Peony Street

PEONY STREET

By Pamela Grandstaff

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Copyright © 2011 Pamela Grandstaff All rights reserved.

For My Dad

Chapter One - Friday

Chapter Two - Saturday

Chapter Three - Saturday

Chapter Four - Sunday

Chapter Five - Sunday/Monday

Chapter Six - Monday

Chapter Seven - Tuesday

Chapter Eight - Wednesday

Chapter Nine - Wednesday/Thursday

Chapter Ten - Thursday/Friday

Chapter Eleven - Friday

“You! You with the towels. Don’t look at me, don’t speak to me, and don’t touch anything. Stay right where you are. Tuppy! Why is no one monitoring who comes in the door? Where is security?”

A shudder ran through Chance Farthington “Tuppy”   Tupworth’s body as the shriek of the diva preceded her noon-time appearance in the doorway to his hotel suite, where he was organizing her day. She had a plush towel wrapped around her head and a peony-patterned silk kimono floated around her whippet-thin body. Her muscles were so tightly stretched and defined they looked as if they might snap and roll up at any moment. Soft terry spa slippers with miniature padded straps between each freshly painted toenail cushioned her tiny, manicured feet.

She glared at Tuppy and then, distracted by a noise, pointed at someone further down the hallway.

“You! What’s your name? Speak up! I pay you people a fortune; why can’t you just for once do what I hired you to do? Why am I surrounded by idiots? You’re supposed to keep these people away from me. Get her out of here and make sure it doesn’t happen again or you’re fired.”

Her perfectly motionless, exquisite face, the one so often displayed on film posters, in fashion magazines, and on tabloid covers, suggested twenty-nine. Every ropy vein in her arms and hands admitted thirty-nine, which was closer to the truth. The lack of any discernable emotion in her facial expression could lead one to assume all was calm behind her sea-green eyes. Tuppy hadn’t made that assumption in a long while.

“Tuppy,” Sloan said. “Where’s Claire? This is royalty we’re dealing with; I want everything to be perfect.”

“Teeny’s styling and Juanita’s doing makeup,” Tuppy said calmly. “Alexander McQueen sent a selection of couture with accessories, someone from Tiffany’s will bring the jewelry this afternoon, Teeny has procured a selection of Christian Louboutin shoes, and Andrew Barton is sending a team to do your hair.”

“I don’t want a team. I want Claire.”

“She’s not returning my calls,” Tuppy replied in a reasonable tone. “I’ve left voicemails, texts, and email messages.”

“Then why are you just sitting there, you moron,” she huffed. “Go find her.”

“What would you like me to do when I find her, Sloan? Rough her up? Kidnap her?”

“I don’t care how you do it, just get her here. Tell her I’ll double her salary.”

“You’ve tried that.”

“Tell her I’ll have Juanita deported.”

“You’ve tried that as well,” Tuppy said. “You might as well accept it, Sloan; that bird has flown.”

“It’s not over until I say it’s over,” Sloan said. “Claire just needs to be made to understand. If
Stanley were here he’d take care of it and I wouldn’t have all this horrible stress.”

Sloan moved across the room to closely examine her face in a mirror on the wall, as if searching for the detrimental effects of the horrible stress. Tuppy realized he was holding his breath and quietly let it out, willing himself to calm down and not let her provoke him. He recalled what Claire always said to him: “Remember to breathe, Tuppy. She won’t kill you and eat you; she doesn’t eat red meat.”

Tuppy was glad Sloan’s attorney wasn’t with them on this trip. The man dressed like a mobster, smiled like a shark, and didn’t miss a thing. Tuppy tended to stutter and drop things when Stanley was around, and the attorney enjoyed the effect he had on the members of Sloan’s staff. Claire was the exception; she just rolled her eyes at everything he said, and for some reason Sloan let her get away with it.

“Why are you just sitting there?” Sloan asked as she continued her facial inspection. “Did I not make myself clear?”

“Claire quit,” Tuppy said. “She gave a month’s notice. We had a lovely party for her yesterday evening, which you didn’t attend, and now she’s free to leave.”

