Fancy Pants (8 page)
Francesca dutifully inspected the painting, then chatted with several
of Nicky's friends. She forgot about Lloyd Byron until Miranda Gwynwyck
cornered her just as she and Nicholas were getting ready to leave.
"Congratulations, Francesca," Miranda said, "I heard the wonderful
news. You seem to have a talent for landing on your feet. Rather like a
cat. . ."
Francesca heartily disliked Nicholas's sister. She found Miranda as dry
and brittle as the lean brown twig she resembled, as
well as ridiculously overprotective of a brother old enough to take
care of himself. The two women had long ago given up the attempt to
maintain more than a surface courtesy. "Speaking of cats," she said
pleasantly, "you're looking divine, Miranda. How clever of you to
combine stripes and plaids like that. But what wonderful news are you
talking about?"
"Why, Lloyd's film, of course. Before he left, he told me he was
casting you in an important part. Everyone in the room is green with
envy."
"You actually believed him?" Francesca quirked one eyebrow.
"Shouldn't I have?"
"Of course not. I've hardly been reduced to appearing in fourth-rate
films."
Nicholas's sister tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes gleaming
with uncharacteristic brightness. "Poor Francesca. Fourth-rate, indeed.
I thought you knew everyone. Obviously you're not as au courant as you
want people to believe."
Francesca, who considered herself the most au courant person she knew,
could barely conceal her annoyance. "What do you mean by that?"
"Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just surprised you
haven't heard of Lloyd. He won the Golden Palm at Cannes four years
ago, don't you remember? The critics are simply wild about him—all his
films are marvelous allegories—and everyone is certain his new
production is going to be a huge success. He works with only the best
people."
Francesca felt a tiny thrill of excitement as Miranda went on to list
all the famous actors with whom Byron had worked. Despite her politics,
Miranda Gwynwyck was a terrible snob, and if she considered Lloyd Byron
a respectable director, Francesca decided she needed to give his offer
a bit more consideration.
Unfortunately, as soon as they left his sister's home, Nicky took her
to a private club that had just
opened in Chelsea. They stayed until
nearly one, and then he proposed again and they had another terrible
row—the absolute final one as far as she was concerned—so she didn't
get to sleep until very
late. As a result, it was well past noon before she awoke the next day,
and even then she only did so because Miranda called her to ask some
nonsensical question about a dressmaker.
Leaping out of bed, she cursed Cissy's maid for not having awakened her
earlier and then flew across the carpeted floor of the guest bedroom,
tugging open the sash on the front of her putty and salmon Natori
nightgown as she moved. She bathed quickly, then threw herself into a
pair of black wool trousers
topped with a crimson and yellow Sonia
Rykiel sweater. After applying the bare minimum of blusher,
eye makeup,
and lip gloss, then tugging on a pair of knee-high zippered boots, she
dashed off to Byron's hotel where the clerk informed her the director
had already checked out.
"Did he leave a message?" she asked, tapping her fingernails
impatiently on the counter.
"I'll check."
The clerk returned a moment later with an envelope. Francesca ripped it
open and quickly scanned the message.
She remembered how exquisite Marisa Bererjson had looked in both
Cabaret
and
Barry Lyndon
and how jealous she
had been when she'd seen
the films. What a perfectly wonderful way to make money.
And then she frowned as she recalled Byron's comment about reimbursing
her for her travel expenses. If only she'd gotten hold of him earlier
so he could have arranged for her ticket. Now she'd have to pay for it
herself, and she was almost certain she didn't have enough money left
in her account to cover her air fare. This ridiculous nonsense about
her credit cards had temporarily closed off that avenue, and after last
night she absolutely refused to talk to Nicky. So where was she to get
the money for a plane ticket? She glanced at the clock behind the desk
and saw that she was late for her appointment with her hairdresser.
With a sigh, she tucked her purse under her arm. She'd just have to
find a way.
next to Dallie's seat. "Would you mind signing an autograph for my
nephew? He plays on his high school golf team. His name's Matthew, and
he's a big fan of yours."
Dallie flashed her breasts an appreciative smile and then raised his
eyes to her face, which wasn't quite
as good as the rest of her, but
was still mighty fine. "Be happy to," he said, taking the pad and pen
she handed him. "Sure hope he plays better than I've been playing
lately."
