Once More With Feeling (17 page)

Two weeks after her release from the
hospital Gypsy still wasn't sure exactly who she was, but she was
getting closer.

She was feeling better physically. She could
put weight on her foot now and she had stopped using crutches
entirely. The face that stared back at her from her bathroom mirror
was Gypsy Dugan's best, unmarred by telltale bruises or swelling.
Her hairdresser had arrived one morning to cut and rinse, and his
partner had massaged a paste of soothing herbs over her face and
neck and manicured her nails. She had been polished by
professionals, prodded by therapists and personal trainers, petted
by Desmond and the rest of the show's producers, and patronized by
bloodthirsty colleagues who tried to convince her she was far from
ready to return to work.

Her emotions pinged from despair to elation.
On some mornings she awoke and thought she could cope with this
strange new life. On others she closed her eyes and prayed that
when she opened them again, she would be back on the North Shore,
in a sun-drenched temple of a house, with Owen . . . in the room
across the hall.

"You've got to get hold of yourself," Perry
said on the morning of Gypsy's third week away from the hospital.
"You're brooding. You keep it up, even cheesecake won't help."

Gypsy worked on her second cup of coffee.
"That's a radical departure in philosophy. I thought cheesecake
cured anything."

"Anything but the low-down, dirt-bottom
blues."

"Got 'em. Can't get rid of 'em," Gypsy
admitted.

"You need to have some fun. We've been
working you too hard."

Gypsy wondered what she did for fun. She
couldn't see herself eating popcorn while Robert Downey Jr. or
Daniel Craig saved small cities on the big screen. She couldn't
imagine roller blading or line dancing. And from the looks of
things, she had no hobbies. There were no musical instruments in
the apartment, no half-finished haiku, no sewing machine. The
apartment was filled with flowers--more arrived each day--but there
weren't even live plants to water.

"Shopping." She looked up at Perry. "That's
probably what I liked."

"Might do you some good to get out and spend
money."

There was money to spend, although Gypsy had
been surprised at how little attention had been paid to planning
for the future. She lived well and had the money to do it. But
precious little resided in the bank for a rainy day. Maybe she had
known, somehow, that planning for retirement was futile.

Perry looked so expectant that she felt
compelled to dredge up some enthusiasm. "All right. Let's do it.
Let's get dressed up and hit a few stores. Then we can have
lunch."

Perry was silent, but her face said it
all.

"I'd like you to come," Gypsy said. "I can't
think of anyone I'd rather have along."

"Sugar babe, that's because you can't think
of anyone you know."

Gypsy smiled. "That, too. Look, I know you
were hired to take care of me, but why don't you just be my friend
today? You're the one person besides Casey that I've been able to
count on since the moment I opened my eyes in that hospital room. I
really like you."

"When you say that on TV, I know somebody's
about to get screwed."

Gypsy covered Perry's hand. "I never say it
on TV. I just pretend it's true. I'm saying it now. That's
different . . . I'm different."

"How do you know you're different if you
can't remember how you were?"

"Are you trying to stump me here?"

"I don't want you to get this wrong. I know
I'm every bit as good as anyone else. I just don't want to be used.
Understand?"

"And I'm the queen of the users?"

"That's what it looks like on TV."

"But we're not on TV." Gypsy stood. Now she
was committed. She forced a brighter tone. "What'll we shop
for?"

Perry stood, too. "Seems to me you need an
antelope skin or two to tack up on the wall. Can't see how you
missed the antelope when you decorated."

Gypsy made a face. "We could look at
furniture. Or I could buy a flannel nightgown. What do you
need?"

"Nothing any of the stores you shop in would
carry."

"We could do your stores, then."

"First time out we'll do yours."

Sorting through Gypsy's closets had been an
exercise in self awareness. Elisabeth had dressed in classic styles
and colors suitable for a pale-skinned blonde. Gypsy dressed in
anything she pleased. Since returning from the hospital, she had
opted for the most comfortable and casual of the exotic wear
available to her. But for this first foray back into the world, she
knew she had to venture into new fashion territory, too.

