Devil's Food (10 page)

“Nope, one of the new guys is. Step on it, will you, Chess? How long does it take to boil a little spaghetti?”

Malcolm, one of the new waiters, came into the kitchen.
“Hey, guess who just walked in!” he announced excitedly. “Dana Forbes!”

“Who the hell’s that?” Klepp asked after a moment of silence.

“One of the most famous architects in America,” Malcolm replied. “He’ s on a par with Frank Lloyd Wright and I. M. Pei.”

“Oh for God’ s sake! Did you notice who he’ s sitting with?” Byron sputtered, rearranging four rolls for the fifth time in
a bread basket.

“His wife, I guess.” Picking up two plates of barbecued chicken, Malcolm left.

Finally satisfied with his still life, Byron began helping Emily clean up the broken dishes. “Does she eat fast or slow, Maje?”
he whispered. “I have to time my courses.”

“Depends how much she’s drinking.”

Eddy, the other new waiter, rushed into the kitchen. “Guess who’ s at my table!”

“Elvis Presley,” Klepp roared.

“Just stay calm, everyone,” Byron repeated yet again, placing an arm around Eddy’ s shoulder. “Have you brought their vodka
and dried cherries yet?”

“Huh? The guy ordered champagne.”

“Aha. Look, here’s their bread. Serve it with this plate of cheese. Tell them dinner’s compliments of the chef. They’ ll know
what that means.”

“They don’ t have to pay for it?” Chess called indignantly. “I’d like to know why not. They should pay for it like everyone
else.”

“She’s my guest, you twit.” Byron lobbed a slab of butter into his pan. “Eddy, after you serve the bread, go to the bar and
get me another bottle of port for my mushrooms. If Zoltan gives you any shit, tell him to take it out of my paycheck. Go!”

The kitchen rattled into high gear as orders flew in, food flew out.

Philippa felt all eyes on her as she gracefully followed the maître d’ to a table in the center of the crowded dining room.
It was obvious that people either recognized her, or knew that
they ought to recognize her, as she walked past. That evening, Philippa knew she looked better than any woman in sight. Having
spent the afternoon with Dana in various postures of ecstasy, her skin glowed. She wore her favorite outfit, a floor-length
tube of aqua spandex that made her feel like a mermaid. Her makeup was perfect. And she was hungry. Smiling at Zoltan, Philippa
took her seat, innocently ignoring those gaping at her from adjoining tables. She was glad to see that Emily was finally working
in a real restaurant with a real liquor license. Diavolina was a much larger, hipper place than that birdhouse at Quincy Market.

Meanwhile, Dana cast a practiced eye about the dining room. Recognizing no one, he moved his chair closer to Philippa’ s,
so that their knees could touch under the table. Above the tablecloth, of course, he maintained a professional distance, just
in case one of his clients, or one of his wife’ s tennis partners, happened to be here. “Tonight I deserve champagne,” he
said. “The best in the house.”

Philippa smiled indulgently; over the last few hours, she had almost forgiven Dana for falling short of her expectations.
“What have you done to deserve champagne?”

“ One, I worked damn hard all afternoon. Two, you are buying me dinner. Remember our little bet at the office? Our little
joke? You completely fooled Marjorie into thinking you were your sister.”

She had forgotten. “I still don’t get the point of it.”

“ Torment, sweetheart. It’s what makes the world go round.” When Eddy came to the table with the water pitcher, Dana ordered
a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

Philippa took a dainty sip of water. “Fine, you tormented your poor secretary. What do you think Ross is going to do when
she tells him you’ ve been fooling around with Emily? Laugh and keep reading the mail?”

Somehow Dana had never thought of that. “Relax! He’ll know it’s a joke.” He chuckled, glancing at his watch. Nine-fifteen:
Perhaps Marjorie was still at the office. It might be wise
to call in, see if she knew whether Ross still had a gun permit. “How do you like the decor here?”

Philippa surveyed the pinkish brown walls, the aqua linen. “IVe seen worse.”

“ It was one of my first interior commissions. For a complete lunatic. His name was Leo. I wonder if he’ s still around.”

Eddy arrived with the champagne. “Where’s the telephone, please?” Dana asked. Under the table, he patted Philippa’s knee.
“I’ll be right back.”

He called the office and got an assistant, who informed him that Ross had returned late in the afternoon. Marjorie had spent
about an hour locked up with him; they were both gone now. Dana returned to the table as Philippa was autographing someone’
s wine list. Eddy arrived with a little cheeseboard and rolls, compliments of the chef. In fact, their entire dinner would
be compliments of the chef.