"The co-pilot told me you ran into a little trouble at Firestone a few
weeks back."
"Honey, I invented trouble at Firestone."
She laughed appreciatively and then dropped her voice so that only he
could hear. "I'll bet you've invented trouble in a lot of places
besides golf courses."
"I do my best." He gave her a slow grin.
"Look me up next time you're in L.A., why don't you?" She scribbled
something on the pad he handed back to her, ripped it off, and gave it
to him right along with another smile.
As she moved away, he shoved the paper in the pocket of his jeans where
it rustled against another piece of paper that the girl at the Avis
counter had slipped to him when he'd left Los Angeles.
Skeet growled at him from the window seat. "Bet you she don't even have
a nephew, or if she does he's never heard of you."
Dallie opened a paperback copy of Vonnegut's
Breakfast of Champions
and
began to read. He hated talking to Skeet on airplanes about as much as
he hated anything. Skeet didn't like traveling unless he
was doing it
on four Goodyear radials and an interstate highway. The few times
they'd had to abandon Dallie's newest Riviera to fly cross-country for
a tournament—like this trek from Atlanta out to L.A. and back—Skeet's
normal temper, prickly at best, turned completely sour.
Now he glowered at Dallie. "When are we getting in to Mobile? I hate
these damned planes, and don't you start in on me again 'bout the laws
of physics. You know and I know that there's nothing but air between us
and the ground, and air can't hardly be expected to hold up something
this big."
Dallie closed his eyes and said mildly, "Shut up, Skeet."
"Don't you go to sleep on me. Dammit, Dallie, I mean it! You know how
much I hate to fly. Least you could do is stay awake and keep me
company."
"I'm tired. Didn't get enough sleep last night."
"No wonder. Carousing till two in the morning and then bringing that
mangy dog back with you."
Dallie opened his eyes and gave Skeet a sideways glance. "I don't think
Astrid would like being called a mangy dog."
"Not her! The dog, you fool! Dammit, Dallie, I could hear that mutt
whining right through the wall of
the motel."
"What was I supposed to do?" Dallie answered, turning to meet Skeet's
scowl. "Leave it starving by the freeway?"
"How much did you give 'em at the motel desk before we left this
morning?"
Dallie muttered something Skeet couldn't quite hear.
"Whadja say?" Skeet repeated belligerently.
"A hundred, I said! A hundred now and another hundred next year when I
come back and find the dog
in good shape."
"Damn fool," Skeet muttered. "You and your strays. You got mangy dogs
boarded away with motel managers in thirty states. I don't even know
how you half keep track. Dogs. Runaway kids . . ."
"Kid. There was only one, and I put him on a Trailways bus the same
day."
"You and your damn strays."
Dallie's gaze slowly swept Skeet from head to toe. "Yeah," he said. "Me
and my goddamn strays."
That shut Skeet up for a while, which was exactly what Dallie had
intended. He opened his book for the second time, and three pieces of
blue stationery folded in half slipped out into his lap. He unfolded
them, taking in the border of romping Snoopys across the top and the
row of X's at the end, and then he began to read.
it into his shirt pocket, the closest place he could find to his heart.
especially irksome to Francesca because the thick, heavy heat seemed to
have formed a cocoon around her. Even though her travels in the United
States had until that day been limited to Manhattan and the Hamptons,
she was too preoccupied with her own misjudg-ment to show any interest
in the unfamiliar landscape they had passed since leaving Gulfport an
hour earlier. How could she have blundered so badly in her choice of
wardrobe? She glanced down with disgust at her heavy white woolen
trousers and the long-sleeved celery-green cashmere sweater that was
sticking so uncomfortably to her skin. It was the first day of October!
Who could have imagined it would be so hot?
After nearly twenty-four hours of travel, her eyelids were drooping
from weariness and her body was covered with grime. She had flown from
Gatwick to JFK, then to Atlanta, and from there to Gulfport where the
temperature was ninety-two in the shade and where the only driver she'd
been able to hire had a car without air conditioning. Now all she could
think about was going to her hotel, ordering a lovely gin and quinine,
taking a long, cold shower, and sleeping for the next twenty-four
hours. As soon as she
checked in with the film company and found out where she was being
lodged, she'd do exactly that.
