Dead Dogs and Englishmen (10 page)

Cecil patted my knee again. This time I slowly pulled my legs back where he couldn't reach them. “I suppose that whisper of Lila's was to warn you about me and my … shall we say … predilections? She has this wild idea that I chase women. Only a pose, my dear. You have nothing to worry about. Not from me.” He shrugged. “I think it makes me more valuable to her. I mean, as a catch. She likes to imagine every woman desires me. But look …” He indicated his rather wide body, straightened the toupee, and smiled so his little, clipped teeth showed. “All in her head. But if it pleases my darling wife, well …”

I looked hard at Jackson. He'd brought me into a terrible movie, somewhere between an early Cary Grant and a bad
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
What I was feeling—crawling up and down my spine—was the need to get out of there, leave this play with no ending, and go home to my dog and maybe a long shower, but Lila was back, pushing a rumbling and clinking tea cart, talking loudly as she parked the cart beside us, and began inquiring as to cream or lemon.

We sat, with lace-edged napkins in our laps, and sipped our tea, murmuring and nibbling at hard, dry cookies that didn't soften though I followed each bite with a big swig of tea. I was Alice at the Mad Hatter's party. At any minute the dormouse would fall into his cup and someone would shout “Clean Cup” and we'd all move around a place.

I smiled at the others and sipped, then sipped again. I patted at my lips with my dainty napkin. There was no game these people could come up with I wasn't ready to play. Time passed with the atonal ticktock of the large clocks standing around the walls. Freddy, on the floor beside Cecil, snored and shivered. I leaned toward Lila to tell her how good the tea was. She tossed her long blond hair back from her face with an almost tired gesture and gave me a wan smile. “Yes, Cecil will have only the very best of everything in his home.”

I got a long stare from her—from the tips of my sneakers to my ponytail. She leaned close. “Do you think you're the best editor for Cecil's book, Emily? I mean …” She looked me over again.

She'd caught me off guard. I wasn't used to bragging and honestly didn't know if I was the best editor for his project. I shrugged. “We'll see.” I gave her one of my more gnarly smiles where I moved my lips up and down and kept the rest of my face stiff.

“Now, Lila.” Cecil set his cup on the cart and shook his head at her. “Let's not make our guest uncomfortable. I'm certain that Emily shares my, and Noel Coward's, sentiment that ‘
work is much more fun than fun.'”

“But that is exactly what I'm thinking of, my dear. Your work is so important. A New York editor is a necessity, wouldn't you say?”

He gave a light laugh. “Do I smell a selfish reason beneath your oh, so sweet love, dear? Is it that you want to be in New York to get discovered, to take your rightful place on the New York stage? My darling girl, you can't fool me.
Only thinking of me.
Really, are we so deep into farce?”

She pouted at him. “But, Cecil, is this woodsy creature really up to the job?”

Woodsy creature
, indeed. My Irish ire sprang straight out of my brain and lit my face to a warm shade of something nearing Kelly green, I supposed. I could sit there like a rabbit frozen in the glare of a couple of coyotes, or I could get the hell out of there. I was close to making some real money, but getting even closer to a fine Irish snit. The snit won out over all good sense, as usual.

I sat a moment more, then rose, wordless, from my chair, set my empty tea cup precisely on an inlaid gold rose of the Italian teacart, napkin beside it, and turned to walk out of the room. None of them deserved the benefit of my goodbye but I stopped in the doorway to turn with what I thought was a nice, dramatic flounce.

“This ‘woodsy' creature's got better things to do than waste time at a crazy tea party. You want to hire me, Mr. Hawke, give me a call. If I don't hear, you can bet I won't be losing sleep over it.”

I sniffed and tossed my head, making my pony tail bounce like the white flag of our ‘woodsy' deer. I walked off down the hall toward the front door. There was a nervous laugh from behind me in the library. Jackson, I thought. There was the satisfactory scrambling of chairs and feet. Someone got up and came scurrying behind me across the Italian tiles of the big hall.

Lila grabbed my arm as I neared the front door. She pulled forcefully, turning me to face her.

“I am a bitch.” She leaned in close, red mouth stretched wide. The look she gave me was a near pout—long phony lashes blinking, face so very sorry. “You must learn that about me. But I promise to stay out of your way when you're working with Cecil.”

