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Home of the mysterious Ingrid. Even though I have no idea who she is, I think I like her already.
7
In the afternoon, I head out to buy groceries, taking the elevator from the silent twelfth floor past levels that are louder and livelier than my own. On the tenth floor, Beethoven drifts from an apartment down the hall. On the ninth, I spy the swing of a door being closed. With it comes a nose-stinging waft of disinfectant.
On the seventh, the elevator stops completely to pick up another passenger—the soap opera actress I saw during yesterday’s tour. Today, she and her tiny dog wear matching fur-trimmed jackets.
The actress’s appearance leaves me momentarily speechless. My brain fumbles for her character’s name. The one my mother loved to hate. Cassidy. That’s what it was.
“Room for two more?” she says, eyeing the closed grate across the door.
“Oh, sorry. Of course.”
I open the grate and nudge to the side so the actress and her dog can enter. Soon we’re descending again, the actress adjusting the hood of her dog’s jacket while I think about how my mother would have gotten a kick out of knowing I rode in an elevator with Cassidy.
She looks different up close and in person. Maybe it’s the abundant makeup she wears. Her face is entirely covered with foundation, which gives her skin a peachy cast. Or it could be the saucer-size sunglasses she’s once again wearing, which cover a third of her face.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” she says.
“Just moved in,” I reply, debating whether I should add that it’s just for three months and that I’m getting paid to be here. I choose not to. If the woman who played Cassidy wants to think I’m a real resident of the Bartholomew, I’m not going to stop her.
“I’ve been here six months,” she says. “Had to sell my house in Malibu to move, but I think it’ll be worth it. I’m Marianne, by the way.”
I already know this, of course. Marianne Duncan, whose fashionable bitchery on the small screen was as much a part of my adolescence as readingHeart of a Dreamer. Marianne holds out the hand not currently occupied by a dog, and I shake it.
“I’m Jules.” I look to the dog. “Who’s this adorable guy?”
“This is Rufus.”
I give the dog a pat between his pert ears. He licks my hand in response.
“Aw, he likes you,” Marianne says.
Lower we go, passing two other presences from my first tour—the older man struggling his way down the stairs and the weary aide by his side. Instead of pretending not to stare, this time the man offers us a smile and a trembling wave.
“Keep it up, Mr. Leonard,” Marianne calls to him. “You’re doing great.” To me, she whispers, “Heart trouble. He takes the stairs every day because he thinks it’ll prevent another coronary.”
“How many has he had?”
“Three,” she says. “That I know of. Then again, he used to be a senator. I’m sure that alone caused a heart attack or two.”
In the lobby, I say goodbye to Marianne and Rufus and head to the wall of mailboxes. The one for 12A is empty. No surprise there. As I turn away from it, I see someone else entering the lobby. She looks to be in her early seventies and makes no attempt to hide it. No forehead-smoothing Botox like Leslie Evelyn or caked-on foundation like Marianne Duncan. Her face is pale and slightly puffy. Straight gray hair brushes her shoulders.
It’s her eyes that really catch my attention. Bright blue even in thedim light of the lobby, they seem to spark with intelligence. We make eye contact—me staring, she politely pretending that I’m not. But I can’t help it. I’ve seen that face a hundred times, staring at me from the back of a book jacket, most recently this very morning.
“Excuse me—” I stop, wincing at my tone. So nervous and meek. I start again. “Excuse me, but are you Greta Manville? The writer?”
She tucks a lock of hair behind her ears and gives a Mona Lisa smile, not exactly displeased to be recognized, but not overjoyed, either.
“That would be me,” she says in a Lauren Bacall rasp, her voice polite but wary.
There’s a flutter in my chest. My heart beating overtime. Greta Manville, of all people, is right here in front of me.
“I’m Jules,” I say.
Greta Manville makes no attempt to shake my hand, instead edging around me on her way to the mailboxes. I make note of the apartment number.
10A. Two floors below me.