by Denise Dietz
“Okay, but she could have ditched the stuff. Is she strong enough to trash the cottage?”
“Probably. Look, I asked her straight out if she killed Stevie. She said no, and that’s good enough for me. Peggy doesn’t lie. Anyway, Stevie’s always been nice to her and…Frannie, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I feel…a little…dizzy…”
“Christ, you’re so pale. Are you planning to be sick? Pass out? Put your head between your legs.”
“No. I’m okay now. Honest, Sol, it passed, the dizziness. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Get back on your stool, I’m fine. Hey, John.”
“Yo.”
“You said…here we go again…room spinning…John, you said no tequila.”
“That’s right. Shit! What’s wrong with her, Aarons?”
“I don’t know. Frannie?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay? Is the room still spinning.”
“No. For a moment there, I felt as if an evil merry-go-round had captured me. One margarita, John, then I’ll change my clothes.”
“You mean one more.”
“No. One. With tequila.”
“Frannie, you just drank it.”
“I did? God, I’m so tired. I must have pedaled a gazillion miles on that exercise bike.”
“I’ll escort you to your room,” Sol said.
“That’s not necessary, sweetie. Besides, you have someone waiting in your room.”
“Peggy will sleep till morning. I gave her half a sleeping pill, not that she needed it. She’s exhausted. But I wish now I hadn’t promised to join the crew for dinner.”
“I’m going to skip it. After all, I might be contagious.”
Sol placed his palm against my forehead. “Cool as a cucumber. You haven’t got a fever.”
“I’m just tired, and I desperately need a shower. Would you make my excuses, please?”
“Sure, but I still think I should walk you to your room.”
“No, thanks.” Dismounting from my stool, I performed a pirouette. Then, using the bar as a barre, I flexed my leg muscles. “Ballet lessons.”
John applauded, Sol gave me a smile, and The Animals sang “House of the Rising Sun” as I exited the lounge.
Walking past a florist shop and “my” clothing emporium, I stopped in front of the elevators, pushed the up button, and saw Dawn Sullivan.
“Hi, Dawn,” I said. “Did you just get back from L.A.?”
“Uh-huh.” Hefting her suitcase, she staggered a little. “They make drinks strong here,” she slurred. “Bartender wantsa’ big tip.”
“Not really. John always makes his drinks strong. I drank one margarita and felt dizzy. We…Sol and I…didn’t see you, but the lounge was jam-packed. Do you know about the steak house, Dawn? The crew ‑‑”
“Heard ‘bout it, Frannie. Gotta brush hair an’ change clothes an’ get ‘brella ‘cause it’s pourin’ out.”
I didn’t think she’d make it back down to the lobby, but wisely held my tongue while we waited for an elevator. Although renovated, the hotel was old, built before the year of the flood, and it only had two elevators.
Finally, one stopped. The doors slid open and I saw Madison inside. So did Dawn, who perked up. In fact, she looked like a tipsy coffee percolator, shifting from foot to foot, the color in her cheeks flashing from red to white to red.
Madison stepped out and the freaking elevator took off again.
He looked frightened, his face deathly pale, his eyes as black as my cat Snow’s fur. However, he perked up when he saw me.
What happened next was a tad Three Stooges.
“Madison, I’ve got to talk to you,” Dawn said.
“Madison, I think the steak house party is waiting for you in the lounge,” I said.
“It’s important,” Dawn said.
“We need to talk, Frannie,” Madison said, ignoring Dawn, who looked as if she wanted to bop him over the head. Or cry.
Taking pity on her, I said, “The group’s waiting for Dawn, too.”
Madison laughed and said, “So am I, Frannie. By dawn I hope to have accomplished lots of…things.” He scrutinized my black leotard. “I assume you plan to change into something more appropriate.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Pajamas.”
Lighting a Marlboro, Madison said, “What do you mean, pajamas?”
“I don’t feel well,” I said. “Tired. Woozy.”
Madison said, “Frannie, did you see Tenia when you were in the lounge?”
“How’d you know I was in the lounge?”
“I was in the lounge,” Dawn said. “I thought you couldn’t smoke in the lobby.” Pawing through her purse, she pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels, extracted a cigarette, and waited for Madison to light it.
“You just said the cast and crew were waiting for me there, so you had to be there too. Dawn, get that fucking cigarette out of my face. Did you see Tenia, Frannie?”
“Yes, Madison. She’s with Jem and Mary-Mag ‑‑”
“I saw Tenia,” Dawn said. “She gave me marg’rita.”
“She gave me one, too,” I said. “Which is probably why I feel so woozy. I haven’t been drinking lately and my tolerance ‑‑”
“They make drinks strong here,” Dawn slurred, dropping her unlit cigarette, then stumbling into Madison and clutching at his body like a Jules Verne squid. He disentangled her tentacles, his dark eyes probing my face.
“Don’t look so worried,” I said. “By tomorrow morning I’ll be okey dokey, smokey.”
