As you prepare your budget for this year's Christmas season, you'll want to be sure to include the purchase of a new book.
Yes, just in time for the holiday season, Frank McCourt's publisher will get their wish. Apparently, Scribner and Simon & Schuster have been aching for a Christmas book from Mr. McCourt, ever since Angela's Ashes took the literary world by storm. This latest venture will continue with the same theme, and feature the relationship between Angela and a statue of the Baby Jesus that was housed at St. Joseph's in Limerick.
To be presented in two formats, one for adults and one for children, Scribner is hoping to reach a wide audience and end up with a book that has the same appeal as Dylan Thomas' classic, A Child's Christmas In Wales. With the kiddies home from school over a long break, it will help to have a fourth book on hand, since Dickens, Dr. Seuss and Thomas have all published such short pieces to commemorate the season.
The plot of McCourt's newest memoir-style book is in line with his previous works. He relates a story that his mother told him about her past, about her own life in Limerick as a six-year-old child and her fascination with the Nativity scene at St. Joseph's. They're elaborate affairs, those old-time ones, with big colorful statues, and the fact that they are only seen once a year makes them more memorable. The days of Advent crawl by, the crib remains empty as we await the joyful coming of the Lord, and then, lo and behold, come Christmas morning and the little Baby Jesus is right there, lying in the manger. Magical for a child, rich or poor.
Simon and Schuster will offer the children's version as an illustrated story, while Scribner will put together a 'gift book edition' for adults. This has all the makings of a Christmas gift that will fly out of the bookstores, gift-wrapped and ready to present to the child in your life or the hostess who puts on a big feed for friends and neighbors. Besides, books make great gifts. One size fits all, they last forever, and you can share them with others. Wouldn't do that with a scarf and mittens, now, would you?
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Not A Gift After All
And so, Bono gets his trousers back. And his hat, thank goodness, with winter coming and his head needing to be kept warm. He'll make good use of the green sweatshirt as well, now that the North wind does blow.
Wouldn't you know that Mr. Justice Michael Peart would prefer Bono's evidence over Lola Cashman's insistence that the aforementioned items were gifts? It was her evidence that lacked "credibility, plausibility or probability" while himself was as honest as St. Patrick. Not to attack the woman, now, but the judge went on to smooth out the rough edges of his judgment by stating that Ms. Cashman was not being deliberately dishonest. Not at all. She developed her belief in the gifting over time and had come to incorporate this mistaken belief in her heart. Self-deluded, she went on to present inconsistent evidence in court. So she's not a bad person, just confused.
You see, Lola recalled things that she says happened, but Bono didn't recall those things happening that way at all. Since she was the one being sued, it was up to her to prove that what she said was right, but in the midst of a 'he said, she said', how can you prove anything?
Her evidence became even more dodgy after someone noticed that The Edge was wearing Converse Hi-tops before Ms. Cashman came on the scene. She said that she was the one to get him to don this distinctive apparel, being the fashion and marketing guru that she is, but one photo proved otherwise. With that, the judge decided that she was given to exaggeration, and every word of her testimony became suspect.
Maybe the judge might have believed her story about Bono giving her the hat if she had not also been seen with a U2 video monitor in her flat back in 1991. That's where the consistency in evidence came in, apparently, since Mr. Justice Peart had an eyebrow raised when she explained how the piece of equipment came to be in her possession.
The items in question were on the verge of being auctioned off, at a time when Lola Cashman was in need of some ready cash. It would appear that sales of her book about the Joshua Tree Tour did not sell well enough to bring in the royalty payments that she might have hoped for, and now she's lost a court case. If she didn't have enough money before, she'll definitely have even less once she gets assessed court courts and legal fees.
The moral of the story is, beware of Dubhs bearing gifts. Always get a receipt.
Wouldn't you know that Mr. Justice Michael Peart would prefer Bono's evidence over Lola Cashman's insistence that the aforementioned items were gifts? It was her evidence that lacked "credibility, plausibility or probability" while himself was as honest as St. Patrick. Not to attack the woman, now, but the judge went on to smooth out the rough edges of his judgment by stating that Ms. Cashman was not being deliberately dishonest. Not at all. She developed her belief in the gifting over time and had come to incorporate this mistaken belief in her heart. Self-deluded, she went on to present inconsistent evidence in court. So she's not a bad person, just confused.
You see, Lola recalled things that she says happened, but Bono didn't recall those things happening that way at all. Since she was the one being sued, it was up to her to prove that what she said was right, but in the midst of a 'he said, she said', how can you prove anything?
Her evidence became even more dodgy after someone noticed that The Edge was wearing Converse Hi-tops before Ms. Cashman came on the scene. She said that she was the one to get him to don this distinctive apparel, being the fashion and marketing guru that she is, but one photo proved otherwise. With that, the judge decided that she was given to exaggeration, and every word of her testimony became suspect.
Maybe the judge might have believed her story about Bono giving her the hat if she had not also been seen with a U2 video monitor in her flat back in 1991. That's where the consistency in evidence came in, apparently, since Mr. Justice Peart had an eyebrow raised when she explained how the piece of equipment came to be in her possession.
The items in question were on the verge of being auctioned off, at a time when Lola Cashman was in need of some ready cash. It would appear that sales of her book about the Joshua Tree Tour did not sell well enough to bring in the royalty payments that she might have hoped for, and now she's lost a court case. If she didn't have enough money before, she'll definitely have even less once she gets assessed court courts and legal fees.
The moral of the story is, beware of Dubhs bearing gifts. Always get a receipt.
Single Stem - Chapter 15
Previously: Trevor has it out with Ciaran, but he can't quite find the right words to say to Maggie. She charms Trevor's children and proves to be his ideal... if only he could stop tripping over his tongue.
Chapter 15
They sat in Trevor’s study together, a quiet room near the back of the house where they could talk quietly. “So we can always be friends?” Maggie asked, embarrassed by such a ridiculous question. It was more like a parting line from a woman leaving a love affair, but Maggie was sincere in her desire to be his confidante, and to help him along as he navigated the world.
“You’ll be my truest friend,” Ciaran said as he refilled her champagne flute. “Whatever I tell you, I know that you’ll keep my secrets, and when I act like the biggest dunce on earth you’ll come and swat me on the head like Sister Mary Cornelia used to do.”
Callista peaked in after hearing voices, and Maggie invited her to join their farewell party. “Ciaran is heading off on a new life,” Maggie explained, “trying to be the next Trevor Harwood by the sound of it.”
“Not the actor, Callista,” he laughed at Maggie’s inebriated quip. “I’m going to be the husband and father, and make the sacrifices that your dad made. Look around you, he’s had a comfortable life, and he’s proud of you and your brother. I’ve envied him for it, but now I’m going to find that life for myself.”
“Just a dull, boring husband who goes to work every day and comes home to the wife and kiddies,” Maggie continued, her words a bit slurred from alcohol.
“And when I die, I want my wife to be like you, Maggie, to wish she was in the box with me when they lower it in the sod. What a sweet misery I would want for her, the same thing you felt when your husband died,” Ciaran said.
“I am not miserable any more, Ciaran Doyle, I’m a new woman, too. I had a husband, and now he’s dead, and that’s the end of it. We’re moving on, you and I. And Callista, you’re moving on, with a new husband soon.”
Callista slid off the armrest and collapsed into the chair, shocked by Maggie’s blunt news. Maggie offered a toast to life’s changes, handing Callista a glass, and the young woman took it without thinking. “I’m sorry, Maggie, I had no idea.”
“It doesn’t matter, Callista, does it? I mean, we had a very enjoyable conversation tonight and it didn’t matter if I was married or single. If my husband is dead or alive, it shouldn’t make any difference.”
Ciaran almost burst out laughing, because it finally made sense. Only two hours ago, Trevor was peppering his solicitor friend with questions about divorce, child custody issues and taking overseas holidays while describing a particular absent father. The poor fool had no idea that Mr. Angiolini was not caring for his son because he was dead and buried.
“But my dad,” she began.
“It shouldn’t matter to him, either. His wife is dead and she’s not coming back, so do something else with your life. I cried and cried, Callista, night after night, and I screamed with anger at his memory, but Franco stayed dead. So I found something that I could change, and as of tonight I am going to make myself happy and raise my son, and you’ll have babies whether your mother is here on earth or looking down from heaven,” Maggie was rambling on, while Ciaran kept filling her glass.
They were going their separate ways, to which he agreed, but he longed to say goodbye in bed. It could be just the one time, if that was all he could get, but he wanted to share with her the love that they felt for each other. Even though she could not own the toy she admired in the shop window, she could play with it for a while before putting it back on display. He wanted to tell her that, and then tell her whatever else would convince her to go with him. All he wanted was one chance, and then he was positive that he could change her mind. They could postpone their parting for a few days, at least until he left for Manchester, for that was a good spot for a clean break. Cindy wandered in as Ciaran’s mind was dwelling on his dreams; the party was winding down and she was ready to go home.
“Join our party, Cindy,” Maggie insisted, getting up to give Cindy her seat while she searched for an empty glass. Finding a set of tumblers on a side table, she filled one with champagne and offered it to her friend, emptying the bottle in the process.
“Spin the bottle, Maggie, truth or dare,” Ciaran suggested, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Maggie put the bottle on the table in the center of the seating area, a love seat and two chairs where the farewell party sat. She knelt on the floor and gave the bottle a spin. “Ciaran, truth. Do you remember Cindy, is she one of the girls you wish would give you a second chance?”
Truth or dare was a dangerous game, made even more hazardous by the application of alcohol to fuel the brain. Anyone could have seen that Cindy was so utterly mortified that she wanted to crawl under the carpet and hide. She gulped down her drink and boldly looked at Ciaran, as if she dared him to call her on her embarrassment when he should be cringing right along with her.
“You’re getting drunk, Mrs. Angiolini,” he said, uncomfortable with the memory and unable to face Cindy.
“I am drunk, Mr. Doyle, not dead drunk but trying my best. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Maggie, I’m getting tired,” Cindy said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Wait, Cindy, you didn’t play the game. Truth, Miss Horlick, if Ciaran wanted to take you home, would you go?” Maggie asked, her eyes on fire. “But not to stay the night, Mr. Doyle, you’ll have to buy the cow.”
Ciaran was the only one in the room who understood the joke, and he began to laugh with glee. Maggie was truly his best female friend, and she was trying to charm Cindy into forgiving the heartbreaker, to absolve him of a very great sin. Confession had indeed been good for his soul, and now Maggie was working hard to save him. “The truth, Cindy, is that I am sorry. Sorry I was such an enormous, pompous, conceited moron. You were brilliant in bed, but it wasn’t just sex, and I pray to God that you believe me now. I asked because I honestly like you, I still do. I always have. You see, after, I was too stuck on myself to call you. I was waiting for you to ring me up, like I was God himself.” Ciaran admitted the error of his former ways, and he felt as if his head was floating up into the clouds, the weight lifted off his shoulders. “After the way I treated you, I have no right to ask, but will you give me a fresh start? I’ll take you home and ask for your number like a proper gentleman.”
Cindy looked at Maggie, a quizzical look that asked if Ciaran was too intoxicated to be telling the truth. “Don’t give him anything but a polite peck on the cheek, and your phone number if you’re interested in seeing him again,” Maggie advised. “Don’t give away anything that’s worth something to you.”
With a warm hug, Maggie said goodbye to Ciaran and bid farewell to her past. He kissed her cheek, a tear in his eye as he thanked her for being a good friend. Her smile was sad, applied to a brave face and given to the handsome man who would have taken her back to her younger days, to be a replacement for the man she had fallen in love with as a young woman. It had to end sooner or later, and after tonight Maggie would not try to restore her old life but she would create a new one. She had thought that Trevor wanted her, perhaps not as much as she loved him, but there had seemed to be a tender glow flickering in his eyes. She had fallen in love with him on the first day she met him; that was obvious to her as she watched Ciaran sleeping on Saturday night. But if Trevor did not love her back, it was not the end of the world. That sort of thing happened to people all the time and they survived. Now she knew what she wanted in her new life, and after tonight, she would pray for a man as considerate and gentle as Trevor, a bit stodgy but certainly not dull, a man who would send her a flower on Valentine’s Day because he was kind-hearted and he took pity on a single woman alone in a strange city.
With only Callista and Maggie left in the study, sunk into the soft comfort of the leather chairs, they picked up a thread of an earlier conversation. At least it was something that Callista could talk about that touched on Maggie’s recent experiences without delving in too deeply. As for Maggie, the last thing she wanted to do right now was to return to a hotel room, to an empty bed. She was eager to continue her chat with Callista, whatever the topic.
“I always liked to write, but it’s a rare person who can make a living at it,” Callista began. “It started as a short story, but it began to grow, and I developed a more complex plot line in which Dad, as a widower, actually, the main character that is based on him, becomes involved with a widow. I wanted a happy ending at the time that I started writing, when Dad was having a rough time of it. Until tonight, I didn’t know any widows, and you’re an editor as well.”
Maggie smiled at the engaging young lady, a person who could never mask her enthusiasm for written words. “Tell you what, I’ll read through the manuscript and give you any advice I can. If that helps, and you want to proceed, you can hire me as your editor and I’ll give it a complete overview. I can send the bill to your father, and he’ll never know the difference.”
“I can’t ask you to do anything of the sort without paying the proper fees,” Callista insisted. “Whatever work you do should be compensated fairly, even a brief glance.”
“Think of this as an interview in a way, as if you were doing research for a school paper. I’ll look at the widow’s viewpoint, and if things don’t make sense then I’ll recommend some changes. I won’t move a single paragraph or change a comma unless you hire me officially. Now, that’s fair.”
Before they could reach a consensus, Nigel and Bea burst into the room, all smiles and happy laughter. “We were just leaving,” Callista said as she held the door for Maggie, indicating that they had best find another spot for their conversation.
“And you’d better lock this door,” Maggie suggested. “It’s like the departure terminal at O’Hare in here tonight.”
“Time for their monthly reconciliation talk,” Callista explained as she led Maggie up the stairs to her room. “At least once a month they try to patch things up, but old Nigel refuses to admit that he was in the wrong, merely misguided.”
“And he doesn’t understand the problem?” Maggie asked. “This banister is beautiful, is it original to the home?”
“I don’t know, actually, Mum and Dad bought this house when I was a child, about four or five years old. I know they restored it, that was Dad’s pet project for years. I can remember how he used to go to the British Museum to research wall coverings and colors; everything had to be just right for him. But for the rest of the house, I can’t say what parts are new and what is old.”
“Your dad promised to show me the beams in the attic because they’re ancient and historic. I love history, and being around such ancient things.”
“No wonder you enjoy Dad’s company,” Callista said, giving Maggie a wink.
“Shame on you, Callista, your father is not at all old,” Maggie smiled at her, amused by her youthful perspective. It was part of life’s cycle, and one day Callista’s daughter would look at her and think that she was old, even though she was only thirty-nine.
Callista had stowed her briefcase and coat in her childhood bedroom, and she offered Maggie a seat on the bed while she fished around in the case for the binder that held her little story. It was only a short novel that would make a lovely vacation read, something light that did not require the reader to expend a great deal of effort to understand the characters or the plot. As she reviewed the story outline with Maggie, one of Will’s chums appeared, with a very pretty young actress attached to the end of his arm.
“Change the sheets when you’ve finished, Danny,” Callista griped as she pulled Maggie out of the room. Will’s door across the hall was closed and Callista had no desire to even try the lock. She escorted Maggie down the hall, taking a moment to show her the bathroom and explain how it was created in a home that was built before central plumbing was invented.
“You really don’t have to do this right now,” Callista said, but Maggie could hear the pleading in her voice that was begging the editor to work some magic.
Insisting that she would rather be enjoying this new nugget of creative writing than returning to the party, Maggie asked for a relatively quiet spot so that she would not be disturbed. “There is the guest room, but that’s the choice spot for a quick shag and naturally it’s occupied early on. Dad’s bedroom is nice and quiet,” Callista suggested as she brought Maggie into the room.
“Besides, I’ve had enough to drink,” Maggie said, “so I’ll hide in here a little and sober up. I’ll go back to the party, I promise, and it is a great party, I have had the best time tonight.”
“As long as you go back, I won’t feel guilty,” Callista said. “You have some pens, paper, and my magnum opus. Colin’s keen to get home, Maggie, can we meet for lunch tomorrow? We can look this over then, and you can let me know if it’s any good.”
“Call my hotel tomorrow and let me know where to meet you. And I won’t tell you if this is good or not, my opinion doesn’t matter. If you think this is good, then it is.”
They said goodnight and Maggie scanned the room, walking over to the tall windows that looked out on the street below. A chaise longue and a low table were placed near the windows, making for a perfect reading spot during the day. The small lamp was not bright enough, so Maggie carried her equipment over to the bed, ready to make camp on the side furthest from the door, the spot that she gravitated to out of habit.
It was a beautiful room, with its reproduction wallpaper in shades of gold and yellow, and exquisite Oriental carpets scattered on the floor. The swags around the windows were heavy velvet, contrasting beautifully with the light lace curtains that covered the paned glass. Even the way the fabric pooled on the floor was a mark of the Napoleonic Era, just like the furniture that filled the room. The bed and the armoires were English Regency, possibly reproductions but gorgeous pieces nonetheless.
She was getting comfortable, ready to settle in for a good read, when she looked at the table next to her. An array of prophylactics had been spread across the top, ready for use by this evening’s guest. So that would explain Trevor’s complete disinterest in her, she thought, even though she had been so blatant about sleeping with him. One of those pretty young things in a skin-tight mini dress would be in this spot later, selecting her favorite rubber or maybe Trevor would need all six. She felt like a fool at that moment, for presuming that he would give her a second look at her age. It was too awkward just then, to be sitting in his bed when he did not want her there for the night. She picked up the papers and slipped into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door so that she would not have to be reminded that she had acted like a brainless idiot at the party.
It seemed as though her one and only chance for casual sex had just walked out the door with a woman that she had practically handed to Ciaran. Tears began to form in her eyes, with a wave of miserable self-pity breaking over her head. Tonight had been a disaster, due entirely to her lack of experience with men. Like the most popular girl in high school she had turned her back on the boy who liked her while she chased after the man who did not know she existed. She was not the most popular girl, and now she felt as though she had thrown away an opportunity. It was too late to run back to Ciaran and tell him she would take a few days of sex and deal with the emptiness later. A prayer began to rise in her throat, and Maggie pounded her fist against her forehead.
