Smoke and Mirrors (22 page)

"Oh, don't be such an old poop, Kay," Rosemary said. "I look sensational and you know it. I don't look like me, but I look sensational. My face feels like a plaster mask and my girdle is killing me; if I can stand it for a few hours, you can stand looking
at me."

Flapping the fan vigorously, she marched forward. "Let's do a Raymond. Fall in, please, ladies."

Kay's expression softened as her eyes followed the parading little figure. "You do look lovely," she called out; turning to Erin she added, "But I like Rosemary better the way she usually looks. This is so—so artificial."

Erin was inclined to agree; but she wondered whether Kay was referring to Rosemary au naturel, in ragged sneakers and flapping shirt, or the smooth, smiling candidate. The latter image was, in its own way, just as artificial.

Joe was waiting for them downstairs. Circling Rosemary, who posed with the fan held behind her head and her hips seductively tilted, he grunted approval. "Good. Just control yourself, and don't get cute. Where's your coat?"

"The mink is in storage," Rosemary purred. "The sable needed glazing—"

Joe slapped her on the rump. "Cool it, I said. No horsing around tonight, okay?"

"You're no fun," Rosemary said sulkily. She rubbed her hip. "That hurt."

It'll hurt a lot more if you sound off to a contributor. Where the hell is Jeff? We should have left five minutes ago."

"I'll see if he's in the commons room," Erin offered. She didn't really care where Jeff was, or whether they were late. What she wanted was a mirror. She had a desperate, almost compulsive need to see what Raymond had done to her hair before she appeared in public.

She hadn't expected to find anyone in the room. She started and gasped when she heard the rustle of paper, like a mouse
scuttling for safety. Then Will's face appeared over the barricade of his heaped desk. He adjusted his glasses, studied her thoughtfully, and then remarked, " Oh, she doth make the candles to burn bright.' Or, as Joe might say, you look sharp, kiddo. "

"Thanks, Will, I was just . . . " A glance into the mirror over the fireplace told her the compliment was not misplaced. She couldn't see the back of her head, turn and twist as she might, but the general effect was chic as well as becoming.

Watching her pirouette, Will chuckled. "Take my word for it, or you'll have a stiff neck in the morning. Are they ready to leave? "

"I guess so. Aren't you going?"

Will glanced down at his wrinkled shirt and rolled-up sleeves. "Like this? I'm a research analyst, my dear, not a gigolo. Give this to Rosemary, will you?" He held out a sheaf of papers.

"You really should go and wish her good luck. She looks marvelous. "

Will considered the suggestion, head tilted and lips pursed. "No doubt that would be the proper thing to do. Not that I necessarily endorse all forms of meaningless social courtesy, when they interfere with—"

Joe's roar sounded as if he were in the room with them. "Jeff! Son of a bitch, where have you been? Goddamn it all, now Erin's disappeared!"

Will grinned and rose to his feet. "I'll accompany you, if only to provide a buffer. I don't know what Joe's complaining about, there's plenty of time."

"I guess this is a big deal," Erin said, following him to the door. "Everybody seems high-strung tonight."

"Not me," Will said, throwing the door open and bowing her through. "Sometimes I think my massive, unconquerable calm is the only thing that keeps this covey of lunatics from . . . Yes, Joe, I meant you. Lunatic in chief."

Joe glowered at him. "Aren't you going?"

"Obviously not," Will said in a resigned voice.

"Oh. Well, did you finish that research I asked for?"

"Of course." Will handed him the papers. "I can't understand why you wanted it, but here it is. Much more important is the other data, summing up Bennett's contributions from various PACs
and interest groups and equating them with his votes during the past six years."

"You carry scholarly detachment to the point of stupidity," Joe grunted, shuffling through the papers. "These people don't give a damn about Bennett's voting record, they want to see charm, glamour, and glibness. Oh—here it is. Rosie, we'll go over it in the car. Your hostess's foibles, hobbies, weaknesses. Things to talk about, things not to talk about. Don't mention anybody named Oscar, she never got one. She's becoming a little sensitive about husbands and divorce. Collects Meissen, antique dolls, stuffed teddy bears. ..."

Rosemary took the sheet of paper from him. Her eyes were fixed on Will, who was studying her thoughtfully, arms folded, forehead corrugated. "Well, Will?"

"It's all there," Will said abstractedly. "Frivolous nonsense, in my opinion, but Joe wanted—"

"That isn't what I meant," said Rosemary, her voice dangerously quiet.