She chose a cream-colored jacket by Yves St.
Laurent, and soft gray trousers to wear with it. The jacket, with
its black piping, single button, and plunging neckline, made a
statement she could almost be comfortable with. She found dangling
onyx earrings and a black camisole that nicely filled in the
neckline.

She was trembling by the time she finished
dressing. She wasn't ready to go out in the world as Gypsy Dugan.
The creature in her mirror was someone she wasn't. With every item
of clothing she had assumed a new identity.

Perry gave a wolf whistle from the doorway.
"Not too bad."

"I'm not sure about the fit. I haven't
regained all the weight I lost."

"Why don't we stop for groceries on the way
back. I'll make that shrimp creole I promised for you and Casey
tonight."

Gypsy hadn't forgotten that Casey was
expected for dinner. She had just pushed it to the back of her
mind. "You'd do that? We could easily order something."

"Nah, I've been promising. Then I'm going
out on the town while Casey baby-sits."

"You're going to leave us here alone?"

"About time."

"For you, maybe."

"For me, definitely. And for you?" Perry
shrugged. "You're a big girl, honeypot. You don't want to say yes,
you can always say no."

"I have a feeling that's a word I haven't
used with Casey."

"The man's a sex machine."

"And I've still got a few cylinders
missing."

"Just take your time. Things will happen the
way they're supposed to."

They took a studio limo, which Desmond had
put at her disposal. Elisabeth would have preferred one of the
discreet, tasteful shops where the salesladies had known her since
she was a well-behaved child. They would have found her a chair,
offered simple, elegant refreshments, then, as she relaxed in
comfort, they would have brought her items to examine, scarves
preselected in flattering colors, shoes exactly the correct width,
suits and dresses perfect for her lifestyle and taste. Shops like
those were a rarity and an inheritance. New customers were
carefully scrutinized and usually came with a recommendation. Gypsy
doubted she was known at any of them. Furthermore Elisabeth's
favorite sales persons at the less exclusive Henri Bendel or
Givenchy would gaze at her with astonishment.

Instead she settled on Bloomingdale's, even
though Perry warned her it would be crowded. But the limo driver
had other ideas. He introduced himself and ushered them into the
limo, but he turned in his seat to address them once they were
settled. Billy was dark-haired and round-faced, an astonishingly
beefy young man who looked as if he belonged in a wrestling ring,
blithely yanking Hulk Hogan's blond locks--if Hulk had any hair
left these days. "I'm sorry, Miss Dugan," he drawled, Carolina cane
syrup thick in his voice, "but I don't think Bloomingdale's would
be a good idea."

"I'm sorry?" She cocked her head in classic
Gypsy style.

His neck grew scarlet, and the color crept
slowly up to his cheeks. "Uh, ma'am, it's just not the best place
for you. You, uh, know, you've got . . . this security problem. I
can't really, um . . . protect you there."

"Protect me?" She was both charmed and
annoyed. "Are you supposed to protect me?"

"Well, um. . . . yes ma'am."

"Well, that's just so nice of you."
Something perverse that Elisabeth would never have given in to made
her wink at him. His cheeks deepened to crimson. "But Billy . . .
I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. Perry and I will be just
fine at Bloomies."

"Just the same, ma'am, I can't take you
there."

"Can't or won't?"

"Won't, ma'am. I have to answer to Mr.
Weber, and he's instructed me to keep you safe."

"Perry, do you know anything about this?"
Gypsy asked.

Perry, who had dressed for the occasion in a
hunter green jumper set off by a pale peach shirt and matching
sneakers, shrugged. But she didn't quite meet Gypsy's eyes.

"Oh, I see." Gypsy sat back and folded her
arms. "What's going on?"

"It's just that you're awfully well known,
Miss Dugan. And Mr. Weber is afraid a fan or someone . . ." Billy's
voice trailed off.

Gypsy silently berated herself. Elisabeth
had been rich, and her husband successful, but she had been free to
roam far and wide because no one--except those in the most
exclusive circles--knew who she was or what she was worth.

Gypsy Dugan's life was a different story.
Her face was familiar to millions of viewers, and not all of them
wished her well.

She sighed. Bloomingdale's, with its
cheerful bustle, suddenly seemed a long way off. "Okay, got any
other ideas for us?"

