Single Stem - Chapter 9

Previously: On the movie set, Trevor can do little more than stand on the sidelines in frustration, unable to make the first move. Ciaran is making plenty of moves to sweep Maggie off her feet.

Chapter 9

Saturday dawned overcast, but mercifully dry, and Maggie woke up slowly, stretching lazily. At last, she was going to spend a day seeing London, touring the Tower and Buckingham Palace and all the other tourist traps. As much as Ciaran could fit into an afternoon, she would see it all. At the end of the day, though, she was going to have to deal with a situation she had never encountered before. Standing in the shower, she searched in the quiet corners of her mind, to face her fear that Ciaran would ask to spend the night. Cindy was right, and Maggie was beginning to see that after thinking things over. No matter how fantastic a lover Ciaran proved to be, she would still feel used. No casual sex for the very pious Saint Maggie, she thought, it would never be pleasurable. She had made up her mind on the airplane, as she looked at her reflection, that she would give herself to a man if her body gave her the right signals, if the heat of desire warmed her hips. Now that the signal was burning and the moment was approaching, Maggie held back. One more thing was required; there had to be something more than one night. If Ciaran could give her that, they would dream of the world together.

Of course, sympathy sex was another matter, and she pondered this other issue as the shower pulsed on her head. She might find it enjoyable because it was like giving to the needy, a donation of an hour or so of her time and the recipient would be ever so grateful. Bea had certainly made it sound like Trevor was destitute, but that seemed highly unlikely. He was a household name in Great Britain, and the man had two Tony awards collecting dust in his two-hundred-year old house. As Maggie thought about it, she came to the conclusion that actresses must be throwing themselves at his feet and giving him anything he wanted so that they could be seen in his company. Unless, of course, he had erected a shrine to his late wife in their bedroom, and that would scare anyone away. She could picture a gold-leafed chapel to Mrs. Harwood, its vigil candle kept burning like an eternal flame. Thinking about Trevor’s never-ending devotion made Maggie terribly sad, even envious. She had not thought about Franco for days now; she had been enjoying herself so much that he never popped into her thoughts.

She waited in the lobby for Ciaran’s arrival, with the desk clerks sneaking an occasional peak at the woman who had become the center of the back stairs gossip. Mr. Towson personally escorted her through the kitchen to a rear entrance where she could slide into the back seat of a car without being seen. It seemed so ridiculous to sneak around, but for the tour guide it was all part of his life in the public eye.

“So, Maggie, where do we start?” he asked after he greeted her with a friendly kiss on the cheek. He was going to take his time in courting her so that he would not scare away this sweet, shy kitten. Nervous as a kitten was how he would describe her at that moment, their first time alone.

“Buckingham Palace, I think, and then can I see Hyde Park? No, wait, Westminster Abbey first, is that all right?” Maggie was too excited, and there were too many things to see.

Ciaran took her hand, smiling at her enthusiasm. He loved that about her, a warm breeze of life that he felt on his cheek whenever he was next to her. He told the driver to head to Westminster Abbey, through the impossible congestion of London traffic.

“After the Abbey we should stop for lunch, then we can drive to the Palace. But if you see something along the way, call out and we can stop.”

“Excuse me for sounding like a schoolgirl, but what is that?” she asked as they drove past the Old Admiralty Building. Ciaran leaned over, his arm across her shoulder, and pointed out the government buildings as they came into view.

“Look, there’s Number 10,” he pointed towards the Prime Minister’s residence. “And Parliament on your left.”

As her head turned towards him, Ciaran had an urge to kiss her. With any other woman, he would do what he wanted, but he could not treat Maggie like tonight’s piece of ass. She commanded his respect, when she had so much respect for herself. Besides, Ciaran understood that Maggie reaped no benefit for her career or her personal life by being seen with him. She was sitting next to him because she wanted him for the sake of his company alone. This had rarely happened before, but Ciaran recognized the way his heart raced a little faster, the way his fingers felt as if they were on fire with her hand in his. He was falling in love with Maggie.

Walking through the aisles of the ancient monument, Ciaran considered himself the most fortunate man alive with Maggie on his arm. She was reading all the plaques, knowing the names of Great Britain’s brightest lights with her deep love of history. In Poet’s Corner he held her as close as he dared, his arm around her waist as he pointed out the statue of Shakespeare that graced the resting place of Shelley and Longfellow. “How did that Yank sneak in here?” he whispered with a silly grin.

All around them, the sounds of twittering and chirping meant that Ciaran was recognized by the other visitors. Maggie did not know that murmur, for she was an anonymous editor who could go anywhere she wanted and never be noticed. She would learn to recognize those whispers soon enough, Ciaran expected, when their romance became public knowledge. It was nearly two o’clock, and time to leave for lunch, time to run off before the crowd grew bolder and began to ask for photos or autographs.

“I never realized how much was here, Ciaran,” she said as they left. “It’s impossible to judge the size of a building by reading the guide book.”

“After dark we should drive over the Tower Bridge. It’s really a sight,” he said as he helped her into the car. He gave the driver an address and they set off for a quiet little restaurant in Kensington.

It was obvious that he had been there before, many times, judging by the way that the staff treated him. A bottle of wine was brought to the table without an order being placed, as if Ciaran began his seduction with a light pouilly-fuisse, a script to be followed to ensure an award winning performance. The gold chargers were removed as the wine was served, accompanied by a small hors d’oeuvre of thinly sliced smoked salmon nestled on perfectly crisped triangles of toast.

“You know by now that I’ve never been a choirboy,” Ciaran began, his boyish grin utterly captivating. “My doctor has given me a good going-over, make sure I didn’t pick up anything over the years.”

“And he gave you a clean bill of health, by the look on your face,” Maggie said pleasantly. Behind her gentle eyes, he detected a softening of feminine resistance, as if the smell of testosterone was hypnotizing her.

“It’s past time for me to start a family,” he said, suddenly too shy to meet her eyes. “I’ve had my fun, Maggie, but I want some little Doyles to follow after me.”

“And you’ll never regret it, no matter what happens to you,” she went on, starting to sound like Ciaran’s older sister Molly. “My son has meant the world to me. If not for Joey, I think I would have just let myself die after my husband’s heart attack. Without my boy to look after, Ciaran, I would have given up on this world after Franco died.”

Ciaran Doyle nearly fell out of his chair. He had found a pot of gold to be sure, a loving and adoring woman who was married to one man until God called him home. She was truly a treasure, keeping her vows and then thinking about throwing herself into the box with her husband’s lifeless body. Not a bitter divorcee or a heartless hag, Maggie was a lovely Catholic girl who knew how to make a marriage work, who would transfer all her love and devotion to her next husband. He had every intention of being a loyal husband, but if he should slip he could count on Maggie to find a way to forgive him. A trip to the confessional, where God erased his sins, and that would repair the damage if he sincerely tried to love only her.

There was a limit to his ability to restrain himself, and Ciaran gave in to a burning desire, a kiss that was returned with enthusiasm and lust that was held in check by the presence of strangers at other tables. Maggie had a strong sense of propriety, and Ciaran was thrilled to discover that she possessed such a vital quality. His ideal wife had to meet a few stringent requirements, and as the day wore on, he became convinced that Maggie was as close to perfect as he would find.

They spent the entire day together, talking like old friends who were completely comfortable with each other. In Ciaran’s mind, this was real love, not all the passion and romance that he showered on his sexual partner, but the kind of affection that people found after years of marriage. His sister Molly and her husband had that kind of relationship, and for the first time Ciaran was beginning to understand what Molly had been talking about for so many years. He did not have to seduce Maggie in the back seat of the car as they drove to the Tower of London; he only needed to hold her hand to be happy.

At the end of the day, the car pulled up to the service entrance of the Strand House Hotel and Maggie had to face up to the one thing that she had been nervously pondering all day long. He was not asking, but she could tell that he was expecting an invitation and she forced her mouth to speak words she had never expected to have the guts to say. “Come on up for a drink, Ciaran,” Maggie said firmly, confident that he would not turn her down while half wishing that he would.

“You’ve got the devil in you, Maggie Griffith,” he said, a broad grin lighting up his face.

He took her hand and walked to the desk, asked for the key to Maggie’s room as bold as could be, and ordered a bottle of champagne with a wink at the desk clerk. In the elevator, he put an arm around her shoulder, whispering in her ear that she was taking a chance on damaging her reputation with the gossip that was sure to follow.

“No one knows me here,” she whispered back, “and how could anyone back home ever know? You don’t mind your name in the gossip columns, and that’s the only name that anyone will care about. Ciaran Doyle and some dull housewife from Chicago, what will your fans think of you?”

“They’ll think I have led a good woman astray. You shall have to make a confession, Mrs. Angiolini,” he bellowed in the elevator, imitating a burly parish priest to perfection, throwing in a strong brogue to make the picture complete, “for such a sin as fornication.”

Maggie was giggling as the door of the elevator opened, and she could barely suppress a loud guffaw when she saw the elderly couple that was waiting to board, with their mouths hanging open in disbelief. Ciaran wished them a very good evening as he held the door for them, winking at the old gentleman with a suggestive look while the shocked old biddies could not find the button for the lobby fast enough. The show continued when the waiter brought in the champagne, with Ciaran pretending to zip his fly as though he had been caught at an inconvenient time. It only made Maggie snicker even more, entertained by his foolishness and amused by the suggestion of illicit activity that would make tongues wag in the staff room.

“Shall I alert housekeeping, Mr. Doyle?” the waiter asked quietly as Ciaran handed him a tip.

“For clean sheets, do you mean? No, not this time. She’s been married so long, you see, that she doesn’t care to do it in bed. Don’t worry, though, I’ll be sure to put a towel down on the sofa to protect the upholstery. The top of the desk might need a cover as well. Good night.”

Maggie was sitting in bed, stretching out her tired legs. They had walked for hours, tramping through Westminster Abbey and Parliament’s halls, followed by a quick swing through the Victoria and Albert Museum, with a promenade across the Tower Bridge after dark to finish off the day. He poured champagne and handed her a glass before sitting down next to her. With a tender smile, he offered a toast to continued friendship. At that moment they were almost like an old married couple, comfortable with each other but not needing physical contact to be satisfied. They sipped champagne, leaning back against the headboard, quietly resting after a busy day.

Maggie downed her glass more quickly than she wanted to, but it was nerves and not thirst that bent her elbow. The room lights seemed to be blazing and she thought only of finding some discreet way to turn them off before she had to get out of her clothes. Fixated on her dilemma, she was brought back to reality by Ciaran’s tongue, which was gently probing her mouth. A wonderful sensation was lost to her because she was not so sure that she really wanted to do this after all. His hand was on her neck and Maggie knew that it was just a matter of time until his fingers were wrapped around her breast, and half of her brain wanted to take those fingers and move them to her chest while the other half wanted to run away.