Entreaties to God, one after another, had been the road markers of her life, and now she saw that she had used prayer instead of rational thought to guide her. If she had acted sensibly instead of relying on superstition, she would not have thrown herself at a man who was not responding, while at the same time turning away from the man who was willing to bed her because she had not prayed for his attentions. Talking to God instead of talking things out had brought her to this point, and Maggie was sorry that it had taken her this long to realize that prayer had its place in anyone’s life, but it was not meant to smooth out the bumps in the road that she was supposed to see with her own eyes.
Without warning, the voice of a Marine corporal burst into her brain like a gunshot, startling her out of her funk. “You think you got it bad,” she heard her father barking. The Griffith family was not a sorrowing lot, not with Neil in command. Throughout her childhood she had heard that phrase, issued with impatience by a man who had seen plenty of hardship in the neighborhood behind Chicago’s stockyards. Maggie grabbed a tissue and immediately dabbed at her eyes, soaking up the tears before they could fall. It was Angie’s admonitions that she was hearing now, as she pictured her mother scolding her for letting her make-up run after having spent so long at perfecting her face.
“You got it easy, Maggie Griffith,” she said to her reflection while she sniffled back the last sob. “So quit talking to God all the time and talk to some eligible men. You must be a hot babe if Ciaran Doyle wanted you.”
Leaning against the vanity top, Maggie began to skim the pages of the raw manuscript. Pacing slowly as she read, it was not long before a pen was in her hand as she found herself unable to stop being an editor. She began to make corrections, moving a paragraph here or adding a semi-colon there. Time always flew by when she worked, with her entire brain absorbed in the words on the page. Gradually, the sheets from the binder were taken out so that chapters could be rearranged, and before long Callista’s manuscript was spread over her father’s vanity top.
Noticing that the house was noticeably more quiet, Maggie went back into the bedroom to check the time on the alarm clock. The phone was there on the table, serving as a reminder to call for her car. She was going home alone, and she was more than jealous of Cindy, but Maggie also knew that it was her own fault. If nothing else, she had learned some lessons tonight, about handling men and gauging their interest, about taking control of her life and not letting some stifling dogma run her around. Like any other amateur, she had made mistakes, but she was smart enough to not repeat them if another opportunity came around. Lifting the receiver, she punched in the phone number, ready to move on. She could not possibly return to the party, not when she was depressed and miserably unhappy. Someone would come and collect her when the car came, and even though she felt foolish, it was somehow very comfortable on the floor of the bathroom. There was one more chapter to read, and Maggie went back to work with a clear head.
Chapter 15
“You’ll be my truest friend,” Ciaran said as he refilled her champagne flute. “Whatever I tell you, I know that you’ll keep my secrets, and when I act like the biggest dunce on earth you’ll come and swat me on the head like Sister Mary Cornelia used to do.”
Callista peaked in after hearing voices, and Maggie invited her to join their farewell party. “Ciaran is heading off on a new life,” Maggie explained, “trying to be the next Trevor Harwood by the sound of it.”
“Not the actor, Callista,” he laughed at Maggie’s inebriated quip. “I’m going to be the husband and father, and make the sacrifices that your dad made. Look around you, he’s had a comfortable life, and he’s proud of you and your brother. I’ve envied him for it, but now I’m going to find that life for myself.”
“Just a dull, boring husband who goes to work every day and comes home to the wife and kiddies,” Maggie continued, her words a bit slurred from alcohol.
“And when I die, I want my wife to be like you, Maggie, to wish she was in the box with me when they lower it in the sod. What a sweet misery I would want for her, the same thing you felt when your husband died,” Ciaran said.
“I am not miserable any more, Ciaran Doyle, I’m a new woman, too. I had a husband, and now he’s dead, and that’s the end of it. We’re moving on, you and I. And Callista, you’re moving on, with a new husband soon.”
Callista slid off the armrest and collapsed into the chair, shocked by Maggie’s blunt news. Maggie offered a toast to life’s changes, handing Callista a glass, and the young woman took it without thinking. “I’m sorry, Maggie, I had no idea.”
“It doesn’t matter, Callista, does it? I mean, we had a very enjoyable conversation tonight and it didn’t matter if I was married or single. If my husband is dead or alive, it shouldn’t make any difference.”
Ciaran almost burst out laughing, because it finally made sense. Only two hours ago, Trevor was peppering his solicitor friend with questions about divorce, child custody issues and taking overseas holidays while describing a particular absent father. The poor fool had no idea that Mr. Angiolini was not caring for his son because he was dead and buried.
“But my dad,” she began.
“It shouldn’t matter to him, either. His wife is dead and she’s not coming back, so do something else with your life. I cried and cried, Callista, night after night, and I screamed with anger at his memory, but Franco stayed dead. So I found something that I could change, and as of tonight I am going to make myself happy and raise my son, and you’ll have babies whether your mother is here on earth or looking down from heaven,” Maggie was rambling on, while Ciaran kept filling her glass.
They were going their separate ways, to which he agreed, but he longed to say goodbye in bed. It could be just the one time, if that was all he could get, but he wanted to share with her the love that they felt for each other. Even though she could not own the toy she admired in the shop window, she could play with it for a while before putting it back on display. He wanted to tell her that, and then tell her whatever else would convince her to go with him. All he wanted was one chance, and then he was positive that he could change her mind. They could postpone their parting for a few days, at least until he left for Manchester, for that was a good spot for a clean break. Cindy wandered in as Ciaran’s mind was dwelling on his dreams; the party was winding down and she was ready to go home.
“Join our party, Cindy,” Maggie insisted, getting up to give Cindy her seat while she searched for an empty glass. Finding a set of tumblers on a side table, she filled one with champagne and offered it to her friend, emptying the bottle in the process.
“Spin the bottle, Maggie, truth or dare,” Ciaran suggested, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Maggie put the bottle on the table in the center of the seating area, a love seat and two chairs where the farewell party sat. She knelt on the floor and gave the bottle a spin. “Ciaran, truth. Do you remember Cindy, is she one of the girls you wish would give you a second chance?”
Truth or dare was a dangerous game, made even more hazardous by the application of alcohol to fuel the brain. Anyone could have seen that Cindy was so utterly mortified that she wanted to crawl under the carpet and hide. She gulped down her drink and boldly looked at Ciaran, as if she dared him to call her on her embarrassment when he should be cringing right along with her.
“You’re getting drunk, Mrs. Angiolini,” he said, uncomfortable with the memory and unable to face Cindy.
“I am drunk, Mr. Doyle, not dead drunk but trying my best. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“Maggie, I’m getting tired,” Cindy said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Wait, Cindy, you didn’t play the game. Truth, Miss Horlick, if Ciaran wanted to take you home, would you go?” Maggie asked, her eyes on fire. “But not to stay the night, Mr. Doyle, you’ll have to buy the cow.”
Ciaran was the only one in the room who understood the joke, and he began to laugh with glee. Maggie was truly his best female friend, and she was trying to charm Cindy into forgiving the heartbreaker, to absolve him of a very great sin. Confession had indeed been good for his soul, and now Maggie was working hard to save him. “The truth, Cindy, is that I am sorry. Sorry I was such an enormous, pompous, conceited moron. You were brilliant in bed, but it wasn’t just sex, and I pray to God that you believe me now. I asked because I honestly like you, I still do. I always have. You see, after, I was too stuck on myself to call you. I was waiting for you to ring me up, like I was God himself.” Ciaran admitted the error of his former ways, and he felt as if his head was floating up into the clouds, the weight lifted off his shoulders. “After the way I treated you, I have no right to ask, but will you give me a fresh start? I’ll take you home and ask for your number like a proper gentleman.”
Cindy looked at Maggie, a quizzical look that asked if Ciaran was too intoxicated to be telling the truth. “Don’t give him anything but a polite peck on the cheek, and your phone number if you’re interested in seeing him again,” Maggie advised. “Don’t give away anything that’s worth something to you.”
With a warm hug, Maggie said goodbye to Ciaran and bid farewell to her past. He kissed her cheek, a tear in his eye as he thanked her for being a good friend. Her smile was sad, applied to a brave face and given to the handsome man who would have taken her back to her younger days, to be a replacement for the man she had fallen in love with as a young woman. It had to end sooner or later, and after tonight Maggie would not try to restore her old life but she would create a new one. She had thought that Trevor wanted her, perhaps not as much as she loved him, but there had seemed to be a tender glow flickering in his eyes. She had fallen in love with him on the first day she met him; that was obvious to her as she watched Ciaran sleeping on Saturday night. But if Trevor did not love her back, it was not the end of the world. That sort of thing happened to people all the time and they survived. Now she knew what she wanted in her new life, and after tonight, she would pray for a man as considerate and gentle as Trevor, a bit stodgy but certainly not dull, a man who would send her a flower on Valentine’s Day because he was kind-hearted and he took pity on a single woman alone in a strange city.
With only Callista and Maggie left in the study, sunk into the soft comfort of the leather chairs, they picked up a thread of an earlier conversation. At least it was something that Callista could talk about that touched on Maggie’s recent experiences without delving in too deeply. As for Maggie, the last thing she wanted to do right now was to return to a hotel room, to an empty bed. She was eager to continue her chat with Callista, whatever the topic.
“I always liked to write, but it’s a rare person who can make a living at it,” Callista began. “It started as a short story, but it began to grow, and I developed a more complex plot line in which Dad, as a widower, actually, the main character that is based on him, becomes involved with a widow. I wanted a happy ending at the time that I started writing, when Dad was having a rough time of it. Until tonight, I didn’t know any widows, and you’re an editor as well.”
Maggie smiled at the engaging young lady, a person who could never mask her enthusiasm for written words. “Tell you what, I’ll read through the manuscript and give you any advice I can. If that helps, and you want to proceed, you can hire me as your editor and I’ll give it a complete overview. I can send the bill to your father, and he’ll never know the difference.”
“I can’t ask you to do anything of the sort without paying the proper fees,” Callista insisted. “Whatever work you do should be compensated fairly, even a brief glance.”
“Think of this as an interview in a way, as if you were doing research for a school paper. I’ll look at the widow’s viewpoint, and if things don’t make sense then I’ll recommend some changes. I won’t move a single paragraph or change a comma unless you hire me officially. Now, that’s fair.”
Before they could reach a consensus, Nigel and Bea burst into the room, all smiles and happy laughter. “We were just leaving,” Callista said as she held the door for Maggie, indicating that they had best find another spot for their conversation.
“And you’d better lock this door,” Maggie suggested. “It’s like the departure terminal at O’Hare in here tonight.”
“Time for their monthly reconciliation talk,” Callista explained as she led Maggie up the stairs to her room. “At least once a month they try to patch things up, but old Nigel refuses to admit that he was in the wrong, merely misguided.”
“And he doesn’t understand the problem?” Maggie asked. “This banister is beautiful, is it original to the home?”
“I don’t know, actually, Mum and Dad bought this house when I was a child, about four or five years old. I know they restored it, that was Dad’s pet project for years. I can remember how he used to go to the British Museum to research wall coverings and colors; everything had to be just right for him. But for the rest of the house, I can’t say what parts are new and what is old.”
“Your dad promised to show me the beams in the attic because they’re ancient and historic. I love history, and being around such ancient things.”
“No wonder you enjoy Dad’s company,” Callista said, giving Maggie a wink.
“Shame on you, Callista, your father is not at all old,” Maggie smiled at her, amused by her youthful perspective. It was part of life’s cycle, and one day Callista’s daughter would look at her and think that she was old, even though she was only thirty-nine.
Callista had stowed her briefcase and coat in her childhood bedroom, and she offered Maggie a seat on the bed while she fished around in the case for the binder that held her little story. It was only a short novel that would make a lovely vacation read, something light that did not require the reader to expend a great deal of effort to understand the characters or the plot. As she reviewed the story outline with Maggie, one of Will’s chums appeared, with a very pretty young actress attached to the end of his arm.
“Change the sheets when you’ve finished, Danny,” Callista griped as she pulled Maggie out of the room. Will’s door across the hall was closed and Callista had no desire to even try the lock. She escorted Maggie down the hall, taking a moment to show her the bathroom and explain how it was created in a home that was built before central plumbing was invented.
“You really don’t have to do this right now,” Callista said, but Maggie could hear the pleading in her voice that was begging the editor to work some magic.
Insisting that she would rather be enjoying this new nugget of creative writing than returning to the party, Maggie asked for a relatively quiet spot so that she would not be disturbed. “There is the guest room, but that’s the choice spot for a quick shag and naturally it’s occupied early on. Dad’s bedroom is nice and quiet,” Callista suggested as she brought Maggie into the room.
“Besides, I’ve had enough to drink,” Maggie said, “so I’ll hide in here a little and sober up. I’ll go back to the party, I promise, and it is a great party, I have had the best time tonight.”
“As long as you go back, I won’t feel guilty,” Callista said. “You have some pens, paper, and my magnum opus. Colin’s keen to get home, Maggie, can we meet for lunch tomorrow? We can look this over then, and you can let me know if it’s any good.”
“Call my hotel tomorrow and let me know where to meet you. And I won’t tell you if this is good or not, my opinion doesn’t matter. If you think this is good, then it is.”
They said goodnight and Maggie scanned the room, walking over to the tall windows that looked out on the street below. A chaise longue and a low table were placed near the windows, making for a perfect reading spot during the day. The small lamp was not bright enough, so Maggie carried her equipment over to the bed, ready to make camp on the side furthest from the door, the spot that she gravitated to out of habit.
It was a beautiful room, with its reproduction wallpaper in shades of gold and yellow, and exquisite Oriental carpets scattered on the floor. The swags around the windows were heavy velvet, contrasting beautifully with the light lace curtains that covered the paned glass. Even the way the fabric pooled on the floor was a mark of the Napoleonic Era, just like the furniture that filled the room. The bed and the armoires were English Regency, possibly reproductions but gorgeous pieces nonetheless.
She was getting comfortable, ready to settle in for a good read, when she looked at the table next to her. An array of prophylactics had been spread across the top, ready for use by this evening’s guest. So that would explain Trevor’s complete disinterest in her, she thought, even though she had been so blatant about sleeping with him. One of those pretty young things in a skin-tight mini dress would be in this spot later, selecting her favorite rubber or maybe Trevor would need all six. She felt like a fool at that moment, for presuming that he would give her a second look at her age. It was too awkward just then, to be sitting in his bed when he did not want her there for the night. She picked up the papers and slipped into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door so that she would not have to be reminded that she had acted like a brainless idiot at the party.
It seemed as though her one and only chance for casual sex had just walked out the door with a woman that she had practically handed to Ciaran. Tears began to form in her eyes, with a wave of miserable self-pity breaking over her head. Tonight had been a disaster, due entirely to her lack of experience with men. Like the most popular girl in high school she had turned her back on the boy who liked her while she chased after the man who did not know she existed. She was not the most popular girl, and now she felt as though she had thrown away an opportunity. It was too late to run back to Ciaran and tell him she would take a few days of sex and deal with the emptiness later. A prayer began to rise in her throat, and Maggie pounded her fist against her forehead.
Entreaties to God, one after another, had been the road markers of her life, and now she saw that she had used prayer instead of rational thought to guide her. If she had acted sensibly instead of relying on superstition, she would not have thrown herself at a man who was not responding, while at the same time turning away from the man who was willing to bed her because she had not prayed for his attentions. Talking to God instead of talking things out had brought her to this point, and Maggie was sorry that it had taken her this long to realize that prayer had its place in anyone’s life, but it was not meant to smooth out the bumps in the road that she was supposed to see with her own eyes.
Without warning, the voice of a Marine corporal burst into her brain like a gunshot, startling her out of her funk. “You think you got it bad,” she heard her father barking. The Griffith family was not a sorrowing lot, not with Neil in command. Throughout her childhood she had heard that phrase, issued with impatience by a man who had seen plenty of hardship in the neighborhood behind Chicago’s stockyards. Maggie grabbed a tissue and immediately dabbed at her eyes, soaking up the tears before they could fall. It was Angie’s admonitions that she was hearing now, as she pictured her mother scolding her for letting her make-up run after having spent so long at perfecting her face.
“You got it easy, Maggie Griffith,” she said to her reflection while she sniffled back the last sob. “So quit talking to God all the time and talk to some eligible men. You must be a hot babe if Ciaran Doyle wanted you.”
Leaning against the vanity top, Maggie began to skim the pages of the raw manuscript. Pacing slowly as she read, it was not long before a pen was in her hand as she found herself unable to stop being an editor. She began to make corrections, moving a paragraph here or adding a semi-colon there. Time always flew by when she worked, with her entire brain absorbed in the words on the page. Gradually, the sheets from the binder were taken out so that chapters could be rearranged, and before long Callista’s manuscript was spread over her father’s vanity top.
Noticing that the house was noticeably more quiet, Maggie went back into the bedroom to check the time on the alarm clock. The phone was there on the table, serving as a reminder to call for her car. She was going home alone, and she was more than jealous of Cindy, but Maggie also knew that it was her own fault. If nothing else, she had learned some lessons tonight, about handling men and gauging their interest, about taking control of her life and not letting some stifling dogma run her around. Like any other amateur, she had made mistakes, but she was smart enough to not repeat them if another opportunity came around. Lifting the receiver, she punched in the phone number, ready to move on. She could not possibly return to the party, not when she was depressed and miserably unhappy. Someone would come and collect her when the car came, and even though she felt foolish, it was somehow very comfortable on the floor of the bathroom. There was one more chapter to read, and Maggie went back to work with a clear head.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
A Phone In Every Hand
First it's Riverdeep, and now, it's Digicel. They're coming, like an Irish invasion, coming to a store near you. Denis O'Brien wants to sell his phones to Americans, who don't seem to have enough phones according to his calculations.
He's made himself available to the media, with interviews already given to USA Today and Time magazine. He even spoke to the Sunday Business Post, but that was to say that he was not thinking of floating an IPO, unlike what he said to Time. Well, a man has to keep the competition on its toes, you know.
