Night Night, Sleep Tight (9 page)

Chapter 16

S
carf? Sunglasses?
Pffft.
Amateur hour.” Bunny Nichol rubbed her hands together, wiggled her fingers, and blew on the tips. “We can do better than that.” She threw open the door to her dressing room. It was half the size of the master bedroom, which itself was about the size of the entire first floor of Deirdre’s house in San Diego. Out wafted the scent of orange blossoms.

Instantly Deirdre was transported back to when she and Joelen spent hours in Bunny’s dressing room, sampling her skin creams and applying her lipstick—a strawberry red called Fraises des Bois—and trying on gowns and costumes. Chiffon and satin, feathers and sequins, leather and metallic lamé. Then adorning themselves with pounds of costume jewelry.

But the last thing Deirdre needed right now was a getup that drew attention to herself. “Even with a paper bag over my head I’ll still be recognizable. I can’t get around without this,” she said, indicating her crutch.

“When I’m done with you, you’ll be able to bump right into them, crutch and all, and they won’t so much as blink. You’ll see.”

“Bunny used to be a magician’s assistant,” Joelen said. “She once performed with the legendary John Jasper.”

“Deirdre’s probably never heard of him, have you, dear?” Bunny said. “He wasn’t a celebrity so much as a magician’s magician. Brilliant guy. He could do anything. Make anything disappear, including the teeth right out of your mouth. He was injured doing the bullet catch onstage in Piccadilly. Died a day later. Death by misadventure. If the police had understood how the trick was done, they’d have done more investigating.” She shook her head, then gave a wicked smile and a wave of her hand. “In John’s early days, I was the eye candy. That’s the whole point of having an assistant. To distract. Though he didn’t need me. He was that damned good. But here we have the opposite problem.” She pursed her lips. “We don’t want you to disappear. We just want to make you appear invisible.”

Invisibility. Now there was a goal worth aspiring to.

The facing walls of the dressing room were mirrored, reflecting back an infinitely repeating version of Deirdre’s frazzled self. Deirdre dropped her gaze to Bunny’s makeup table. It was also mirrored, and sitting on top was a gilt-framed ink-and-watercolor portrait of Bunny. She addressed the viewer with a direct gaze, a knowing gleam in her eyes, her chin resting on her curled fingers. Tendrils of silky black hair framed her face. She looked like a grown-up, worldly, and slightly naughty version of a Breck girl.

Outside the border framing Bunny’s face, the illustrator had drawn a heart-shaped bottle filled with brilliant blue liquid. The word
CERULEAN
was lettered in gold on the bottle, and beneath it in script were the words
Fragrance for women.
The liquid in the bottle matched the brilliant blue the artist had used to color Bunny’s eyes.

Bunny grabbed the framed picture and laid it facedown on the dressing table. “No one’s supposed to see that,” she said. “It’s all very hush-hush, so you must promise me you won’t tell a soul. They’re not launching the product for a while yet, and I don’t want to jinx it. But isn’t it exciting?”

Joelen caught Deirdre’s attention in the mirror and rubbed her fingers and thumb together. “Mom will be the official spokesperson.”

“A little old-style Hollywood glamour,” Bunny said. “Still sells. If Sophia Loren can do it, why not Elenor Nichol? I’ve still got it.” She stood for a moment, chin up, hip cocked, admiring herself in the mirror.

“Yes, Mother dear.” Joelen rolled her eyes. “Remember the last time Deirdre was here? You let her borrow that yellow dress.”

“Did I?” Bunny said.

“Lace with a high neck,” Deirdre said. “It was the most gorgeous dress I’d ever worn, before or since.”

“Oh dear, that is a sad story.” Bunny gave Deirdre a sharp, appraising look. “You could probably still get into that dress. I’m sure I could not.”

Deirdre shivered at the thought of actually stepping into the torn, soiled dress. How different it would be from when she’d first put her arms through the sleeves on the night of her last sleepover.

That night, while the caterers were busy downstairs setting up for the party, Joelen and Deirdre sat and watched from the floor of this dressing room as Bunny got ready. First she “put on her face,” as she called it. Foundation, then powder brushed on over it, then a darkish powder applied, she explained, to shorten her nose and accentuate cheekbones. Next Bunny did her eyes, painting a thick band of turquoise eyeliner on the lids—a trick, she said, to make her eyes look even bluer than they were. Over that, with a steady hand she painted a narrow black line that echoed Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra.