He never detected the tension in her lips, not when he was preoccupied with his speech. “Did you ever wish that you had more than the one boy?” he asked, kissing her neck as he removed the glass from her sweating hand.

“I was lucky to have the one,” she said, but her eyes reflected a deep sorrow. “After I lost the last one, the doctor told me I was done, no more babies. I lost three before Joey, and then I was pregnant again one more time after he was born. I miscarried again but I was hemorrhaging and the doctor was going to perform a hysterectomy but I refused. Oh, my God, Ciaran, I told him that I’d rather die in one piece than be cut up, and my husband was furious with me for being so stupid. I was lucky, though, because the doctor was able to stop the bleeding without an operation, but in the end, well, a snip or two and a bit of string to tie things up, and Joey was our only child. Besides, I’m almost forty, too old to chase a toddler. I’m closer to being a grandmother.”

His heart began to break. For the first time in his life Ciaran was in pain from a deep hurt. Be careful what you pray for, his grandmother used to say, because you may get it. He prayed for a woman to love, but he forgot to add a codicil, that she be young and fertile. Ciaran was in love, he had no doubt of that, but he also knew that Maggie would never be his wife. When they talked to the priest, when Father Kelly asked if there was any impediment to having a family, she would say, yes, Father, I am sterile but he wants children. A good Catholic girl like Maggie would not marry a man who wanted a son that she could not give him; it was practically a sin. She would not marry him for his fame or his money, for those things meant nothing to her.

A sigh escaped from his throat; his dreams of the years to come had faded away. He kissed her again, but this was a pleasant goodbye to plans made and plans foiled, followed by an embrace that greeted a new course, an acknowledgment that they could only be lovers and a wish that they would remain friends. He took Maggie in his arms and held her warmly, letting go of what could never be and enjoying her company for as long as he could have it.

“Thank you, for being honest with me,” he said. “Having a family is the most important thing to me right now. I think that God listens to you, will you pray for me, that I find a wife who is as wonderful as you?”

“You don’t need my prayers, Ciaran, you only have to look in the right places. Somewhere in this world are dozens of girls who are looking for a man who wants to be a father, not a man to lift them into the limelight. Find a mirror that reflects your light, and stay away from the flames that burn as brightly as you.”

“How did you ever become so wise?” he asked. Taking a lover, rather than a wife, required a shift in strategy. Ciaran had no doubt that Maggie felt something for him, an affection that he could nurture and cultivate. Rather than build up the emotion for a lifetime together, they would only need enough to sustain a brief affair. A one-night stand was out of the question, since Maggie deserved more of his time and consideration. If he had been honest with himself, he might have admitted that he did not want it to end with one night, not when it would take him more than one night to get over the loss of a dream. “Can you share a little of your wisdom with me?”

“A long time ago, I was in western Nebraska, in the Badlands. Scottsbluff, where they used to film western movies. There’s an enormous rock that seems to rise up out of nowhere, like a giant table, and I went up to the top. I looked out over the plains, miles of empty land, and I opened my ears and listened to the wind, and I opened my heart and I listened to God. Standing up there, I felt so insignificant in the universe, but we all matter to God, don’t we? That keeps me on the ground where He put me.”

“You’re the first person I’ve ever met with her head in the clouds and her feet firmly planted in the sod. You’re an Irish girl, Maggie; it’s in your blood. Generation after generation in America can’t erase it.”

“I promise you, one day you’ll find a nice girl who doesn’t know about Ciaran Doyle the movie star. She’ll pull you out of the clouds when you get too high and mighty and put your feet back on the earth, and when you’re seventy-five you’ll be surrounded by grandchildren, and you’ll be the happiest man in the world.”

Ciaran sighed, a little sad. “I’ve done half the girls in London, not to brag but I like the ladies. Never kept one for long, though, but I think I was afraid that they would get tired of me, so I left them first. Will you answer a personal question for me?”

“If I can, sure.” Maggie said, snuggling against his chest and finding great comfort there.

“After you were married for a long time, did you ever get tired of making love with your husband? The same man, every time, was that always a joy for you?”

“Yes, Ciaran, even after years and years it was always a joy, even when it took more work to keep the fires burning. When my husband got sick, and we couldn’t do it anymore, I never had any desire to be with another man, because I only wanted to make love with Franco. That’s marriage, Ciaran, not like the movies you make, but it’s really better.”

“Ah, Maggie, after all my running around I’ll never find a girl who would want to give me one again, not after the way I treated some of them. I’ve been a bastard, and that’s the honest truth, using so many women for pleasure. I think I’m getting my punishment now.”

“Who would you want to give you a fresh start?” she asked, rolling over onto her stomach to settle into a comfortable chat.

Her face was a mask, as blank as she could make it. There was no reason for her to have seen this coming, and if she had, she would have told him before they got this far. Marriage was not right, and precisely because he wanted children. Their conservative religious training made them of one mind. Ciaran would not ask for her hand because he realized that she would not give it, and Maggie did not have to turn him down because he knew already. In a span of a few hours, he had found and lost a treasure. She had lost something, maybe, but she felt strongly that she was finding something important. Her new life was taking shape, like clay in her hands, but she was not sure what shape she was going to form.

“Where’s the good in dreaming? How can I get someone back when I never bothered to ring her up after?”

“If there is someone, it can’t hurt to try. Think back to your early days when the directors would say thank you and goodbye after an audition. What’s a little more rejection?”

“More pain, more misery,” he chuckled. Maggie hugged him with genuine affection, to give him a gentle squeeze or a dollop of courage. He did not want to be alone right now, any more than Maggie wanted to be alone in a lifeless hotel room. He needed her presence, as much as she needed him at her side, longing for the feeling of security that came when you were together with someone you could trust.

“I felt like a boy again today,” he said. “We had fun together, didn’t we?”

“I had a wonderful time, thank you. It’ll be hard to leave all this behind. There’s just so much excitement in London. Not at all like my little house in the suburbs. I like it, the bustle and everything.”

“Maggie, if you could still have babies,” he said, shifting around until his head was in her lap, “would you have married me?”

“If I were a young woman, say, ten years ago, yes, I would have married you.”

“We’d be under the covers right now.”

“You would not be in my room, Mr. Doyle, until the ring was on my finger,” she said, smiling happily as she gently stroked his hair. The gesture was nearly automatic, something that she did to Joey when he came to his mother with a heart full of perplexing problems. It felt like that now, with Ciaran, as they talked over the issues that weighed heavily on his mind.

“The nuns must have taken you away and locked you in the convent when you were a child,” he laughed. “Why buy the cow when the milk is free, Miss Griffith?”

“Don’t make fun of the old girls, they spoke the truth, and here’s the proof. You took me to a restaurant that had white tablecloths, and that reminded you of bed sheets and gave you impure thoughts.”

“I still want you, Maggie.”

“I’ll never miss what I didn’t have, but I can always dream about what might have been. We’ll make a clean break, that way it won’t hurt quite so much. When it’s time for me to go home, we won’t have to give up something that we can’t keep.”

“You can always keep the memories.”

“Sometimes a memory can be a curse and not a blessing. Like looking in the window of the toy store when you have no chance of buying the pretty doll on display. It’s better to walk away, shed the tears and move along.”

“Don’t be shedding tears over me, Maggie, you’ve shown me something tonight and I’ll always be grateful to you. I finally see what it is that I’ve been looking for in my life, and I’m going to get it. Meet the new Ciaran Doyle, family man.”

“It’s a lot of work, don’t forget, not all champagne and passionate love, not after a couple of years. There’s more heartache than you can imagine, and struggle, but at the end of the day, you’ll find it was worth all the trouble and effort.”

“Promise me that we can still be friends, Maggie. When my wife throws me out of the house, can I call on you to explain to me what I did wrong?” he joked lightly.

Marriage looked pretty frightening, even with Maggie’s gentle description, but she had survived it, battle-scarred but still standing tall. Even Trevor Harwood had made it through, on his feet though stooped by the weight of his sorrow. Doyle’s siblings would complain from time to time, harping on some problem or disagreement, but now Ciaran understood what kept them married. It was the warmth and comfort of the person who loved you, even if you had just acted like a perfect idiot. Through Maggie, he was given a glimpse of married love, the peace that came from lying next to a woman and not having to say a word because of the bond between husband and wife.

Ciaran never noticed that he fell asleep, not until he woke up at three o’clock in the morning. Maggie was still there, with his head cradled in her lap, but she was looking out the window with tears running down her cheeks. Somehow, he sensed that her tears were falling on his behalf, as if Maggie was mourning over the hurt that she had inflicted. He blamed himself for building up her expectations, rushing through a courtship because he was in a hurry to have children. None of it was her fault, and it was painful for him to see her crying over his broken heart when he had done the damage. Even though it hurt, knowing that he had come close to reaching the summit, Ciaran felt worse because Maggie had to suffer as well. It was not the sort of memory he wanted her to take home to Chicago.

Without conceit, he knew that she had another reason to cry. Ciaran could feel how much she wanted him, but for some reason she would not give in to her desire. She had turned him down, but it was not because she was hurt or angry with him. In a way, she had explained to him that she did not want to make love just then, but he was not quite sure why. Perhaps she had asked for a time to mourn, with a time to love promised for some elusive and misty future that he could not see clearly. Maggie was not quite like other women he had known, and she was not so easy to understand. Not knowing what he should do next, Ciaran decided it was best to back off and try a different approach.

“I’d better go,” he said as he sat up. He kissed the drops from her cheeks as he apologized for the grief he had brought down on her.

“Don’t be sorry, Ciaran, don’t ever be sorry,” she said with surprising strength. “You woke up something in me that was asleep for a long time. I’ll be in your debt for the rest of my life, for making me see that things can’t be what they used to be. Honestly, it isn’t sorrow you gave me, but a beautiful memory. One day, when I’m an old granny, I can look back on this night and remember that the most wonderful man from Manchester wanted me to be his wife.”

“Go on, it only means I’m not a fool. It’s Valentine’s Day, you know. I brought you a gift, a little memento.”

He handed her a small carton that he pulled from his coat pocket, prettily wrapped in green paper. With a grin, Maggie ripped open the package, the first Valentine’s gift she had received since she met Franco. Nestled inside the wrapping was a small box made of porcelain, shaped like a heart and only large enough to store a few pairs of earrings. The tiny shamrocks that decorated the white china lid were distinctive to anyone of Irish descent.

“Oh, Ciaran, a piece of Belleek,” she sighed. “It’s so beautiful, the prettiest piece I have ever seen. Thank you for the gift, I’ll always think of you when I look at this.”

