The Man Who Cancelled Himself by David Handler Page B

than Bobby’s. “Niles Walloon. I was married to him. I’m not anymore.”
    “That makes us even,” I said. “I’m not a member of the Racquet Club anymore.” Largely because of dullards just like Niles Walloon, a stiff-necked commodities trader, very old money. Everyone called him Walloon the buffoon.
    “Do you belong anywhere now?” she asked, faintly condescendingly.
    “I try not to.”
    Amber nodded her approval. “Tony, my new husband, isn’t a club sort of person at all. He sculpts. Couldn’t care less about the social world.” She glanced down at her kids, who were still playing with Lulu. “I’ve never been lucky enough to work with Merilee, but I admire her work enormously.”
    “Are you working on anything now?” I asked.
    She flared her nostrils at me slightly. “No, I’m afraid a lot of the money for good, innovative theater has dried up recently.”
    “I understand you’d like to direct TV.”
    “If I could get the opportunity. The sitcom form is so full of potential, such a marvelous, marvelous platform. My kids love it here. They have a wonderful time.” She gazed around at the staff with an air of fond, patrician benevolence, the same kind of look she might get while observing a busload of welfare kids on their first trip to a petting zoo. “These are not very mature people. I sometimes think Casey and Caitlin are the two oldest people here. But they absolutely adore Lyle.”
    “And you?”
    She raised an eyebrow at me. “I think Lyle Hudnut is a genius. Don’t you?”
    I left that one alone. When I hear the word genius I tend to think of Edison, Picasso, Gershwin, me. Not Lyle Hudnut.
    My silence made Amber uncomfortable. She poured herself coffee. “Don’t believe what you hear about me. I’m completely over Lyle. Unlike someone else around this place.”
    “Meaning who?”
    She let that one slide on by. “I was at sea after Niles and I split up. Lyle was, for a time, a life preserver. But I’ve taken control of my own life now. I have Tony. I have the kids. I have me.” She forced a smile. “Everything is fine now.”
    “I see.” People who keep trying to convince you that everything is fine are trying even harder to convince themselves. And failing. “That must be nice,” I added.
    “Oh, it is. It most definitely is.” And with that she went off to chat with Gwen, the costumer. They seemed to be good pals.
    Fiona Shrike showed up last. Leading ladies always do, so they can make an entrance. They have to cause a fuss. Have to be noticed. Don’t believe what you read—aging isn’t what actresses fear most in life. Being ignored is. Fiona made a great show of greeting Chad first so as to let him—and everyone else—know just how thrilled she was that he was on board. Then she made her way over toward me. Fiona was a small, extremely slender woman. I doubt she weighed more than ninety-five pounds. Her Uncle Chubby character, Deirdre, was demanding and fierce. Much of the show’s comedy came from her ability to intimidate Chubby, even though Lyle was a foot taller and outweighed her by two hundred pounds. In so-called real life, Fiona was no toughie. She was quite dithery and otherworldly, the kind of woman who would keep pet snakes and paint her fingernails black. If she had any. She didn’t. What she had were ten chewed stumps. Also an amazing repertoire of involuntary shudders and gurgles. The woman was as squirmy as a chihuahua. Remarkably, she was able to shut it all off when she performed. Her face was delicate and fine-boned. Without makeup she looked fragile and a great deal older, the lines in her face etched deep. She was, after all, no kid. She was a twenty-year veteran of improv, Broadway, and television. Most recently, she had spent the summer touring in a much-publicized all-girl Odd Couple with Delta Burke. She had on a white silk camp shirt, flowered linen vest, jeans, and bedroom slippers. Her hair, which was henna-colored, fell to her chin in a