I nod and can’t help laughing. “Everyone will wear pants, and everyone will get frisked, over their clothes, when they enter my apartment as well as every time they come out of the bathroom. In addition, Jack kindly offered to get me a metal detector.”
NIGHTMARES WAKE ME in the middle of Tuesday night, less than three days before the dinner. Being a costume designer, I’m very aware of the nooks and crannies in clothing that can be used to hide a weapon, especially a tiny weapon such as a jugular-slashing razor blade. My fear is that the frisking and metal detecting won’t be enough, that something will be missed. I need a backup plan, a more extreme safety measure I can resort to if necessary. After some thinking, I come up with one that is not ideal because it would make us seem strange in Strad’s eyes, and we would hate for his opinion of Lily to be tarnished by something we do. So I will not use this extreme safety measure if I can help it, though it calms me knowing it will be at my disposal if I need it.
Chapter Nine
That evening, we’re all sitting around in one of the TV studio’s large dressing rooms, waiting to be interviewed live in about an hour.
Penelope breaks the silence with: “I got the result from my handwriting specialist. She said the same thing as Jack’s guy — that her analysis concluded that it was highly probable that Gabriel wrote the letter. She said that ‘highly probable’ is the official term used and means 99 percent certain, and that that’s pretty much as certain as it gets.”
We all nod quietly, not surprised.
We perk up a bit when Peter Marrick comes in to greet us. Oddly, he seems more nervous than we are. But very charming nevertheless. He has the hiccups.
“I’m so happy to meet you,” he tells us. “It’s an honor to have a group like yours on my show.”
We stand there, saying thank you and looking at him like dummies while he hiccups. We’re a bit starstruck.
“I really admire what you do,” he goes on. “I so wish I could be creative. But… let’s save that for the show.”
He chats with us a little more, asks if we have everything we need, then says he has to go to makeup.
Just as he’s about to leave, still hiccupping, Georgia says, “Do you need help with that hiccup?”
“I may be open to suggestions.”
Georgia says, “My method is infallible and can be used instantly. If I’m not remembered for my novels, I’ll be remembered for my Hiccup-Stopping Method. If everyone knew it, no one on earth would ever again have the hiccups for longer than a few seconds.”
What she says is true. Her Hiccup-Stopping Method is her most popular invention in our group. None of us has had a second hiccup in four years because as soon as we get our first hiccup, we use her method and the second hiccup is stopped dead in its tracks.
Georgia says, “The most remarkable thing about this method — considering how foolproof it is — is how unimpressive it sounds.”
“Really? Sounds amazing. What’s the method?” Peter asks, hiccupping some more.
“Stop moving and relax all your internal organs,” Georgia tells him.
He laughs and hiccups again. “What does that mean — relax all my internal organs? Even my bladder? You want me to pee in my pants?”
This makes me laugh, which makes him laugh harder.
“No, not to that degree,” Georgia says. “Just relax your stomach, throat, lungs, even peripheral things like your jaw and your shoulders. Do it now. Close your eyes if it helps. Let your body sort of go limp. The method works best if you use it right away as soon as your hiccupping begins, but even if you wait, like now, it’ll still work. It’ll just take a minute longer.”
Peter closes his eyes but he can’t stop laughing.
“If you laugh you’re not relaxed. Stop laughing,” she commands.
“Easier said than—”
“Don’t talk! Just relax your internal organs.”
Peter laughs some more, eyes still closed and hiccups still going.
Jack tells him, “It’s true it’s not going to work if you keep laughing.”
“Okay,” Peter says, and takes a deep breath and stops laughing.
His self-control impresses me. I’m still laughing.
He stays perfectly still. He has one more hiccup. And then he has no more.
He slowly opens his eyes. “That’s dramatic. It’s gone. How did you come up with that method?”
“I don’t know. It just came to me one day. Maybe instinct,” Georgia says.
Peter leaves the room, smiling at us before disappearing.
The segment on creativity is three minutes. At one point, in the middle of our live interview, Georgia says to Peter (and hence to the world), “I’m a very honest, blunt person, and let me tell you: My writing leaves much to be desired.”
Jack quickly adds, “Anyone with half a brain will know that what she’s saying means nothing. It’s the normal thing writers and artists say when they’re in the throes of self-doubt, which any decent writer or artist is in, much of the time. Plus, like many great artists, she’s a bit bipolar… I mean, not clinically, but you know… so don’t listen to a word she’s saying. Her writing is pure genius and everyone knows it.”
Peter nods. “What’s it like being part of such a creative circle?”
“It can be difficult,” Georgia replies. “One of us is extremely messed up. Far more than the rest of us.”
“Really?” Peter chuckles. “You?”
“No. Why would you say that? Should I be offended?”
“Of course not. But then, who?” he asks.
“We don’t know who. Hopefully one day we will.”
Peter laughs again. “You guys are just fascinating. What is it that makes some people highly creative, like Georgia, Lily, and Barb, and others less so, like, perhaps, you and me, Jack?”
We stare down at the desktop thoughtfully, until Georgia says, “We’re not at our best tonight. We’re stressed and distracted because something’s coming up in two days that we’re really dreading.”
I shoot her an alarmed look.
“What is it?” Peter asks.
“I wish we could tell you. It would make for good TV. But we can’t, sorry,” she says.
“That’s all right. Eccentricities are permitted, forgiven, and even encouraged, where geniuses are concerned.”
Georgia blushes. “Don’t look at me. I’m a lackluster writer, which is something I discovered only recently after recovering some work I’d lost.”
“I happen to know that the vast majority of people who’ve read you would disagree. I also know that a lot of people who have regular jobs have artistic aspirations they’ve neglected. This can cause a certain amount of regret for them. What advice, if any, do you have for those people? Lily, Barb, Penelope, any thoughts?”
We each come up with some banalities along the lines of: it’s never too late; no use regretting the past; pursue your dream even if it’s just five minutes a day before or after work; what’s important is making the time for it, etc.
Peter Marrick says, “Georgia’s second novel, The Liquid Angel, is about a woman whose dream is to become a great artist. One day, to thank her for saving his life, a stranger kidnaps her for nine months and forces her, against her will, to become a great artist. Do any of you have anything to say about that?”
When no one answers, I say, “It’s a story that appeals to a lot of people in artistic fields, especially people whose strong suit is not self-discipline. Lily and I have joked that what happens to the woman in that novel is not entirely unappealing. We sometimes have fantasies of being forced to work, when our own discipline is lacking.”