Pulling the sweater away from her damp chest, she tried to think of
something to cheer herself up until she reached the hotel. This was
going to be an absolutely smashing adventure, she told herself.
Although she had no acting experience, she'd always been a wonderful
mimic, and she would work very hard in the film so that the critics
would think she was marvelous and all the best directors would want to
hire her. She would go to wonderful parties and have a lovely career
and make absolutely scads of money. This was what had been missing from
her life, that elusive "something" she'd never quite been able to
define. Why ever hadn't she thought of it before?
She pushed her hair back from her temples with the tips of her fingers
and congratulated herself on having so neatly cleared the hurdle of
finding enough money to cover her air fare. It had been a lark,
actually, once she'd gotten over the initial shock of the idea. Lots of
socialites took their clothes to stores that bought designer labels for
resale; she didn't know why she hadn't done so months before. The money
from the sale had paid for a first-class airline ticket and settled the
most pressing of her bills. People made financial matters so
unnecessarily complex, she now realized, when all it took to solve
one's difficulties was a little initiative. She abhorred wearing last
season's clothes, anyway, and now she could begin buying an entire new
wardrobe as soon as the film company reimbursed her for her ticket.
The car turned into a long drive lined with live oaks. She craned her
neck as they rounded a bend and she saw a restored plantation house
ahead, a three-story brick and wooden structure with six fluted columns
gracefully set across the front veranda. As they drew nearer, she
noticed an assortment of twentieth-century trucks and vans parked next
to the antebellum home. The vehicles looked just as out of place as the
members of the crew who wandered about in shorts with T-shirts, bare
chests, and halter tops.
The driver pulled the car to a stop and turned to her. He had a large
round American Bicentennial button affixed to the collar of his tan
work shirt. It read "1776-1976" across the top, with "AMERICA" and
"LAND OF OPPORTUNITY" at the center and
bottom. Francesca had seen signs of the American Bicentennial
everywhere since she'd landed at JFK. The souvenir stands were loaded
with commemorative buttons and cheap plastic models of the Statue of
Liberty. When they passed through Gulfport, she'd even seen fire
hydrants painted to look like Revolutionary War minute-men. To someone
who came from a country as old as England, all this celebrating of a
mere two hundred years seemed excessive.
"Forty-eight dollar," the taxi driver announced in English so heavily
accented that she could barely understand it.
She sifted through the American currency she had purchased with her
English pounds when she'd landed at JFK and handed him most of what she
had, along with a generous tip and a smile. Then she climbed out of the
cab, taking her cosmetic case with her.
"Francesca Day?" A young woman with frizzy hair and dangling earrings
came toward her across the
side lawn.
"Yes?"
"Hi. I'm Sally Calaverro. Welcome to the end of nowhere. I'm afraid I'm
going to need you in wardrobe right away."
The driver set the Vuitton suitcase at Francesca's feet. She took in
Sally's rumpled India print cotton skirt and the brown tank top she had
unwisely chosen to wear without a bra. "That's impossible, Miss
Calaverro," she replied. "As soon as I see Mr. Byron, I'm going to the
hotel and then to bed. The only sleep I've had for twenty-four hours
was on the plane, and I'm frightfully exhausted."
Sally's expression didn't change. "Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have
to hold you up a little longer, although I'll try to make it as fast as
possible. Lord Byron moved up the shooting schedule, and we have to
have your costume ready by tomorrow morning."
"But that's preposterous. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'm going to need a few
days to get settled in. He can hardly expect me to start working the
moment I arrive."
Sally's pleasant manner slipped. "That's show biz, honey. Call your
agent." She glanced at the Vuitton suitcases and then called to someone
behind Francesca's back. "Hey, Davey, take Miss Day's stuff over to the
chicken coop, will ya?" '
"Chicken coop!" Francesca exclaimed, beginning to feel genuinely
alarmed. "I don't know what all this is about, but I want to go to my
hotel immediately."
"Yeah, don't we all." She gave Francesca a smile that bordered on being
insolent. "Don't worry, it's not really a chicken coop. The house where
we're all staying sits right next to this property. It used to be a
convalescent home a few years back; the beds still have cranks on them.
