Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (34 page)

     When she saw that Judith was preparing to leave, Bunny said, "It must be fun working here, Dr. Isaacs," stalling her, hoping to keep the doctor a few minutes longer. Bunny had had so little company in the past few months that the loneliness sometimes made her want to scream.

     "I don't know if fun is the word," Judith said with a smile as she paused at the door with her hand on the knob. "But it is interesting."

     "You must deal with a lot of superfamous people. Dr. Mitgang, the man who was the house doctor before you, told me a lot of biggies come here for secret plastic surgery. Do you ever see any of them? How does it make you feel?"

     Judith thought of Mr. Smith. What could she say to Bunny? That for some strange reason a deep, physical part of her was reacting to him while her head was telling her to keep twenty feet away? "I'm afraid I can't discuss other patients."

     "Oh sure, I understand. Heck, I wouldn't want you talking to other people about me." A supermarket tabloid lay on the coffee table, and Bunny pointed to it, saying, "I know, only people in checkout lines read them. But I like to keep up on industry gossip. I was in that particular tabloid once, you know," Bunny said, speaking rapidly to hide her fear. Frieda was coming soon. Was she going to be mad when she found out Bunny
had been keeping a secret from her, had in fact been lying? And Bunny couldn't even think of how her father was going to react when he found out what she'd done. "They ran an article on me when I got the Oscar nomination. It was all about the crash diet I went on before I made the movie. I lost twenty pounds in five weeks. Not healthy, huh? Scads of women wrote to me asking for the secret. But all I did was starve. Literally. No food between my lips for thirty-five days. And I got sick afterward. The story of my life—starving and getting sick. I gained it all back after we finished shooting." Bunny paused, trying to think of something to add, something to prolong Judith's departure. She was so nervous. "Is there a specific diet you recommend, Doctor?"

     "I think the Starlite program is good."

     "Yeah, I eat their frozen dinners."

     "If you have any more problems," Judith said, "just ask for me," and then she was gone.

     Bunny closed the door and turned around, surveying the suite she had occupied for the past month. It was done in what was known as the grand touch style. In the bedroom, which was more like a boudoir, there was a four-poster bed with chintz drapes and matching chintz comforter, pillows, sheets, and shams, all a creamy ivory splashed with tiny pastel flowers. A little girl's room, Bunny thought. Very frilly and fussy, right down to the cutesy lamps and the bows on the pillows. The drapes over the windows were the same dusty pink as some of the flowers in the chintz; the carpet was a teal that also spattered the fabric. The sitting room was furnished with an arrangement of three pink-and-blue brocaded love seats around the fireplace, with a maple coffee table in the center, its ornately carved feet resting on a carpet so extravagantly floral that Marie Antoinette might have picked it out. Fat cherubs with lampshades on their heads and paintings of people in powdered wigs completed the awesome decor.

     This was the fourth room Bunny had occupied since she had come to Star's. She had moved each time because of boredom, and she had discovered with each move that no two rooms at Star's were alike. A person could come here many times and never have the same experience twice.

     It was time to get ready to face Frieda.

     As she ran water in the tub that had gold swans instead of normal faucets, Bunny felt both excited and afraid. Frieda was sure to react well to Bunny's news. But her father, of whom she was terrified, was a different matter. And he had promised to come and get her in a few days, to take her home in time for Christmas. "Home" being an apartment in a complex that had gone condo in the seventies, four sterile rooms in Century City, thirty flights up, where Bernie Kowalski hung his hat maybe ten days out of the year.

     With the steam swirling around her, Bunny recalled the last time she had seen her father—a week before the Oscar ceremony, when she had pleaded with him to come to the Shrine Auditorium and sit in the audience. Bernie Kowalski would have none of it, believing that making movies wasn't honest, that actresses were whores. In a way, she was glad he hadn't come, because she hadn't gotten the Oscar after all; later, she was even happier that he hadn't attended the post-Oscar party with her, where people had fawned over the lithe, slender actresses but had ignored the impish Bunny. Of course, Bunny hadn't expected to compete with such luminous guests as Madonna and Michael Jackson, or any of the other faces that could have filled five years' worth of
National Enquirers.
And Bunny hadn't expected to be invited to the really special after-Oscar parties, such as the Kevin Costner bash that was rumored to be so exclusive that guests had to telephone after the show to find out its secret location. But, after all, she
had
received a nomination, and she
had
collected good reviews—thumbs up both from Siskel and Ebert—so she had thought a little veneration should come her way. But no, she had stood off to the side alone, stuffing Wolfgang Puck's designer hors d'oeuvres into her mouth without even tasting them and wishing she were anywhere else in the world—with her father, even—than there.

     Frieda arrived while Bunny was in the bedroom putting on her makeup. "Come on in!" she called out. "It's open!"

     Frieda walked in, stopped when she saw the aggressive decor, then, closing the door, said, "Are you all right?"

     "Just finishing getting dressed. Make yourself at home."

     "My home never looked like this! Hurry up, sweetheart, we are about to have a celebration. I've brought a bottle of your favorite—Mandarine Napoleon."

     "Frieda, that stuff is expensive."

     "And we are going to get expensively drunk!"

     "So what's it all about?"

     "I'll wait till you come out." Frieda frowned at a painting of two cherubs pouring water over a goddess in a pond. "I have a surprise for you."

     "And
I
have a surprise for you!"

     Frieda paced between a table skirted with heavy fabric that puddled on the floor and a tall marble pedestal with a Roman bust on it. This was decorating at its best.

     "Okie-dokie," Bunny finally called from the bedroom. "Here I come!"

     Bunny came out, and Frieda turned to stare.

