«Yes! Even commercials. Do you think they write themselves? 'When shifting gears, think Boffo.' Oh, yeah, I've seen Miss Boobs in those commercials. Somebody had to write those words. Somebody with very little talent, but still.»
The flames small but growing, Alex stood up, brushed his hands together. «About Miss Boobs, as you so rudely referred to her. How can I put this? Are—»
«Are they real? Oh, yeah. Sure. And I'm William Shakespeare.»
«Oh. Pity. But do continue, my dear. I believe I interrupted you in midrant.»
«I'm not ranting. I was saying that writers are underappreciated.»
«Absolutely. I couldn't agree more.»
«And underpaid. Grossly underpaid.»
«Again, absolutely.»
«And we're going home tomorrow.»
«Absolutely not.»
«It's raining and miserable and—hey. You were agreeing with me here. What do you mean by 'Absolutely not'?»
Alex motioned for Maggie to seat herself once more, then sat down across from her. Smiled that to-die-for smile that affected its creator as much as she hoped it would affect her loyal readers, damn it.
«Arnaud—Mr. Peppin, that is, although actors and their ilk seem to be such informal creatures, so that we're all on a first-name basis. To continue—Arnaud and I had a mu-tually advantageous chat downstairs. He got to vent his spleen on matters of his general unhappiness, and I was most happily able to take some of the burden from his shoulders.»
Alex polished his quizzing glass against the sleeve of his sweater. «I'm amenable that way.»
Maggie knew his tricks. She'd invented his tricks. When Alex fiddled with his quizzing glass, he was either trying to deflect somebody's attention or he was just the slightest bit uncomfortable with whatever it was he had to say. Not that anyone else in the world would ever know that. «What… did you… do?»
«Volunteered my services, of course. Sterling's and mine both. And without thought of monetary remuneration, which seemed to please both Mr. Arnaud Peppin and Miss Pertuccelli all hollow. Ah-ah, don't pout. It's true. As of now, Sterling and I will be coaching our television-movie counterparts in, shall we say, the manly graces. Indeed, even Mr. Pottinger has come aboard, once Arnaud agreed to the extremely reasonable proposition that Mr. Barlow and Mr. Posko would feel more at home in their roles if they were to be allowed to accustom themselves to the proper wardrobe of two well-dressed Regency gentlemen.»
«Why does everyone's last name begin with a P?» Maggie waved her hand, rubbing out the question. «Never mind— like you say, we're all going to be California-friendly, on a first-name basis. Whoopee… not. And let me guess. In order to show the actors how to behave, how to dress, how to move——all that bilge—you are also going to dress in costume. How the hell do you do it? How do you keep getting away with murder like that?»
«Never murder, Maggie. We leave that to the villains, remember? I am a hero.»
«And I think I'm going to be sick,» Maggie said, resigned to the inevitable. «Okay. So I'll pitch in, too. Sam asked me to look over the script, and I am dying to get my hands on it. You know he royally screwed it up, don't you?»
«That's my sweet Maggie, ever the optimist,» Alex said, getting to his feet. «Allow me,» he added, walking to the door to answer the knock Maggie hadn't heard. She'd been too busy listening to the blood rushing in her ears, playing catch-up to her perfect hero sometimes getting on her nerves more than it should.
Sterling entered the room, then stopped, gave a flourish of his arm as he bowed, and Bernice Toland-James and Tabitha Leighton swept into the room.
«Maggie!» Tabby cried, coming toward her, arms outstretched, shoulder-length blonde hair flying, a long silk scarf tied loosely around her neck and flowing out behind her. «Give me a hug. Wonderful! Now tell Bernie you're not going to change a word of that marvelous manuscript. I told her, over and over again as we flew here, as we fought Heathrow together, as we drove through this monsoon—over and over again—that the book is brilliant.»
«When she wasn't telling me what a rat bastard David the Fornicator is,» Bernie said, sighing. «And Tabby here really liked her manicurist, too, until she found out David was, shall we say, getting his cuticles buffed by the girl. God knows where she'll get her manicures done now. I mean, if she tries Lee Press-On Nails, she might glue herself to the bathroom sink, where she'd be stuck, now that she's tossed David out again. Yet again. Honest to God, Mags, I'm really broken up for her. Really.»
«Bernie, be nice,» Maggie said, trying not to laugh. She'd be upset for her agent if David Leighton wasn't such a total loss. She could only hope that one day Tabby would figure that out, too, and dump him. Like in the ocean.
«It's all right, Maggie. You know I just ignore her. Back to the manuscript. You can't throw it away. It's brilliant. Just brilliant!»
«You haven't read it,» Maggie pointed out, once more enveloped in Tabby's hug and her expensive scent. She blew at the blonde hair that tickled her nose and gently disengaged herself from the embrace. «I didn't send you a copy.»
Tabby laughed her nervous laugh. «I don't have to read it, Maggie. I know it's brilliant. You're always brilliant. Tell her, Alex.»
«Yeah,» Bernie said, searching in Maggie's purse and coming out with the plastic case holding her nicotine cylinders and inhaler. «Ah, here it is. I left my cigarettes in my room. I'm more used to carrying a flask with me, not a pack. Anyway, you read it, Alex. You tell her.»
Maggie grabbed the inhaler from her friend and pointed it at Alex. The man was so lucky it wasn't a dart gun. «You read my manuscript?»
«A gentleman never tells,» Alex said, taking the inhaler from her and giving it back to Bernie. «You don't need that.»
«Don't tell me what I need. Besides, I've got a spare,» Maggie said, chin thrust out, and rumaged in her purse for the thing before turning to her creation once more. «I put a security password on my computer, Alex. To keep you out !»
«I thought that, at first, and then dismissed the idea as beneath you. But the work was probably a healthy exorcism for you, and now you can begin again.»
Maggie was seeing red. Blue. Green. All the colors of the rainbow, and they had turned into bright little stars and were circling her head. Yes, stars. Or maybe M&M's, because she sure could use some chocolate about now. She waved them away with her hand. «You read my manu-script. You freaking read my manuscript! Don't you feel guilty?»
Alex seemed to consider this. «In what way?»
«In what—in every way. About snooping, for one thing.» She grabbed his elbow and all but frog-marched him over to the fireplace. «And… and about what was in it. How Saint Just had done something terribly wrong, and how he… how he felt this need to… to atone… to— oh, hell, who am I kidding. You don't feel guilty at all, do you?»
«Truth to tell, my dear, I was actually rather… bored. All that unnecessary breast-beating over a perfectly understandable descent into physical violence. So sorry.»
«Ha! You hear that, Maggie?» Bernie said. «Clearly one third of your readers are males between the ages of twenty-five and sixty-seven. You've seen the demographics, the survey results, the focus groups. And you would have bored them. You had Saint Just contemplating his navel for three fourths of the story. Boring!»
Maggie lowered her voice so only Saint Just could hear her. When Saint Just had appeared in her life, he'd appeared with a bullet scar on his shoulder, a gift from a duel she'd written about in The Case of the Pilfered Pearls . «When I rewrite, you're getting a broken leg. Very possibly a compound fracture. Be ready for it.»