by Jane Lotter
“I want to talk to her,” Tully says.
“That’s funny,” Kelsey says, taking her right leg down and switching to her left. “Because whenever Georgia talked about your wants, it was never, you know, conversation.”
She makes this last remark sound terribly suggestive, and I feel myself grow warm. Why? The idea of Georgia and Tully together, I suppose. Together and not conversing.
Tully, the frazzled father, has had enough. “Tell me where she is,” he says.
Kelsey stops stretching and stands, arms crossed, staring straight at Tully. “Not here, I promise.”
“But she was.”
Kelsey laughs. “Sure. After Georgia exited your non-wedding, she checked it to Palm Springs where, I guess, she partied with friends. Then she calls and asks if she can kick it here a few nights. By that time, I’m flying home myself. So I’m like, No problem, perfect timing, Boone’s away on business.”
She turns to me again. “Boone’s my fiancé,” she says, once more addressing me in the tone one might employ with a schoolteacher, nun, or sufferer of senile dementia. “He’s in Canada right now. Import, export.”
I take it Kelsey means Boone is in the import-export business. Though it could be she’s sharing her prescription for dealing with the male sex.
“So, anyway,” she says, addressing herself to Tully, “Georgia flew here, and we chilled. She needed that. Her life’s been pretty random lately.”
Tully impatiently shifts his weight. “Yeah, well—”
“We girl-talked,” Kelsey says. “Listened to music, watched DVDs. She stayed with me a couple days, then hasta la vista.”
“Where’d she go?” Tully says.
Kelsey sighs. “Out of your life, babe, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t believe that,” Tully says. “And I won’t, unless I hear it from Georgia.”
Kelsey seems amused, like a teenager suppressing a giggle at the expense of a clueless grown-up. “Tull, everybody knows you’re a sweetie,” she says. “And for two or three weeks, five minutes, whatever, Georgia was amped on you. She was.”
She pauses, as though a thought has come into her head. What an unexpected and spooky feeling that must be for her. “Funny,” she says, “how some girls, when they’ve had lots of dads and stepdads, go for older guys.” She looks Tully up and down. “I never got that.”
Her brief observation on sugar daddies ended, Kelsey returns to the topic of Georgia. “But you better face it,” she says, “you and G are so dunzo.”
“If by ‘dunzo,’” Tully says, “you mean—”
“I mean,” Kelsey says, “you have been kicked to the curb. You are Mister Ex-Fiancé. Any relationship you have with that girl is strictly in your dreams.” She taps her temple with an index finger. “Totally imaginary. My advice is get off the L train. L as in loser. Collect your emotional baggage from the rotating carousel of life and move on. Know what I’m saying?”
I’m not at all sure I know what she’s saying, but Tully seems to understand perfectly. “Is she with somebody?” he says.
Kelsey sighs again. “Like another guy? Look, Georgia’s ambitious, she has plans. She doesn’t park her butt in the sand and watch killer waves break on the beach without her. She paddles her board out there and takes ’em.”
And in this case, I’m thinking, it’s possible Georgia paddled her board out and took her own stepfather, Donald. Charlotte’s husband.
Kelsey turns to me a third time, obviously racking her brain for the polite thing to say. “Would you like some herbal tea or something?” she says.
I get the feeling “or something” would be a motorized wheelchair or a gift certificate for assisted living. Like Tully, I’ve about had it with Kelsey. If he’s the frazzled father, I’m the exasperated mother.
I sit myself down on the red sofa. “I’ll pass on the tea,” I say. “But if there’s any gin in the house, I’d love a large martini. Very dry.”
Shocked, I suppose, that the headmistress tipples, Kelsey nevertheless goes over to a built-in bar and makes me a cocktail. She also mixes herself something large and fruity and pours Tully a soda. She hands round the drinks.
Through all this, Tully and Kelsey continue squabbling about Georgia, but I’m no longer listening. A dozen thoughts swirl through my brain, not the least of which is that remark Kelsey made a few moments ago seeming to suggest Tully and Georgia had an energetic sex life. I don’t like picturing that—it makes me feel surprisingly jealous, incestuous, and a trifle sick. Actually, more than a trifle. I down my drink, but my stomach is in knots. From out of nowhere, I hear myself say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well.”
