Peony Street (27 page)

Claire slipped her cover off her smart phone and stuck it in her pocket. When she opened the door to the hallway
Stanley was standing just outside.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Claire’s heart was pounding as she told the story she had manufactured and hoped Hannah looked convincing behind her. While she was explaining her presence Hannah walked past them carrying an armload of dirty towels, and for some reason waving a toilet brush in the air.

“Ah couldn’t find it nowhere, ma’am,” Hannah said in her version of a country hick accent. “Ah tried my bayest.”

Hannah kept going down the empty hallway, past the closed doors of Teeny and Juanita’s rooms.

‘So much for their help,’ Claire thought.

Claire was holding her breath, trying to look casually innocent, which in this case meant looking irritated at having to do Sloan’s bidding but not overly emotional about it, because it happened all the time.

“Well,”
Stanley said impatiently. “Did you find it?”

Claire held up her smart phone, which was just like Sloan’s except for the pink rhinestone-studded case, the one she had pulled off and stuck in her pocket just moments before.

Stanley rolled his eyes.

“You know how she is,” Claire said.

Stanley shook his head and stood aside to let Claire pass. She knew all he’d have to do is call Sloan’s number, and if this phone didn’t ring he’d know it was a ruse. Claire’s heart was pounding as she walked quickly down the long hallway.

“Claire,”
Stanley said, just as she reached the top of the stairs.

She was sure he saw her jump at the sound of her name, but when she turned he said, “I’ll see you at noon tomorrow.”

Claire waved and then ran down the steps. Hannah was in the downstairs staff bathroom changing back into her clothes.

“You are a danger to yourself and others,” Claire told her when she came out.

They left through the kitchen and then stood on the back porch while Claire put the cover back on her phone.

“She didn’t kill your friend,” Hannah said. “But she thinks
Stanley might have done it.”

“Tell me everything she said.”

“Stanley came in and told her he had given you the papers to sign and he didn’t think you were going to give them any trouble. Sloan said she wanted you to come back to work for her and if he didn’t get you to do that then she was going to fire him. Stanley said he knew too much for her to fire him; if she knew what was good for her she’d shut that talk right up. Sloan goes, ‘Did you kill him?’ and Stanley goes, ‘No, I didn’t, we were just lucky.’ Then he left and she got a phone call. She was really mean to whoever it was she talked to; she said ‘you might as well enjoy it because there’s no turning back,’ whatever that means.”

“That was probably Carlyle.”

“It was,” Hannah said. “I heard her use that name.”

“Anything else?”

“Her feet are really small,” Hannah said. “I had some time to look at her shoes while I was in the closet. They’re like hooker heels for tots.”

“You were insane to take that risk,” Claire said. “But it’s good to know Sloan didn’t have him killed.”

“You think Stanley was telling the truth?”

Claire shook her head and said, “I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Hannah said. “I’m going to need a gallon of de-skunkerizer to get the smell of her perfume off me. It’s awful!”

“I better go back to The Bee Hive,” Claire said.

“If I were you I’d snatch her bald-headed,” Hannah said.

Claire laughed.

“I just may do that.”

Claire ran back to the salon, where Stanley’s long sedan was parked out front. As Claire unlocked the salon door Sloan exited the car.

“If you leave that car parked out here someone will come in and check on me,” Claire said.

Sloan spoke to the driver and the car glided off down the street.

Claire had closed all the curtains earlier, so all she had to do was lock the front door behind Sloan.

“Okay,” she said to Sloan. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sloan shrugged off her jacket, loosened the collar of her blouse, and sat down in the hydraulic chair. Claire jacked up the chair and considered her former employer in the mirror.

“This is the last time,” Claire said, and then with painstaking dexterity, she went about the tedious task of separating Sloan’s famous hair from her head.

“Where’s your spare?” she asked her.

Sloan gestured at her enormous handbag.

“I’ll do that one, too,” Claire said. “But they will only look good for about two weeks of wear, and only if you’re careful. That means that within a month you have to find someone else to do this for you. It wouldn’t hurt to get a few new pieces ordered.”

“You’ll have changed your mind by then,” Sloan said.

Claire was used to the appearance of Sloan’s bald head, but she wrapped a towel around it so Sloan wouldn’t get cold.

“I won’t,” Claire said. “My parents need me here.”

“I can hire someone,” Sloan said. “Hell, I’ll hire a staff and buy them the biggest house in town. We’ll call it The Sloan Merryweather Home for Claire’s Hick Parents.”

“When I first got here that was my inclination, too,” Claire said. “I forgot what it was like to have people in your life you can trust, who want to help you even if there’s nothing in it for them. The people in my family help each other and their neighbors because it’s the right thing to do, and not because they get great PR from it or expect some big reward. I have a really great family. I’m just glad they’re letting me back in.”

