The Body in the Cast (13 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Cast
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Faith laughed. If Tricia wanted champagne, she'd get it. She wasn't a bossy person—Scott wouldn't care for that—but things she wanted had a way of happening—like a real wedding, not a justice of the peace, and the latest, house hunting.
The staff looked attractive and professional in black trousers, white tuxedo-front shirts, a black tie for Scott, a black rosette for the rest. Faith made a bow in the direction of her profession and wore traditional checked chef's pants, altered to fit by a clever little seamstress in nearby Arlington. At the moment, everyone also wore long white aprons with
Have Faith
emblazoned in small red script on the bibs.
The kitchen door swung open. It was Alan Morris. Faith was surprised. She hadn't heard a car pull up.
“The producers are due any minute,” he announced excitedly. “Nils is stalling Max over at the Marriott, pretending not to like the camera angle on the dailies they're watching. Evelyn's upstairs getting changed. We came together in her car and I think all four wheels were off the ground most of the time.” It was obvious his breathless state was not entirely due to anticipation, but fear. Faith had heard about Evelyn's penchant for fast sports cars; a red Mercedes convertible had been rented for the Aleford shoot. “You can plan on serving dinner in an hour and a half.”
This was what Faith had been waiting for—a timetable.
“Fine. Tricia and Scott will be in the hall to take coats and drink orders. We'll start serving the hors d'oeuvres as soon as the first guests arrive.”
“It's going to be great. Max doesn't have a clue.” Alan was as excited as a schoolboy. Apparently, it wasn't often that Max was in such a position, and Alan, for one, was enjoying it.
Thirty minutes later, Max walked through the front door, still arguing with Nils, who had made some excuse to come along. Nobody jumped out from behind the furniture, but the effect was the same. He was well and truly surprised—and touched. The nanny had brought Cordelia downstairs to show off, and Tricia reported in the kitchen, with a trace of possible wishful thinking, that the baby was absolutely beautiful. They all had a chance to confirm this when the nanny bustled in soon after to demand her dinner tray and to warm a bottle. Cordelia was beautiful. She seemed to be Evelyn's sole creation—a soft down of golden hair covered her head and drifted over her brow, where it met a pink-and-white porcelain complexion, and deep blue eyes. Pure O'Clair. Faith felt a sudden pang of longing for her own sweet baby girl, bundled in Carter's, not Baby Diors, as this exquisite creature was, but with her own inimitable Amy face. Maybe they'd decide not to shoot on Saturday and she'd have a chance to play with her kids.
Tricia was taking another tray of hot phyllo triangles and mushrooms stuffed with chorizo sausage out to the living
room. “Scott says he's going to need some more champagne and another bottle of scotch soon.” Faith headed for the pantry, saying, “Tell him to meet me in the dining room.” Tricia nodded, carefully pushing open the swinging door. She was terrified of smacking into someone. Normally unflappable, she was unhinged a little by the evening's proximity to so many celebrities.
Faith stood in the dining room, listening to the happy buzz of conversation and the crackling fire. Someone, probably Alan, was keeping it going. Scott walked in, took the bottles, smiled ingenuously and said, “You should see the outfit on Evelyn O'Clair. I wish I could spray-paint that good! I thought they used all sorts of trick photography to make them look like this on the screen, but she's even sexier in person. I wouldn't throw her out of—”
“Be quiet, you lecherous old married man, or I'll tell on you.” Faith hustled him back to his post.
She'd get a look at the dress later from the pass-through. The men were all in black tie, Tricia had told them immediately, awestruck—“and nobody's even getting married!” she'd exclaimed. Max, of course, had arrived in his perennial work attire, corduroy pants, a denim work shirt, and a baggy Irish fisherman's sweater. He'd raced upstairs and replaced the sweater with an incongruously elegant burgundy velvet smoking jacket—Evelyn's birthday gift.
