Devil's Food (19 page)

Guy was stunned; the only other occasion he had seen Emily cry was after they had made love. He immediately went to her chair
and put his arms around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweet,” he murmured in her ear. She smelled unusual tonight, gardenia instead
of lemon. A slight odor of tobacco clung to her cape. Strange: Emily was fanatical about smoke. “I’ve missed you,” he said.
For once, she did not push him away. Guy’s heart leaped; was she finally coming around? Oh God! Was that why she had called
him here? He kissed her neck. “Take your coat off, Plum.”

Philippa nearly swooned, realizing that she could have Guy now, on the floor; yet she knew that all her thespian skill would
not convince him that she was Emily. She just didn’t know enough about her sister’s sexual style. What kind of little noises
did Emily make? Did she prefer top, bottom, rear end, mouth, ear? And what the hell did Guy like? He’d smell the cigarettes
on her breath, notice the bikini lines, the red toenails, the French underwear. Philippa halfheartedly pushed Guy’s mouth
away from her neck. “I should go.” She sighed weakly.

“No you shouldn’t.”

Realizing how strong, how intent, he was, Philippa became frightened. “I really must. Ross will be home in ten minutes.”

Guy stopped cold. His hands and his mouth left her body. He returned to his chair and stared out the front window of Cafe
Presto. Then he straightened the salt and pepper shakers. Finally he chuckled. “Well, run along, dear. We wouldn’t want to
keep Ross waiting, would we?”

If only he had spoken with a little anger, a little sarcasm, Philippa could have ended their conversation with a zinging retort.
But she didn’t know how to counter resignation. For a long while she sat dumbly, trying to winnow a decent exit line from
the dozens of shallow, stupid phrases running through her head. Unfortunately, what worked so well in a movie script never
sounded quite as authentic in real life. Giving up, she reached for her red scarf and purse.

As she stood, Guy’s eyes followed her body. “I’m not sure why you had to see me.”

Philippa shrugged, momentarily defeated. “Neither am I, actually.”

They studied each other’s faces, searching for any glimmer of hope. Guy was kissing Philippa’s hand, Philippa was stroking
his head, when an old pickup truck plowed through the front window of Cafe Presto. Philippa saw it coming but didn’t react;
the pickup truck belonged in another movie, on another actress’s lot. “Watch out!” she screamed a few seconds too late. Then
she tripped over her cape. The last thing Philippa saw clearly was a table zooming into her face.

I
’
ve been watching him for two nights now from this shadowy stoop across the street. He just sits alone at a window table in
Cafe Presto. Every couple minutes he raises his glass to his mouth. Whenever a car goes by, its headlights show Guy brooding
and drinking, still waiting for my wife to come back to him. So far she hasn’t appeared. But he’s kept up that vigil ... why
is that? Is the man utterly stupid? Just tired? Or has Emily given him reason to hope that he doesn’t wait in vain? Time will
tell, I suppose; meanwhile, I detest the waiting as much as he does. It’s cold out here now. My knees are beginning to bother
me from all the standing. Each time I hear footsteps coming down the street, I’m petrified that this time it’s my wife. The
terror lasts eons, until the person walks past my little alcove. Then, seeing only a stranger, I crumple in relief. The ups
and downs only get worse as the hours go by and there are fewer pedestrians, but each one seems to walk more urgently. By
the end of the night, I feel like I’ve been electrocuted a couple dozen times.

Guy normally hangs in there until one or two o’clock. Doesn’t he know by now that Emily goes to bed at eleven? Maybe he thinks
she’s just pretending to sleep, and she’s waiting until a few snores come from my side of the bed so that she can steal away
to him. No dice, Guy: I don’t snore. Hell, I hardly even sleep. I wake up when Emily leaves the bed to go to the bathroom.
I wake up when she blows her nose and even when she rolls over to look at the alarm clock in the middle of the night. I know
when her body no longer rests on the mattress, and she knows I know, because I’ve followed her often enough into the atrium
now. She ain’t comin, buddy. She’s still a little afraid of me, I think. Go home.

