Claire Voyant (6 page)

So when I walked into Casa de Miro, I wasn't expecting to feel intimidated. After all, my bottom was top shelf. But after gaping at the lineup of framed glossies on the wall, I had to admit that my puny ass wasn't in the same league. Whatever made me think I could succeed in this bodacious booty boutique?

“Claire?” A dark-haired, pretty-in-pink stud greeted me, his just-facialed skin not even scraping my face with the obligatory air kiss. “Hmm. You smell yummy…Dante & Vita?”

“No. Ben & Jerry's.”

“What?” He feigned shock. “A model who eats?”

“Every Tuesday.” I smacked my lips. “Is it almost time?”

Pretty boy clapped. “I do love a beautiful girl with a sense of humor…. Pablo Casale, Mr. de Miro's personal assistant.” He kissed my hand.

“Yes. Hi. We spoke on the phone. I apologize for being so late. Is he pissed at me? You wouldn't believe the day I've had—”

“Calm down, darling. Pablo just moved a few things around on the schedule, and voilà, time for Claire…. And may I say, he is so looking forward to meeting you.”

“He is?” I looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

“Are you serious? You only tried to save the life of one of his favorite people.”

“I'm sorry? He knows—knew—Mr. Fabrikant?”

“Knew him?” Pablo gasped. “He's been sitting in his office bawling like a baby since we heard the story on the news this morning.”

“What story?”

“About you and the plane ride, and how you tried to revive him with your bare hands.”

“Are you kidding me? They said that on the news? Why?”

“Oh right. You're not from here…. Well, because everyone adored Abe. And now, my darling
bubeleh,
it looks like you're going to be a little local celeb.”

“Oh no no no no. I swear. I'm just your basic Good Samaritan…. Why is everyone making such a huge fucking deal over this, pardon my French? I mean, he was a nice guy and all, but it's not like he tried to save the world.”

“Actually, he was a hero to Jews everywhere.”

“Why?” I started to sweat. “Did he invent the cure for indigestion?”

“No, silly. He gave away his millions to save the lives of Jewish activists in Russia, Germany, Spain, Portugal, Argentina…”

“Really? He never said a word about that.”
Or anything else, for that matter.

“Then he'd bring the families to Florida, help them settle in, start their lives over…. So down here he's like the Messiah.”

“He certainly was an amazing man.”
Dear God, Yom Kippur is four months from now. Got any other days of atonement that start a little sooner? Love, Claire.

“Let Raphael tell you the story of how Abe managed to smuggle the entire de Miro clan out of Buenos Aires right before they were taken away in the middle of the night by—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Raphael is Jewish?”

“Of course, darling.”

“But his name sounds Hispanic or Cuban, or, I don't know…something Latin.”

“Didn't Mommy and Daddy ever send you to Sunday school?” Pablo sighed. “Jews descended from everywhere. Not just Brooklyn. Raphael comes from a long line of those Marranos. The secret Jews who pretended to be Christian so they didn't get their heads chopped off…the artist Miro, even Rita Moreno. Oh, and Fidel Castro.”

“No way. Castro is a Jew, too?”

“They think on his mother's side…. Anyway, back in the late forties, the de Miros left Lisbon for Buenos Aires, then Raphael's father and uncles got into deep shit with Eva Peron—”

“Oooh. I remember her. The one with the shoe fetish.”

“Sorry. Incorrecto.” Pablo made an annoying buzzer sound. “That was Imelda Marcos.”

“Right. Of course. The heiress to Neiman Marcos.”

He blinked. “You are joking, right?”

“Absolutely.”
Not.
“Just having a little fun…trying to collect myself. I'm actually not feeling that great. I think I'm going to puke.”

“Oh no. No puking. No, no, no. We have a strict policy now. No more two-finger girls—”

“Would you stop? I'm not bulimic. I'm in shock. I'm sad.”
I feel like flypaper for freaks.

“Well, of course you are.” He hugged me. “What was Pablo thinking? Let me make you a Bloody Mary. Or how about—”

“Telling me the truth. Will Raphael love my ass?”

“Oh dear.” He took a deep breath. “Well, it's just my opinion. I mean, don't get me wrong. You're a knockout. Good posture. Excellent skin tone. But, like, where were you ten years ago?”

“So basically you're telling me this is going to be a waste of time?”