There's word that Digicel is already recruiting its American employees, and rumors are running that Mr. O'Brien is planning to fund his drive through an IPO after all, to the tune of $2.5 billion American dollars. There's to be a bit put in by the Blackstone Group, which will have some cash to spare once the deal to sell Houghton Mifflin to Riverdeep goes through. He's going to take an underserved market by storm, if all goes well.
Seems like everyone has a mobile to their ear, but if O'Brien is correct, that's a false impression. His survey shows that only sixty eight of every hundred people has a phone, and the ones without are more likely the immigrants, the poor, and the young. The strategy worked for him in the Caribbean, and he plans to bring it here, to go after the lower echelon that other companies aren't interested in. Exactly how he plans to achieve his goal is being kept under wraps, to keep the competition in the dark. The man does have a track record, however, with Digicell claiming three million subscribers.
What I'm unclear on is how Digicell is going to do better than all the other myriad cell phone services, of which there are many. I hope he does well and makes his mammy proud, but I have to question the theory that what worked in the Caribbean will work here. With so many cell phone providers bombarding us daily with ads and deals, how will he stand out? Ah, sure and it'll be the Irish brogue that'll entice us all to listen to the words of his adverts. How can you resist the siren's song of Galway and Clare? And can you set my ring tone to A Nation Once Again?
He's made himself available to the media, with interviews already given to USA Today and Time magazine. He even spoke to the Sunday Business Post, but that was to say that he was not thinking of floating an IPO, unlike what he said to Time. Well, a man has to keep the competition on its toes, you know.
There's word that Digicel is already recruiting its American employees, and rumors are running that Mr. O'Brien is planning to fund his drive through an IPO after all, to the tune of $2.5 billion American dollars. There's to be a bit put in by the Blackstone Group, which will have some cash to spare once the deal to sell Houghton Mifflin to Riverdeep goes through. He's going to take an underserved market by storm, if all goes well.
Seems like everyone has a mobile to their ear, but if O'Brien is correct, that's a false impression. His survey shows that only sixty eight of every hundred people has a phone, and the ones without are more likely the immigrants, the poor, and the young. The strategy worked for him in the Caribbean, and he plans to bring it here, to go after the lower echelon that other companies aren't interested in. Exactly how he plans to achieve his goal is being kept under wraps, to keep the competition in the dark. The man does have a track record, however, with Digicell claiming three million subscribers.
What I'm unclear on is how Digicell is going to do better than all the other myriad cell phone services, of which there are many. I hope he does well and makes his mammy proud, but I have to question the theory that what worked in the Caribbean will work here. With so many cell phone providers bombarding us daily with ads and deals, how will he stand out? Ah, sure and it'll be the Irish brogue that'll entice us all to listen to the words of his adverts. How can you resist the siren's song of Galway and Clare? And can you set my ring tone to A Nation Once Again?
Single Stem - Chapter 14
Previously: At the wrap party, Maggie practically throws herself at Trevor, but he is cannot seem to respond in a way that reveals his true feelings. Ciaran has not given up on a brief affair with Maggie.
Chapter 14
Trevor sat in the pantry for a few minutes to collect his thoughts. Callista was correct as usual; after all, she had been speaking to Maggie earlier, gaining valuable insight into her emotions. There was no difference between men and women who had been married for a long time. When the marriage ended, there was such a longing for a partner that it was easy to run after anyone who dangled the promise of physical contact, if only for one night. Maggie was in danger, facing the same sadness that he had experienced when he began his life as a newly single man. Trevor felt that he had a duty to save her, a responsibility to protect her with his wisdom and bitter experience. The only way he could do that was to open up, to put aside his reticence and speak freely and honestly, without shame.
Three months after Allison’s death, when he went to Los Angeles, he lived in a nightmare of young actresses pretending to love him, throwing themselves at him and using him to obtain an audition or a role. Now he knew that he had been a fool, to think that they were offering more than a night of sex in a cold business transaction. His picture had been in the gossip columns back then, and just like Maggie he was upset and embarrassed by the publicity. For the sake of a companion in his bed he had accepted the invitations of three different women, and his heart was torn up three different times before he finally understood the game. He touched his cheek where Maggie had kissed him, too shy to put her lips on is. Even if she did not want him anymore, he had to help her; Maggie was too delicate to survive such a storm of emotion.
His mind made up and filled with resolve, Trevor walked out of the pantry with a new found energy. Searching the kitchen, he found only Will’s friends sitting on the stools that were placed across from the working area of the kitchen. Behind the cooking island, the catering crew was busy at the huge stove, a professional grade model that was set into a grotto in the wall as if it were a religious icon. At the sink along the front wall he found the wait staff busily washing glasses and loading the dishwashers. Looking all around him, checking the mob sitting at the kitchen table, he saw only friends of his children who were making their own party, helping themselves to the assortment of food before it could make its way upstairs to the dining room.
Holding center stage in the room that was designed as a tribute to cooking was Will Harwood, talking to Maggie, and the young man must have introduced her to his girlfriend Susan and Callista’s fiancé Colin. Before Trevor could reach her, she was bounding back up the stairs, off to the powder room he presumed, and Trevor took the opportunity to visit his kitchen party guests before returning to the main party on the floor above. He loved the celebrations in the kitchen, especially after all the work he had done with the architect to get the flow of the room just right. All the elegant appointments, the best cooking equipment, had been installed to create this temple of cookery and fine cuisine. The catering company loved Harwood’s kitchen.
He made a swing through the dining room to check on the food supply, and then he returned to the drawing room, but Maggie was eluding the prowling lion. Ian and his wife were preparing to go back home, not being the sort to stay up half the night in the middle of the workweek. Jane McCullough was bubbling over with cheer as she praised Maggie, a delightful girl who was kind enough to laugh at Ian’s old jokes, “The ones that most people had heard dozens of times already, not that they were hysterically funny on the first telling.”
Jane was out the door while the two men confirmed their plans for tennis on Saturday, with one of Ian’s business associates making a fourth because Will had other commitments. Trevor wandered back to the drawing room to enjoy the conversation. He chatted with Nigel, discussed the Hofmeier film with Bob Hurleburt, and constantly hunted for his prey. Ciaran and his mates were busy amusing a group of women, and Trevor was on the verge of jumping for joy because Maggie was not in the female circle. She did not seem to be anywhere, as a matter of fact, and Trevor retraced his path through the dining room and down the hall to the back staircase, heading back to the kitchen.
The university crowd was milling around the cooking island, twirling spaghetti on forks. “Dad, where have you been?” Will asked. “Try this, I would have saved you a bit, but it’s too fabulous to stop eating.”
Will offered his plate, which held only about four or five strands of pasta. Flecks of tomato shone with the gleam of olive oil, and the little streaks of sauce that puddled in the plate smelled of garlic and basil. Colin was wiping his dish clean with a slice of bread, and Susan was scraping up the errant tomato pieces and licking them off the back of the fork. “This is excellent, Will. I don’t recall any Italian dishes on Callista’s menu, not one in fact.” Trevor copied Colin with a hunk of bread to soak up the last drops from the plate.
“Maggie made it for me,” Will said, a big, proud grin on his face. “I mentioned that I was hungry, and I wished for something Italian, so we raided the larder and Maggie cooked for us.”
“What, a guest at my party?” Trevor was outraged, as if his son had treated Maggie like the hired help. “I did not ask her to come tonight so that she could stand in the kitchen and prepare your dinner.”
“She didn’t just offer, Dad, she insisted,” Will explained.
“It’s true, Mr. Harwood,” Colin added, his mouth stuffed with bread. “She was practically pleading, you see, and she mentioned how tired she was of living in a hotel and eating in restaurants every night, and English food is too bland. It would have been cruel to say no.”
“We can’t be surprised to hear that she hates English food, Colin,” Trevor said, “Even we hate English food, and it is bland.”
“She’s brilliant, Dad,” Will said, as ebullient as Callista had been. “I’m glad she had a chance to cook, it really made her happy. Say, Colin, tell my dad about her university prank.”
“Apparently, she broke into a maintenance shed with her friends one night,” Colin tried not to laugh before getting the story out, “and they found some spare commodes, so they took them. Then, at the first lecture the next morning…”
Colin was roaring with laughter, unable to finish, so Will took up the baton and ran on. “The philosophy professor, the one they thought was so pretentious, he nearly had a stroke when he saw that his chair had been replaced with a toilet,” and Will erupted into guffaws, his mind filled with the picture that Maggie had painted so well.
She was too good to be true; it was impossible that Trevor Harwood had found the perfect woman for his later years, the time in his life when his children were grown and gone from home. His dream of two breasts big enough to fill his hands had come to life in Maggie, and right now it did not matter if they were real or plastic. Tonight, in the kitchen he designed as an entertainment area, his wife’s stage where she would cook while surrounded by their friends, Maggie had stood in the spotlight and fussed over his guests. Idle chatter and laughter had filled this kitchen while Maggie whipped up something special, cheerfully spoiling Will while taking herself away from a party that she seemed to be enjoying.
Trevor could close his eyes and actually see into the future. Maggie was at the cooker, stirring and sautéing, telling her jokes and laughing at the ladies’ stories while he tended the bar, set up in the butler’s pantry on the opposite side of the kitchen where the men would be lingering over their cocktails. There was no cookbook, no measuring spoons, not even a timer. Allison had been a terrible cook, too harried and nervous to chat with people while trying to get dinner on the table. Maggie was Trevor’s dream, the lover he longed for after Allison had died.
“Where is our guest chef?” Trevor asked happily, scanning the room again for a sign of her shaggy blonde head. Told that she went back to the party, trying to keep up her end of the bargain as she said, Trevor raced up the stairs and down the hallway to the front of the house, looking for Maggie, to tell her how incredible she was, but he could only find Nigel, who was talking with Ken and Roger.
“Nigel, where’s Maggie?” Trevor asked in a rush as he hunted for her in the crowd.
“The last I saw of her, she was talking to Marjorie and Dorie about public schools. Women with children always manage to come around to the topic of education, it is amazing how predictable they are.”
Maggie had heard the sound of the piano and loud voices singing a bit drunkenly, emanating from the music room situated across the foyer. She walked over, admiring the comfortable space that must have served as the Harwood family’s main living area. More than a music room, it contained stereo equipment and a television, and rows of shelves covered with books and awards. Trevor’s two Tony awards were featured prominently, polished to a high sheen and definitely not collecting dust. Scattered here and there were photos, sitting on side tables and along the mantel of the fireplace. There were family shots, such as a lovely picture of Trevor and Allison with their young children, and Maggie could see that Callista favored her mother. Not a great beauty, but she had a warm and pleasant face, with a stunning head of auburn hair. It made Maggie think of home, of the picture of Franco and Joey that she had placed on her mantel after Franco died. Several photos of Will and Callista that represented various stages of their growing up years were mixed in with some yellowed photos that looked like they came from the war years. The youthful man in a soldier’s uniform must be Trevor’s father, and next to that was a wedding picture that was surely his parents on their special day. Framed newspaper clippings and plaques were displayed on the walls, making for a very cozy room filled with modern, overstuffed furniture. It was such an inviting space that it was no wonder that some guests would gravitate to the warm atmosphere.
It happened at every party; a group of people would eventually find the piano and a sing-song would break out. This time it was the Irish crowd, as the unmistakable sound of timeless Irish music wafted into the entry hall and spilled over into the drawing room. Maggie waltzed in a tight circle with Noel, the set dresser, her face glowing with a bright smile as she sang along with the crowd. “You’d think she was queen of the land,” came the chorus, “and her hair hung over her shoulders, tied up with a black velvet band.”
She was full of the joy of living at that moment, dancing as she had danced all her life. This song was a part of her history, the little girl standing on her father’s feet as he twirled her around the room. As the tune ended, she curtsied and thanked her partner, her face reflecting the pleasure that she was experiencing in a room full of people. “Another one, Maggie,” Noel insisted, holding her hand for a moment as he looked into her eyes, requesting a dance for now and her company for the rest of the night.
“Maggie, can I interrupt for just one moment?” Trevor asked.
He took her arm, pulling her away, while Noel held fast. Two men eyed one another across the battlefield until Maggie removed her hand, very gently, from Noel’s grasp. It was delicious, to be caught in such a tug of war, but Trevor’s face was a bit flushed, his upper lip damp with sweat, and Maggie was beginning to think that he meant to throw her out of his house as he led her back to the foyer.
“You really shouldn’t be cooking for Will, not with all the food that the caterer brought in,” he said to open the conversation. His hand was stroking her upper arm as he spoke, as if he was trying to be kind before he helped her into her coat.
“I did it because I wanted to, Trevor, he didn’t hold a knife to my throat and force me,” she replied, a bit angry and defensive. She was not going to take any shit, no indeed, and she let the words rip. “He was hungry, and the caterer didn’t happen to bring what he wanted so I made it for him, is that such a crime? I love to cook, and I’ve been stuck in a hotel room for over a week and I’m tired of eating in restaurants every night of the week. Besides, he enjoyed it and his friends had fun, and I really had the best time making pasta for them. So I spoiled your son, I indulged his whims, well I’m sorry but I’m Neapolitan on my mother’s side and I don’t know any other way to live than to do special things for the people around me and if you don’t like it I’m sorry but you won’t be bothered with me once I’ve gone. And I’ll clean up the kitchen if you’re worried about the mess.”
“Yes, well, I see that you would risk your life to retrieve a child’s toy,” he said, chuckling so that she would know he had made a joke. “I am quite upset with you, Maggie, because you didn’t make enough for me. All I had was one bite, and I had to steal that from Will’s plate. It was delicious, I wish I had more.”
“I’m sorry, but we could only find one can of tomatoes,” she said, apologizing with the sound of her voice. Obviously it was only a misunderstanding, she had torn into him because she jumped to a wrong conclusion, and now he must think that she was an absolute bitch from hell. “But I could make something for you another time. If you want me to, and we could go to a grocery store or a supermarket and I could get what I need, or you could tell me what you like and I could try to make that for you.”
“I am sorry, about, I didn’t make myself clear, and, yes, I, so soft, your arm…is it a bit warm in here?” With his hand gently touching her arm, he made his lips move, but most of his speech was unintelligible garble, as if the great actor could not speak unless a playwright put words into his mouth. “Yes, quite, thank you, that would be lovely.”
She waited patiently, watching his mouth working around a sentence that he was trying to spit out. He still had his hand on her arm, stroking in an absent-minded way that seemed to match the movements of the wheels grinding in his head. His eyes met hers, but he was his usual repressed, stodgy self as he finally said, “Still not dead drunk, Mrs. Angiolini, you may not stumble out of here on time if you don’t buckle down and get to work.”
“Behind schedule, sir,” she said, using the British pronunciation. She walked back to the music room and picked up another glass of champagne as the waiter came by, winking at Trevor as she sipped from the flute.
“I like to make love,” Noel said, grinning broadly as he reclaimed her. “Can we make that together?”
His retort was blatantly suggestive, but delivered with such humor that Maggie could not help but laugh. He was wooing her, full bore and all out, and she had never felt so special as she did just then, with Noel the set dresser and Ciaran the heart throb still on the prowl. She looked over her shoulder, hoping to find one other hunter in pursuit, but Trevor was wandering back to the main party with Nigel at his side.
Trevor had not eaten all night, but he was not particularly hungry, not now. Shuffling into the dining room, he noticed Bob Hurleburt standing near the buffet table, and Bob was giving him a most bizarre look, as if Harwood had just won an Oscar against impossible odds. The director hurried over, with a facial expression that was fairly shouting with congratulations and best wishes.
“If you need to pop out for a half-hour or so, the party can go on without you,” Bob suggested. “No, wait, not a half-hour. How long has she been without, Nigel?”
“Since Christmas at least, and Pam was implying that it was actually longer, maybe a matter of years,” Nigel said. “Bob is so terribly disappointed to discover that Maggie is not a wayward wife.”
“Makes the whole affair so dull and mundane. No irate husband at the door with a gun, ready to murder his wife’s lover,” Bob said amid the laughter.
“He could be an ex-husband who has not accepted the divorce, seeking revenge,” Trevor suggested a variation on the plot.
“A ghost story,” Nigel choked out the sentence while chortling over his quick wit.
Needing a stiff drink, Trevor went back to the drawing room, accompanied by Bob, Nigel and Nigel’s monologue. To be polite, he laughed when the others did, but he was not listening. He missed a cue and the smile slid from his face, to be replaced by an angry glare that was directed at Ciaran Doyle with his arm around Maggie.
“He simply will not give up,” Trevor said through clenched teeth.
“Why should he? She’s not turning him away,” Bob remarked. They watched as Ciaran whispered in her ear, a remark that made her laugh, and as she walked away towards the foyer she let her hand slide along his arm. As soon as she was out of view, Trevor hustled over to have it out with his rival.
“Can’t find an English woman who’ll have you back?” Trevor sneered at Ciaran. “Now you’re after an American who doesn’t know your style.”
“What are you talking about?” Ciaran asked, trying not to laugh at his host. “Do you think I’m trying to seduce Maggie, is that it?”
“Seduce is too genteel of a term, Ciaran, for what you want. I think fucking is more appropriate,” Trevor went on, too drunk to be polite and too upset to be sensible.
“You’d fuck her too if she’d spread her legs for you,” Ciaran spat back, trading insult for insult.
“But she’s too much of a lady to ask for it, even if she wanted one. Even if she wanted one from you, the great Trevor Harwood.”
“At least have the decency to use your own bed,” Trevor continued, growing more stupid as his temper raged. Without a doubt, he was behaving like a complete idiot, something that was unlike the way he used to be. “Or find a woman your own age.”
“I know how old Maggie is,” Ciaran said plainly, calm and in control of his emotions. “And it doesn’t matter to her or to me. You see, I talked to her. I had the decency to sit down and have a nice chat, asked her about her life and what she’s been through. You don’t know anything about her, do you? And what’s next, do you expect her to climb into your bed because she was invited to your party? Is that the plan, Trevor, does she have to pay for the invitation? Do you think she cares about meeting actors, do you imagine that she’s impressed with your awards?”
“I invited her to my home because I enjoy her company. And I don’t need a chat to know what she’s been through lately, I’ve had two years of it, Ciaran, and I think I can begin to comprehend the difficulties.”
