Suite Scarlett

by Johnson, Maureen

  “That was way too short,” Lola called from inside. “I’m serious. Go and talk to him.”

  This night was unfair, and every door on the fifth floor led to some kind of pitfall. It was only a situation this dire that could make her go down one flight and approach the room at the end of the hall. That door flung open after one knock.

  “I was wondering when you’d come and fess up,” Mrs. Amberson said. “When I didn’t see you at the cast party…”

  “You were there?”

  “Take a deep breath, O’Hara. All things can be overcome if we remember to breathe. I take it you have some personal issues to sort out?”

  “Kind of,” Scarlett admitted.

  “Then you have done the right thing by coming to me. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes. We’re going somewhere fabulous.”

  Somewhere fabulous turned out to be a restaurant called Raw Deal, where none of the food was cooked above a light steaming and nothing was quite as it seemed. The burgers were made of sesame seeds and millet. The tomato sauce was made of beets. Even the “cola” was some syrupy concoction of tree sap and human misery.

  They took one of the sidewalk tables so Mrs. Amberson could smoke, a fact that clearly annoyed the other diners and the staff.

  “For the last week,” she said, gleefully exhaling a plume in the direction of a particularly peevish looking guy eating a pyramid of lentils, “you have looked like someone about to be sent to the bottom of the Mariana Trench in a second hand Citroën. If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I will be forced to investigate, and you don’t want that.”

  The waiter came over, presumably to request that she stop puffing like a dragon at his other tables, but she undercut him with an order for the adzuki dip with blue algae crumbles, punctuated with a “do not cross me or I will set you on fire” smile.

  The one thing Scarlett’s life was currently missing—and could happily continue to miss—was a deep investigation by Mrs. Amberson. Plus, she had run out of options on her own. It was easier just to tell her.

  “I’m sort of…with someone in the cast.”

  “Ah, the missing verb,” she said. “It’s like the lost chord. And how are things with Eric going?”

  “They’re…okay,” she admitted. “I guess.”

  “What do you mean okay? I lock you together in a romantic theater, throw a party, distract your brother while you make your escape…I’ve practically sent the two of you out to sea in a tiny rowboat. What could possibly be the problem?”

  She was, as Scarlett had suspected, already aware of the general situation.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” she said. “With him, with Spencer…”

  “Give me the details. And don’t be precious. I can’t help you unless you give me all the facts.”

  So, Scarlett told the story. All of it. Mrs. Amberson listened intently. When Scarlett was finished, she snapped her cigarette case open and shut a few times.

  “I understand completely,” she said. “It all makes complete sense.”

  “It does?”

  “Let’s start with Spencer,” she said. “He’s upset for two reasons, a superficial one and a deeper one. The first I am sure you have already guessed. He’s afraid that you might break up, because then he’ll have to hate Eric. Working on the show becomes difficult. The deeper reason, the real reason, is that he’s jealous.”

  “Jealous of what?” Scarlett asked.

  “I watch your brother on stage every day. When he does something, do you know who he looks to? Not me. Not Trevor. Not that poor girl who’s been slogging around after him for a week. You are his audience, Scarlett. Out of everyone in the room, it’s your opinion that matters most. If you laugh, if you are impressed, that counts more than anything I could say. But now you are paying more attention to his partner. Someone else is going to know your secrets first. Someone else will be sharing the inside jokes. And this is very, very annoying.”

  This all sounded weirdly right.

  “He’s probably not even aware of where his feelings are coming from,” she went on. “But things have to change between you sometime. He’ll move out. You’ll go to college. Someone or something will get in the way. Don’t fight the change, just deal with it.”

  “I’m trying to. But he’ll barely talk to me, not like normal.”

  “We’ll move on to Eric,” she said. “It all ties in together. They’re both actors, and I know actors. That’s one subject I’ve covered in depth. Believe me.”