We call it the chicken coop because that's what it looks like. If you
don't mind a few cockroaches, it's not bad."
Francesca refused to rise to the bait. This was what happened, she
realized, when one argued with underlings. "I want to see Mr. Byron at
once," she declared.
"He's shooting inside the house right now, but he doesn't like being
interrupted." Sally's eyes flicked rudely over her, and Francesca could
feel her assessing the mussed clothes and inappropriate winter fabric.
"I'll take my chances," she replied sarcastically, staring at the
wardrobe mistress for one long, hard moment before she pushed her hair
back and walked away.
Sally Calaverro watched her go. She studied that tiny, slim body,
remembering the perfect makeup and the gorgeous mane of hair. How did
she manage to flip her hair like that with just a little shrug? Did
gorgeous women take hair-flipping lessons or what? Sally tugged on a
lock of her own hair, dry and frizzed at the ends from a bad perm. All
the straight males in the company would start behaving like
twelve-year-olds when they caught sight of that woman, Sally thought.
They were accustomed to pretty little starlets, but this one was
something else, with that fancy-schmansy British accent and a way of
staring at you that reminded you your parents had crossed the ocean in
steerage. During countless hours in too many singles bars, Sally had
observed that some men ate up that superior, condescending crap.
"Shit," she muttered, feeling like a fat, frumpy giantess firmly
entrenched on the wrong side of twenty-five. Miss High-and-Mighty had
to be suffocating underneath her two-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater,
but she looked as cool and crisp as a magazine ad. Some women, it
seemed to
Sally, had been put on earth just for other women to hate, and
Francesca Day was definitely one of them.
of Nicky's friends. She forgot about Lloyd Byron until Miranda Gwynwyck
cornered her just as she and Nicholas were getting ready to leave.
"Congratulations, Francesca," Miranda said, "I heard the wonderful
news. You seem to have a talent for landing on your feet. Rather like a
cat. . ."
Francesca heartily disliked Nicholas's sister. She found Miranda as dry
and brittle as the lean brown twig she resembled, as
well as ridiculously overprotective of a brother old enough to take
care of himself. The two women had long ago given up the attempt to
maintain more than a surface courtesy. "Speaking of cats," she said
pleasantly, "you're looking divine, Miranda. How clever of you to
combine stripes and plaids like that. But what wonderful news are you
talking about?"
"Why, Lloyd's film, of course. Before he left, he told me he was
casting you in an important part. Everyone in the room is green with
envy."
"You actually believed him?" Francesca quirked one eyebrow.
"Shouldn't I have?"
"Of course not. I've hardly been reduced to appearing in fourth-rate
films."
Nicholas's sister tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes gleaming
with uncharacteristic brightness. "Poor Francesca. Fourth-rate, indeed.
I thought you knew everyone. Obviously you're not as au courant as you
want people to believe."
Francesca, who considered herself the most au courant person she knew,
could barely conceal her annoyance. "What do you mean by that?"
"Sorry, dear, I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just surprised you
haven't heard of Lloyd. He won the Golden Palm at Cannes four years
ago, don't you remember? The critics are simply wild about him—all his
films are marvelous allegories—and everyone is certain his new
production is going to be a huge success. He works with only the best
people."
Francesca felt a tiny thrill of excitement as Miranda went on to list
all the famous actors with whom Byron had worked. Despite her politics,
Miranda Gwynwyck was a terrible snob, and if she considered Lloyd Byron
a respectable director, Francesca decided she needed to give his offer
a bit more consideration.
Unfortunately, as soon as they left his sister's home, Nicky took her
to a private club that had just
opened in Chelsea. They stayed until
nearly one, and then he proposed again and they had another terrible
row—the absolute final one as far as she was concerned—so she didn't
get to sleep until very
late. As a result, it was well past noon before she awoke the next day,
and even then she only did so because Miranda called her to ask some
nonsensical question about a dressmaker.
Leaping out of bed, she cursed Cissy's maid for not having awakened her
earlier and then flew across the carpeted floor of the guest bedroom,
tugging open the sash on the front of her putty and salmon Natori
nightgown as she moved. She bathed quickly, then threw herself into a
pair of black wool trousers
topped with a crimson and yellow Sonia
Rykiel sweater. After applying the bare minimum of blusher,
eye makeup,
and lip gloss, then tugging on a pair of knee-high zippered boots, she
dashed off to Byron's hotel where the clerk informed her the director
had already checked out.
