Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (50 page)

     All put on hold, because of Philippa...

     When she felt a small thrill of fear go through her, Ingrid quickly suppressed it. There was nothing to worry about—yet. But still, it nettled her to think how smoothly things had been going at last, how close she was to independent wealth and to being able to leave Starlite, only to have her plans disrupted by the untimely and unexpected return of the company's chief executive officer. Ingrid had hoped Philippa would stay buried in Western Australia forever, waiting for her lover to come back from the dead. How had this fire gotten started under Philippa all of a sudden? Even more important, could she be stopped in time?

     Quickly putting out her cigarette, Ingrid picked up the phone, dialed, and heard the telephone ringing in the next room. When her assistant answered, she said, "Something's come up, we have to get back to the U.S. right away. Cancel the rest of my social engagements here in Singapore with the usual apologies and get us booked on the first flight back to L.A. Let the hotel know we'll be checking out early. Oh—and have a bottle of Glenlivet sent to Mr. Chang, with my compliments. And Steve, whoever is in your room there with you, get rid of him."

     It took Philippa a moment before she realized she was looking at a freak.

     Spread out on her desk was a magazine advertisement composed of a headline saying "I Became a Size Ten in Only Twenty-nine Weeks!" with two before and after photographs, one showing a Mrs. D. of Des Moines, Iowa, when she weighed 300 pounds, and a current one, showing her at 125 pounds. It was not the 300-pound image that Philippa thought freakish, but the slender one; how, she wondered, could a woman reasonably lose 175
pounds in twenty-nine weeks? That meant a weight loss of 6 pounds per week, which was not only hard to believe, but extremely dangerous as well. Could the ad be a lie?

     "This is one of our toughest competitors," Hannah Scadudo said as she handed Philippa a fact sheet about the diet center. "People find such rapid weight loss very appealing. And you see here, they advertise proudly that no exercise is involved, no meetings that have to be attended, no listening to lectures. In other words," Hannah said, "they're implying that they are
not
Starlite."

     "But this diet is deadly, Hannah," Philippa said. "At that rate of loss, this woman couldn't possibly have just lost body fat; she must also have lost lean muscle, which means not just skeletal muscle but heart muscle as well. How do they do it? How can this company get away with such an outrageous claim?" Philippa scanned the information sheet and found her answer. "My God, they inject their customers with a pregnancy hormone. So you lose a lot of water, a lot of glycogen and heart muscle, but still retain your fat."

     "Yes, but you look thin in the end."

     Philippa's dismay had been deepening all morning, ever since Hannah had arrived at the office with an armload of files on Starlite's competitors. In the short time Philippa had been in Australia, there had been a boom in the U.S. diet industry, with storefront weight loss centers mushrooming in every town, over-the-counter pills and powders being sold by the millions, more and more physicians advertising help for eating disorders, supermarkets stocking thousands of "lite" products.

     "Here's another stiff competitor," Hannah said, opening a file and handing Philippa copies of ads, outlines of the program, cost breakdowns, and demographics. "You'll notice that this company bases its success on making dieting easy. The client checks in once a week at the center and buys all of his or her food there; it's all prepackaged or frozen, which eliminates weighing and measuring portions. Great for people who don't have a lot of time or who don't want to bother much in the kitchen."

     "Another covert jab at Starlite," Philippa murmured. As she surveyed the overwhelming amount of literature spread on her desk describing the vast range of diet programs—from fasting on liquids to groups based on
Overeaters Anonymous—she realized that Starlite's competition was far greater than she had suspected. And when she thought of the hundreds of diet books she had seen in a local bookstore that morning, the public's growing demand for quicker, more streamlined weight loss, she began to fear that Starlite was in danger of becoming a cliché or, worse, a dinosaur.

     The intercom buzzed. It was the receptionist informing Hannah that she had an important call.

     "I'll take it in my office," she said, rising quickly.

     But Philippa said, "You can take it here," and she picked up the phone and handed it to her.

