“You said that? That is so incredible.”
“And the Goddess had me dance with my mother! It’s like you’re literally dancing. And in that moment I was a thousand percent certain the whole fuckin’ deal with this crazy life began and ended with her. Of course it does, right? Because she’s my mother, I came from her body, how could it not. But then my father cuts in — Daddy tapped my shoulder and took her place — then I’m dancing with him and suddenly I’m a thousand percent certain he’s the one! He’s the key to the mystery! So I’m dancing with Daddy then Mom cuts in again and I’m dancing with her… everyone likes to have their dance. I remember saying that, telling them to write it down: ‘Everyone likes to have their dance.’”
—
Tuesday was the first to leave.
Patrice escorted her because she was worried about falling on the slopey steps. Dusty thought that by the time they got to her car he’d have booked a house call for her hair. Good — she could probably use a friend like Patrice, and a little styling wouldn’t hurt either. Marilyn and Jeremy left soon after. Jeremy had a hot date with “a special boy” he’d been seeing. (She couldn’t tell if he was being ironic.) She felt a tug of possessiveness.
Dusty took Larissa on a belated tour while Allegra stayed downstairs, sidetracked by email.
“Your house is so beautiful.”
“It’s a Neff. Took me three years to restore. I was going to flip it. Pink wanted to buy it, she begged me, but I couldn’t bear to part with it.”
“It’s just so gorgeous.”
“Thank you. You okay?”
She’d picked up on Larissa’s distractedness.
“No! I mean yes!” They laughed. “I’m just — I guess I’m just a little nervous. Shy, maybe?” She squinted at her inscrutable hostess. “I feel a certain energy coming from you.”
“And what do you think about that?” said Dusty, perversely reminding herself of Ginevra.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure! I guess I’m not used to it. The attention?”
“Well, you should be. Because you’re fucking hot.”
“I am?”
“Oh come on, Larissa! You know you are. It’s kinda criminal if you don’t.”
“I wish my husband would have thought so!”
“Not worthy, babe.”
She continued her improbable docent chores as they walked onto the bedroom terrace — the architectural influences behind the unique bespoke balustrades, the months-long search for the perfect shade of ochre — but the fix was in and Larissa had gone deaf. Dusty took in the Trousdale sky and said, “Full moon.” Larissa said, “Of course it is,” and the heavenly body seemed to wink its endorsement of her imminent abandon. “I keep forgetting to give you your earring—” At the end of the ambushed kiss, Larissa still couldn’t breathe. She sneezed a laugh like a cork blowing off, and thought the outburst ugly. Dusty smiled like a mystic and the double felt her own wetness. They came together again but this time the moon was indifferent, a chaperone on leave.
When Allegra got back, they were dancing. Dusty was still dressed but Larissa was topless; all night long the young wife had prepared for this, inoculating herself against jealousy. Seeing her, Larissa covered her breasts in modesty, taking some comfort in the assumption the duo had enacted this scenario many times before (she would never know how wrong she was). She knew she was in good hands. Allegra welcomed Dusty’s maverick impulse because she’d been feeling so guilty over how she had treated her these last few months. There was something dangerously sexy about it too, because they were in uncharted waters. Sometimes bringing in another person was a point of no return.
Dusty changed into a robe while the others danced. Allegra kissed Larissa’s neck, watching the carotid pulse like a samba-school Carnaval—fiftysomething virgins were the wildest of tigers. She moved to the double’s mouth and got an amateur’s sloppily passionate response. Dusty reemerged and stayed where she was, to observe. Allegra took their guest by the hand and led her to bed. She draped up her skirt, tugged at her panties, and ate her. Larissa literally shouted and staccato-wept. After a while, Dusty knelt by the bed and stroked Larissa’s hair. She kissed her face and said, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like a hypnotist. “It’s just a festival. Big festival in the palace…” Then: “What was the word? What was the word the Goddess gave Marilyn?” Larissa struggled to find it amid the butchery, finally whispering, “Protectorate.” Dusty said, “Yes!” and kissed her some more and said, “A protectorate … it’s just a protectorate. Can you hear the drums? Babe?”
—
The film crew alit in a cemetery.
Video village was tucked behind a mausoleum. Bennett sat in front of his monitor, waiting. Dusty and Bonita stood before the grave. Ted Hughes’s casket was poised for a third-take lowering. (Liam wrapped three days ago and was already in Europe, on another picture.) Marilyn sat on a canvas chair near the director. She wasn’t needed until the next scene, an insert of her surreptitiously watching the ritual from her car, but wanted to be there for Dusty’s last shot.
Bennett called action and the mechanism lowered the casket.
Bonita threw a rose into the pit. “Good-bye, Papa.”
The camera pushed in on Dusty as she declaimed a poem beneath her breath:
“Whoop dee-do, the oven’s clean, of you and me and toddler shouts. Cooked too long, it all burned up — the swastikas and brussels sprouts.”
“And cut.”
The director nodded to the First, who cautioned, “Checking the gate!” After a beat, the D.P. nodded all clear and the First shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, Dusty Wilding is wrapped!”
Yips, applause, and whistles from the crew — Dusty got emotional. She’d been doing this a lifetime but was always surprised at how those traditional, cracker-barrel announcements moved her. “Oh my God,” she said. “I’m so sad! I don’t want it to end.” She hugged everyone, saving Bennett for last.
Larissa hung back, ceding to awkwardness — they hadn’t really seen each other since the palace coup — then made the immodest error of subtly stepping forward to be wrap-acknowledged as Dusty headed back to her trailer.
The star averted an encounter by stagily chatting up one of the pilot fish who was escorting her, and just kept moving.
—
They ate dinner at home. Dusty was brittle and quiet.
“Is there going to be a wrap party?” said Allegra solicitously.
“They’re not done till next week.”
(Leggy had the scary new feeling that Mama’d had enough of her. She talked to Jeremy about it; he said she was nuts.)
Best defense being a strong offense, Allegra said, “You know, I was thinking about the Lake District, for Bloodthrone … it might actually be kinda great”—the words emerging from that sly, lopsided grin that once so ensorcelled.
“I just don’t know my dates yet.”
“That’s okay,” said Allegra, laid back and accommodating, trying to be okay with Dusty being a cold, hostile bitch. “And, oh! I didn’t tell you — I got an agent, for my photographs.” (No response; the engine wouldn’t turn over.) “Vasha Bowska. Do you know Vasha?”