bodies. Look at Nick Weiler, not that much younger than herself, chasing after her daughter-in-law, a woman with two children, and silly Lucy young enough to be Nick’s daughter. Almost. Not that she was jealous of him; Lucy was welcome to him. And he to Lucy. He was, finally, too cold a fish for her. She always had the sensation that he was thinking ahead of her, and that what he was thinking wasn’t very complimentary. Just like his father, that old reptile Sartoris.
To be fair, Nick had his attractions. Dorothy sat down with her ginger ale and cigarette and blew smoke thoughtfully at her mother’s portrait. It was perfectly predictable, Nick going all soft in the head and hard in the pants for a woman like Lucy. Middle-aged folly, and naturally a girl who was the exact antithesis of Nick’s other women. Wouldn’t she like to know what Lucy knew about them. Not much,if she knew her Nick. He wasapast master of discretion when it served his interests, and it invariably did.
She drained her glass and stubbed out the cigarette. Time for a visit to the dollhouse room. She dreaded it, but it would be good for her lazy soul.
It seemed horribly empty, even if it wasn’t. There were the boxrooms and the other dollhouses she owned, beautifully displayed. And the great empty space in the middle of it where her Doll’s White House belonged.
Goddamn Nick Weiler for talking her out of it. Reluctant to enter into the emptiness of the room, she leaned against the doorpost. It was ludicrous, her twitching around the apartment, working on a case of lung cancer, and speculating on other people’s sex lives, like some filthy old woman. All because Nick had convinced her she should share her dollhouse with the world. Snared her in her own pride. She ought to call Lucy and have a little girltalk with her about Nick. Puncture his balloon.
She dialed the nearest phone with almost steady fingers. A wasted effort, for old Novick answered. In his shaky old man’s voice, he told her that Lucy was out. He didn’t need to tell her with whom.
Her throat closed with sudden rage. The two of them, sucking off her, trying to take her dollhouse away from her. Screwing their little brains out. Her fingers itched to take out their eyes. She threw herself onto her big empty bed and pounded the pillows until she was out of breath. In the lee of her rage, listening to herself pant, she began to giggle. Be generous, she told herself. How did that song go? What the world needs now . . .
So nice someone was having fun. She groped for her cigarettes. Sooner or later, it would be her turn to have fun again.
Leyna looked terrific. She knew it. The make-up girl looked at her critically and nodded in approval, but it was just ritual. Leyna waved flawless fingertips at the director and stepped confidently to the mark on the floor. She and Roddie huddled briefly over the script. Roddie loved directing Leyna. She never used notes or the teleprompter and never missed a beat.
Leyna straightened herself to her full height of six feet and three inches, plus four inches of stiletto heel. She relaxed her shoulders and moved her head fractionally, so that her long hair splayed around over her collar. A survey had revealed that male viewers fantasized about her hair. She never forgot it.
Time, signaled by the red light; she gazed directly into the camera.
‘It may look like cake-eating in the middle of a revolution, but Washington has never been gayer, more socially giddy, never more glittery and gossipy,’ she began. ‘Perhaps people, even in the highest government circles, need such outlets in some kind of direct proportion to the press of the world and national concerns.
‘One of the ways that official Washington has been exorcising its daily crises is here,’ and the camera closed its eye on her, opening another one outside, ‘in the nineteenth-century Dalton Institute, once known as the Penny Museum.’ She knew the audience, hearing her voice, was
To be fair, Nick had his attractions. Dorothy sat down with her ginger ale and cigarette and blew smoke thoughtfully at her mother’s portrait. It was perfectly predictable, Nick going all soft in the head and hard in the pants for a woman like Lucy. Middle-aged folly, and naturally a girl who was the exact antithesis of Nick’s other women. Wouldn’t she like to know what Lucy knew about them. Not much,if she knew her Nick. He wasapast master of discretion when it served his interests, and it invariably did.
She drained her glass and stubbed out the cigarette. Time for a visit to the dollhouse room. She dreaded it, but it would be good for her lazy soul.
It seemed horribly empty, even if it wasn’t. There were the boxrooms and the other dollhouses she owned, beautifully displayed. And the great empty space in the middle of it where her Doll’s White House belonged.
Goddamn Nick Weiler for talking her out of it. Reluctant to enter into the emptiness of the room, she leaned against the doorpost. It was ludicrous, her twitching around the apartment, working on a case of lung cancer, and speculating on other people’s sex lives, like some filthy old woman. All because Nick had convinced her she should share her dollhouse with the world. Snared her in her own pride. She ought to call Lucy and have a little girltalk with her about Nick. Puncture his balloon.
She dialed the nearest phone with almost steady fingers. A wasted effort, for old Novick answered. In his shaky old man’s voice, he told her that Lucy was out. He didn’t need to tell her with whom.
Her throat closed with sudden rage. The two of them, sucking off her, trying to take her dollhouse away from her. Screwing their little brains out. Her fingers itched to take out their eyes. She threw herself onto her big empty bed and pounded the pillows until she was out of breath. In the lee of her rage, listening to herself pant, she began to giggle. Be generous, she told herself. How did that song go? What the world needs now . . .
So nice someone was having fun. She groped for her cigarettes. Sooner or later, it would be her turn to have fun again.
Leyna looked terrific. She knew it. The make-up girl looked at her critically and nodded in approval, but it was just ritual. Leyna waved flawless fingertips at the director and stepped confidently to the mark on the floor. She and Roddie huddled briefly over the script. Roddie loved directing Leyna. She never used notes or the teleprompter and never missed a beat.
Leyna straightened herself to her full height of six feet and three inches, plus four inches of stiletto heel. She relaxed her shoulders and moved her head fractionally, so that her long hair splayed around over her collar. A survey had revealed that male viewers fantasized about her hair. She never forgot it.
Time, signaled by the red light; she gazed directly into the camera.
‘It may look like cake-eating in the middle of a revolution, but Washington has never been gayer, more socially giddy, never more glittery and gossipy,’ she began. ‘Perhaps people, even in the highest government circles, need such outlets in some kind of direct proportion to the press of the world and national concerns.
‘One of the ways that official Washington has been exorcising its daily crises is here,’ and the camera closed its eye on her, opening another one outside, ‘in the nineteenth-century Dalton Institute, once known as the Penny Museum.’ She knew the audience, hearing her voice, was
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