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Authors: Diana Diamond

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“Next, I think you ought to move one of our cocktail parties out of the hotel and onto a private yacht. The change of venue might get us a second crack at some of these guys.
“Third, I think Jennifer should be at our technical display. She’s the most knowledgeable person we have to handle questions about Pegasus three.”
Jennifer’s feet snapped down from the coffee table. “Me?”
“Why not?” Peter said.
“Because I don’t do openings.”
“He’s right,” Catherine joined in. “Everyone knows you’re the one who put up the satellite. They’ll be dying to meet you.”
Jennifer jumped up. “Out of the question,” she snapped. “I’ll line up some of the engineers.”
“Our guests won’t be engineers,” Peter said. “They’ll be former furniture salesmen who fancy themselves as artists. Or graduates from film school who think they’re producers. Maybe even a few billionaires who really believe that the starlets find them physically attractive. They won’t understand a thing our engineers tell them.”
“It’s a very personal business,” Catherine added. “The top people all know one another. And they want to know all the people they’re dealing with. They won’t spend ten seconds with a technical expert, but they’ll spend hours getting to know you.”
“You’re both crazy.” Jennifer laughed. “Can you see me in one of those Academy Award dresses with no top and no back?”
Peter smiled. “That’s just the way our Hollywood customers would like to see you.”
“You can wear whatever you want,” Catherine said.
Jennifer glanced at her with eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Anything?”
“Well, within reason. Give me an hour in one good store. We’ll find something that you’re perfectly comfortable in. And then another hour with Nicholas …” She made a show of inspecting
her sister’s grooming. “Well, maybe two hours.”
They both laughed.
“You know this isn’t my thing,” Jennifer said to them.
“It’s important,” Peter responded.
“What’s not your thing?” Catherine asked. “A week of partying with Hollywood heroes. Great French restaurants. Sunny beaches. Yacht cruises. What part of that do you find painful?”
“I’m not a … celebrity. I don’t like to be on display.”
Catherine threw up her hands. “I give up. It’s not as if we were asking you to dance naked on the bar. All you have to do is put on a tasteful outfit, a few cosmetics, and talk to people. No one will mistake you for a celebrity.”
“It really will give us better coverage of our customers,” Peter said. “I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t know you could handle it, and frankly, I think you’ll wow them. So at least give it some thought before you turn it down.”
After a long pause, Jennifer agreed.
“Thank you,” Peter said.
“I agreed to think about it,” she corrected.
Peter nodded.
“And while you’re thinking about it,” Catherine tried, “would it be okay if I got you an appointment with Nicholas? He doesn’t have to do anything. He’ll just make a few suggestions.”
“Okay, as long as I can still belong to the motorcycle gang.”
“Sure,” Catherine said. “But could I see the tattoos before you have them done?”
The next day Catherine took her sister shopping, and Jennifer had to agree that the dresses weren’t bad. There was a simple black cocktail dress with straps that crossed over the bustline, leaving a slight V; a more fastidious gown with a lace coat over a strapless sheath; a cruising outfit with low-cut white pants and a sailor top; a bold print with a square neckline and wide skirt for afternoon wear; a pinstriped pantsuit for more serious moments.
“Was that awful?” Catherine teased.
“The clothes were fine. The shoes were ridiculous.”
“Don’t worry about the shoes,” Catherine answered. “Men only notice them if they’re the only things you’re wearing.”
When Jennifer wasn’t looking, Catherine stuffed stockings and underwear into a shopping bag. Who knew what Jennifer wore for underwear?
Then came Nicholas, whom Jennifer approached as if he were a dentist. She cowered in the waiting area and kept her distance when he came out to meet her. Then she circled his chair twice before she settled into it.
“Relax, it isn’t an electric chair,” Catherine encouraged.
“It would be easier if it were.”
Nicholas studied her like a cat sizing up a birdcage. He paced, stopped, stared, and used his hands to frame her face. He started toward her and then backed away like a sculptor afraid to take his first cut at the stone. Finally, he decided.
“We’ll have to work with the hair. It’s too late to try a wig. But with a little coloring … some shaping around the ears … a more definite part … it might just work.”
Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. Her sister had just been rescued from the junk heap.
“I’ll bring out the eyes and maybe subdue the mouth. The basic bone structure is sound, so we can use that as a foundation.” Jennifer resented the way she was being discussed. Nicholas sounded like he was planning to pave a driveway.
“Maybe, here, around her nose …” Catherine braved.
“I’m not a plastic surgeon,” Nicholas reminded her. But then, with a cheery smile, “I’ve handled worse problems.”
Just turn on the electricity, Jennifer prayed silently.
But she was astonished when, only two hours later, Nicholas spun the chair so that she could see herself in the mirror. It was still her own face. The hair was lighter, streaked to a shade like strawberry blond. And it was freer, hanging down a bit on her forehead and threatening to cover the tops of her ears. The eyes had more color, enhanced by a nearly invisible tone of eye
shadow. Her mouth had a bit of pout. And her face seemed thinner, an effect achieved by defining her cheekbones. But still it was her, natural, athletic, and basically unadorned. It wasn’t the painted-on expression that graced the covers of most fashion magazines and that Catherine wore to perfection. No one would confuse her with her sister.
CATHERINE DAZZLED Cannes the same way she had taken over the opening night of the New York Symphony and dominated the coverage of the first food shipments into Angola. She had more information than the financiers, better taste than the producers, and more style than the stars. She was at the hub of every important conversation, near the host at every cocktail party, and stepping out of a limousine at every opening. The Cannes festival is a movie-industry board meeting disguised as a celebrity event, and Catherine worked both sides of the street.
Her display turned the ballroom of a seafront hotel into a vision of outer space as seen from her communications satellites. Stars turned overhead, comets flashed by, and other orbiting satellites came dangerously close. Space girls in silver suits served cocktails, mingling with wispy aliens that appeared and disappeared mysteriously. Even the special-effects people were impressed.
Her office in the hotel’s penthouse was a news center with over a hundred screens displaying every movie, concert, and theatrical event that Pegasus satellites were transmitting around the globe. Visitors were stunned by the sheer volume of entertainment traffic, ranging from a children’s show in Japanese to a chamber concert in Italian, from Russian ballet to California porno.
The two hundred guests at her invitation-only banquet were served by six of the world’s leading chefs, each spooning out his signature dish. The wines, including bottles thought no longer
to exist, were stunning. The place settings were a new Venetian pattern developed specially for the occasion.
By the end of the second day, there were just three topics of conversation. A Chinese film, incomprehensible but incredibly beautiful; a starlet who had taken the final step in fashion by wearing nothing; and Pegasus Satellite Services.
“We’ll need a bigger yacht,” Catherine said sensibly when told that her seagoing cocktail party was oversubscribed. “We can’t turn away Harrison Ford or Kate Hudson, even if they don’t buy satellite services.”
“There isn’t a bigger yacht,” her secretary explained. “We’ve already got the biggest yacht in the harbor.”
Catherine’s eyes flashed her frustration. “Peter?” It was her appeal for help.
“We’ll check the Mediterranean ports and see what’s available,” Peter answered. “Maybe we can find something close enough to get here by tomorrow night. If not, then we’ll have to get a second yacht.”
“That won’t work, Peter. I can only be on one boat.”
“It’s not ideal, but as you say, we can’t throw Harrison Ford overboard. If we go to two yachts, Jennifer will have to play hostess on one of them.”
Catherine rolled her eyes. “Jenny would kill me if I put her on the spot like that.” She thought for an instant and then said, “You could take the second boat.”
Peter shook his head. “No, I can’t. I have appointments all day tomorrow with potential buyers. I have to meet them. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Signing up customers?”
Catherine accepted his decision reluctantly. “Can you be the one to tell Jennifer? You know how sensitive she can be.”
He nodded. “Okay, but don’t give up yet on finding a bigger boat. There should be one available, and we’ll buy it if we have to.” Then he asked, “What’s the latest we can decide?”
“Noon,” she answered. “We can probably wait until two for a new boat to arrive, but we’re going to need a few hours to clean it up and stock it.”
“I’ll get calls going right now. One way or another, you’ll have an answer by tomorrow morning.”
