Devil's Food (17 page)

“Why don’t you find out.” Ross stalked to the balcony.

Emily wandered to the bedroom, stripped, and stepped into a brutally hot shower, trying to defrost some sanity. Events of
the last few days were accumulating a little too fast for proper processing. Leaving Guy would have been disorienting enough.
Pile on Dana’s demise, a new job, a traumatized husband, a drowned dishwasher, Philippa serenading the whole mess like a banshee—and
watch her fuses blow. Emily wished she had never left Cafe Presto. She missed the aroma of cinnamon and espresso in the morning,
cranky Bert, lacquered Lois ... and she missed Guy. The mere absence of his voice had become a major deprivation. Forget the
physical attraction: For the middle-aged, that was only icing on the cake, momentarily tasty but ultimately a strain on the
digestion. She missed the sound of him, the sight of him across a noisy kitchen, she missed the click of the doorknob when
he got her alone in his office. She did love him, of course. In addition to, not in subtraction of, Ross. Emily hung her head
under the scalding water, aware now that she should have worked things out without leaving Cafe Presto like a besieged Turandot.
Now, instead of Guy, she was staring at a stuporous Charlene Atlas every morning. Instead of Bert, she had Klepp. Ah, hell.

Meanwhile, Ross stood out on the balcony, regretting his latest outburst. Two minutes ago, as he was stomping out of the room,
he had seen a flicker of disgust in Emily’s eyes; for the first time, he had felt some tremendous, irreversible doors begin
to move shut. Terrifying. He had to stop blaming her for Dana, for Philippa; it might also help to stop suspecting her of—what?
Adultery? He had already made one drastic misassumption in that regard. Fool! Ross almost ran into the bedroom. Emily was
still in the shower. Noticing her clothes in a heap on the floor,
Ross picked them up. Funny, after years of yelling at him to hang up his clothes, she was becoming more and more sloppy while
he was becoming neater and neater. Soon he’d have to start yelling back. Ross lovingly placed her shoes in the closet, tenderly
dropped her panties into the hamper: His sweet wife had worked all day long in them.

As he was folding her trousers, thinking of massaging her feet when she came out of the shower, several photographs dropped
to the floor. Ross picked them up and felt his life go black again: Dana; Philippa. Ross dropped to the bed and switched on
Emily’s reading light. The pictures had been taken in a restaurant. Must be Diavolina. Ross’s hands began to shake as, one
by one, he went through the snapshots. Unposed, unaware, Dana looked so ... overwhelmed with Philippa. His eyes consumed her.
His face reflected despair, bewilderment, delight; an idiot could see he was madly in love. Philippa, meanwhile, toyed with
her food, smiled into the crowd, fixed her lipstick. Why was she wearing that wig? For a disguise? Her resemblance to Emily
disconcerted Ross terribly. He brought the picture an inch from his eyes. That was Philippa, wasn’t it? Yes, yes; look at
the red fingernails. And the ring. He remembered that Philippa was wearing their mother’s ring this year, not Emily. And Emily
would never be seen in such a dress. Would she?

Ross stared at the next picture for a long time. It made no sense at first. What happened to Dana? Why was Guy Witten at Diavolina?
Guy did not know Philippa. Why should he be touching her like that, with an expression exactly like Dana’s? And why should
Philippa be allowing it?

The truth enveloped him slowly, coldly, as a January fog. He felt the ground slip away from him all over again. Removing the
picture of Guy and Philippa, Ross put the rest of the snapshots back in Emily’s pocket, dropped her pants on the floor, and
retrieved her underwear from the hamper. When the pile of clothes looked exactly as she had left it, he went back to the balcony
and stared at the moon, feeling doomed as the crickets.

