Read Online The Bette Davis Club by Jane Lotter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jane Lotter
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grown man to take an interest in.”
“Not for me it isn’t,” Tully says. “It’s a collection of interviews and essays, with some history thrown in.”
The topic seems silly to me. I can’t keep amusement out of my voice. “I didn’t realize there was any history to dollhouses,” I say.
“No?” Tully says. “Then read my book when it comes out. That is, if you can read.”
Is Tully taking his anger at Georgia out on me? Well, look out—because I have anger of my own.
“Oh, I can read,” I say slowly. “The question is, can you write?”
“Forget it,” Tully says. We bounce over a pothole. “It’s obvious you’re clueless about dollhouses—just like you’re clueless about architectural salvage and clueless about Cary Grant.”
I no longer care if Tully’s having a rough day.
“And you,” I say, “know nothing about architectural salvage, nothing about Cary Grant, and fuck-all about me.”
He glances over at me. His eyes are blazing. “Your name’s Margo, right?”
“Correct.”
“Well, maybe you don’t live in England anymore, Margo, but you’re sure an uptight Brit.”
I toss what’s left of my ice-cream cone out into the desert. “Stop the car,” I say.
“What?” Tully says.
“Stop the car.” I claw at my scarf, ripping it from my head. “I need air.”
“We’re in a convertible,” Tully says.
“I’m suffocating,” I say. “I can’t breathe. I need a cigarette.”
Tully swings us to the side of the road and brings the car to a sudden, squealing stop. Our bodies rock backward, then forward. We sit there, in the middle of nowhere, engine idling.
I fumble for the handle and push the door open. I swing my legs out onto the ground and stand up.
“Aw, come on,” Tully says. He pushes his glasses back up on his nose. “We’ve got to keep going. I didn’t mean—”
I hold up my hand. “I know we need to keep going,” I say. “But right now I need air, I need a smoke, and I need a few minutes alone.” I’d also like a drink, but forget that. I reach back into the car for my tote bag, which contains my cigarettes.
Tully switches off the engine. When I grab for my bag, he puts his hand on my arm. “Margo, don’t go. Stay here and I’ll . . . open a window.”
“Ha-ha,” I say, pulling away from him. I turn and walk away.
“Why do women run from me?” he calls. He gives a bitter laugh. He’s laughing at himself, I know, not at me. Laughing even though there’s nothing funny about being dumped on your wedding day, nothing funny about sitting alone in a bright-red Love Machine on a deserted highway in the California desert.
I walk off toward a cluster of rocks. One large rock, bigger than the rest, has a scooped-out area, almost like a seat, and I rest against it. The stone is gritty and warm from the sun. I reach into my bag for my cigarettes and lighter, but my fingers brush Charlotte’s cell phone. I stop. I forego the tobacco. I pull out the cell phone instead.
I punch in the number of Dottie’s shop in New York. The phone rings twice, then Dottie answers. “Older Than Sin, French Art Deco and Collectibles.”
“It’s me. I’ve been kidnapped.”
“Margo! I’ve been thinking about you. How was the wedding?”
“There wasn’t one. I’ve ended up honeymooning with the groom.”
She laughs. “Right. Really, how are things?”
“I will tell you. Georgia jilted her fiancé and fled to Palm Springs. Charlotte hired me to go after her. So now I’m riding around in my father’s 1955 MG. Actually, the car part is nice. Oh, and the bridegroom is my chauffeur.”
There’s a moment’s silence. “ Chérie ,” Dottie says at last, “you aren’t by any chance on a bender?”
“I wish. More like I’m being held sober against my will.”
“ Merde .”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Merde,” she repeats. “Darling, I’m sorry, but we’re about to be interrupted. There’s a young couple looking in the window. Bags of money,
“Not for me it isn’t,” Tully says. “It’s a collection of interviews and essays, with some history thrown in.”
The topic seems silly to me. I can’t keep amusement out of my voice. “I didn’t realize there was any history to dollhouses,” I say.
“No?” Tully says. “Then read my book when it comes out. That is, if you can read.”
Is Tully taking his anger at Georgia out on me? Well, look out—because I have anger of my own.
“Oh, I can read,” I say slowly. “The question is, can you write?”
“Forget it,” Tully says. We bounce over a pothole. “It’s obvious you’re clueless about dollhouses—just like you’re clueless about architectural salvage and clueless about Cary Grant.”
I no longer care if Tully’s having a rough day.
“And you,” I say, “know nothing about architectural salvage, nothing about Cary Grant, and fuck-all about me.”
He glances over at me. His eyes are blazing. “Your name’s Margo, right?”
“Correct.”
“Well, maybe you don’t live in England anymore, Margo, but you’re sure an uptight Brit.”
I toss what’s left of my ice-cream cone out into the desert. “Stop the car,” I say.
“What?” Tully says.
“Stop the car.” I claw at my scarf, ripping it from my head. “I need air.”
“We’re in a convertible,” Tully says.
“I’m suffocating,” I say. “I can’t breathe. I need a cigarette.”
Tully swings us to the side of the road and brings the car to a sudden, squealing stop. Our bodies rock backward, then forward. We sit there, in the middle of nowhere, engine idling.
I fumble for the handle and push the door open. I swing my legs out onto the ground and stand up.
“Aw, come on,” Tully says. He pushes his glasses back up on his nose. “We’ve got to keep going. I didn’t mean—”
I hold up my hand. “I know we need to keep going,” I say. “But right now I need air, I need a smoke, and I need a few minutes alone.” I’d also like a drink, but forget that. I reach back into the car for my tote bag, which contains my cigarettes.
Tully switches off the engine. When I grab for my bag, he puts his hand on my arm. “Margo, don’t go. Stay here and I’ll . . . open a window.”
“Ha-ha,” I say, pulling away from him. I turn and walk away.
“Why do women run from me?” he calls. He gives a bitter laugh. He’s laughing at himself, I know, not at me. Laughing even though there’s nothing funny about being dumped on your wedding day, nothing funny about sitting alone in a bright-red Love Machine on a deserted highway in the California desert.
I walk off toward a cluster of rocks. One large rock, bigger than the rest, has a scooped-out area, almost like a seat, and I rest against it. The stone is gritty and warm from the sun. I reach into my bag for my cigarettes and lighter, but my fingers brush Charlotte’s cell phone. I stop. I forego the tobacco. I pull out the cell phone instead.
I punch in the number of Dottie’s shop in New York. The phone rings twice, then Dottie answers. “Older Than Sin, French Art Deco and Collectibles.”
“It’s me. I’ve been kidnapped.”
“Margo! I’ve been thinking about you. How was the wedding?”
“There wasn’t one. I’ve ended up honeymooning with the groom.”
She laughs. “Right. Really, how are things?”
“I will tell you. Georgia jilted her fiancé and fled to Palm Springs. Charlotte hired me to go after her. So now I’m riding around in my father’s 1955 MG. Actually, the car part is nice. Oh, and the bridegroom is my chauffeur.”
There’s a moment’s silence. “ Chérie ,” Dottie says at last, “you aren’t by any chance on a bender?”
“I wish. More like I’m being held sober against my will.”
“ Merde .”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Merde,” she repeats. “Darling, I’m sorry, but we’re about to be interrupted. There’s a young couple looking in the window. Bags of money,
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