CHAPTER EIGHT

I didn’t get out of bed until Sunday. Patrick lured me out with chocolate.

I shuffled to the kitchen in a disgusting state of bed rot. My beloved was bent over the stove, removing a batch of brownies from the oven. The apartment smelled like paradise.

“Have a good sulk?” he asked.

“Yeah, pretty good. I think I’m done for the moment. Nice to have a man around who bakes antidepressants from scratch.”

He had a glob of chocolate on one cheek. I had to lick it off because he didn’t save me any batter to sample. Patrick came close enough to hug me, then scrunched his nose and retreated.

“Shower first, brownies after,” he said. “I’ll help with the shower.”

An hour later, sated with love and chocolate, I heard my answering machine click on. No phone, just the click, then no message. Patrick explained that he turned off all the ringers and put the voices on mute sometime during my wallow of the previous day.

“Lots of calls?” I half-wanted to know.

“Only everyone you ever met. Plus a bunch of reporters you don’t want to know,” he said. “By the way, were you supposed to call Fred back yesterday?”

Oh, damn.

“I’m thinking you should get an unlisted number, honey, being a big star and all.” Was Patrick starting to enjoy all this? “So, how about coffee and the paper?”

An imposing stack of Sunday newspaper sat on the hall table. I wasn’t expecting anything silly about me in America’s snootiest paper, but you never know.

I made a point of going through The New York Times in order, not rushing to the Arts & Leisure section. Patrick got there first and grabbed my attention with a wide-eyed expression not seen since Buster Keaton in the silent movies. Full arm extended, he pointed at the shocking sight.

There I was, pictured in an eight-inch ad that was absolutely not created with the approval or knowledge of Dr. Greta Pretsky. Her name appeared just once and my sexy self filled the rest.

PLAYING WITH PASSION

LIZA DURBIN DOES FRANZ SCHUBERT
8 P.M. THURSDAY, MARCH 31
CARNEGIE HALL

NOUVELLE CLASSIQUE FOR MUSIC LOVERS
A GRETA PRETSKY PRODUCTION

You should have seen me. My hair and makeup had looked that good exactly once in my life—when I was beautifully lit and captured on film by Lance Bellows, photographer to the stars and to Miss Brittany Whitman’s birthday gaggle. I remembered the shot, but there was something different about it.

In this version, I was lying across the lid of a grand piano, face toward the camera, head resting lightly in one hand, body sensually arranged like lush, fertile hills. I didn’t remember that pose. Also, I was wearing the blue satin slut dress my sister bought me, the one I swore I’d never wear in public, let alone for photographs. And, incidentally, it clearly was not my body. I’d recognize those size-eleven clodhoppers anywhere.

“What have you done, you fucking maniac?”

“You saw the ad?” Cassie sounded excited on the phone, almost giddy.

“You attached my head to your body? Your slinky, stupid body with the big fat feet?”

“No need to be nasty, Liza.” The catch in her throat was for my benefit. “Anyway, we stuck my body on your head, not the other way around. I’m perfectly aware that you’re the celebrity around here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Sure, Cassie, that’s all I’m worried about,” I said. “Not another care in the world but that.”

A defunct composer took up residence in my brain, and my sister was still crazier than me.

“I just wanted a little dignity, Cassie. Is that too much to ask? For that matter, is it too much to ask you to ask me first before doing something like this?”

Cassie calmly explained that she couldn’t ask me first because I would have said no. She was very clear that “dignified” was not the look we were going for.

“We’re not? Strange, we didn’t know. I think I owe more to Schubert. A dignified image, at least, so we’re taken seriously. So people will actually listen.”

Cassie noted that barely six hundred people in all of Manhattan had bought tickets after seeing Greta’s dignified ad the week before. Nobody knew me—why should they be interested unless we gave them a little tease? This was the best way to be sure Schubert was heard.

“But this ad, Cassie, it’s tacky. I look like a stripper.” Okay, I actually looked great. “And ‘nouvelle classique’? I’m puking. Who’s gonna take that seriously?”

“Fred said the same thing, but I—”

“Fred?” There must be a million Freds in the galaxy. “You mean my Fred?”

“Oo-ops, my mistake,” Cassie said. “He was going to talk to you yesterday. Didn’t you two talk?”

I grabbed my jacket and headed toward Fred’s.

I could see the crowd outside his apartment from a block away. They swarmed the sidewalk and flowed into the street. The regulars were there and plenty of strangers, too. Obviously they were drawn by the recent publicity and by that Frederick’s of Classical ad in the Times. Disappearing seemed the best idea.

I called Fred from my cell phone. His answering machine fielded my sarcastic message. He was wisely screening his calls or had already escaped his apartment. Either way, who could blame him? In the beginning, Fred probably found Franz’s appearance exciting, amusing, maybe even scary in the fun way. Unfortunately, he’d been dragged into the downside more than once. But nothing excused colluding with my psycho sister behind my back.

When I got home, Patrick asked about Fred the Traitor. He tried not to look smug about his pseudo-rival’s fall from grace. In fact, Patrick was in an awfully good mood. He suggested we forget the bimbo ad, the reporters, Fred, and the rest. Nothing could please me more.

We took the subway to Central Park, rented rollerblades, and wobbled happily around the reservoir. Later we feasted in Little Italy. We held hands everywhere and made out on street corners. Patrick actually got me to laugh about my sexpot ad and I deeply appreciated its effect on him. He thought I was hotter than hot. Maybe all of Manhattan did. Maybe my sister would lend me her body for the concert so as not to disappoint the horny section at Carnegie Hall.