Tuppy bit his lip; he hadn’t meant to let that last bit slip out.

“What do you mean, she’s leaving?” Sloan said, turning away from the mirror to look at him. “Where’s she going?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” Tuppy replied. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Life stories of the poor and witless bore me to tears.”

Sloan tightened the belt of her robe as she came toward him and then stood way too close to him. He struggled not to choke on her strong perfume as she pointed a beautifully manicured nail in his face.

“I don’t care what bores you; I don’t pay you to have opinions. If you’d like to join Claire on the unemployment line I can arrange that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tuppy said. “I forgot my place. It won’t happen again.”

“You still have her personal information, don’t you? Cancel her credit cards. Cancel her plane tickets. Report her as a terrorist. Do whatever it takes, but don’t let her leave this country.”

“Yes, Sloan,” he said, “right away.”

“Was that sarcasm?” she asked him.

“No, Sloan,” Tuppy said. “I have your orders and I’m on top of it.”

“You’d better be,” she said. “Tell her if she doesn’t sign a new contract you’ll be fired, because you will be.”

“Yes, Sloan.”

Sloan looked around the beautifully appointed lounge of one of the most luxurious accommodations available in a five star
London hotel.

“Is this the biggest apartment they have?”

“It’s apartment one, Milestone Hotel,” Tuppy said. “It’s 1178 square feet.”

“I know everything on this island is small but this is ridiculous.”

“I did suggest we take a whole floor in the main building.”

“At least in here there aren’t so many flowers and stripes,” she said. “It’s like Laura Ashley threw up all over my bedroom.”

“Would you like to move?”

“No,” she said. “This is supposed to be the best.”

“They have agreed to secure sole use of the resistance pool for you every day at five a.m.”

“Good,” she said. “I want security to escort me, and not this idiot out here; get me someone competent.”

“It’s all taken care of.”

“Where’s my lunch?”

“Three steamed asparagus spears and half of a poached chicken breast will be delivered precisely at one o’clock.”

“And spring water, the French one.”

“I’ll bring it myself.”

“The most important thing for you to do today is get Claire back.”

“I’ll deliver her in plenty of time for you to get ready.”

Tuppy could see she was looking for more things to criticize in order to provoke him into raising his voice or defending himself. She loved to nick his self-confidence first thing in the morning and then pick at the scab all day.

Tuppy put on his headset, picked up his smart phone and pretended to make a call, hoping she would leave the room. As she went down the hallway she screamed for Teeny and Juanita. Doors slammed, people scurried, and another tension- and drama-filled day with Sloan Merryweather entered its seventh hour. Unfortunately there were at least fourteen more to go.

Tuppy had worked for the award-winning film actress for eighteen months. He didn’t know how Claire had lasted twenty years. Claire knew Sloan better than anyone, and she was able to advise the best course of action in every difficult situation, of which there were many. Fresh out of grad school and new to the personal assistant game, Tuppy had needed someone to steer him through the shark-infested show business waters until he could navigate on his own. Claire had done that. He owed her.

Claire was kind of a ditz, and the way she let Sloan walk all over her made him dislike them both, but she didn’t deserve what Sloan had just instructed him to do. So instead of ruining Claire’s life Tuppy prepared to honor the reservation he had made for himself on the same flight Claire was taking. At 2:45 p.m. GMT Tuppy ordered car service to take him to Heathrow, and retrieved his luggage from where he had it hidden behind the sofa.

When Claire didn’t show up for their flight and didn’t answer her phone Tuppy was perplexed. Had she actually taken a different flight, he wondered, leaving the original reservation in place as a decoy? That seemed awfully clever for someone he considered so simple-minded. He left her a voicemail message and sent her a text while waiting at the gate. He continued to ignore all the calls from Sloan, which were now coming every thirty seconds.

At just before 5:00 p.m. GMT Tuppy’s phone tweedled again as they called for first class passengers. He didn’t recognize the number so he answered, hoping it was Claire.

“Where are you?” Juanita asked in an urgent whisper.

Tuppy could hear Sloan screeching in the background.

