Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (27 page)

Senior juts his chin, or should I say, chins. “If the kid can’t take the heat, he should get out of the kitchen.”

“And this.” I click on another post by Boardwalker2001. “ ‘After seeing this soon-to-be-bomb, I doubt Oliver Tripp Jr. could get a job directing traffic.’ How unfair is that? You haven’t seen one minute of
Dream Angel
!”

Senior pushes back his desk chair, rises unsteadily to his feet, and jabs a finger at my face. “You’re in no position to judge me. Who are you, anyway? A nobody from off the street who flashes her tits and ass to get what she wants.”

Most of the time that sort of remark really fries me. But at this moment, delivered by this malicious slimeball, the insult slides off me like a drop of water on the shower tile. Though as you can imagine, I’m no longer feeling any warm fuzzies toward the stinker.

I set my hands on my hips. “What is the problem between you and your son, anyway? I don’t understand how there can be this much bad blood between a parent and a child.”

“I’d wager there’s a lot you don’t understand.”

“Why can’t the two of you just enjoy each other’s success?”

“That’ll happen the day I take leave of my senses.” He pauses to give me the evil eye but good. “Now get the hell out of my home.”

I stare at him, my brain cranking. “Not so fast.” For in the midst of this back-and-forth I have had a genuinely good idea. It could solve two of my toughest problems in one fell swoop. “
You
may not care that you and your son are at each other’s throats. But very few people would look favorably on a father posting this kind of vitriol about his son’s musical. They’d think there was something wrong with him.”

He narrows his eyes. “What are you getting at?”

“Imagine the damage to
your
reputation if it got out that you’re the source of those venomous posts about
Dream Angel
. If, for example”—I can’t believe I’m about to blackmail Oliver Tripp Sr., but here I go—“it were reported on ‘Page Six.’ ”

That’s the gossip column in the
New York Post
. The whole paper is pretty much a tabloid, but “Page Six” is the most tabloid-y part of all. It’s very widely read in the greater metropolitan area, and even across the nation, I can assure you.

“The article,” I go on, “would no doubt mention that stunt you pulled at the celebration of Lisette Longley’s life, which lots of people witnessed. I bet several of them would provide quotes. I can see it now. ‘The legendary Broadway director, so warped that he—’ ”

“Warped!” Senior bellows.

“Your son would have everybody’s sympathy. But you?” I shake my head as if in regret. “Everybody would be disgusted by you. I don’t think you’d ever live it down.”

“Not even the
Post
would print that. And if they did, I’d sue them till they couldn’t see straight.”

“Like that would stop them.”

That takes the wind out of him. He sinks back into his chair. “What do you want from me?”

I don’t hesitate. “A few things. First, I want you to arrange a get-together with Violet Honeycutt. For tomorrow, if you can swing it. And I want to go with you. We can pretend I’m your personal assistant.”

I figure all these legendary Manhattanites must know each other. They must run into each other at one posh event after another. So even if the two aren’t besties, surely it’s acceptable for Senior’s people to call Honeycutt’s people to set up a meeting. How I’ll get what I want out of it, I have no idea. But step one is to get my stiletto in the door.

“On what pretext am I supposed to call her?” Senior wants to know.

“Tell her you’re interested in the Belfer Building. She just got approved by the board for an apartment there.”

Senior glowers at me. “The Belfer approved that purveyor of celebrity tripe?”

“Oh, so the Belfer rejected you at some point, did it?”

He looks away. “I don’t care to discuss it.”

“For your information, Violet Honeycutt pretty much runs the fashion industry.
Mode
is the world’s fashion bible. It’s read by something like twelve million people a month.”

“People without a brain in their head.”

I give up. The man is impossible. Well, I hope he enjoys being better than everybody else because at the rate he’s going he’ll die alone on his mountaintop singing his own praises.

“Anyway,” I go on, “the second thing I want is for you to stay away from
Dream Angel
. I don’t want you to see it until Thursday at the earliest. In other words, you are not to attend Tuesday’s preview or opening night. Nor are you to talk to any theater critics.”

By now Senior looks apoplectic. “That devil spawn of mine put you up to this!”

I throw out my arms. “How can you blame him? You’re doing everything in your power to sink his musical! Of course he’s defending himself. You’d do the same thing.”

Senior waves a dismissive hand. “That piece of trash doesn’t need my help to disappear without a trace.”

“You don’t really believe that. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be going to all this trouble to try to torpedo the production.”

Senior blusters for a while, but both of us know I won this round. “I don’t know about you,” I say to him, “but I’m going downstairs to eat dinner.”

“If you think I’ll break bread with you—”

“Fine.” I make for the door. “If you want to stay up here and sulk, that’s your business. I’ll make up a plate for you and leave it in the fridge.”

I am quite pleased with myself as I sashay back down to the first floor of Senior’s townhouse. For the first time in days, at least a few things in my world are going well. As if to reinforce that positive trajectory, I receive a text from Jason reporting that he and Kimberly are halfway back to the city. Not even the mention of that mischief-maker’s name spoils my mood. Jason and I arrange to meet soon at the Sofitel.

Since Senior does not deign to reappear, I nuke only one portion of the Italian feast the limo driver delivered. In the romantic glow of the candles I lit even though I’m dining alone, I entertain myself by checking out
Mode
’s Twitter feed on my phone. There’s no end to the compelling reading, from “Top models share their latest street style secrets” to a guide to emojis for texting about fashion shows.

I’ve just perused “How to Channel Your Inner Cleopatra” when it occurs to me that the stem-cell-facial salon probably has a Twitter account as well. No doubt it has a Facebook page, too. If I’d thought of this earlier in the day, I could’ve messaged privately about my mother’s fur and maybe gotten a response even though it’s Sunday. Since the salon was closed, I wouldn’t have gotten an answer to a phone call. But social media is another matter entirely.

