Seduction of Moxie (12 page)

Manhattan Rhapsody is progressing ahead of schedule. My leading man is Rex Kelly, a fella who might be slightly more engaging were he not abusing morphine so regularly. The director, Henry Childs, is marvelous, though he wasn’t exactly sold on my suggestion that my character have an epiphany, renounce her worldly possessions, and devote the rest of her life to working for charities. When he said we would need to gin up that ending a bit, I suggested that perhaps in addition to her work in soup kitchens, she could have lots of anonymous, back-alley sex with random hobos. Remarkably, he seemed to consider this possibility.

It’s astounding to me that a protagonist who embarks on a long spiritual journey is only considered interesting while she’s sucking someone’s cock. I can’t wait to see what Hollywood adds to a film of Helen Keller’s life story. Perhaps they’ll try to imply that her blindness was brought on by syphilis, the deserved precipitant of an infancy filled with immorality and depravity. Surely you know how promiscuous babies raised in the South can be.

Regardless, it’s safe to say that the ending of the film is still very much in question. At this point, I’d settle for my character to merely not end up with some rich douchebag, to coin Wil’s term of endearment. I mean, what personal progress is there in that?

Speaking of Wil, I’m concerned about her, based on your updates from Julian. I’ll try to get in touch with her before she slurs (or urinates) herself right out of the best job she’s ever had. But I find that Broadway actresses are a difficult species to get hold of, especially the ones who spend a good deal of time unconscious in random places. This habit makes them much less inclined to answer the phone.

I know it may not seem like it, but Wil really does want to be a success. I think she battles self-doubt more than she would ever admit and, worse, that self-doubt wins a hell of a lot of the time. Should you hear anything else, or actually see her, please let me know how she’s doing.

Congratulations on getting that third set. I’d love to take credit for it, but all I did was talk to the manager and tell him how fabulous you were. You’re the one who actually went through all the effort of
being
fabulous—much more difficult in my mind than just talking about it.

Keep me posted on what happens with the Kasbah. But remember that you’ve got “it,” doll, that special something that sets you apart. You have a face like an angel and a singing voice that could give a jellyfish a hard-on. I can’t imagine there’s anyone out there who wouldn’t be able to see and appreciate that fact.

Lord knows I’ve been missing both your face
and
your voice, and all the delicate goods stowed below them. I have to confess that I think about you a great deal as well. And while I can’t really say that trepidation and confusion were even remotely what I hoped to conjure in you, it warms me no end to know that thousands of miles away, you may be looking into the same night sky that I am, wishing just as much that we were in the same place.

I’d love to take this opportunity to continue fawning over you, Moxie, to tell you how absolutely amazing and beautiful I think you are, but I worry that I’ll just exacerbate your anxiety and perhaps drive you away. Do know that as much as you enjoy getting my letters, yours evoked the same feelings in me, and it cheered me at a particularly low ebb. It was more helpful than you know.

I’m not sure when I’ll get back to New York, but at this point I hope it’s soon. With at least two more weeks of shooting, I already feel as though I’ve been here for ages. All I know for certain is that I can’t leave until filming concludes, so I just try to make no mistakes in the hope that will move things along quicker.

Clitty misses you (and so does the dog).*

Thinking of you fondly,

Vi

*I simply couldn’t let you be the only one to use that joke, and I must admit that I laughed so hard when I read it in your letter that I very nearly spotted. Consider the above usage to be just a humble homage to yours.

Moxie laughed and brought the stationery to her nose, inhaling deeply. She wasn’t sure what the paper smelled like exactly, but it contained a faint trace of something floral.

When Irene suddenly walked into the apartment, Moxie self-consciously jerked the letter away from her face and tried to look nonchalant.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Moxie answered quickly. “Just reading.”

Irene cocked an eyebrow. “Did you get another letter?”

“I did.”

Irene scurried eagerly to the sofa to sit beside her. “Ooh, let’s see.”

“It’s kind of personal.”

“Personal? Are you kidding?” Irene looked more surprised than hurt.