S
o it was Guy. I should have figured it out. He saw Emily for eight hours almost every day for the last six years. I may have
spent twelve hours out of twenty-four with her, but we were asleep for most of that. He got her awake, full tilt. I got the
butt end of the bologna roll. What did she see in him? Sure, he s handsome. Well, I’m no dog. He s nowhere near as rich as
I am. I dont think he s any smarter. He ain’t younger. Boyish sense of humor? Irresistible perfume? Maybe it was the way he
ground the coffee in the morning. Maybe none of the above. Face it. Major: He screwed her brains out. That’s what she was
after. That’s what women are always after: romance and adoration, with a soupçon of lust. And don’t let me forget sensitivity.
That’s the ability to come home after fifteen hours at the office
—
during which time you’ve lost a million-dollar deal to the competition, fired your personnel manager, been taken to the cleaner’s
by your redwood dealer, had your drawings rejected by a client who couldn’t tell a penthouse from an outhouse, and been derailed
by a two-bit building inspector
—
and be able to
notice that your wife is wearing a new pair of shoes. If you were really sensitive, you’d want to cook dinner.

Well, I’m no match for the exquisitely sensitive Guy. But I’m no slouch in the romance and adoration department. Not enough
for her? That infuriates me. No one’s perfect, not even Emily. She’s not the world’s most supportive wife. Never brags about
me in public. When I return from a road trip, she pecks me on the cheek then goes jogging. Instead of congratulating me for
earning a terrific salary, she grumbles about income taxes. So what? Do I assuage my wounded dignity by jumping into bed with
Marjorie? Perhaps I should; Marjorie’s been available, seriously available, for years. The two of us should go on a long road
trip together. Or we could stay at the office until midnight for a week running. I could come home with a few lipstick stains
and see how long the pot refrains from calling the kettle black.

And if Emily really doesn’t care, I’ll divorce her. Marjorie wouldn’t mind coming to Paris with me on business trips. She
doesn’t have an evil twin sister. And she’d be a hell of a lot more responsive when I came home at night. True, she’s no Emily.
But she’s five years younger. We could have children. Emily can have her fucking Guy. They can make sticky buns all day, screw
each other between meals, and live happily ever after in that oh-so-cute cafe.

Wait a moment, why should I give my wife away? I’ve invested half my life in her! Perhaps she’s just momentarily swept off
her feet. He’s had the advantage of proximity for years now. He’s probably been wearing her down with sensitive, caring glances
while she’s been making granola, following up with comments about how nice, or how tired, she looks. I’m sure they’ve talked
his new divorce into the ground. He’s probably been planting all sorts of ideas in her head about the ecstasy of independence.
And he’s got a body. I’ve been hearing for years about how much time Guy spends in the gym; Emily usually stares at my middling
potbelly as she extols the virtues of exercise. I should have told her to choose between a hard stomach and a vacation home.
And why the hell is he so hung up on his pectorals? Overcompensating for a microdick, perhaps? You
can’t do anything about that in the gym, Guy. Nothing at all. And that’s not an area I have to worry about.

Bastard! The world is full of desperate, beautiful women. Why did he have to pick my wife? Oh Christ, I know why. It’s so
obvious. But she’s mine. I earned her and I’m going to keep her. Emily’s already had second thoughts: Why else would she leave
Cafe Presto to work at Diavolina? Look at that picture of the poor sap trying to sweet-talk her back. He’s so besotted that
he doesn’t realize he’s doing a snow job on Philippa.

Emily, Emily. You never told him about your twin, love? Bless your proud little heart. That boyfriend of yours is in for a
bumpy ride.

Philippa awoke in her New York hotel with a sore stomach and a foul disposition. Last night she had had a bad dream about
Dana. He was holding on to her arm and would not let go; meanwhile, Guy Witten was knocking at the door, passionately calling
her name. She woke up to find her silk negligee twisted around her neck. Guy Witten was nowhere, of course. And today she
had another eight interviews for
Choke Holdy
which was opening this weekend in a cataract of publicity. This movie was the final Rubicon of her career; if it flopped,
she’d be doing nothing but denture commercials the rest of her life.