They both stop bickering and spin round in my direction. Tully appears genuinely concerned. Kelsey looks like she’s suddenly guest starring on a television medical show. She seems to be debating whether to call 911 or to go straight for an Emmy nomination by performing open-heart surgery using the only materials she has at hand: disco biscuits and a swizzle stick.
“Perhaps I should . . . visit the powder room,” I say. I lean heavily against the sofa back and place one hand on my stomach. With my other hand, I cover my mouth and let out a small, ominous hiccup.
That’s all it takes. Kelsey eyes her sofa, her white rug, and the rest of her expensive, sparkling furniture. In a flash, she’s hurrying me down the hall to the toilet. I’m just able to grab my tote bag as we go.
“Take your time,” she says, hustling me into an elegant half bath. “Don’t rush or anything. Tull and I will hang. Don’t worry about coming back until you’re . . . done.”
I give her a brave smile.
Kelsey leaves, and I shut the bathroom door behind her. The minute her footsteps die away, I open the door again and step out into the empty passageway. I can hear Kelsey and Tully still going at it in the living room.
I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t feel well. I don’t. But what’s wrong with me can’t be cured by a visit to the ladies’ room. What’s wrong with me can only be put right by a look round Kelsey’s flat, because what’s wrong with me is that I need to know more.
Besides the powder room, there are two additional doors off the hallway. The one nearest me is ajar. I tiptoe over to it. I’m jumpy and nervous because I’m certain the minute I peek into that room sirens will wail or a housekeeper will scream or a giant, salivating German shepherd will leap up and take a bite out of my thigh. But when I push on the door, it swings open, and none of these things happen.
I’m standing in what must be the master bedroom. There’s a massive flat-screen television, a king-size bed, and two bureaus topped with jewelry boxes and glossy photos in silver frames, mostly glamour shots of Kelsey. Off to one side, an archway leads to a master bath.
Emboldened by gin, I get to work. This is the second time in recent days I’ve rifled through someone’s things. I’m practically an old hand at it. Once again, like when I searched Georgia’s suite in Palm Springs, I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I feel compelled to look.
I snoop through bureau drawers and nightstands, finding little of interest except a few bottles of prescription narcotics, some spicy underwear, and several titillating sex toys. Quickly, methodically, I search the walk-in closet, the bathroom, under the bed. Nothing. The clock is ticking, I know, but I need to keep looking.
I creep back out to the hallway and stare at the other door, which is shut tight. My heart beats wildly. If I enter this room, I know I will face the sirens, the screams, the large barking dog.
I turn the handle and open the door.
There’s only silence.
I walk into the room. It’s smaller than the master bedroom and contains an unmade bed and some sleek modern furniture. Something about the room is oddly familiar. I have a feeling of déjà vu, like I’ve been here before. But that’s not possible. This building didn’t exist the last time I visited Chicago. Still, there’s something about the look of the room, the feel of it, even the smell—
/> Oh, oh! OH! Dior Pure Poison! And the instant my nose gets it, the instant I recognize that lingering fragrance, I catch on to something else: what’s familiar about this room is that it’s a complete mess. Luggage and makeup cases are thrown open, their contents spilling out. Clothing and personal items are strewn about like tinsel on a Christmas tree. This is a decorating approach I associate with just one person: Georgia.
Kelsey lied. Georgia is here, she’s in Chicago. And this is her room. It must be. My pulse is racing like I imbibed every drink on the menu at Starbucks. Nevertheless, I start poking through Georgia’s possessions the way I did in Palm Springs. I know now what it is I’m looking for. Only this time it’s different. This time I’m not bound by a promise made to a friendly bartender to look but not take. This time whatever I find, I’m taking.
I dig through suitcases and dirty laundry, all of it. But only when I get down on my hands and knees do I glimpse something promising. On the floor, shoved under the bed, is a jumble of old magazines and papers. I pull handfuls of the stuff toward me: Entertainment Weekly, Variety, Vanity Fair. I sift through it all.
