An alarm began to beep and Jessie woke up.
It was her old travel clock with its hectoring, pulsing chime. Six o’clock. She lay wrapped in a sheet on a sofa. The big window in the next room was full of white sky and orange skyline. She was at Henry’s apartment. She instantly remembered why.
She jumped up, went to his bedroom door, and knocked.
“Henry! Show time.”
“Thank you!” he called out. He must have been awake already, lying in bed and gazing at the ceiling.
She went to the kitchen in her T-shirt and panties to start the coffee. They had a very full day ahead of them, a crazy day, which was why Jessie spent the night. They needed to be at the ET studio at eight, then Rosie at nine-thirty. Then lunch with Adam Rabb at the Royalton at noon—the men would eat alone, but Jessie needed to get Henry there—followed by a photo session and interview with Cameron Ditchley for the Post. Then a nap, because Henry still had Tom and Gerry to do tonight. And then the show and after the show Caleb’s party. Jessie had not forgotten her brother’s birthday party.
The shower sizzled in the bathroom. The coffeemaker gurgled like a scuba diver. Jessie poured herself a cup. The bathroom door popped open and out came Henry in flannel trousers and a linen deconstructed jacket, or whatever it was called. “The bath is all yours,” he said and helped himself to the coffee.
You would think they were an old married couple.
Jessie didn’t bother with a shower—nobody was going to notice her today. She pulled on pantyhose and a corporate-butch blue suit, and brushed her hair. She waited until she was sitting on the toilet, when her hands were free, to call Sasha on her cell phone.
“You’re downstairs already? Great, Sasha. You’re a gift.”
She clicked off; she flushed.
She loved this. She was pure action today, pure activity, the octopus stage manager. It was only a part, of course, a role, but the role consumed everything. There was no time to think, no room to doubt or dither, no space for messy emotion.
They went out to the elevator and Jessie pushed the button.
“I had the most peculiar dream last night,” said Henry. “An examination dream. I’m much too old for school dreams. But I was sitting in a classroom with a lot of young boys. And up on the blackboard was a maths formula. It looked simple enough at first, an x-plus-y-divided-by-x-squared sort of thing. But the longer I looked, the more complicated it became. Like it was growing. Into a maze of numbers. Just to read it was like crawling through a labyrinth. I knew it was only a dream but feared I’d be trapped in the dream, not allowed to wake up until I solved that awful equation.”
The elevator arrived and they stepped on board.
“Are you nervous about these TV shows?” said Jessie. “You shouldn’t be. You’ll do great today. I know it.”
“I’m not worried.” He laughed. “And I’m not disturbed by the dream. As you see, I did wake up. But I do find it curious. I usually forget my dreams.”
The elevator doors opened.
“After you,” said Henry, and he followed her through the lobby to the front door. “What a lovely day.”
The sun was out again, the rain finally over. It was after seven and Midtown was quiet, almost bucolic. Sunlight glittered on the braids of rainwater running in the gutters. A red cage of girders stood against blue sky over the construction site up the street. A sweet song poured from a dinky brown bird perched on the elbow of a yellow backhoe parked at the curb.
“A very lovely day,” Henry repeated, looking at Sasha.
The driver stood by the car, a tall, big-boned, thirty-something Russian with close-cropped hair. He jumped forward and opened the door. “Good morning,” he announced, grinning at them both.
Jessie had already checked out Sasha when they met last night. She couldn’t guess what team he played on. Nobody would call him beautiful, but his bony face was handsomely homely.
“We go to ET? I know already.” He repeated the address of the studio, which was only a few blocks away.
“You are a gift, Sasha,” Jessie repeated. It didn’t hurt to kiss up to the help.
She and Henry slid in, slipping over the soft black leather.
Her cell phone twittered. Jessie answered. “Hello?”
“Good morning. Just wanted to see if you were up and out.”
“Dolly? Good morning. Oh yes. We’re on our way.” It must be about noon in England now. “Would you like to speak to Henry?”
“If he’s coherent.”
Henry was watching Jessie, not frowning but not smiling either. He took the little phone and turned it, uncertain how to hold it.
“Good morning, darling,” he finally said, much too loudly. “And how are we? I see. What? Yes. That’s what we think too. But if Rabb has us trapped, it’s a good kind of trapped, don’t you think? Like those bodice rippers where women get raped by men they love. Of course. It is all your doing. And my own dumb luck. But then my finding you has always been wonderful dumb luck for me. Good-bye.” He lowered the phone and studied it. “How do we shut this off?”