"Did he leave a message?" she asked, tapping her fingernails
impatiently on the counter.
"I'll check."
The clerk returned a moment later with an envelope. Francesca ripped it
open and quickly scanned the message.
Hosannas, Francesca darling!
If you're reading this, you've come to your senses, although it
was
absolutely inhumane of you not to have called before I left. I must
have you in Louisiana by this Friday at the absolute latest. Fly into
Gulfport, Mississippi, and hire a driver to take you to the Wentworth
plantation according to enclosed directions. My assistant will handle
work permit, contract, etc., when you arrive, and will reimburse you
for travel expenses as well. Wire your acceptance immediately in care
of the plantation address so I can once again draw an easy breath.
Ciao
, my beautiful new
star!
Francesca tucked the directions into her purse along with Byron's note.If you're reading this, you've come to your senses, although it
was
absolutely inhumane of you not to have called before I left. I must
have you in Louisiana by this Friday at the absolute latest. Fly into
Gulfport, Mississippi, and hire a driver to take you to the Wentworth
plantation according to enclosed directions. My assistant will handle
work permit, contract, etc., when you arrive, and will reimburse you
for travel expenses as well. Wire your acceptance immediately in care
of the plantation address so I can once again draw an easy breath.
Ciao
, my beautiful new
star!
She remembered how exquisite Marisa Bererjson had looked in both
Cabaret
and
Barry Lyndon
and how jealous she
had been when she'd seen
the films. What a perfectly wonderful way to make money.
And then she frowned as she recalled Byron's comment about reimbursing
her for her travel expenses. If only she'd gotten hold of him earlier
so he could have arranged for her ticket. Now she'd have to pay for it
herself, and she was almost certain she didn't have enough money left
in her account to cover her air fare. This ridiculous nonsense about
her credit cards had temporarily closed off that avenue, and after last
night she absolutely refused to talk to Nicky. So where was she to get
the money for a plane ticket? She glanced at the clock behind the desk
and saw that she was late for her appointment with her hairdresser.
With a sigh, she tucked her purse under her arm. She'd just have to
find a way.
* * *
"Excuse me, Mr. Beaudine." The buxom Delta flight attendant stoppednext to Dallie's seat. "Would you mind signing an autograph for my
nephew? He plays on his high school golf team. His name's Matthew, and
he's a big fan of yours."
Dallie flashed her breasts an appreciative smile and then raised his
eyes to her face, which wasn't quite
as good as the rest of her, but
was still mighty fine. "Be happy to," he said, taking the pad and pen
she handed him. "Sure hope he plays better than I've been playing
lately."
"The co-pilot told me you ran into a little trouble at Firestone a few
weeks back."
"Honey, I invented trouble at Firestone."
She laughed appreciatively and then dropped her voice so that only he
could hear. "I'll bet you've invented trouble in a lot of places
besides golf courses."
"I do my best." He gave her a slow grin.
"Look me up next time you're in L.A., why don't you?" She scribbled
something on the pad he handed back to her, ripped it off, and gave it
to him right along with another smile.
As she moved away, he shoved the paper in the pocket of his jeans where
it rustled against another piece of paper that the girl at the Avis
counter had slipped to him when he'd left Los Angeles.
Skeet growled at him from the window seat. "Bet you she don't even have
a nephew, or if she does he's never heard of you."
Dallie opened a paperback copy of Vonnegut's
Breakfast of Champions
and
began to read. He hated talking to Skeet on airplanes about as much as
he hated anything. Skeet didn't like traveling unless he
was doing it
on four Goodyear radials and an interstate highway. The few times
they'd had to abandon Dallie's newest Riviera to fly cross-country for
a tournament—like this trek from Atlanta out to L.A. and back—Skeet's
normal temper, prickly at best, turned completely sour.
Now he glowered at Dallie. "When are we getting in to Mobile? I hate
these damned planes, and don't you start in on me again 'bout the laws
of physics. You know and I know that there's nothing but air between us
and the ground, and air can't hardly be expected to hold up something
this big."