Faith hoped they wouldn't linger too long over their drinks. She'd allowed an hour. Alan had stressed it was to be an early evening. Work would start again promptly the next morning at 7:30. But Tricia reported that no one showed any signs of moving toward the dining room. The catering staff was used to changes in schedule. The only problem would be the lamb. It would be a crime to serve it overdone.
At last, Tricia appeared to say that Alan had announced dinner, and described what had been going on.
“They insisted on keeping the baby downstairs and the nanny didn't seem too happy about it. Cappy Camson tried to
get her to have a glass of champagne, but she said, ‘Not while on duty, sir,' just like a cop. He must be nuts about kids. He's been playing with the baby all this time, making funny faces, and Evelyn O'Clair is laughing her head off. In a very ladylike way, of course.” Scott followed behind her with the drinks tray and as many of the dirty glasses as he had been able to squeeze on. Faith told him to return discreetly for the rest, since they'd be having coffee and liqueurs in the living room after dinner, then to come back and pour the champagne.
Everyone was seated and Faith opened the pass-through to hand Tricia the plates of steaming butternut squash soup that Niki was ladling out and garnishing with toasted pine nuts. A basket of warm, crusty spiced corn sticks sat at either end of the table.
It was a festive and attractive-looking group. Evelyn was sitting down, and if her bodice was any indication, the red satin of her dress might have been applied with a spray gun. Her hair was piled on top of her head, all the better to show off a necklace and earrings with diamonds in the Gibraltar range compared to most rocks. Cornelia was in red, too, but a deep maroon velvet. She was wearing her grandmother's garnets, Faith noted, and looked, well, like Cornelia. Marta had diverged from the scarlet theme and glistened softly in layers of silver gray silk. Caresse wore the party dress she'd worn as Pearl and was the only person who appeared bored. Her mother, sitting across from her, looked anxious and immediately drank some of her champagne when Scott poured it. Caresse was more than a full-time job, Faith imagined. Jacqueline Carroll looked very elegant in an emerald cashmere knit. Her dark hair was lustrous, loosed from its usual French twist. Faith saw Max regard her appraisingly in the candlelight. She half-expected him to pull out a lens from his pocket to see how the frame looked.
Candlelight—kind to both men and women; but more than candlelight had to be responsible for Sandra Wilson's transformation. She'd squeezed in a visit to Makeup and Wardrobe. If
Faith hadn't known who it was, she never would have recognized her. Her fine blond hair seemed to have doubled in volume and deepened in color to a rich, shimmering honey tone. It was artfully disarrayed, brushing her naked shoulders. Her dress, what there was of it, was a strapless gold sequined sheath. Her carmine lips were almost too red—suggestive of a Transylvanian repast. But the whole effect was stunning, and Cappy, sitting next to her, was in danger of ignoring his hostess at the head of the table to his other side. A danger Evelyn quickly and firmly averted by engaging him in conversation.
Arnold Rose stood up, glass in hand, “A toast—to Max, the most brilliant director in the business. Happy birthday!”
Everyone stood up and repeated, “Happy birthday,” the sentiment unmarred by what Faith was sure was Caresse's deliberate overturning of her chair as she rose. Then Cappy called out, “Speech! Speech!”
Max debated with himself for a moment, then looked at the expectant faces around the table, groaned dramatically, and grinned. “If I must.”
“You don't fool us for a minute, Maxie, you old windbag,” Arnold said affectionately.
“A phrase has been running through my mind since we started shooting. It's something Napoleon was supposed to have said: ‘What a novel my life is.'” Max paused dramatically, then continued, the cadence of his words measured, even stately. “I look at myself—at us—and think, What a movie my life is. I can't remember not looking at the world through a lens, so to speak, then running the rushes all back in my mind. Everything I see, everything I do is part of the script, and you, my friends, are forever in the cast. On-screen and off.”
He held his glass high above his head, “To all of you, I am profoundly grateful.” He drained his glass but did not sit down. Scott quickly filled it again, and in the brief interim, Max seemed to take on some of his Chillingworth character. He raised his glass, not high but outstretched toward Evelyn at the opposite end of the table, then quoted his muse in a voice that was low and pregnant with meaning, like the doctor's,
“Hawthorne wrote, ‘In most hearts, there is an empty chamber waiting for a guest.' In my heart, that chamber is full. To you, my love. Now let's eat.”