“Well, no. We do occasionally get requests for older—”

“Pablo!” a man's voice bellowed from beyond.

“Coming, Raphael,” Pablo singsonged. “You know what? Let's just go in there and do it.”

“How do I look?” I chewed at my pinky nail. “Got any last-minute advice?”

“You're to die for.” He fluffed my hair. “But I do have an eensy-weensie suggestion.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Our last office manager ran out of here Friday threatening to kill herself. Third girl in six months. Now, in case he offers you the job, don't take a dime less than thirty.”

“Oh, don't worry. I'm not a nine-to-fiver. In fact, lately I've been very busy with my film work.”

“So the reason you flew all the way down here was because…”

“My whole life I've dreamed of showing off my ass to millions of moviegoers?”

“Oh, pish tish, Claire. Your last screen credit was two years ago, it was that awful remake of
Deliverance,
and you didn't even get an upgrade from a U5.”

“Fine. So I had under five lines. But the director said I was damn convincing as a townie…. Jeez! I can't believe you checked me out.”

“God bless Google.” He winked. “The better to see you with, my dear.”

I looked away. How embarrassing to be caught in a lie, although compared to the doozies I'd already told today, this was nothing. Still, I didn't appreciate my in-the-Dumpster career being scrutinized by Pink Pablo over here. How qualified did I have to be to pull down my thong?

“Never scrunch the forehead, darling. It invites Mr. Wrinkle…. Anyway, I knew Sharon Stone and Sandra Bullock back in their B-movie-queen years. They spent all day on their feet waiting tables, and Lord knows what they had to do on their backs…so it's not like I don't get the whole struggling-actress thing.”

“You know what, Pablo? I appreciate the pep talk. I do. But frankly, you know shit.”

“I was merely trying to point out—”

“That what? That it's okay to judge me because I've had a run of bad luck? Because I refuse to do porn, or cable films where the director yells, ‘Open wide,' and he's not talking about my mouth? Believe me, you wouldn't be so quick to condemn if you knew what it was like to be almost thirty and not remember the last time someone gave you a goddamn break!

“You have no idea what it's like to put yourself out there year after year, literally hang your heart and soul out to dry, only to be overlooked, underpaid, stood up, felt up, compromised, criticized, lied to, shit on, laughed at, disregarded, denigrated, shunned, stunned, fondled, fooled…and believe it or not, I'm one of the smart ones.

“In high school I was in National Honors Society. Did you find that out on the Internet? I have a degree in theater, I've tested amazing for three sitcom pilots, I've done a dozen commercials, modeled since I'm fourteen. I'm funny, I'm beautiful. So I don't need to stand
here and listen to some flaming fag who is never going to be anything more than a lover's gofer tell me that my time is up and I should go home until it's time to be wheeled out for the Old-Timers' Game.”

Pablo bowed his head. His lower lip trembled.

“Oh my God.” I burst into tears. “I am so sorry, Pablo. I swear I didn't mean to say that. I was having a hormonal meltdown…. My meds wore off….”

Pablo wouldn't even look at me. Apparently I wasn't finished groveling.

“It's been the most awful day…. I'm still so crazed from what happened to me on the plane…. Such a dear, sweet man, and then boom, there's a dead guy on my lap…. And you have no idea how nervous I was to meet Raphael. And did I mention how depressed I've been since moving back home? Every morning I wake up in my old room and think, this has to be a nightmare 'cause they never even bothered to buy a new mattress, so every night I'm sleeping in a ditch. And the bedspread is still the same crappy one my mother bought at Alexander's, which I knew, even as a kid, came from the clearance bin…. And I think, how did this happen to me, Claire Greene…most likely to be a huge star? Washed up at twenty-nine.”

Pablo dabbed his brow with his pinky, miraculously regaining his composure. “What can I tell you, hon? Some days are real mood-crappers.”

“More like some years are real mood-crappers. But that is no reason to pick on a nice person like yourself…. Please forgive me, okay? Otherwise, I swear, I'll march right over to the nearest Baskin-Robbins and buy the biggy size banana split with the hot fudge.”

“Let's just drop it, okay?” He faked a smile. “I get where you're coming from. I was merely trying to give you a heads-up. Raphael is a very sensitive man who doesn't take well to people going batshit on him.”

“Me go batshit?” I laughed. “Never! But tell me this. And I'm asking only out of curiosity. Why can't he keep the help?”

