the rebellious reel of film that flapped bird-like as he attempted to thread the ancient projector.
Maria and I sat side-by-side on the musty velvet loveseat. “All of this dust is killing me with my allergies,” she whispered. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
I glanced at Tyler’s waterproof Timex. “It’s only eight,” I whispered back. “Hang in there fifteen minutes and we’ll leave. I promise.”
After what seemed an eternity, James nodded at Jamal who stood sentry at the light switch. “Lights!”
“Camera, action!” Miss de France’s cultured voice floated through the dark.
I took a deep breath, letting
the air out slowly, wishing I was anywhere but in the drawing room of new BFF and impostor friend, Laura de France.
Chapter Eight
An orange-pink sunset fills the screen followed by murky green water and a school of fish. No credits or foot-high letters saying Beneath the 12-Mile Reef appear. Only a sponge diver in an ancient dive suit plodding slowly along the floor of the gulf like an underwater Frankenstein.
I exhaled. Obviously, Miss de France’s copy of the movie came straight from the 20th Century Fox editing room sans credits and names. Feeling a temporary reprieve, I watched the diver rise to the surface and swim to the side of a sponge boat and its crew. Noticeably hunky is a young guy who could only be Grandma Donnie’s heartthrob, Robert Wagner.
Even though the movie was about a hundred years old, I was almost enjoying it. Especially, when two slimeballs appeared in another boat and threatened to cut his dad’s air hose if Robert Wagner and his crew didn’t hand over their sponges. But how could I enjoy any of Beneath the 12-Mile Reef when I was dreading the moment Miss de France’s alter ego Terry Moore appeared on the screen?
And, of course, she did. Little and cute, in blue capris and a short corny perm, running to meet her boyfriend, Arnold, the guy who’d stolen the sponges.
Through the dark I analyzed the young actress’s features—square face, pug nose. I turned to Miss de France where she reigned from her red velvet throne to stare at her profile silhouetted against the wall. I gulped. Unless she was related to Pinocchio and her nose had magically grown, there was no way in hell she and Terry Moore were the same person. I had to stop the camera before everyone else figured out the same thing. But how?
I was about to stage my first unscripted asthma attack, when a snap signaling a break in the film ended the screening.
“Lights!” James’s voice cut through the dark prompting his assistant, Jamal, to leap for a wall switch. In a moment the room was bathed in ghostly light.
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