Everyone laughed. The solemnity was over. It was a typical Max moment—pathos to bathos in sixty seconds. They sat down, started to eat the soup, and the dinner was launched.
Faith closed the pass-through, but not completely. Niki raised her eyebrows, commenting, “Tricks of the trade?” She was sauteing walnuts for the brussells sprouts. It wasn't a vegetable known to cause dinner guests to stand up and cheer, but with the walnuts and the French huile de noix—walnut oil—dressing, the aroma alone made instant converts.
After ceremoniously showing Max one of the succulent crown roasts, Tricia and Scott served the table. It was all going beautifully.
Too beautifully.
Alan had either turned out to be an oenophile after Faith's own heart or had received remarkably good advice. They were drinking a 1970 Léoville Las Cases, a Médoc, with the lamb—a lot of it, Scott remarked after returning to the kitchen for yet another bottle.
In vino veritas,
and the producers were the first to start, tongues loosened.
“Maxie, Maxie,” Kit Murphy began in a slightly wheedling tone, “what would it hurt for Arnold and me to come out just for one day to see some dailies, maybe visit the set, schmooze with the crew?”
Max's face clouded slightly.
Arnold jumped in. “We're not talking interference. We're not talking reporting back to the studio. We're only talking interest, Max. We're interested.”
Before Max could answer, Caresse, fortified by several tumblers of Coca-Cola, announced, “If you're so interested, you might be interested to know I'm off the picture.”
“Caresse!” her mother admonished. “You know this isn't true.”
There was a pause as everyone waited for Max's response.
When it became apparent that he wasn't going to say anything, preferring to help himself to the large bowl of mashed potatoes left on the table and taking a generous swig of wine, Kit spoke up.
“She's right, isn't she, Max? You know the publicity has already gone out. And we agreed—these guys, Caresse, Evelyn, Cappy, they're ‘the money,' remember … .”
“Look, whose picture is this? And so long as we're reminiscing, let's not forget about the artistic-license clause.”
“We haven't forgotten about it, but what's going on?” Arnold Rose's voice was a whole lot more threatening than Kit's had been. A fascinated kitchen staff gathered close to the pass-through. They could hear every word and, by bending down low, could peer in. Arnold and Kit reminded Faith of good cop/bad cop. She wondered whether it was their standard modus operandi.
“Nothing's going on.” Max's voice was studiously casual. “I've changed a few scenes, used the baby more, but Miss Carroll is not out of the picture. And, as her charming mother said, she knows it,” he added.
“But I'm out of here. Come on, Mom.” Having stirred up her hornet's nest, Caresse was bored again. MTV was a whole lot better than this.
“Sweetheart. It's not polite to leave before dessert.” Jacqueline sounded wistful. Maybe she didn't want to miss the cake.
Caresse was at the dining room door. “Oh, Mom, for God's sake, we'll stop at Friendly's if you want. The food is a whole lot better, anyway.”
In the kitchen, Scott grabbed at his chest and pretended to pass out. Faith thought of Pix's words. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” had never seemed more apt.
“Let her leave if she wants to.” Evelyn's dismissive tone gave way to parody. “I'm sure the poor child is merely overtired and overexcited.”
Jacqueline did not fail to recognize the allusion, and flushed.
Alan reassured her, “Don't worry about it, Jackie. We'll see you on the set tomorrow morning. I'll get your driver.”
He then strode into the kitchen so quickly that the caterers had to scramble madly to get away from the pass-through to other locations. As the door swung completely in, they presented an impassive, uninterested front. “Mrs. Carroll and Caresse are leaving now,” he said to one of the chauffeurs who was sitting in the breakfast nook with the others, playing cards. The man jumped up immediately and went out the back door. Alan spoke to Faith: “Could someone help them with their wraps? And several glasses could use touching up.”

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