Chapter 12
At five o’clock on a gloomy, rainy Monday, Trevor was up and ready to get back to work for a full day of overdubbing of the picture, the last thing to be done and the film was wrapped. His agent was meeting him in the afternoon to talk about a screenplay that Trevor had not even read yet, but he ran back to his study to pick up the copy anyway. The light was blinking on the answering machine, a bright red point in the darkened room, and it reminded Trevor of the flashing beacon on a racing ambulance for some peculiar reason. He played the message over and over, if only to hear Maggie’s voice. She was wretchedly sad, and he was completely helpless. There was no possible way that he could go to her now, for his presence would only create even more scandal and gossip.
“No, it wasn’t bashfulness,” he said. “What does one send for rank cowardice? I’m afraid, Maggie, afraid that you’ll turn me down. I need your compassion, your patience. No one would care if Trevor Harwood were seen in your company, not dull and boring Trevor. If I wasn’t such a coward, none of this would have happened.”
Messages had been slipped under Maggie’s door that morning, even though the sign hanging on the knob asked for peace. Five requests for interviews were torn to tiny pieces; the invitation from Bea to meet for lunch was gratefully accepted. As for the so-called messages from Mr. Doyle, she recognized each and every one as a pure fraud, as if she did not know his phone number.
“Room service, Mrs. A., toast and coffee,” came a voice from the hall, a pre-approved signal that was acknowledged by the sound of a lock being unlatched. Three beautiful bouquets of brightly colored flowers were waiting in the hall, sent by the reporters who were asking for interviews. Maggie allowed them to be put in the room because the flowers were innocent, and they would not be asking personal questions.
“Do they think that I’m stupid or something?” she asked the waiter in a rather loud voice, but the man could only shake his head. He did the best that he could, to explain how the game was played, how it had been played every time before when Mr. Doyle was in residence. This time, however, the lady in question was not some publicity-seeking actress, like all the others, but she was merely a regular sort of woman who spent time with a gentleman because she enjoyed the man’s company. Unfortunately, she ended up like all the others, an unwilling participant in the rumor mill.
With her raincoat flapping open as she marched through the lobby, Maggie looked remarkably like an American bald eagle sailing on the thermals over the bluffs of the Mississippi. Proud and fierce, she floated gracefully towards the front door on her way to the street, but Mr. Towson intercepted her before she could escape the hotel. “The back entrance, Mrs. Angiolini,” he suggested, prepared to guide her through the kitchen again.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Towson, why can’t I use the front door?” she asked, noticeably perturbed.
“A group of photographers, and at least three reporters,” he explained with a wag of his head in the direction of the main entrance. “You can walk down past the loading dock and come out on the street well away from them.”
“Oh, yeah?” she sneered, and it was the sound of revolution, the twang of the nation that had once taken on the mightiest country in the world and beat them back across the ocean. “Well, they can kiss my Yankee ass, but I’m going out that front door.”
Pulling on her soft felt beret, with her raincoat flapping open like bird’s wings, the daughter of a United States Marine strode through the door and breezed past the gaggle of people who were standing around, waiting for a glamorous actress to make a grand appearance. Everyone was anticipating that a lovely woman with flawless make-up and hair would stroll elegantly out the door, posing for photos while pretending to be upset at the attention. Before the photographer who had taken Saturday’s pictures recognized her, she was long gone into the subway station.
On the street, no one gave her a second look, not the lady with the frightening scowl who studied the route map before buying her ticket. She looked like any other tourist, safely anonymous again and free to explore the city by rail, to crawl all over Harrod’s and shop for ridiculous souvenirs before meeting her friends for lunch. Maggie could not remember when she had been happier than she was just then, with her whole life spread before her and the city of London ready to be discovered. The editing project was officially finished, and she was on vacation in the thriving capital of Great Britain.
The ladies met up at a restaurant near the BBC Studios, a small and unpretentious spot that was jammed at lunchtime and again for afternoon tea. The décor was unchanged since its heyday in the early thirties, and the wall sconces were still the original design, flowing Art Deco lamps that cast a soft glow on the walls. There was very little discussion of the stupid rumors, not after the party had heard the simple truth from Maggie, though she held back her innermost thoughts, some memories of her marriage that she shared only with her sister.
They talked of travel and driving trips across America, when somehow the city of New Orleans came up. “I was looking over a script the other day, about two English blokes who are traveling from Chicago to New Orleans, having comic adventures along the way, but I couldn’t get a grip on the amount of time that passed. Have you ever made the drive, Maggie?” Cindy asked.
“Twice, yes, but before Joey was born. New Orleans was never my idea of a family destination, at least not with small children. We drove overnight, twelve hours at least, but then I have a bad habit of speeding on the highway. It’s part of American life, I guess, the open road and the desire to drive at ninety miles an hour,” Maggie said.
