It had only been a few weeks, but Scarlett couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t know Mrs. Amy Amberson — the longest-staying Hopewell guest of recent record, with her tall, yoga-taut former-dancer body, her stories of the disco and punk scenes in New York, and her endless tea drinking. Once you entered her world, you forgot where you came from. You forgot there was any world of which she was not a part. She made sure of it.
Mrs. Amberson had lived in the Empire Suite for ten weeks over the summer, and had immediately enslaved Scarlett on arrival. (Well, not enslaved. She paid well. But it still felt like enslavement.) Scarlett had come to accept that Mrs. Amberson was going to live with them forever, when, just a week before, she announced that she had accumulated too much stuff to be confined to the Empire Suite any longer. It was time to set down more permanent roots. A friend was leaving the city, and she was going to take over her apartment. She’d been moving for three days now. Though out of the building, Mrs. Amberson was hardly out of Scarlett’s life. She was a bit like malaria in this respect — once you had her, you never really got rid of her.
Which is why Scarlett was standing on the corner of Sixty-seventh and Central Park West when her cab pulled up. And when Mrs. Amberson threw her long body across the backseat and yelled, “Get in!” … Scarlett got in.
Mrs. Amberson was dressed in a sleek black day dress, one that showed off every inch of her toned frame and smoothly muscled arms. Her exact age was unknown. She had to be older than fifty, that much Scarlett knew. But she seemed to defy time by eating a lot of seaweed and brown rice and working out two hours a day, keeping her dancer’s physique in perfect working order. Her short hair — shiny, light colored brown with a stripe of chestnut cut through the center — was perfectly spiked. She was dressed for some kind of business.
The cab shot off with such force that Scarlett’s head snapped back against the seat. They headed south along Central Park. Mrs. Amberson had gotten much more fidgety now that she had stopped smoking, and she repeatedly flicked the window switch. Each flick sent a burst of hot air into the backseat.
“Where are we going?” Scarlett asked, wincing as her curls were blown in her eyes.
“To Perestroika. A fabulous new Russian place. Very Soviet chic with a devilish czarist twist.”
“Why?”
“A client, O’Hara. A new one.”
“Two clients?” Scarlett said. “How will we cope?”
The Amy Amberson Agency (four weeks old) had just one client, and that client was Spencer. It was the AAA that had sent him on the Day of the Sock and all over to the doomed auditions he’d been on in the last month.
“Chelsea Biggs,” Mrs. Amberson said, ignoring the remark. “Ingénue of that new musical, The Flower Girl.”
“I’ve seen the commercial,” Scarlett said. “Does she sing that song ‘Pick Me’?”
“That’s the one. This is Chelsea.”
She reached into her bag and produced an eight-by-ten photo with a résumé printed on the back. Scarlett had to clutch it with both hands to keep it from flapping in the gust of air that came out of the suddenly opened window. The picture was of a girl, very pretty, but very generic-looking, as if she had flattened her every feature with some kind of computer program that makes you into the average ideal: straight hair, big teeth, dimples, big brown eyes. A boring kind of pretty, Scarlett decided. That’s what it was.
Scarlett flipped the picture over and tried to read the small print of Chelsea’s perfectly prepared résumé. Chelsea had a massive list of leading roles in musicals at regional theaters, at least a dozen television commercials, and ten major print ad campaigns. Her training section was terrifying — eleven years of training in five styles of dance, ten years of singing training, eight years of acting training. Just looking at this piece of paper made Scarlett’s ego curl into a tiny ball for protection.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about The Flower Girl,” Mrs. Amberson said. “They’re calling it the worst musical in twenty years. No one thought it would make it out of previews. But it stumbled along — sometimes, things do. The worst ideas sometimes manage to find traction. I honestly believe the only thing that works in the entire show is Chelsea. This girl holds that train wreck together.”
She tapped the photo for emphasis.
“The problems are too serious for her to hold it together for long. But she has star quality. A little birdie named Billy told me that she landed the part without representation — quite a feat — and now she is looking for an agent.”
That would be Billy Whitehouse, an old friend of Mrs. Amberson’s who had gone on to become one of the most famous acting coaches in New York. Billy had literally written the book on voice work and was highly respected all around Broadway. It was probably Mrs. Amberson’s connection with Billy that made so many people want to sign with her.
