lowered her eyes and her voice. “Yes…yes…we know…morons…imbeciles…philistines…yes…I’ll contact them first thing tomorrow, before we leave for the airport…yes, have an ambulance waiting…good.” She clicked off and suddenly looked up at Judith. “What are you waiting for? Mr. Zepf has his drink.”
“I wondered if there was anything else I could get for him,” Judith said as a small man in a matador’s suit of lights and a large woman dressed like Carmen in Act IV of the opera entered the living room. “Is he ill?”
“Yes,” Winifred replied tersely, then caught sight of the new arrivals. “Oh, damn! I must speak to Morris and Eugenia.” Her gaze softened. “Mrs. Flynn, would you sit with Mr. Zepf for just a moment?”
“Of course,” Judith replied, and perched on the edge of the sofa.
A deep groan was coming from somewhere in the folds of the burnoose. “It’s plague! It’s devastation! It’s…the end.”
“Goodness,” Judith said. “Do you need a doctor?”
Bruno pushed the folds of his robes aside and looked at Judith with bleary eyes. “It’s the critics. We flew them in from all over the world. Those damnable thickheaded critics. They hate The Gasman . Every one of them so far has trashed the picture. And how they ate at the masked ball! They savage me, then they gobble up everything but the silverware!”
Judith tried to think of something positive to say. “What about the audience? Sometimes, I’ve heard, critics may hate a movie, but audiences adore it.”
Bruno’s head fell back against the sofa. “They walked out. The theater was less than half full after theintermission. We should have barred the doors. Oh, my God, what’s to become of me?”
Ellie entered the living room with great caution, as if she expected someone to hand her a poisonous asp. She was still shivering inside the heavy black cloak as she sidled up to Bruno and leaned down. “Hey, maybe it’s not so bad. You know—every great producer has a flop sometimes. Look at all the successes you’ve had.”
“That was then,” Bruno muttered. “This is now.”
Dade Costello, in his long brown velvet mantle and Frisbee-shaped hat, passed in back of the sofa behind Bruno. “I told you so,” he said, and moved on.
Bruno groaned some more. A cell phone rang from somewhere. Bruno automatically reached for his, but no one was on the other end. His expression was bleak as Ellie pulled out her own cell to take the call.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Her sweet face turned sour. “But…isn’t it possible that…Yes, I suppose you’re right. Still…” She listened, then sighed. “Okay…If you say so. Sure, you know I always do. Bye.” She rang off, shot Bruno a blistering look, and walked off toward the bar, where another newcomer, attired in a pioneer woman’s gingham dress and floppy bonnet, was accepting a drink from Cathy Rankers.
Angela La Belle came over to the sofa. Judith drew back, assuming the actress wanted to speak with Bruno. But Angela ignored the producer and spoke to Judith instead.
“I see the truffles finally turned up. At least one good thing happened tonight.” With a swish of Scar-lett’s skirts, she turned away.
“You see?” Bruno whispered hoarsely. “You see how they turn on me? That’s the way the businessworks. A hundred successes and one failure—that’s all it takes to bring you down, to make you a nobody.”
Judith glanced around the big living room. Still wearing their masks, Ben Carmody and Dirk Farrar were talking by the piano. Judith recognized them by their costumes. Dirk cut a dashing figure in his satin-slashed doublet and hose; Ben looked more like his sinister screen self in the nineteenth-century frock coat and top hat. Judging from their body language, neither seemed happy.
“Surely,” Judith said, her naturally kind heart filling with sympathy for Bruno, “you don’t really believe that you’re…um…washed up in
“I wondered if there was anything else I could get for him,” Judith said as a small man in a matador’s suit of lights and a large woman dressed like Carmen in Act IV of the opera entered the living room. “Is he ill?”
“Yes,” Winifred replied tersely, then caught sight of the new arrivals. “Oh, damn! I must speak to Morris and Eugenia.” Her gaze softened. “Mrs. Flynn, would you sit with Mr. Zepf for just a moment?”
“Of course,” Judith replied, and perched on the edge of the sofa.
A deep groan was coming from somewhere in the folds of the burnoose. “It’s plague! It’s devastation! It’s…the end.”
“Goodness,” Judith said. “Do you need a doctor?”
Bruno pushed the folds of his robes aside and looked at Judith with bleary eyes. “It’s the critics. We flew them in from all over the world. Those damnable thickheaded critics. They hate The Gasman . Every one of them so far has trashed the picture. And how they ate at the masked ball! They savage me, then they gobble up everything but the silverware!”
Judith tried to think of something positive to say. “What about the audience? Sometimes, I’ve heard, critics may hate a movie, but audiences adore it.”
Bruno’s head fell back against the sofa. “They walked out. The theater was less than half full after theintermission. We should have barred the doors. Oh, my God, what’s to become of me?”
Ellie entered the living room with great caution, as if she expected someone to hand her a poisonous asp. She was still shivering inside the heavy black cloak as she sidled up to Bruno and leaned down. “Hey, maybe it’s not so bad. You know—every great producer has a flop sometimes. Look at all the successes you’ve had.”
“That was then,” Bruno muttered. “This is now.”
Dade Costello, in his long brown velvet mantle and Frisbee-shaped hat, passed in back of the sofa behind Bruno. “I told you so,” he said, and moved on.
Bruno groaned some more. A cell phone rang from somewhere. Bruno automatically reached for his, but no one was on the other end. His expression was bleak as Ellie pulled out her own cell to take the call.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Her sweet face turned sour. “But…isn’t it possible that…Yes, I suppose you’re right. Still…” She listened, then sighed. “Okay…If you say so. Sure, you know I always do. Bye.” She rang off, shot Bruno a blistering look, and walked off toward the bar, where another newcomer, attired in a pioneer woman’s gingham dress and floppy bonnet, was accepting a drink from Cathy Rankers.
Angela La Belle came over to the sofa. Judith drew back, assuming the actress wanted to speak with Bruno. But Angela ignored the producer and spoke to Judith instead.
“I see the truffles finally turned up. At least one good thing happened tonight.” With a swish of Scar-lett’s skirts, she turned away.
“You see?” Bruno whispered hoarsely. “You see how they turn on me? That’s the way the businessworks. A hundred successes and one failure—that’s all it takes to bring you down, to make you a nobody.”
Judith glanced around the big living room. Still wearing their masks, Ben Carmody and Dirk Farrar were talking by the piano. Judith recognized them by their costumes. Dirk cut a dashing figure in his satin-slashed doublet and hose; Ben looked more like his sinister screen self in the nineteenth-century frock coat and top hat. Judging from their body language, neither seemed happy.
“Surely,” Judith said, her naturally kind heart filling with sympathy for Bruno, “you don’t really believe that you’re…um…washed up in
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