Kiss of Death

FOR THE NEXT month, events at Love of My Life were reasonably calm—that is to say we didn’t have more than one case of hysteria per week. Jay Garwood had turned out to be a team player, and seemed to be getting along with his fellow actors. At least I wasn’t hearing any complaints.

Judging from the e-mails that were pouring in, Penny’s new TV show was doing well. The Better Living Channel had begun with a discouragingly small number of viewers, but Penny Wise was getting good publicity. A service that charted viewer numbers showed that more and more people were watching the Better Living Channel. I joked to Penny that she was doing for Better Living what The Sopranos had done for HBO, and without whacking anybody.

Chet remained in Arizona with his father, and the news from there was good; Richard Thompson was getting stronger every day. Chet had been able to spend time with his brother before Commander David Thompson had had to return to Guam.

There had been a subtle change in my relationship with Chet. From calling me once or twice every day, our phone conversations had dwindled to twice a week. The words were still warm—our affection for each other was real—but I knew that my not being able to have children mattered to Chet. I understood. It was an obstacle—difficult, perhaps impossible, to get past.

Concentrating on work, I had written a small part for Monica, the girl whose mother slapped her. She’d play a friend of the child we picked to be Gareth’s daughter.

Betty came into my office while Tommy and I were watching the video of that episode. Noticing Monica on the screen, Betty leaned on the desk to watch it with us.

“Having an unusual look can be better than just being pretty,” I said. “We see hundreds of young girls with those model perfect features, and it’s sometimes hard to tell them apart.”

When the episode concluded, Tommy turned off the set. He stood up and stretched, working a kink out of his shoulder. “I’ve got a lunch date at Twenty-One,” he said. “You two want me to bring you back anything?”

She made a “hmmm” sound before she answered. “I wonder if by giving little Monica that part you’re really helping her.”

“She’ll have a good reel to show other producers.” But as I said that, I began to wonder if I might be giving Monica false hope. What if she couldn’t get any other jobs? That hadn’t occurred to me.

Betty was watching me, as though she was reading my mind. “I’ve seen you take in strays,” she said, “like your cat, like Jay Garwood, and the stunt double who was killed a few months ago. Now this little girl with the rotten mother. You can’t protect everyone, Morgan. Sometimes strays turn on the people who try to save them.” As though making an effort to shake off her dark attitude, she forced a smile. “Maybe I should go back on the antidepressants.”

“I probably just need to get laid,” she joked. As she was leaving, she paused at the door and said, “I didn’t mean that you should worry about little Magic turning on you. He’s an angel in fur. Generally speaking—at least in my experience—animals are more trustworthy than people.”

WHILE AT THE studio things were proceeding smoothly, Nancy wasn’t doing so well. Usually the calmest and most rational person in any group, by her own admission she had lost her cool in a confrontation the day before with Veronica Rose.

“She was waiting for Arnold. They were going to have lunch with Didi, after Didi’s riding lesson. We were alone, and Veronica used the opportunity to taunt me about how close she and Arnold are.”

Nancy made a kind of “grrrrr” sound expressing her anger and frustration, then mimicked Veronica’s breathy, little-girl tone: “‘Arnold is soooo sweet. Last night, after Didi was asleep, he lighted a fire in his bedroom fireplace, and scattered pillows in front of it. We lay down on the floor, on that bed of pillows—just like we used to do when we were first married. As a surprise, Arnold brought home a tin of my favorite caviar, Beluga—that’s the real caviar, the black kind. We drank champagne, and we fed spoonfuls of caviar to each other.’”

In her natural voice, Nancy said, “The scene on the floor with the pillows and the champagne—that was just too much! In the back of my brain, I knew she was trying to provoke me, but she pushed the right buttons. I’m ashamed to admit I lost my temper. I told Veronica I thought her little game was disgusting and pathetic. I was really giving it to her—and at that moment, Arnold came into the room! It made me look terrible because all he heard was me attacking poor little Veronica. To say the least, he was not pleased. We were supposed to go to the ballet tonight, but he just broke our date with the flimsiest excuse.”

Because Nancy was in love with him, I had done my best to like Arnold, and I’d succeeded for months, as long as he was treating Nancy well. But lately, I’d begun to wish that he wasn’t the man she wanted to marry. He was brilliant and successful, and he used to behave as though Nancy was the love of his life, but ever since Veronica Rose had come back to New York, I’d glimpsed coldness in Arnold I hadn’t seen before, and it made me uneasy for Nancy.

“Here’s an idea,” I said. “A revival of School for Wives opened last week off-Broadway. It’s the Richard Wilbur translation. If you’ll come with me, I’ll get us tickets for tonight. Shouldn’t be a problem for a Wednesday performance.”

“There’ll probably be plenty of seats.” Nancy said wryly. “You’re the only Richard Wilbur fanatic I’ve ever met.”

That night Nancy and I laughed loudly at the play’s hilarious rhyming dialogue. For two hours we forgot our own concerns. The next afternoon, Thursday, Bobby Novello called. It had been four weeks since our meeting.