“No, I don’t think you really do. Forget it, I’ll talk to you when we’re both sober, and then we can see how much you actually do understand. She’s stronger than she looks, Trevor, it’s frightening how strong she is.”
Ciaran walked away, in search of Maggie, to have a last drink together before they split apart for good. At the end of the week he was heading home, back to Manchester for a brief vacation with his mother and his sister Molly’s family. Maggie had told him to get away from the artificial world of the theatre, to get his feet back on the ground before he went off to find a wife. He would go home, for that was the real world, and then he would look for a woman like Maggie, someone who was gentle, loving and very patient with a thirty-seven year old man who never seemed to grow up, the life of the party.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Hand Her Back
Thanks for taking care of our little girl since she was three months old. Don't think we're not sincerely grateful for the feeding, the diapering, the walking and all that. We are. It's just that we want her back now.
That about sums up the case of Baby Ann in Ireland. Mummy and Da were unmarried students when they came together and created the baby. Unmarried, too young, and mummy agreed to give the child up for adoption. Better for the little girl, after all, to be raised by a two parent family where she could have all the advantages and where she was decidedly wanted. Unmarried Da, under the law, had no rights to the child since he was not united in holy matrimony to the mother, and one would assume that the couple would accept the consequences of an act that could have been avoided with the use of a single condom.
Not so. Baby Ann was born in July of 2004 and given to her prospective adoptive parents in November of that same year. In January of 2006, over a year later, the natural parents get married, and so they are become a real, honest-to-goodness, recognized by the Irish Constitution, family unit. So what does the newlywed couple do first off? Why, they go to court to get their little girl back. Didn't think of that in the first place, did they? But why should it matter that the baby was living with another set of parents who wanted to make her their own, who were giving her love and affection for over a year?
This past September, Mr. Justice John MacMenamin decreed that baby Ann would be psychologically damaged if she were to be torn from the only family that she has known. Anyone with children could pretty much figure that one out. It sounds like common sense, a no-brainer. Except to the five justices of the Supreme Court.
They overturned Mr. MacMenamin's decision yesterday, and Baby Ann is due to be returned, like a parcel from the Lost and Found. Why, you might ask? Because the natural parents went and got married. Doesn't matter that they waited, as far as the Supreme Court judges are concerned. Doesn't matter that they were not married when they made the baby. Doesn't matter that they were not married when they put the child up for adoption. All that matters is the here and now.
Wise Mr. Justice Nial Fennelly looked on the original findings as dangerous, since the lower courts ruled that the natural parents failed in their duty as parents, thus clearing the way for adoption. Why, with that sort of precedent, every single adoption must surely be based on a failure of duty. Huh? And then there's the Constitution, that says a child is best cared for by its natural parents. No time limit given, apparently, so no matter how long the parents took to decide that they wanted the baby back, it doesn't figure into the law.
Ah yes, the marriage, the 'metamorphosis' as the legal minds waxed poetically. Did no one mention that the metamorphosis occurred too late? This is a child we're speaking of, not a lump of carbon and water atoms that remains unchanging over time. Would their ruling apply if someone waited five years? Ten years? Thirty years?
Clear that they got married to get the baby back, but there's no question of their commitment? When they get divorced, can the court revisit the case and decide Baby Ann can be returned to the adoptive parents? Are they mad, or just stupid?
None of that matters in this case. Baby Ann is to be handed back, under some undecided schedule that the psychologists and psychiatrists will fashion to minimize distress to the child. And if there's trauma, if Baby Ann is permanently damaged mentally, well, too bad for her. Too bad that her natural parents are more concerned with their own personal fulfillment and don't give a rat's arse about what is best for the child.
As for the justices, you might ask, 'What were they thinking?' It's more of a case of 'Why weren't they thinking at all?'
Technorati tag: adoption, Baby Ann
That about sums up the case of Baby Ann in Ireland. Mummy and Da were unmarried students when they came together and created the baby. Unmarried, too young, and mummy agreed to give the child up for adoption. Better for the little girl, after all, to be raised by a two parent family where she could have all the advantages and where she was decidedly wanted. Unmarried Da, under the law, had no rights to the child since he was not united in holy matrimony to the mother, and one would assume that the couple would accept the consequences of an act that could have been avoided with the use of a single condom.
Not so. Baby Ann was born in July of 2004 and given to her prospective adoptive parents in November of that same year. In January of 2006, over a year later, the natural parents get married, and so they are become a real, honest-to-goodness, recognized by the Irish Constitution, family unit. So what does the newlywed couple do first off? Why, they go to court to get their little girl back. Didn't think of that in the first place, did they? But why should it matter that the baby was living with another set of parents who wanted to make her their own, who were giving her love and affection for over a year?
This past September, Mr. Justice John MacMenamin decreed that baby Ann would be psychologically damaged if she were to be torn from the only family that she has known. Anyone with children could pretty much figure that one out. It sounds like common sense, a no-brainer. Except to the five justices of the Supreme Court.
They overturned Mr. MacMenamin's decision yesterday, and Baby Ann is due to be returned, like a parcel from the Lost and Found. Why, you might ask? Because the natural parents went and got married. Doesn't matter that they waited, as far as the Supreme Court judges are concerned. Doesn't matter that they were not married when they made the baby. Doesn't matter that they were not married when they put the child up for adoption. All that matters is the here and now.
Wise Mr. Justice Nial Fennelly looked on the original findings as dangerous, since the lower courts ruled that the natural parents failed in their duty as parents, thus clearing the way for adoption. Why, with that sort of precedent, every single adoption must surely be based on a failure of duty. Huh? And then there's the Constitution, that says a child is best cared for by its natural parents. No time limit given, apparently, so no matter how long the parents took to decide that they wanted the baby back, it doesn't figure into the law.
Ah yes, the marriage, the 'metamorphosis' as the legal minds waxed poetically. Did no one mention that the metamorphosis occurred too late? This is a child we're speaking of, not a lump of carbon and water atoms that remains unchanging over time. Would their ruling apply if someone waited five years? Ten years? Thirty years?
The judge said Couple A were married in January 2006 and some of the events leading up to that civil marriage made "strange reading". Appointments for the marriage were twice cancelled. It seemed "reasonably clear" the birth parents
were acting on legal advice to the effect that their marriage would improve the prospects of their recovering the custody of Ann. However, this did not put in question the extent or genuineness of their long-term commitment to each other
and was irrelevant to the matters to be decided.
Clear that they got married to get the baby back, but there's no question of their commitment? When they get divorced, can the court revisit the case and decide Baby Ann can be returned to the adoptive parents? Are they mad, or just stupid?
None of that matters in this case. Baby Ann is to be handed back, under some undecided schedule that the psychologists and psychiatrists will fashion to minimize distress to the child. And if there's trauma, if Baby Ann is permanently damaged mentally, well, too bad for her. Too bad that her natural parents are more concerned with their own personal fulfillment and don't give a rat's arse about what is best for the child.
As for the justices, you might ask, 'What were they thinking?' It's more of a case of 'Why weren't they thinking at all?'
Technorati tag: adoption, Baby Ann
An Agent Returns
Way back, in another time, I sent an e-mail query to Rupert Heath when his name turned up on
Since then, the Agent Query website must have removed his listing, because his name does not show up in the search function. Where did I find him again? He has a google ad running on the
Not one to trust an agent from a Google ad, but Mr. Heath was a legitimate agent when last I queried, and he is listed as recommended by the watchdogs. With nothing to lose, I clicked on the ad and was sent to
The site has changed somewhat since my first query attempt - a request for sample pages that was rejected fairly quickly. A caveat has been added, that Mr. Heath cannot respond to everyone. And so, once again, a very busy agent has issued the warning, that his 'no response' is a 'no, thank you' and that's the end of it.
You'll be left wondering if your query was caught in a spam filter. You'll fear that the query did not actually arrive in the mailbox. You'll send it again and again. Maybe a new title, new character names, revised query, but you will send it over and over because you just never quite know for sure, do you?
Since then, the Agent Query website must have removed his listing, because his name does not show up in the search function. Where did I find him again? He has a google ad running on the
Not one to trust an agent from a Google ad, but Mr. Heath was a legitimate agent when last I queried, and he is listed as recommended by the watchdogs. With nothing to lose, I clicked on the ad and was sent to
The site has changed somewhat since my first query attempt - a request for sample pages that was rejected fairly quickly. A caveat has been added, that Mr. Heath cannot respond to everyone. And so, once again, a very busy agent has issued the warning, that his 'no response' is a 'no, thank you' and that's the end of it.
You'll be left wondering if your query was caught in a spam filter. You'll fear that the query did not actually arrive in the mailbox. You'll send it again and again. Maybe a new title, new character names, revised query, but you will send it over and over because you just never quite know for sure, do you?
Single Stem - Chapter 13
Previously: Dodging the tabloid journalists and paparazzi, lunching with the ladies; Maggie is having the time of her life. It is when she is getting ready for Trevor's party that she finally can find the strength to put her past behind her and move out into a new life.
Chapter 13
Maggie’s driver looked at her in the rear view mirror, presuming that she was daft when she asked him to take the longest route possible. Before she picked up Cindy, she wanted to have her mind in the right place, repositioned into her new way of being. So far, everything that she had done to change herself had been failures in one way or another. Each experience was an opportunity to learn something new, and she had faced some tough lessons in the past few weeks. Analyzing her life, Maggie saw a series of tactical retreats that had not gotten her very far. Tonight, she would charge straight ahead, take the opposite approach and hope for better results.
“Thanks for the lift,” Cindy said as she climbed into the rented car.
Maggie had essentially begged the young woman to come along so that she would not have to stroll into the party by herself. She needed more confidence than she possessed, even more than she gained by wearing her sexiest lingerie. When the driver announced that their next stop was the Harcourt residence near Duke Street, Maggie asked him to swing by Park Lane, which she had not seen yet. Postponing the inevitable a bit longer, she explained that she wanted to look at the Marble Arch and Hyde Park. On the verge of babbling, she checked her run-on sentences and took a deep breath. She could do this, attend Trevor’s party, and she would have fun in the process. If all her other plans fell through, she would at least enjoy the rest of the evening.
Somewhere during the course of the evening, she would say good-bye to Ciaran, and she would do her best to follow Kay’s advice. The fine art of the hook-up had been explained in detail, and Maggie reviewed the steps in her mind, prepared to snag a partner before the night was over.
“You know, if you make other arrangements to go home, I won’t be offended,” Maggie said. “Jealous, yes, but not offended.”
“And if you don’t go home tonight, I’ll be fine on my own,” Cindy said, giving Maggie a friendly wink.
They shared the gossip from the movie set as they rode through the city, discussing the finer points of the key grip while complaining about men in general. Tied up in a snarl of traffic, the car slowed to a crawl. To pass the time, Maggie reflected on her impressions of a widow’s life, a world that she was not prepared to enter at her age, and a status that she was going to ignore tonight. In return, Cindy shared a confidence about Ciaran and the night that she longed to forget, since Ciaran had forgotten it so readily. There was alcohol involved, coupled with an assumption on her part that proved to be as false as his promise to call. The more Cindy confessed, the more Maggie reconsidered her plans to pick up a sex toy. The whole idea sounded increasingly degrading, in spite of Kay’s promises of no strings attached pleasure.
“Here we are,” Cindy said as the car pulled up to a stop.
“Oh, my, Cindy, this house is absolutely magnificent,” Maggie gasped. The limestone steps, chiseled about two hundred years ago, climbed to the second floor, which had been the main living area of the home’s first well-heeled residents. An unassuming door at street level, tucked discreetly off to the right side of the stairs, went into the kitchen, to the downstairs that was once used only by the hired help. The entire façade was made of limestone and brick, with tall windows that hinted at the grand height of the ceilings. From inside, the glow of lamps illuminated the panes, casting a warm radiance on the front of the house, inviting Maggie to come inside and find a welcome. She climbed the stairs and ran her hand along the carved molding of the grand entryway, made of thick heavy English oak that had been carefully varnished to protect the wood. It was like stepping back in time, to go into this house, because everything had been restored, from the carpets on the floor to the draperies that hung in the windows.
“Don’t you have neighborhoods like this in Chicago?” Cindy asked.
“When this place was built, Cindy, Chicago was a swamp and the Pottawatomie were living in teepees, hunting buffalo on the prairie.”
An impressive chandelier, its lights polished to a diamond sheen, hung in the foyer where it cast sparkles of light on the inlaid marble floor and the white-painted wood trim. Maggie found herself gazing in awe at the center of the floor, a true work of art by an ancient stonemason. A maid took their coats and handbags, leaving the two guests to find their own way around because their host was back in the kitchen, making one last inspection of the catered offerings. Cindy knew the drill, and she guided Maggie through the opened double doors on the right, leading her into what was once called the drawing room. Already, the place was buzzing with the early arrivals, the hum of conversation mixing joyously with bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses.
Like a wide-eyed tourist Maggie admired the wallpaper, a Regency pattern done up in shades of blue. The woodwork was painted white, which was the theme for the first floor, and the few upholstered pieces in the room picked up the blues of the wallpaper, creating a very beautiful room. Although most of the furniture had been removed to a downstairs storeroom to create more space for the guests, it was still apparent from the remaining overstuffed chairs and love seat that this was a very comfortable place, a gentle hint of modern living in the old home.
“And here is Ciaran’s merry widow.” Maggie heard a man’s voice and found the source, a handsome young man with a mop of brown curls. He was standing near the fireplace, leaning on the heavy oak mantle while caressing the neck of a beer bottle. He was hanging around with another gentleman of similar age and a similar stare, as if they were waiting for her arrival. Almost in unison, they nodded at her and smiled, looking very much like friends of Ciaran Doyle, close mates who knew every detail of every minute she had spent with a man who had probably never been turned down by a woman before.
“Well worth the twenty minute wait, Derek,” the mop-top said, checking his watch as he adjusted his pose.
“I’d live to give her one myself,” Derek said, a note of admiration in his voice. With one hand, he self-consciously checked his tie and then smoothed down the front of his tuxedo shirt. Shooting his cuffs, he began to step towards her, adopting some sort of British secret agent panache for his grand entrance into the scene. Out of nowhere Ciaran appeared, his face lighting up at the sight of Maggie.
Since he had talked to his mother on Sunday, Ciaran had developed a very deep respect for Maggie. Old Mrs. Doyle had been praying that her youngest child would finally settle down and raise a family, and she asked him about his chances every time they spoke. She knew all about Maggie, after her son called on the very day that he met the American woman, called to tell her all about the descendant of Irish immigrants who was a practicing Catholic. Does she love you, was all Mrs. Doyle asked when Ciaran freely admitted his feelings for Maggie. And after Maggie refused his offer, he looked to his mother for solace and advice, talking to her for over an hour on Sunday.
It took that long for Mrs. Doyle to explain to her son what Maggie had done for him, that the woman had made a sacrifice of her personal happiness for Ciaran’s sake. There was no rejection, as Ciaran was bemoaning, for Maggie had not rejected her son at all. “Maggie knows what joy a child brings to its father,” Mrs. Doyle had sternly told him, “and she wants that for you, even if it means giving you up to someone else.” Such a difficult thing to explain, because a woman’s heart did not beat like a man’s, but Mrs. Doyle told her youngest boy to get down on his knees and thank God that he met someone who would do the right thing for him. He was heartbroken now, and that was to be expected, but he would find a lifetime of happiness later, greater joy than he would have found with Maggie for a week. The American widow understood that, even if Ciaran did not, and that was why she had turned him down, despite the longing that was tugging at the heart of the young widow. “So easy, Ciaran, so easy for a lonely woman to fall into a man’s arms,” Mrs. Doyle had stressed, “and she may not have wanted to turn you away, but she had to.”
“Maggie, come and meet my mates,” Ciaran said as he hurried to her side, grabbing three glasses of champagne from the waiter passing by. He held them out to the ladies and then put a hand on Cindy’s back, guiding her towards the fireplace with a gesture that was part protective and part possessive. “You know them already, Cindy, come and chat them up out of sympathy for two such dullards.”
Down in the ground floor kitchen, Trevor was nervously examining every dish that the caterer had prepared, probing and poking until he was satisfied that everything was perfect for Maggie. All his ridiculous fussing had driven Callista back upstairs to the party to mingle with the guests, abandoning her father as he impatiently demanded to see every concoction that was free of meat.
“Was he this absurd when he was dating Mum?” Callista asked Nigel.
“His anxiety had increased exponentially while his age has increased only linearly,” Nigel summed it up. “But then your mother was never photographed with Ciaran Doyle attached to her lips while your father was trying to devise some way to approach her without appearing to be a complete imbecile.”
More and more people were arriving, filling the rooms of Trevor’s home. As expected, the ladies were decked out in a variety of dresses, with hem lengths that ranged from ankles to the verge of indecent exposure; black was the dominant color. The host had returned at last to the place he belonged, in the entry hall greeting his guests as they arrived, when he heard Maggie’s voice coming from the drawing room. He felt a powerful urge to get away, to rush to Maggie and greet her properly even if it meant ignoring everyone else, to show her the garret as he had promised, to be alone with her for five minutes. That, of course, was impossible, what with Roger and Dorie Barrington standing in the foyer saying hello and asking after Will and Callista.
“There’s a voice from home,” Dorie chirped as she heard a familiar American accent emanating from the other room, picked out of the noise as if it were a signal or a beacon. Dragging her husband behind, Dorie set off to quiz the woman who had shaken her neighbor out of his two-year slumber.
Craning his neck while continuing to be polite to his guests, Trevor tried to find Maggie in the ever increasing mob. He did spot Ciaran, standing in front of the fireplace with his arm around a very pretty woman. They were drinking champagne, the very same Veuve Cliquot that he had ordered for Maggie, with Ciaran refilling their glasses with a bottle swiped from the bar. The woman turned her head as Ciaran whispered in her ear, something that made her smile. That was when Trevor noticed that it was Maggie with Ciaran, her hair color lightened slightly, making her head glow as if she wore a halo. She was dressed so simply but yet so elegantly, her plain black dress was short but not outrageous, the front cut low but not too revealing, and nothing more than a single strand of pearls around her neck. Instantly, Trevor felt his blood boiling, for there was Ciaran getting Maggie drunk on Harwood’s champagne. If anyone got her drunk and took advantage of her, it should be the man who paid for the alcohol. Dorie came to the rescue, introducing herself to Maggie and breaking up the cozy couple, much to the relief of the party’s host.