“Isn’t it funny,” Pam mused, “how we can drive to Paris in less than, what, about three hours? Be in a foreign country, where they speak a different language.”
“If I drove three hours from my house, I could be in Indianapolis to the east, Dubuque to the west, the Wisconsin woods to the north, and no further than the state university to the south,” Maggie mentioned, mulling over the difference between America and Europe. “And that, ladies, is why American foreign policy is the way it is. We can’t see anything except our own country over the horizon.”
“If I ever went to America for a visit, I’d like to rent a car and drive,” Bea said, dreaming. “That’s the way to see things, and stop whenever you feel like it.”
“Exactly, to stop and get out and look around,” Maggie agreed. “When we drove to Louisiana, we stopped in Mississippi for breakfast at dawn, and what a beautiful sight. It’s all rolling hills, with huge thick pines lining the road, and at sunrise everything looked rose colored, the sky, the clouds, even the pavement. That’s not to be seen from the window of an airplane.”
“Have you managed to blend back into the crowd?” Bea asked as their lunch was ending. So far, no one in the dining room appeared to be gawking or talking about them.
“I hope so. It could be that I’m being given an opportunity to gain some free publicity while they sell more papers. What the hell do I need publicity for, anyway? Funny world out there.”
“Did I tell you?” Cindy put in. “The twit from Glamarama put a camera in my face this morning when I got out of my car, asking me how Ciaran was feeling this morning.”
“You do look a little like Maggie,” Pam noted, taking a long look at the two women who shared little more than similar hairstyles and coloring. “And what did you say?”
“I didn’t know what he was talking about. Ciaran who, I said, and at the time I really didn’t know he meant our man Doyle. Anyway, he got all chuffed like I inconvenienced him or something, the wanker. No apology, either.”
“This is all going to blow over real soon, the minute Ciaran turns up with a fresh face,” Maggie replied. “By tonight, I would imagine.”
“Don’t think that he’ll be so quick to go back to his old ways,” Pam said with a voice that spoke with authority. “He’s been telling everyone all day today that he’s a new person, reformed. One night with Maggie, and he’s ready to settle down.”
“Until he gets randy again,” Cindy said.
“Exactly. By tonight,” Maggie said with a positive nod, giggling at her little joke.
“Well, my dear, if you’d given him a little he would be a good boy until the party tomorrow,” Pam continued, “and then he could find something sweet to nibble on at Trevor’s digs.”
“Who’s going to be there?” Maggie asked, thrilled at the idea of attending a party as a single woman. She was free to meet new men, flirt if she felt like it, and stay as long as it pleased her. If she found it dull, she could up and go whenever she wanted to leave.
“The usual cast of characters, I would expect,” Bea began to tick off the names of the actors and crewmembers who were likely to attend a wrap party, mentioning also some of Trevor’s friends who were always invited to his get-togethers. Bea promised plenty of interesting company, and if Nigel got a little giddy he could be counted on to perform one of his comedy skits from his university days, when Trevor played the straight man with great skill.
Mr. Harwood finished up early, after knuckling down and focusing every brain cell on his tasks, running through the voice-overs in record time. He decided then and there to swing by Strand House, to tell Maggie that he had gone to meet her on Sunday at St. Paul’s because he was too thick to realize that anyone named Maggie Griffith, who had married an Angiolini, had to be Roman Catholic. She definitely needed a laugh right now, after all the fuss that had been stirred up the day before, and his mistake was extremely amusing. It would be up to Maggie to continue the conversation after that, because he had no idea what to say next after his first few sentences were carried away on the breeze.
“We’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes, Mr. Harwood, but if you can’t meet now I can return later,” the caterer said over a weak mobile connection. Trevor had completely forgotten that he had to let them in to the house so that they could deliver their crates of linens and glassware, the portable bar, the dishes, and the whole truckload of equipment that was needed to feed one hundred people.
With a loud sigh of deep exasperation, Trevor turned his car around and headed for home. He tried to call Maggie, but she was still not taking calls, not from any goddamned English bastards, as the desk clerk reported in full detail, and this particular young man did not recognize Harwood’s voice. The clerk was not taking any chances, either, and he would not put the call through to Mrs. Angiolini, not after she told him that she would cut off his balls and make a pair of earrings out of them if she had to say so much as hello to some snooping reporter. Slow and steady Trevor had stalled for over a week already, he smiled to himself, and tomorrow night Maggie would be on his territory, in his lair so to speak, where he would feel perfectly at ease and in control. As an added benefit, his children could approve of his newfound love before he took her to his room for the night. Whatever doubts and worries he might have about Maggie’s interest in him, he had no doubt that his family would love Maggie. It was the one sure thing he could rely on while he fretted over his lines of irresistible seduction.