     Hannah hesitated, then took the phone. "This is Hannah Scadudo," she said cautiously. To her relief, she heard a voice say, "Hello, Mrs. Scadudo. This is the Emerson Gallery." For a moment she had been afraid that it was the people returning the panicked call she had made the night before. She had asked to meet with them as soon as possible, and they had not yet called back. She was going to try calling again tonight, to try once more to speed things up. The board meeting was only three days away; surely they would be reasonable...

     "I hope you have good news for me," she said into the phone, hoping Philippa wouldn't detect her nervousness.

     "As a matter of fact, we do, Mrs. Scadudo. We have found a seller who will agree to your price."

     "You have? That's wonderful. When may I expect delivery? This is to be a surprise for my husband, you see, and—"

     She listened, then said, "Yes, of course, that will be perfect. I will arrange with my bank to have the funds transferred at once. Thank you. Yes, Merry Christmas to you, too."

     Hannah hung up the phone and walked over to the credenza where she picked up her purse. "That was the gallery I've had searching for the Freundlich sculpture I told you about in my last letter," she explained to Philippa as she opened her purse, took out a bottle of pills, put one in her mouth, and swallowed it without water.

     When Philippa gave her a questioning look, Hannah smiled and said, "I have a headache." Then she buried the pills deep in her purse so no one
could read the label. They had been prescribed by Dr. Freeman, who had instructed her to take one every time her heart bounced around, as it was doing now, jumping in every direction as if it were trying to get out of her rib cage. Every so often, Hannah's heart would plunge into a terrifying trill, quivering instead of beating, and Hannah would freeze, wondering if maybe this time it wouldn't start up again. Her mother had experienced the same symptoms before she had died of a heart attack at age forty-eight. She hadn't gone to a doctor about the problem, and so she hadn't had the benefit of medication. "It's your imagination," Hannah's father would say every time her mother complained of discomfort in her chest. "You women, always moaning about something." And so Mrs. Ryan had eventually learned to keep silent about her discomfort, until finally she was silent for eternity.

     "And they found it?" Philippa said. "What did you say the piece was called?"

     "
Phoenix.
It's an exquisite monument bronze by Helmut Freundlich, one of Alan's favorite artists. I was afraid I wasn't going to be able to get it, but the gallery found a seller." She placed her hand on her chest and said breathlessly, "For sixty-five thousand dollars! I hope Alan likes it!"

     While Hannah remained by the credenza, waiting for the medication to take effect, for her heart to calm down, she inspected herself in the mirror, pretending to straighten her hair. She was wearing one of Ingrid Lind's imports—a handsome rust brown Tunisian caftan with a rope belt and copper jewelry that went well with her high cheekbones and Indian eyes. Although Hannah no longer had a weight problem, it was her policy never to design anything for other women that she wouldn't wear herself. And so she wore The Perfect Size fashions, although in a scaled-down version.

     Hannah studied the heavy copper necklace that lay in the deep V of the caftan's neckline. She thought she could see it jump slightly with each struggling flinch of her heart. I mustn't follow my mother, she thought in desperation, too well aware that she was already six years past the age when her mother had died. I have so much to live for—Jackie's wedding, my children and grandchildren, retirement with Alan when we finally take that cruise around the world...

     She thought about how she and Alan had made love last night, before he left to catch his plane to Rio. Had it been her imagination, or had his
lovemaking been more thoughtful, more passionate than it had been in the last few years? It had been almost as if they were young lovers again instead of a married couple facing their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Alan had been so tender and gentle that her fears that he might suspect something were at least a little allayed. Surely she must have been quick enough last night to put the stock certificates back in the safe before Alan had seen. Because if he found out what she was up to, it would destroy everything between them.

     Ricky came in then with a tray bearing tea service, Melba toast, and sliced peaches. He had also brought a copy of the latest issue of
The Wall Street Journal
, which he placed in front of Philippa.

