I’m at the Ritz in Paris with Tilly and Cornelia. We’re here for the final fittings of Tilly’s wedding dress. It’s July, and Paris is sweltering, humid and close, the kind of heat that makes me regret coming at all. Every time I step outside, I feel coated in the city’s ever-present soot, sticky and faintly unwashed.
I’m lying on the bed, half-asleep, when the telephone rings. I rush to answer, certain it’s Topper calling from Newport.
“Hey, baby!” I chirp, before the other voice even has a chance to speak.
It’s the boy.
“Birdie?” he asks.
“How did you know I was here?” I say, genuinely puzzled.
“I got a PI on you, so I always know where you are,” he replies, matter-of-fact, as if announcing the weather.
“You what?” My blood runs cold. “You have what, exactly?”
He clears his throat. “That ain’t why I’m callin’,” he says. “I need to talk to you about somethin’ serious.”
“And you don’t think spying on me is serious?” I demand, fury rising.
“Not really,” he says, almost amused. “Please, can we talk about that another time?” His voice softens to a whisper.
“What is it? Are you all right?” I ask, suddenly struck with worry.
“No.”
A long pause. Then:“Judy died.”
I hear him weeping down the line.
“Who is Judy?” I ask gently, trying to comfort him.
“The actress from my last movie. Jailhouse Rock, you know.”
“Oh, man,” I say, my voice lowering. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
He tells me she died in a car crash. He weeps and weeps, inconsolable, and I sit listening, momentarily forgetting the private detective. He talks about the lovely young actress he really liked, that she had just married, had so much ahead of her, and was so talented. He tells me about their banter on set, how much fun they had filming together. I soothe him with little murmurs, “I know,” and “I’m so sorry.”
Then he suddenly asks, “Are you really gonna go through with all this engagement palaver?”
“I most likely will,” I say quietly.
He tells me he’s going on a date tonight with a pretty girl George has set him up with.
I think he has a funny way of dealing with grief, but each to their own. Instead, I ask about her.
He tells me she’s cute and pretty, has been on Top Ten Dance Party, and he’s excited. Her name is Anita, and she’s a real lady.
“Not like you, of course. You’re a real lady,” he grins, “but you know what I mean. She ain’t nothin’ like those teenage girls you don’t want me seein’.”
Once again, I’m reminded of his questionable relationship with those three wild ones from Memphis, the ones he keeps insisting are just fans, that it’s all perfectly innocent, that he’s never done anything with any of them.
“Ah,” I say. “Okay.”
I can hear him smile down the phone.
But I circle back to the PI. “Honestly, baby, stop having me followed. It’s creepy and wrong.”
“You’re bein’ annoying now,” he says, flatly.
“I think you’re the one being annoying,” I reply.
Just then, Tilly comes through the door, and I tell the boy I need to go. I hang up before he has the chance to say anything else.
My World of Interiors 