“You’ve done something special for me too, Maggie. I know what kind of woman I want, someone as gentle and loving as you. Say a prayer that I find her, and I’ll pray for you, to find the right man. What will it be, do you still favor a boy like me?”

“I think it’s time for me to change my ways. Maybe I should switch to someone who’s dull and stodgy.”

“You’ve come to the right country to find dull men by the carload,” he laughed. “We can try the House of Lords on Monday, and you can have your pick.”

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her goodnight, a gentleman at the end of a delightful evening. As Maggie closed the door behind him, he touched his other pocket, the one with the engagement ring tucked into another small box wrapped in green paper. In the quiet of a hotel corridor in the dead of night, he could hear her sobbing behind the door, alone in her room.

Single Stem - Chapter 8

Previously: Kay puts the pressure on Maggie to accept Ciaran's offer. Trevor finally gets up the courage to call but he stumbles over his invitation. He is coming under pressure himself from Nigel, who does a bit of snooping.

Chapter 8

The final scene was going to be filmed outdoors at a studio outside of the city, and Maggie spent the entire trip with her head practically hanging out of the window. Bea and Pam had tagged along, glad for the ride and the opportunity to avoid the snarls of traffic that they would otherwise have to endure. Reminiscences of Carnaby Street and the swinging sixties filled the time, as they slipped into a long talk about fashions and the best places to shop in London.

Pam recruited Maggie to help her tack on buttons and make a few repairs to the costumes, since Maggie had learned how to sew from her British aunt. Only Bea noticed that Ciaran picked at the threads of his sleeve hem until it came down, and then he ran to Maggie and asked her to fix it. While she stitched up the errant fabric, Ciaran brushed the hair away from her eyes as the gentle breeze blew some strands around.

“Watch out for him,” Bea warned her as they stood off to one side of the set.

“Who, Ciaran? Oh, he’s harmless,” Maggie said with a sweet smile.

“He’ll use you like he uses any woman who strikes his fancy,” Bea explained.

“But it might be me who uses him. A little fun, and then I go back home, never to see him again,” Maggie replied.

“I haven’t known you for very long, but I don’t believe that you would be capable of a meaningless affair. You’re as tightly laced as Trevor.”

“But Trevor hasn’t asked me to spend the night with him, and Ciaran has. It’s silly of me, I know, but after being married for so long, and then to have a man actually look at me like I was special.” Maggie could not put it into words, but Bea understood. It was the heady feeling of being desirable, of being wanted, that made Maggie think so recklessly. Bea had gone through it herself after Nigel had broken her heart, and Trevor had been the one to talk to her and save her from more heartache.

“Give old Trevor a bit more time, Maggie,” she suggested. “Don’t forget, he’s very British. Stuffy and reserved, like a character out of Jane Austen, but if he can be alone with you he’ll be himself. We English do have sex, despite the rumors.”

Bob Hurleburt shouted for quiet, making a point to glare at the two women as they giggled like fools within range of the microphones. Trevor was waiting to begin, standing just outside of the camera shot, and he caught Maggie’s eye as she looked over at the set. One brief glance was all that he needed to help him slip into his character, and his face gradually melted into the features of a soldier. Wrapped up in his character, he became Karl Hofmeier in this flashback to the war during the blitz.

The scene that led into this one, in which Hofmeier returned to England in the early 1950’s to see his son, melted into this horrible night in 1942, when Karl’s nightmare came screaming back to haunt him. Only Maggie understood the complete picture, and she studied Trevor’s every move to determine if he had sensed it, if he understood his character as fully as Maggie understood Karl Hofmeier. Harwood and Hurleburt walked through the scene and worked out the movements. With every turn of his head or tormented arching of his back, Maggie observed Trevor as he worked.

It only needed one take to get the scene filmed; Harwood could never do it any better. He fixed his mind on the pain that he was going to feel soon, when Maggie went home and he would never see her again. It was as if she would be dead too, as dead as Allison, and he had never even told her that he loved her because he was too afraid to show her how weak he was. He was too proud to tell her how much he needed her, and his misery spoke through his footsteps.

There was anger in his movements as his character tried to uncover his fiancée’s body, the anger that he felt at himself and at Ciaran. Doyle was going to have Maggie, since he was an expert at seducing women and Maggie was vulnerable. It was more than Ciaran’s smooth, silky voice that had fueled Harwood’s rage. There was the conversation the two men had earlier in the day, with Ciaran’s probing questions about marriage and children, and was it confining to be tied down to one woman. If Maggie did marry that hulking Manchester gorilla, Trevor would see her all the time, at parties or at work. She would become an endless reminder of what he wanted but could not have.

The camera came in close for a tight shot of Harwood’s face as his character uncovered the body of his lover, a moment of horror when he realized that she was killed in the bombing. Maggie was so very aware of the crushing pain that Hofmeier experienced at that moment in his life; she knew how deeply he was affected by the woman’s death to this day. Trevor began to cry, a real tear ran down his cheek, and with the agony that arose from a broken heart he began to wail. Maggie had never seen someone with such an awe-inspiring talent, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Trevor had conveyed precisely the horrible anguish that Karl Hofmeier had endured so many years ago.

“Cut,” Hurleburt yelled, his joy evident in his ebullient tone. “Perfect, Harwood, brilliant.”

Trevor was dazed for a moment, lost in his character with his mind in another time. He looked for Maggie, wanting her to hold him in her arms and wipe away the pain and comfort him with her presence. Every thought was directed to her, as if he could will her to come to him. The power of his desire was channeled, aimed towards her heart. A towel fell across his shoulders, but it was only his assistant who had hurried over with a bottle of water, to help Trevor to his feet and back to reality. Filming had ended for the day, and Trevor was worn out, leaning on Roger as he stumbled back to his dressing room.

“Well, Mrs. Angiolini, do you think that your client will be satisfied?” Bob asked as he walked past Maggie.

“I am simply amazed,” was all she could think to say. “It was as if he probed Hofmeier’s mind and replayed his thoughts.”

“First caravan on the right,” Bob pointed to Trevor’s dressing room, the door still hanging open. “Go tell him, it will mean a great deal to him if he could hear it from you.”

“If he had any sense, he would lock the door and have it off with her right now,” Bea said as she watched Maggie walk away.

“He’d have to send his assistant scurrying to an all-night chemist for a box of condoms,” Bob snorted. “Unless she carries her own supply.”

“Bob, how do you manage to always think the worst about people?”

“It’s not the worst, Bea. I assume that she doesn’t intend to bring home any strange diseases to share with her husband.”

Bea looked at Bob and laughed as she sat in a chair, waiting for Maggie. She could only shake her head at the man’s blindness and his lack of interest in finding anything good about someone associated with Karl Hofmeier. Knowing something that he did not was somehow delightful, and she decided then and there to keep Maggie’s marital state to herself. When the time was right, she would spring the news on him and she was going to savor his stunned reaction, his embarrassment and his doltish stuttering.

“What’s the joke?” Pam asked as she met up with Bea. “Where’s our Maggie?”

“Congratulating Trevor on his brilliant performance,” Bea said. “Did you know that Bob thinks she carries condoms to protect her husband from sexually transmitted diseases that she might pick up in England?”

“Her husband?” Pam roared with glee. “He doesn’t know?”

“Apparently, I don’t know anything,” Bob huffed, annoyed by the heartless attitude of embittered, divorced women. For all he knew, Maggie disliked her husband and wanted to infect him with something, in a final parting gesture before flinging him out on the street. That was her business, but she was certainly not catching anything from Trevor Harwood; that man had been cautious his entire life. Grinning with mischief, Pam and Bea heartily agreed with Bob’s parting remarks. As he stormed off, they could barely contain their snickers.

Maggie was almost afraid to disturb the actor, since he had seemed all out when he finally walked back to his dressing room. Nigel was there, with a make-up man and one of Pam’s assistants, and everyone was bubbling over with praise for Harwood, but he only had eyes for Maggie when she peeked in the door.

“It was perfect, Trevor, more than I can explain,” she said with a shy smile. “Mr. Hofmeier picked you for this role, but please don’t tell him I told you that. I can understand his choice now, you were so incredible, honestly, you were sensational. Today you made your performance in Chateau Thierry look like amateur hour, and that was an amazing portrayal.”

Hundreds of words tumbled through Trevor’s brain, none of which he dared to say, not in front of so many people. He wanted to empty the room, to throw Maggie on the sofa and make love to her before Ciaran Doyle had a chance to touch her. That would never happen, though, not with dull as dishwater Trevor Harwood. In the end, he only mumbled his thanks before Maggie said goodbye, her warm smile and sparkling eyes fading from his view like the Cheshire cat.

“Steady on, Trevor,” Nigel patted his friend’s back. “Bea is keeping your little blossom under wraps tonight.”

“It’s hopeless, I haven’t done this for so long I don’t even know what to say,” Trevor moaned in sorrow. He peeled off his costume and slipped into a ratty dressing gown, plopping down in the chair to have the make-up removed.

“The one man who could give you some decent advice is the one man who is after the same thing. I’m no good at this either, Trevor, all I know is ‘fancy a tumble’ but even that doesn’t make Bea smile anymore.”

“Brilliant. Fancy a tumble, Maggie? Can you overlook my faults long enough to give me a go?”

“That’s actually rather good.” Nigel was thinking intently, trying to help out this bumbling, quivering wreck. “When we were talking the other day, she mentioned something about British English being more charming or something. What was it, she talked about tumble compared to, compared to. Oh, I remember now. She said a tumble sounded so much more playful and fun than the term getting laid. Bea has her mobile with her, ring Maggie now and ask her if she fancies a tumble.”

“Get out, Nigel,” Trevor said coldly, throwing make-up sodden tissues at him. “I don’t need to give her another reason to sleep with Doyle.”

“Fine, ignore my wise advice. And when she goes back to Chicago, don’t expect me to give you any sympathy.”

The room had cleared out, with only the make-up man left behind to finish up. “What do you think, Hal?” Trevor asked.

Hal wiped his hands on a towel and reached into his back pocket. From his wallet, he extracted his emergency condom, the wrapper glistening and unbroken. “You won’t get any these days unless you’re wearing this.”

“Is that how it’s done now?” Trevor asked. Hal was close to his daughter Callista’s age, a single man who knew more about pick-up lines than Harwood ever had. He felt that he had no choice but to turn to this young man for help. “No dinner, no dancing, just straight to bed?”

“After all, if the lady is willing, Mr. Harwood, why wait?” Hal said suggestively. “Now, if you want to leave a good impression, you take her to dinner afterwards, and over drinks you tell her how aroused you are by her smile, because she has that look that tells you she’s been satisfied. I’ve had tremendous success with that line, but that’s only if you're trying for a long relationship, when you want her to come back for more.”