  She trailed off here and began playing with her lighter and failing. It clicked and spluttered as she tried to light her cigarette. Scarlett watched her, hypnotized, until she finally got it lit and took a long drag.

  “An eighteen-year-old actor is a dangerous thing. Especially in New York. They’re hungrier than you can possibly imagine. They work very hard to be liked. Eric is no exception.”

  “He’s Southern,” Scarlett offered in his defense.

  “Being Southern is his gimmick. That’s not a bad thing—all actors have a gimmick. It doesn’t change the basic profile. You see, a lot of actors think in order to be appealing, they must seem to be available to anyone and everyone. Their lives are one long flirtation. It’s not because they are bad people—it’s because they want to work.”

  “So you’re saying that he won’t say if we’re dating because he’s a flirty actor?”

  “No. I’m just saying that his being Southern has nothing to do with anything. Using it as an excuse for why he couldn’t answer the question about whether or not you were dating was a bit of a brilliant move, though. ‘I didn’t think people in New York had these discussions.’ That’s genius.”

  “It was bad for me to ask, right?” Scarlett said, drooping. “Really bad?”

  Mrs. Amberson waved away her smoke.

  “Don’t worry about that, or his lack of an answer. They all dodge the question as long as they can. Welcome to the wonderful world of dating, O’Hara. You need to start thinking strategically. He certainly is. He complimented you on being urban and experienced, all the while sidestepping the issue…not because he doesn’t like you, but because this is how the game is played.”

  Scarlett’s head was starting to hurt.

  “I thought it was all about having someone you could be really truthful with,” she said. “I didn’t know there were games.”

  It sounded so dumb saying that out loud. Mrs. Amberson gave her a look that was infuriatingly affectionate, like she was a very slow but adorable puppy who’d gotten her snout stuck in a shoe.

  “You are being truthful,” she said. “You’re just being very choosey about how to present that truth. Life is an art, O’Hara, and we all have to cultivate an image. Don’t worry. It’s an acquired skill, and you’re a sharp girl. But for today, I have a plan to fix all of your problems.”

  She scooped up some adzuki dip with her finger.

  “You are going to run an errand for me. Tomorrow afternoon, about three hours before rehearsal, you are going to take this book down to Eric.”

  With her other hand, she fished a book called Viral Theater Tactics in Shakespeare out of her bag.

  “I’ll call ahead before your arrival to prepare him. You will wear that dress, so don’t get anything on it tonight.”

  “I wore it today, though,” she said, thinking about Lola’s experience. “Shouldn’t I wear something different?”

  “You could wear the same outfit every single day and no guy—who isn’t gay—will notice. And there is nothing about that dress not to like. It’s a classic. I’d rather have one good outfit than a closet full of half-assed ones.”

  There was something reassuring in this. Mrs. Amberson was not on the obnoxious dress-snob team.

  “Tell him I said that he should read chapter four, not that I have the slightest idea what chapter four is about. Of course, since you came all the way downtown, he’ll invite you to stay until rehearsal. You will refuse.”

  “I will?” Scarlett
said.

  “Yes. Instead, you are going to wait at that little coffee place on the corner, the one with the red awnings. The lighting there is excellent. Now, I haven’t actually read this book, but from what I can tell, it’s dull enough to kill a monk. It will drive him out of his apartment. You will be seated, very prettily, in the window, writing. Get that window seat. You will not notice him unless he comes right down and sits with you. Remain intent on your work, as if he was the last thing on your mind.”

  It was good, Scarlett had to admit. Very good.

  “Meanwhile,” she went on, “I am going to take your brother down to the theater a bit early to see his ideas for the fight again. I will impress on him, in my subtle way, how sad you’ve looked the last few days…except when watching him perform. Spencer will feel both appreciated and guilty and will want to talk to you. Eric will be intrigued by your firm, independent streak and the sight of you pursuing your own art. Also, you will look good. He will see that he needs to step up his game. If you aren’t back on track with both of them by the end of the night, I’ll eat a Happy Meal.”