Patrick and I were still cuddly and warm as we let ourselves into the apartment that night. Fred had left several messages, anxious to talk with me, of course. I didn’t call back because we were having too much fun. Better to wait until morning to fully enjoy Fred’s apologies and wretched regrets.

Fred stopped by my apartment the next morning, not as apologetic as you might think.

“The hell with you, Liza,” he said.

Patrick had left us alone in the apartment to work things out.

“For the tenth time, I’m sorry it happened this way.” He sounded more cranky than sorry. “I tried to see you, I left you messages, but you’re too goddamn busy to return a simple phone call these days.”

“Tell me this, Fred. Why my sister? Why Cassie?”

“Well, you know I quit my job at—”

“You quit your job!”

“Yes, Liza. I told you I did. I told you more than a week ago. You just don’t listen anymore. Jake and I left Ads Up and went out on our own. We found the cash-cow client we were looking for, so we could leave. She’s more like a silent partner actually.”

With extreme reluctance, my brain pried apart forbidden neurons and let the truth enter.

“Silent partner? In your dreams, Freddie. My sister, your cash cow, couldn’t be silent if she were dead.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he said. “Cassie’s not that bad.”

Here’s what I learned: Cassie contacted Fred to find the right photographer for Brittany’s birthday bash. Being an advertising pro, Fred would certainly know the right person to call and, oh, by the way, wouldn’t it be lovely if she and Fred got together, maybe help old helpless Liza make something out of her situation instead of wasting it like an uncashed check? He needed some persuasion, probably a nanosecond of it, but finally they made a secrecy (“let’s be sensitive about this”) pact, and Fred gave her Lance Bellows’s number.

Fred and Cassie (not Jana) had been having hush-hush meetings. They’d grown closer and he appreciated her more. They had meaningful talks and envisioned how we could all meet our lofty goals together. She wanted to revive her career as a publicist, he wanted to branch out and needed a rich client. I would certainly want whatever they brewed up for me.

I was furious with Cassie, but I knew I’d get over it. She would continue to be my sister, just as she did after she stole and married my boyfriend in college. I was destined to love her with sibling tenacity. It was tougher with Fred because I had chosen to love him.

Friends can have any combination of traits, appealing and appalling, as long as they feel connected. I had been happy with Fred as my closest friend, even though he liked action movies and had owed me two hundred dollars since college. But betrayal has no place in friendship. I told Fred how angry I was. He swore he’d make it up to me, even came close to crying. I knew I’d forgive him, but I needed time to get there. I’d have to get over the fact that Fred had changed while I wasn’t looking. I had to get over the fact that I’d been too busy to notice.

I don’t believe Greta Pretsky saw any possible way she might get over my new classical vixen image. Since our affiliation had become well known, it was okay for Greta and me to discuss the matter in public at Juilliard. Apparently it was okay for her to have a big old tantrum in the hallway there, too. She raged and turned colors and threatened to cancel the concert. I tried to calm her down, but everything I said lit her up again.

“You think this might be good?” She made my suggestion sound silly by repeating it. “Good that you look like a sex queen instead of a serious musician?”

To tell the truth, I was getting to like it a little. You wouldn’t believe the phone calls and attention I got, and Patrick found me more irresistible than ever. Even Franz responded to the picture, but I didn’t like to dwell on that.

“Why not keep an open mind about things?” I said. “At least people are buying tickets.”

“You’ve humiliated me and shamed Schubert. That’s what’s on my mind, Miss Durbin.”

“I understand. It was a shock when I saw it, too. I never would’ve allowed it, but it’s already done, so let’s make the best of it.”

“I hope your sister has no other surprises planned, yes?”

Not wanting to think about that, I distracted Greta with questions of a musical nature. We went to her studio to review a few things. She took the opportunity to gently bug me about playing the four-handed Grande Sonata with her for the encore, especially since I’d let her down and all. I was feeling guilty anyway. Greta didn’t deserve to be embarrassed by me. She also was not open to apologies or mushy shows of gratitude. I wasn’t sure I could ever please her, which was purely frustrating. By the time I left her studio, I was ready for a snack in the cafeteria. I absolutely was not hoping to run into anyone special.

I was so busy being in love with Patrick again that I hadn’t thought about Chase Barnes in days. Well, almost.

“There she is—dangerous spy, goddess of the keyboard, Schubert’s own siren,” he said. “I’m guessing that Greta wasn’t happy with the new ad.”

“You’ve got keen intuition.”

“That, plus a dozen people heard her ranting at you in the hallway.”

“Did you think the ad was awful?”

“Not my call,” he said. “It’s an attention-grabber, I’ll say that. Hell of a picture, too.”

I attempted a demure look. Chase smirked at my effort.

“I have a copy of my music for you,” he said. “You know, Pantheon. Thought I’d better give it to you, just in case.”

I said I couldn’t promise anything. He gave it to me anyway.

“I know you’re still considering it as your encore, Liza, and I appreciate that.” Such a pleasant voice. Nice jawline, too. I bet he didn’t have a snooty, holier-than-everyone mother in Connecticut, either.

“Whatever you do is fine with me. It’s just an option for you. So, do you feel like playing?”

I felt like playing the-shepherd-and-the-milkmaid with him, but that’s not what he meant. We went to his classroom studio. I knew Franz needed to play Chase’s piece again. There were things in it that he wanted to hear again, passages he was ready to absorb. It was nearly overwhelming.

I finished playing and Chase was at my side again, congratulating me in my favorite way. Everyone has more confidence on a second kiss, and ours was glorious. But I love Patrick.

I told him I had to leave immediately. My parents and Aunt Frieda had flown in that afternoon and we were meeting everyone for dinner downtown.