"Ah." Will nodded. "It is conventional, I believe, to reassure an individual—I would say a woman, but then I would be accused of rampant sexism—who is about to make a public appearance that his or her physical appearance meets some undefined and abstract definition of acceptability. Indeed, by the conventions of the society in which you are about to plunge, I feel certain you pass the test."

Rosemary stamped her foot. "Will, you are really a number-one pain in the—"

"Rosemary!" Kay exclaimed.

"You look lovely," Will said hastily.

Too late." Rosemary furled her fan and tapped him rather emphatically on the nose. "Take that, you cad. Have a wonderful time with your facts and figures while we swill down champagne and devour imported caviar and mingle with movers and shakers. We'll bring you a doggy bag. Well, Joe, weren't you the one who was yelling about being late?"

She sauntered toward the door, swinging her hips and humming. " 'Oh, what a time I had with Minnie the Moocher—'"

"Cut that out," Joe shouted, following her.

The screen door slammed. As if on cue, Nick appeared from the shadows under the stairs, where he had been lurking. Erin and Will inspected him in silence. His hand went nervously to his white tie.

"Struck dumb with admiration?" he suggested hopefully.

"You look gorgeous." Erin advanced on him. "Except for that waving lock that has fallen across your alabaster brow—"

"Leave my lock alone, it's part of the effect. How's the suit fit?"

Men, Erin thought with amusement. They were much vainer than women. . . . No, that was sexist. Just as vain. She offered further compliments and reassurances, demurely received Nick's in exchange, and then said, "I take it I'm going with you."

"Oh, right." Nick fished a set of keys from his pocket. "And in style. We get the Olds; Jeff is driving Kay's car."

"Ho, ho, " said Will without humor. "What's that going to do to the image, having Jeff play chauffeur?"

"Couldn't be helped," said Nick. "Kay refused to let Joe get behind the wheel of her precious. My name wasn't even mentioned."

"Run along then," Will said. "Have fun and drive carefully."

"And have her home by midnight," Nick chanted. "By the way, Will, you scored a real zip on that last one. Haven't you learned anything about women from me?"

"Have her home by midnight," Will said.

"Yes, Pop."

But after they had left the house they heard Will's voice again. "Nick."

"What?"

Light was fading and the hall behind Will was dark. They could see him only dimly, his form blurred to ghostly indefinition by the screen.

"Tell Rosemary not to bother with the doggy bag. I have to go back to Charlottesville tonight. '

"Okay."

"Nick?"

"Yes, what?" Nick demanded impatiently.

"Watch out for her. Rosemary. She's in an odd mood tonight. Fey."

The indistinct shape faded from sight.

Nick drove smoothly and competently, if a little faster than the growing darkness and narrow road made expedient. "Damn Will," he grumbled. "I planned to pull off the road and spend a few minutes nibbling on your ear. You look delicious. And, of course, outstandingly intelligent, competent and well informed."

Erin was too excited to be critical.

"Dislodge one lock of this fancy hairdo and I'll run a bobby pin into you," she said amiably. "Why do you suppose Will was worried about Rosemary?"

"She was in a giddy mood," Nick said thoughtfully. "But that's not unusual; she hates formal affairs like this one, and often lets off some steam beforehand. Nothing to worry about, she's too much of a pro to ham it up in public."

"That word he used ..."

"Fey?"

"Yes."

"Showing off his vocabulary," Nick said, amusement coloring his voice. "It just means excited, wild."

"Now who's showing off?" Erin demanded. "I know what it means, and it means more than just excited. 'Doomed' was the original meaning. Disturbed by a premonition of approaching death."

"Oh, shit!' The car swerved. "You're a nice cheerful date, I must say. If you can't think of anything nice to say to people, keep quiet. "

Nick was graciously pleased to accept Erin's apology, and for the rest of the drive they talked about less ominous subjects: Nick's frustration in not being able to rent a gibus—one of the folding top hats, which he had always yearned to play with—and the foibles of their hostess. Joe was one hundred percent right about the importance of that issue, Nick said, adding the sweeping and probably unfair generalization that people in show business were paranoid, unduly sensitive, and arrogant. "Especially this female. Her IQ and her bust measurement are roughly the same. The latest kick is the collection of dolls, so be sure you admire them if she shows them off, which she probably will, because her interest is not so much in the objects themselves as
the hope that other people will desire them and envy her for possessing them."

