Angels (31 page)

God, he was peculiar. To humor him I said brightly, “So you're a Trekkie.”

“
Star
Wars.” He sounded appalled. “Not
Star Trek
.” Under his breath I heard him mutter with contempt, “
Girls
.”

Indeed.

They'd dragged their flowery old sofa out into the back, where Luis was installed, a slight air of the invalid about him. His hands seemed to hover and flutter protectively over his groin. Or maybe it was just to fend off prying eyes: Emily, Lara, and I all stared long and hard at the diseased area.

“You girls look like you got X-ray vision,” he said nervously.

“You'd better believe it.” Lara gave a menacing wink.

Ethan doled out shot glasses of tequila, then stopped in front of me. “You look different,” he said thoughtfully.

“No panty hose on her head.” This from Luis.

“No-o, not just that.” He paused to give Curtis a sharp poke and hissed like a mammy, “Get off the sofa and let the ladies sit down,”

then resumed his scrutiny of me. “You haven't…had your mustache shaved off?”

“She's had her eyebrows done,” Lara contributed.

ANGELS / 245

“Ahhh, gotta be that!”

And so began a pleasant, mellow night that ended only when an argument broke out over who should have the worm at the bottom of the bottle. (“Stop!” I berated Lara and Emily, who were both flushed from the tussle. “It's Ethan's bottle. He should be allowed to have it.”) Then we all went home and slept soundly.

I AWOKE TO
find a woman approximately four feet high banging a duster around my room. Conchita, I could only imagine.

“Sorry I wake you,” she beamed.

“I was awake anyway,” I lied back, grabbing some clothes.

In the kitchen Emily was hurriedly putting on her sandals. “Didn't I forget to get Conchita's breakfast, so I've got to run up to Starbucks. She refuses to touch the bathroom unless we give her a sugar hit.”

“I'll go,” I offered, still on my keeping-busy kick.

“Are you sure? Well, thanks.

“But listen, she won't eat anything with bananas or blue-berries,”

she yelled after me.

Outside, yet another beautiful day was presenting itself for inspection. Considering it was a Monday morning, the world was suffused with triumphant yellow light and everything looked picture-perfect—the pretty little houses, the even-skin-toned lawns, the velvet petals of the blazing pink flowers.

In Starbucks I got us a chocolate muffin each, even though I knew that all Emily would do with hers would be to crumble it into pieces, then announce that she was stuffed. Then I set off for home again, passing Reza's salon as I went. She was within, grimly tugging the hair off someone.

ANGELS / 247

I waved at her and she glared at me. Just as it should be! God was in his heaven and all was well with the world.

But the second I walked back into the house, I knew something bad had happened. Emily was shaking, on the edge of the couch, and Conchita was ministering to her.

“They passed,” Emily declared.

For a confused moment I thought she was talking about exams or a driving test. Where I come from, “passed” is a
good
word—the opposite of “failed.”

“Who passed what?”

“Mort Russell, Hothouse, passed on my script. David just called.”

Shock rooted me to the spot. They couldn't have passed. What about Julia and Cameron? What about the three thousand screens?

It took a moment for my hope to dwindle away, to understand that none of it would be happening. The lying bastards!

Emily was hyperventilating with squeaky gasps and she was shuddering as if she was crying, but her eyes were dry. “What am I going to do? I'm fucked, I'm so totally fucked. I've no money, not a red cent. Oh my God, oh my God!”

From her apron pocket Conchita produced a little bottle and said, “Xanax. To calm her down.” I made sweeping, go-for-it, no-time-like-the-present motions with both my hands.

“Can I have two?” Emily asked.

“Ob course.”

But when Conchita shook some pills into the palm of her hand, there was a little ruckus, and before I knew what had happened Emily had roughly grabbed not two, but four Xanax and crammed them into her mouth.

“Sorry,” she mumbled—but only once they were good and swallowed.

Conchita and I exchanged a look. Who were we to deny her?

Another wave of disbelief hit. “But they were so enthusiastic,” I voiced. “It sounded like a done deal.”

“That's the way they all carry on.”

248 / MARIAN KEYES

“Did they say why they passed?”

“They
said
it's not what they're looking for right now,” Emily gasped. “But I don't know what the truth is. Probably they just hated it.”

