“You weren’t answering your phone,” she said.
Scarlett took a second to figure out what she herself was wearing. She looked down to find it was a stretched out T-shirt and a pair of underpants. She pulled the shirt down as much as she could with one hand.
“Do you need something?” she asked.
“I need you in forty-five minutes.”
“I…”
“Make it forty minutes. Do you have any matches?”
“No,” Scarlett said.
“Dammit.”
She shut the door herself. Lola looked over from her bed, her blonde hair tumbled over her face.
“She’s not going to do that a lot, is she?” she asked.
Scarlett half-blindly reached for her shower basket and towel and pulled on some shorts. Out in the hall, she bumped into Spencer, who was unused to seeing anyone floating around when he got up. He was leaning out of the bathroom door and brushing his teeth with a puzzled look on his face. He held up one finger to Scarlett, indicating she should wait. He stepped into the bathroom, spitting out the toothpaste foam loudly.
“Was that my new director, your boss, just now?” he asked. “Kind of naked?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
“Does she do that every morning? Because if she does, I’m going to start being late more often.”
“Don’t do this to me.”
“That lady works out. Do you think she does Pilates? I hear that’s very effective.”
“Spencer,” Scarlett said slowly. “Lola told me to kill you earlier. I’m thinking about taking her up on it.”
Spencer held up his hands in surrender.
“I’m just saying, if this is too early for you, she can come to my room at the crack of dawn. I am all about service.”
He moved swiftly along when Scarlett gave him a stare. Even as a baby, Scarlett Martin had a stare that could remove a strip of wallpaper at ten feet, and it had not weakened with time.
Scarlett was admitted to the Empire Suite forty minutes later by Mrs. Amberson, who was now dressed only in a matching chocolate-colored bra-and-panty set. An unlit cigarette hung from her lips, and a pile of discarded outfits were thrown all over the bed, all of them stretchy and dancerlike. Scarlet tried to avert her eyes, but it was impossible not to notice how slender and muscular Mrs. Amberson was, especially since Spencer had been kind enough to point it out.
“Where are we going?” Scarlett asked.
“We are going to see Billy Whitehouse.”
“Who is Billy Whitehouse?” Scarlett asked.
“A genius. A genius of the first order. Everyone in the theater world knows Billy. I knew him when he was just a poor young actor, right out of Yale. He was always unnaturally gifted with voice—had studied every great vocal technique in the western world. I also used to feed him for free at work, let him stay with me when he lost his apartment. He wore sneakers all the time because he couldn’t afford any other shoes. I watched him rise to become the great man he is today.”
“Why are we going to see him at six-thirty in the morning?” Scarlett asked. “Don’t theater people come out at night?”
“Billy is a busy man. Normally, his time is booked months in advance. But I helped him meet his husband. He makes time for me. Have an umeboshi plum. You look a little tired.”
She thrust the box of the disgusting little plums at Scarlett and stood there until she took one. Scarlett ate it, cringed, and spit out the stone. Mrs. Amberson tucked the cigarette behind her ear and pulled on her outfit.
Altogether too soon, Scarlett was being ushered out into the heavy morning, full of humidity and the first signs of New York morning traffic. Not even the dry cleaner was open yet. Scarlett never went out before the dry cleaner was open. Mrs. Amberson saw a still-burning cigarette on the ground and pounced on it, using it to light her own. Then she leapt into the street and easily snagged a cab, palming the cigarette as she did so. She mumbled something at the driver and settled back in her seat, slinking down to surreptitiously smoke.
“This has been the problem all along,” she said.
“What’s been what problem?” Scarlett said, stifling a yawn.
“My voice. It’s like I have a…cork…a cork bottling up my thoughts…and keeping them from my head. It’s here. Here between my heart and my head.”
She pointed at her throat with the cigarette.
“My voice. My voice is locked up.”
“You sound fine to me,” Scarlett said.
“My inner voice! Are you always this literal? It makes me wonder what they teach you.”
“They’re usually wasting our time with Geometry, French, and American Government,” Scarlett said, looking out the window and yawning until her eyes watered. “We don’t get to our inner voices until next year.”