“Ah,” he said. “You’ve met Peggy.”
Dawn said, “Who’s Peggy?”
“Here comes the elevator,” I said. “If you’ll excuse ‑‑”
“I’ll escort you to your room,” Madison said, grounding out his cigarette with his heel.
Walking into the elevator, he reached for my arm. I took a few steps backward, not wanting him to touch me. As his foot wedged the elevator door open, I played Greta Garbo.
“Madison,” I said, “I want to be alone.”
“Frannie,” he said, “I have something for you.”
“I know what you have,” I said, staring at his black jeans. If Jem’s bulge looked like a pair of rolled-up socks, Madison’s looked like a fat snake. “And there’s no way we’ll spend the night together. No way!”
Then, quick like a bunny, I hopped into the second elevator.
Chapter Forty-five
The best thing about room service is that they deliver the food.
While that might sound gospel, or simplistic, it’s an opulent luxury to a struggling actress who waits tables and lives on the fifth floor of a five-floor walk-up.
Someday I’d perpetually fly first class and consistently stay at a first-class hotel and endlessly order from room service ‑‑ even if I wasn’t hungry. But tonight I was hungry, and I regretted my decision to forgo the steak house. I felt much better, as good as new, and the rain had changed to a pitter-patter, hardly forceful enough to muss one’s hair.
Especially my hair. After a long, hot shower, the pale gold strands clung to my head like an upside-down tulip.
Speaking of tulips, a profuse bouquet decorated my dresser, placed in front of the mirror so that the flowers doubled. Not that they needed doubling. There were no tulips, but violets and red roses and pink geraniums filled a cut-glass vase, and the To-Frannie-From-Victor card read: “All thoughts, all passions, all delights. Whatever stirs this mortal frame. Are but the ministers of Love. And feed his sacred flame.”
Keats? Byron? Coleridge? I couldn’t remember, and didn’t care. What did Madison’s flowers mean? Why did he talk of love? I thought he simply wanted to take me to bed. If he wanted more, I’d have my first-class flights and hotels, anything my little heart desired. I knew, from Cat, that Madison was very generous. I also knew that I’d never have to worry about a film role again.
God, it was tempting. And I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I thought of A
ndre and his two dearies. Picturing a year from now, I heard myself say, “Andre Vaughn for my co-star? I don’t think so.”
Of course, I might have blown any chance of a love affair during my elevator moratorium. I may be wrong, but an emphatic “no way” isn’t the best foundation for a long-lasting relationship.
Hadn’t Sol said that Madison didn’t mess around with his cast?
Well, I’d simply wait and see what happened next in the continuing saga of “Frannie and the Bachelor” ‑‑ co-starring a naïve New York ecktriss and a blasé Hollywood horror film director.
Right now I waited for room service, having ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, fruit salad, a slice of pecan pie and…damn!
I wore a sheer red robe, dotted with minuscule red velvet hearts. The robe was supposed to fall to the top of my thighs, but at five feet two (and a half), it fell to the middle of my thighs. Andre had given me the diaphanous robe, a Valentine’s Day present, except I’m not a lingerie kind of gal. Nor had I ever worn the matching red thong panties. They reminded me of the macramé I’d knotted at Girl Scout Camp, and one coarse string stealthily invaded my butt’s cleft.
Madison’s flowers and poem had…aroused…me, and the lingerie felt like a breath of fresh air against my hot body. But I didn’t want room service to see me semi-nude, so I covered my translucent robe with the hotel’s one-size-fits-all terrycloth robe, which I could purchase for $99.95 plus tax.
And just in time, too. The polite knock on my door suggested that a rolling cart, topped with goodies, awaited my pleasure.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter Forty-six
Enshrouded by white terrycloth, looking like Disney’s Dopey Dwarf, I opened the door.
“Hello, Frannie.”
“Hello, Madison.”
“Won’t you please call me Victor?”
“No.”
“May I come in?”
“No.”
Whereupon, Madison proceeded to give me a detailed critique.
Standing in the hallway, he mentioned some of the things I’d done wrong, acting-wise, and how to fix them. I blushed at his praise and mentally catalogued my mistakes. I was getting an on-the-spot acting lesson from one of the greatest film directors in the history of the world. I couldn’t shut the door on his words, and he knew it.
Still talking, he placed one foot inside my room.
I didn’t care. I wanted to re-shoot the Asmodeus possession scenes, screen-test for a new movie, audition for a Broadway show. Most of all, I wanted to express my gratitude by throwing my arms around Madison.
Sensing my capitulation, he cradled my face between his palms.
If the flowers and poem had aroused me, his touch sent an erotic sizzle throughout my entire body. I thought fleetingly of Bonnie, Cat and Peggy, but my nipples betrayed me by swelling against two red velvet hearts. “Come in,” I said.
