Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too (23 page)

Until Clover Barnstable arrived.

She made an entrance followed by a camera crew of her very own. One rangy young man hoisted a light over his head and focused it on Clover for the whole room to see. A videographer followed. Clover's friend Jane hovered with her own camera, too, crouching to catch unusual angles.

Clover paused, hand on outthrust hip, to give the crowd a disdainful stare. Then the seas parted for her, and she catwalked across the ballroom. She wore a skirt short enough to require a bikini wax and a gauzy shirt that showed she was braless.

Behind me, a young man cursed and said, “That chick's just about naked!”

A hubbub followed while the publicists cleared a path for Clover to reach their millionaire. The air sparkled with more camera flashes as Clover snuggled the winner's arm.

“Nora? Long time, no see.”

I turned to recognize the face of an acquaintance, Elizabeth Lammell, primary partner in her own publicity firm. Long ago in her almost forgotten past, Elizabeth had lost a television weather girl job because she had bad hair. Her dark brown mop was prone to lopsided frizz, and if there was one appearance flaw that spelled doom for television talent, it was hair that couldn't be tamed into a sleek, face-flattering shape.

Since then, however, she'd turned to promoting everything from adulterous baseball players in need of image repair to models, a few singers and at least one very successful painter who required publicity to succeed in their chosen fields. At improving public personas, she was the best in the city.

Unfortunately, Elizabeth's rough treatment of her own staff and clients had earned her the nickname of Elizabitch, which was universally known. She even used it herself.

Tonight she wore her hair pulled back in a tiny bun. Her youthful clothes were the latest fashion—French jeans, strappy Manolo sandals, a simple Hanes T-shirt and a real Chanel jacket that bespoke how well her firm was succeeding. But her huge red eyeglass frames made her eyes appear even smaller and meaner than ever, and no amount of good publicity could fix that.

“Hi, Elizab-beth.”

She checked out my clothes, and gave an “I'm impressed” eyebrow. Then, “What brings you here? It's not exactly your scene.” With a jerk of her head, she indicated the noisy party.

“The
Intelligencer
is going after a younger audience.”

“It's about time.” Elizabeth continued to scan the crowd, noting details for her mental files, perhaps.

“Also, I thought there was a philanthropic angle to this event.”

She snorted. “Only to put a little lipstick on the pig. No charity is going to benefit from this cattle call except for a few dollars tossed into the pot by the TV network.”

“I was afraid of that. Is the new millionaire your client?”

She blew a raspberry. “Hell, no, he's going straight to video, if you know what I mean. Until he gets a speaking coach, he's doomed. He can't put two sentences together without saying ‘uh' sixteen times.”

“Oh, then you're working for the television network.”

“Nope.” Elizabitch pulled me to a corner where we weren't so badly jostled by the people around us, but she could continue to watch the action. “This whole event is a big promo for the reality show. The network plans to come back to Philly to audition people for the next season.”

“Judging by the crowd, I guess they'll have plenty of contestants.”

“Yeah, ninety-nine percent of the people here are dying to compromise their values for fame and fortune. Are you a fan of the show?”

“I've never seen it.”

“You're not missing much. When did reality shows become more real than reality? I'd like to see if anyone in this room could survive my job.” She folded a stick of gum into her mouth.

“So who are you working for here?”

“Nobody yet. I'm checking out a potential client. Clover Barnstable. You know her? She comes from your neck of the woods, doesn't she?”

“You're working for Clover?” I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.

Elizabitch shook her head. “Not yet. But maybe. She hired a stylist I know. And she's asking around about me. So I thought I'd check her out. What do you think?”

Elizabitch and I watched Clover for another minute as she insinuated her body against the millionaire so that his arm was around her shoulders and his hand dangled provocatively near her huge left breast. The glare of television lights cast them both in dazzling white light.

“I don't get it,” I said. “Why does Clover need you? Is she going to model?”