Joelen had stood behind her mother, brushed out her hair, and pinned it up in a silky French twist. Bunny artfully pulled out strands to frame her face. Then Joelen sprayed until the air in the dressing room was moist and heavy with scent.

One by one, Bunny had pulled cocktail dresses from the closet, holding each up to consider. Satin, lace, chiffon, some in saturated jewel tones like colors of the millefleur glass paperweight on the makeup table, others pastel, like eggs in an Easter basket.

Bunny had held up an emerald-green satin sheath. “Not my color,” she said. She held the dress under Joelen’s chin. Joelen looked past her mother at her own reflection in a mirror. Without a word, some agreement seemed to pass between them. Bunny unzipped the dress and held it open; Joelen took off her pants and top and stepped into it. Bunny unhooked Joelen’s bra and Joelen slipped out of it and poured her breasts into the dress’s boned bodice. Deirdre felt like one of the little mice who watched Cinderella’s transformation as Bunny zipped Joelen into the dress, turned her to face the mirror, and pinched the fabric on either side of her narrow waist.

The overall effect was breathtaking. The intense green made Joelen’s complexion glow, and the contrast set fire to the reddish streaks in her hair. Her soft, full cleavage swelled into the plunging sweetheart neckline.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound had startled Deirdre. It was Tito, standing in the doorway and staring in at them. He was dressed in a formfitting black silk shirt that was open halfway down his chest.

Joelen blushed, and her hands flew up to cover her breasts. Tito strode over to her, put a finger under her chin, and waited until she raised her eyes to meet his. “Do not be ashamed. You are beautiful like your mother.” He started to lean in toward her, as if he were about to give her a kiss, then turned and gave Bunny a peck on the cheek. “These young ladies,” he said, winking at Deirdre, “they should come to the party.” Then he strode off, leaving behind a wake of musky cologne.

“Oh, could we? Can we?” Joelen asked Bunny. “Please, please, please!”

After a few moments’ hesitation, Bunny said, “Oh, all right. You girls can answer the door and take coats. Stay for a little while. But after that it’s up to bed. Understood?” She set aside a few dresses for Deirdre to pick from, then left to check on the caterers.

Deirdre chose the pale yellow cocktail dress with a swishy tulle skirt and a lace bodice. With a borrowed bra of Joelen’s, stuffed with Kleenex, the dress fit perfectly and made her feel like a fairy princess. By the time both girls were dressed and Joelen had finished fussing with her own and Deirdre’s hair and makeup, Deirdre barely recognized the girls who looked back at them in the mirror. Joelen looked like Ann-Margret, the seductive redhead she’d seen singing “Bye, Bye, Birdie” on the
Ed Sullivan Show
. Deirdre looked like a complete stranger with dark, dramatic eyes, the lashes heavy with mascara, her lips strawberry red and glistening. Her hair was teased and lacquered, her face a smooth veneer of makeup that felt spackled on.

Deirdre and Joelen had made their way down as the first guests, including Arthur and Gloria, were arriving. Guests took turns playing the piano, and at one point Bunny urged Joelen to step up and sing “Let Me Entertain You.”

“Sing out, Louise!” Bunny trilled near the end, before Joelen morphed from girlish coquette to sly seductress. When Joelen got to the part where she promised if they were
real good,
she’d make them
feel good,
not a single ice cube clinked as the room turned utterly silent
.
Joelen and Bunny sang the final crescendo together. Deirdre could still see the two of them standing side by side, flushed and beaming as the piano’s chords reverberated. An awkward silence followed.

In the endless rehashing in the press of what happened that night, a photograph of Joelen and Bunny appeared in newspapers and magazines. It showed them standing, arm in arm in front of the white grand piano in their similarly low-cut, formfitting satin sheaths. Deirdre had been standing next to Joelen, also arm in arm, but her image had been cropped from the frame. The only evidence she’d been there was the corner of her tulle skirt and her arm, the wrist laden with borrowed rhinestone bracelets.

Joelen’s question, “I wonder what happened to that dress?,” brought Deirdre back to the present. Joelen raised her eyebrows at Deirdre.
Ask,
she mouthed.

But before Deirdre could form a question, Bunny swept her arms like a conductor silencing the instruments. “Magic,” she said, gazing out in front of her, eyes unfocused, as if watching the word hover before her. “It’s all about misdirection. Make the audience attend to what
you
want them to see. What will be compelling enough to divert their attention or, in our case, make them tune out—that is the trick.”