“Isn’ t that sweet,” Philippa cooed, choosing a roll. “I love surprises. Don’ t you, sugar?”

Dana tore his eyes from the entrance of the restaurant. “Always.” His stomach was beginning to constrict unpleasantly; when
provoked, Ross was more dangerous than a cobra.

Zoltan bore two glasses of vodka to the table. “How are you, Mr. Forbes?” he asked, nodding formally to Philippa. “We haven’
t seen you here since the renovation.”

“Fine, thank you. I see everything’s holding up well. What happened to the statue behind the bar, though?”

“Mr. Leo took it away. The feminists did not approve.”

“What was the statue of?” Philippa interrupted, unsure whether Dana was conversing with a woman or a man. In either case,
the orange makeup looked hideous.

“Diavolina,” Zoltan replied cryptically. “Your drinks are from an admirer at the bar. Sitting under the television. The man
in the red sweater says he knows you.”

Batting her long eyelashes, Philippa searched the crowded bar and located the gentleman in question. To her surprise, she
saw not adulation but disdain hardening his face. “I don’t believe I
recognize him,” she said, moving an inch closer to Dana for protection. But thank him anyway.”

After Zoltan left, Dana stared into his vodka. “What’s this floating in here? Dead beetles?”

“Four dried cherries, dear. The whole world knows it’s my favorite drink.”

After swallowing the vodka neat, Dana chewed on one or two, hoping to calm his stomach. “Your fans know that?”

“Of course. I’m surprised you don’t.” Philippa looked again toward the bar. “That man in the red sweater keeps staring so
oddly over here.”

“Maybe he thinks you’re Emily.”

Philippa scowled. This afternoon they had had a tiny argument concerning her wig. Dana had finally convinced Philippa that
she should wear it this one last time, for privacy. Despising him a little, she had given in. What was the point? Obviously
everyone recognized her anyway.

They finished the cheese in silence, glancing casually but repeatedly at the door (Dana) and the bar (Philippa). Finally she
said, “That man, Dana. Does he look like someone’s who’s seen
Tropical Heat
twice?”

Dana glanced at the bar and felt his insides catapult. Christ! That was Rex, Ardith’s aerobics instructor! The man waved impudently
at him.

“He knows you?” Philippa asked incredulously. “The drinks were for you, not me?”

“Why not,” Dana responded, feeling his gorge rise. “I’m not exactly unknown and unadmired here.” The bastard had probably
been taking pictures for Ardith’s divorce suit. She was going to bankrupt him after all. “He’s my wife’s aerobics instructor.”

“Look, he’s leaving.”

Zoltan suddenly blocked Dana’s view. “How is everything?”

“Terrific,” Dana croaked. Lacing those dried cherries with cyanide could save Ardith a couple hundred thousand bucks in legal
fees. He’d better go to the bathroom and try to puke. “Excuse me again, darling. I won’t be long.”

When he returned, pale and unsuccessful, Eddy was just
ladling out the mushrooms in port. “Ah! What’s this?” Philippa was asking. “Snails? Emily knows I adore snails!”

“Sorry, they’ re mushrooms.” Eddy couldn’t remember their name. “They were brought in this morning from a monastery.”

Philippa tried a mouthful. “Delightful. Are you feeling all right, Dana?”

“No. Let’s leave.”

“You aren’t serious. I can’t insult my sister like that. She’s probably spent the whole day making this meal for us.” Philippa
continued eating. “The mushrooms are very good. Try some.”

Feeling his pulse skip and pound, Dana swallowed a forkful. For a few moments, they ate in silence. Then Dana thought he saw
Ross at the bar. He threw his napkin to the table. “Excuse me again, doll. This is the last time, I swear it.”

Her mouth stuffed with mushrooms, Philippa could only smile grotesquely as Dana left yet again. She was angrily tossing back
the last of the champagne when an intense, athletic man with steely blue eyes slid into Dana’s seat opposite her. His look
stung, stunned: She sat paralyzed.

“Hello, Plum,” he said. “I thought I’d find you in the kitchen, not the dining room.”

Philippa knew immediately that this was her sister’s lover. She also knew that the second she opened her mouth, this one would
know she was an impostor. So she shrank away from him, trying to hide her face behind a napkin.