She pulled harder at my arm. “When there is more than one man in a room and another woman is there, why I just get impossibly competitive. I want them all, you see. Men. Men. Men.” She raised one hand in a wild gesture then put a finger to her lips and pulled me back to the library where Jackson and Cecil stood, looking equally uncomfortable.

The men relaxed back in their chairs, obviously happy that the female uproar was over. I took a deep breath. Was this crazy couple worth the fifteen hundred I'd get for ten chapters? Hmmm … yes, I thought. And maybe I could use them in a later book. I would kill off Lila—that was certain. Maybe him too. My mind was jogging in circles. I wanted the money. The work would be easy for me—I'd always been a good editor; even back at the paper I'd been known for almost perfect copy.

“I'd like to see the chapters you have so far,” I said, looking directly at Cecil. He nodded at me and then at Lila, who leaped from her chair, ever the dutiful wife, and hurried from the room.

“Lila will bring the pages down from my study,” Cecil said, smiling benignly at me. “We'll begin with five chapters. I'd like to see if we can truly work together; if you grasp the spirit of my book; if you, an American, have the intelligence to capture the deep and dramatic sensibilities of this consummate Englishman.” He smiled his yellow-toothed smile. “I do, of course, have conditions for your employment. I will need you to sign a confidentiality agreement. You may not discuss my work with anyone but me. You may not show my work to anyone. You may not share my work at any time—under any circumstances.” He smiled again. “And as to your criticism, as Coward once said …” He cleared his throat, leaned back in his chair and assumed a rigid pose, “‘
I love criticism, just so long as it is unqualified praise
.'”

I was neither charmed nor bowled over by the man's wit. He was a creepy guy with a loony wife, in a big barn of a house, with a dog that looked as if he hated his master.

I took a deep breath and laid out conditions of my own. “Jackson's told me what you're doing. I hope the book lives up to the advance praise … from Jackson.” I looked toward my ex, who showed his own uneasiness.

“And I, in turn, hope you can get beyond Lila's exhibition,” Hawke said. “She sometimes … well … there are mental issues at work. Wouldn't you say so, Jackson? You've been with us both now for … what is it … over three weeks?”

Jackson, embarrassed, studied the palm of his right hand. He gave a fake laugh. “I'm hardly in a position to judge your lovely wife.”

“Well,” Cecil sat back, his face slowly turning the shade of a paperwhite. “It seems we've gotten through our first contretemps.”

I took a deep breath. Not quite, I told myself. I hadn't been put through the afternoon's mania to leave without a clear understanding between us.

“Let's discuss how I work,” I said, hurriedly making up a set of rules to lay down. “First, I charge fifteen hundred for the first five chapters. They're the hardest to deal with, the place where the book begins and announces its direction. The first chapters require more work than the entire book. If this is all right with you … ” I stared hard at Cecil, who had relaxed back in his chair with his fingers twining on his chest.

He nodded.

“… then, it will be two hundred for each succeeding chapter. I will not work with your wife …”

“Agreed,” Cecil laughed, sniffed, and pulled his lips in tight across barely exposed teeth.

“I'll work at home unless you need to consult with me face to face.”

“I prefer face to face.” His voice was cold. His eyes had narrowed. I figured this was the impasse. I had to give something.

“That's fine. We'll work it out.” I took a deep breath. “I expect to be paid when I take the work. If you aren't satisfied, your money will be returned, but only if I agree that I haven't done the job you want done.”

I ran out of steam and bravado. All I wanted then was to get out of there, check and manuscript in hand, or no check and manuscript in hand.

“Satisfactory,” he said, fixing me with a guarded look. “Of course, the first consideration is if your work rises to my standards …”

“And that your writing rises to mine,” I countered, pleased with myself.

We reached an uncomfortable agreement, a kind of line in the sand for each of us. For a moment I couldn't figure out why he'd taken any lip from me at all. He didn't need me as much as I needed him. It felt wrong, somehow. But financially right.

The man's eyes were very blue and very small and very cold when he fixed them on me. He made me uncomfortable, the specimen in a jar feeling. Usually I was smart enough to turn and run from people like Cecil Hawke. Not this time. I'd negotiated a darn good deal.

