congenial smile to Diana.
“I knew the moment we walked in that we’d come at a bad time. I suggested we slip away and reschedule but Philip, he’s
such
a fan of yours—well, we both are!—he
insisted
we at least stay to meet you, however briefly. Now we have, and may we say what an honor it’s been. Please forgive us for
intruding at a time when something’s so obviously troubling you. I don’t suppose it’s anything we could assist you with in
some way?”
I’d never until this moment quite realized how potent a weapon pure charm could be. Diana, hearing so gracious a response
to her truculence, just stood there, flummoxed, like a confused repertory actress who’s barged onstage as Lady Macbeth only
to find the rest of the company playing
Hay Fever.
“Well,” she said, her tone calmer and more refined, “that’s terribly nice of you, but it’s a family matter. It involves my
sister and... well, that’s all I can say.”
“Is she ill?” asked Gilbert, concerned.
“If only.”
A brief silence descended. I was uncomfortably aware that Diana’s newfound civility toward us was based in part on our promise
to leave immediately. Gilbert knew this too but, loath to depart without the prize we’d come for, kept the flattery flowing
in the hope of prolonging our tenuous welcome.
“Well, we’re off!” he lied. “But first, could you satisfy my curiosity about that stunning painting of you over the fireplace?”
“It’s from
Tomorrow Be Damned
, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes. Can you believe they wanted me to
pay
for it?”
“No!” said Gilbert, deeply affronted.
“But what a movie!” I said. “I won’t embarrass you by saying how many times I’ve seen it.”
“I’m glad
someone
enjoyed it. I went through hell making it. The director was a monster.”
“Yes,” said Gilbert with a knowing nod. “One hears that.”
What one in fact heard was that the famously rancorous shoot owed most of its turmoil to Diana, who, convinced that the actor
playing Alexandre Dumas was stealing the picture from her, threw such frequent and violent tantrums that the crew nicknamed
her the “Cunt of Monte Cristo.”
“Well, lovely meeting you,” said Diana with warm finality.
“Off we go!” said Gilbert. “And as for rescheduling —?”
“Yes,” she said vaguely. “Some other time.”
She swept out the door and proceeded down the hall so briskly we had to scamper to keep up with her.
“Knowing how busy you must be, we’re happy to work around your schedule,” said Gilbert.
“Well, this week is
terrible,
” she replied. “And I doubt the next will be much better. You know, I’m not sure we really
need
to meet again at all.”
Gilbert and I exchanged a panicked glance as Diana regally descended the staircase.
“Don’t you want to talk about the script?”
“Oh, I don’t think we need bother with that. I can see you’re both very bright and I’m sure you’d do a wonderful job. There
are a few other writers we’re talking to. Once we’ve decided we’ll let you know.”
She timed this speech to end precisely as we reached the front door, and not even Gilbert, who’d thus far maintained the silkiest
poise, could conceal his dismay at being sent packing without a rain check.
“Give my love to Max,” smiled Diana, clearly pleased at how efficiently she’d discharged her obligation to him. She then gave
us her back and marched briskly toward the stairs.
It was at this precise moment, as the bassinet containing our careers was hurtling toward the falls, that the front door opened
and Stephen Donato, like some Adonis
ex machina,
entered the foyer and our lives.
The Star had apparently arrived fresh from a workout or a run. He wore black cotton gym shorts and a gray T-shirt that clung
damply to his broad chest, leaving a sweat stain that nestled in the cleft between his pectorals like some Rorschach of desire.
His wavy brown hair was tousled and
“I knew the moment we walked in that we’d come at a bad time. I suggested we slip away and reschedule but Philip, he’s
such
a fan of yours—well, we both are!—he
insisted
we at least stay to meet you, however briefly. Now we have, and may we say what an honor it’s been. Please forgive us for
intruding at a time when something’s so obviously troubling you. I don’t suppose it’s anything we could assist you with in
some way?”
I’d never until this moment quite realized how potent a weapon pure charm could be. Diana, hearing so gracious a response
to her truculence, just stood there, flummoxed, like a confused repertory actress who’s barged onstage as Lady Macbeth only
to find the rest of the company playing
Hay Fever.
“Well,” she said, her tone calmer and more refined, “that’s terribly nice of you, but it’s a family matter. It involves my
sister and... well, that’s all I can say.”
“Is she ill?” asked Gilbert, concerned.
“If only.”
A brief silence descended. I was uncomfortably aware that Diana’s newfound civility toward us was based in part on our promise
to leave immediately. Gilbert knew this too but, loath to depart without the prize we’d come for, kept the flattery flowing
in the hope of prolonging our tenuous welcome.
“Well, we’re off!” he lied. “But first, could you satisfy my curiosity about that stunning painting of you over the fireplace?”
“It’s from
Tomorrow Be Damned
, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes. Can you believe they wanted me to
pay
for it?”
“No!” said Gilbert, deeply affronted.
“But what a movie!” I said. “I won’t embarrass you by saying how many times I’ve seen it.”
“I’m glad
someone
enjoyed it. I went through hell making it. The director was a monster.”
“Yes,” said Gilbert with a knowing nod. “One hears that.”
What one in fact heard was that the famously rancorous shoot owed most of its turmoil to Diana, who, convinced that the actor
playing Alexandre Dumas was stealing the picture from her, threw such frequent and violent tantrums that the crew nicknamed
her the “Cunt of Monte Cristo.”
“Well, lovely meeting you,” said Diana with warm finality.
“Off we go!” said Gilbert. “And as for rescheduling —?”
“Yes,” she said vaguely. “Some other time.”
She swept out the door and proceeded down the hall so briskly we had to scamper to keep up with her.
“Knowing how busy you must be, we’re happy to work around your schedule,” said Gilbert.
“Well, this week is
terrible,
” she replied. “And I doubt the next will be much better. You know, I’m not sure we really
need
to meet again at all.”
Gilbert and I exchanged a panicked glance as Diana regally descended the staircase.
“Don’t you want to talk about the script?”
“Oh, I don’t think we need bother with that. I can see you’re both very bright and I’m sure you’d do a wonderful job. There
are a few other writers we’re talking to. Once we’ve decided we’ll let you know.”
She timed this speech to end precisely as we reached the front door, and not even Gilbert, who’d thus far maintained the silkiest
poise, could conceal his dismay at being sent packing without a rain check.
“Give my love to Max,” smiled Diana, clearly pleased at how efficiently she’d discharged her obligation to him. She then gave
us her back and marched briskly toward the stairs.
It was at this precise moment, as the bassinet containing our careers was hurtling toward the falls, that the front door opened
and Stephen Donato, like some Adonis
ex machina,
entered the foyer and our lives.
The Star had apparently arrived fresh from a workout or a run. He wore black cotton gym shorts and a gray T-shirt that clung
damply to his broad chest, leaving a sweat stain that nestled in the cleft between his pectorals like some Rorschach of desire.
His wavy brown hair was tousled and
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