“I’m on my way,” he said. “I just have to pick up Claire and we’ll be there in twenty minutes, depending on traffic. Tell her everything’s under control. Tell her I’m bringing the spring water and her nicotine gum.”

“She doesn’t like any of the dresses they sent,” Juanita said. “She won’t let anyone touch her hair; she says she’s not leaving her room until Claire’s here.”

“Not to worry,” Tuppy said. “Tell her Claire and I will take care of everything as soon as we get there.”

His first class seat was in the front row, left side, by the window. It was Sloan’s favorite seat, the one over which she would throw a colossal fit if she didn’t get. As soon as he was settled Tuppy turned off his phone. He was done living in reactive anxiety over Sloan’s rapidly changing emotional temperature. He was done trying to anticipate her every need and desire only to be jerked this way and that by her whims of iron. He was through being berated and belittled at every turn, until he agonized over every decision no matter how small, sure it would somehow turn out to be wrong. He was done with that part of his life and ready for the next part, the part where he would be the one making demands.

He ordered a vodka gimlet and took a sleeping pill. As he drifted off to sleep, somewhere over the
Atlantic, he imagined the scene at the hotel, wondering how long it would take Sloan to realize he wasn’t coming. If she had to cancel her appearance at the royal engagement party she would be looking forward to firing Tuppy in revenge. As soon as she read the resignation letter he had arranged for the concierge to deliver to her at precisely 1:00 a.m. GMT (by which time he would have safely landed in DC) she would call Stanley, her attorney, who would conference the call with Angus, her agent, and Ayelet, her publicist. Damage control, revenge scenarios, and ass coverage would all be quickly and efficiently organized by the various parties involved.

‘To no avail,’ Tuppy thought to himself. ‘I’ve seen to that.’

He fell asleep smiling.

At the baggage claim in D.C. Tuppy turned on his phone, which tweedled to inform him he had texts and voicemails waiting.  He adjusted the time back to Eastern Standard Time, which meant it was just after 8:00 p.m. The phone’s calls-received list was full of the various phone numbers belonging to Sloan and her fame preservation league, and his voice mailbox was full, but there was nothing from Claire. The same was true of the long list of texts he’d received. On impulse he deleted “all previous” in each category.

Afterword, as he stood in line for a rental car his phone tweedled again. This text was from Sloan.

“Yr as gd as ded”

Despite his earlier bravado Tuppy felt a knot of apprehension clench in his solar plexus. When he rented the car he listed his destination as New York, NY. Thinking Sloan might have the authorities track him down through his personal credit card, having no doubt reported him as having stolen her jewelry or something equally heinous, he impulsively decided to drive to Claire’s hometown (where despite his protestations otherwise he knew very well she was going) in order to meet her and discuss the situation in person. She must be warned, and he needed somewhere to lie low until his appointment in Manhattan on Monday. What better place to hide than in Lower Podunk, USA?

He sent Claire a text, left her a voicemail, and then used his smart phone to map the route from
Reagan Airport to Rose Hill.

After surveying the driving directions and accompanying map he decided not to worry about that last thin, squiggly black line until he came to it. It seemed to represent a two-lane road that left a four-lane highway in southern
Pennsylvania, wandered south along the Little Bear River, crossed over into West Virginia, and eventually meandered down to a tiny dot labeled Rose Hill. The next furthest dot encouraged him with the news that there was a ski resort nearby. Armed with the largest espresso-based beverage eight dollars could buy, he claimed his rental car and proceeded to rediscover the seventh level of hell, also known as the Capitol Beltway.

It took him four hours to reach the start of the squiggly black line, which he quickly decided should be called “the nauseating trail of random wildlife crossing blacktop alternating with sudden fog pockets.” On the bright side, fear of a life-limiting car crash joined caffeine in keeping him wide awake.

At one-fifty-five a.m. he arrived in Rose Hill, which the tiny dot on the map had completely oversold in terms of size. His arms and hands were rigid with tension from gripping the steering wheel. A song began to play in his mind, and he smiled as he remembered from whence it originated.