Catherine thanked him, then turned back to her secretary. “That means you’ll need two sets of crew uniforms and two orchestras.” The secretary wrote quickly. She was used to insane demands.
Jennifer learned of the crisis when she came in from her morning swim. She had decided on the pantsuit as her uniform of the day and was dressing for an afternoon of greeting guests at the display center.
“Line up someone to fill in for you tomorrow,” Peter told her over the phone. “You may have to host half of the floating cocktail party.”
“Peter …”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t essential. We’ve got a big investment in this week and I don’t want any slipups.”
He had said
ask
, but Jennifer knew from his tone that he was really telling. If there had to be a second boat, she was going to be on it. And if she was honest with herself, she knew that she could handle it. Her first day of greeting guests had gone better than she could have imagined. In fact, she had enjoyed it.
Most of the visitors, she found, were polite and well informed. The financial people were filled with admiration for the enormous investment that Pegasus had put in place, and had specific questions on costs of taking films from one point to another. Producers were more interested in the technology. How did a film get on her network? How was it safeguarded against piracy? Directors were concerned about quality. How much of the definition and color were lost in transmission? Screen owners wondered how they would tap the network.
Jennifer had answers for all. She understood questions and the concerns behind them and went to great lengths to provide complete information. She simulated satellites with glasses on a table and drew the interlocking footprints on the tablecloth. She led audiences to two theater screens playing the same film and challenged them to decide which image came from a duplicate
print and which had traveled around the world via satellite signals. She described encryption techniques that would block theft by all but the most sophisticated and best-equipped pirates. I know this business, she told herself in the midst of one of her presentations. I know it better than our engineers do, because I understand the true impact of the technology. I know it better than Peter, because he’s too focused on the money. I know it better than Catherine, who doesn’t really care what she’s selling. So, why have I spent my career in the basement?
It was while she was congratulating herself that she had seen Padraig O’Connell leaning into the group that surrounded her and heard her own voice lose its cadence. She had seen the expatriate Irish actor in a dozen films and recognized him instantly, even though he was a bit older and a few pounds heavier in person. A signature starlet clung to his arm. When their eyes had made contact, he flashed his screen smile, and Jennifer was aware that she had stopped talking altogether.
O’Connell had lingered as Jennifer’s audience disbursed and asked a few questions about the cost of satellite distribution. Odd, Jennifer thought, for an actor who was generally credited with enormous overruns on his pictures. She had teased him about his new interest in economy and he had answered that he was switching to the other side of the table to launch his own production company. “A bit long in the tooth to be hanging out of helicopters,” he had allowed. “It’s about time I went to work.”
He had dismissed his starlet with a playful pat on her rump and given Jennifer his full attention, which she found both flattering and exciting. Even as they talked business, she had enjoyed being so close to a star. O’Connell had come to Hollywood in a serious Irish film that had picked up half a dozen Oscars, and had stayed for ten years in leading-man roles. His melodic voice and cheeky manner had made him a natural as the unflappable adventurer who saved mankind from a series of diabolical plots. The roles received little critical acclaim but, as his producers frequently remarked, they certainly put fannies in the seats. O’Connell’s going rate had reached $10 million a film.
His personal life had been every bit as colorful, including rumored romances with several leading ladies, two of whom were tossed out by their husbands. He had also made headlines in auto racing, racking up a dozen arrests for topping a hundred miles an hour on Los Angeles streets in his Porsche Turbo. He had been indicted but never convicted of statutory rape for an affair with a high school cheerleader who honestly believed that she would star in his next film. On several occasions his indifference to shooting schedules and adventurous absences had put his studio on the brink of financial ruin. Which of his misdemeanors and felonies were true character flaws and which had been dreamed up by his press agents was a subject of industry debate. But there was no debate that life around Padraig O’Connell was dramatically exciting.
He had thanked Jennifer for the information and taken a packet of literature but lingered for a few words of small talk. He had complimented her dress, and then her appearance. “Why aren’t you in movies instead of sending them into space?” he had asked with a roguish twinkle.
“None of your blarney,” Jennifer had countered with her best imitation of his own accent. Then she had asked, “And why would you ever get out of movies just to make them?”