Seconds later I learn that indeed the salon does have a Twitter feed. I scan the tweets and click on a few, though I don’t find any as fascinating as
Mode
’s. I’m about to quit when I happen upon a tweet that redirects me to the personal Twitter feed of a twenty-something blonde who works at the salon. When I see what she tweeted last night, I almost choke on my linguine.

There she is standing on a snowy street corner preening. Why is she so self-satisfied, you ask? Because she’s wearing a splendiferous fur coat! And not just
any
splendiferous fur coat: one that looks an awful lot—and I mean an
awful
lot—like my mother’s Russian sable.

Loaner fur
, the bubbly blonde tweets.
I know it’s not PC but it’s fun for a night out! #SaturdayNight #drinks #party

Loaner, my you know what! That blonde scofflaw took my mother’s fur coat out on the town with no permission from anyone!

I rise to my feet. This makes me so mad I’m incapable of remaining seated.

Who knows where that perfidious female took that fur, what she exposed it to? She took it to a
party
? She blithely risked it being stolen or damaged?

There’s no excuse for that behavior. That girl had absolutely no right! I can’t believe it.

I sit back down and grab my phone. Somewhere in my riled mind I realize there is good news in this. My mother’s fur has not been stolen, per se. Now I know who had it last night and I don’t doubt she’ll return it. Still, I am seething. And since my hands are shaking from anger, it takes me a few minutes to compose and send a private message, especially one that contains no swear words.

My mother owns that fur you tweeted about. I cannot believe you took it from the salon’s closet, wore it out and about, and boasted about it, too! She entrusted that fur to your salon’s care. There is no excuse for what you did. I am very angry. I want the fur back tomorrow morning the second the salon opens. 10 a.m. sharp
.

In her reply, the blonde has the gall to protest that she doesn’t work Mondays. I message back that I don’t give a hoot. If she is not at the salon at the appointed hour, I will go straight to the cops. She grudgingly agrees to show up.

I’m so puffed up with righteous indignation that I’m about to message back that I haven’t yet heard an apology when a realization stops me short. My mother’s hands aren’t clean, either. She took off with somebody else’s fur: Bernadette’s. (It was unintentional, but still.) And now we know that despite my mother’s accusations, Bernadette is innocent of all wrongdoing. Yet thanks to my mom, she must be frantic about her own pelt. She has no way of knowing it’s hanging safe and sound in a closet in the Plaza Hotel.

My second private message is rather more humiliating to write.

BTW, tomorrow morning I’ll bring with me the fur that belongs to Bernadette, another one of your salon’s clients. My mother accidentally took it with her yesterday when she left. Have a good night.

Seconds later I receive a reply.

We didn’t know what happened to that. So I guess I’m not the only one who made a mistake …

Even though strictly speaking Blondie did not so much make a mistake as willfully go for a spin with another woman’s fur, I take her point. I hope Blondie can reach Bernadette tonight to provide the woman some relief.

There’s another woman I could relieve, but I’m not sure I want to. I wonder why not, exactly. As I ponder that question, I tidy up the dining table and kitchen. By the time both areas are spotless, I have decided not to call my mother. She’s not expecting any news about her fur till tomorrow anyway. Let her stew. Maybe sheer panic will inspire her to be more forthcoming with Bennie.

I survey the immaculate kitchen, suddenly bone tired. What a day it has been. And now it’s time to depart for the Sofitel. Before I do, I tiptoe upstairs to check on Senior.

I find him sitting on the red-and-white floral sofa in the library, snoozing, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his slippered feet resting on an ottoman. He’s snoring quietly. He looks vulnerable and old. And when he wakes up, this man who so craves attention will find his house empty.

I bet that happens a lot.

I cover the old fart with the sand-colored pashmina I find on the back of the sofa, leave him a note that I’ll call him tomorrow to follow up, and go on my way. Halfway to the Sofitel I get a text from Jason to meet instead at a Greek
taverna
near the hotel. Have I had dinner yet? He and Kimberly have not.

Great. Now I have to socialize with the wench. I wonder how alluring her get-up
du jour
has been. Then again, given how much skin I’m flashing—which I’ll have to explain—I’m in no position to criticize.

The mouth-watering aromas that greet me when I walk inside the
taverna
make me wish I hadn’t already eaten, even though my Italian repast was fabulous. This restaurant is Greek by way of Midtown, snazzy instead of home-style, with high ceilings, beautiful wood beams, and linen-draped tables. You know you’re in a
taverna
by the potted lemon and fig trees, large standing urns, and Greek-style pottery in every available alcove.

Since Kimberly and Jason beat me here, the maître d’ leads me to their table. En route I think of the many questions I’m dying to ask the little minx—foremost among them:
Where is your husband tonight?
—but I’m cowed by my exchange with Blondie the Fur Snatcher. Given my mother’s peccadillo, I shouldn’t have been so self-righteous with her. That blunder forces me to consider the possibility that Kimberly has a good reason for not disclosing her marriage to Damian Paganos, if indeed she has not done so. Of course I’m also desperate to know why she neglected to record
Dream Angel
’s final sequence on the night Lisette died. But on both those issues, for the moment at least, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

Perhaps because I strategically checked my coat at the door, Jason rises to his feet the second he sees me, admiration shining in his dark eyes. “Wow,” he murmurs after we exchange a kiss. Well aware that Kimberly is eyeing us closely, I give him another smooch for good measure. If I thought it would help me stake my claim to my husband by peeing on his shoes, I just might do it.