“No man of my age would ever ring up a woman and ask for sex. Maggie would no doubt laugh me into impotency.”

“Then try a little romance. Bribe the desk clerk, get into her room and wait for her there, and give her a single rose. If you give her a dozen, she’ll thank you, but give her one and she’ll melt. Chances are you wouldn’t have to ask for anything.”

“But wouldn’t that scare her half to death? I mean, she comes into her room, switches on the light and finds a strange man lying in wait. She’d probably start screaming in terror.”

“Sometimes a man has to be bold to attract a lady’s attention. I heard that Ciaran Doyle sent a car to pick up some actress, I don’t even remember who it was. It was all done very mysteriously, he called her and told her to go for a drive, just get in the car without knowing where she was going. Anyway, she ended up at Strand House, and he was in bed waiting for her.”

“Screw Ciaran Doyle,” Trevor hissed, growing irate. For all he knew, that damned wanker was in Maggie’s bed already, just waiting for her to come strolling in. And he definitely would have a whole case of condoms at the ready, all set for two weeks of work.

“The talk on the set, Mr. Harwood,” Hal said with hesitation, “is that he’s seriously thinking about getting married. I’m not one to spread gossip, but, you know how it is, things get said.”

“I’ve heard a few things myself. What other rumors are floating around? I can keep a secret, Hal.”

Hal’s eyes lit up with delight, since there was nothing he liked better than sharing the backstage blabber, with those glimpses of humanity behind the actor’s façade. “He was talking about starting right in, to get her pregnant as quick as possible so they could have a couple of kids before she got too old. I was in the room when he told his assistant to find out about public schools in London for her son, and that’s pretty serious talk. That kind of thing, well, normally I wouldn’t pay any attention, but you’ve been honest with me, Mr. Harwood, and there are some things that I think you should know about.”

“Thank you, Hal, for the warning. Look, do me a favor, and don’t say a word to anyone about our little discussion. I am about to make a complete ass of myself, but there’s no getting around it.”

Friday night in London was more like an enormous party, with crowds of wildly dressed young professionals swarming the clubs. Bea had selected a very traditional British restaurant in Dockside, with a wonderful view of the Tower and the Thames. The party of four arrived very late, and very hungry. They were late because Mrs. Angiolini was still an employee of Quinlan and Associates, and she had to stop at her hotel after the filming to make her business calls.

First on the list was Mr. Hofmeier, who would have to be informed that everything had been done his way. Maggie could barely wait to tell him, knowing that he would be very pleased with this adaptation of his novel. “Harwood was excellent, Mr. Hofmeier, he really became you even though he has no idea that it was you.”

“I knew he was a good actor,” Mr. Hofmeier agreed. “But is he a decent human being, a good person?”

“Sure, I guess so, I mean, I don’t know him all that well. We’ve talked some, and he’s very witty and really interesting. In general, these London film stars are so much more down to earth than our American version.”

“So, you seem to be enjoying this trip so far,” he noticed. “Seen any landmarks yet? You aren’t cooped up in that damned hotel all day, are you?”

“I’ve seen a little, but I’ve been working, Mr. Hofmeier. I found a book for you, you’ll enjoy it but I won’t tell you about it so that you’ll be surprised when I give it to you.”

“One more thing,” he added before hanging up. “If you need to stay longer for some reason, if your situation changes, don’t worry about the expense.”

“Mr. Hofmeier, really, I would never extend my trip and then expect you to pick up the tab.”

“God damn it, girl, that’s an order. Don’t be so damned insubordinate.”

Theresa was on hold, listening to the hotel’s sleep-inducing canned music. She had sent three manuscripts via an overnight courier, and as soon as Maggie picked up the phone her cousin began to rattle off the authors, the plots, and the key problems that needed to be dealt with. “I’ll keep you out of mischief during the day, and you do what you can at night,” Theresa had said. Before leaving for dinner, Maggie called home to talk to Kay, but she had probably left for school pick-up already. All she could do was to leave a message on the machine to report that things were running very smoothly.

Tim the bellhop delivered a package when she was about to walk out the door. It came from Mr. Doyle, who was waiting for a reply at the delivery entrance behind the hotel. Ciaran had cleverly taken a guide map, the type that were routinely handed out to tourists, and used it to wrap a small box that contained a delicate red rosebud. His note was equally simple and direct, telling Maggie that the private tour of London left from Strand House on Saturday at eleven, and it was complimentary to the prettiest guest of the hotel.

“Will you tell him that I will be taking the tour of London tomorrow?” Maggie gave as her reply. The single rose and the charming note made her feel as if she was the luckiest woman in England at that moment. There was no time to dwell on her thoughts, no time to savor the warmth that swept over her. Bea, Pam and Cindy were waiting downstairs in the car, ready to succumb to starvation if she did not hurry.

Out of gratitude for her new friends’ generosity, Maggie paid for dinner. They had to laugh at the way she examined the currency, with its pretty and colorful pictures. She insisted that American greenbacks were practically puritanical compared to the ten pound note that she was waving in the air. For some reason, the flapping bill reminded Cindy of male strippers, and that led them to a dance club in Leicester Square, which was populated by gyrating bodies of varied ages.

“So the bastard tries to get me back in bed,” Bea was fuming over Nigel’s latest irritating actions. She could tell that he wanted to fix their marriage, but some things were simply unforgivable.

“He still loves you, you know,” Maggie said, shouting to be heard over the loud music.

“If he had loved me two years ago, we would still be married,” Bea noted. “And look at you, Trevor loves you and you think about having an affair with Ciaran.”

“He does not, he thinks I’m Hofmeier’s hired gun. Ciaran couldn’t care less about me, but what’s wrong with trying on something new?” Maggie replied.

“Because you’ll feel like a piece of garbage the next day,” Cindy put in, unable to forget the humiliation.

“At least old Trevor would make you a cup of coffee in the morning,” Pam added, and her companions’ raised eyebrows forced her to defend her honor. “And I am not speaking from past experience, I swear. I like Trevor, he’s one of those nice gentleman that your mother always wanted you to bring home for tea.”

“Can he make good coffee, Pam?” Maggie asked with a sly wink. “Maybe I should let him grind my coffee.”

“Now that’s what we all need, some young coffee grinders. Where are all the available men, anyway?” Pam complained, watching balding old men trying to look sophisticated while dancing with very young shop girls.

“Looking for unavailable women,” Bea said bitterly.

“They’re out there,” Maggie said with confidence. “Hiding, to be sure, but out there. Bars are the worst place to find men, unless you’re looking for an alcoholic.”

“Let’s try the coffee houses,” Pam suggested.

Single Stem - Chapter 7

Previously: At the BBC Studios, Maggie flirts with Ciaran while Trevor sends his best friend to lay a bit of groundwork for his own flirtation. He still cannot bring himself to come out and ask her for a date, while Ciaran has a seduction cleverly aligned.

Chapter 7

A charming Victorian row house was Bea’s home, where her upstairs bedroom looked down on the street below, a quiet lane where most of her neighbors kept colorful window boxes full of flowers all summer. The décor of the sitting room was startlingly modern, with loads of creamy whites in the carpet and furniture, in the style of a vibrant woman whose two girls were grown and on their own. Maggie loved the way that the stairs creaked as she climbed up to the second floor; she ran her hand along the crack in the plaster that marred the smoothly finished wall where the stairs turned. The kitchen was straight out of Provence, and the ladies sat at the rugged country table to enjoy fish and chips from the local shop, washed down with glasses of vin ordinaire. Sharing their deepest thoughts about men and love, and sharing two bottles of wine, they passed a delightful evening. Maggie finally admitted that in some ways she was actually much happier without her husband, just like the divorced woman she joined for dinner that evening.

By midnight, Maggie was back in her hotel, feeling as if she had taken out her darkest moods and washed them away into the Thames. It was easier here, in London, to talk openly to a group of women who had no connection to Franco or his extended family. With her newfound confidantes, she could say what she really felt without worrying about some comment getting back to Pino or Tsio Carlo. Bea, Pam, and Cindy were her friends, hers alone, and that made all the difference in the world. These were women that she could confide in as honestly as she unburdened her soul to Kay.

“I have to tell you about this man I met,” Maggie said as the sisters talked on the phone. The call was made the minute that Maggie was back in her room, since she was dying to discuss men with her sister but she also longed to hear Joey’s voice again.

“Of course it will only be one night,” Kay was agreeing. “He’ll see you in the morning and run from the room in terror.”

“Very funny,” Maggie sneered. “Seriously, Kay, what would you do if you had a very good-looking man offering you the use of his body?”

“You know what I would do,” Kay sighed. “But I wasn’t a virgin on my wedding night, don’t forget. I didn’t listen to the nuns or Mom’s aunts when they told us it was a sin.”

“And I never had to wait for some guy to call me after, unlike someone I know.”

“Forget about the past,” Kay said. “What about now? Here’s the deal, you’ve got an option on a good lover, not one of those men who finishes and walks out the door. He forgets about his lovers after the affair ends, so you’ll never hear from him again. It’s a perfect arrangement for a chicken like you.”

“It can’t hurt to give him a chance. If it works out, we’ll see,” Maggie said at last, leaving her options open.

“Welcome to the world,” Kay cheered. “Listen, Mags, you’re not going to cave if some guy tries to pressure you into bed. Remember when you dumped Luca? Don’t let the screen door hit you in the ass on the way out, remember that?”

“But what about the day after?”

“You know, even if they don’t respect you in the morning, it feels good when you’re doing it,” Kay philosophized. “Try it some time and you’ll find out what you’ve been missing all these years.”

“I wasn’t about to cheat on Franco just because he was sick,” Maggie began to argue. “There’s more to sex than two bodies rubbing together.”

They chattered away for nearly an hour, two sisters who talked so often it was a wonder what they found to talk about. Ciaran was trying to get through, but Mrs. Angiolini was on a call to Chicago, and she was on that call for so long that he gave up and went to sleep. Trevor had Nigel at his elbow, egging him to call again, then ring again after ten minutes, and give it another go in fifteen minutes, until Trevor heard the phone jangling at the other end. That was when Nigel quietly said good night and left for home, with Trevor sitting in his study and not knowing what he was going to say.

“Sorry to phone so late,” Trevor began, feeling extremely foolish. “But I wanted to apologize for Nigel’s rather rude remarks today. He can be quite the practical joker, but often his audience doesn’t find the humor in his joke.”

“Do you think it’s a joke to make love to me?” Maggie asked with all seriousness in her voice. He could hear mockery, a tone that implied that he was stiff and stodgy. Try as he might, he could not seem to explain that he was stiffly uncomfortable around her, but not because he saw her as Karl Hofmeier in drag, or some hatchet lady from Chicago.