“Thank you.” Dropping my face, he pulled a suitcase-on-wheels through the doorway. “I have the whole evening planned,” he said.
“I’ll bet you do. First, tell me more about acting.”
He laughed, and his face looked so young, so joyous. “First,” he said, “champagne.” Reaching into the suitcase, he retrieved a silver wine bucket and placed it next to the flowers.
“No, please…uh, Victor. I don’t want anything to drink. You drink it.”
“I’ve never cared for wine, except with Italian food. My downfall is Tsingtao beer.”
“That’s the beer Sol drinks.”
“I know. Sol’s addiction came from me.” He rummaged through his suitcase. “I’ve got pralines and a box of Le Chocolatier.”
“How’d you know I love Le Chocolatier?”
“There’s not a woman alive who doesn’t.”
“Victor, I appreciate the chocolates, but I ordered dinner from room service and I don’t want to ruin my appetite.” Inside my head, I heard Jesus, Frannie, you sound like your mother.
He said, “When the waiter knocks on the door, tell him to leave your dinner in the hall. Or would you rather wait until after he delivers the food?”
“Wait for what?” I said, the fourth dumbest remark I’ve uttered in the last few weeks. I knew what he meant and, frankly, I didn’t care if my grilled cheese fell down an elevator shaft. Thinking he would either laugh again or believe I was too naïve to bother with, I watched him attach a VCR to the TV. “Did you bring your Disney videos?” I asked.
“Yes.” He reached into the suitcase. “And how’d you know that?”
“Bonnie,” I said, leaving Cat off my short list.
“These tapes are…different.” He inserted one into the VCR’s slot, hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob, then shut the door and locked it. “Why are you wearing that robe, Frannie? It makes you look like a bowl of tapioca pudding.”
Except for moving out of his way when he and his suitcase entered, I’d stood rooted to the spot. If I stirred, I might play the Robin role I’d perfected at Rick’s cast party; sink to the floor and spread my legs and tell him to make baby demons.
“It’s cold,” I replied, which was true. My body might be hot, but the room felt frigid.
“I’ll turn down the air-conditioning,” he said, “and turn up the heat.”
I pinched my wrist. “Ouch.”
“You’re not dreaming,” he said with a grin. “I’m real, little Frannie. This is real. Everything else is an illusion.”
“Tell me what you want, Victor.”
He walked over to me and un-knotted my sash. Drawing terrycloth from my shoulders, he let the robe drop to the floor. “This is what I want,” he said, leading me toward the mirror above the dresser. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
Mom always told me that beauty was in the eyes of the beholder. Staring into the mirror, my eyes beheld a beauty. My hair had dried, and the wisps were as downy as a new-born chick. My eyes looked somnolent, while a natural blush stained my cheekbones.
To be perfectly honest, it was the vision of my body that anchored me to the dresser. Even though I hadn’t suddenly sprouted “tall genes,” I felt I could hold my own on a New York, maybe even Paris, runway.
Victor could afford to dress me in designer gowns, but that wasn’t why I pressed my butt against his groin. He was, in two words, if you include a hyphenated word as one word, drop-dead gorgeous. Looking over my shoulder, he studied my reflection. I shifted my focus to his mirror image, and for the first time noticed that his face was lightly pockmarked. Chicken pox scars? No matter; it only made him more attractive. He wore a black, long-sleeved turtleneck, with a white, embroidered manufacturer’s logo above his collarbone ‑‑ a tiny hourglass, full of sand on top, and the words Docendo Discimus.
I’d never heard of that name or brand. But then my knowledge of foreign labels is as limited as my knowledge of foreign films ‑‑ though undeniably subversive, I’m not into sub-titles ‑‑ and Victor would surely stock the most expensive European clothing.
Following my gaze, he said, “It’s Latin, Frannie, and means ‘we learn by teaching.’”
“Oh, I thought it was a brand name.”
“It is. It’s my brand, my crest.”
“How did a Brooklyn boy learn Latin?”
“How did a Long Island girl learn acting?”
“I studied a little, but mostly it was instinct.”
“Right. Me, too.”
“You learned Latin instinctively?”
“Fata viam invenient.”
“Something about fate, right?”
“‘The fates will find a way.’“
“Is that what happened to us, Victor? Fate?”
“Absolutely.”
I wanted to ask him more, get to know him better, but his arms had encircled my body and his hands cupped my breasts. My fault. I’d semaphored him by pressing against his cock, which was now as hard as the proverbial rock.
“Victor,” I said. “Kisses first…please.” App
arently, a couple of booze-inspired demon possessions hadn’t squelched my inhibitions. “Bed?” I suggested, shamed by the timidity in my voice.
“Of course, little Frannie, we have all night.”
Victor released me. I raced my shadow across the room, and won. Hitting the mattress, pulling the covers up to my chin, I watched him devour a few chocolate-covered pralines and chug down a Tsingtao chaser. Then he took off his clothes and retrieved his TV remote.