To prepare for the party, Mr. Towson’s assistant had taken Mrs. Angiolini under her wing by making arrangements at Georgie’s, one of London’s finest hair salons. Located in Soho, it was a favorite with young society women and actresses appearing in the West End theatres. She tried not to show it, but Maggie was feeling a trifle intimidated about this gala, which would be swarming with film stars and famous actors, people that Maggie expected to be as glamorous as Hollywood’s glittering characters. What had started out as a request for a simple manicure had escalated into a half-day of pampering. The assistant concierge had merely selected all the beauty treatments that she would have wanted, such as hair coloring and styling, a massage to relax the tense muscles of the shy editor, and a facial to make her skin glow even more radiantly. Maggie would leave the salon at four in the afternoon, fully buffed and polished, ready to attend an elegant party at a restored Mayfair mansion.
She looked at her simple black dress, a shift of black crepe that she was thinking made her hips look too big. It was sleeveless, and she began to grow self-conscious about her less than completely firm upper arms. There was nothing that she could do about any of that now, and she would most likely look shabby tonight if compared to the ladies in their designer rags, but when she came out of Georgie’s she was at least as well manicured and well coiffed as the best of them. Since lunch the day before, Maggie was anticipating with pleasure the fun that Bea had suggested, with the mix of guests that were always amusing and full of good conversation. No one was likely to notice her, and she would still have the time of her life.
Before getting dressed for the party, Maggie worked on a manuscript and called Theresa to catch her up on what was finished and what was left over. Maggie barely said hello before her cousin began to blurt out that Bill Goebel had called the office on Sunday, when Theresa had gone in to get some extra work done on a quiet afternoon. “I was so tempted not to answer the phone,” Theresa confessed. “And what does he need so urgently on a Sunday afternoon? Your cousin appears to be involved in a new relationship, he says all high and mighty, that pompous asshole. But I know nothing about my cousin’s personal life, and that was the only way to get him off the phone.”
“Ask her if he was a good lay,” a voice shouted from the background. Maggie recognized the sound of Theresa’s old college roommate, who had stopped by to meet for coffee. She was sitting in the office, re-reading the article while laughing her head off at the suppositions of the British reporters. April had known Maggie since she and Theresa were high school drama stars, and Maggie came to see every one of their little plays, no matter how awful the production.
“Yes, that was April,” Theresa confirmed. Turning to her old roomie, with her hand over the receiver, she repeated Maggie’s answer. “He only used his tongue.”
“Oh, baby,” April moaned.
“And he used that for talking,” Theresa finished.
“Ask her can she get me a cashmere sweater, I’ll pay her back, but she knows that so don’t mention it or I’ll sound like a cheat,” April continued, after wriggling her tongue like a sensuous snake. “There’s some shop that’s famous in London, Glasgow House or something like that.”
“I should give April the phone and let her talk to you,” Theresa sighed. “Can you go to Glasgow House and find her a cashmere sweater? She’ll take a look, April, and call you back with the selections and then you can decide on a color and style. Can I talk about work now, the stuff that pays my rent?”
There was a brief chat about the two manuscripts that Maggie had finished, returned that morning via overnight courier to the offices of Quinlan and Associates. The next call went to Kay, who rounded out their talk with a strong recommendation that her too-conservative sister wear something dangerously provocative to the party to boost her confidence. After a lengthy debate on Joey’s newfound status as the most desirable thirteen-year-old boy in River Oaks, due to his mother’s kissing picture, or due to his actual live conversation with Ciaran Doyle was unclear, Maggie got off the phone and went to her dresser. Feeling rather festive, she opened the top drawer, and she laid out the garments that, if she did things right, Trevor Harwood would be allowed to remove.
She slipped into her outfit at a leisurely pace; there was no need to rush because Franco was impatient and shouting at her to hurry up. Tonight she was a single woman, gazing into the gilt-framed antique mirror in her room at Strand House, applying taupe and coffee eye shadows and red lipstick. Looking back at her was the reflection of Maggie Griffith, determined to let go of her anger and bitterness, to get on with her life. Counting the days since her husband died, she laughed at herself for taking so long to see that he had not died on purpose, that he had not left her alone because she had done something wrong and he was trying to punish her. It had happened, that was all, the same as a summer storm that blew up out of nowhere. Eventually the rain ended and the sun came out again, leaving the world a little brighter and cleaner than before.
“It’s over between us, Franco. I’m still here, and I’m alive and you’re dead, and that’s the way things are now. So if Trevor Harwood wants me, I’m going to love him, and when I think about you, I’ll think in a different way. I won’t be mad at you anymore. I’m going to live my life without you, and I’ll be fine.” She smiled at her reflection in the mirror as she left Franco Angiolini in the past. In the hallway outside her room, she adjusted her coat collar, pulled the door shut, checked the lock and walked away.
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