“Why?” He repeated the single word, and his tone had an edge of exasperation. She realized that she should only have said something about how grateful she was. Still, she was curious.
“Yes. Why do you think these will be better?” she persisted.
“Isn’t it obvious? You and Shirley. No one really wants to look at a wrinkled old fart like Rex Demeter, no matter how many subliminal phalluses I put in the pic. But two pretty actresses and the Eiffel Tower? The subconscious will drool.” There was a tree near them with indigo flowers that reminded her of foxglove, and he picked one of the blossoms off the sleeve of his jacket. “That’s what I want. And that’s what you want.”
“To make the subconscious drool.”
“Yes, little lady. Whether you admit it or not, that’s what we do in our business. High art, low art. Good films, bad films. Good photos, bad photos. It’s all about…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the right word.
She decided to help him. “The phallus?” she suggested.
She could see in his eyes and in poor Jean’s eyes that she had just shot herself in the foot. Reggie Stout had once told her—gently, with an avuncular kindness—that a few people had hinted to him that she could be a bit of a smart aleck. She didn’t have that reputation （not yet）， and while he rather liked her sassiness, there were some people who didn’t. She’d promised him that she would be more careful, and since then she had been. And so she added quickly, “I understand. I really do. It’s interesting to me how carefully you work to strike that balance between conveying what’s obvious in an image and what isn’t. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” agreed Jean. “Reggie and I are so appreciative of all that you bring to the party.”
He bought it. He nodded at her and then at the publicist. She could see in his gaze that the two of them had sold it. Sometimes, she decided, she really was a pretty good actress.
And so, it seemed, was Jean Cummings.
* * *
.?.?.
How long had she been fighting sleep? She couldn’t say, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at her watch yet again. Between ten p.m. and midnight she must have looked at it over twenty times. On each occasion, the minute hand had crept forward no more than four or five minutes, though always she had supposed that she’d waited at least ten. It had to be well after midnight now. Her head was lolling around as if she had a broken neck, and it felt so very good when she would allow it to tip toward her collarbone. The yawns felt fantastic too. She was weak and knew she should ask Reggie to toss her the bag of nuts, but she doubted she’d catch it and she didn’t want Reggie to draw attention to himself by standing.
It was also colder than she expected, but she was grateful for that discomfort: it might be what kept her alive because it was keeping her awake.
She tried to think of things that made her happy. The fourth-grade geography test on South America that she aced. The soft lips of the boy who kissed her when the two of them were standing in the wings after a rehearsal for the high school talent show. The Christmas tree when her father first plugged in those new lights. Dozing in the back seat of the car at night, her father and mother in the front, and her stuffed dog—she named him Moppet, though she didn’t know at the time what the word meant, but her grandpa sometimes called her that—in her arms. Now that word was her favorite onomatopoeic. Moppet.
She recalled how much fun she had had doing press last year with Shirley MacLaine, and the movie mag where she and the other actress had been shot for the cover at a mini-golf course. Reggie had made that happen. He’d made sure that it wasn’t just Shirley on the front of the glossy.
She also prayed. The Lord’s Prayer. Over and over. That helped her stay awake too, and it gave her a semblance of comfort. There had been a time when she had also known the Apostles’ Creed by heart, but other than the first two lines—“I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth”—it was gone. But she repeated those two lines in her mind, as well. She prayed that Felix was in heaven and tried to imagine what that was like. Angels? Did Jesus have a room waiting for him? Could Felix see her now in this tree? Was he with his sister, Olivia? One of the things she had loved about Felix was how much he had cared about Olivia and how acutely he had felt her loss.
Did she love her own sister that much? Probably not. But maybe. She just didn’t love the way her sister judged her and thought that being a mother was such noble work. Carmen didn’t disagree. She had supposed before this morning that someday she and Felix would have children. But she had other desires, other dreams. She took satisfaction in those things.