“Sssssh,” Conchita urged, pulling Emily to her bosom and stroking her hair.

“But—” I started up again, a thousand indignant questions forming, but Conchita nixed them with a firm shake of the head.

The three of us sat in silence while the hopeless day ticked by. I was at a complete loss. Everything had been geared around this coming through, and though I'd had my worries, I'd never really considered that it wouldn't. What was Emily going to do now?

Go home to Ireland with me? But I didn't want to go home. Especially not now. Now that Troy—it was then that I realized that he still hadn't called me. Unless he'd called while I'd been out getting the muffins and it so wasn't the right time to ask…

“Maybe you go to bed?” Conchita suggested, and Emily nodded obediently.

“Four Xanax, she sleep until Websday,” Conchita told me.

I was on the verge of asking for a couple of pills for myself when the phone rang. My immediate thought was of Troy, but when I answered, a woman's voice said, “Hold for David Crowe calling for Emily O'Keeffe.”

“She's busy right now.” Having a nervous breakdown. “I'm her assistant. Can I help?”

But the woman was gone and after a few clicks the next voice I heard was David's. “Hey, Emily!” he chuckled.

“It's Maggie. Emily's a little upset.”

“Sure. But I got good news. Larry Savage over at Empire took a look. He wants to meet with her.”

“Well, that's great! When?”

“Right now.”

“Oh, that's a shame,” I said regretfully. “She can't go right now.

She's just taken four Xanax.”

A pause. Not a cordial one. “Now you listen to me,” he ANGELS / 249

said, all traces of affability gone. “She needs to get it together
now
and get over to Empire. We can't push this meeting back. She's got to get in today before Larry finds out that Hothouse passed, Xanax or no fucking Xanax. Coffee, cocaine, I don't care how, but she'd better get it together. And if she can't do it,
you
do it. I've put my ass on the line here.”

All the moisture had retreated from my mouth. It was as dry as a carpet. What had happened to David Crowe, Prince Charming?

I was frightened of him, genuinely frightened. He sounded so dangerous, so vengeful.

And I had gotten the gist of what was happening. Some Machiavellian machinations meant David had managed to con Larry Savage into thinking that Mort Russell was still interested. There was a tiny window of opportunity before Larry discovered that Mort had passed. If Larry found out, then David was in the shit.

And Emily's last chance was gone.

So the pitch had to be today.

I glanced into Emily's bedroom. She was lying down, her eyes closed, Conchita stroking her forehead. There was no point in asking her what we should do. And
I
hadn't a notion. I thought of Lara; she could help, even though she was up to her eyes organizing the launch for some movie called
Doves
. Or how about Troy?

“Could you give us a couple of hours?” I glanced at my watch; it was 10:20. “Say until midday?” That should be enough time for either Troy or Lara to get here, and they could take over, they'd know what to do.

“No. I can't give you five fucking minutes,” he snapped. “The clock is ticking and news gets around this town way fast. It's this morning or never. By lunchtime it'll be all over.”

Desperately I tried to focus, to think intelligently.
Oh, Jesus
Christ
! “Oh, okay…what can you tell me about Larry Savage?”

“Larry, Larry, Larry…what's to say?” There was a clicking sound as if David was banging his pen off his teeth. “Weeell, he's rumored to have sex with animals. But, hey, it's only a rumor!”

250 / MARIAN KEYES

I pushed down my frustration and asked, “Any career information?”

“A coupla years back he made
Fred
. Remember it? Old English sheepdog who saves the circus from closure?”

I remembered it.

“Seen it?”

“No. I was more than five years of age at the time.”

“Cute,” David said unpleasantly. “Well, lie. Tell him you loved it.”

“Okay. Now, can you tell me how to get to Empire?”

Irritably, David gave sketchy directions, and just in case there was any chance that I might calm down, he ended the conversation by saying, “This is Emily's last chance. Make sure she doesn't fuck it up.”

“Right.” With a pounding heart, I hung up the phone and hurried in to Emily. Who, floating away on a pink Xanax cloud, was having none of it. “Al go ch'morr',” she said sleepily.

“Tomorrow's too late.” Hysteria skimmed my voice as I explained the situation.