“I knew you were quick, but not this quick,” Guy Witten continued in a soft, ironic voice. “Your husband’ s partner? That’s
getting suicidal, kitten.” Reaching across the table, he smoothed her left eyebrow with two possessive, intimate fingers.
“Too much makeup,” he observed. Then his eyes fell, lingering on her décolletage. Philippa wanted both to cover herself and
to expose herself; the conflict made her cheeks flame. “But why dress like a whore? That upsets me.”

Zoltan stepped quickly to the table. “Is this gentleman bothering you, madam?” he asked.

Before Philippa could reply, Guy Witten stood up. “Of course I was. But now I’m leaving.” His eyes never left hers. “I’ll
be in
touch.” With his last word, so intentionally rife with double meaning, Philippa’s stomach rolled.

She recovered her voice when Guy was halfway across the dining room. “An old friend,” she explained weakly to Zoltan.

The maître d’ smiled discreetly. “Ah, here comes Mr. Forbes.” Zoltan faded expertly away as Dana resumed his place at the
table.

“False alarm,” he said. “I thought I saw Ross.” He took his jacket off. “Hot in here.”

Diavolina was packed. A line had formed on the sidewalk, something that rarely happened in this neighborhood except at gay
bars. At ten o’clock, when Ward had still not returned from the therapist, Zoltan upped the music from jazz to rock, perhaps
to entertain the clientele as they waited for their meals. And wait they did: Operating without an oven, a sober dishwasher
or sous-chef, and two experienced waitpersons, the kitchen never recovered its rhythm. Hopelessly behind, the new waiters
began telling their tables that Diavolina was out of everything but chili, an entrée requiring only one plate, one level of
doneness, and no side orders.

Fortunately, the friends whom Byron had lured to Diavolina tonight were not the type to speed through dinner, go home, and
read nonfiction until the ten o’clock news. Comfortably inebriated, Byron’s roommate Jimmy ambled toward Philippa’s table
as the waiter was clearing away her mushrooms in port. Jimmy knew from experience that the best time to intrude upon a pair
of strangers was just before they received their main course. By then they would have drunk enough to be witty but not bathetic,
and the lovers’ quarrels would just be getting under way with a few barbs here and there: Interruptions would almost be welcome.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but are you Philippa Banks, the movie star?” She smiled affirmatively. “May I please pretty please
have your autograph? You’re my favorite actress of all time. I’ve seen all your movies at least twice, then I always buy the
videos.”

Smiling apologetically at Dana, Philippa reached for Jimmy’s pen. “Which is your favorite?”

”Rough Sands
, definitely. That incest scene at the luau is just sublime. I broke my Replay button on it.”

Philippa signed Jimmy’s menu. “That’s very kind.”

Lola arrived bearing a bottle of chianti, compliments of a fan. Dana waited a moment, then asked, “You had an incest scene?”

“It was with a sister.” Philippa toyed with a roll, thinking about the man who had recently called her Plum. His blue eyes
haunted her. She glanced toward the kitchen. “I wonder if Emily’s having fun back there.”

“Are you kidding? This place is out of control tonight.” Yet again, Dana glanced at the front door. The crowd, the noise,
were beginning to make him nervous: too many witnesses. “I think we may have been better off staying on my boat. Quiet. Private.”
His medicine chest was there as well. He could take something for his writhing stomach. Meanwhile, maybe some wine would help.
“Must we really stay?” Philippa didn’t respond so he added, “On our last night together?”

Was he hallucinating, or did she seem to brighten as he said that? After all he had risked by appearing in public with her?
After all those afternoon appointments he had canceled? Dana cringed, wondering how he was going to explain all of this to
Ross tomorrow. And Marjorie! A fortune in roses would barely mollify her. Once again, he glanced apprehensively over the dining
room. Bad vibrations here. Very bad. He wanted to escape to his ship and peel that dress off Philippa. Tie her down in the
life boat, savage her a little. “I have an idea,” he began.

Their waiter reappeared. “Filets mignons with horseradish sauce,” Eddy announced, placing the dishes in front of them. “Compliments
of the chef,” he added for the fifth time.

Across the dining room, a wine bucket crashed to the floor. Conversations again paused, resuming on a buzzier note as waiters
rushed to mop up the mess. “I wonder if it’s like this every night,” Philippa said, taking her steak knife.

Lola appeared again. “Pepper, anyone?”

“Just a touch,” Philippa said irritably, anxious to rid the vicinity of a dazzling woman twenty years her junior. “Whoa! Enough!
Fine!”