Cassie smiled, she couldn’t help it. “ ’S all right.” She wrapped her arms around herself, wondering what she would find in her closet to wear.
But to her surprise, Alex followed her into the bedroom and opened her closet. He found a three-piece gray silk suit, cut in simple lines, and tossed it onto the bed. “There you go,” he said, as if he did this all the time.
Cassie leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom and folded her arms. “Do I get to pick for you, too?” she asked dryly.
Alex glanced up, confused, as if he was only just realizing what his actions must look like. “Youalwaysask me to pick,” he said. “You say I know what people are wearing these days.” He began to put the ensemble back into the closet.
Cassie bit her lip. “No,” she said, stepping forward. “I like it. I mean, I didn’t know. It’s fine.”
She scrubbed herself in the shower until her skin was iridescent and her hair was laced with the scent of lilies. She sang “Hey Jude” at the top of her lungs and wrote her name in the steamed glass. When she opened the door, Alex was standing there, looking ethereal in the hot mist and smoky mirrors. He was naked, and this only embarrassed her more. She crossed her arms over her breasts and turned away. “I didn’t know you were in here,” she said.
“I could have heard you singing in San Diego,” Alex said. He smiled and caught her wrists, pulling her hands free. “I’ve seen it all before,”
he said gently. He wrapped a towel around her hips, pulling her near.
“I thought we were going to dinner,” Cassie said.
“I’m working up an appetite,” Alex said. He traced the edge of her nipple with his tongue. “I’m a growing boy.”
He could do this to her, start a fever raging and make her blood ache. Cassie reached between them and guided him inside her, scratching at his shoulders in an effort to get closer. At some point the fogged mirrors cleared, and over Alex’s bent head she watched them in triplicate, a chimera with tangled arms and legs, heaving and swelled with its own power. Her face was flushed, her damp hair strung around her neck. She reached out toward her reflection.My God, she thought.Isthis me?
AN HOUR LATER THEY WERE AT LE DOˆ ME, MAKING THEIR WAY TO A quiet table in the back in between handshakes and promises for lunch and called greetings. For a Thursday night, the restaurant was crowded.
Cassie stood nervously behind Alex, her hand curled into his, while he conducted business over other people’s dinners. She watched him speak to a studio executive, and it took her several minutes to realize that Alex was carrying on a conversation about the weather in Scotland while the other man was discussing the advantages of syndication. Hollywood did not talk to each other, but rather at each other. Cassie couldn’t help but think of three-year-olds who hadn’t yet learned to share.
While Alex ordered wine, Cassie screened herself with her menu.
She already knew what she was going to have, but she liked being hidden. It seemed as though every table seated either a celebrity tryingPicture Perfect 73to look supremely bored or an ordinary person craning his neck to see what Alex Rivers was having for dinner.
Alex pulled the top of her menu down with one finger. He was smiling at her. “This,” he said, “is why we don’t get out much.”
They had just toasted Lancelot when a woman slinked toward the table sighing Alex’s name. Cassie leaned forward, breathless. She had believed Ophelia was beautiful, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of this woman. Dressed in a floor-length sheer black sheath that wrapped her from her neck to her wrists, she threw her arms around Alex’s neck. A slit ran the length of her leg and Cassie noticed she wore no underwear, just thigh-high stockings. “Where,” she gushed, “have you been hiding yourself?”
“Miranda,” Alex said, nearly pushing the woman from his lap, “you remember my wife. Cassie, Miranda Adams.”
Miranda Adams leaned toward her, close enough for Cassie to smell the cloud of alcohol that hovered about her. She straightened, and Cassie was shocked to realize she could see right through the woman’s dress.
Miranda’s nipples were dusky and triangular, and over her left breast was a series of birthmarks, or maybe a tattoo, in the pattern of the constellation Orion.
She assumed Alex and Miranda had worked together, although it was difficult to picture. The only films Cassie could remember starring Miranda Adams had featured her as a bouncy, wholesome virgin.
“We’re eating,” Alex said pointedly, and Miranda executed a little pout. She kissed him full on the mouth, leaving a ring of red lipstick that Alex wiped away before she even left the table.
Cassie wondered if Alex had made love to her before coming to Le Doˆ me just because of scenes like this. He had wanted to, yes, but it seemed that he had also needed her to know that he was hers, no matter what. Even now she could feel patches of her skin that were warmer than others, still glowing with Alex’s imprint. “Is she the one who was in your trailer naked?” Cassie asked.
Alex’s jaw dropped. “Where the hell did you hear that?”
She wasn’t sure; she thought she’d read it in a tabloid headline at Trancas Market:ANGELSETSOUTTOHAVEADEVILOF ATIME. She smiled, just to let Alex know it didn’t bother her.
“Yes,” he said, “she was in my trailer, naked, but my assistant Jennifer was the one who found her there.” He leaned toward Cassie and kissed her softly, and they both turned in the direction of a bright camera flash.
“Goddammit,” Alex murmured, clenching his fists around the pristine tablecloth. Cassie thought of the shattered tile in their dining room table, the blood that had run down the side of Alex’s hand; she found herself praying that he would not stand up and make a scene just right now. Alex pushed back his chair.
He stopped as Louis, the maiˆtre d’, walked toward the table where the picture had been snapped and physically hoisted the diner to his feet. It was no one Cassie knew, but she realized that didn’t mean much these days. The man had a half-filled plate in front of him, and a camera bag strapped to the back of his seat. Louis escorted him in the direction of the door, and then came to Alex’s table, bowing. “My apologies, Mr.
Rivers,” he said. He pulled a roll of film from his pocket, unraveling it into a long shiny arc and laying it on the table. “And with our compliments, another appetizer.”
She ate half of Alex’s rack of lamb, and he ate half of her crab. For the most part nobody else bothered them, with the exception of Gabriel McPhee and Ann Hill Swinton, a rare pair of happily married young actors who swung by the table on their way out. Gabriel held their little girl in his arms, shifting her weight from side to side as he said hello to Alex. They talked for a few minutes, until the child started to scream and kick and people began to stare.