It was Will, the young man still at university and rather fashion-savvy, who had helped Trevor select his wardrobe for the evening, with Trevor unable to make up his mind about what to wear. He feared appearing ridiculously old and dowdy, with Maggie so young, but then again he was afraid of projecting false youth with something too trendy. He had finally settled on gray trousers, a black silk shirt, and a black sports jacket, which Will swore was very smart. Trevor felt like a member of a widowed spouse convention, and once he saw that Ciaran had donned a tuxedo with a collarless shirt, he felt underdressed at his own party.
“Hello, Trevor, are you in there?” Nigel said, for the third time, trying to get Trevor’s eyes out of the drawing room and back into his head.
“Thank God for Dorie, that woman is dedicated to meeting new people,” Trevor said, voicing his thoughts. The two ladies had quite a lovely chat percolating, with Dorie telling Maggie about Eton, a long and detailed accounting of the school that her sons attended. There was a mention of the basketball team, point guards and power forwards, proof that the Americans took their sports wherever they went, as if they were not satisfied with Eton’s already full roster of decidedly Anglican activities. Yes, Dorie, go on, work on her, he thought gleefully, tell her how fantastic London is, how very happy she would be if she would give an Englishman a chance.
“I am sure that we are all most grateful,” Nigel rolled his eyes. “Sara has asked us to do our famous surgeon skit, and of course I agreed. Won’t Maggie find it amusing?”
“She told him no already, Nigel, but Doyle will not give up,” Trevor said, ignoring his friend’s questions. “He’s pouring champagne down her throat by the bottle.”
“He’s softening up her resistance, old boy, so that you can pounce at the right moment,” Nigel suggested.
“Have you seen Will or Callista? I want them to meet her. Tell me honestly, do you think they’ll like her?”
“Everyone likes Maggie. Even I like Maggie. If you weren’t so interested, I would be chasing after her myself. But at least I would have the nerve to ask her if she fancied a tumble.”
Another glance into the room showed that Ciaran and his friends were chatting with Cindy and some other young people from the BBC and Argosy Productions. Ciaran could always be found in the center of some group, holding court as he regaled his audience with his witty yarns. Everyone had a good time at Trevor’s parties, especially if Ciaran and his chums were in attendance to entertain the guests. Trevor thought that he heard Maggie’s voice, talking to Dorie about someone being the life of the party. She was discussing Ciaran no doubt, for that was a term that defined the man. The perfect host, that was Trevor, his personality more suited to attending to the myriad details and then running the evening like a director guiding his actors. It took a man like Ciaran to provide the more raucous entertainment, and Trevor had to admit that even he gravitated to the fun-loving comic, enjoying his jokes and his company.
Most of the party guests had arrived, allowing Trevor to eagerly leave his post and plunge into the festivities. He drifted through the drawing room, sipping champagne and joining groups that were discussing nearly anything related to the theatre. Like a good host, Trevor mingled, moving from one set to the next while scanning the room for Maggie. He found her talking to Pam and Pam’s newest boyfriend, some chartered accountant who knew little else than journal entries and ledger sheets. They were discussing British tax laws, and Maggie was asking about the old days, when the wealthiest citizens tried to dodge the impossibly high tariffs.
Her intelligence impressed Trevor, that and her ability to not yawn as the accountant explained in detail the benefits of certain tax havens in Bermuda. Suddenly Maggie smiled up at her host, a loving glance that froze his tongue in his mouth. He smiled back, hoping that she could somehow read his mind as he mentally told her that he loved her, and would she please stay tonight. It was no good, he could not speak, so he moved on to another group to gather his disparate thoughts and try again later.
“So when did Emma take up with Keith?” Ken asked as Trevor came along to join the group. “Or is she still with Peter but leaning in Keith’s direction?”
“Knowing that she is in preparation for a March opening of The Odd Lot Ball and knowing that Keith is playing opposite, I can safely assure you that any love scenes will be very well rehearsed,” Trevor said with a knowing nod. He had once been in a play with Emma, in a supporting role as her uncle, and the actress had been involved in an affair with the romantic lead that ended shortly before the drama’s run. She had a tendency to have affairs with her leading men, as if the play-acted love became real in her mind. It was a frequent topic of gossip, none of it complimentary.
“Peter tolerates it,” Bea added her insight, “because it will pass quite soon. They don’t expect a very long run.”
Bursts of laughter ebbed and flowed, with the constant buzz of conversation in the background. Roger waylaid Trevor and began to babble about Ciaran’s American mistress. “She is not his mistress, Roger, and I wish you would refrain from labeling her. She is merely a very patient and very kind woman who listens to anyone who speaks to her, no matter how inane the topic.”
“It’s funny that you mention that,” Roger said. “Dorie’s been bending her ear for half the night, and that girl just lets her run off at the mouth. She reminds me a lot of Allison, the way she smiles and listens to every word. Anyway, Dorie showed me the pictures in that gossip sheet and they looked pretty cozy.”
“Maggie is very sweet, Roger, and rather innocent. She told me that herself, and she was very upset by the implications.”
“Oh, now I see. That’s your Maggie, isn’t she?” Roger said slowly, as the conversation from the Saturday tennis match reappeared. “Well, good luck, Trevor. Say, if I could give you one word of advice, speaking as an American, don’t be subtle. American women don’t want you to talk circles around them, get in there and tell her what you have in mind. And remember, we are not a patient people.”
A smile and a chuckle, a laughing thank you, and Trevor moved on, to find Nigel and see if they really had to do some ridiculous skit. “What? He’s dead?” Nigel almost shouted as he broke into riotous laughter. He was standing in a gaggle of Bea’s friends, undoubtedly trying to convince one of them to plead his case with his former wife. “My pet name is so very incorrect, so painfully inaccurate.”
“Not a word,” Pam hissed in a whisper. “Let her tell him if she wants to.”
“Who’s dead?” Trevor asked as he joined the group. “Have any of you seen Maggie?”
Pam nodded in the direction of Ciaran’s crew of mates, where Maggie was laughing at one of Derek’s jokes. For some reason, Trevor felt a deep sense of relief to see that Callista was a part of the group, as if a chaperone were present to protect Maggie’s virtue. His daughter was at Maggie’s right side, and they were talking together in a very friendly way, but then they abruptly left the room. Trevor panicked as his imagination kicked into high gear. Potential questions flashed into his brain, as if he was creating a scene starring The Daughter and The New Mum. Suppose that The Daughter was grilling the other character, making an inquiry into the woman’s suitability as the new stepmother, he postulated. That might scare Maggie away, especially if his daughter started talking about grandchildren. Trevor began to delve deeper into a black pit, like a Yorkshire collier in search of things that could go wrong. He was aware that Maggie was younger than fifty, and it was not impossible for a woman of her age to become pregnant. Surely his daughter would mind her own business on that issue, but if she slipped up and made a comment about the stepchild and the grandchild being the same age, then Trevor was certain that he would be alone again tonight.
Marjorie Hurleburt was trying to inquire about Karl Hofmeier, and to comment on the marvelous chicken dish that she had sampled, but her host was rushing away towards the dining room, in hot pursuit of his daughter. That left Marjorie standing there, in mid sentence, while Nigel had to chuckle at his friend’s derangement.
“Where is your viper-tongued husband?” he asked as Marjorie stood with her mouth agape, words half-formed in the air. “I can’t wait to deliver this piece of news. Will he be terribly disappointed to find that Mrs. Angiolini is not the wicked adulteress but the grieving widow?”
“That American woman he complained of? Until they worked together, that is, and then he couldn’t shut up about her brilliance,” Marjorie huffed.
“Make friends, Marjorie, we’ll most likely be seeing Maggie quite often,” Bea suggested as she mingled with the group. “She’s been trying to chat him up half the evening, but he keeps running away and then he turns around and runs after her.”
“You misinterpret his actions, my dear,” Nigel said with a smirk. “He stalks her like a lion, trying to separate her from the pack so that he can go in for the kill when she’s vulnerable and alone.”
“Has anyone explained to him that, in a house filled with guests, the prey will remain in the pack until she climbs into her car to go home? Or is he going to spring into the car, Nigel, push Cindy out of the way when Maggie’s about to give her a lift home?” Bea had to laugh, because she actually could imagine Trevor throwing himself into the car in an act of desperation.
Will was the king of the kitchen tonight, socializing with his university friends. Callista’s future husband was circulating among small bunches of young people, made up of associates from work or school, along with some of the crewmembers who sought the company of those under twenty-five. Trevor had searched the dining room for a sign of Maggie, and he lost valuable time in talking to his guests, politely receiving their many compliments about the bountiful feast that was spread on the table. Like a track star he flew down the back stairs to the kitchen, finding his son and a motley group of young people filling the room. With his head swinging wildly from side to side, he finally caught sight of Callista in the butler’s pantry, holding a chair steady. Another woman was climbing up to the countertop from a box that had been placed on the seat of the chair, in an attempt to reach up to the top shelves of the cupboards where the beer mugs were stored.
He ran over to lend a hand, and to chide his daughter for allowing a guest to hunt for glassware when Will should have been put to the task. In addition, he planned to remind her that she should have known better than to use a box on a chair seat instead of the stepladder that was stored in the laundry room. Two very lovely legs were within view, attached to a woman with small feet and dainty toes with red nails visible through her stockings. As she reached up her dress rose slightly, and Trevor found himself ogling the lace tops of those stockings; a look up revealed the garters that held them, along with the delicate black bows that decorated the garters. His heart began to race and his palms grew sweaty at the thought of stockings and suspender belts, and as his eyes continued their journey, to see who was dressed so provocatively, Maggie met his gawking face.
She bent over, almost nose to nose as she handed the glasses to Callista. There was a devilish grin on her face as she looked Trevor squarely in the eye and asked, “Are you looking up my dress, Mr. Harwood?”
Trevor’s mouth moved but no words came out; he gulped in embarrassment and tried to find a witty reply, but his feeble brain was stuck on stockings and garters. “I, um, you were, I,” he spluttered, unable to break away from her soft brown-eyed gaze and the laughter that flowed from her eyes.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, her voice seductive. “Seek and you shall find, it says in the Bible. Do you know your Scripture, Mr. Harwood? Do you know the rest of that phrase?”
A flash of panic streaked through his mind, as if he were back at school and he was supposed to be sitting for an examination he had forgotten to prepare for. Success or failure was riding on his answer; he could phone the minister at the vicarage and ask him, surely he would know off the top of his head. Trevor could not remember, not with his mind a complete blank except for thoughts of Maggie in bed. Say something, Harwood, he told himself, before she thinks you are completely worthless.
“Let me help you down,” he said. “You shouldn’t be climbing on such a makeshift ladder, Maggie, you could have gotten hurt.”
Her face seemed to melt into a look of sorrow, as if she was the naughty child being reprimanded too severely. For the would-be lover, such a change in her features was heartbreaking. He might as well have called her a stupid cow for messing about in his cupboards for it would have had the same effect, but they would be her cupboards if she would give him a chance, or at least another chance that he would not bungle this time. His hands were on her waist as she stepped back onto the floor, her head hung in shame. If not for Callista standing there he would have kissed Maggie, or even told her he was not angry with her, far from it. After that he would have asked her, would have made an offer, and dropped to his knees with heartfelt pleading.
“Thank you for helping me with my guests down here,” he said softly, trying to repair the damage that he had already done.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” she was stammering, feeling like a silly fool. “But the boys needed the glasses and Will was busy talking and I wasn’t doing anything. I’m not being nosy, really, I’m sorry, I had no business poking around.”
Maggie’s speech revved up into high gear when she was agitated, and now she was nervous with Trevor’s hands still holding her waist. Callista cleared her throat and said something about “leaving you two alone” before she disappeared. Here was his chance, with a golden opportunity to make a decisive move before Ciaran Doyle popped up again, ready to tear Maggie away if the old lion of England could not catch his American prey. He looked in her eyes; they were not laughing at him now but she was speaking volumes. Not trusting himself, he could not say if he was hearing Maggie’s words, or only seeing the image of his own desires.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet,” he began, his face so close to hers, “but you look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and Trevor nearly cringed. He had just uttered the most trite and stupid line that he could possibly have formulated. Somewhere in his house, there was undoubtedly an old script that he could have studied earlier, to pick up a few well-crafted sentences that would flow softly like the Thames. Ad-libbing was never his strong suit.
“More than lovely, Maggie,” he added in a whisper. Now he had run out of conversation. A request to spend the night was forming on his lips, but that seemed much too forward. Without turning his head he could feel the presence of all those people that were only a few feet away and no doubt listening in, to find out what a man said to get a woman in bed when he had been married for twenty years and he did not know how to go about the romancing business. Words slipped out, harmless and innocuous, “Oh, and I haven’t forgotten my promise to show you my old house.”
“I think I need another drink,” she said, a smile returning to her face, but it was a false image that hid sadness. “I did promise to crawl out of here on my hands and knees.”
With her hands resting gently on his shoulders, Maggie reached up and kissed his cheek. Picking up the remaining glasses and her shoes, she slipped out of the pantry and went back to the kitchen, as if she were intent on cutting her losses before she embarrassed herself any further. He thought of running after her, to assure her that he was not a closet homosexual and that he did want to kiss her, very much, but already it was too late.
“Damn,” Trevor hissed, pounding his head against the doorframe. “Damn, damn, damn. Show you the house, show you right back to Ciaran and drop you in his lap, God what an idiot I have become.”
He picked up the box, which turned out to be the extra case of champagne that he ordered for Wednesday morning. A snort of derision escaped his throat as he suspected that it would not be needed now, and he put the case on the floor so that he could sink into the chair. He sat there with his head in his hands, cursing his incompetence. Before she walked in the door he knew that she was an American, making her a solid citizen of the most impatient country in the world. Like a deaf man or a fool, he had waved off Roger Barrington’s advice. A kiss was not too forward, not at this point in the evening. In reality, Trevor sensed that he could have asked Maggie to go up to his room at once and drop her knickers and even that would have been a timely request. With a low moan, he wished that she were an Englishwoman, someone who would know that the look in his eye said “‘I love you” and not “get out of my pantry”.
“She’s marvelous, Dad,” Callista popped her head into the little room, all cheery and full of smiles.
“I think she hates me,” he groaned.
“Why, did she slap you or something?” his daughter said.
“I don’t know what to say to her, and then when I do say anything she looks at me as if I were some sort of lunatic,” he ranted, pacing the tiny room in two steps before turning back. “And I do sound like a lunatic, or some sort of doddering, senile old fool.”
“You both have one thing in common, Dad, she’s on her own now and you’re alone. Maybe she could use some advice on being single for the first time in however many years,” Callista suggested. “Think back, to the time you were hurt in Los Angeles. You don’t want Ciaran to hurt Maggie like that, do you?”
“What if I’ve made her miserable already?” Trevor asked. “She’ll run back to Doyle just to have a warm body next to her.”
“Wouldn’t your old body be a bit better?” Callista was soothing, aware of her father’s memories of heartache and confusion. “Or do you plan to wait for her to crawl to you on her hands and knees and beg you to be nice to her for the next few days before she has to go home? She needs a kind word, Dad, not a line to get her into bed for one night.”
“Dear God, Callista, I cannot talk to a woman I barely know and tell her the sordid tales of my first foray into the dating scene,” he protested.
“Better to sit back and watch her make the same mistakes, is that what you plan to do?” Callista said coldly as she left her father on his own, to sort out his feelings and find the courage to move on with his life. At that moment, his loneliness hit him full in the face.
Chapter 13
Maggie’s driver looked at her in the rear view mirror, presuming that she was daft when she asked him to take the longest route possible. Before she picked up Cindy, she wanted to have her mind in the right place, repositioned into her new way of being. So far, everything that she had done to change herself had been failures in one way or another. Each experience was an opportunity to learn something new, and she had faced some tough lessons in the past few weeks. Analyzing her life, Maggie saw a series of tactical retreats that had not gotten her very far. Tonight, she would charge straight ahead, take the opposite approach and hope for better results.
“Thanks for the lift,” Cindy said as she climbed into the rented car.
Maggie had essentially begged the young woman to come along so that she would not have to stroll into the party by herself. She needed more confidence than she possessed, even more than she gained by wearing her sexiest lingerie. When the driver announced that their next stop was the Harcourt residence near Duke Street, Maggie asked him to swing by Park Lane, which she had not seen yet. Postponing the inevitable a bit longer, she explained that she wanted to look at the Marble Arch and Hyde Park. On the verge of babbling, she checked her run-on sentences and took a deep breath. She could do this, attend Trevor’s party, and she would have fun in the process. If all her other plans fell through, she would at least enjoy the rest of the evening.
Somewhere during the course of the evening, she would say good-bye to Ciaran, and she would do her best to follow Kay’s advice. The fine art of the hook-up had been explained in detail, and Maggie reviewed the steps in her mind, prepared to snag a partner before the night was over.
“You know, if you make other arrangements to go home, I won’t be offended,” Maggie said. “Jealous, yes, but not offended.”
“And if you don’t go home tonight, I’ll be fine on my own,” Cindy said, giving Maggie a friendly wink.
They shared the gossip from the movie set as they rode through the city, discussing the finer points of the key grip while complaining about men in general. Tied up in a snarl of traffic, the car slowed to a crawl. To pass the time, Maggie reflected on her impressions of a widow’s life, a world that she was not prepared to enter at her age, and a status that she was going to ignore tonight. In return, Cindy shared a confidence about Ciaran and the night that she longed to forget, since Ciaran had forgotten it so readily. There was alcohol involved, coupled with an assumption on her part that proved to be as false as his promise to call. The more Cindy confessed, the more Maggie reconsidered her plans to pick up a sex toy. The whole idea sounded increasingly degrading, in spite of Kay’s promises of no strings attached pleasure.
“Here we are,” Cindy said as the car pulled up to a stop.