Delicately Bunny tapped her chin with long red fingernails and stared at Deirdre in the mirror. She opened one closet door, then another, and another, finally emerging with a half-dozen garments slung over her arm. None of them were cocktail dresses. “Stand up straight. And, please, would you take off that appalling top. It’s making my teeth itch.”

Obediently Deirdre pulled off Henry’s Harley T-shirt and stood there in her bra and drawstring pants.

“Hmmm.” Bunny held up what looked like a gray cotton mechanic’s jumpsuit and squinted. She pursed her lips in disapproval and dropped it on the floor. A pale purple sweatshirt minidress with a hood met the same fate. A black-and-gold floor-length African dashiki joined the pile. Next she held up what looked like a stewardess uniform—navy pencil skirt and tailored jacket. “Maybe,” she said, and set it aside.

Finally Bunny considered a simple shirtwaist dress, starched and pressed gray cotton with an A-line skirt, white snaps up the front, a white collar, and short white-cuffed sleeves. She held the dress under Deirdre’s chin, narrowing her eyes as she gazed into the mirror. Then she broke into a smile. “Perfect, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

Fifteen minutes later Deirdre was seated at the makeup table, wearing the dress with a pair of saggy white opaque tights and orthopedic nurse’s shoes. She’d stuffed the toe of one shoe with Kleenex to keep it from falling off her smaller foot. Bunny tucked Deirdre’s hair into a hairnet and secured it with a hairpin. She applied a foundation much darker than Deirdre’s natural skin tone and brushed powder over it, then created hollows beneath Deirdre’s eyes with dark eye shadow. Finally she gave Deirdre a pair of glasses with black plastic frames.

Deirdre put the glasses on. The lenses were clear.

“Up,” Bunny commanded.

Deirdre leaned on her crutch and rose to her feet.

“Stoop,” Bunny said.

Deirdre hunched over.

“Not that much. Just kind of roll your shoulders and stick your head out. Think turtle.”

Deirdre adjusted her stance. The mousy woman gazing back at her from the mirror looked like a Latina version of Ruth Buzzi’s bag lady from
Laugh-In
. She started to laugh. “This is ridiculous. It will never work.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” a man’s voice called from Bunny’s bedroom.

“You don’t think it’s going to work?” Bunny said to Deirdre. “Watch this.” She handed Deirdre her crutch and led her into the bedroom, then threw open the door to the hall. Out on the landing stood the young man Deirdre had seen earlier. He was barefoot and wearing jeans and a stretched-out black T-shirt.

“What’s up with you?” Joelen said.

“I . . . what? Why are you two looking at me like I did something?” he said.

“It’s not what you did. It’s what you’re not doing,” Joelen said, pushing past Deirdre.

“What are you talking about?” The man looked from Joelen to Bunny.

“See?” Bunny said, turning to Deirdre. “Not a single glance your way. It’s as if you’re wallpaper. I’d say the disguise is working.”

“Disguise?” the man said.

Joelen took the man’s hand. “Dear, meet Deirdre, my best friend all through high school. Deirdre, may I present Jackie Hutchinson. My
baby
”—her voice seemed to caress the word—“brother. Is he adorable or what?” Joelen gave him a loud wet kiss on the cheek.

“Would you cut that out?” Jackie pulled a face and made a show of wiping off the kiss. “I’m twenty-one, for God’s sake.”

“God help us. Just turned twenty-one,” Joelen said. She chucked him under the chin and he pushed her away.

Of course Deirdre could see the resemblance. Jackie and Joelen both had Bunny’s legendary electric blue eyes and heart-shaped face. But Jackie had dark curly hair, a dimpled chin, and beaky profile—not features he’d have inherited from Bunny or Bunny’s late husband, Derek Hutchinson. Hutch, as he was called in the fan magazines, had a longtime starring role in a hospital-based soap opera, but he’d been much more Dr. Kildare than Ben Casey.

Recovering himself, Jackie offered Deirdre his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m sorry. I thought you were . . .” His voice trailed off. He seemed painfully young and he made Deirdre feel painfully old.

“Go on,” Bunny said. “Say it. You thought Deirdre was the new maid.”

Jackie nodded sheepishly and Joelen said, “And the prize for best disguise goes to—”

“Sorry,” Jackie said.

“Don’t be,” Bunny said. “It’s very gratifying. That’s just the effect I was aiming for.”