“Well, it’s just that I wrote her—”

“You did?”

“And this is her reply.”

“Moxie, what gives? Are you and this dame getting serious?”

“No…maybe. Oh, I don’t know!” She ran her hand through her hair in frustration. “Irene, I don’t know
what’s
going on, except that I love talking to her and struggling to keep up with her breakneck quips. She’s fun and smart, and I really like the way she makes me feel.”

Irene whistled a long, descending tone. “You’re a real mess, sister. You know what you need?”

“A manicure?” She glanced at her fingernails.

“Close. You need a man.”

Moxie scoffed. “What are you talking about?”

“Look, if you’re really worried about how you feel and which path you might be taking, then you should walk down both roads before you decide, right?”

“I’m worried where your road may lead me, Irene. Perhaps into the woods at night.”

“Aw, applesauce,” Irene said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Before you decide that men aren’t your cup of tea, you need to suck on the teabag a little.”

“You use the most disturbing metaphors.”

“Well, you get my meaning. Look, I’ve got a fella who’s perfect for you.”

Moxie rolled her eyes and groaned. “Here we go.”

“He’s a friend of Tom,” she said, referring to the gangly man she sometimes went out with. “We could double-date, if you like. It doesn’t get any safer than that.”

“I’ll think about it. But first I need a pen and paper.”

Chapter Six

Moxie sat at the table with her chin in her hand, pushing the food on her plate around idly with her fork as the man across from her, her date for the night, continued to drone on. She glanced back up to him politely, feigning interest, before she looked over at Irene, who clearly was avoiding looking her in the eye.

She wasn’t sure how she had let Irene convince her that this double date was a good idea. She had insisted that Tom’s friend Noel was a wonderful match for Moxie, that he was a smart, engaging gentleman. Now she was starting to realize that Irene based her definition of a gentleman solely on where he peed. If Noel had to choose a public restroom, he was more likely to visit the one that read Gentlemen than the one marked Ladies.

She glanced back at him.

“And so I told him no dice,” he was saying as she started paying attention again. He laughed awkwardly.

“Then what happened?” Moxie asked.

“What do you mean?”

“After that, once you said no, what did he do?”

Noel seemed confused by this line of questioning. “Um, he walked away.”

“Oh. So that was the
end
of the story.”

“Well, yes,” he stammered. “I must have told it wrong.” The scraping of utensils on plates punctuated the awkward silence among them. “So, what is the name Moxie short for?”

Moxie wondered if she had misheard him. “What?”

“I’m sure it’s something exotic,” Noel said, cutting his meat with his knife and fork. “Is it something foreign?” He suddenly looked horrified. “You’re not foreign, are you?”

“I sure am,” she said. “My full name is Sharamoxatolia.” She made sure to trill her tongue as much as possible.

“Goodness! Where are you from?” Noel was plainly stricken by the notion that Moxie might hail from some barbaric locale beyond the States, and she found it telling that he made no attempt to hide his rampant prejudice. If Violet had been there, she would have mocked him mercilessly for his jaundiced eye.

“Istanbul.” Moxie lacked both the will and the desire to stop making him uncomfortable. Who else might he find threatening in a foreign sort of way? It came to her in a flash. “Just like Theda Bara.” She watched excitedly as his face registered the dismay she had hoped for at the mere mention of the famous film star known as “The Vamp.” Just a few years prior, Hollywood moguls had labored to ensure that Bara represented everything they thought was wrong with Eastern countries, and clearly Noel had been paying attention.

“Wow,” Noel said. “Do you know her?”

Irene looked disgusted. “I thought Theda Bara was from Cincinnati.” She looked to Tom, who, as usual, said absolutely nothing.

Moxie ignored Irene’s contribution to the conversation. “Of
course
I know her. Our parents were friends. Theda showed me how to fry cats.”

Noel’s face seemed to drain completely of its already pale color. Moxie could barely keep a straight face.

“And she was why I got a bone in my nose,” she added, taking a sip of water. “All the neighborhood girls wanted to be like her.”