“Oh, my, Cindy, this house is absolutely magnificent,” Maggie gasped. The limestone steps, chiseled about two hundred years ago, climbed to the second floor, which had been the main living area of the home’s first well-heeled residents. An unassuming door at street level, tucked discreetly off to the right side of the stairs, went into the kitchen, to the downstairs that was once used only by the hired help. The entire façade was made of limestone and brick, with tall windows that hinted at the grand height of the ceilings. From inside, the glow of lamps illuminated the panes, casting a warm radiance on the front of the house, inviting Maggie to come inside and find a welcome. She climbed the stairs and ran her hand along the carved molding of the grand entryway, made of thick heavy English oak that had been carefully varnished to protect the wood. It was like stepping back in time, to go into this house, because everything had been restored, from the carpets on the floor to the draperies that hung in the windows.
“Don’t you have neighborhoods like this in Chicago?” Cindy asked.
“When this place was built, Cindy, Chicago was a swamp and the Pottawatomie were living in teepees, hunting buffalo on the prairie.”
An impressive chandelier, its lights polished to a diamond sheen, hung in the foyer where it cast sparkles of light on the inlaid marble floor and the white-painted wood trim. Maggie found herself gazing in awe at the center of the floor, a true work of art by an ancient stonemason. A maid took their coats and handbags, leaving the two guests to find their own way around because their host was back in the kitchen, making one last inspection of the catered offerings. Cindy knew the drill, and she guided Maggie through the opened double doors on the right, leading her into what was once called the drawing room. Already, the place was buzzing with the early arrivals, the hum of conversation mixing joyously with bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses.
Like a wide-eyed tourist Maggie admired the wallpaper, a Regency pattern done up in shades of blue. The woodwork was painted white, which was the theme for the first floor, and the few upholstered pieces in the room picked up the blues of the wallpaper, creating a very beautiful room. Although most of the furniture had been removed to a downstairs storeroom to create more space for the guests, it was still apparent from the remaining overstuffed chairs and love seat that this was a very comfortable place, a gentle hint of modern living in the old home.
“And here is Ciaran’s merry widow.” Maggie heard a man’s voice and found the source, a handsome young man with a mop of brown curls. He was standing near the fireplace, leaning on the heavy oak mantle while caressing the neck of a beer bottle. He was hanging around with another gentleman of similar age and a similar stare, as if they were waiting for her arrival. Almost in unison, they nodded at her and smiled, looking very much like friends of Ciaran Doyle, close mates who knew every detail of every minute she had spent with a man who had probably never been turned down by a woman before.
“Well worth the twenty minute wait, Derek,” the mop-top said, checking his watch as he adjusted his pose.
“I’d live to give her one myself,” Derek said, a note of admiration in his voice. With one hand, he self-consciously checked his tie and then smoothed down the front of his tuxedo shirt. Shooting his cuffs, he began to step towards her, adopting some sort of British secret agent panache for his grand entrance into the scene. Out of nowhere Ciaran appeared, his face lighting up at the sight of Maggie.
Since he had talked to his mother on Sunday, Ciaran had developed a very deep respect for Maggie. Old Mrs. Doyle had been praying that her youngest child would finally settle down and raise a family, and she asked him about his chances every time they spoke. She knew all about Maggie, after her son called on the very day that he met the American woman, called to tell her all about the descendant of Irish immigrants who was a practicing Catholic. Does she love you, was all Mrs. Doyle asked when Ciaran freely admitted his feelings for Maggie. And after Maggie refused his offer, he looked to his mother for solace and advice, talking to her for over an hour on Sunday.
It took that long for Mrs. Doyle to explain to her son what Maggie had done for him, that the woman had made a sacrifice of her personal happiness for Ciaran’s sake. There was no rejection, as Ciaran was bemoaning, for Maggie had not rejected her son at all. “Maggie knows what joy a child brings to its father,” Mrs. Doyle had sternly told him, “and she wants that for you, even if it means giving you up to someone else.” Such a difficult thing to explain, because a woman’s heart did not beat like a man’s, but Mrs. Doyle told her youngest boy to get down on his knees and thank God that he met someone who would do the right thing for him. He was heartbroken now, and that was to be expected, but he would find a lifetime of happiness later, greater joy than he would have found with Maggie for a week. The American widow understood that, even if Ciaran did not, and that was why she had turned him down, despite the longing that was tugging at the heart of the young widow. “So easy, Ciaran, so easy for a lonely woman to fall into a man’s arms,” Mrs. Doyle had stressed, “and she may not have wanted to turn you away, but she had to.”
“Maggie, come and meet my mates,” Ciaran said as he hurried to her side, grabbing three glasses of champagne from the waiter passing by. He held them out to the ladies and then put a hand on Cindy’s back, guiding her towards the fireplace with a gesture that was part protective and part possessive. “You know them already, Cindy, come and chat them up out of sympathy for two such dullards.”
Down in the ground floor kitchen, Trevor was nervously examining every dish that the caterer had prepared, probing and poking until he was satisfied that everything was perfect for Maggie. All his ridiculous fussing had driven Callista back upstairs to the party to mingle with the guests, abandoning her father as he impatiently demanded to see every concoction that was free of meat.
“Was he this absurd when he was dating Mum?” Callista asked Nigel.
“His anxiety had increased exponentially while his age has increased only linearly,” Nigel summed it up. “But then your mother was never photographed with Ciaran Doyle attached to her lips while your father was trying to devise some way to approach her without appearing to be a complete imbecile.”
More and more people were arriving, filling the rooms of Trevor’s home. As expected, the ladies were decked out in a variety of dresses, with hem lengths that ranged from ankles to the verge of indecent exposure; black was the dominant color. The host had returned at last to the place he belonged, in the entry hall greeting his guests as they arrived, when he heard Maggie’s voice coming from the drawing room. He felt a powerful urge to get away, to rush to Maggie and greet her properly even if it meant ignoring everyone else, to show her the garret as he had promised, to be alone with her for five minutes. That, of course, was impossible, what with Roger and Dorie Barrington standing in the foyer saying hello and asking after Will and Callista.
“There’s a voice from home,” Dorie chirped as she heard a familiar American accent emanating from the other room, picked out of the noise as if it were a signal or a beacon. Dragging her husband behind, Dorie set off to quiz the woman who had shaken her neighbor out of his two-year slumber.
Craning his neck while continuing to be polite to his guests, Trevor tried to find Maggie in the ever increasing mob. He did spot Ciaran, standing in front of the fireplace with his arm around a very pretty woman. They were drinking champagne, the very same Veuve Cliquot that he had ordered for Maggie, with Ciaran refilling their glasses with a bottle swiped from the bar. The woman turned her head as Ciaran whispered in her ear, something that made her smile. That was when Trevor noticed that it was Maggie with Ciaran, her hair color lightened slightly, making her head glow as if she wore a halo. She was dressed so simply but yet so elegantly, her plain black dress was short but not outrageous, the front cut low but not too revealing, and nothing more than a single strand of pearls around her neck. Instantly, Trevor felt his blood boiling, for there was Ciaran getting Maggie drunk on Harwood’s champagne. If anyone got her drunk and took advantage of her, it should be the man who paid for the alcohol. Dorie came to the rescue, introducing herself to Maggie and breaking up the cozy couple, much to the relief of the party’s host.
It was Will, the young man still at university and rather fashion-savvy, who had helped Trevor select his wardrobe for the evening, with Trevor unable to make up his mind about what to wear. He feared appearing ridiculously old and dowdy, with Maggie so young, but then again he was afraid of projecting false youth with something too trendy. He had finally settled on gray trousers, a black silk shirt, and a black sports jacket, which Will swore was very smart. Trevor felt like a member of a widowed spouse convention, and once he saw that Ciaran had donned a tuxedo with a collarless shirt, he felt underdressed at his own party.
“Hello, Trevor, are you in there?” Nigel said, for the third time, trying to get Trevor’s eyes out of the drawing room and back into his head.
“Thank God for Dorie, that woman is dedicated to meeting new people,” Trevor said, voicing his thoughts. The two ladies had quite a lovely chat percolating, with Dorie telling Maggie about Eton, a long and detailed accounting of the school that her sons attended. There was a mention of the basketball team, point guards and power forwards, proof that the Americans took their sports wherever they went, as if they were not satisfied with Eton’s already full roster of decidedly Anglican activities. Yes, Dorie, go on, work on her, he thought gleefully, tell her how fantastic London is, how very happy she would be if she would give an Englishman a chance.
“I am sure that we are all most grateful,” Nigel rolled his eyes. “Sara has asked us to do our famous surgeon skit, and of course I agreed. Won’t Maggie find it amusing?”
“She told him no already, Nigel, but Doyle will not give up,” Trevor said, ignoring his friend’s questions. “He’s pouring champagne down her throat by the bottle.”
“He’s softening up her resistance, old boy, so that you can pounce at the right moment,” Nigel suggested.
“Have you seen Will or Callista? I want them to meet her. Tell me honestly, do you think they’ll like her?”
“Everyone likes Maggie. Even I like Maggie. If you weren’t so interested, I would be chasing after her myself. But at least I would have the nerve to ask her if she fancied a tumble.”
Another glance into the room showed that Ciaran and his friends were chatting with Cindy and some other young people from the BBC and Argosy Productions. Ciaran could always be found in the center of some group, holding court as he regaled his audience with his witty yarns. Everyone had a good time at Trevor’s parties, especially if Ciaran and his chums were in attendance to entertain the guests. Trevor thought that he heard Maggie’s voice, talking to Dorie about someone being the life of the party. She was discussing Ciaran no doubt, for that was a term that defined the man. The perfect host, that was Trevor, his personality more suited to attending to the myriad details and then running the evening like a director guiding his actors. It took a man like Ciaran to provide the more raucous entertainment, and Trevor had to admit that even he gravitated to the fun-loving comic, enjoying his jokes and his company.
Most of the party guests had arrived, allowing Trevor to eagerly leave his post and plunge into the festivities. He drifted through the drawing room, sipping champagne and joining groups that were discussing nearly anything related to the theatre. Like a good host, Trevor mingled, moving from one set to the next while scanning the room for Maggie. He found her talking to Pam and Pam’s newest boyfriend, some chartered accountant who knew little else than journal entries and ledger sheets. They were discussing British tax laws, and Maggie was asking about the old days, when the wealthiest citizens tried to dodge the impossibly high tariffs.
Her intelligence impressed Trevor, that and her ability to not yawn as the accountant explained in detail the benefits of certain tax havens in Bermuda. Suddenly Maggie smiled up at her host, a loving glance that froze his tongue in his mouth. He smiled back, hoping that she could somehow read his mind as he mentally told her that he loved her, and would she please stay tonight. It was no good, he could not speak, so he moved on to another group to gather his disparate thoughts and try again later.
“So when did Emma take up with Keith?” Ken asked as Trevor came along to join the group. “Or is she still with Peter but leaning in Keith’s direction?”
“Knowing that she is in preparation for a March opening of The Odd Lot Ball and knowing that Keith is playing opposite, I can safely assure you that any love scenes will be very well rehearsed,” Trevor said with a knowing nod. He had once been in a play with Emma, in a supporting role as her uncle, and the actress had been involved in an affair with the romantic lead that ended shortly before the drama’s run. She had a tendency to have affairs with her leading men, as if the play-acted love became real in her mind. It was a frequent topic of gossip, none of it complimentary.
“Peter tolerates it,” Bea added her insight, “because it will pass quite soon. They don’t expect a very long run.”
Bursts of laughter ebbed and flowed, with the constant buzz of conversation in the background. Roger waylaid Trevor and began to babble about Ciaran’s American mistress. “She is not his mistress, Roger, and I wish you would refrain from labeling her. She is merely a very patient and very kind woman who listens to anyone who speaks to her, no matter how inane the topic.”
“It’s funny that you mention that,” Roger said. “Dorie’s been bending her ear for half the night, and that girl just lets her run off at the mouth. She reminds me a lot of Allison, the way she smiles and listens to every word. Anyway, Dorie showed me the pictures in that gossip sheet and they looked pretty cozy.”
“Maggie is very sweet, Roger, and rather innocent. She told me that herself, and she was very upset by the implications.”
“Oh, now I see. That’s your Maggie, isn’t she?” Roger said slowly, as the conversation from the Saturday tennis match reappeared. “Well, good luck, Trevor. Say, if I could give you one word of advice, speaking as an American, don’t be subtle. American women don’t want you to talk circles around them, get in there and tell her what you have in mind. And remember, we are not a patient people.”
A smile and a chuckle, a laughing thank you, and Trevor moved on, to find Nigel and see if they really had to do some ridiculous skit. “What? He’s dead?” Nigel almost shouted as he broke into riotous laughter. He was standing in a gaggle of Bea’s friends, undoubtedly trying to convince one of them to plead his case with his former wife. “My pet name is so very incorrect, so painfully inaccurate.”
“Not a word,” Pam hissed in a whisper. “Let her tell him if she wants to.”
“Who’s dead?” Trevor asked as he joined the group. “Have any of you seen Maggie?”
Pam nodded in the direction of Ciaran’s crew of mates, where Maggie was laughing at one of Derek’s jokes. For some reason, Trevor felt a deep sense of relief to see that Callista was a part of the group, as if a chaperone were present to protect Maggie’s virtue. His daughter was at Maggie’s right side, and they were talking together in a very friendly way, but then they abruptly left the room. Trevor panicked as his imagination kicked into high gear. Potential questions flashed into his brain, as if he was creating a scene starring The Daughter and The New Mum. Suppose that The Daughter was grilling the other character, making an inquiry into the woman’s suitability as the new stepmother, he postulated. That might scare Maggie away, especially if his daughter started talking about grandchildren. Trevor began to delve deeper into a black pit, like a Yorkshire collier in search of things that could go wrong. He was aware that Maggie was younger than fifty, and it was not impossible for a woman of her age to become pregnant. Surely his daughter would mind her own business on that issue, but if she slipped up and made a comment about the stepchild and the grandchild being the same age, then Trevor was certain that he would be alone again tonight.
Marjorie Hurleburt was trying to inquire about Karl Hofmeier, and to comment on the marvelous chicken dish that she had sampled, but her host was rushing away towards the dining room, in hot pursuit of his daughter. That left Marjorie standing there, in mid sentence, while Nigel had to chuckle at his friend’s derangement.
“Where is your viper-tongued husband?” he asked as Marjorie stood with her mouth agape, words half-formed in the air. “I can’t wait to deliver this piece of news. Will he be terribly disappointed to find that Mrs. Angiolini is not the wicked adulteress but the grieving widow?”
“That American woman he complained of? Until they worked together, that is, and then he couldn’t shut up about her brilliance,” Marjorie huffed.
“Make friends, Marjorie, we’ll most likely be seeing Maggie quite often,” Bea suggested as she mingled with the group. “She’s been trying to chat him up half the evening, but he keeps running away and then he turns around and runs after her.”
“You misinterpret his actions, my dear,” Nigel said with a smirk. “He stalks her like a lion, trying to separate her from the pack so that he can go in for the kill when she’s vulnerable and alone.”
“Has anyone explained to him that, in a house filled with guests, the prey will remain in the pack until she climbs into her car to go home? Or is he going to spring into the car, Nigel, push Cindy out of the way when Maggie’s about to give her a lift home?” Bea had to laugh, because she actually could imagine Trevor throwing himself into the car in an act of desperation.
Will was the king of the kitchen tonight, socializing with his university friends. Callista’s future husband was circulating among small bunches of young people, made up of associates from work or school, along with some of the crewmembers who sought the company of those under twenty-five. Trevor had searched the dining room for a sign of Maggie, and he lost valuable time in talking to his guests, politely receiving their many compliments about the bountiful feast that was spread on the table. Like a track star he flew down the back stairs to the kitchen, finding his son and a motley group of young people filling the room. With his head swinging wildly from side to side, he finally caught sight of Callista in the butler’s pantry, holding a chair steady. Another woman was climbing up to the countertop from a box that had been placed on the seat of the chair, in an attempt to reach up to the top shelves of the cupboards where the beer mugs were stored.
He ran over to lend a hand, and to chide his daughter for allowing a guest to hunt for glassware when Will should have been put to the task. In addition, he planned to remind her that she should have known better than to use a box on a chair seat instead of the stepladder that was stored in the laundry room. Two very lovely legs were within view, attached to a woman with small feet and dainty toes with red nails visible through her stockings. As she reached up her dress rose slightly, and Trevor found himself ogling the lace tops of those stockings; a look up revealed the garters that held them, along with the delicate black bows that decorated the garters. His heart began to race and his palms grew sweaty at the thought of stockings and suspender belts, and as his eyes continued their journey, to see who was dressed so provocatively, Maggie met his gawking face.
She bent over, almost nose to nose as she handed the glasses to Callista. There was a devilish grin on her face as she looked Trevor squarely in the eye and asked, “Are you looking up my dress, Mr. Harwood?”
Trevor’s mouth moved but no words came out; he gulped in embarrassment and tried to find a witty reply, but his feeble brain was stuck on stockings and garters. “I, um, you were, I,” he spluttered, unable to break away from her soft brown-eyed gaze and the laughter that flowed from her eyes.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked, her voice seductive. “Seek and you shall find, it says in the Bible. Do you know your Scripture, Mr. Harwood? Do you know the rest of that phrase?”
A flash of panic streaked through his mind, as if he were back at school and he was supposed to be sitting for an examination he had forgotten to prepare for. Success or failure was riding on his answer; he could phone the minister at the vicarage and ask him, surely he would know off the top of his head. Trevor could not remember, not with his mind a complete blank except for thoughts of Maggie in bed. Say something, Harwood, he told himself, before she thinks you are completely worthless.
“Let me help you down,” he said. “You shouldn’t be climbing on such a makeshift ladder, Maggie, you could have gotten hurt.”
Her face seemed to melt into a look of sorrow, as if she was the naughty child being reprimanded too severely. For the would-be lover, such a change in her features was heartbreaking. He might as well have called her a stupid cow for messing about in his cupboards for it would have had the same effect, but they would be her cupboards if she would give him a chance, or at least another chance that he would not bungle this time. His hands were on her waist as she stepped back onto the floor, her head hung in shame. If not for Callista standing there he would have kissed Maggie, or even told her he was not angry with her, far from it. After that he would have asked her, would have made an offer, and dropped to his knees with heartfelt pleading.
“Thank you for helping me with my guests down here,” he said softly, trying to repair the damage that he had already done.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” she was stammering, feeling like a silly fool. “But the boys needed the glasses and Will was busy talking and I wasn’t doing anything. I’m not being nosy, really, I’m sorry, I had no business poking around.”
