three

Skippy did not go unnoticed by the rest of the press. As we continued along the red carpet, Nigel offered them various explanations as to his identity:

“It’s a glandular issue. We try not to call attention to it.”

“I happen to think my wife is a very attractive woman.”

“He’s playing Chewbacca in the upcoming Star Wars film.
Picture him furrier. And with a dashing belt.”

“What dog?”

At the entrance of the Dolby Theater, DeDee Evans, Nigel’s latest hire to the company waited for us. While the organizers of the Oscars had allowed Skippy to accompany us on the red carpet, they drew the line at actually letting him inside the theater. Nigel’s claim that Skippy was a service dog had not been entertained as even remotely serious.

“Hello, DeDee,” Nigel said as he handed her Skippy’s leash—or reins—depending on your viewpoint.

“Hello, Nigel. Nic,” DeDee smiled broadly. “It’s so exciting to be here!” DeDee was a small and wiry woman with a pronounced nose and square jaw. Up until a few years ago, she had been a housewife living in Tallahassee, Florida, with her husband, Reggie. She had been content to put aside her dream of becoming a movie critic so she could help Reggie run his plumbing business. That contentment changed to contempt when she discovered that Reggie offered additional services to his female clients—services that went far beyond unclogging stubborn drains. DeDee quickly filed for divorce, left Tallahassee, and moved to New York. Within three years, she’d obtained her masters in film studies. Six months later, she came to work for Nigel.

Petting Skippy’s head, DeDee now said, “It’s a shame that they wouldn’t let you take Skippy inside. He looks so handsome.”

“I know,” said Nigel. “I don’t understand why the Academy refused to accept that he’s a service dog.”

“Maybe because he isn’t?” I offered.

Nigel shook his head. “But, they don’t know that. Besides, I gave them a perfectly good reason for needing him tonight.”

I laughed. “Nigel, please. You told them that you suffered from acute zelotypophobia.”

“So?” he countered. “It’s not as if it isn’t a real thing.”

DeDee pulled her eyebrows together. “Zeloty…what?” she repeated.

“A fear of jealousy,” I explained.

DeDee let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Well, this would definitely be the place to trigger an attack.”

“Thank you,” Nigel said before turning to me as if validated. “That was my point exactly. As it is, I’m already starting to feel anxious.”

“That’s only because there’s no bar out here,” I said. “Try breathing out of your third eye or something until we get inside.” Focusing back to DeDee, I said, “Thanks again for agreeing to watch Skippy tonight. I left his food out on the counter, but don’t let him con you into having seconds. I also left you a dinner in the fridge. A word of advice, don’t leave it unattended. Skippy’s not above stealing other people’s food. If he gets to be too much, put him in our room and turn on QVC. He loves it.”

“Just don’t let him order anything,” warned Nigel. “He has terrible taste.”

“We probably won’t be back until very late,” I continued. “The guest room is all set up for you. If you need anything, call.” I gave Skippy a dubious stare. “No funny stuff, mister,” I instructed.

Skippy wagged his tail and barked. My concerns were not mollified.

DeDee gave me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about us, Nic. We’ll be fine. I plan on working some more on the videos. They’re really starting to come together.”

“Well, don’t work too hard. You’re already doing us a huge favor,” I replied. “The last time we left Skippy alone, he removed all of the wallpaper in the kitchen.”

“And in under thirty minutes, too,” Nigel added proudly.

“Nigel, it wasn’t a good thing.”

“You never liked that wallpaper to begin with,” he argued. “Besides, it would have taken most contractors triple that time to do the job. Think of the money he saved us. If anything, he did us a favor.”

I stared at him. “We are never having children,” I said after a beat.

Nigel clasped his hands over Skippy’s ears. “How can you say that in front of him, you heartless wench?” he whispered in mock horror. “Come here, Skippy,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “Daddy’s got some bacon for you. Mommy didn’t mean it.”

I rolled my eyes as Skippy wolfed down the bacon. “That better be all of it,” I warned Nigel. “I don’t care if you do look like a product of Oscar de la Renta; if you smell like a product of Oscar Mayer, I am not sitting with you.”

DeDee laughed and said, “I’ll keep an eye on Skippy. You two go have fun.”

We patted Skippy good-bye one more time and took our place in a crowded line for the entrance. Within minutes, a slight man with a pockmarked face approached us. His dry, graying hair seemed to be combed in every direction. His posture was hunched. Grey eyes watched us from behind thick glasses. The laminated placard around his neck indicated he was a member of the press. His threadbare suit indicated that he wasn’t a very successful one. “I heard you are Nigel Martini,” he said. His voice was harsh and carried a faint accent I couldn’t immediately place.

Nigel smiled affably. “You heard right,” he said extending his hand. “And you are?”

“David Luiz, Hollywood Foreign Press,” the man said, shaking Nigel’s hand. He ran a pale tongue over his dry, cracked lips and turned his attention to me. “And this beautiful woman here must be Mrs. Martini,” he said.

“Well, it would be damned awkward if she wasn’t,” Nigel said. “Now, how can I help you?”

“Those movie tapes,” Mr. Luiz continued after an uncertain glance at me, “the ones with Melanie Summers? I represent someone who wants those tapes,” he said, his voice low. He reached into his coat pocket, took out a business card, and handed it to Nigel. “I’ve been authorized to make you a very generous offer.”

Nigel glanced at the card before shaking his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Luiz,” he said. “But, the tapes aren’t for sale.”

“I wouldn’t be so hasty, Mr. Martini,” he said, widening his smile and taking a step closer to Nigel. “You haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

“I don’t need to,” Nigel answered. “I’m not interested.”

“My client will be very disappointed to hear that.”

“I’ll send flowers,” said Nigel.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Martini,” Mr. Luiz continued his voice growing anxious, “but I think you’re being very foolish.”

“You’re not the first,” Nigel admitted.

The line began to move. Nigel put his hand on the small of my back and began to guide me forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Luiz,” he said, “I need to get some air.”

Mr. Luiz regarded Nigel with a puzzled stare. “But, there’s air out here,” he protested.

“True,” agreed Nigel, “but I need gin in my air. Good night, Mr. Luiz.”