He looked relieved. The high color mellowed.
"Um . . . I don't shop much, ma'am. But somewhere smaller?"

"Perry?" Gypsy asked. Her world, which had
already seemed as complicated as the theory of relativity, had
suddenly grown even more complex. "Where do we go from here?"

They settled on Columbus Avenue, where a
variety of interesting boutiques that were small enough to suit
Billy lined the street. Billy dropped them off and then, to Gypsy's
surprise, promised to be back at three if they hadn't called the
limo service first.

She watched the limo pull away from the
curb. "Does that make any sense at all? First he sounds like he's
planning to throw himself in front of a speeding bullet, then he
just drives away?"

"I don't think we've got anything to worry
about."

"I didn't think so in the first place. . ."
Gypsy stopped and took a closer look at Perry. "But what do you
mean?"

"Just that. I'm sure you're safe."

"You mean someone else is watching out for
us, don't you?"

"Can't leave anything alone, can you? Just
like a snoopy old journalist to go looking for a story."

"What do you know that I don't?"

"Just that you're as safe as can be."

"Aren't they being a little overprotective?
And a little secretive?"

"Everyone's scared to death of upsetting
you."

"As if they could upset me any more than I
am already." Gypsy turned her attention to the people moving past
her. No one paid any attention to the two women standing in the
middle of the sidewalk. Like typical New Yorkers, they claimed the
space they moved through as their own, but everything else was up
for grabs. "Where is he?"

"Somewhere." Perry waved her hand. "Nothing
for you to worry about. But if you have to know, you can go stand
in the middle of Columbus and see who comes to your rescue
first."

"How did he know where we'd be?"

"He phoned in the limo. You didn't
notice?"

"I guess my instincts are pretty shot."

Perry took her arm to help steer her through
the crowd. "Let's just have fun and forget everything that's
worrying you for a while."

There was no chance of that, but Gypsy
followed Perry through a block of boutiques, examining belts and
shoes and fingering exotic costume jewelry of the sort that
Elisabeth had coveted, but never owned. She wanted to have fun,
deserved some, in fact. But between the natural fatigue of
recuperation and a depression she couldn't shake, she couldn't
summon the enthusiasm to enjoy this first excursion back into the
world.

Somewhere between fedoras and skullcaps at
Kangol, Perry gave up. "Come on, sugar plum, let's get you out of
here. We'll have some lunch, then we can go back home."

"Excuse me." A young blond dressed in olive
drab and khaki stepped in front of them. "Are you Gypsy Dugan? Are
you really?"

Since Gypsy had been wondering the same
thing, she didn't know how to answer. She sifted through replies,
and not a one of them seemed to get to the heart of the matter.
"It's possible," she said, when the silence began to seem
ominous.

The woman laughed with delight. "I'd love
your autograph. I watch your show all the time. I'm so glad you're
better. I can't wait until you're back on TV." She produced a pen
as she talked, grabbed a blank sales ticket off the counter, and
thrust it at Gypsy. "Please? For a big, big fan?"

Gypsy stared at the ticket. She felt like a
total fraud.

"Sign it and let's get the heck out of
here," Perry said in a low voice. "The natives are getting
restless."

Gypsy looked up and saw that all eyes were
on them. She grabbed the ticket and scrawled her name. And the
signature was not Elisabeth's, but a bolder, less precise
script.

"I'll treasure it." The young woman took the
ticket and clasped it to her heart.

"We're out of here." Perry took Gypsy by the
arm as the others began to swarm toward them. In a moment they were
out on the sidewalk, moving north. "You did okay," Perry said. "Got
through that nicely."

"I just signed my name." Gypsy was still
mulling over the fact that her own handwriting was completely
unfamiliar to her. Even the simplest things confounded her.

"Like a pro." They kept walking until they
were sure no one had pursued them. Then Perry slowed the pace.
"Seen enough for one day? We can skip lunch."

Gypsy almost said yes. She was exhausted,
and no closer to feeling better than she had been when they set
out. She was living in a stranger's body. Her handwriting was a
stranger's. Nothing about this life was familiar.