Maybe.
She didn’t see the point in strutting around in fancy duds, striking poses on some swatch of red while entertainment reporters in more fancy duds cooed and giggled and asked lame questions.
“There’s our Peabody.”
“What?” She looked up, focused on the screen.
Peabody—Jesus—in some frothy pink (naturally) number that bared good, strong shoulders and sparkled in the sunlight.
“How come it’s daytime? It’s nighttime.”
“Rotation of the planet, darling Eve. It’s still about rotation.”
“Right. She looks good.”
Her hair all fluffy and curly.
“Where the hell did she get those rocks she’s wearing?”
“On loan—from you. McNab looks good as well.”
Duded up, she noted, in a dark blue tux—made McNab-ish with a plaid vest, a screaming red bow tie.
She spotted Mavis—how could you miss her—in a sweeping blaze of red and white. As she twirled for the cameras, the sweeps separated like blades of a fan. The heels of her red shoes towered with sparkling laces crisscrossing to the knee. Beside her Leonardo wore one of those long tux jackets that skimmed to his knees in some sort of metallic fabric that shifted from emerald to sapphire.
He held Mavis’s hand as she bubbled for the reporter. “I can’t wait. It’s total dream come abso-true time. I’m nervous, but I’d be in the basket without my honey here, and our pals. Here’s Nadine. She’s wearing my honey, too. Nadine!” Mavis gestured. “You want to talk to Nadine, right? Nadine and Jake. He’s mega frost, isn’t he?”
“Elegant,” Roarke decreed as Nadine stepped up. “Just exactly right.”
Eve guessed so. She’d gone sleek and classic and deep gold. Not sparkling but gleaming and slithering down to a kind of liquid trail behind her. Diamonds dripped from her ears and formed two wide cuffs on her wrists. Beside her Jake went for the rocker-style formal. Leather tux jacket and boots, plain white shirt, long tie worn loose at the neck.
“She’s nervous,” Eve noticed.
“She is, yes, but it wouldn’t show unless you know her. Handles herself very well, don’t you think?”
“Mavis is keeping it bouncing. It helps.”
“You completely have to buzz with Peabody and McNab. Hey, Peabody! Come on up!” Mavis urged.
The camera panned for a split second to Peabody’s stunned, somewhat terrified face before Mavis bounced right down. She grabbed one of Peabody’s hands, one of McNab’s, bounced right back.
“Detectives Peabody and McNab, NYPSD. Best fricking PSD in the universe of PSDs. We’re having the most magalicious time together. Come on, we gotta do a shout-out. Hey, Dallas! Hey, Roarke! You better be watching.”
She laughed, circled her arms around Nadine and Peabody. “Shout-out. Come on!”
Nadine laughed, losing that edge of nerves in her eyes.
They shouted out.
“There you are. Now you can say, with perfect truth, you watched and you heard.”
“Yeah.” Eve munched popcorn. “And I’m not there answering stupid questions and wearing one of those outfits. It works.”
Plus, she figured she could catch some more zzzs while people droned on. And on.
The cat curled up at the small of her back. She had a bowl of butter-and-salt drenched corn, and she could snuggle into Roarke, just close her eyes.
She woke, mumbling, when Roarke elbowed her.
“Mavis is about to perform.”
Eve blinked at the screen. “Everybody’s inside.”
“And have been for about a half hour. Nothing went on of interest to you. Shift over, will you, pour us some more wine.”
Eve shifted, poured, yawned, sipped wine.
The stage went dark. A drum began to beat. A spotlight flashed on a single figure.
Mavis didn’t wear the gown now, but a skinsuit of silver lights on black, silver knee-high boots.
She hit the first note, a howl rising from guttural low to wailing high.
Then she rocked it, dancing over the stage in that single light, belting out the song. She pointed, another light, another figure, and another, another.
“Jesus,” Eve murmured as her oldest friend fronted a dozen dancers on the stage in perfect and complex choreography. Singing in a voice straight from the gut.
“She’s good, really good. When did she get so good?”
“She doesn’t have to shock for attention. She already has it. She’s quite marvelous really, and always was in her way.”
Eve watched, transfixed. The other lights winked off, one by one until Mavis stood alone again. Another howl, and the stage went black.
“Listen to them. They’re cheering for her, all for her. You always knew,” Eve told him.
“I knew she could perform,” Roarke said. “And I knew we’d do well enough when I signed her. But I’ll admit she exceeded expectations.” He turned, brushed his lips to hers. “Need another nap?”
“I guess that woke me up. Shit. Here’s to Mavis freaking Freestone.”
Roarke clinked glasses. “I believe we should switch to champagne.”
“Why the hell not?”
He got up for a bottle, for flutes. Popped it. He poured, then settled back in again. “I’m going to think more seriously about putting in that home theater.”
“This is nice.”
“It’s very nice, but so would that be. Dear Christ.” He sat up, gulped champagne after absently eating some of the popcorn. “Why the bloody hell do I do that? Every bleeding time.”
“I don’t know what your problem is. It’s delicious. But more for me.” She ate a handful.
“You’d eat cardboard if it was covered in butter and salt.”
“Corn’s better.”
“That corn? Marginally. Ah, Nadine’s category’s in the next segment.”
“It is?”
“Best adapted screenplay.”
“Right. I wish it was over with. What are her odds?”
“According to the buzz, it’s mixed. Stiff competition in both writing categories.”
“Both?”
“Original, and adaptation,” Roarke explained, and caught himself before he reached for more popcorn. “She’s adaptation—screenplay based on her book.”
“Got it. Still wish it was over. Getting this far’s a big, right?”
“A very big. Here come the presenters. There are six in her category nominated.”
“How do they . . . Shit, they said her name. There she is. Mavis is back, that’s good. And she’s got everybody else right there, so . . .”
She narrowed her eyes, studying Nadine as the other nominees came on in adjoining squares. Looks calm, Eve thought, but she’s not.
Get it over with. Why don’t they stop talking and get it—
“And the Oscar goes to, Nadine Furst, The Icove Agenda.”
“Holy shit. Jesus, she won? She won?”
“This is a moment,” Roarke exclaimed.
Eve watched, dumbstruck as Jake planted a big one on Nadine, as Mavis bounced and squealed, as Peabody actually jumped up to dance.
And Nadine, elegant and sleek—hands shaking some—walked to the stage, climbed the stairs. Hugged two people she probably didn’t know. Clutched the gold statue.
“Oh,” she managed. “God. I’m just . . . I wrote something in case—and I left it in my purse. So here goes.”
“She’s crying a little,” Eve noted. Nadine was thanking the Academy, the cast, the crew, the director, her friends. “And talking really fast.”
“She only has so much time.”
“Now . . . We gave you a shout-out, Dallas and Roarke, on the red carpet. Here’s another. You’re the reason, both of you. But, Dallas, as much as you’re going to hate this—being Dallas—this is as much yours as mine. I’m putting it in my place, but it’s yours, too. I’m sharing this amazing award with the smartest, bravest, most dedicated cop and frustrating person I know. Thanks. Holy crap! Thanks!”
“And that,” Roarke said, “is my very favorite acceptance speech in the history of them.”
“Jesus.” Eve scrubbed at her face. “Between her and Mavis, they’ve got me dripping. I’m glad for her, I really am. I have to be. But, Christ on a tricycle, Roarke, this is going to be a pain in my ass. As if it wasn’t enough of one before.”
He laughed, hugged her in. “Just think what a pain in your ass it’ll be if it wins best picture.”