There was heel tapping from the hall and Lila flounced in again, large manila envelope in her hand.

“I've got it,” she said louder than necessary. “Cecil, you ridiculous boy, you hide your work in a new place every day.”

He smiled a Cheshire Cat smile. “The better to keep it from you, my dear. And, of course, from the maid.”

I'd seen no maid. So far, on this whole big estate, in this enormous house, I'd seen no one but the Hawkes and their gatekeeper. There had to be others—all those barns and fields beyond the house—someone must be taking care of the sheep. Looking at Cecil Hawke, I wondered if he ever moved far from the chair he sat in, or from a tea cart, a whiskey bottle, or a mirror. This guy was no farmer, and he surely wasn't a shepherd.

I glanced at the sealed envelope dropped in my lap. It was thick. Maybe they were long chapters.

“When can I expect to hear from you, Emily?” We were back to being friends. Well, he was. I still felt a chill running through me.

I tucked the manuscript under my arm and stood. The men stood. Jackson stumbled over himself assuring Cecil Hawke that I would do a good job, that I was a little rough around the edges but that I was a good writer and a fine editor.

I asked for a check and got it, glancing down to make sure I really had fifteen hundred dollars. It was there, as requested: fifteen hundred, with a scribbled note at the bottom that it was a down payment on manuscript editing. Cecil produced a contract. I went over it fast. He was awfully worried that I'd give his idea away, or maybe peddle his precious words. The contract stated I agreed to read the whole manuscript and that I wouldn't talk about his work to anyone but Cecil Hawke, nor discuss it with anyone at all—not by written word and not in conversation. The guy was paranoid. To be honest, I couldn't figure out who would be interested in a study of a long dead guy who wasn't that well remembered. Maybe Jack and Cecil knew something I didn't know, but I doubted it.

I smiled at Cecil, who tossed his head, making his blond toupee slip slightly to the left. He waved his hand, dismissing us.

Lila took first my arm, then Jackson's, walking us both into the hall and toward the heavy front door. As she strode along, she pulled us close, though I sensed Jackson was pulled a lot closer than I. Something going on. Not the first time I'd had the feeling.

I sighed. At least he wasn't my husband to weep over any more. He could sleep with whomever he picked to sleep with. But with this one, this Lila Montrose-Hawke, he was probably in for a lot more than he could handle.

“You must forgive me, both of you, for my antics before,” she said, throwing her head back to expose a perfect set of blindingly white teeth. “I'm an actress, you see. I left the stage for Cecil. He needed me; so you understand that at times I tend to indulge in a bit of drama. Rehearsal—all is rehearsal. And I do, after all, have to protect dear Cecil from an unfeeling world.” She squeezed my arm hard enough to make me wince. “You've forgiven me already, haven't you, Emily?”

Jackson was the first to turn and smile happily at her. I grimaced behind her back.

“And now, for much nicer thoughts. You both must come to the party Cecil and I are planning. Next Saturday. A
Blithe Spirit
party.” She turned to grin at us. “We are so excited. It will be our homage to Noel Coward, of course, but also our very first party here in the north country. We will follow the play as closely as possible. You know it, don't you?” This was for me. I nodded, hoping I remembered some of what I'd read at my father's insistence when I was ten or so. “There will be a séance and all. Just as in the play. You must, you really must, come. And if there are others—I mean of your ilk, of course—feel free to call if you'd like to invite them. We are eager to make a splash up here. To set an entirely new standard.”

Thank God we were at the door. Parade over. I wanted to pull my arm from her grip. The woman gave off uncomfortable heat and I knew the heat wasn't for me.

“It will be costume, of course, the party. Who would expect anything different from a Coward production? Dress as a character in literature, a writer, or someone from history you most admire. Emily, you do have a favorite literary character, don't you? If not, call and I'll be happy to make suggestions.” She turned to Jackson. “And you, my dear friend, you must be someone wonderful. Oh darling, I see you as D'Artagnan. A dashing Musketeer. Virile. Someone …” Her pointed pink tongue licked out, moved across her lips, then ever so slowly pulled back into her mouth.