“In a month you’ll be begging for your job back.”

“No,” Claire said. “I’m staying.”

Sloan’s hair pieces were made from human hair; some of the finest craftsmanship Claire had ever seen. When properly seated and styled, it was impossible to detect they were fake. Unfortunately, Sloan had neither the skill nor inclination to learn to do anything so pedestrian for herself.

“Tell me about the redhead,” Sloan said. “She has gorgeous hair.”

“Maggie’s hair is actually very curly, to an almost unmanageable degree. It would make a beautiful hairpiece, but it would be a huge headache to maintain. Plus it’s too red for you. It would be a distracting change from your signature color.”

“I’m ready for a big change,” Sloan said. “Imagine me walking the red carpet with a wild titian mane and a baby bump; in an emerald-colored pre-Raphaelite dress, Carlyle on my arm…”

Claire flinched and Sloan honed in on it immediately.

“I would give him up if I could have you back.”

“I don’t want him anymore.”

“Liar,” Sloan said. “That’s why you could never win playing poker. You can’t hide your feelings.”

“At least I have them.”

“If I’m not being paid to show emotion I can’t see why I should bother,” Sloan said. “Real emotions are dangerous. On the other hand, controlled emotions make excellent tools.”

“Or weapons,” Claire said. “Are you being kind to him, at least?”

“What do you care?”

“He’s a nice man, Sloan,” Claire said. “Unfortunately for him, nice men are like snack foods to you.”

“It wasn’t hard to convince him,” Sloan said. “I’m sorry if that hurts.”

“No, you’re not,” Claire said. “You’re especially pleased that it hurts.”

“That’s true,” Sloan said. “To answer the question you didn’t ask, yes, he regrets what he did.”

“He said that?”

“He didn’t have to,” Sloan said. “It’s there in his eyes: disgust and contempt.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that he looks at you that way?”

“It’s not me he’s looking at that way; it’s when he looks at himself in the mirror. He’s always perfectly divine to me.”

Claire gently washed each hairpiece, affixed them to wig blocks, and dried them to just barely damp with a diffuser on the end of the hairdryer, set to low; best to keep the heat damage to a minimum. Sloan stood up and leaned toward the mirror, where she very closely examined every pore on her face, starting at what would have been her hairline had she any hair.

“I’m thinking of having some maintenance work done,” Sloan said. “What do you think?”

“It won’t settle in time for the campaign,” Claire said.

“You’re right,” Sloan said. “Who will tell me these things if not you?”

Claire sectioned the damp hair and secured it with large clips. She used large soup-can-sized rollers and a special setting lotion that was water soluble so it wouldn’t leave any residue. Once the wigs were set she propped up each of them on a milk crate under a hood dryer set to low, and set the timers.

“Did you go to the engagement party?” Claire asked her.

“I did,” Sloan said. “I met Mario Testino; he’s shooting me for Vanity Fair.”

“Did you reschedule British Vogue?”

“It’s this weekend,” Sloan said. “We’re going up to
Blenheim Palace.”

“That should be beautiful. The flowers will be blooming.”

“You could come.”

Claire didn’t answer. She was remembering one cold, rainy afternoon she and Carlyle spent in
Woodstock, near Oxford, wandering through what Carlyle referred to as “a monument to Baroque excess.” They were newly in love; in that stage where it was imperative to always be touching. When parted for even a brief period of time her longing for him had been an ache in her chest. Sloan hadn’t known about it, yet; no one did. It was still their delicious secret.

“You were sweet together,” Sloan said.

Claire reflected that Sloan always had an uncanny way of reading her mind.

“I admit I was jealous,” Sloan said. “I saw how he looked at you. No one has ever looked at me that way. With lust, yes; or pride of ownership, always; but not love. I hated you for making me think about that every time I saw you together.”

“That’s amazingly honest.”

“Why not be honest?” Sloan said with a shrug. “You can’t tell anybody.”

“So you took him out of spite?”

“That was just a bonus” Sloan said. “He perfectly fits the role I need him to play. He gives me credibility in British theater circles, which I’m determined to have, and he looks great in a kilt. The mean queens who run everything will adore him. He’s got rough edges, genuine talent, and an accent.”

“I warned him,” Claire said. “I’ve seen you do it before; to business partners, costars, producers, directors, nobodies who you couldn’t care less about, and people who thought they were your closest friends.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Sloan said. “He’s only a man, after all; and an actor. He knew what the opportunity could mean, what it does mean. He’s already getting offers.”

“I’m glad he didn’t come.”

“I didn’t tell him where I was going,” Sloan said. “He thinks I’m at a spa in
Arizona.”

“Does he know Tuppy’s dead?”

“I doubt it,” Sloan said. “He was in Scotland when I left.”