     "Well? What do you think?" Bunny said, twirling around. Dressed in a slinky white dress with spaghetti straps and plunging back, Bunny appeared to be tall; she had a small waist, medium-sized breasts, slender legs, long, full blond hair, upturned nose, sculptured chin, and full lips. It was Bunny, and yet it was not. The lushness was gone, all homeliness erased; she was a picture of breathtaking, sexy glamor. She looked, in fact, like a lot of other actresses in Hollywood. "What do you think?" she said excitedly, continuing her slow turn to give Frieda the full benefit of all these months of plastic surgery. "I've had
everything
done, more than Cher I'll bet! Liposuction, ribs removed, back teeth pulled—no one can call me fat and dumpy anymore. No more comic, Kewpie-doll roles for me! Well, what do you think, Frieda? Are you surprised?"

     She turned around to see Frieda lying on the floor in a dead faint.

T
HE CORVETTE TOOK THE DANGEROUS CURVES OF THE
canyon road at high speed, tires squealing on the asphalt, the electric blue body flashing in and out of circles of light from the street lamps.

     Hannah Scadudo gripped the steering wheel in desperation, her eyes fixed on each hairpin turn ahead as the' Vette flew over the center line and back again, Hannah's body braced for the impact that might come at any moment and crush the fragile fiberglass body of her car, herself with it. She was racing against time, racing to catch up with it and pull it back like a runaway horse, reining in the hours and days that were getting away from her. Four days, Philippa had said. In four days there was going to be a major board meeting with reports from all the members and a thorough examination of company accounting.

     What was Philippa expecting to find? Why had she really come back? A discrepancy in accounting did not necessarily mean wrongdoing was involved; it could simply mean calling for an audit and making an adjustment
to fix the error. And this business about Miranda International, that too could have been managed from Australia. And as for the so-called sister in Palm Springs, Ivan had found "sisters" before and Philippa hadn't gone rushing off to look at them. Certainly not from the other side of the world. Philippa's unexpected and unannounced return could only mean she suspected some kind of foul play within the company, that someone inside was a traitor. Hannah's foot pressed down on the gas pedal. Four days—was there enough time?

     When the towering wrought-iron gates of her Bel Air estate suddenly loomed in the headlights, she reached up to the visor and pressed the button of the infrared opener, racing the sports car through the gates before they had opened all the way, so that the passenger side of the car was scraped. When she reached the top of the long driveway and entered the paved circle in front of the house, she slammed on the brakes, sending the Corvette into a half spin. When the car jolted to a stop, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the steering wheel.

     Feeling her heart galloping in her chest, Hannah remembered what Dr. Freeman had said after her last physical about taking it easy, reminding her that her mother, Jane Ryan, had died at age forty-eight of a heart attack, six years younger than Hannah was now. But Hannah couldn't take it easy now; there was no time.

     Philippa, Philippa, cried her silent mind. Why did you have to come back just
now?

     Hannah raised her head and looked at the house, an elegant Mediterranean-style villa that had been built back in the forties. It had sixteen rooms, an indoor swimming pool, a bowling alley, and it was valued at eight million dollars. Tasteful Christmas lights glowed in the downstairs windows; silver lights twinkled in the trees and bushes framing the impressive arched entrance. It was a beautiful, inviting house, but Hannah couldn't bring herself to go inside. Not yet. She had to calm herself; she had to fabricate some semblance of normalcy, or else others might get suspicious.

     Did Philippa suspect her? Was that why she had suddenly come back without telling anyone? Hannah felt betrayed. Charmie had had everyone believing she had gone to Ohio, as she usually did at this time of the year, to
spend the holidays with her son and his family. Instead, she had sneaked off to Australia and brought Philippa back. The fact that Charmie hadn't told Hannah of her plans, hadn't confided in her after nearly thirty years of sharing everything and not keeping secrets, wounded Hannah deeply. It meant that Charmie and Philippa, her two closest friends, no longer trusted her.

     As Hannah sat in her car, shivering more from dread than from the cold, she realized that what she feared most about Philippa discovering the truth was what it would do to their friendship.

     Before getting out of the car, Hannah quickly checked her appearance in the rearview mirror. Her very short dark brown hair was neatly in place, the gray hairs disguised by a rinse; the tiny gold loop earrings caught reflections from the Christmas lights, making her look younger, she hoped, than her fifty-four years. But what Hannah was specifically looking for was the face of business-as-usual. The situation was too delicate now, too dangerous for her to risk giving everything away.

     A maid greeted her at the front door, "Good evening, madam," holding her hands out to receive Hannah's purse and coat.

     "Good evening, Rita. Is Mr. Scadudo home?"

     "No, madam."

     "Find Miss Ralston and tell her to see me in the library, please."

     The library was a darkly paneled room with a Spanish tile floor, leather furniture, and a wrought-iron chandelier with real candles, which shed flickering light on Mexican handicrafts and pre-Columbian art. Hannah went straight to the bar and fixed herself a Bloody Mary, strong.

     Miss Ralston came in, a capable-looking woman in her sixties who lived alone, had never been married. She had been Hannah's personal secretary for nearly ten years; she balanced the Scadudos' very full and busy social calendar, and she was compensated with a generous salary and a new car every other year.

     "Good evening, Mrs. Scadudo," Miss Ralston said as she set a clipboard, yellow legal pad, and stack of mail on the bar. Hannah had tried long ago to get the two of them on a first name basis, but it was Miss Ralston's wish that they keep the relationship formal.

     As Hannah brought the Bloody Mary to her lips, she realized that her hand was shaking. She wondered if the secretary had noticed.

     "The party arrangements are coming along, Mrs. Scadudo," Miss Ralston reported, producing a pen and addressing the legal pad. "The caterer came by this morning, and after inspecting your kitchen, he said he will have no trouble with the special desserts you requested. There is more than enough room for his staff to work. I reconfirmed the order with the florist..."