The Ghost of Greenwich Village: A Novel (29 page)

“So you’re the lady of the hour, huh?”

“I guess.”

“Just want to tell you, I know we haven’t seen each other since the day of your tryout, but I’ve always felt bad about not being able to warn you about the bad fish that day,” said Lark, twisting her long cornrows absently. “But I had that cold—remember? I couldn’t smell a thing. If they’d refused to hire you over it, I would have felt terrible.”

“That’s sweet of you, but it was my own fault. Anyway, they hired me and …”

“The rest is history,” finished Lark, picking up an enormous powder brush and running it across the back of her hand. “So, Parminder, did you tell Eve what Giles wanted you to do with the makeup?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Parminder tersely, sweeping deep gray shadow into the creases of Eve’s lids. “It’s beneath mentioning.”

“What? What are you talking about?” asked Eve, turning to look at Lark.

“Hold still,” said Parminder.

“Giles wanted her to paint brown stripes across your cheekbones—you know, like in the newspaper.”

“You’re not going to, are you?” asked Eve, pulling away from the brush. Parminder grabbed Eve’s chin and pulled her back into position.

“Don’t worry. She’s not,” replied Lark. “I told Giles we
couldn’t light you right if you were half my color and half your color. Total lie, but he bought it.”

“Whew.”

“But between you and me, he’s really keyed up,” continued Lark, checking her teeth in the mirror. “Been talking about nothing but you. So, if I were you, I would give a great interview this morning. Should be no problem, right? You’ve written enough of ’em.”

   • • •

To Eve’s surprise, the famous “green room,” where guests waited before heading to the set, wasn’t green at all, but soft mauve. Several low upholstered chairs sat in a semicircle facing a big-screen monitor on the far wall. A small conference table held a beautiful spread: dainty croissants, strawberry butter, imported jams, fruit salad, and mini Danish of every variety. She couldn’t imagine eating, but some cold water sounded good. Eve picked up an enormous pitcher. Her hand shook as she tipped it over a glass and a good slosh of the water spilled, soaking an entire platter of tiny turnovers. One of which had a hand on it. A hand belonging to Bliss Jones.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” said Eve, looking up.

Bliss looked down at her, her radiant beauty even more startling close up. Eve saw herself, pulled and distorted, in the glossy irises. She held out a napkin.

Bliss held her gaze steadily for a moment and raised one perfect eyebrow. Then she popped a green grape into her mouth, turned on her heel, and left.

   • • •

How could she ever have thought the studio was chilly? The last time she’d been here, it had seemed as dark and cold as the far reaches of the solar system. Now, in the studio’s “library” setting, the bright lights made her feel like she was sitting directly
on the sun. Tiny beads of sweat broke out on her upper lip. Eve craned her neck around the astronaut-like robotic camera to her left. She could see Bliss on the couch some thirty feet away, tossing to Tex Franklin.

“After the weather, what America has been waiting for: my exclusive interview with the young woman who caught the Stiletto, our own Eve Weldon. You won’t want to miss this.”

A movement caught Eve’s eye: Mark appeared next to one of the cameras. He waved and mouthed,
Sorry I’m late
. She waved back, relieved. He gave her a thumbs-up sign.

As soon as the stage manager gave the all clear, Bliss was off the couch like a hare, clicking her way across the shiny black linoleum. She sat down across from Eve, nodded briskly at no one in particular, and began looking through Quirine’s script. Bliss’s personal makeup artist appeared to touch up the anchor’s face. Bliss’s expression didn’t budge as she was prodded, painted, and dabbed. Eve thought of show dogs staring resolutely at some fixed point on the horizon while handlers cleaned inside their ears and under their tails. Bliss ran a red pen through the pages of questions, scribbling notes in the margin.

The stage manager, wiry and sporting assertive sideburns, lifted his chin at Eve and pulled off his headset. “Hey there,” he whispered, shaking her hand. “I’m Sam. You okay?”

Eve liked his smile. “Sure.” Truth was, she was starting to feel sick. She tried to pretend that there were only she, Bliss, and Sam in the world. That there weren’t millions of people watching.

“Knock ’em dead,” said Sam before shouting to the room at large, “Okay, people. Places! Weather cut-in is over in five. Four, Three, Two …” On “One,” he pointed silently to Bliss. Eve saw the intro pop up in the TelePrompTer.

Very nice
, thought Eve.
Thanks, Quirine!

Bliss turned her laser-bright eyes on Eve along with a smile that almost made her swoon. “How wonderful to have you here this morning. Of course, we work together every day, but it’s truly marvelous to see you under these circumstances.”

“Um—thank you, Bliss,” Eve replied, trying to keep from betraying her utter surprise at these words, considering they’d crossed paths exactly twice, both times unpleasant.

“Now—set the scene for us.” Bliss leaned forward into Eve’s
airspace, cocking her head almost coquettishly. “You were walking your dog, I understand, at about two o’clock yesterday morning, when you heard footsteps coming up behind you. What happened next?”

Eve cleared her throat quietly. She knew what was expected of her and she was determined to provide it. “Well, Bliss, I turned around and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.…” Eve launched into the interview she always hoped her guests would give, answering each question fully, passionately, but stopping in time to let Bliss direct the conversation. Bliss took Eve through the moment when she realized she was face-to-face with the Stiletto, how it felt to have the knife in her back, the fury she’d felt when Highball was kicked, and the surge of strength that allowed her to topple her attacker.