“Are you loco? The man's a whack job. Brilliant, but completely
ferkahct.
All day long he screams, he carries on, he can't ever find what he's looking for, and it's always your fault—”

“Pablo!” The booming voice practically made the windows rattle. “These aren't the comp cards I wanted. And where the hell are yesterday's call sheets?”

“Coming, Raphael.”

Who would be crazy enough to work for this maniac?
I thought. But to be nice, I said, “Wow. He speaks perfect English.”

“Let me guess.” Pablo rolled his eyes. “You were expecting Ricky Ricardo…. I said his parents were immigrants. But he was born here. Just like you and me.”

“Pablo! Goddamn it! Get Scorsese on the phone before his masseuse shows up.”

I grabbed his arm. “Did he just say Scorsese?”

“Yeah. Marty is a good client of the firm's. So is Oliver Stone, Ron Howard, Spielberg…”

“Really?” I swallowed. “How are the benefits?”

I
WAS CERTAINLY LEARNING A VALUABLE LESSON.
N
EVER TRUST A DAY
that started out like any other, 'cause faster than you could say “I'm screwed,” your plane of existence could be thrust into a graveyard spiral that left you disoriented and desperate for a view of the horizon line.

This little epiphany occurred, not on my doomed flight, but while sipping lemonade on a sun-drenched deck overlooking the majestic Biscayne Bay. For given the inane discussion I was having with the great Raphael de Miro, who to my amazement was only slightly older than me, I felt like I was flying through a dark haze without an instrument panel to save me from the crash and burn.

After he thanked me for being so good to his family's beloved champion, Abe, and made polite chitchat about my work experiences in L.A., our conversation began to tailspin, and nothing I said could make it fly right.

Boy Wonder knew I had come all this way to land a body double job, yet he was pressing me on my culinary skills. Was I familiar with Thai cooking? Could I tell the difference between cumin and cilantro? Did I prefer hand chopping to food processors?

“To be perfectly honest, Mr. De Niro, recipes are like science fiction to me. I get to the end and think, well now that's never going to happen.”

“de Miro.”

“Excuse me?”

“You called me Mr. De Niro. Like Bobby. It's de Miro.”

“Oops. Sorry. Typical me. One-track mind. Always thinking about the business.”

“So you're saying you don't enjoy cooking.” His wiry fingers tap-danced on the table.

“I'm saying my idea of the perfect house is six bathrooms, no kitchen.”

“Can you at least operate a microwave?” he sniffed.

“Of course. But my real strength is vending machines.”

Jeez. Not even a smile. What made him Lord of the Lens? I was expecting a guy ready to be brought to pasture, not someone in his early thirties. A man who towered over his subjects, not came up to their waists. No wonder he was hiding in Miami.

“Do you know anything about photography?” He spooned out a lemon pit from his glass.

“I know that I miss Fotomat. Oh, and the disposables just came out in digital.”

Raphael's left eye twitched. “Are you familiar with various procedures such as—”

“All of them…liposuction, chemical peels, quadruple thigh passes…”

Now he stared at me as if I'd just arrived from planet Zoloft. “I meant are you familiar with basic accounting procedures, word processing programs—”

“No. But I can IM six people at one time without screwing up a single conversation.”

“You're not even remotely qualified for an office management position?”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“I'll offer you twenty-five thousand to start.”

“No way. I could spend more than that on shoes.”

“May I remind you that you have no qualifications?”

“May I remind you that I came here to do some test shots…and to get rid of this wedgie?”

Finally a smile. “I admire your
chutzpah,
Claire. And you obviously know the business. I'm thinking Pablo could teach you the rest.”

“And I'm thinking, when did I lose control of this go-see? All I wanted to do was make a few bucks modeling, and instead I'm sitting here defending myself because I didn't train with Emeril.”

“I won't lie. You're a beautiful girl. Stunning, actually. Just not body double material.”

“Let me guess. I'm too old.”

“No. Too thin.”

“Well, now, there's something you don't hear at a modeling agency every day. Too thin?”

“Your arms have no definition, you have this little nothing
tuchas,
I can't tell about your thighs yet, but your shoulders are bony—”

“That's my crime? Bony shoulders?”