I come to a back issue of People. Malcolm Belvedere is on the cover, photographed at a film premiere. The headline says, “The Most Powerful Man in Hollywood.”
Generally speaking, I don’t read celebrity magazines. They’re a waste of time, major contributors to the dumbing-down of America. Everybody knows that. Still, the photo of Malcolm is good, flattering. Even someone who’d never met him would think this older man was attractive.
The picture shows Malcolm striding, straight-shouldered, up the red carpet. He’s wearing a gray suit and scarlet tie, and his green eyes sparkle, just as they did the day he and I chatted on the lawn at Malibu. The day The Most Powerful Man in Hollywood handed me a creamy vellum card imprinted with his private phone numbers.
Even though I’m in a hurry, even though I’m kneeling on the floor surrounded by old magazines and an assortment of Georgia’s sexy silk undergarments, I decide to flip through People and see if there are any more pictures of Malcolm.
But when I pick up the magazine to examine it more closely, I notice something lying underneath. It’s a black folder, an aged thing with a faded, typewritten label. My brain cannot believe what my eyes are telling it. Here, once again, is the elusive and not-so-innocent script of An Innocent Lamb, cowritten by my father, Arthur Just, and America’s greatest filmmaker, Orson Welles.
For a moment, I do nothing. I don’t touch the script, I just stare at it. I wasn’t dreaming when I first discovered it that night in Palm Springs. An Innocent Lamb exists, and I’ve found it again.
I can’t believe my good fortune. To find the thing twice!
Then, out in the living room, Tully sneezes. The sound—that explosive, achoo yelling noise some men make when they get off a really good sneeze—is so loud it pierces the quiet of Georgia’s bedroom. It startles me back to reality, and I realize I’ve been gone many minutes. Tully and Kelsey must wonder what’s taking me so long. How much retching can a person do?
I grab at the pile of papers and magazines in front of me, snatching up not only An Innocent Lamb, but also a few things underneath it, including the Spy Team script. What the hell, I pick up People too. In a frenzy—worried I’ve been gone too long, worried Kelsey will come looking for me and I’ll be caught at the instant of my success—I stuff the whole lot into my tote bag, sling it over my shoulder, and get up off the floor.
I dash back out into the hallway. I cross over to the half bath, flush the toilet, run the tap, and wipe my hands on a towel, all in the interest of creating an alibi, of making it look like I spent the last ten minutes throwing up, rather than ransacking Georgia’s room.
I’m so flustered with what I’ve just done, with the value of the item I’ve taken, that I’m breathing heavily. You could say I’m having a mild panic attack. Part of me is amazed that I can now add “cat burglar” to my resume. The other part still expects to encounter the sirens, the screaming household staff, the snarling German shepherd.
I hurry out of the bathroom. I turn to race back to the living room, but I run into someone. My heart gives a wallop. I’ve collided with a large man. He’s not fat, just solid, like a bouncer or bulletproof glass.
He catches me by the elbow and steadies me. “Well, hey,” he says. “You all right?” His voice is husky.
“Yes!” I say. “I was sick to my stomach—quite sick, terribly sick!—but now I’m fine.”
He releases my elbow. “Uh-huh.” He stares at the hand he touched me with. “Think I’ll go wash up.”
“Brilliant! There’s a darling powder room.” I point at the door of the half bath.
“I know. I live here. I’m Boone.”
Boone? Import, export?
“Lovely to meet you,” I say. “I’m Margo, Georgia Illworth’s aunt.”
“Yeah?” He smiles, and his upper lip curls back over his teeth, like a shark. “I guess Georgia’s going to—” He stops himself and glances in the direction of the living room. “I forget,” he finishes.
“Life is just a bowl of scaries!” I say.
Boone goes off to the powder room. I return to the living room where Kelsey and Tully sit together on the sofa, a pair of suitcases parked on the floor next to them. Kelsey holds a scrapbook, pointing at the pictures in it. “Here’s when I was three,” she says. “Topanga Tots Beauty Pageant. I took a Grand Supreme win.”
“Is that good?” Tully says.