“I doubt she can do much of anything. But watch. People can't stop themselves from staring at her. She knows how to stand, how to look into a camera. She's got charisma. If I can get her a record deal, she'll be the American dream!”

“Can she sing?”

“Who cares? We'll hire a voice teacher and get her to practice with some of those microphones that automatically correct your sharps and flats.”

“So,” I said, still struggling to understand, “that camera crew that came in with Clover? Are they yours?”

“Are you kidding? Would I hire such doofuses?” She laughed shortly. “No, they're hired actors.”

“Actors?” For an instant, I thought I misunderstood the industry lingo.

But Elizabitch put me straight. “They're out-of-work actors she hired to pretend to photograph her. Look, that video camera isn't even turned on!”

“Why would anyone hire actors to—?”

“It's pretty common, actually. Big celebs do it all the time to draw a crowd or get themselves into columns like yours. Making it by faking it, Nora. That's the name of the game right now.”

I stared at Clover and tried to understand what Elizabitch saw. A pretty face, yes, but that absurdly inflated bosom and her long, long legs hardly added up to stardom. I watched her playfully remove the bandanna from the neck of the millionaire. She used it to pretend to wipe his nose. The crowd laughed. A few people applauded.

“She has it,” Elizabitch said, more to herself than to me. “That magic. And this is her demographic—men and women, ages eighteen to thirty, the advertiser's G-spot. I could make her a fortune.”

I shook my head, disbelieving.

“Who is she fucking?” Elizabitch asked. “If she's already slept with a few B-listers, I could move her up pretty fast.”

“She's only sixteen!”

“Good. She won't show any wrinkles for a few more years. Yeah, if we put her in the right clothes, and she takes them off for the right people, she's got it made. Or maybe she could get herself a stalker. Or a kidnapping. That would help a lot.”

A wash of nausea rushed up inside me, and I turned away.

Only to be confronted by two more publicists with eager faces. They were the same two people who had shoved me out of their way to get into the ballroom.

“You're Nora Blackbird, aren't you?” The male member of the duo shoved a glossy paper brochure into my hand. “I didn't recognize you. I'm Jared from the Rothman Agency. You took over Kitty Keough's column, didn't you?”

“Hi, I'm Grace,” said the young woman, nudging her way closer to me. “Somebody just pointed you out to us. I represent Charlie Allen, the rock singer?”

Elizabitch snorted again. “Rock singer? That kid is barely out of diapers, Gracie. You can't do anything with him until he passes the third grade.”

Grace frowned and ignored Elizabitch. She handed me an autographed head shot of a child with pudgy cheeks who had struck a pose straight out of
Saturday Night Fever.
She said, “Maybe you could mention Charlie in your next column? He's doing a benefit concert at his elementary school on Saturday. To raise money for AIDS awareness.”

“And I represent Mia Trotter, the hip-hop sensation. We're giving a party for her next week. She's definitely material for your column, Nora. May I call you Nora?”

I was spared further soliciting when someone yelled into a microphone for quiet and then made a rambling introduction of the television winner. The young man disengaged himself from Clover and bounded onto the stage to enough thunderous shrieks, whistles and applause to satisfy a major-league record holder.

When he was finally able to speak, the winner babbled a series of malapropisms. “Dudes. To win, you have to make your alliances and play the game. Uh—I stepped up to my fate and proved my medal when it was do-or-die time, so, uh, you know, take the risk, and—hey, you can win, too.”

Under her breath beside me, Elizabitch said, “Not exactly Winston Churchill. But he has potential. Unless that's a sock he's got stuffed in his pants. Wonder if he does naked pictures yet?”

I needed fresh air fast.

“Hey, Nora.” Elizabitch caught my elbow as I turned away. “Let's have lunch soon. I could tell you about some of my clients.”

I pretended the room was too noisy to understand her words and waved. When last I saw her, Elizabitch was making a bee-line for Clover.

On the way out of the ballroom, I dropped the hip-hop singer and the third-grade rocker into a potted palm.