“Hello? Trevor? Are you there?” she said in reply to the silence. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nasty, I was only kidding.”

“Is this your first time in London?” he said stupidly. He cursed himself for asking such an inane question. Having made a poor start, he fumbled around, trying to come up with something that did not make him appear to be an enormous idiot. “There’s so much to see, and I was wondering, if you had any time to walk about and, well, if there’s any place in particular that you wanted to go, the tube is really a marvelous way to get all over the city.”

“I’ve been to Paris. The Metro was very easy to use, is the London Underground anything like that?” she asked. Her reply was stilted, as if she was straining under a yoke of good manners. Yes, he was about to ask her to go sightseeing around London, but just as abruptly he gave every indication that he was dropping her in the subway on her own. The words were not lining up in the proper order to make sentences that were only half-formed in his head.

“Better, actually, because everyone speaks English. If you lose your way, you can ask just about anyone for help.” He liked that sentence because it sounded much better and it was a definite improvement over the first line. He fancied that he was being witty now, the epitome of Britannic charm. “Before you go home, you should try a ride on one of our famous buses. If it is not too wet it’s great fun to sit on the upper level.”

“Thanks for the suggestions,” she said, and Trevor cringed at the tone of her voice. He wanted to ask her to dinner but he could not seem to find the words, and now he was digging his grave a little deeper.

Trevor cleared his throat nervously, and then he wiped his sweating palm on the leg of his pants. “We film that last scene on Friday, I mean tomorrow. I can’t believe it’s Thursday already. Please come to the set, Maggie, I need you there.”

“I have to be there, in case some clever Englishman takes it into his head to make unauthorized changes,” she replied, but her voice was quite kind and engaging as she gently warned him against any funny business with Hofmeier’s script.

“It’ll be a relief to finish this up, I must admit,” he went on. “Of course you’ll be at the wrap party next week.”

“Are you inviting me, after all the problems that I caused?” she asked. Trevor could listen to that lovely voice all night, with its awful midwestern accent that made her sound like every newsreader all across the United States.

“Not an invitation, but a summons. I am making a demand that you come,” he said with a light air, “and it’s a custom to be elegantly attired. Not that I’m trying to tell you what to wear, but I have learned that ladies are devastated when they arrive at a party in trousers when everyone else is wearing a cocktail dress.”

“Well, if I can find something suitable, I shall consider your demands,” she said, pausing at the end as if she wanted him to go on, his lips forming every word with care, caressing the English language as he would caress her hair.

“But wait, I have something else that will attract you. My house is almost two hundred years old, and if you come to my party I’d like to show you the beams in the garret. I was told that they were hand sawn, and it’s quite possible that they came from a salvaged American sailing ship. Did you know that our Royal Navy used to capture pirate ships and then bring them back to England? The ships were broken into pieces and the lumber was sold at auction. They say that part of my garret used to smuggle sugar to France for Napoleon’s table.”

For the next hour, Trevor and Maggie talked about London and Chicago, about history and books, so many topics that neither one could remember where the conversation had begun. She finally had to say goodbye, reminding Trevor that he was supposed to be at work at six and that meant he was down to about three hours of sleep time.

His alarm rang at five, waking him from the best dream he had ever had. Of course Maggie was in his thoughts as he drifted off to sleep early on Thursday morning and she was still on his mind when he woke up. Her pleasured moaning slowly gave way and became the strident buzzing of his alarm clock, but just before he woke up, she looked up at him in his dreams with her hips pushing against him, and she told him he was the best lover she had ever had. “Don’t stop, more, don’t stop, oh yes, Trevor,” she sighed. And when he opened his eyes, he was furiously humping his mattress.

“I’m in love,” he shouted happily at the ceiling. “I love Maggie Griffith Angiolini, and she’s not married any more.”

For some reason, Maggie could not sleep that night, tossing and turning until she gave up at seven. She showered and dressed, and then said her rosary as she stood by the window and looked out on the river. There was a manuscript to be read, but first she was going to walk to the Thames and stroll along the quay, from Waterloo Bridge to Parliament if her legs held out. She had stood in her window every morning, feeling rather like a little girl peering at the displays of the toy store. It was impossible to resist all the historical delights that winked at her, and she decided then and there that she was not going back home without seeing at least a small part of the city.

She looked like a real tourist now, casually attired in jeans and cross-trainers, striding down Strand Lane at a brisk pace. Faster than she anticipated she arrived at Victoria Embankment along the Thames, and she was taken aback by the ancient grace of Cleopatra’s Needle as it popped into view. Up ahead, she could see Parliament and the Gothic tower that housed the mighty bell called Big Ben. Maggie picked up the pace, and without a thought to the appropriateness of gawking she looked at the faces that she passed. One of her favorite television programs at home was the Prime Minister’s question and answer session in the House of Commons, because the M.P.’s ruthlessly peppered Her Majesty’s representative with pointed queries that sometimes drew blood. As if she were searching for famous people, Maggie tried to catch a glimpse of Great Britain’s elected delegates while they strolled around the center of the Kingdom’s government. One glance at her watch put an end to the fun, since she wanted to swing through the shops on Charing Cross Road for an hour or so. Checking her guide map, she took note of the route that would carry her to the biggest collection of used books that she was ever likely to find.

Trevor was not enjoying his day, in part because he had not slept much the night before, but largely because he was not with Maggie. They were filming a large group scene that featured Ken Simpson and his former wife Sara Larimer, along with her new husband Richard McLeish. The relationship between Sara and Richard had begun well before the end of her marriage, and that left Ken less than comfortable around Richard. Thrown into the bubbling stew was Ciaran Doyle, the man who had helped Sara out the door. Richard was sniping at his nemesis, who in turn was threatening to renew his old love affair with Sara if Richard could not get the job done. Things were not running smoothly at all, and even Nigel had managed to aggravate Bea. Their feud flared up again after Nigel sidled up to his ex-wife and tried his ‘fancy a tumble, lovie’ line. In the middle of it all was Bob Hurleburt, trying to restore order to the madhouse and get everyone back to work.

“Roger, have you seen my mobile?” Trevor asked his assistant, who was holding the phone in his hand in full view of Mr. Harwood. The young man silently handed it to his boss, ready to tell him the number of Strand House since that was bound to be the next question.

“Mrs. Angiolini has gone for a walk, Mr. Harwood,” the desk clerk said. “Is there any message?”

Of course there was a message, a long rambling message that would take page after page to write down fully. “I think about you constantly, Maggie,” he would want to tell her. “My mind is filled with thoughts of you; even now I wonder what you are doing. I want to see what you are seeing, at this very moment, to hold your hand and look into your eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes, they see into my thoughts. Can you see what I am thinking, Maggie? If you did, you would probably slap my face, but I haven’t even thought about sex for a long time and now that’s all I think about.”

If he could leave a message, he would say that he desperately wanted to make love to her. He would admit openly that he loved her with his heart, with his soul, or with anything else he had if heart and soul did not cover everything. If he could leave a short message, if he could compress his emotions into one sentence he would simply say, “Tell Maggie that Trevor Harwood loves her.” That was all that was needed, he concluded, just one sentence that was to the point and spot on. And then he could read it in some cheap tabloid, reprinted as the headline under a grainy picture of Trevor and Maggie that would be snapped by some vulture of a photographer.
“Tell her that I called, if you would. And tell her that I,” he paused, trying to force himself to not be so reticent and reserved. “Just say that I called.”

“Is there a number where you can be reached, Mr. Harwood?” the clerk offered.

Trevor should have left his mobile phone number, but that would have required clear thinking, and he was not thinking clearly at the moment. He stumbled over his home number, half-forgetting the sequence and having to ask the clerk to read it back so that there were no mistakes. Never once realizing that he had botched it, he spent the rest of the day rehearsing his line in anticipation of her cheery reply. Already he could imagine her charming voice sweetly coo, “I was returning your call.” That sounded too cold for Maggie’s warm voice, as Trevor analyzed her mind, and he decided it was more likely that she would start with “‘I am so happy that you called, I was thinking about you.” Without dwelling on his delivery or proper enunciation, using a phrase or incomplete sentence, he planned to immediately ask her out to dinner.

“Will you join me for dinner?” he said to the make-up mirror in his dressing room, waiting to be called back to the set. “Are you free for dinner, Maggie?”

“Do you fancy a tumble, Maggie?” Nigel yelled into the trailer door as he passed by. “For God’s sake, Trevor, she’s too much of a lady to ask you herself. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“How about Maggie in Ciaran’s bed, laughing at the old wrinkled prune who thought he was appealing to a very beautiful woman.”

“She is thirty-nine years old, old prune. I snuck a peak at her passport yesterday, and it cost me twenty pounds to bribe one of the secretaries to lift it out of her handbag.”

“Spare me the fairy tales, Nigel,” Trevor sighed, feeling depressed at the thought of Ciaran Doyle beating him in this race.

“Am I not your most loyal best mate?” Nigel went on, savoring every morsel of information that he was about to share with Harwood. “I know where she lives, if you’re still interested.”

“Chicago, I know already,” he replied curtly.

“In general terms, that is correct. To be precise, she lives in a charming suburb to the north of the city. Have you ever heard of River Oaks?”

“I don’t know, why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Teddy and Agnes Constable? Sound familiar now, or can you think of nothing except Maggie?”

“We’ve known Teddy since Cambridge, you fool. I talk to him at least once a month.”

“I talked to him last night. Had a lovely chat with Agnes, all about Mrs. Angiolini who worked with Agnes at some church function last October. Did you know that Mrs. Angiolini is utterly engaging? Delightful to work with, so generous with her time, and she made the most delicious biscotti for the church’s little tea party. Sorry, am I boring you with this gossip?”

“So, she’s thirty-nine,” Trevor said, a grin on his face and his eyes glazed over. “That’s too old for Doyle, isn’t it?”

“You, if you recall, have recently turned fifty. Who is too old for whom?”

“Should I forget about her, is that it? What kind of friend are you, Nigel?”

“The kind of friend, you love-besotted moron, who is trying to tell you that this woman is perfect for you, but if you don’t make a move she will be back in River Oaks baking biscuits and you will be in London with your dick in your hand.”

Maggie was sipping a cup of tea while sitting in a bookshop, thumbing through a treatise dealing with the native tribes and the conditions of the frontier regions of the American colonies, a book that had been written around the time of the French and Indian Wars. It was a frighteningly expensive tome, but then Mr. Hofmeier had spent a small fortune in sending Maggie to London in the first place. It would be the best sort of gift to give in return, something that dealt with military history at the time that George Washington was learning how to command and Hofmeier’s current interest. For Joey, there was an original edition of A Tale of Two Cities, which he would read most unwillingly as a freshman in high school next year.