“That show may last two more weeks, maybe three, and then the jaws of hell will open and drag it back into its depths. Then she will need work. Which means she will need an agent. And Billy has waxed rhapsodic about the Amy Amberson Agency to her. We have a real shot.”
“Why did you need me for this?” Scarlett asked.
“Because Chelsea is fifteen. You are fifteen! You can relate.”
“She’s also on Broadway. I can’t relate to that.”
“Of course you can, O’Hara. Ah … here we are. And there they are.”
They were on Fifty-third Street. Mrs. Amberson pointed at two sunglassed females on the sidewalk. She tapped on the driver’s window.
“Go around the block, please.”
He shrugged and continued right past the restaurant.
“What are we doing?” Scarlett asked.
“Do you want them to think that this is the only thing we had scheduled all day? Have you learned nothing in your time with me? We can’t have it seem that we had nothing better to do than to come here. We must always seem like we have come from a busy morning, full of appointments, even if we have not. Once more around the block will have us getting there just two to three minutes after them. That is enough to make us look busy, without making them wait too long.”
Mrs. Amberson managed to make herself sound winded when they got out of the cab.
“Chelsea! Miranda! It’s been an absolute madhouse today, but we’re here now. This is Scarlett, my right hand … ”
Chelsea Biggs wore no makeup. Her skin was pale, but had a soft glow, speaking of lots of exercise and facials. She wore a red sundress with an aggressive pattern of interlocking circles. Her mother wore a nearly identical dress, but in a plain red.
“I thought Russian for lunch,” Mrs. Amberson said, leading them inside. “The Russians are the true masters of theater, after all. It seemed appropriate. By the way, I love the dress, Chelsea, I appreciate a bold pattern. Come now, in we go … ”
The restaurant was like a cement bunker with exposed steel beams, covered in bright Futurist art — big red paintings of raised fists and tractors and sewing machines. But the seats were oversize and plush. They were seated at a large table near the window, Mrs. Amberson and Scarlett on one side, Chelsea and her mom on the other. The menus were stiff, heavy pieces of cardboard with single sheets of paper tabbed to them. Mrs. Biggs stared at hers with kind of distasteful curiosity, like she’d been handed a crime scene photo.
“Russian?” she said. “We don’t eat Russian.”
“Well,” Mrs. Amberson said, “first time for everything. So many things in life we just don’t think to do. It’s always been my personal goal not to miss anything.”
Chelsea sat high and straight in her seat, smiling even as she read the contents of her menu. Scarlett got the feeling that Chelsea was programmed to smile at all times, in all situations, even at nothing, in the dark, with no one around. Mrs. Biggs scowled at the menu for a moment.
“I guess you could have the smoked salmon with no goat cheese,” she finally said to Chelsea. “Would they make that omelet with whites only? I don’t know what most of these things are … Maybe you could have the veal appetizer. Do you think that’s small?”
This question was to Mrs. Amberson, who was watching this with a fixed smile, as if this was the most delightful exchange she’d ever heard.
“I am sure it is reasonably sized,” she said.
“Reasonably? Is it under 500 calories? Aren’t they supposed to put the calories on the menu?”
“In chain restaurants,” Mrs. Amberson said. “Not in an establishment like this.”
This was not good enough for Mrs. Biggs. She shook her head.
“Chelsea’s on a strict fifteen hundred a day limit and she’s already had … what have you had?”
“Four seventy-five,” Chelsea replied automatically.
“Four seventy-five? What did you eat this morning?”
“I had to have a protein smoothie before school. I was dying after the gym.”
“Why didn’t you just have a protein bar?” Mrs. Biggs asked. “Those are only two hundred.”
“I was really hungry. We did an extra twenty minutes of weights. I made up for it, I promise.”
“Promises won’t help you if you put on twenty pounds.”
This entire exchange flew past like a horrible and wholly unexpected burst of gunfire. There was no anger in it. It was so repulsive that Scarlett had to look down at her menu, where her eyes landed on a description of some blintzes with sour cream. Oh, she was so having that … both because she wanted it, and just to make Mrs. Biggs stare. They were enemies now.