“Oh, sure. My mom bawled her eyes out.” She turns the page and touches a photo. “See? I’m wearing the winner’s sash and tiara.”
When he notices me enter the room, Tully rises. He comes over and puts a hand on my upper arm. “You okay?” he says.
My heart is racing from all that just happened—and perhaps, a little, from the commanding feel of Tully’s fingers round my bicep. I try to pull myself together. “I’m fine,” I say.
“Sure?” Tully says.
“You look pale,” Kelsey declares. Her tone is blunt, as if she meant to say, “You look, like, totally dead.” Her mouth slightly open, she stares at me as though trying to figure out how her day went so wrong that she ended up with a middle-aged female invalid standing in her apartment.
“We were starting to kind of worry about you,” Kelsey says. “But then Boone walked in from nowhere, which he does a lot.” She thumps one of the suitcases with the side of her foot. “Bam! Just like that, he’s back from Canada. His allergies are acting up. He’s sneezing all over the place.”
“Yes,” I say, “we met. He—”
“So, anyway,” she says, “when Boone showed up, I guess we sort of forgot about you. Then I got out this old scrapbook, and I don’t know, we really forgot about you.” She laughs, as though amused at her own capacity for indifference.
“Do you want to see a doctor?” Tully says. It takes me a second to realize he’s speaking to me and not, as one might expect, suggesting psychiatric help for Kelsey.
“No,” I say. “I’m all right. Really.”
Slowly, in a gentle way, Tully lets go of my arm.
A few minutes pass, during which Kelsey lies like her precious Berber rug as she repeatedly assures Tully she has no inkling as to Georgia’s whereabouts. In the end, she politely, if stiffly, shows us out. On the way to the front door, she even offers to carry my tote bag—the one containing the script and papers I swiped from Georgia’s room. I decline her offer. If anything, I clutch the bag closer to me.
Kelsey opens the front door. Tully and I step out into the hallway and turn to say good-bye. Kelsey stands in the threshold, chewing on a lock of her long blonde hair. She pulls a hunk of hair out of her mouth and wraps it round her finger. “Tull,” she says, “I’m gonna clue you one last time. Give it up. You and Georgia are so not getting back together.”
There’s a smirk on Kelsey’s face, as though she’s savoring the high-school-like thrill of helping her good chum Georgia dump her boyfriend. �
��Georgia’s my tightest bud. I know for sure she’s over you.”
Tully seems about to say something in reply, but from inside the apartment, Boone bellows for Kelsey.
“Gotta go,” Kelsey says. She springs backward, closing the door on us.
After Kelsey shuts the door in our faces, Tully and I take the express elevator down to the street.
It’s good to be out in the air. The day is bright, but blustery. We bend our heads into the wind and walk back toward the car.
“That was stupid,” Tully says. “Waste of time.”
“I disagree,” I say. “I found it instructive.”
“How?” Tully says. “Meeting creepy Boone? Hearing Kelsey’s immature take on my relationship with Georgia?”
I hesitate. I wonder if I should tell Tully what I’ve done, wonder if I can trust him. Then again, if I can’t trust Tully, who can I trust?
“I wasn’t sick back there, you know,” I say.
“You mean, you feel better?”
“I mean, I was never ill. When everybody thought I was throwing up in the bathroom, I was snooping round the apartment.”
Tully stops and looks at me like I just knocked over a liquor store. “No way.”
“Way. Not only that, I took something.”
“Jesus! What? The silverware?”
“Better than that.”
And then I tell Tully the story. I tell him how An Innocent Lamb was written by Orson Welles and my father, how Georgia took the script and Charlotte wants it back. I also inform him that Kelsey lied; Georgia isn’t gone. Everything I saw in the guest bedroom indicates Georgia is staying with Kelsey and Boone.
Tully whips his head round to look at Kelsey’s building. He starts walking back.
I grab at his jacket to stop him. “No! You mustn’t!”
“Why not?” he says. “I’ll get Kelsey to tell me the truth.”
“You won’t,” I say. “She’s probably on the phone right now, warning Georgia that we came by. Warning her to stay away. Plus, I don’t like the look of that Boone.”