Jessie took it from him and clicked the button.
“The dear cow is pleased with how things are going. As well she should be. Fifteen percent of three mill is—well, a goodly pot of cash.”
“So you’re going to keep her as your agent?”
He screwed his eyebrows together. “When did I say I was going to give up Dolly?”
“You were talking to that Rizzo woman. Remember? At ICM.”
“Oh. Her.” He frowned. “I was only exploring. Sniffing around. I can’t leave Dolly. We’re much too close. Like brother and sister.”
“Entertainment Tonight!” declared Sasha and pulled to the curb. He got out to open the door, although Henry had already tugged the handle and was climbing out.
“I don’t know how long we’ll be,” Jessie told Sasha. “But be back in an hour. If it looks like it’ll be later or earlier, I’ll call.”
Sasha nodded. “Our boss,” he whispered. “He is a famous actor?”
“Oh yes. More famous in England than here. But he’s done Hamlet and Antony and Cleopatra. Lots of Shakespeare. And Chekhov,” she added.
Sasha nodded, looking impressed.
Jessie caught up with Henry in the lobby. The security desk called upstairs and sent them up in an elevator.
The shiny copper doors reflected him and her: a star and his handler. We look like we belong together, thought Jessie. Then the doors parted open on a sorority girl who was all teeth and hair.
“Mr. Lewse! What a thrill!” She shook Henry’s hand with both hands. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice. I’m Louise Parker Davis. Associate producer here at ET. I’ll be interviewing you. And this is your—?”
“Personal assistant,” said Jessie. “Jessica Doyle.”
The handshake changed in midshake from warmly effusive to dead-fish. “They want you in Makeup, Mr. Lewse. You look terrif, but these lights? You can wait in the greenroom, Jessica. There’s coffee and maybe doughnuts. Now, Mr. Lewse—” She led him off.
And Jessie was left alone in a curved corridor whose walls and carpet were hoofprinted in ET logos. She walked along, peering into open doors until she found the greenroom, which was gray. She entered and poured herself another cup of coffee. She even took a doughnut before she sat down. They were Dunkin’ Donuts.
The idiocy of it all amused her. It did. Was there anything for her in this glittering piffle? No. The success was his success, so it was only vicarious for her, pure voyeurism. Henry could toss her away as easily as he’d been ready to toss Dolly. Jessie knew not to trust him any more than she could trust the weather. But it was fun. It was exciting. She should enjoy it like a beautiful spring day.
Her phone twittered again. “Hello.”
“I’m trying to reach Mr. Henry Lewse.”
“He’s not available at the moment. This is his assistant, Jessica Doyle.” She wished she had another title. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Kenneth Prager. New York Times. I’m doing a profile of Mr. Lewse. I need to talk as soon as possible.”
“Kenneth Prager?” said Jessie. “The critic?”
“Yes. A brief article. For the Week in Review on Sunday.”
Ow, thought Jessie. Kenneth Prager. The man who killed my brother’s play. And I have the power of saying yes or no?
“Mr. Lewse has a very full schedule today.”
“There’s no time this afternoon? I’d be happy to come to him.”
“Oh no. His afternoon is packed.”
“If I could just talk to him on the phone then?”
“Oh no. Mr. Lewse hates to be interviewed over the phone.”
“Then could I talk with him after his show tonight?”
The Times must really want Henry. “He has a party after the show. But maybe he could give you a half hour in his dressing room,” she offered. “After all, you are the Times.”
“Yeees,” said Prager in a mildly aggrieved drawl.
“The show ends at ten-twenty. If you come to the stage door, they’ll let you in. I’ll tell the stage manager to expect you.”
He hesitated, then said curtly, “Fine. I’ll be there.”
“But he has this party,” she repeated in a pesky, chiding tone. “He can’t wait for you.”
“I said I’ll be there.”
Jessie was enjoying this. She knew she shouldn’t press her luck, but she couldn’t help adding, “You’re not writing reviews anymore, Mr. Prager? Have you been demoted?”
“Not at all,” he grumbled. “I’m filling in. We need something quickly and I’m a big fan.” He hit the words hard, sounding quite bitter. “I will be there at ten-twenty. Good-bye.”
Jessie clicked off. She began to laugh, tumbling the phone around in her hand as if she were tumbling Prager himself.
The man had no sense of humor. He should’ve covered his butt by making a joke when she made fun of him. But the man was so proud, so vulnerable, so New York fucking self-important Times.