Ah, more footsteps: I turn to cardboard. One breath would blow me down. That you, lamb? Sounds like you. The small, rushed
steps get louder, then a woman I do not know flutters by. For the moment, I am saved. I withdraw into the alcove and watch
Guy, because he’s going to get blown down next. There, now he’s picked up movement in the street. For the twentieth time tonight,
he puts his drink down and leans forward. I look at his face as the poor bugger stares with all his might, wanting the woman
to be Emily so badly that he’s oblivious to my face in the gloom just a few feet behind her. That’s dangerous, pal. Now she’s
gone and he’s crushed. He settles back in his chair, slightly lower than he was sitting before. Serves him right. May he slump
forever.

I blow on my frozen hands, wondering why I don’t go home before Guy abandons his watch. I can’t, of course, not while there’s
a one-in-a-thousand chance that she’s going to incarnate my worst nightmares. I must see to believe. And perhaps deep down,
petty and ungracious man that I am, I really do want to catch her here. Something inside me yearns to triumph in her iniquity;
it’s the only way a cuckold could ever feel superior. Oh God, why doesn’t she just appear on the corner and put us both out
of our misery? My knees are killing me. Guy’s got to have the hangover of the century by now. Meanwhile, Emily’s probably
curled up on the sofa in her white robe, reading a book, oblivious to the havoc she’s causing on the other side of Beacon
Hill. She’s probably feeling virtuous to boot. I should go home and wring her neck.

Guy’s had enough. He’s slowly getting up from the table, going toward the back of the dining room ... but he’s not taking
his drink along. That means he’s only going to pee. Damn, should have known. It’s much too early to quit; the Custom House
clock is only beginning to strike ten. Guy’s got another fifth of vodka to polish off. I’ve got another three hours to frost
my ass and work myself into an uxoricidal frenzy.

I hear a woman’s shoes tapping the cobblestones; once again, true hero that I am, I shrink into the alcove to await the guillotine.
Whoever it is walks fast and loud, punishing her shoes. Definitely not Emily. Someone’s out there with her; I think I heard
a man’s voice. But now she’s yelling at him to go away. Christ! That sounded like Philippa! The cold’s gotten to me. I’m hallucinating.

A man just ran past. Someone’s pounding on the door of Cafe Presto. My God, it’s Philippa! Right? It’s not Emily pretending
to act like her sister in order to confuse me, is it? The two of them have flummoxed me before. I can’t ever let them do it
again. No, that’s Philippa. She shouts with a certain vile authority that Emily does not possess. And she’s wearing another
of her atrocious costumes, half Isadora Duncan, half General Schwarzkopf. Come on, Guy, open the door before she puts her
fist through it. There he is finally. She stomps inside like a ton of bricks and they sit at the front table.

My brain’s beginning to swim. She looks like Emily now. Is that a wig or is that my wife? Why should Philippa want to see
Guy? Has Emily confessed everything to her sister? What the hell could they be discussing so earnestly over there? Getaway
plans? Oh Christ, he’s going to her side of the table. He’s kissing her neck! She’s allowing it! My blood’s boiling over,
it’s filling my lungs. Who is that she-devil over there? Has the bastard seduced both of them? Ah, my head hurts. I should
never have come here. Once again I’ve seen what I never wanted to see, the shadow of my wife first with Dana, now with Guy.
Was it really Philippa both times?

Get hold of yourself, Major. Of course it was.

Now that is strange. An old pickup truck is charging up the street. Ouch! There goes the window! Get the license, Ross, the
way you learned in Boy Scouts. Haul the old legs over the curb fast, before it pulls out of range. Remember that Massachusetts
plate! Now it’s skidding around the corner on two wheels. Driver’s a maniac.