Maggie’s speech revved up into high gear when she was agitated, and now she was nervous with Trevor’s hands still holding her waist. Callista cleared her throat and said something about “leaving you two alone” before she disappeared. Here was his chance, with a golden opportunity to make a decisive move before Ciaran Doyle popped up again, ready to tear Maggie away if the old lion of England could not catch his American prey. He looked in her eyes; they were not laughing at him now but she was speaking volumes. Not trusting himself, he could not say if he was hearing Maggie’s words, or only seeing the image of his own desires.
“I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet,” he began, his face so close to hers, “but you look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and Trevor nearly cringed. He had just uttered the most trite and stupid line that he could possibly have formulated. Somewhere in his house, there was undoubtedly an old script that he could have studied earlier, to pick up a few well-crafted sentences that would flow softly like the Thames. Ad-libbing was never his strong suit.
“More than lovely, Maggie,” he added in a whisper. Now he had run out of conversation. A request to spend the night was forming on his lips, but that seemed much too forward. Without turning his head he could feel the presence of all those people that were only a few feet away and no doubt listening in, to find out what a man said to get a woman in bed when he had been married for twenty years and he did not know how to go about the romancing business. Words slipped out, harmless and innocuous, “Oh, and I haven’t forgotten my promise to show you my old house.”
“I think I need another drink,” she said, a smile returning to her face, but it was a false image that hid sadness. “I did promise to crawl out of here on my hands and knees.”
With her hands resting gently on his shoulders, Maggie reached up and kissed his cheek. Picking up the remaining glasses and her shoes, she slipped out of the pantry and went back to the kitchen, as if she were intent on cutting her losses before she embarrassed herself any further. He thought of running after her, to assure her that he was not a closet homosexual and that he did want to kiss her, very much, but already it was too late.
“Damn,” Trevor hissed, pounding his head against the doorframe. “Damn, damn, damn. Show you the house, show you right back to Ciaran and drop you in his lap, God what an idiot I have become.”
He picked up the box, which turned out to be the extra case of champagne that he ordered for Wednesday morning. A snort of derision escaped his throat as he suspected that it would not be needed now, and he put the case on the floor so that he could sink into the chair. He sat there with his head in his hands, cursing his incompetence. Before she walked in the door he knew that she was an American, making her a solid citizen of the most impatient country in the world. Like a deaf man or a fool, he had waved off Roger Barrington’s advice. A kiss was not too forward, not at this point in the evening. In reality, Trevor sensed that he could have asked Maggie to go up to his room at once and drop her knickers and even that would have been a timely request. With a low moan, he wished that she were an Englishwoman, someone who would know that the look in his eye said “‘I love you” and not “get out of my pantry”.
“She’s marvelous, Dad,” Callista popped her head into the little room, all cheery and full of smiles.
“I think she hates me,” he groaned.
“Why, did she slap you or something?” his daughter said.
“I don’t know what to say to her, and then when I do say anything she looks at me as if I were some sort of lunatic,” he ranted, pacing the tiny room in two steps before turning back. “And I do sound like a lunatic, or some sort of doddering, senile old fool.”
“You both have one thing in common, Dad, she’s on her own now and you’re alone. Maybe she could use some advice on being single for the first time in however many years,” Callista suggested. “Think back, to the time you were hurt in Los Angeles. You don’t want Ciaran to hurt Maggie like that, do you?”
“What if I’ve made her miserable already?” Trevor asked. “She’ll run back to Doyle just to have a warm body next to her.”
“Wouldn’t your old body be a bit better?” Callista was soothing, aware of her father’s memories of heartache and confusion. “Or do you plan to wait for her to crawl to you on her hands and knees and beg you to be nice to her for the next few days before she has to go home? She needs a kind word, Dad, not a line to get her into bed for one night.”
“Dear God, Callista, I cannot talk to a woman I barely know and tell her the sordid tales of my first foray into the dating scene,” he protested.
“Better to sit back and watch her make the same mistakes, is that what you plan to do?” Callista said coldly as she left her father on his own, to sort out his feelings and find the courage to move on with his life. At that moment, his loneliness hit him full in the face.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Prescient
The UN Climate Change Summit has been very busy over in Nairobi, in a panic over global warming. Very serious business, this, and hasn't Al Gore been telling us the end is near? For well over the past thirty years? Only this time he really means it?
There's a very, very, very large stumbling block, apparently. It's bad enough that so many of the signatories to the Kyoto Agreement have not met their goals of reducing greenhouse gases. Ireland is well over its mark, pumping out more gas than it was supposed to under the rules. The bigger problem is going to come later, in 2012, when the Kyoto Agreement expires. Rather than sign on again, to perhaps more stringent limits on emissions, many of the major countries are insisting that the developing countries, given a pass on the Kyoto go-round, must sign up as well.
Did they only just figure that one out? While they were criticizing the US of A for not signing the Kyoto Agreement, did they miss the part about the Americans refusing because developing countries could pollute to their heart's content? Not to say we told you so, but, there it is. Come 2012, if nations like China and India don't agree to cut greenhouse gas emissions, no else is going to do it either.
Dick Roche is due at the talks this week, when things really heat up. Someone has to put the pressure on Mexico and Brazil to stop polluting everyone's air. The whole global warming issue is very serious business to the entire planet, and every single country has to cooperate. Eamon Ryan of the Green Party is coming back from the talks, frustrated as can be. According to his observation, the lack of progress on coming to an agreement "is in direct contrast" with the urgency of cutting pollution.
Mr. Ryan also noticed that the United States was not very involved in this round of talks. Poor lad might not have a long enough memory to recall that the U.S. was pushing for equality for all way back, when the rest of the world gave a few big polluters a pass. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, Mr. Ryan. The U.S. delegation isn't going to repeat the same old tired speeches. Impatient lot of people, they are, and it doesn't matter if the Republicans lost the recent elections. The Americans said they wouldn't sign on at Kyoto unless everyone signed on. Now some of the other countries are figuring out that the U.S. was right, and they won't sign on again unless everyone does.
I should refer you to Georges Santayana, I guess. No, not the bit about those who cannot remember the past being condemned to repeat it. Instinct learning something from experience, etc. etc. This one is a bit of advice, to help move those talks along:
" The truth is cruel, but it can be loved, and it makes free those who have loved it."
And didn't the American delegation tell you so in the first place?
Technorati tag: Kyoto Agreement
There's a very, very, very large stumbling block, apparently. It's bad enough that so many of the signatories to the Kyoto Agreement have not met their goals of reducing greenhouse gases. Ireland is well over its mark, pumping out more gas than it was supposed to under the rules. The bigger problem is going to come later, in 2012, when the Kyoto Agreement expires. Rather than sign on again, to perhaps more stringent limits on emissions, many of the major countries are insisting that the developing countries, given a pass on the Kyoto go-round, must sign up as well.
Did they only just figure that one out? While they were criticizing the US of A for not signing the Kyoto Agreement, did they miss the part about the Americans refusing because developing countries could pollute to their heart's content? Not to say we told you so, but, there it is. Come 2012, if nations like China and India don't agree to cut greenhouse gas emissions, no else is going to do it either.
Dick Roche is due at the talks this week, when things really heat up. Someone has to put the pressure on Mexico and Brazil to stop polluting everyone's air. The whole global warming issue is very serious business to the entire planet, and every single country has to cooperate. Eamon Ryan of the Green Party is coming back from the talks, frustrated as can be. According to his observation, the lack of progress on coming to an agreement "is in direct contrast" with the urgency of cutting pollution.
Mr. Ryan also noticed that the United States was not very involved in this round of talks. Poor lad might not have a long enough memory to recall that the U.S. was pushing for equality for all way back, when the rest of the world gave a few big polluters a pass. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt, Mr. Ryan. The U.S. delegation isn't going to repeat the same old tired speeches. Impatient lot of people, they are, and it doesn't matter if the Republicans lost the recent elections. The Americans said they wouldn't sign on at Kyoto unless everyone signed on. Now some of the other countries are figuring out that the U.S. was right, and they won't sign on again unless everyone does.
I should refer you to Georges Santayana, I guess. No, not the bit about those who cannot remember the past being condemned to repeat it. Instinct learning something from experience, etc. etc. This one is a bit of advice, to help move those talks along:
" The truth is cruel, but it can be loved, and it makes free those who have loved it."
And didn't the American delegation tell you so in the first place?
Technorati tag: Kyoto Agreement
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Single Stem - Chapter 12
Previously: The tabloids are full of Maggie's date with Ciaran, the stories fabricated but causing havoc on both sides of the Atlantic. It's Trevor she wants to talk to, but she has called too late.
Chapter 12
At five o’clock on a gloomy, rainy Monday, Trevor was up and ready to get back to work for a full day of overdubbing of the picture, the last thing to be done and the film was wrapped. His agent was meeting him in the afternoon to talk about a screenplay that Trevor had not even read yet, but he ran back to his study to pick up the copy anyway. The light was blinking on the answering machine, a bright red point in the darkened room, and it reminded Trevor of the flashing beacon on a racing ambulance for some peculiar reason. He played the message over and over, if only to hear Maggie’s voice. She was wretchedly sad, and he was completely helpless. There was no possible way that he could go to her now, for his presence would only create even more scandal and gossip.
“No, it wasn’t bashfulness,” he said. “What does one send for rank cowardice? I’m afraid, Maggie, afraid that you’ll turn me down. I need your compassion, your patience. No one would care if Trevor Harwood were seen in your company, not dull and boring Trevor. If I wasn’t such a coward, none of this would have happened.”
Messages had been slipped under Maggie’s door that morning, even though the sign hanging on the knob asked for peace. Five requests for interviews were torn to tiny pieces; the invitation from Bea to meet for lunch was gratefully accepted. As for the so-called messages from Mr. Doyle, she recognized each and every one as a pure fraud, as if she did not know his phone number.
“Room service, Mrs. A., toast and coffee,” came a voice from the hall, a pre-approved signal that was acknowledged by the sound of a lock being unlatched. Three beautiful bouquets of brightly colored flowers were waiting in the hall, sent by the reporters who were asking for interviews. Maggie allowed them to be put in the room because the flowers were innocent, and they would not be asking personal questions.
“Do they think that I’m stupid or something?” she asked the waiter in a rather loud voice, but the man could only shake his head. He did the best that he could, to explain how the game was played, how it had been played every time before when Mr. Doyle was in residence. This time, however, the lady in question was not some publicity-seeking actress, like all the others, but she was merely a regular sort of woman who spent time with a gentleman because she enjoyed the man’s company. Unfortunately, she ended up like all the others, an unwilling participant in the rumor mill.
With her raincoat flapping open as she marched through the lobby, Maggie looked remarkably like an American bald eagle sailing on the thermals over the bluffs of the Mississippi. Proud and fierce, she floated gracefully towards the front door on her way to the street, but Mr. Towson intercepted her before she could escape the hotel. “The back entrance, Mrs. Angiolini,” he suggested, prepared to guide her through the kitchen again.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Towson, why can’t I use the front door?” she asked, noticeably perturbed.
“A group of photographers, and at least three reporters,” he explained with a wag of his head in the direction of the main entrance. “You can walk down past the loading dock and come out on the street well away from them.”
“Oh, yeah?” she sneered, and it was the sound of revolution, the twang of the nation that had once taken on the mightiest country in the world and beat them back across the ocean. “Well, they can kiss my Yankee ass, but I’m going out that front door.”
Pulling on her soft felt beret, with her raincoat flapping open like bird’s wings, the daughter of a United States Marine strode through the door and breezed past the gaggle of people who were standing around, waiting for a glamorous actress to make a grand appearance. Everyone was anticipating that a lovely woman with flawless make-up and hair would stroll elegantly out the door, posing for photos while pretending to be upset at the attention. Before the photographer who had taken Saturday’s pictures recognized her, she was long gone into the subway station.
On the street, no one gave her a second look, not the lady with the frightening scowl who studied the route map before buying her ticket. She looked like any other tourist, safely anonymous again and free to explore the city by rail, to crawl all over Harrod’s and shop for ridiculous souvenirs before meeting her friends for lunch. Maggie could not remember when she had been happier than she was just then, with her whole life spread before her and the city of London ready to be discovered. The editing project was officially finished, and she was on vacation in the thriving capital of Great Britain.
The ladies met up at a restaurant near the BBC Studios, a small and unpretentious spot that was jammed at lunchtime and again for afternoon tea. The décor was unchanged since its heyday in the early thirties, and the wall sconces were still the original design, flowing Art Deco lamps that cast a soft glow on the walls. There was very little discussion of the stupid rumors, not after the party had heard the simple truth from Maggie, though she held back her innermost thoughts, some memories of her marriage that she shared only with her sister.
They talked of travel and driving trips across America, when somehow the city of New Orleans came up. “I was looking over a script the other day, about two English blokes who are traveling from Chicago to New Orleans, having comic adventures along the way, but I couldn’t get a grip on the amount of time that passed. Have you ever made the drive, Maggie?” Cindy asked.
“Twice, yes, but before Joey was born. New Orleans was never my idea of a family destination, at least not with small children. We drove overnight, twelve hours at least, but then I have a bad habit of speeding on the highway. It’s part of American life, I guess, the open road and the desire to drive at ninety miles an hour,” Maggie said.
“Isn’t it funny,” Pam mused, “how we can drive to Paris in less than, what, about three hours? Be in a foreign country, where they speak a different language.”
“If I drove three hours from my house, I could be in Indianapolis to the east, Dubuque to the west, the Wisconsin woods to the north, and no further than the state university to the south,” Maggie mentioned, mulling over the difference between America and Europe. “And that, ladies, is why American foreign policy is the way it is. We can’t see anything except our own country over the horizon.”
“If I ever went to America for a visit, I’d like to rent a car and drive,” Bea said, dreaming. “That’s the way to see things, and stop whenever you feel like it.”
“Exactly, to stop and get out and look around,” Maggie agreed. “When we drove to Louisiana, we stopped in Mississippi for breakfast at dawn, and what a beautiful sight. It’s all rolling hills, with huge thick pines lining the road, and at sunrise everything looked rose colored, the sky, the clouds, even the pavement. That’s not to be seen from the window of an airplane.”
“Have you managed to blend back into the crowd?” Bea asked as their lunch was ending. So far, no one in the dining room appeared to be gawking or talking about them.
“I hope so. It could be that I’m being given an opportunity to gain some free publicity while they sell more papers. What the hell do I need publicity for, anyway? Funny world out there.”
“Did I tell you?” Cindy put in. “The twit from Glamarama put a camera in my face this morning when I got out of my car, asking me how Ciaran was feeling this morning.”
“You do look a little like Maggie,” Pam noted, taking a long look at the two women who shared little more than similar hairstyles and coloring. “And what did you say?”
“I didn’t know what he was talking about. Ciaran who, I said, and at the time I really didn’t know he meant our man Doyle. Anyway, he got all chuffed like I inconvenienced him or something, the wanker. No apology, either.”
“This is all going to blow over real soon, the minute Ciaran turns up with a fresh face,” Maggie replied. “By tonight, I would imagine.”
“Don’t think that he’ll be so quick to go back to his old ways,” Pam said with a voice that spoke with authority. “He’s been telling everyone all day today that he’s a new person, reformed. One night with Maggie, and he’s ready to settle down.”
“Until he gets randy again,” Cindy said.
“Exactly. By tonight,” Maggie said with a positive nod, giggling at her little joke.
“Well, my dear, if you’d given him a little he would be a good boy until the party tomorrow,” Pam continued, “and then he could find something sweet to nibble on at Trevor’s digs.”
“Who’s going to be there?” Maggie asked, thrilled at the idea of attending a party as a single woman. She was free to meet new men, flirt if she felt like it, and stay as long as it pleased her. If she found it dull, she could up and go whenever she wanted to leave.
“The usual cast of characters, I would expect,” Bea began to tick off the names of the actors and crewmembers who were likely to attend a wrap party, mentioning also some of Trevor’s friends who were always invited to his get-togethers. Bea promised plenty of interesting company, and if Nigel got a little giddy he could be counted on to perform one of his comedy skits from his university days, when Trevor played the straight man with great skill.
Mr. Harwood finished up early, after knuckling down and focusing every brain cell on his tasks, running through the voice-overs in record time. He decided then and there to swing by Strand House, to tell Maggie that he had gone to meet her on Sunday at St. Paul’s because he was too thick to realize that anyone named Maggie Griffith, who had married an Angiolini, had to be Roman Catholic. She definitely needed a laugh right now, after all the fuss that had been stirred up the day before, and his mistake was extremely amusing. It would be up to Maggie to continue the conversation after that, because he had no idea what to say next after his first few sentences were carried away on the breeze.
“We’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes, Mr. Harwood, but if you can’t meet now I can return later,” the caterer said over a weak mobile connection. Trevor had completely forgotten that he had to let them in to the house so that they could deliver their crates of linens and glassware, the portable bar, the dishes, and the whole truckload of equipment that was needed to feed one hundred people.
With a loud sigh of deep exasperation, Trevor turned his car around and headed for home. He tried to call Maggie, but she was still not taking calls, not from any goddamned English bastards, as the desk clerk reported in full detail, and this particular young man did not recognize Harwood’s voice. The clerk was not taking any chances, either, and he would not put the call through to Mrs. Angiolini, not after she told him that she would cut off his balls and make a pair of earrings out of them if she had to say so much as hello to some snooping reporter. Slow and steady Trevor had stalled for over a week already, he smiled to himself, and tomorrow night Maggie would be on his territory, in his lair so to speak, where he would feel perfectly at ease and in control. As an added benefit, his children could approve of his newfound love before he took her to his room for the night. Whatever doubts and worries he might have about Maggie’s interest in him, he had no doubt that his family would love Maggie. It was the one sure thing he could rely on while he fretted over his lines of irresistible seduction.
To prepare for the party, Mr. Towson’s assistant had taken Mrs. Angiolini under her wing by making arrangements at Georgie’s, one of London’s finest hair salons. Located in Soho, it was a favorite with young society women and actresses appearing in the West End theatres. She tried not to show it, but Maggie was feeling a trifle intimidated about this gala, which would be swarming with film stars and famous actors, people that Maggie expected to be as glamorous as Hollywood’s glittering characters. What had started out as a request for a simple manicure had escalated into a half-day of pampering. The assistant concierge had merely selected all the beauty treatments that she would have wanted, such as hair coloring and styling, a massage to relax the tense muscles of the shy editor, and a facial to make her skin glow even more radiantly. Maggie would leave the salon at four in the afternoon, fully buffed and polished, ready to attend an elegant party at a restored Mayfair mansion.