“This is one business where you're not the sum of your parts, love. Look at J. Lo. Nice face, but she's got an ass like a three-car caboose. Jamie Lee Curtis has more rolls than a bakery. Brooke Shields, Elizabeth Hurley, Cindy Crawford, even Pamela Anderson…they all wanted Anita Hart as their butt double. Believe me, after fifteen years, I know what works on the big screen…. Maybe you should consider catalog work.”

“You're killing me, Mr. de Miro. I'm a respected actress, not a lingerie model for Sears.”

“According to Pablo, right now you're neither. That's why I thought you'd be interested—”

“In what? Finding out that after running rings around most other actresses, the only thing I'm qualified to do is answer phones and fetch Starbucks at some loony bin agency that pays shitty?”

“I assure you our salaries are commensurate with living costs down here.”

“Not my living costs. Do you have any idea what Botox injections go for these days?”

“I see that you're not afraid to speak candidly…. Most people are afraid of me, you know.”

“Because they had no idea you just started shaving. And besides, now that I know you can't help me—”

“I can help you. Thirty thousand. Final offer.”

“Why do you want me to work for you at all? You said yourself I'm totally unqualified.”

“Because at the moment I am positively desperate for someone with brains who can run the day-to-day. Pablo is a pushover, and the last three girls…one stupider than the next.”

“Is it all grunt work, or would I get to interact with Mr. Scorcese?”

Raphael laughed. “My dear, who do you think its job will be to tell him to fuck off?”

“Are you serious? I would get to tell Marty Scorcese to fuck off?”

“Nicely, of course. Along with all the other pains in the asses you'll have to deal with. Models, booking agents, casting directors, producers, directors…. We're now one of the largest agencies in the country for body doubles.”

“That's great…. Why did you ask if I could cook?”

“I like lunch served fresh.”

“Me, too. God bless takeout.”

“It gets very expensive.”

“So does paying me forty grand a year, then sticking me in the kitchen to whip up paella?”

“Thirty-five, and I adore paella.”

“Me, too! But here's the thing. I don't cook. I don't even defrost. Once I burned a salad…. The other problem is I'd need a place to live.”

“Where are you staying now?”

“With my grandmother.”

“Move in with her.”

“I like it. I do. Rooming with an eighty-four-year-old woman who spends half her day pissing in her pants, and the other half looking for her teeth.”

“You'll be very happy here.” Raphael kissed my hand. “I give you my word.”

“Is that what you told the last three girls?”

“Of course.”

“And where are they today?”

“I had them all killed.”

 

I was relieved that Viktor did not take offense when I got back into the limousine, closed my eyes, and begged for privacy. Thank God, because I was thinking that if I got dragged into even one more surreal conversation today, I would start looking for my biggest artery and a razor blade.

First there were all those wackos on my flight down. Then the phone call with my father about Elyce's wedding…Adam with the whole missing-car-key business…Grams with the meatloaf, and freaking out about Abe Fabrikant…meeting Ben and Drew and setting a hundred lies in motion…bumping into Julia Farber (wonder if Dr. Fiancé knows she once majored in ménage à trois). Then came Drew's request for me to speak at the funeral (Who asks a complete stranger to do a eulogy?). And finally, the war of words with Viktor the Mouth, Pink Panther Pablo, and Raphael de Lunatic…oh my God…had I actually agreed to consider working for him?

And yet, what did it all matter? The one conversation that should have happened, the only one-on-one that would have enriched my life and restored my faith in mankind, never took place. And it certainly wasn't because I'd had my fill of great humanitarians. In L.A., you qualified as a hero if you got a friend Marc Jacobs at wholesale.

Sadly, all I had to show for my lone encounter with the great Abe Fabrikant were the
if only
's. If only I'd been a decent human being instead of a self-absorbed little putz. If only I'd stayed on the plane and not lied to his grieving family. If only I'd redeemed myself by confessing the truth to Ben and Drew, maybe I wouldn't be feeling the unexplainable nearness of something practically on top of me.

I opened my eyes, startled by the fact that everything was as it should be. Viktor was behind the wheel heading north on 95, yakking on his cell. I was alone in the back seat. Yet as sure as the sun was shining, I somehow knew I had company.

I don't know what made me poke around. There was nothing to see or touch. And how stupid I must have looked, waving my hand in the air, a maestro without music. Still, I just couldn't shake the feeling that there was an enormous energy force beside me that wanted to make its presence known. A cold, improbable heaviness invading my space, mimicking my uneven breaths.