  From Mrs. Amberson, that was a serious threat.

  “There will be one final, perfect touch,” she said with a smile. “I will put you on stage to stand in for Hamlet during the fight practice this afternoon. You don’t have to do a thing—just stand there and hold still while they work around you. It’ll free up Hamlet to run his lines, and it will put you in the forefront of the action.”

  She snapped her fingers for the check, which the annoyed waiter was more than happy to bring.

  “Finish up,” she said. “You need to get a full forty winks tonight, and I’ll give you Charlie to put over your eyes. He’ll help with the swelling.”

  It took Scarlett a minute to remember that Charlie was a dead ferret full of beads and essential oils—not some guy who hovered over you as you slept and did things to your face.

  “What swelling?” Scarlett asked.

  “This is another rule in life, O’Hara,” she said, throwing down some cash. “Always assume you are a little swollen. Lola understands that rule, I guarantee it. The entire beauty industry is based on that truth.”

  Mrs. Amberson seemed to be aware of many “truths” floating just under the surface of everyday reality. If she was right, then Scarlett had never had any idea what was going on around her.

  Which was a scary thought, but it explained a lot.

  A PLAN UNFURLS

  Scarlett slept surprisingly well for someone with a dead ferret on her face. Charlie had done a good job of blocking out the light from outside. For once this week, she was rested.

  Lola, being Lola, did not make a rude comment about the dead ferret. Instead, she picked it up from where it had landed between their beds in the middle of the night, sniffed it, and said, “Lavender. The real stuff. Told you. It makes a difference.”

  “His name is Charlie,” Scarlett explained.

  “Whatever his name is, you look much better this morning. A little less puffy.”

  “I was puffy?” Scarlett said, touching her face. This was disturbing evidence that Mrs. Amberson may have been right.

  “It was probably stress from all that stuff with Spencer. Did that go well?”

  “Uh…yes?”

  “You were down there long enough. I’m glad that’s fixed. I couldn’t have taken that any longer.”

  “Me, either,” Scarlett said.

  Maybe it wasn’t entirely a lie if she was going to fix it now, she figured. Then she realized that, no, it was just a lie.

  Scarlett followed every instruction to the letter. She put on the black dress, tried to calm down her curls, and applied the red lipstick. She even raided Lola’s Drawer of Mysteries for whatever looked useful. Mrs. Amberson called her to let her know that she had spoken to Eric and that he was expecting the book. She packed her computer. All systems were go.

  When she arrived at his apartment, it took three tries before Eric answered the door. Instead of buzzing her in, he said he would come down and open the door himself—which was a lot of needless work for a walk-up. He leaned out, blocking the door from locking with his body. He was shoeless, hair unbrushed.

  “Thanks for bringing this down,” he said. It was friendly, but there was a lack of enthusiasm. “This looks…awful, actually.”

  This was the place where he was supposed to ask her up, provide shelter from the summer sun. Instead he clutched the book. Now that she had the puffy thing in her head, Scarlett was seeing it everywhere. Eric’s face looked odd. He was a bit swollen under the eyes, which were much redder than normal.

  “So…see you at rehearsal?” he asked.

  Why was she surprised that Mrs. Amberson’s plan wasn’t clicking from the start?

  “Actually,” she said, trudging on with it, “I’m just going to be over there. Writing.”

  She pointed at the coffee shop and slapped at the computer in her bag for good measure.

  “Oh. Got it. I’ll swing by on my way over, okay?”

  Why hadn’t Eric, Mr. Southern Manners of 1877, invited her up? There were lots of possible reasons. Maybe it was messy. Maybe he was sick. Maybe there was a Civil War documentary on and his grandmother didn’t allow him to watch those with Yankee girls. Whatever the reason, she was down here now and there was no point in going home.

  The coffee shop was full, of course. All the good tables in the windows were occupied.