“It’s a long and tedious tale.” O’Connell laughed. “It would take all night to tell.” And then, innocently, “Are you available?”
“Booked solid,” she had answered, and then mentioned that she would be hosting the company’s floating cocktail party.
“Real liquor?”
“All kinds. Tell me what you like and I’ll make sure we stock it.”
He had promised to come, a commitment that she didn’t take very seriously. And even if he did, it would be Catherine who got to hear his nightlong tale.
She was surprised to find him waiting in the ballroom when she started the new day in her hostess role. “My God, who does your tailoring?” he said as an opener. “That suit makes you look like a member of Parliament.”
Jennifer did a double take on the pinstriped outfit that Catherine had described as the very soul of chic. “It’s suppose to project my responsibility,” she told him through a smile.
“The dress you wore yesterday projected your ass,” he answered, “which, by the way, is a much more valuable asset.” Despite his suggestive tone, Padraig O’Connell quickly got down to business. He had been through the literature and had several more questions about cost and reliability. “I’m planning a completely new production company, and if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it right. I’ll put everything on your satellites if they’ll do the job. I’ve seen the future, and I want to make damn sure that it’s me.”
They took drinks from one of the wandering space girls and found a table under the red sphere of Mars. Jennifer was amazed at how much this casual playboy knew about the economics of his industry and about the workings of her service. His questions were the most challenging she had heard from anyone at the festival.
He ended the conversation abruptly. “Well, that just about ties it all up. I think it’s safe to say that I’ll soon be one of your customers.” The twinkle reappeared as he slipped his reading glasses into his jacket pocket. “Now, as an important customer, I think I’m entitled to some personal service.”
“Only what’s in our brochure,” Jennifer answered.
“Well, when will it be convenient for me to tell you my tedious tale?”
A dozen ways to refuse the invitation flashed in her mind. But this was too good to believe. A Hollywood star was actually hitting on her. “How about on our cocktail yacht. We can meet on the fantail at eight bells.” She decided to see just how far she could take it, although she knew it would end when her Hollywood
star got a glimpse of the real star of the family. Catherine, she decided, would eat Padraig O’Connell alive.
Catherine’s worst fears were realized. There were three suitable yachts available, but two were in the Greek Isles, too far away to be of any use, and the third belonged to a publishing baron who had no intention of bailing out a competitor.
“There will be two yachts,” Catherine told Jennifer the next morning. “Please, you’ve got to work one of them. I can’t do it all.”
“Sure, no sweat,” Jennifer said instantly.
Catherine couldn’t believe her ears.
The yachts were side by side, sterns to the pier in a Mediterranean moor, long curved shapes of seamless white steel. One was 160 feet long, the size of some naval vessels. The other, at 110 feet, was a modest yacht in the local competition. They were European designs, styled more like the wind than in the tradition of North Atlantic working boats. Their interiors combined teak and stainless steel in vistas that were both seafaring and landlocked, nautical adaptations of ancient baronial castles. The only things familiar to the Hollywood types who elbowed their way aboard were the well-stocked bars and the smiling faces of their peers. All of them were looking for profitable marks that they might corner against a railing.
The starlets were out in see-under, see-over, and see-through costumes better suited for the lineup in a bordello. Bankers in double-breasted blazers carefully scrutinized them. Producers tended to more casual dress, white slacks with Italian sports shirts, and a variety of precious chains. The screen owners were in shorts with dress socks halfway up their calves. Established stars were less predictable. Ladies were in low-cut pants with a variety of revealing tops. Naval hardware was everywhere. The men went in dozens of directions, some even clanging about the decks in cowboy boots.
Catherine was at the head of one gangway, sharing a personal
recollection with each arriving guest. She wore navy slacks and an imitation officer’s jacket with gold stripes on the sleeves. A single brass button closed the jacket over her bare cleavage, giving the impression that she had nothing on underneath. The paparazzi swarmed around her like worker bees. Jennifer was on the other gangway, smiling hellos at faces that she could only vaguely remember. She wore fitted jeans and a light sleeveless sweater, simple, tasteful, but hardly memorable. Fortunately, waiters with trays of beluga were positioned on deck, so no one took time to study her appearance.

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