“This man was practically twice your size. How did you manage it?” asked Bliss, giving the impression she found Eve more fascinating than any other person in the history of the world.

“I think I simply surprised him,” Eve replied. “He was holding me at knifepoint; he assumed I was powerless. So when I turned on him suddenly with my dog’s business in a bag, well … I think it was the last thing he was expecting.” She very much wanted to say more, to explain what she’d learned from Dr. Tang, but to do that would mean making Bliss look bad. And she wasn’t going to do that. This morning was all about job security.

Bliss smiled for a fraction of a second, almost like a muscle contraction. She regarded Eve carefully. It was the look Bliss gave before going off script.

“Eve, I wonder if I could ask you to do something?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like you to stand up”—
Stand up
?—“and demonstrate for us exactly how you got the Stiletto on his back. It just seems so incredible.”

Eve, startled, remained mute for a moment. Asking a guest to do something physical, something that hadn’t even been discussed
in the pre-interview? This was unheard of. Sam’s eyes were wide. The robotic cameras pulled back, giving her space.

“All right,” she managed. She rose to her feet and smoothed her dress. She looked around the room. “Well, let’s see. He was behind me and I sort of …” How was she going to do this? Then she spied the “library’s” coat stand, a few feet behind her chair. She walked over and stood with her back to it. She took a deep breath, turned abruptly, threw it to the ground, and straddled it, narrating as she went. The cameras spun wildly, trying to keep up.

At first she felt foolish, but a gust of exhilaration carried her through. When she was done, she pulled herself up off the ground with as much composure as she could muster and returned to her seat. She felt like she’d passed some kind of test. She knew her segment had been given a healthy seven minutes, and now that Bliss’s little deviation was over, she planned to enjoy every one she had left. She was especially excited about setting her story in a larger context to help other crime victims—something Quirine had suggested during their pre-interview.

It was an idea Bliss, a longtime advocate for victims’ groups, would love, and she was leading Eve right there. They finished the part about the police hailing her as a hero, which provided a perfect segue to the larger issue of victims performing as a vital function of law enforcement.

But then Bliss shuffled the rest of Quirine’s questions beneath a sheaf of scrawled notes.

“A remarkable story, Eve, truly. Now, shifting gears a little. We have some examples here of how the press has covered your bravery. Let’s show them to everyone at home.”

Eve glimpsed on the floor monitor what the audience was seeing: the photo of her winking in war paint, and more pictures taken outside her apartment, in which she was wearing her kimono and slippers. There was even a shot of her—looking captivated and incredulous—seeing herself on the front page for the first time.

“It seems to me you’re quite enjoying this moment in the sun,” said Bliss. “And who could blame you? So I thought we could talk for a moment about the strange—and limited—nature of sudden celebrity. Your thoughts?”

Eve stared at her and Bliss stared back. Dead air hung heavy between them.

“Let me put it a different way,” Bliss began, her voice lilting but insistent. “I wonder if you could talk a bit about the temptation to prolong this moment in the limelight. You know, from your perspective as a behind-the-scenes
staffer
.”

Eve didn’t like Bliss’s condescending tone. She glanced at Mark, who seemed to be chewing the inside of his cheek. She remembered Steve that night at the bar:
They never mention writers on the air. Ever
.

“You there?” asked Bliss.

Eve felt herself flush as she remembered the look Bliss had given her at the production meeting when she barged in to complain about the Dr. Tang interview. The one that felt like a punch to the gut.

“Actually,” said Eve, her voice low, “I’m a writer.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mark shook his head wildly. Eve cleared her throat and averted her eyes from him. “I’m a writer here at
Smell the Coffee
. Not a ‘staffer.’ A writer.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” replied Bliss, whose arteries seemed to be hardening before the world’s eyes.

“Well.” Eve sat up straight. “I’d just like to set the record straight. I’m a writer here, one of seven. And what we do—as you know, Bliss—is write everything that you and Hap say.” A red glow spread over Bliss’s face like a rash, and Sam took a step backwards as if he’d been pushed. “We write the introductions to the segments, we interview the guests the day before you do, and then we write up questions for you to ask. I don’t think people at home know that.”

Eve pulled a piece of folded paper out of her breast pocket. She kept waiting for Bliss to interrupt her, but she didn’t. “There’s Mark and Archie and Cassandra and Steve and Russell and Quirine. Quirine is the one who wrote this segment,” continued Eve. “She did a terrific job and I actually have her questions right here. I think she’s hit on some very interesting points that we should talk about with the—” Eve glanced at her watch. “Minute we have left.”

Bliss remained frozen. Eve could hear Giles pushing his way into the studio, and striding across it muttering as loudly as he dared to without the floor microphones picking it up. Mark shook his head violently and made slicing motions across his throat.

“So let’s see here. Quirine came up with a great question … what was it?” Eve unfolded the piece of paper, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Giles had arrived and was waving urgently at his star anchor. “Ah, here it is. Number seven: ‘What is the message of your story? What would you like others to take from it?’ Now, I think that’s a great question. And here’s what I would say: Seize opportunity. I didn’t have size on my side the other night, or strength. But I had the element of surprise and I used it.” She suddenly thought of Donald dropping dead on a beautiful afternoon, a life, and career, cut short. “A lot of times, we don’t have any choice about things, but when we do have a choice, we shouldn’t be afraid …” Here she remembered Klieg’s little speech over lunch on the patio. “To be bold, I guess.”