Dallie closed his eyes and said mildly, "Shut up, Skeet."
"Don't you go to sleep on me. Dammit, Dallie, I mean it! You know how
much I hate to fly. Least you could do is stay awake and keep me
company."
"I'm tired. Didn't get enough sleep last night."
"No wonder. Carousing till two in the morning and then bringing that
mangy dog back with you."
Dallie opened his eyes and gave Skeet a sideways glance. "I don't think
Astrid would like being called a mangy dog."
"Not her! The dog, you fool! Dammit, Dallie, I could hear that mutt
whining right through the wall of
the motel."
"What was I supposed to do?" Dallie answered, turning to meet Skeet's
scowl. "Leave it starving by the freeway?"
"How much did you give 'em at the motel desk before we left this
morning?"
Dallie muttered something Skeet couldn't quite hear.
"Whadja say?" Skeet repeated belligerently.
"A hundred, I said! A hundred now and another hundred next year when I
come back and find the dog
in good shape."
"Damn fool," Skeet muttered. "You and your strays. You got mangy dogs
boarded away with motel managers in thirty states. I don't even know
how you half keep track. Dogs. Runaway kids . . ."
"Kid. There was only one, and I put him on a Trailways bus the same
day."
"You and your damn strays."
Dallie's gaze slowly swept Skeet from head to toe. "Yeah," he said. "Me
and my goddamn strays."
That shut Skeet up for a while, which was exactly what Dallie had
intended. He opened his book for the second time, and three pieces of
blue stationery folded in half slipped out into his lap. He unfolded
them, taking in the border of romping Snoopys across the top and the
row of X's at the end, and then he began to read.
Dear Dallie,
I'm lying at the side of Rocky Halley's swimming pool with just
about
an inch and a half of purple bikini between myself and notoriety. Do
you remember Sue Louise Jefferson, the little girl who worked at the
Dairy Queen and betrayed her parents by going north to Purdue instead
of to East Texas Baptist because she wanted to be the Boilermakers'
Golden Girl, but then she got knocked
up after the Ohio State game by a
Buckeye linebacker instead? (Purdue lost, 21-13.) Anyway, I've been
thinking about one day a few years back when Sue Louise was still in
Wynette and she was feeling like Wynette High and her boyfriend were
getting to be 100 much for her. Sue Louise looked over at me (I'd
ordered a vanilla chocolate twist with sprinkles) and said, "I been
thinking that life's like a Dairy Queen, Holly Grace. Either it tastes
so good it gives you the shivers or it's melting all over your hand."
Life's melting, Dallie.
After coming in at fifty percent over quota for those bloodsuckers
at
Sports Equipment International, I was pulled into the office last week
by the new V.P. who told me they're promoting someone else to southwest
regional sales manager. Since that Someone Else bap-pens to be male and
barely made quota last year, I hit the roof and told the V.P. he was
looking right down the bosom of an Equal Opportunity lawsuit. He said,
"Now, now, honey. You women are too sensitive about this sort of thing.
I want you
to trust me." At which point I told him
I wouldn't trust him not to get a hard-on in an old ladies'
retirement
home. Several more heated exchanges followed, which is why I'm
currently lying beside old Number 22's swimming pool instead of living
in airports.
News on the brighter side—I Farrah Fawcetted my hair until it
looks
just short of spectacular, and the Firebird's running great. (It was
the carburetor, just like you said.)
I'm lying at the side of Rocky Halley's swimming pool with just
about
an inch and a half of purple bikini between myself and notoriety. Do
you remember Sue Louise Jefferson, the little girl who worked at the
Dairy Queen and betrayed her parents by going north to Purdue instead
of to East Texas Baptist because she wanted to be the Boilermakers'
Golden Girl, but then she got knocked
up after the Ohio State game by a
Buckeye linebacker instead? (Purdue lost, 21-13.) Anyway, I've been
thinking about one day a few years back when Sue Louise was still in
Wynette and she was feeling like Wynette High and her boyfriend were
getting to be 100 much for her. Sue Louise looked over at me (I'd
ordered a vanilla chocolate twist with sprinkles) and said, "I been
thinking that life's like a Dairy Queen, Holly Grace. Either it tastes
so good it gives you the shivers or it's melting all over your hand."