"I'd rather see her jewels. Like that diamond necklace that's supposed to have belonged to Marie Antoinette, and the Chavez emerald."

"My dear, naive creature, you'll be lucky if she says anything other than 'Good evening, dahling,' to you. Neither of us is important enough to rate her attention."

Darkness was complete by the time they reached their destination and when Nick turned into the driveway Erin let out a low whistle. "This is more like it," she said appreciatively.

The tall wrought-iron gates were closed and the security guard checked not only the engraved invitation, but Nick's driver's license before crossing their names off a list and waving them through. The house was lit like a stage set; every window glowed, and strategically placed spots and lanterns made the scene bright as day. The theatrical effect was heightened by the architecture itself—Twelve Oaks in all its pillared purity and pride of place. "Ah 'spect Miz Melly's waitin' for us down by the barbecue pit," Erin murmured. Nick chortled appreciatively. "Wait'll you see our hostess. Miz Scarlett thirty years later."

Nick had caught up with the Mercedes a few miles back, it was directly ahead of them as they proceeded at a decorous pace along the drive. Uniformed attendants pounced as soon as they stopped moving; Nick handed over the car keys and took Erin's arm. She was disgusted to discover that her palms were wet with nervous excitement, and she clung to Nick as they climbed the stairs. The dress was a little too long and she had not had time to shorten it.

Kay and Jeff preceded them; Rosemary, disdaining Joe's arm—if indeed he had thought to offer it—seemed to be managing both skirts and fan with practiced grace. As she reached the top of the stairs the door opened; without breaking step she swept into the house, and Erin heard a shriek of feminine delight. "Rosemary, dahling! You look absolutely divine!'

Rosemary's reply was almost as shrill. "Dahling! So divine of you to do this. ..."

Nick gave a strangled gasp of laughter, and Erin found that she
was suddenly no longer nervous. "Stop it," she hissed, pinching his quivering arm.

If she hadn't known better, she would have supposed the front door opened directly into the living room. The vestibule was twice the size of a normal parlor and looked like the entrance to a museum. The only color breaking the icy whiteness of marble floors and walls were the enormous bouquets in niches at either side of the door. A cut-glass chandelier and wall sconces of crystal and silver bleached the whiteness to a purity that dazzled the eyes. She handed her humble stole to a maid, and watched Nick's chagrin at having nothing to give up—alas for the gibus—and then turned toward the open double doors beyond. Rosemary was passing through the entrance affectionately intertwined with another woman whose arm was around her waist. Erin assumed the figure in the clinging beaded silver gown was her hostess; she had thought that Juliet MacArthur was a brunette, but this woman's hair was scarlet. Not red, as in Titian-haired, but scarlet, as in Little Red Riding Hood's cloak.

The drawing room appeared to be approximately the size of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, and it was only one of the apartments open to the guests, who spilled out into the corridors and onto the terrace. The greedier ones clustered in the room where an ostentatious buffet had been spread along a twenty-foot stretch of damask. Nick had to identify some of the opulent dishes for Erin, and a few baffled even him. "Too small for grouse, too boneless for quail. . . . Lark? Nightingale?" The finishing touch, which sent Erin into a fit of reprehensible giggles, was an ice-sculpture centerpiece featuring the ship (of state, one surmised), a covey or bevy of eagles, and a bust of Rosemary. It had begun to melt; water dripped off the eagles' beaks and Rosemary's nose.

There were a lot of people. Erin started counting, but gave it up when she realized she was enumerating as Joe might have done: One thousand, two thousand ..." Were spouses included in the price, she wondered? There were a number of non-paying guests, of course; people like herself and Nick, a few journalists, and the performers. The pianist had been isolated in a small (twenty feet by thirty) room; Erin hoped he was taking advantage of the opportunity to get in some practice, since nobody stayed to listen to him.

The rock group, on the terrace, was doing better. A few people gyrated in approximate time to the music.

At first she was too dazzled by the glitter and the noise, by fabulous gowns and glamorous surroundings, to take much notice of details, but as the evening went on the novelty wore off and she began to view the proceedings with an increasingly cynical eye. Nick stayed close by her side; she appreciated his courtesy, but sensed that he was as ill at ease as she, out of his element and not caring much for the new one. It wasn't until their hostess sidled up to them that she realized Nick had been seriously in error about one thing. Juliet didn't consider
him
unworthy of her attention.

"Rosemary says you're her media adviser,' she said. "Isn't that just wonderful. "

"Uh—yes, it is," said Nick. "And this is Ms.------"