Murray didn’t seem to like anything that involved doing his job, like greeting people or letting people move in or getting packages. As someone who lived in a hotel, Scarlett recognized his resentment of visitors, and while she sympathized, she didn’t approve of it.
“Probably,” she said, taking the three dozen or so large envelopes he pushed in her direction. Mrs. Amberson had posted an ad in Back Stage, advertising her services. The headshots and résumés had been coming steadily since, dozens every day. Scarlett had always known there were lots of actors in New York—but she didn’t know there were this many who apparently thought that working with Mrs. Amberson sounded like a good idea. Yes, there was always going to be this much mail.
“Six o’clock,” he said again. “You tell your boss.”
Scarlett rode the elevator up to the nineteenth floor. It was a fancy elevator, quiet and efficient, unlike the one at home. She was deposited in a dark hall with lush blue carpeting. Scarlett walked to the end and let herself into 19D.
There was no denying that Mrs. Amberson’s new home was a step up from the Hopewell. It was a massive, airy space, with a long string of windows facing the park. There were white sofas that hadn’t been there the day before, a plush white rug on the hardwood floor. The built-in bookcases were still empty, but there were unopened boxes everywhere. Only one area of the apartment was completely set up. That was the large desk, bulletin board, and file cabinet unit that served as “the office.” These pieces of furniture formed the physical structure of Mrs. Amberson’s new business.
“I’m here!” Scarlett called.
No reply.
Scarlett wandered deeper into the apartment, over to the board of photos featuring their one and only client. Mrs. Amberson had paid for an expensive photo shoot and had Spencer photographed in a dozen different ways. There was Spencer in a T-shirt, looking young and tech-savvy, ready to do a computer commercial. There was Spencer in a suit, looking like a hard-boiled young attorney. Over on the left, there was Spencer in a sleek dress shirt with an unbuttoned collar, doing his best sexy face. On the right, there was comic Spencer, doing a handstand. There were a few other photos on the board—photos of the production of Hamlet at the hotel, carefully posed stills of various scenes. There was Spencer in his loose-fitting suit, balancing perfectly on his unicycle next to…
Eric.
Even in the comic outfit, with his expression set in mock alarm, it was such a good picture of him. He was supporting Spencer as he tilted backward, and you could see just how strong and graceful he was.
Okay. So she had looked at that one. She would be fine as long as she didn’t look at the next one, the close-up of him as he stood alone onstage. She would not look at that. No. She would not. Except…she was already doing it. There he was, his shirt hanging open to the third button. That wide mouth that was always on the verge of a slow smile…
“You know what would be great,” Scarlett mumbled to herself, “is if I could get some more reminders…”
“O’Hara!” a voice yelled. “In here!”
The voice seemed to be coming from the kitchen, but the kitchen was fully visible from the living room—just a sleek pathway of granite and stainless steel, divided off by a bar where you could sit and eat. Scarlett walked around and found Mrs. Amberson sitting on the sparkling floor, wrestling the Styrofoam insert out of a box. She had changed into her normal clothes—stretchy yoga stuff. She had a pair of scissors in her mouth. Her lips were holding the tip, in a dangerous and unbalanced way. She took them out to speak again.
“Did that maniac talk to you?” she asked. “Every time I even cross the lobby that deranged hobbit comes after me, screaming about boxes. I have read the building rules. Repeatedly. I can move in from nine in the morning until six in the afternoon. That is my right.”
She passed the scissors to Scarlett a little too roughly, almost stabbing her in the palm.
“What does he expect?” she went on, gripping the box with her knees and yanking away. “That no one should ever be allowed to move in or out?”
The contents of the box yielded to Mrs. Amberson’s efforts, and she produced a sarcophagus of foam, which she managed to crack through to reveal a stainless steel electric kettle.
“All this packaging,” she mumbled, rubbing the little foam niblets from the kettle’s surface. “That’s an ice shelf crumbling right there.”