Aware that someone had taken the seat across from her, Maggie’s heart thumped wildly in her throat. A pudgy finger reached up to the bridge of the man’s nose and pushed at a set of horn-rimmed glasses. Not wanting to meet his eyes, she gazed at his khaki pants, professorially rumpled. Every minute of the night from hell came back, mocking her foolish notions of returning to the dating world. She prayed more fervently than she had ever prayed before that she was not being stalked from overseas.

On the night of her first social outing at Gideon’s, she had felt positively radiant as she walked in and followed the maitre d’ to the table. All expectations were shattered when she saw Bill Goebel sitting there, drooling with nervous lust. She was polite; she was always polite, even though she was furious that he had injected himself into her personal life. A night on the town with Kay and Fabrizio was spoiled because Bill could not take a hint.

“I didn’t invite him,” Kay said in the privacy of the ladies’ room. “He talked Fabrizio into it, and I had no idea the guy was such a loser.”

“Forget it,” Maggie said. Applying another dab of lipstick, she determined to make the best of a bad evening. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s another client who’s sharp and knows his material. The problem is, he’s stuck in 1825. Compliments and sweet words are nice, but, after a while, I’d like to have an intelligent conversation and that’s not possible when Bill sees a pretty ornament and not an educated female.”

“Can you imagine him in bed,” Kay said, sticking out her tongue.

Laughing like fools, they went back to the table and ordered a bottle of champagne, to drink their dinner as they had as young and carefree college co-eds on a trip through France. Behind a light haze of alcohol, Maggie regained her position as single gal on the town, elegant in her black dress with a simple strand of pearls glowing in the soft light of the restaurant. Even so, she could not avoid the preening figure of Mr. Goebel, who craned his neck and viewed the room as if he wanted to call attention to his companion. His posture was that of a man who wanted everyone to think that he was with Maggie, a man capable of prodigious sexual gymnastics that kept the lovely lady glued to his frumpy side.

Once he started making suggestions about what she should order for dinner, like she was too dense to figure out the menu, she was ready to beat him over the head with the empty champagne bottle. Rather than resort to violence, she ordered another bottle, which brought on a lecture from Professor Goebel. He put his hand on her thigh as he warned her of the dangers of alcohol, caressing the garter that held up her stockings. Maggie shifted her leg to get out from under his sweaty grip, wishing that she could make an escape from the flustered fool who sipped on a glass of ice water, his beverage as bland as his personality.

By the end of the evening, she was ready to scream. Even the trip to the valet stand was an ordeal. Standing at the curb, her legs and feet freezing in the below-zero wind chill, Bill launched into a rambling discourse about his feelings and their relationship as editor and writer. Round and round he went, until he reached his point. Without a doubt, he wanted Maggie to continue to edit his books in the future, but in between tomes, their interactions could be more personal. Glancing at him without seeing him, she cursed Franco for not being there, blaming him for leaving her alone to deal with strange men who ruined her dinner with Kay. Feeling tears on her eyelashes, she jumped into her car and sped off, not knowing if she had even said good-bye.

Fighting an urge to identify the man in the other chair, she gazed at the tealeaves in the bottom of her cup, as if her fate were to be found in the dregs. She had gone through the stack of books that the dealer had selected for her. Checking her watch, Maggie realized that she had to get back. Rubbing her eyes to rub out the memory that sapped her confidence, she stole a brief glance at the stranger who was wiping his glasses on a wrinkled handkerchief. “Thank you, God,” she whispered. The rumpled old gentleman was possibly a professor, but he was definitely not Bill Goebel.

By the time that she returned to Strand House, Maggie realized that she had taken a little too long on her excursion, so she ordered from room service for lunch. To compensate, she would have to work straight through the remainder of the day and not spare any time for a relaxed meal. Her reasoning was more of an excuse, because it would have been room service no matter what. Maggie was not about to waltz into a restaurant by herself and eat alone. The manuscript that she chose for that afternoon was a piece of historical fiction that had been thoroughly researched, which made for an easy job that finished quickly. There was plenty of time left at the end of the workday to return her calls.

“Hi, Trevor, it’s Maggie. Sorry I missed your call. Bye, see you tomorrow,” she said to his answering machine. What more did he have to say to her after last night, she wondered. Whatever it was, she hoped that he would call again soon. Trevor Harwood had been so easy to chatter away with, a man of bright intelligence who was quite fascinating. She asked the piece of paper that contained the message, but it had no answers. “Why can’t you be interested in me, you stuffy Brit? I’m interested in you and you can’t even tell.”

Theresa kept her on the phone for a good half hour, going over the projects that she was sending to Maggie later that day. They talked about the current adventure of script watchdog, or Hofmeier’s hatchet lady as Maggie explained the story to her cousin. Finally, Maggie talked to Kay, to be reassured that Joey was doing very well after a week without his mother. “I keep watching those stupid gossip news shows,” Kay told her sister, “in case I see one of my relatives appearing as the mysterious lady in the company of a hot British actor.”

“He is not hot, Kay, he is positively burning,” Maggie said jokingly. “And if my face ever appeared in connection with Ciaran, I would die of embarrassment over that kind of publicity. I had the weirdest call last night, after we hung up. Remember the guy who played the henpecked husband in Paddington’s Kiosk? He talked to me for a good hour straight.”

“Congratulations, Mags,” Kay was laughing at her naïve sister. “You have been single for what, six or seven weeks, and you have two men sniffing around you like you’re in heat.”

“All he did was talk about London, for God’s sake,” Maggie protested. “Unlike Mr. Doyle, who was very direct in his approach.”

“Talk for an hour about London to a woman you barely know, and that means nothing, is that what you think? Come on, Maggie, what man would talk to a woman for more than five minutes unless he wanted to hear her voice?”

On and on the conversation flowed, to encompass an analysis of their mother’s latest mania for collecting espresso cups. They shared more data about Joey along with a brief mention of a little party, which Kay assured her sister would involve just a few friends and Fabrizio was going to make real Italian pizza. As that call ended, another came in, and Maggie was thrilled to make arrangements with her London crew. Tonight, the ladies would show a Chicagoan what Piccadilly Circus was all about.

Technorati tag: literary fiction

Shake Hands With The Devil

The State Department has given Gerry Adams the nod. He can raise funds in the USA, money needed to support Sinn Fein, and he'll be leaving for New York next week. If you've $500 to spare, you might be able to buy your way in to the dinner in Manhattan.

Government approval, after a long ban, has been ascribed to Sinn Fein's movement towards accepting the Police Service of Northern Ireland. Washington, along with Dublin and London, have been pressurizing the lads to recognize the authority of the local constabulary as part of the overall devolution process. If all goes well, the Stormont body should sit on the 24th of this month. You know it won't, but it sounds pretty all the same.

And against what backdrop will the Shinners be squeezed? According to a report commissioned by the Pat Finucane Center in Derry, the old Royal Ulster Constabulary, since dissolved into the PSNI, colluded with loyalist thugs in the murders of up to 74 innocent people over a five year period. Recognize the PSNI, all you Shinners, and don't mind the fact that their antecedents helped to gun down six harmless men who were guilty of sitting in a pub, watching a soccer match. The old crime of "being Catholic", you see.

In general, Catholics in the north don't want anything to do with the police, and this report only confirms their suspicions. The boys in blue, duty bound to protect, were a bit busy giving aid and comfort to the Ulster loyalists. Professor Douglass Cassel of Notre Dame University cited a case in which RUC and British army officers were fully aware of what their subordinates were up to, but they encouraged rather than stopped it. The panel found evidence that the murdering thugs got arms, ammunition, training and information from the RUC and the British army, clear proof that the men in charge were colluding with those who fomented sectarian killings. No wonder the murders were never properly investigated. No surprise that the killers were never brought to justice.

Put it all behind you, Sinn Fein, and recognize the authority of the police force. Is it any wonder that the two sides cannot come together? And is it any surprise that the DUP dreads the notion of a Shinner taking charge of the PSNI? Shake hands with the devil, indeed, and what filth might be shaken out of the rafters if Sinn Fein did a bit of housecleaning.

RIP Dorris Halsey

Reece Halsey founded a literary agency in 1957, paired with his wife Dorris. They represented some stellar literary lights, including Aldous Huxley, Henry Miller and Upton Sinclair. He died in 1980, and she carried on with the literary agency. It was thanks to her that Jeraldine Saunders was able to publish her novel The Love Boat, which gave rise to a television show that will live on in a way the author could not have envisioned.

In later years, Kimberley Cameron joined the company and became Mrs. Halsey's business partner. Dorris worked in the agency office almost every day until she passed away on 26 October. Ms. Cameron is an outstanding literary agent in her own right, keeping the company going forward and sending out the most pleasant and polite rejection letters.

May the road rise up to meet you, Dorris. May the wind be always at your back. And here's hoping that the devil didn't know you were dead until a half hour after you arrived in heaven.

Single Stem - Chapter 6

Previously: Maggie arrives in London, and quickly discovers her long-lost libido. Trevor Harwood botches their introduction, but the womanizing heart-throb Ciaran Doyle captures her attention. Perhaps her sister, cousin and work colleagues were right about testing out a short affair.

Chapter 6

The wake up call came at seven o’clock on Wednesday, finding Maggie struggling to adjust to the time change. Her bed linens were absolutely luxurious, the softest cotton, and she had slept so soundly that she hated to get up. She had dreamed of Ciaran during the night, several different dreams, and the best one involved having sex on the desk in her room with the flowers strewn all around her head. The last dream, though, was rather unpleasant, with Ciaran dressed in a soldier’s costume and digging up potatoes in her back yard in River Oaks. Trevor and Fabrizio were there, playing soccer with Joey, and Kay was telling her that Joey needed a father. It was a mercy that the phone rang at that precise moment, putting an end to an unsettling nightmare.

Maggie tried to clear her head as she phoned room service to order a pot of strong coffee. She was still tired, and she climbed into the shower and turned on the cold water. Once she was awake she could safely shave her legs without slicing the skin into bloody ribbons, and she found herself singing gaily as she turned the spigot and felt warm water pouring over her head. She stood in front of the gilt mirror and applied some make-up, and then she sipped her coffee while admiring the view. Her room overlooked the Thames, and she could see a corner of the Parliament Building if she stood close to the window and turned her head the right way. There was so much history all over London, ages of history in that one building alone, and she could not believe that she was actually looking at it. Somehow she would have to find a way to thank Mr. Hofmeier for his generosity. At first she had complained of the extra week tacked onto the trip, but clearly he had forced her to take some time so that she could visit some of the sites she had only seen on television. She would never ask for something like this, even if she wanted it more than anything, and Karl knew how her mind worked.