“He liked Tuppy; they used to get drunk together and play pub quizzes. No one could beat them when they teamed up.”

Sloan didn’t say anything. In her examination routine she was down to her neck, holding her head this way and that, using a hand mirror to inspect all angles.

“You need to ease up on the Botox,” Claire said. “You look great in photographs but it will ruin your re-shoots.”

“It’s impossible to win,” Sloan said. “If I let myself age naturally I’ll have no work; if I fight against it I’ll work longer but lose everyone’s respect. It’s a fine line.”

“Nice pun,” Claire said. “The most important thing is to be able to emote on screen in close up. If you turn yourself into a waxworks no one will be able to see your actual talent.”

“My next project doesn’t start until after awards season,” Sloan said. “I can shoot my forehead silly between now and then, just not around the mouth. Winners need to smile.”

“Don’t go overboard with the fillers,” Claire said. “If you don’t go pumping your lips full of anything, and don’t get those awful cheek implants, you can get away with everything else for a long time.”

“You should be a plastic surgery stylist,” Sloan said. “It could be your new career.”

Claire sat in the second hydraulic chair and put her feet up on the counter.

“Those shoes,” Sloan said. “Really, Claire?”

“My feet hurt,” Claire said. “Leave me alone.”

Claire hadn’t realized how tired she was until she sat down. It felt so familiar to hang out with Sloan, talking about her and obsessing over what she should do or wear. Despite herself, Claire could feel herself being drawn back into her old role.

“When is your Actor’s Studio interview airing?”

“In September,” Sloan said, “to coincide with the Vanity Fair, Vogue, and People covers.”

“You’re winning the trifecta there,” Claire said.

“Ayelet is worth every penny,” Sloan said. “The woman never sleeps.”

“Are you going to do that sci fi thing with the haunted space ship?”

“No,” Sloan said. “I’m doing the rom com with Clifford.”

“Aren’t you two getting a little old for romantic comedy?”

“Our last movie together did a half billion worldwide,” Sloan said. “That’s some serious chick flick coinage.”

“What are you getting out of it?”

“Ten million plus one percent of the gross,” Sloan said. “It’s my best deal, yet.”

“I’m surprised his wife is letting him off the leash for that.”

“Ticket buyers love to see us together. We’re negotiating a relationship.”

“What about Carlyle?”

“Carlyle’s contract ends after awards season. Clifford doesn’t have anything in contention this year. He’s shooting a World War II thing in Austria right now and then that Harvey remake in North Carolina right after, so he’s not available until next March; which is perfect timing.”

“Won’t stealing
America’s Sweetheart’s husband create negative press?”

“It all depends on how well it’s orchestrated,” Sloan said. “Ayelet used to work for Clifford’s agent. They’re putting together a media strategy for it. Plus, his wife can use the sympathy to boost her own profile. She’s already got a younger lover on the side, and he’ll be credited with healing her broken heart. We’ll get a lot of tabloid coverage out of it, and that will boost ticket sales, so everyone wins in the end.”

“What will happen to Carlyle?”

“After award season we’ll break up, due to the Oscar curse, of course. Then I’ll cry on Clifford’s shoulder and we’ll fall madly in love, despite how wrong it is.”

“He’s so high maintenance, though, and such a drama king. You fought over every scene.”

“That was passion, darling, and it translated into onscreen chemistry. As long as I don’t forbid him from wearing women’s lingerie in private we’ll get along famously in public.”

“Is he gay?”

“No, sweetie, he just likes to feel pretty.”

“That’s dialogue.”

“It’s also the truth.”

Sloan finished her above-the-neck inspection and Claire had every reason to believe she might strip and continue downward. Claire got to her feet just as the timer dinged, removed both wigs from under the dryers, refastened them to the stands clamped to the countertop, and left them to cool. Sloan picked up a tabloid paper and some celebrity gossip magazines and sat back down in the hydraulic chair to read.

“I guess you heard that russkiy shlyuha bore Sid another girl,” she said.

“That makes five, doesn’t it?”

“She’s banging her trainer. This last one may not be Sid’s.”

“Does he know?”

“He probably doesn’t care. He’s got something going on with his new assistant.”

“Where’s Portia?”

It was Sloan’s turn to flinch, but Claire pretended not to notice.

“Boarding school somewhere,” Sloan said, feigning disinterest.

“She should be graduating soon,” Claire said. “She was five when she lived with us and that was at least twelve years ago.”

“Yes, and if it weren’t for you she’d be dead; isn’t that what you’re thinking?”

“I try not to think about it,” Claire said.

“She said she could swim.”

“She was afraid to displease you,” Claire said.

“She needed too much attention,” Sloan said. “She yapped all the time. It drove me nuts.”

“She was just a little kid,” Claire said. “That’s how they are. That’s why you shouldn’t adopt one.”