My instinct was to cry out, but my voice was still. My heart pounded, yet I did not know what I feared. The chilled cabin air was tempered by an aura that warmed my skin.

“Mr. Fabrikant?” I whispered, actually expecting a reply.

“You okay beck there?” Viktor lowered the privacy window.

“Fine. I think…. I don't know…. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Of course. In Russia, we have our
barabashkas,
our little house ghosts. You leave, they don't. Then there's all thi stories about the ghost of Rasputin. You remember heem? The poet and the devil. Oh. And maybe you like to read excellent Russian literature like Gogol's
The Dead Souls
….”

Absolutely! Let's stop at the library
. “What about ghosts of people who die on your lap?” I took a deep breath. “What do they call that in Russia?”

“In Russia?” Viktor chuckled. “They call thet beeg trouble.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe yur just heving bed dream.”

“I guess so…. Are we almost there?”

“If treffic stays good, we be et your grendmotherz—”

“Yeah, yeah. In blink of yur eye.”

I reached for my cell phone. Maybe a familiar activity would shoo away the hair-raising thought that to grandmother's house I was going, only not alone. But with seven missed messages, three of which were from Elyce, I wasn't sure which scared me more, the bride or the boogeyman.

Turns out hearing Elyce's orgasmic voice was bone-chilling. “Oh my God, I'm so excited you're going to be in the wedding.” Beep. “Call me right away so I know when to set up your first fitting at Kleinfeld's.” Beep. “Wait until you see the bridesmaids' dresses. They're
to die for.” (If ever there was an expression I didn't want to hear…)

On the good-news front, it occurred to me that if I accepted the job offer from Mr. de Miro, I'd have a great reason not to be part of the Fogel/Berg nuptials. How could Elyce expect me to be a dutiful bridesmaid from fourteen hundred miles away? It would be difficult for me to help plan her shower. And what about all those pesky fittings?

But did I really want to commit to living in Florida, working in slave mode for a bunch of hotheaded homosexuals, just to avoid a wedding party? What about my shot at the Big Apple? It was too soon to cave. Not too soon, however, to reach Gram's high-rise apartment building, and to have the fun begin.

“I ken't bee-leeve it.” Viktor laughed. “There's an old lady stending outside in thi hot sun with a plate of food…. What is she doing? Looking for her next husband?”

I glanced out my window and groaned. “No, unfortunately. She's looking for me.

“Grams, you didn't have to bring the meatloaf down,” I scolded her in the elevator. “Unless you were planning to mail it to the starving children in Europe.”

“Excuse me, Miss Skinny Minny. I thought you'd be hungry.” Her once-steady hands shook as she clutched the plate of home cooking.

“Yeah, but I'm not four anymore. I can wait until I get to a table.”

She mumbled something about her table, and I noticed she seemed agitated, but I was more focused on taking a nap and a bath and then phoning Sydney back in L.A. to tell her about my bewildering day. Maybe she'd consult with her astrology guru and ask if there was some weird planetary thing going on in my birth sign that was creating havoc in my personal cosmos.

“You girls are so thin nowadays.” Grams looked me over as if I were a paltry chicken at Publix. “I tell everyone. Try my granddaughter's diet. You eat nothing. Soon you disappear.”

“Would you stop? I'm in great shape. I eat healthy. I'm fine.”

Jeez. My family's obsession with food was scary, especially after I moved back to New York and saw that they'd all been supersized.
And no wonder. Every night was either eat out or take in.
Feel like pizza? No. We had that last night
.

“I thought you went for a modeling job.” Grams interrupted my thoughts.

“I did. Well, not a job, exactly. More like a test. An interview.”

“And that's how you dressed? Like you came from one of those acrobatic classes?”

“You mean aerobics?” I chuckled as Grams fumbled for her keys. But when I looked at my ratty gym shorts I knew she was right. I'd had every intention of changing into this pink fishnet and fringe mini, the very dress Adam Sandler said was so hot it would set off the sprinkler system.

Damn! I'd been in the business long enough to know that fashion statements were paramount to success. Not even a temporary lapse of designer judgment could escape ridicule, unless you traveled in Gywneth Paltro's celebrity circle. Then you could be the laughingstock at the Oscars, and it wouldn't downgrade your stock one bit.