A man came over with a basket of beautiful breads. Scarlett was starving and leaned over to see which one she wanted, but Miranda Biggs was already shaking her head.
“No,” she said. “No bread here.”
“I haven’t had bread in a year and a half,” Chelsea said, as if this was understood everywhere to be a kind of accomplishment.
It took another ten minutes of examining and discussing the menu before anything else could happen. Scarlett’s stomach was grumbling. Having seen the basket, the bread was all she could think about. She wanted one of those dark slices of black bread. It would be amazing with some nice, salty butter. She wanted that so much. If Scarlett was going to keep her mind off Eric, she was going to need some food to do it.
“If you’ll allow me,” Mrs. Amberson said. “I am highly sensitive to dietary constraints. I’ll order you some pickled fishes and lean proteins, with very limited dairy and carbohydrates. Now, Chelsea, how do you feel about caviar?”
“That’s fish eggs,” Mrs. Biggs said with a shiver. “And pickled fish? Still, at least it’s not cooked. No oil.”
The bread guy passed just close enough for Scarlett to reach over and extract a slice of black bread. This encouraged him, and he plunked down a large bowl of butter pats, all molded with the embossed shape of the hammer and sickle. Chelsea stared at the butter, possibly because of the design, or possibly because she hadn’t seen butter in a while. There was longing in her eye. She kept looking at it all through the agonies of ordering, and then she snapped right back into her straight-backed perky setting.
“We’re talking to several agents,” Mrs. Biggs said. “We have meetings set up with most of the big agencies. But Billy Whitehouse said we should meet with you.”
“I’ve read all his books,” Chelsea cut in. “He’s amazing.”
“Isn’t he?” Mrs. Amberson said with a smile. “Billy’s an old friend. We go way back. We were contemporaries. I was a performer then, and he was just developing his system. I like to think I played my role in that.”
To Scarlett’s knowledge, Mrs. Amberson’s role in helping Billy develop his famous voice system was letting him sleep on her couch for a few weeks about twenty-five years before. For this accommodation, he had paid dearly. Mrs. Amberson dropped his name in every possible circumstance, and it carried a lot of weight.
“Billy saw Chelsea perform and came backstage to speak to her,” Mrs. Biggs said. “He called her an exceptional vocal talent. Which she is.”
“My strong point is my voice,” Chelsea said. “We’re trying to bring my dance up to the same level.”
“Mostly contemporary,” Mrs. Biggs added, “but she also does ballet once a week, just to keep in condition. Plus she has a personal trainer once a week to work on strength training.”
“Very impressive,” Mrs. Amberson said, but her voice sounded a bit dry. She took a sip of water and watched Mrs. Biggs from over the top of the glass. “Tell me, how do you manage it?”
“Chelsea goes to the Professional Children’s School,” Mrs. Biggs replied. “Or she will when she starts next week. They have a flexible schedule for, well, professionals.”
“My schedule will be pretty regular,” Chelsea replied. “I go to the gym at six in the morning, three days a week. Then I’ll go to school from eight thirty to two, Monday through Friday. Except on Wednesday I’ll leave at noon because I have to do a matinee at two that day.”
“Flexible schedule,” Mrs. Biggs said again. “It really is an amazing school. I was looking at the contact list for her class, and you should see some of the names on there. We sat there picking them off from television shows, theater, movies. It’s so exciting now that Chelsea can be with people who are … like her. Chelsea’s always been very motivated. All of this is her idea. She always wanted to be an actress. It’s all her idea. If she wanted to quit tomorrow, well, I’d have a heart attack, but … ”
Chelsea gave a little laugh on that.
“ … but if Chelsea didn’t want to do this anymore … then, you know, we’d talk about it, and if she really didn’t want to do it … but that would never happen.”
“Right,” Chelsea said plainly. “This is my life.”
“It really is,” Mrs. Biggs said. “It’s her whole life. And obviously, we’ve invested a lot into her success.”
“That,” Mrs. Amberson said, “I believe.”
There was a pause as the food arrived. Chelsea examined her fish to make sure no one had hidden cheese or candy bars or lumps of solid fat under the slender, pink strips.