“They do that in Istanbul?”

“Noel,” Irene finally interjected, “jump on the trolley and stop being so gullible.”

He looked at Moxie suspiciously. “Oh, I get it. You never had a bone in your nose at all, did you?”

She put her hands up in surrender. “You got me. We didn’t pierce our noses, but every summer solstice, we did sacrifice a goat to Kreplik, the god of thunder.”

“Excuse us, fellas.” Irene stood suddenly. “Miss Turkish Delight and I need to powder our noses. We’ll be right back.”

The intense focus in Irene’s glare impressed Moxie, who rose to follow her toward the ladies’ room. Just before they went inside, Irene spun to face her and unloaded. “What are you doing? You’re toying with Noel like a cat with a mouse. This is
not
what we agreed to.”

Moxie had reached her breaking point. “Yeah yeah yeah, ‘sampling the tea.’ Well, let me tell you something, sister. This guy’s teabag tastes like ashes and ass crack, and I’m sending it right back to the kitchen.”

“You’re not giving him a chance.”

“Are you
kidding
me? If I wasn’t giving him a chance, I wouldn’t have listened to his sixty tedious stories, not one of them with a beginning or end. I would have gone home after he implied that all women in show business are whores. And I most certainly would not have pretended
not
to be livid when he told me that I had no right to mourn my father’s passing because Jesus knows best and the Lord is my daddy now. I’ve given this man more of a chance than he will ever deserve over the course of his lifetime. I can’t believe I’m wasting my night off with this…this douchebag.” Vi was right. That really was the perfect word.

Irene seemed stunned, her anger defused. “Okay, so this particular tea is a little bitter. But just because you have one bad mouthful, don’t throw out the teacup.”

“But I shouldn’t have to keep slinging it back either.” Feeling empowered, Moxie stood up straight. “I’m leaving.”

“Wait, you can’t just leave us all here at the restaurant. What will Tom and I say to Noel?”

“Tell him I don’t feel well and need to go home. It’s all true.”

“But we didn’t even get to dessert.”

“You know, there are a million things I’d rather be doing than sitting here trying to force something that doesn’t feel right. I appreciate you trying to help me get my head straight, Irene, but this isn’t making anything better.” She smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you at home.”

Moxie walked out without even a backward glance.

“Shit,” Irene muttered. Moxie was right about Noel. He certainly was irritating and dull. But she had hoped Moxie simply needed to get back on the horse, so to speak—back out into the dating world—and that might end this troubling obsession with a strange woman living on the other side of the world.

She shook her head and tried to imagine what it would be like to meet someone and, in the course of a single evening, be so powerfully drawn to them that she completely lost her marbles. That had certainly never happened to her, but she wasn’t convinced that it couldn’t. And as much as she was worried about Moxie and concerned about her choices, she couldn’t help but feel a small sense of wonder at the sheer romanticism of her situation.

Of course Moxie and Violet would probably never see each other again. Things never happened like that, at least not to anyone she knew. She just needed to be there for Moxie. Maybe Noel was a complete washout, but New York was a big place and must have a fella or two who could make Moxie feel the way Violet did.

Irene might have been a lot of things, but one of her
good
adjectives was
devoted.
She’d try to make sure Moxie worked through all this. And she’d do her best to ensure that Moxie received all the consideration, respect, and class she was due.

She clapped her hands and turned to go tell Tom and Noel that Moxie’s period had come unexpectedly; she’d just bled through the ass of her dress and had therefore gone home.

*

Home from the studio earlier than she expected, Violet walked eagerly to the front desk, wondering what Lyle might be doing—perhaps conspicuously sporting a dildo that protruded from his forehead as though he were a plump sex unicorn. She was thoroughly disappointed to see him doing nothing of the sort and wearing a well-pressed suit jacket and tie.

“Good afternoon, Miss London.”

“Hello, Captain. I was wondering if I got any mail today.”

“Actually, you did.” He turned and poked through a small stack of papers, retrieving a letter in a familiar-looking envelope. “Here you are.”