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“Is anybody ever in their office these days?”
“Does he know you’re coming to see him?”
“Of course he does,” I say, realizing that this is beginning to go badly.
“Well, he’s probably on the set. Dianna Moon is on the show today.”
“And am I supposed to care about Dianna Moon?”
The receptionist seems to look at me for the first time. Her nails are fake, lacquered in red, white, and blue stripes. They appear to be her only distinguishing feature.
“A lot of people . . . care . . . about Dianna Moon.”
I remove my gloves, pulling at each of the fingers. “Is that because she . . . murdered her husband?”
The receptionist looks around nervously. “He died of a drug overdose. And besides, Dianna Moon is a . . . hero. The ratings are going to be huge.”
I yawn loudly. “But what has she ever done?” I ask, realizing this is a totally arrogant question on my part, as it could be argued that I’ve never done anything myself, except for marrying Hubert, supposedly one of the world’s most eligible bachelors.
The receptionist glares at me. “I’ll just see if I can find H. for you.”
At that moment, Constance DeWall walks through the gray armored door that leads to the secretive maze of studios belonging to The Network.
“Cecelia,” she says, holding out her hand. “So nice to see you again. Unfortunately, this isn’t a good day for a surprise visit. We’ve got Dianna Moon on the set and she’s . . . well, she’s Dianna Moon.”
“And I’m Princess Cecelia Kelly Luxenstein,” I say, somewhat casually, cringing about the princess bit, knowing that it’s the kind of thing that sets people off and makes them ring up gossip columns. “And I’d like to see my husband.”
“Is this urgent, Princess Luxenstein?” Constance says with extreme sarcasm, which I will make her pay for later, perhaps by trying to get her fired. She is, I’ve heard, a “younger, nicer, smarter” version of me. What I know is that she’s madly in love with my husband (just like all those other dummy Harvard graduates), has been trying to get him into bed since she first started as his line producer two years ago, and truly believes he would be better off with her instead of me.
“Does the situation have to be urgent for me to see my husband?” I ask, with equal sarcasm.
“It’s just that . . . we’ve got a lot of security around.”
“To protect Slater London from Dianna Moon, I assume.”
Constance and the receptionist exchange a quick look. The receptionist looks down, pretending to rearrange phone messages.
“I can put you in the green room,” Constance says finally. “But I can’t guarantee anything.”
Minutes later, illegally smoking cigarettes in the green room, I’m half watching the TV monitor as Dianna Moon, wearing a satin evening gown (one strap carelessly fallen off her shoulder) leans toward Slater London and, with complete earnestness, says, “I never look back at the past. I’ve been lucky and”—staring directly into the camera—”I thank Jesus every day.” Then she sits back triumphantly, crossing her legs and throwing her arm over the back of the chair so that her cleavage is exposed. She giggles.
Slater London, who is half English and half American, former teenage screen heartthrob whose own career ended (briefly) when he was discovered wearing women’s clothing, leans across his desk and says, “Dianna. Have you become a Jesus freak?”
Dianna Moon’s face goes blank, and without seeming to be able to help herself, she says, “Slater. Do frilly pink underpants mean anything to you?”
Slater, who is caught off guard but covers it up by running his hand across his blond crew cut, says, “Wasn’t Alice in Wonderland wearing them when she went down the rabbit hole?”
“Hole,” Dianna says flirtatiously. “Is that a word you like?”
Slater looks at the camera. “Okay, folks. That’s all the time we have. Dianna, thank you so much for being on the show, and good luck with your new movie. . . .” Then he smiles at the camera for a few seconds before ripping off his mike and screaming, “I hope we can cut out that last bit.” The sound goes off as technicians walk onto the set with Hubert following. Dianna throws her arms around him as she looks over her shoulder at Slater, then they all walk off and the screen goes blank.
I suddenly feel sorry for my husband.
Does he know he’s being USED? What IS his job, really? Booking guests and making sure that Slater isn’t convicted for statutory rape? Who would choose to do this?
Hubert. EUROPEAN CROWN PRINCE IS NOT ONLY GORGEOUS, HE’S A REGULAR GUY, a headline screamed three years ago when Hubert first took the job. On his first day, he was photographed buying a sandwich from the corner deli, and when he came out, brown bag in hand, he actually waved the bag at the photographers and smiled. PRINCE’S FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL was the cover of The New York Post the next day, and I actually did not, at the time, think it was strange.
“I just want to do something normal. Like a regular person,” Hubert had said. And I had agreed. “I just want us to be able to walk down the street and buy an ice cream cone,” I had said, pouting, even though I HATE ice cream because it makes you fat, and Hubert had said, “So would I baby, so would I.” Mournfully.