Her car was coming at nine-thirty, giving her plenty of time to stroll down to the lobby to pick up a newspaper. Mr. Towson was in his office, and she disturbed him only long enough to get directions to the nearest church. St. Audrey’s, an ancient monument to England’s Roman Catholic past, was within walking distance and worth a visit to see such an ancient church even if it were not open for Mass. Mr. Towson was more than happy to phone them for a schedule of Sunday services, and he was quite affable as he told Maggie that the first Mass began at nine. With a sly wink, he suggested that she might not make it to Sunday services, if she had a late night the previous Saturday.

Religious observances were mentally scheduled, and Maggie still had plenty of time to get back to her room and start her daily prayers. She was deep in contemplation of the fourth glorious mystery when the maid came in to tidy the room. Maeve watched for only a minute, not wanting to disturb the lady who sat on a chair with her beads sliding through her fingers in a familiar rhythm. The maid cleared her throat and knocked again on the open door.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” the girl began when Maggie finally looked up, but Maggie’s smile told her that this was no bother at all.

“Will I be in your way over here?” she asked.

For Maeve, the question was rather unusual and sadly out of the ordinary. Strand House was one of London’s finest West End hotels, where the guests expected the staff to be practically invisible. It was the room’s resident that seemed concerned with Maeve’s convenience, a very pleasant change of pace. The way that this woman was saying her rosary reminded the girl of home, of her mother and grandmother heading off to church practically every morning for Mass and prayer. Without thinking, the young woman from Galway felt in her uniform pocket for the string of beads that she always carried.

With the linens changed and fresh towels hanging in the bathroom, Maeve was just about finished. She waited quietly while Maggie kissed the crucifix at the end of the chain and then crossed herself. Half of the hotel staff already knew that Ciaran Doyle had sent flowers to this lady, and he had phoned the night before with some kind of suggestive message. Maeve’s friend Linda had told her all about it, assuring the maid that one fine day she would be called on to change the damp sheets at two in the afternoon.

“I read the note,” Linda had whispered, “and when I gave it to Mrs. A., she said she was going to do him and Harwood, too.”

What a puzzle, Maeve thought as she watched Maggie finish her rosary. The hotel’s guest appeared to be so pious this morning, but if the rumors were true then she was planning to have two different lovers at night. American women were said to be free and easy with their charms, and this was proof enough to Maeve. Fortunately, the lady left the room so that Maeve could do dustbin duty, to report back to Linda if she found any condom wrappers in the trash. One of the other maids had counted six the last time that Ciaran Doyle had spent a night, the current record, and who knew if he had not snuck in during the night for a brief rehearsal.

Maggie still had some time to herself, and she decided to walk down Strand and Fleet Street, as far as she could go in a half-hour before turning back. The milling crowd reminded her of Chicago, with huge bustling swarms of workers hurrying to their jobs. The traffic on the street was far more chaotic than the Loop’s rush hour; London probably had more cars trying to navigate the tangle of roads and roundabouts than she had ever seen before. It was all very invigorating, as if she was absorbing energy from the rushing pedestrians that she passed. People did not walk so much as they ran, and anyone foolish enough to stop for a glance at a shop window was likely to be run over by the heavy traffic. She was sorry that she had to turn back so quickly.

A car and driver were waiting when Maggie reached the hotel, and she was whisked away to the studio for another day of script repair. Bea had found her a spot in an office used by the staff writers, and Maggie sat down with a pen, a pad of paper, and the script, and she began to work. Cindy Horlick, the script supervisor who had met Maggie the day before, rushed over spouting apologies. She was a young woman approaching thirty, with the fair features and porcelain skin that Maggie associated with British girls, and Maggie very much liked Cindy’s dry humor. When they first met, the poor girl had gushed over the welcome relief that Maggie represented, after dealing with Karl Hofmeier, and now she could not seem to do enough to make Maggie comfortable. Underneath her friendly urgency was the unspoken importance of getting the project back on track and finished in time for the planned September release.

“Please, Maggie, use my computer. I don’t know why they didn’t find a spare terminal for you,” she said, embarrassed by the lack of modern equipment.

“Thanks anyway, Cindy, but I have a laptop,” Maggie said as she filled her pen with ink, wiping the excess from the gold-plated nib. “I think in ink, I guess, so first I write and then I type.”

Cindy was fascinated with Maggie’s style, which seemed so slow by normal standards. Sometimes Maggie wrote carefully, inserting or changing a word here and there after reviewing the section in the novel. Entire conversations were re-done where everyone had reached a consensus at the previous meeting, and Maggie would write on her pad of paper, ripping up the sheet if the words did not flow in Karl Hofmeier’s style. The loose sheets were stuffed into the script, and then Maggie pulled out a laptop computer and entered the changes.

By one o’clock, Bob could scroll through the completed work on Maggie’s computer, and he found that now he liked the script. He even managed to convince himself that he had been able to sway Maggie, to have his way for the most part, and one silly scene would stay as a token of his gratitude for her speedy finish. In reality, Maggie had been true to Hofmeier’s vision, but she had been charming while being cunning. She let Bob think that he had come out on top, as if it were her gift to his male ego, because editors and writers were good with words and she used them to her best advantage.

“I’m afraid that this is as far as I can go,” Maggie said as Bob read over the changes while sitting in his office, meeting with Maggie and Cindy. “What I know about computers could fit on the head of a pin with plenty of room for the dancing angels, but there are probably dozens of computer-savvy people around this office who could transfer the data.”

“If Hofmeier had sent you earlier, this film would have been done long ago,” Bob complained as he examined the revised scenes. His opinion of Maggie had swung around completely, and he was impressed with her skills at diplomacy. “Thank you for being so reasonable, you have made my job that much easier. Why don’t you come down to the set this afternoon and watch the filming?”

“It’s dead boring,” Cindy chimed in. “We all sit around and wait for the lighting, then make-up comes in to putter around, and someone from costumes will be called just when you think things are finally getting under way. And after hours of waiting, you watch five minutes of action before it starts again.”

“I’d love to watch, even if it is only five minutes,” Maggie said with enthusiasm. For the first time in her life, she could see people say words that she had helped to put into their mouths. It would be worth the wait to have the experience, even worth the tedium just to see how a film was made. For those who lived through the monotony on a daily basis, it was hard to understand why anyone would willingly attend a taping session. For someone as curious as Maggie, all the dull details that surrounded the action seemed as exciting as listening to Karl’s words being spoken by an actor who was pretending to be Karl’s character.

“How about lunch with the stars?” Cindy offered.

She took charge of Maggie for the rest of the afternoon, escorting her to the echoing soundstage that had been decorated to look like an East End parlor typical of the war years. There must have been one hundred people milling around, with the crew and the costumed actors seeming to fill the space. The two women shared lunch from the food service tables that offered everything imaginable, with the selection changing every few hours to reflect the different meals and snacks that were provided during the working day.

“I stay off the set if I can,” Cindy said. “When I first started, I packed on the weight so fast I thought I would burst my skin.”

“Salad is always a safe choice,” Maggie observed, showing her plate of greens. “If I keep going out to dinner like I have been, I won’t be able to button my waistband.”

“Are you feeding a rabbit, Maggie?” Ciaran said from behind her. She had never called him back yesterday, and he did not know if he had been too bold. He was quite concerned that she was upset at his bluntness.

“Do you like your women fat, Mr. Doyle?” she suggested, and he saw immediately that she was giving his suggestion some serious thought. For a second, he was not so sure of himself, but only because she wrinkled her nose at his soldier’s costume. All at once, the color rose in her cheeks and Maggie averted her eyes, embarrassed by some hidden thoughts that the actor could read easily.

“Ciaran likes them any way he can get them,” Cindy said with an edge to her voice.

“I like the pretty ones,” he said as his eyes crinkled at the corners, a bright smile on his face. Cindy had reason to despise him, after their encounter at the party last summer. He lost track of the time and missed the deadline for the post-sex call, and then it slipped his mind and he let it slide. Before she could fill Maggie in on the details, he charged into a conversation that would steer clear of the topic. “Did you get my message? I should have guessed that you would be out half the night with Bea and the bachelorettes.”

“Yes, I did, thank you. I actually felt quite honored that you asked,” Maggie answered.

She was being evasive, or so Ciaran thought, as if she wanted him to pursue her with more vigor. No problem there to the amiable suitor, and if Maggie wanted him to put some effort into this affair, he would make her happy. Ciaran had every intention of coaxing her until she gave in, and he would make it worth her while to fall under his spell. In the event that he firmly decided that he wanted Maggie for his wife, he thought it best that she be properly courted and put into the most agreeable frame of mind.

A call to the set for Mr. Doyle came before he could invite Maggie to dinner at his flat on Sloane Street. He saw Bea talking to her as he stood on his mark while lighting was adjusted, and he had a feeling that the women of Argosy Productions were doing all that they could to keep him out of Maggie’s bed. He had broken a few hearts in his day, but he had no intention of hurting Maggie. Whatever the shriveled up matrons told her, he could reverse the damage with a good heart to heart talk. It would be a simple matter to explain to her how much he liked her, and to show her that he was really considering marriage and children. He could say anything to her and be perfectly candid, because Maggie was the sort of woman that a man could talk to honestly. She would never mock him or put his feelings on public display, nor would she ever be condescending.

“It has to be an early night,” Bea said as she chatted with Cindy, Maggie and Pamela. “We can eat standing up in the kitchen so all the calories slide down past our hips to our feet.”

“And you really don’t mind if I’m very nosy and I poke around in everything?” Maggie asked. She was going to join the ladies for dinner at Bea’s flat in Chelsea, and her hostess was going to show her every detail about a real London apartment, from the cracks in the plaster to the antiquated plumbing. All the ladies had noticed Maggie’s infatuation with anything even slightly old, and Bea was more than willing to satisfy Maggie’s curiosity.

Bea guided Maggie to a better spot from which to observe the actors at work. Pam’s assistant was sitting there at a table, playing cards with a very tall man who looked somewhat familiar to Maggie. Encountering well-known people was not surprising, since she had seen all these faces over the years. She did not know the names, but she could remember the film title or the television program that had brought them to public acclaim. He was wearing a Major’s uniform, playing the role of Trevor’s commanding officer in the film.

“Maggie, do you play gin rummy?” Rachel asked, relieved to find a new partner for her companion. “Pam is calling for me and Nigel needs a fresh victim.”

“Play nice, Nigel,” Bea warned.

“I do not cheat at cards, my dear,” he replied. “And I only cheated on you once.”