  There was a deli just opposite his building. As long as no big trucks came by, she had a good view of his stoop. She opened her computer and settled in to wait with a cup of burned coffee. Yes, it was a little stalkerish, but if he hadn’t been Captain Mysterious all week, this could have been avoided.

  Two hours is a long time to have to wait for someone to come out of his house. She began to understand why the cops on stakeout on Crime and Punishment always looked so bored. Her patience and willingness to lower her own standards of appropriate behavior paid off. Twenty minutes before rehearsal, Eric stepped out of the door. He turned toward the coffee shop for just a second, put on his sunglasses, and sat down on the stoop.

  “What are you doing?” Scarlett asked herself out loud, very softly, as he continued to sit there for almost five minutes. It finally struck her that maybe he was waiting for her, and she quickly slammed the computer closed and shoved it in her bag.

  Just as Scarlett stepped outside, a girl carrying a quilted overnight bag came out of the front door of Eric’s building. She was very tiny and coconut-tanned, with a short denim skirt, a stylish tank top, and massive sunglasses. She stopped and spoke to Eric for a moment. Or at Eric. He didn’t reply.

  A girl was the last thing Scarlett wanted to see.

  It was enough to make Scarlett duck down behind a parked car, pretending to fix her shoe. She watched from her crouched position, her heart pounding furiously. The rising nausea that hit when she first saw Coco McBigGlasses subsided when she saw how they interacted with each other. There was a large space between them as they spoke, and Eric kept his arms folded over his chest—not angrily, more like he was just hanging out, maybe giving directions. The girl definitely seemed annoyed about something. She was waving her arms a lot. When she finally finished whatever she was raving on about, she hurried down the street. Eric stayed exactly where he was.

  Something had just happened, but Scarlett had no idea what. The girl didn’t act like she was there with Eric—it looked more like she was stopping to complain about something. Aside from the fact that they came out of the same door a few minutes apart and that they spoke for a moment, there was nothing worrying there.

  Scarlett felt like an idiot. She backed up, slipping around the corner, so that Eric wouldn’t see her suddenly spring from a crouched position across the street. He had to be on to the shoe trick by now. She really needed a second stealth move. Actually, what she needed was to be less insane.

  She waited a minute or two, taking the time to pet a Labrador that had been tied to a s
top sign while his owner went into a bakery. The poor dog looked confused by his temporary abandonment, eager for any kind of company or reassurance.

  “Waiting is the worst,” Scarlett said to the dog. “I know.”

  The dog wagged his tail in happy understanding.

  When Scarlett rounded the corner, Eric was still in his spot, staring up at his window a few floors above. Scarlett shook out her curls and put on her best, “I was just wandering along—I had no idea you were here!” face, which was just her normal face with slightly widened eyes.

  “Hi,” she said. “I was just walking over.”

  “Hey,” he said. He was extra Southern now. He must have dragged five syllables out of the word. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

  He stirred, like he had forgotten why he was standing outside in the first place, and slowly followed along.

  “You seem kind of tired today,” Scarlett said.

  “Yeah. I didn’t sleep too much last night.”

  And that was it for his end of the conversation for the next four blocks. Scarlett filled in, telling him all about Lola’s toilet paper folding and lavender essences and breakfast-redesign schemes. It was impossible to tell if he was listening at all, so she shut up by the final block.

  “Stop a second,” he said, slowing her down at the corner before the church. He reached for his glasses, as if he was going to take them off, and then decided against it.

  “I’ve just been thinking about your question,” he said. “And you’re right, we need to figure that out.”

  This was good. Very good. This made Scarlett love the sun on her skin, and the smell of detergent coming out of the laundry next to them, and the people walking by talking on their phones. The world worked. Everyone in it was happy, really. Maybe that’s what he’d been doing in his apartment—he’d been thinking. Maybe Mrs. Amberson’s plan hadn’t worked exactly as she described, but still that little bit of space had really…

  “I can’t really be that right now,” he said.