Five minutes later, I was outside the hotel and one of the doormen hailed me a cab.

I decided to crash a party.

On a leafy city street paved with cobblestones, lit by gas lamps and lined with majestic town houses built long ago, I knocked on the oaken door of Paddy Abernethy, the last remaining son of an old, respected family. His butler opened the door to me, took my coat and handbag and asked me to wait. A hired waiter whisked past with an empty tray, headed for the kitchen. I could hear the muffled conversation of guests in the next room. The scent of cocktail munchies floated in the air.

The vestibule of Paddy's home, heavy with oak trim, was decorated with paintings by his mother, a portraitist. As I waited, I gazed at the framed faces of a slightly cross-eyed old man, a small child with a dog, and Paddy when he was a teenager, holding the bridle of a polo pony.

Paddy arrived, wearing velvet slippers and carrying a glass of sherry. He was a short, unattractive man with a weak chin and burly shoulders, but the kindness in his expression outweighed everything else. Tonight, however, he looked surprised. “Nora,” he said.

“I'm sorry, Paddy,” I said at once. “I shouldn't have come without an invitation.”

“No, no,” he said, belatedly mustering some enthusiasm. “You're welcome here at any time. But—”

“I know what you're doing tonight is very hush-hush.”

“How did you—? Well, it doesn't matter, does it?” He took my hand and drew me to the doorway of the salon, where we could see fewer than a dozen guests, all quietly engaged in conversations around the candlelit room. The furniture was faded but elegant. Bookshelves with leather-bound volumes lined the walls. A baby grand piano graced one corner.

The guests had gathered knowing their mission would be kept secret, but their voices were subdued as if they might be overheard.

Paddy also kept his voice low as he pointed out his guests. “You know Darren Flock, don't you? And that's Cozy Costain beside the piano. Between them, they're donating a million dollars to the after-school foundation. My mother always dreamed of doing something like this. And now her friends are making it happen.”

“You must be so happy.” I smiled. “It's a wonderful program, Paddy.”

He laughed. “Mom hated kids, you know. Hired a nanny for me as soon as I was out of the womb. Maybe that's why she loved the idea of keeping children busy after school. So they wouldn't come home too soon every day!”

Paddy had gone to medical school with my husband and worked at the same transplant research project, too. As Todd's obsession with cocaine grew, Paddy covered for Todd at first and later insisted he go into rehab. When Todd died, Paddy was one of the first to come to my aid. He even hired a truck and helped carry my furniture out of our town house when I moved to Blackbird Farm. He was living proof that there was often more to a man than the monogram on his pocket.

He said, “How's life in the country?”

“I like it. I'll be planting flowers in a few weeks.”

“How's Emma?”

“Available.”

Paddy laughed. “Is she? I'll take that under advisement.”

“Paddy, I know this party of yours is private. But I was hoping to convince you to let me write about it. If you're raising a significant amount of money, you ought to—”

“Publicize ourselves?” He shook his head. “That's not why we're doing this, Nora. I'm sorry.”

“If people knew about your foundation, you might get more donations.”

“Maybe so,” he agreed. “But we just don't do things that way. I'm sure you understand.”

“I do,” I admitted. In my own heart, giving money in order to get your name in the newspaper tainted the altruism. But in recent years the practice had rescued many a philanthropic organization. I knew I couldn't press Paddy, however. He'd made his decision. And, like everyone else in the room, I was bound by social custom to never mention it again.

“Come in, anyway,” he said. “Have a drink. Darcy Plattenberg is going to play the violin later.”

I mingled with Paddy's guests, most of whom I knew very well indeed. Cozy Costain had been a good friend of my grandmother's, and I teased her about her newfound love of poker. I spoke with Judge Hargrave Potter as he picked over a tray of tapas, looking for something spicy.

“These old folks don't like any fire in their food,” the retired judge confided to me. “But me, I like pizzazz. How are you doing these days, Nora? You look a little peaked.”