She looked at her simple black dress, a shift of black crepe that she was thinking made her hips look too big. It was sleeveless, and she began to grow self-conscious about her less than completely firm upper arms. There was nothing that she could do about any of that now, and she would most likely look shabby tonight if compared to the ladies in their designer rags, but when she came out of Georgie’s she was at least as well manicured and well coiffed as the best of them. Since lunch the day before, Maggie was anticipating with pleasure the fun that Bea had suggested, with the mix of guests that were always amusing and full of good conversation. No one was likely to notice her, and she would still have the time of her life.
Before getting dressed for the party, Maggie worked on a manuscript and called Theresa to catch her up on what was finished and what was left over. Maggie barely said hello before her cousin began to blurt out that Bill Goebel had called the office on Sunday, when Theresa had gone in to get some extra work done on a quiet afternoon. “I was so tempted not to answer the phone,” Theresa confessed. “And what does he need so urgently on a Sunday afternoon? Your cousin appears to be involved in a new relationship, he says all high and mighty, that pompous asshole. But I know nothing about my cousin’s personal life, and that was the only way to get him off the phone.”
“Ask her if he was a good lay,” a voice shouted from the background. Maggie recognized the sound of Theresa’s old college roommate, who had stopped by to meet for coffee. She was sitting in the office, re-reading the article while laughing her head off at the suppositions of the British reporters. April had known Maggie since she and Theresa were high school drama stars, and Maggie came to see every one of their little plays, no matter how awful the production.
“Yes, that was April,” Theresa confirmed. Turning to her old roomie, with her hand over the receiver, she repeated Maggie’s answer. “He only used his tongue.”
“Oh, baby,” April moaned.
“And he used that for talking,” Theresa finished.
“Ask her can she get me a cashmere sweater, I’ll pay her back, but she knows that so don’t mention it or I’ll sound like a cheat,” April continued, after wriggling her tongue like a sensuous snake. “There’s some shop that’s famous in London, Glasgow House or something like that.”
“I should give April the phone and let her talk to you,” Theresa sighed. “Can you go to Glasgow House and find her a cashmere sweater? She’ll take a look, April, and call you back with the selections and then you can decide on a color and style. Can I talk about work now, the stuff that pays my rent?”
There was a brief chat about the two manuscripts that Maggie had finished, returned that morning via overnight courier to the offices of Quinlan and Associates. The next call went to Kay, who rounded out their talk with a strong recommendation that her too-conservative sister wear something dangerously provocative to the party to boost her confidence. After a lengthy debate on Joey’s newfound status as the most desirable thirteen-year-old boy in River Oaks, due to his mother’s kissing picture, or due to his actual live conversation with Ciaran Doyle was unclear, Maggie got off the phone and went to her dresser. Feeling rather festive, she opened the top drawer, and she laid out the garments that, if she did things right, Trevor Harwood would be allowed to remove.
She slipped into her outfit at a leisurely pace; there was no need to rush because Franco was impatient and shouting at her to hurry up. Tonight she was a single woman, gazing into the gilt-framed antique mirror in her room at Strand House, applying taupe and coffee eye shadows and red lipstick. Looking back at her was the reflection of Maggie Griffith, determined to let go of her anger and bitterness, to get on with her life. Counting the days since her husband died, she laughed at herself for taking so long to see that he had not died on purpose, that he had not left her alone because she had done something wrong and he was trying to punish her. It had happened, that was all, the same as a summer storm that blew up out of nowhere. Eventually the rain ended and the sun came out again, leaving the world a little brighter and cleaner than before.
“It’s over between us, Franco. I’m still here, and I’m alive and you’re dead, and that’s the way things are now. So if Trevor Harwood wants me, I’m going to love him, and when I think about you, I’ll think in a different way. I won’t be mad at you anymore. I’m going to live my life without you, and I’ll be fine.” She smiled at her reflection in the mirror as she left Franco Angiolini in the past. In the hallway outside her room, she adjusted her coat collar, pulled the door shut, checked the lock and walked away.
Chapter 12
At five o’clock on a gloomy, rainy Monday, Trevor was up and ready to get back to work for a full day of overdubbing of the picture, the last thing to be done and the film was wrapped. His agent was meeting him in the afternoon to talk about a screenplay that Trevor had not even read yet, but he ran back to his study to pick up the copy anyway. The light was blinking on the answering machine, a bright red point in the darkened room, and it reminded Trevor of the flashing beacon on a racing ambulance for some peculiar reason. He played the message over and over, if only to hear Maggie’s voice. She was wretchedly sad, and he was completely helpless. There was no possible way that he could go to her now, for his presence would only create even more scandal and gossip.
“No, it wasn’t bashfulness,” he said. “What does one send for rank cowardice? I’m afraid, Maggie, afraid that you’ll turn me down. I need your compassion, your patience. No one would care if Trevor Harwood were seen in your company, not dull and boring Trevor. If I wasn’t such a coward, none of this would have happened.”
Messages had been slipped under Maggie’s door that morning, even though the sign hanging on the knob asked for peace. Five requests for interviews were torn to tiny pieces; the invitation from Bea to meet for lunch was gratefully accepted. As for the so-called messages from Mr. Doyle, she recognized each and every one as a pure fraud, as if she did not know his phone number.
“Room service, Mrs. A., toast and coffee,” came a voice from the hall, a pre-approved signal that was acknowledged by the sound of a lock being unlatched. Three beautiful bouquets of brightly colored flowers were waiting in the hall, sent by the reporters who were asking for interviews. Maggie allowed them to be put in the room because the flowers were innocent, and they would not be asking personal questions.
“Do they think that I’m stupid or something?” she asked the waiter in a rather loud voice, but the man could only shake his head. He did the best that he could, to explain how the game was played, how it had been played every time before when Mr. Doyle was in residence. This time, however, the lady in question was not some publicity-seeking actress, like all the others, but she was merely a regular sort of woman who spent time with a gentleman because she enjoyed the man’s company. Unfortunately, she ended up like all the others, an unwilling participant in the rumor mill.
With her raincoat flapping open as she marched through the lobby, Maggie looked remarkably like an American bald eagle sailing on the thermals over the bluffs of the Mississippi. Proud and fierce, she floated gracefully towards the front door on her way to the street, but Mr. Towson intercepted her before she could escape the hotel. “The back entrance, Mrs. Angiolini,” he suggested, prepared to guide her through the kitchen again.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Towson, why can’t I use the front door?” she asked, noticeably perturbed.
“A group of photographers, and at least three reporters,” he explained with a wag of his head in the direction of the main entrance. “You can walk down past the loading dock and come out on the street well away from them.”
“Oh, yeah?” she sneered, and it was the sound of revolution, the twang of the nation that had once taken on the mightiest country in the world and beat them back across the ocean. “Well, they can kiss my Yankee ass, but I’m going out that front door.”
Pulling on her soft felt beret, with her raincoat flapping open like bird’s wings, the daughter of a United States Marine strode through the door and breezed past the gaggle of people who were standing around, waiting for a glamorous actress to make a grand appearance. Everyone was anticipating that a lovely woman with flawless make-up and hair would stroll elegantly out the door, posing for photos while pretending to be upset at the attention. Before the photographer who had taken Saturday’s pictures recognized her, she was long gone into the subway station.
On the street, no one gave her a second look, not the lady with the frightening scowl who studied the route map before buying her ticket. She looked like any other tourist, safely anonymous again and free to explore the city by rail, to crawl all over Harrod’s and shop for ridiculous souvenirs before meeting her friends for lunch. Maggie could not remember when she had been happier than she was just then, with her whole life spread before her and the city of London ready to be discovered. The editing project was officially finished, and she was on vacation in the thriving capital of Great Britain.
The ladies met up at a restaurant near the BBC Studios, a small and unpretentious spot that was jammed at lunchtime and again for afternoon tea. The décor was unchanged since its heyday in the early thirties, and the wall sconces were still the original design, flowing Art Deco lamps that cast a soft glow on the walls. There was very little discussion of the stupid rumors, not after the party had heard the simple truth from Maggie, though she held back her innermost thoughts, some memories of her marriage that she shared only with her sister.
They talked of travel and driving trips across America, when somehow the city of New Orleans came up. “I was looking over a script the other day, about two English blokes who are traveling from Chicago to New Orleans, having comic adventures along the way, but I couldn’t get a grip on the amount of time that passed. Have you ever made the drive, Maggie?” Cindy asked.
“Twice, yes, but before Joey was born. New Orleans was never my idea of a family destination, at least not with small children. We drove overnight, twelve hours at least, but then I have a bad habit of speeding on the highway. It’s part of American life, I guess, the open road and the desire to drive at ninety miles an hour,” Maggie said.
“Isn’t it funny,” Pam mused, “how we can drive to Paris in less than, what, about three hours? Be in a foreign country, where they speak a different language.”
“If I drove three hours from my house, I could be in Indianapolis to the east, Dubuque to the west, the Wisconsin woods to the north, and no further than the state university to the south,” Maggie mentioned, mulling over the difference between America and Europe. “And that, ladies, is why American foreign policy is the way it is. We can’t see anything except our own country over the horizon.”
“If I ever went to America for a visit, I’d like to rent a car and drive,” Bea said, dreaming. “That’s the way to see things, and stop whenever you feel like it.”
“Exactly, to stop and get out and look around,” Maggie agreed. “When we drove to Louisiana, we stopped in Mississippi for breakfast at dawn, and what a beautiful sight. It’s all rolling hills, with huge thick pines lining the road, and at sunrise everything looked rose colored, the sky, the clouds, even the pavement. That’s not to be seen from the window of an airplane.”
“Have you managed to blend back into the crowd?” Bea asked as their lunch was ending. So far, no one in the dining room appeared to be gawking or talking about them.
“I hope so. It could be that I’m being given an opportunity to gain some free publicity while they sell more papers. What the hell do I need publicity for, anyway? Funny world out there.”
“Did I tell you?” Cindy put in. “The twit from Glamarama put a camera in my face this morning when I got out of my car, asking me how Ciaran was feeling this morning.”
“You do look a little like Maggie,” Pam noted, taking a long look at the two women who shared little more than similar hairstyles and coloring. “And what did you say?”
“I didn’t know what he was talking about. Ciaran who, I said, and at the time I really didn’t know he meant our man Doyle. Anyway, he got all chuffed like I inconvenienced him or something, the wanker. No apology, either.”
“This is all going to blow over real soon, the minute Ciaran turns up with a fresh face,” Maggie replied. “By tonight, I would imagine.”
“Don’t think that he’ll be so quick to go back to his old ways,” Pam said with a voice that spoke with authority. “He’s been telling everyone all day today that he’s a new person, reformed. One night with Maggie, and he’s ready to settle down.”
“Until he gets randy again,” Cindy said.
“Exactly. By tonight,” Maggie said with a positive nod, giggling at her little joke.
“Well, my dear, if you’d given him a little he would be a good boy until the party tomorrow,” Pam continued, “and then he could find something sweet to nibble on at Trevor’s digs.”
“Who’s going to be there?” Maggie asked, thrilled at the idea of attending a party as a single woman. She was free to meet new men, flirt if she felt like it, and stay as long as it pleased her. If she found it dull, she could up and go whenever she wanted to leave.
“The usual cast of characters, I would expect,” Bea began to tick off the names of the actors and crewmembers who were likely to attend a wrap party, mentioning also some of Trevor’s friends who were always invited to his get-togethers. Bea promised plenty of interesting company, and if Nigel got a little giddy he could be counted on to perform one of his comedy skits from his university days, when Trevor played the straight man with great skill.
Mr. Harwood finished up early, after knuckling down and focusing every brain cell on his tasks, running through the voice-overs in record time. He decided then and there to swing by Strand House, to tell Maggie that he had gone to meet her on Sunday at St. Paul’s because he was too thick to realize that anyone named Maggie Griffith, who had married an Angiolini, had to be Roman Catholic. She definitely needed a laugh right now, after all the fuss that had been stirred up the day before, and his mistake was extremely amusing. It would be up to Maggie to continue the conversation after that, because he had no idea what to say next after his first few sentences were carried away on the breeze.
“We’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes, Mr. Harwood, but if you can’t meet now I can return later,” the caterer said over a weak mobile connection. Trevor had completely forgotten that he had to let them in to the house so that they could deliver their crates of linens and glassware, the portable bar, the dishes, and the whole truckload of equipment that was needed to feed one hundred people.
With a loud sigh of deep exasperation, Trevor turned his car around and headed for home. He tried to call Maggie, but she was still not taking calls, not from any goddamned English bastards, as the desk clerk reported in full detail, and this particular young man did not recognize Harwood’s voice. The clerk was not taking any chances, either, and he would not put the call through to Mrs. Angiolini, not after she told him that she would cut off his balls and make a pair of earrings out of them if she had to say so much as hello to some snooping reporter. Slow and steady Trevor had stalled for over a week already, he smiled to himself, and tomorrow night Maggie would be on his territory, in his lair so to speak, where he would feel perfectly at ease and in control. As an added benefit, his children could approve of his newfound love before he took her to his room for the night. Whatever doubts and worries he might have about Maggie’s interest in him, he had no doubt that his family would love Maggie. It was the one sure thing he could rely on while he fretted over his lines of irresistible seduction.
To prepare for the party, Mr. Towson’s assistant had taken Mrs. Angiolini under her wing by making arrangements at Georgie’s, one of London’s finest hair salons. Located in Soho, it was a favorite with young society women and actresses appearing in the West End theatres. She tried not to show it, but Maggie was feeling a trifle intimidated about this gala, which would be swarming with film stars and famous actors, people that Maggie expected to be as glamorous as Hollywood’s glittering characters. What had started out as a request for a simple manicure had escalated into a half-day of pampering. The assistant concierge had merely selected all the beauty treatments that she would have wanted, such as hair coloring and styling, a massage to relax the tense muscles of the shy editor, and a facial to make her skin glow even more radiantly. Maggie would leave the salon at four in the afternoon, fully buffed and polished, ready to attend an elegant party at a restored Mayfair mansion.
She looked at her simple black dress, a shift of black crepe that she was thinking made her hips look too big. It was sleeveless, and she began to grow self-conscious about her less than completely firm upper arms. There was nothing that she could do about any of that now, and she would most likely look shabby tonight if compared to the ladies in their designer rags, but when she came out of Georgie’s she was at least as well manicured and well coiffed as the best of them. Since lunch the day before, Maggie was anticipating with pleasure the fun that Bea had suggested, with the mix of guests that were always amusing and full of good conversation. No one was likely to notice her, and she would still have the time of her life.
Before getting dressed for the party, Maggie worked on a manuscript and called Theresa to catch her up on what was finished and what was left over. Maggie barely said hello before her cousin began to blurt out that Bill Goebel had called the office on Sunday, when Theresa had gone in to get some extra work done on a quiet afternoon. “I was so tempted not to answer the phone,” Theresa confessed. “And what does he need so urgently on a Sunday afternoon? Your cousin appears to be involved in a new relationship, he says all high and mighty, that pompous asshole. But I know nothing about my cousin’s personal life, and that was the only way to get him off the phone.”
“Ask her if he was a good lay,” a voice shouted from the background. Maggie recognized the sound of Theresa’s old college roommate, who had stopped by to meet for coffee. She was sitting in the office, re-reading the article while laughing her head off at the suppositions of the British reporters. April had known Maggie since she and Theresa were high school drama stars, and Maggie came to see every one of their little plays, no matter how awful the production.
“Yes, that was April,” Theresa confirmed. Turning to her old roomie, with her hand over the receiver, she repeated Maggie’s answer. “He only used his tongue.”
“Oh, baby,” April moaned.
“And he used that for talking,” Theresa finished.
“Ask her can she get me a cashmere sweater, I’ll pay her back, but she knows that so don’t mention it or I’ll sound like a cheat,” April continued, after wriggling her tongue like a sensuous snake. “There’s some shop that’s famous in London, Glasgow House or something like that.”
“I should give April the phone and let her talk to you,” Theresa sighed. “Can you go to Glasgow House and find her a cashmere sweater? She’ll take a look, April, and call you back with the selections and then you can decide on a color and style. Can I talk about work now, the stuff that pays my rent?”
There was a brief chat about the two manuscripts that Maggie had finished, returned that morning via overnight courier to the offices of Quinlan and Associates. The next call went to Kay, who rounded out their talk with a strong recommendation that her too-conservative sister wear something dangerously provocative to the party to boost her confidence. After a lengthy debate on Joey’s newfound status as the most desirable thirteen-year-old boy in River Oaks, due to his mother’s kissing picture, or due to his actual live conversation with Ciaran Doyle was unclear, Maggie got off the phone and went to her dresser. Feeling rather festive, she opened the top drawer, and she laid out the garments that, if she did things right, Trevor Harwood would be allowed to remove.
She slipped into her outfit at a leisurely pace; there was no need to rush because Franco was impatient and shouting at her to hurry up. Tonight she was a single woman, gazing into the gilt-framed antique mirror in her room at Strand House, applying taupe and coffee eye shadows and red lipstick. Looking back at her was the reflection of Maggie Griffith, determined to let go of her anger and bitterness, to get on with her life. Counting the days since her husband died, she laughed at herself for taking so long to see that he had not died on purpose, that he had not left her alone because she had done something wrong and he was trying to punish her. It had happened, that was all, the same as a summer storm that blew up out of nowhere. Eventually the rain ended and the sun came out again, leaving the world a little brighter and cleaner than before.
“It’s over between us, Franco. I’m still here, and I’m alive and you’re dead, and that’s the way things are now. So if Trevor Harwood wants me, I’m going to love him, and when I think about you, I’ll think in a different way. I won’t be mad at you anymore. I’m going to live my life without you, and I’ll be fine.” She smiled at her reflection in the mirror as she left Franco Angiolini in the past. In the hallway outside her room, she adjusted her coat collar, pulled the door shut, checked the lock and walked away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)