Maggie looked uncomfortably at Bea, who had freely lacerated her ex-husband’s memory over drinks last night. It was a peculiar way to meet the famous Nigel Parkhurst, an actor known to American audiences as the man who played aristocrats or bad guys. In his last feature, he had combined the two types with his outstanding portrayal of General Lord Cornwallis in a film adaptation of a Revolutionary War epic. The critics had raved about his performance, but the Oscar went to some weasel-like American actor who was probably playing himself in a self-indulgent and boring flick about alcoholic drug addicts in Hollywood. It was a slight that stirred up feelings of sympathy in Maggie’s heart.

Nigel was blessed with an elegant deep voice and towering height, two characteristics that set him apart from his fellow actors. His incredible talent set him apart from most of the acting world. He and Trevor were best friends since their university days, and they had remained the closest of friends through the years. It was Nigel’s encouragement that prompted Trevor to propose to Allison, and Trevor had worked on Bea to convince her that Nigel had the makings of a fine husband. Together, the four friends had lived through the struggles that characterized every actor’s formation, and through the years, they shared the joys and difficulties of raising a family.

Allison’s discovery of a lump in her breast changed all that, as if the terrible news was a death knell for the happy quartet. Even Trevor seemed to lose his way in the world, giving all his thoughts and energy to his wife with nothing left over for his closest chum. Without his friend’s conservative advice, Nigel wandered from his home as he tried to discover something that he might have missed along the way, something to be experienced before he died. Bea did not find out about the young actress until after Allison had passed away, even though Nigel’s mistress attended the memorial service. Once the pictures hit the tabloids, especially the one showing a middle-aged Nigel Parkhurst passionately kissing twenty-two year old Jenny Routledge behind the Ritz Hotel, Bea threw him out of the house.

“This is Nigel, Maggie,” she made an introduction with flames of anger shooting off her tongue. “She knows all about you, darling.”

“Only half of it is true, Maggie,” he said with a grin. “I am not the devil incarnate.”

“Help me, will you? I’m down fifty points,” Rachel said as she left. “Whatever you have to do, don’t let me lose.”

Maggie sat across the table as Nigel dealt the next hand. He was extremely witty, with a dry British humor that appealed to Maggie’s intellect. Seductively appealing, it was easy to see why Bea had fallen in love with him, and why she was still so furious at his deceit. If not for Bea’s friendship, Maggie would have flirted shamelessly with him. Judging by the way that he smiled at her, she imagined that he would have invited her to his dressing room, but something was holding him back. He paid her a compliment in a very relaxed and friendly way, chatting in a manner that promised camaraderie and bonhomie. Using his skills as an actor, Nigel was the ingratiating neighbor, as if he wanted to prove that Bea was all wrong about him.

The game began, with Nigel drawing the first card from the deck. Maggie picked up his discard and had to laugh. “I think you do cheat at cards. Gin.”

“Impossible. That’s thirty-eight points for you. And I honestly do not cheat at cards. I have suffered the consequences for my previous foray into dishonesty.”

“She won’t take you back?” Maggie asked, not wanting to be caught between two warring parties, but feeling so very sorry for Nigel.

“Tell me, as a woman, if you were unfaithful to your husband, do you think he would take you back?” Nigel said with complete comfort.

“There is no husband anymore, so I suppose I can’t really answer the question,” she said as she sorted her cards. “We were both too straight laced, anyway. Very dull couple, hopelessly suburban.”

“Bea and I split up about a year ago. When did it all end for you?” Nigel went on.

“At the end of the year,” she replied. “Right before Christmas.” But don’t ask me any more, she thought, or I will start to cry again and make a complete fool of myself.

Nigel concentrated on his cards as he digested her news. Mr. Angiolini was chalked up as a total ass for finalizing a divorce during the holiday season. No one could blame Maggie for being so receptive to Doyle, even with his rather randy reputation. It was clear to Nigel that Maggie would be likely to give herself to the first man who was the slightest bit nice to her. Her ex-husband was a heartless bastard, offensive to Nigel’s sense of decency, and he was certain that Maggie needed nothing more than a kind word to induce her to drop her knickers.

She had an expression in her eyes when she spoke of Mr. Angiolini, an ache that Nigel could remember so clearly. Bea had looked like that when she discovered his dirty little secret; the pain in her eyes was so deep that he could never forget it. He saw exactly the same ache in Maggie’s features, a reflection of the hurt that only love could inflict. From his own bitter experience he knew that this would be an important item to relate to Trevor. Maggie had a weak point that could be stroked tenderly until she issued a very much desired invitation to her room at Strand House.

Hand after hand was played as they continued to chat, while Maggie so subtly pumped Nigel for information on Trevor. The entire story of Allison’s death was told in all its detail, followed by a sad recounting of the numbing depression that led to a trip to Los Angeles to make a film and escape from the constant reminders of Ally. Nigel was captivated by Maggie’s smile and he answered her questions with all the information he possessed. For Nigel’s part, he learned little more about Maggie except for the fact that she had a son who was very athletic, and she was very interested in old houses and old architecture, historical things in general. The thread of the conversation wound back to his failed marriage.

“Men are fools,” he prattled on, trying to find a different topic, to leave the dark place in his mind where he stored the sorrow of his ridiculous affair. Jenny had dropped him after she started rehearsals at the Royal Palace Theatre, cast in the role he had gotten for her. He could see that Maggie was dragged into miserable reflection with this line of talk, and he was duty bound to cheer her up. “Why women want to marry us is one of the world’s great unsolved mysteries. But we are most grateful to you and your sisters for your kindness.”

She laughed at his witty remark. “We use you, every night in bed. To warm our feet.”

“Knocking with four points, you wicked girl,” he said happily, laying out his hand.

“There’s the ace I was waiting for,” Maggie replied as she set out the suits. She played two cards on Nigel’s hand. “Sorry, I only have two points left.”

“Two rounds, and you have beaten me every time. This has never happened before.”

“Just some lucky deals. Try again.”

Nigel shuffled the cards as he continued the interview. So far, he was comfortable in pushing Trevor into an affair. Maggie was pretty enough, but her personality was so lively that Nigel was almost wishing that he could be the recipient of her attentions. She was a very delightful lady, like Allison, but without that British reserve that made old Ally seem almost too quiet and mousy. Besides, Trevor desperately needed to get back out in the world, and Maggie would be the perfect introduction to romance. She was going back to Chicago, giving his old buddy a couple of weeks to learn how to make love to a different woman, without the added pressure of long term commitments.

Idling away the time on the fringes of the set, Trevor tried to keep an eye on the card party while also appearing completely disinterested. Even he did not know why he was suddenly so enraptured by Maggie, or why he was acting like a schoolboy with a crush on the new girl. She was so utterly unlike Allison, in the way that she talked a little too fast and was sometimes too loud, but he could not get Maggie out of his thoughts.

Nigel was laughing again, and Trevor turned to look at Maggie. Her eyes wrinkled in the corners when she laughed, with the lines and creases of a real woman with real emotions. She was not at all like the actresses he had met in Los Angeles, whose faces were smoothed by a surgeon’s knife. All those women that he ran into there were perfect, a bunch of walking skeletons with silicone implants and skin pulled tight behind their ears. Maggie had lines and imperfect teeth and curves, and at her age she very likely had lumpy thighs and she did not care.

From the time he worked in New York, he recalled some very different women, people who were more pushy and aggressive. They had the most bizarre habit of going to dinner parties, where a sumptuous feast was expected, and then they did not eat anything. The atmosphere in the city was very much like London, with all its hustle and bustle and heavy traffic, but the people were almost rude compared to the British. New York and Los Angeles were more like two different countries than two different cities, but then America was almost too big for Trevor to imagine. The nation was a vast continent with subsets of personalities, similar to the different sorts of people one found across Europe. Even the actors in the two cities were poles apart in the way they approached their work, but the ones he admired the most came out of the Brandenburg Theatre in Chicago. All Trevor knew of Chicago had come from a brief meeting at a party, when he had talked to Jim Paretsky and Tony Casorio for about fifteen minutes. Two of the finest and best-known actors in the world, and they had spoken to him as a respected colleague.

Unable to stay away any longer, Harwood wandered over to the table, trying to appear suave and casual while his palms sweated. He stood behind Maggie, watching her play her hand. It quickly became apparent that she was counting the cards, making a mental note of what had already been played and analyzing her chances of obtaining a particular queen. Suddenly she picked up an eight of hearts, discarding the two queens and adding two more eights, giving her a gin hand. Her perfume was drifting into his nose as he realized that he was leaning over her, getting perilously close to her ear.

“Trevor, my deepest apologies, but I have failed,” Nigel said as Trevor jumped back to a respectful distance. “She has beaten me, taken every match. And so cruel you are, Maggie, to let me come close to winning, only to crush me.”

“Were you supposed to humiliate me or something?” she asked archly, casting a glance over her shoulder at Trevor.

“Not at all, dear Maggie. I had placed a wager with the fair Rachel, which was transferred to you. I had hoped to beat you so that I could claim the prize,” Nigel explained with a wicked smile on his lips.

“And take all my money?” she asked, going along with Nigel’s silliness.

“Never gamble for money. As the victor I would have had Rachel, or rather you, for a night of passionate love. But Trevor needs it badly and I was going to reward him with the lovely spoils, in a most munificent gesture of friendship. And he would have taken you to dinner first, since he is more of a gentleman than I could ever hope to be. Now you have beaten me soundly,” he said, his head hanging in imitation sorrow while Trevor’s face turned three shades of red.

“Well, thank you very much,” Maggie retorted in mock anger, swatting Nigel’s arm and looking seductively at Trevor. “If I had known earlier, I would have lost on purpose.”

“A rematch, Maggie, you must give me another chance,” Nigel begged as Trevor stammered and spluttered out a denial of any knowledge of such a wager. Before he could put together a coherent sentence, they were called to the set, and Trevor hurried away in a state of profound embarrassment. Unable to resist, he gave in to an urge to look over his shoulder, to find out if she was laughing at him or cursing his head. Oddly enough, he came away with the definite impression that Maggie was doing neither. In fact, he was quite sure that she was admiring his bum.

Maggie stood next to the script girl as the scene played out, repeated eight times until Bob Hurleburt was satisfied with the outcome. It was getting late, and Bea hustled Maggie out of the studio so that they could enjoy dinner before it was time for breakfast. Nigel took it upon himself to force Trevor to accompany him to a nearby pub, to have a stern man-to-man talk with him. Trevor had been grieving for two years, but Nigel could see that the man’s heart was trying to break free, to love another woman after Allison. Without doubt it would be a hard sell to convince his best mate of the idea that it was possible to love again. They both knew that Nigel still loved Bea, he always would, and there would never be anyone else.