Luckily Conchita displayed an astute grasp of the workings of Hollywood. “The man find out the other man have passed, he not berry happy!” She hoisted a startled Emily from the bed.

“Emily, you'll have to make yourself sick,” I said urgently.

“Huh?”

“Stick your fingers down your throat and make yourself throw up. To get rid of the tablets.”

Dazed though she was, she looked disgusted.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But desperate circumstances call for desperate measures.”

Conchita and I marched her to the bathroom, where despite some impressively inhuman gawking noises issuing from her gullet, she couldn't recall the Xanax.

“I'j nevr make ablimic,” she said, slumping against the bowl, her forehead beaded in sweat from her efforts.

ANGELS / 251

“One more time,” I encouraged. “Just try once more.”

“'Kay.”

But though she strained until her face was bright red and running with tears, there was still no joy. What was I to do with her?

Conchita was on top of things, though.

“Emily, you get in the shower! And you”—she pointed at me—“make coffee. Strong!”

After the shower we dressed her and tried to get a comb through her hair.

“You look good,” Conchita encouraged.

Emily shook her head and said sadly, “Everything is wrong.”

“Like what?”

“My spensive suit's in jrycleaners, I haven't been reiki'ed, my hair's a Jackson Five special.”

“Nebber mind,” Conchita said, forcing a cup of treacly coffee on her. “You got a pitch, lady!”

When we were ready to leave, Conchita whipped out a little plastic bottle of holy water and flung generous handfuls of it at us.

As a drop splattered onto Emily's face, she turned to me in confusion. “Maggie, is this actually happening? Or mi jreaming it?”

“It's happening,” I said grimly, marching her to my car and wondering how the hell you got to the valley.

The drive was horrible. My heart was banging against my ribs and my breath didn't want to be drawn—there is nothing more terrifying than the L.A. freeways when you don't know where you're going. Lanes and lanes of aggressive cars on all sides of you. My right arm was begging to be scratched, but doing so would involve both hands, leaving a grand total of none driving the car, so I had to content myself with rubbing it against the steering wheel—not half as nice. To make matters worse, I was trying to make Emily practice her pitch.

“Camera pans over a breast of pairs…”

“Good,” I tried to encourage. “Good.” I saw an exit approaching and peered around looking for signs. “Is this 252 / MARIAN KEYES

where we turn off?” And how did I cut across three lanes of traffic to do so?

By the time I'd discovered it wasn't our turn, Emily had meandered off into silence. I managed to take my eyes off the road just long enough to see her chin nodding on her chest and a delicate trail of dribble heading south to her second-best suit. Christ! That was all we needed. Her falling asleep midpitch.

I shook her and begged, “Drink some Jolt, try and stay awake.

Please!”

“Oh my God, Maggie,” she mumbled, “this is a nightmare.”

I felt for her, because she genuinely understood how serious the situation was, but simply couldn't control herself.

“I can't do it,” she said.

“You can.”

“I can't,” she said. There was a pause and I knew what was coming next. “Will you do it?” she asked.

“What? The pitch?”

“Yes.”

What could I say? With dreadful resignation I said, “You'd better remind me of how it goes.”

So then I was trying to remember the pitch as well as concentrate on directions. My palms were so wet, they were sliding all over the steering wheel and I still couldn't seem to get enough air.

Some time, today will be over, I told myself. Some time in the future, this horrible day will have ended. Then I changed it to, Someday I'll be dead, and at peace, and none of this will matter.

More by luck than judgment, we finally arrived at Empire Studios.

You couldn't miss it. On top of each of the two gateposts, they had twelve-foot-high Freds, the sheepdog.

I rolled down the window and gave our names to the man with the clipboard, who confirmed that we were on the list. “Welcome to Empire Studios.”

“Nice dogs,” I said, nodding at the Freds.

ANGELS / 253

“Oh yeah?” The man laughed. “Thing is, guy who made them had a grudge against the studio. When it rains, it looks like the dogs are peeing.” Then he cheerfully waved us through.

Empire Studios looked very different from Hothouse. Hothouse had been high-rise glass and steel, but this studio looked as if it had been built in the thirties: rows of unassuming-looking white two-story buildings. It reminded me of a holiday camp.