“Of course, I understand the appeal of the big agency,” Mrs. Amberson said. “You absolutely must meet with some. Absolutely.”
Mrs. Biggs helped Chelsea with her fish exploration, lifting up a corner with her knife. She grimaced and made a “eat that if you want” face. She hadn’t ordered anything for herself except a cup of coffee.
“The problem, of course,” Mrs. Amberson continued, “is that they have many, many clients, and if you’re not one of their biggest, they tend to forget that you are alive. You hear such horror stories. A boutique agency like mine is much more concerned with nurturing clients and building careers. I work with people like Billy to guide performers in the right direction … ”
Scarlett drifted a bit as she ate her cheese-and-sour-cream blintzes. Her brain traveled to an imaginary class at NYU, where Eric stood in front of a room of fellow performers, smiling, introducing himself as they worked around the room. His class was probably at least half made up of girls. Probably very pretty ones. Maybe ones like Chelsea who never ate bread. Hungry, crazy, ridiculously attractive girls who could act, who would take one look at that country boy with his honest face and natural skill … They would size him up and mark him for their own. They would fight for him. Every day, another one would throw herself in his path, taking advantage of his Southern manners, suggesting extended kissing scenes in plays where they weren’t even required. And with every passing day, Scarlett would be more and more forgotten, until she was Scarlett Who? That girl from the hotel? The one who was fifteen, not an actress, the one who ate bread almost every day?
“Of course,” Mrs. Amberson was saying, “Scarlett here is my secret weapon … ”
Scarlett blinked. The whole mental episode evaporated.
“ … and she goes to that wonderful school on the Upper West Side … what’s it called?”
“Frances Perkins,” Scarlett answered, still reeling a bit from what she had just imagined.
This caused Mrs. Biggs to sit up a little straighter.
“Isn’t that funny!” she said. “That’s where Max is going!”
“My brother,” Chelsea explained. “We’re all moving from Binghamton, so he’s transferring.”
“It’s a good school, isn’t it?” Mrs. Biggs asked. “We looked at the private schools, but Frances Perkins was even more highly recommended than most of them. And, obviously, the private schools are all expensive.”
Mrs. Amberson leaned over to refill Chelsea’s glass with sparkling water.
“What a remarkable coincidence!” she said. “It’s always good to have someone on the inside to show you the ropes.”
“He’s pretty good at figuring out ropes,” Chelsea said. “He can be … ”
“He’s very bright,” Mrs. Biggs cut in. “But he won’t know anyone there, and he can be very … ”
“Spirited?” Mrs. Amberson offered, when both the Biggses ran out of words. “Like so many young men of talent and intelligence? I understand completely.” Her voice had dropped that one half-tone that took it from smoothly polite to conspiratorial. That tone reverberated up Scarlett’s spine, signaling danger. “I have a little idea, just a little one, purely outside of our discussion here. I’ve seen your wonderful show, but Scarlett hasn’t. Maybe she and Max could go together. It would be good for him to have a familiar face on his first day. Scarlett could tell him about his new school, give him a little advice.”
Scarlett was a bit surprised to hear herself being farmed out this way — but it was Chelsea who seemed the most outraged by this idea. She tried to control herself, but Scarlett caught the look of utter disgust she flashed across the table. As if the mere idea of Scarlett going to her show with her brother was just taking this whole thing a bit too far. The expression faded within seconds, as she regained control of her facial muscles. But Scarlett had seen it.
Mrs. Biggs, however, latched on to this idea with all enthusiasm.
“I’m sure we could arrange some tickets to The Flower Girl, couldn’t we, Chelsea? You have loads of unused comps!”
“Sure,” Chelsea said, her voice sounding a little hollow. “Whenever you want. I have some for tomorrow’s matinee if you want.”
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Amberson said. “That’s settled then! At the very least, that’s a connection we can set up, no matter what happens professionally.”
Scarlett was about to thank her for letting them all have a say in the matter, but restrained herself.
“Now,” Mrs. Amberson said, “shall we be daring and order a crème brûlée and four spoons? We don’t have to finish it, of course, though they are quite small and think of the protein … but let’s make a decadent gesture. I insist!”