     Hannah watched the good-looking young man in the mirror, appreciating the tailored cut of his slacks and shirt, the smart tie and cuff links, the way his blond pony tail fell between his shoulder blades. When she caught the special look flashed between him and Philippa, she wondered again if there was more to their relationship than the purely professional.

     "Mr. Hendricks telephoned, Miss Roberts," he said. "He's in Palm Springs and has started doing some more research on Beverly Burgess. He says he'll have a report for you tomorrow, at the Marriott Desert Springs."

     So much to think about! Starlite's declining membership, the threat of a corporate takeover, the embezzlement of a million dollars, and the possibility that Ivan Hendricks might, after years of looking, have finally found her sister.

     "Thank you, Ricky," Philippa said as she scanned the article he had brought. "Oh lord," she said a moment later. "Miranda International has bought another two percent of Starlite stock. They're getting closer to securing controlling interest of the company. I just pray that Alan is able to open dialogue between us and Miranda. I want to know who they are and why they are after my company. And most of all, I want to know their weakness so I can find a way to stop them from taking over."

     "But Philippa," Hannah said, "even if they buy up all the public stock, they still can't touch us. We'll still own controlling interest."

     "It's not the public shares I'm worried about," Philippa said, looking at her friend. "If Miranda got to one of
us
, that's all it would take."

     Hannah shifted uncomfortably. "By 'us' you mean me and Alan and you and Charmie. We own the controlling interest. And which of us do you think Miranda could touch?"

     "And Ingrid," Philippa said. "Don't forget her five percent."

     Despite the enormous success Starlite had had with Ingrid's international fashions, the vivacious Miss Lind was still a sore point among Starlite's executive officers. When Hannah had wanted to bring the young woman into the company seven years ago, Alan had been so opposed to it that Ingrid had been the cause of the worst fight of their married lives. But Philippa had intervened; Hannah and Ingrid had prevailed. Nonetheless, Alan continued to make public his dislike of Hannah's chief buyer; he had even subtly planted this kernel of suspicion in Philippa's mind.

     "I trust Ingrid," Hannah said. "I trust all of us not to sell," she added, trying to sound convincing despite the image of her own stock certificates spread out on the bed, waiting to be transferred to new owners.

     "I'm leaving now," Philippa said as she stood and collected her purse and briefcase. "Ricky, if you would please, take a cab back to the hotel and get us checked out. I'm going to take a little drive first, before we get started for Palm Springs. There's something I need to see."

     As the glass door whispered closed behind Philippa, blocking out the sounds of traffic on the busy Beverly Hills street, a young woman at the salon's reception desk said, "Hello, welcome to Starlite."

     Philippa had rehearsed what she was going to say. "Thank you. I'm not a member, but I was thinking of joining. Would it be all right if I looked around?"

     The receptionist was in her twenties, slender, nicely dressed, and she wore a name badge that said Mandy. "Certainly. While I show you our salon I can explain the various aspects of the Starlite program to you."

     Philippa was taken into the main part of the salon, a large room with comfortable chairs arranged in an intimate grouping. The room was decorated in gentle blue tones, with easy-listening music piped in at an unobtrusive decibel level. Adjacent to the meeting room were the exercise rooms, private massage rooms, a spa and steam room, and hair and cosmetic salons,
all decorated in peaceful shades of blue, with potted plants and subdued lighting. It was all very quiet, very private. A place to come and relax and be pampered.

     "We have three groups a day at convenient hours," Mandy explained as she took Philippa around, "which include the diet meetings and classes in beauty and fashion. We also offer additional aerobics classes and personal beauty treatments such as facials, manicures and pedicures, and waxings."

     As the receptionist went into more detail about how the diet worked, how the groups were attended, Philippa was struck by the silence in the place. There were only a few women in the spa; just one of the massage rooms was in use; and an aerobics instructor was waiting for her class to arrive. And the fact that only three diet groups a day were offered—one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one in the evening—did not strike Philippa as convenient. What about women for whom only the hour before work was free, or lunch hour, or perhaps later at night? Even more disturbing was the news that there were vacancies in all three groups, every day except Saturday, which was full.