Life's melting, Dallie.
After coming in at fifty percent over quota for those bloodsuckers
at
Sports Equipment International, I was pulled into the office last week
by the new V.P. who told me they're promoting someone else to southwest
regional sales manager. Since that Someone Else bap-pens to be male and
barely made quota last year, I hit the roof and told the V.P. he was
looking right down the bosom of an Equal Opportunity lawsuit. He said,
"Now, now, honey. You women are too sensitive about this sort of thing.
I want you
to trust me." At which point I told him
I wouldn't trust him not to get a hard-on in an old ladies'
retirement
home. Several more heated exchanges followed, which is why I'm
currently lying beside old Number 22's swimming pool instead of living
in airports.
News on the brighter side—I Farrah Fawcetted my hair until it
looks
just short of spectacular, and the Firebird's running great. (It was
the carburetor, just like you said.)
Don't buy any bridges, Dallie, and
keep making those birdies.
keep making those birdies.
Love,
Holly Grace
Holly Grace
P.S. I made up some of that about
Sue Louise Jefferson, so if you
happen to see her next time you're in Wynette, don't mention anything
about the Buckeye linebacker.
Dallie smiled to himself, folded the letter into quarters, and tuckedSue Louise Jefferson, so if you
happen to see her next time you're in Wynette, don't mention anything
about the Buckeye linebacker.
it into his shirt pocket, the closest place he could find to his heart.
Chapter
6
The limousine was a 1971 Chevrolet without air conditioning. This was6
especially irksome to Francesca because the thick, heavy heat seemed to
have formed a cocoon around her. Even though her travels in the United
States had until that day been limited to Manhattan and the Hamptons,
she was too preoccupied with her own misjudg-ment to show any interest
in the unfamiliar landscape they had passed since leaving Gulfport an
hour earlier. How could she have blundered so badly in her choice of
wardrobe? She glanced down with disgust at her heavy white woolen
trousers and the long-sleeved celery-green cashmere sweater that was
sticking so uncomfortably to her skin. It was the first day of October!
Who could have imagined it would be so hot?
After nearly twenty-four hours of travel, her eyelids were drooping
from weariness and her body was covered with grime. She had flown from
Gatwick to JFK, then to Atlanta, and from there to Gulfport where the
temperature was ninety-two in the shade and where the only driver she'd
been able to hire had a car without air conditioning. Now all she could
think about was going to her hotel, ordering a lovely gin and quinine,
taking a long, cold shower, and sleeping for the next twenty-four
hours. As soon as she
checked in with the film company and found out where she was being
lodged, she'd do exactly that.
Pulling the sweater away from her damp chest, she tried to think of
something to cheer herself up until she reached the hotel. This was
going to be an absolutely smashing adventure, she told herself.
Although she had no acting experience, she'd always been a wonderful
mimic, and she would work very hard in the film so that the critics
would think she was marvelous and all the best directors would want to
hire her. She would go to wonderful parties and have a lovely career
and make absolutely scads of money. This was what had been missing from
her life, that elusive "something" she'd never quite been able to
define. Why ever hadn't she thought of it before?
She pushed her hair back from her temples with the tips of her fingers
and congratulated herself on having so neatly cleared the hurdle of
finding enough money to cover her air fare. It had been a lark,
actually, once she'd gotten over the initial shock of the idea. Lots of
socialites took their clothes to stores that bought designer labels for
resale; she didn't know why she hadn't done so months before. The money
from the sale had paid for a first-class airline ticket and settled the
most pressing of her bills. People made financial matters so
unnecessarily complex, she now realized, when all it took to solve
one's difficulties was a little initiative. She abhorred wearing last
season's clothes, anyway, and now she could begin buying an entire new
wardrobe as soon as the film company reimbursed her for her ticket.
The car turned into a long drive lined with live oaks. She craned her
neck as they rounded a bend and she saw a restored plantation house
ahead, a three-story brick and wooden structure with six fluted columns
gracefully set across the front veranda. As they drew nearer, she
noticed an assortment of twentieth-century trucks and vans parked next
to the antebellum home. The vehicles looked just as out of place as the
members of the crew who wandered about in shorts with T-shirts, bare
chests, and halter tops.