Simon, her agent in Hollywood, had busted a gut when he heard about her trip to Boston yesterday. He refused to bend to her
weeping about a tragic family affair; the least she could have done, he screamed, was take a photographer to the funeral.
Worse, Philippa had seriously offended two very important journalists who had been expecting to interview her in New York.
They didn’t care who had croaked—hey, happened every day. They didn’t happen to have time for leathery old actresses every
day. By mortgaging his very soul, Simon had been able to reschedule them first thing this morning, and Philippa had better
be sharp. Simon suggested she play up the female/survivor angle again. If she could work in a few lines about sexual dis crimination,
so much the better. Should they ask about future projects, he advised that she look smug and say it was all terribly exciting
but still terribly secret. To end his lecture on a properly sobering note, Simon told Philippa that another actress had won
the role of the brain surgeon in that television miniseries. No, the other actress wasn’t younger. She must have given the
executive producer the mother of all blow jobs. But there were still a few roles left. Philippa could steal the show as head
nurse. Simon would jump on it today. Loved her. Bye, baby.

Philippa ordered a hefty breakfast from room service and insipidly followed an aerobics workout on television. Head nurse!
That was just one step above a Mother Superior! She would rather retire than play roles like that. Philippa wanted to be remembered
in a bathing suit, with sand in her cleavage; she refused to bow out as some puffy Flo Nightingale in a wacko ward. Asinine
profession, acting. Just when you got your chops together, they tossed you on the junk heap. What politician would try that
shit on Golda Meir when she turned forty? What publisher would tell Agatha Christie to ditch Miss Marple when she was forty?
Only actresses got the noose. Philippa disgustedly yanked open her door, admitting the bellboy with her breakfast.

She dug into her oatmeal. No more of this fanatical dieting either. Forget what they said about fat being a killer. It was
just as life-threatening to be slim because then you got laid. Hello venereal disease, AIDS, vengeful wives, divorce and libel
suits, all manner of metaphysical chancres, for what? Nothing. That episode with Dana was the last straw. No more flings,
no matter how amusing. Philippa wanted someone serious, a man she could settle down with. Like Ross. Or that other one, Guy.
He was definitely serious. How the hell had Emily managed to snag two of them? By being a chef? Maybe that crap about winning
men’s hearts through their stomachs was true after all. Philippa sighed; that was something their mother had never told them.
Emily must have discovered it by mistake. The only thing Philippa had cooked in her life was contact lenses.

She ate quickly, cursing Simon for scheduling her first interview at ten-thirty. He knew damn well that her face only
stopped looking like an inflated life raft after lunch. Maybe he thought it all jibed with his Battered Survivor scenario.
Philippa finally pushed her plate away, disgusted that she had eaten two muffins. As she stood up, pain ripped through her
abdomen. She waited a moment, then walked gingerly to the bathroom. No more puking, please; she had done enough of that over
the last two days. The spasm did not return, but the headache did. Philippa took a hot bath, willing it away: No one was going
to see her looking like a whipped dog yet. When the bell rang forty-five minutes later, she was pale but ready to go onstage.

Late that afternoon, she finished her eighth, and best, interview. She had polished and amplified the victim routine on seven
prior journalists and was becoming very eloquent upon the screaming injustice of being a divorced white heterosexual childless
American woman approaching middle age in the late twentieth century. There was no worse time in the history of earth to be
alive. The interviewer, a black lesbian, couldn’t agree more. Then she asked Philippa what kind of role model her own mother
had been.

Philippa looked very pained. Not really an act: Her stomach was beginning to hurt again. “I never knew my mother,” she replied.
“She died in childbirth. I was brought up by her brother. My uncle.”

“A man?”

Philippa tried to rectify her mistake. “Uncle Jasper wasn’t the marrying sort,” she said meaningfully.

Luckily the woman inferred that Uncle Jasper was gay, not that he had seduced half the female inhabitants of Manhattan and
was currently chipping away at the other half. “Do you still see him?”