I’d better see if they re alive over there. Careful: glass all over the sidewalk. I’ll just peep inside. Guy’s out cold or
dead. Fantastic! Leave him. As for the lady ... no, I cannot bear to turn her over and see Emily. Cannot. Maybe I should just
call the police. But how am I going to explain my presence here? “Gee, Officer, I was spying on my wife and her lover, cowering
across the street like I do every night from ten till one.” ... Forget it. No police. Look, she just moved an arm. She’s trying
to sit up, cussing like a sailor. I’d better run back to my little troll’s cave.

She’s on her feet, heading for the door. Shaken up but unhurt, it seems. Whoever it is, she’s in a rush to evaporate. Look
at her stumbling off, abandoning Witt en like a sack of rotten potatoes. That’s Philippa, all right. It’s got to be.

I’m going home.

At first, the jangling phone was part of Emily’s dream. Then, louder, it wrenched her into dark reality. Disoriented and damp,
she awoke in her bed and groped at the pale green glow on her nightstand. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Philippa said. “Did I wake you?”

“You woke us.”

Thank God; that meant Guy had not called Emily from some hospital after his interrupted tryst. “I wanted to make sure I got
you before you left for work,” Philippa explained.

Emily glanced at the clock: four-fifteen. It was an unusual hour, even for Philippa. “What’s up?”

About six hours ago, Philippa had regained consciousness on
the floor of Cafe Presto. Realizing that she should probably not be discovered amid upturned tables, broken glass, and Guy
Witten, Philippa had wrapped her aching face in her cape and bolted for the airport, where she had rented a limousine to take
her to New York. Ten minutes ago, she had arrived back at her hotel. “I think I have to go to a hospital,” she whispered.

“Why? Is it the food poisoning?”

“No. I fell.”

“Fell where? How?”

“I slipped in the bathroom. The floor was wet. I hit my face on the tub.”

“You were taking a bath at four in the morning?”

“I had to get up and pee.” Philippa anticipated the next question. “No, I am not drunk. My face looks like rhubarb pie! All
my teeth are loose! I can’t be seen like this!”

“Phil, go to a hospital. They’ll take an X ray.”

“I have a few cuts as well. My outfit is drenched with blood. Absolutely ruined.”

“What outfit? I thought you said you were asleep.”

“My pajama outfit!”

“How did you get cuts falling on a bathtub?”

“What is this, the third degree? Listen, Em, it doesn’t matter how I got hurt. You have to do me the favor of your life.”

On the other side of the bed, Ross rolled tetchily over. Emily knew that he’d never get back to sleep now. He had come to
bed very late, after another solitary séance on the balcony. “What kind of favor? Make it quick,” she whispered.

“Tonight is the opening of
Choke Hold,
remember? Simon’s made it into an AIDS benefit. Media coverage out the wazoo. You have to stand in for me.”

“Come on! Your fans would crucify me.”

“My fans would never know the difference. You’re going as Philippa Banks.”

“Forget it. No way. Never.”

“Don’t do this to me, Em!” Philippa wailed. “If you took one look at my face you’d understand! Remember, I almost got poisoned
thanks to you!”

“Oh, right. Now I owe you one?”

“We’re sisters! Blood! Guts! DNA!” Hearing no response, Philippa tried a new tack. “You’d have a great time, Em. When was
the last time you went dancing?”

With Guy, about a year ago. They were at a nouvelle cuisine convention at the Hyatt. When he drove her home that night, he
had kissed her in a different way. “This is ridiculous, Philippa. I have a full day of work today visiting all my suppliers.”

“I’m begging you. My career depends on it. You don’t have to do anything but show up, watch a movie, smile and wave, then
leave. That’s it.”

“What about my job?”

“What job, that stupid restaurant? You don’t have to work night and day, do you? Leave Boston when you’re done with the suppliers.
The screening’s at nine. You dance once with Simon afterward. If you have to get back to Boston, there’s a late flight from
Kennedy. Nothing could be simpler.”

Outside Emily’s window, a heavy truck lumbered up Beacon Hill, vibrating houses. After a while, she could hear the crickets
again. Yes, summer was over. Soon the snow would return. “What’s your agent going to say about this?”

“I haven’t decided whether or not to tell him. So you can do it?”

“Let me think about it.”