The driver pulled the car to a stop and turned to her. He had a large
round American Bicentennial button affixed to the collar of his tan
work shirt. It read "1776-1976" across the top, with "AMERICA" and
"LAND OF OPPORTUNITY" at the center and
bottom. Francesca had seen signs of the American Bicentennial
everywhere since she'd landed at JFK. The souvenir stands were loaded
with commemorative buttons and cheap plastic models of the Statue of
Liberty. When they passed through Gulfport, she'd even seen fire
hydrants painted to look like Revolutionary War minute-men. To someone
who came from a country as old as England, all this celebrating of a
mere two hundred years seemed excessive.
"Forty-eight dollar," the taxi driver announced in English so heavily
accented that she could barely understand it.
She sifted through the American currency she had purchased with her
English pounds when she'd landed at JFK and handed him most of what she
had, along with a generous tip and a smile. Then she climbed out of the
cab, taking her cosmetic case with her.
"Francesca Day?" A young woman with frizzy hair and dangling earrings
came toward her across the
side lawn.
"Yes?"
"Hi. I'm Sally Calaverro. Welcome to the end of nowhere. I'm afraid I'm
going to need you in wardrobe right away."
The driver set the Vuitton suitcase at Francesca's feet. She took in
Sally's rumpled India print cotton skirt and the brown tank top she had
unwisely chosen to wear without a bra. "That's impossible, Miss
Calaverro," she replied. "As soon as I see Mr. Byron, I'm going to the
hotel and then to bed. The only sleep I've had for twenty-four hours
was on the plane, and I'm frightfully exhausted."
Sally's expression didn't change. "Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have
to hold you up a little longer, although I'll try to make it as fast as
possible. Lord Byron moved up the shooting schedule, and we have to
have your costume ready by tomorrow morning."
"But that's preposterous. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'm going to need a few
days to get settled in. He can hardly expect me to start working the
moment I arrive."
Sally's pleasant manner slipped. "That's show biz, honey. Call your
agent." She glanced at the Vuitton suitcases and then called to someone
behind Francesca's back. "Hey, Davey, take Miss Day's stuff over to the
chicken coop, will ya?" '
"Chicken coop!" Francesca exclaimed, beginning to feel genuinely
alarmed. "I don't know what all this is about, but I want to go to my
hotel immediately."
"Yeah, don't we all." She gave Francesca a smile that bordered on being
insolent. "Don't worry, it's not really a chicken coop. The house where
we're all staying sits right next to this property. It used to be a
convalescent home a few years back; the beds still have cranks on them.
We call it the chicken coop because that's what it looks like. If you
don't mind a few cockroaches, it's not bad."
Francesca refused to rise to the bait. This was what happened, she
realized, when one argued with underlings. "I want to see Mr. Byron at
once," she declared.
"He's shooting inside the house right now, but he doesn't like being
interrupted." Sally's eyes flicked rudely over her, and Francesca could
feel her assessing the mussed clothes and inappropriate winter fabric.
"I'll take my chances," she replied sarcastically, staring at the
wardrobe mistress for one long, hard moment before she pushed her hair
back and walked away.
Sally Calaverro watched her go. She studied that tiny, slim body,
remembering the perfect makeup and the gorgeous mane of hair. How did
she manage to flip her hair like that with just a little shrug? Did
gorgeous women take hair-flipping lessons or what? Sally tugged on a
lock of her own hair, dry and frizzed at the ends from a bad perm. All
the straight males in the company would start behaving like
twelve-year-olds when they caught sight of that woman, Sally thought.
They were accustomed to pretty little starlets, but this one was
something else, with that fancy-schmansy British accent and a way of
staring at you that reminded you your parents had crossed the ocean in
steerage. During countless hours in too many singles bars, Sally had
observed that some men ate up that superior, condescending crap.
"Shit," she muttered, feeling like a fat, frumpy giantess firmly
entrenched on the wrong side of twenty-five. Miss High-and-Mighty had
to be suffocating underneath her two-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater,
but she looked as cool and crisp as a magazine ad. Some women, it
seemed to
Sally, had been put on earth just for other women to hate, and
Francesca Day was definitely one of them.
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