Scar Flowers (31 page)

Wednesday, September 27, 4:02 p.m.

It was over. His agent had phoned at
ten that morning.

“I wanted to make sure you knew, Simon.
StarBorn Studios has been sold.”

“Sold?”

“You haven’t talked to Fran or Paul?”

“You mean they haven’t talked to
me
. Why would they; I’m only directing their film.” His palms broke out in sweat. “Gerry, I’ll call you back.”

Simon logged on to the Internet for the story: StarBorn, sold by one giant international conglomerate to another. Nothing remarkable there. The article ended with an anonymous quote from an “industry insider” that the new owners
wanted nothing to do with any of StarBorn’s films. Nothing remarkable there, either.

Except that no one had told him.

He called Janine, who told him that Fran would call back. “She’s very busy.”

Busy.

The elegance of the trap could hardly be more complete. Stuck in Seattle, he could only call the studio and wait. Until he spoke with Fran, he would not know for sure whether
Babylon
was now a seventeen-million-dollar piece of garbage.

He packed. Anything to avoid just sitting there. His worldly possessions filled four cardboard boxes and a suitcase, to be shipped to his brother Sean in
Ketchikan. That took an hour. He found his lease and rental car agreement, wrote a letter to his land-lord: half an hour. Every fifteen minutes, he paused to make more phone calls.

The non-ringing of the phone filled the cottage.

He knew he had checked out before filming wrapped, but he had still hoped his film would be good. Would be seen.

Fran called.

“Simon, it’s Fran. Something’s come up with the picture.”

“Come up?” His voice rose muffled in his ears. “You didn’t think to mention to me that the studio was being sold?”

“I wasn’t authorized to talk about it until today. I thought you should hear it from me, that StarBorn will no longer support
Babylon
or any of the other pictures it had in production. HR will call you about your last paycheck.”

He had opted to be paid mostly in a percentage of the gross
—worth exactly nothing now.

“StarBorn won’t support
Babylon
, but you still could. The film’s got two weeks of postproduction left—it’s practically fin-ished. Just let me find a distributor and—”

“I won’t spend a dime of my own money on it, Si. I have to find a new job myself, and I just served my husband divorce papers. I’m not ecstatic about this.”

“I’m sorry, Fran.” The words thickened in his throat and threatened to choke him as he veered toward begging. “You’re in a worse position than I am, I know, but . . .” Not what he believed, but it might sway her. If she said no, his last chance was gone. “Work got me through my divorce.”

“Honestly, Si, I might have stayed with it if I had support from Paul. He’s been closest to the project lately
, but he says the bloom is off the rose.”

Nothing he said changed her mind, even when he did beg. After Simon hung up, he threw his cell phone into the yard, where it shattered against a tree trunk.

Mr. Mercer Goes to Tinsel Town
, end of chapter.

His film was gone.

4:58
p.m.

“You’re beautiful. See?” Leah dusted Faith’s forehead with powder.

Faith sat at the vanity in the bedroom with Leah’s cosmetics scattered in front of her. Dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and panties, the girl sat with her wrists crossed between her knees while the curtains sucked in and out against the windows with the breeze. Clothes and lingerie lay strewn across the bed.

“Go on. Look at yourself.” Leah took a sip of wine from the glass on the vanity. A reflection of the windows danced on the surface of the liquid, coiling and twisting as she drank, as if they were sinking into nothingness.

Faith tilted her head back. “I look like a doll without its curls.”

Leah smiled and stroked the girl’s cheek. Faith, who refused her while stealing from her. With Simon, Angel, and Paul gone, she was all
that Leah had left.

“You’ll spill yours,” the girl said and took Leah’s glass from her.

She thinks I’m drunk. Drunk and pitiful.

Only six months ago she had asked Faith,
Do you trust me?
after taking her blindfold off. They were in the gallery, and Drew had silently entered the room. He stood behind the girl where she was bound naked to the rack. Faith said yes. So simply, without thinking first. So beautiful. Leah would never forget the look on the girl’s face when she put Drew’s hands on her waist. She had looked into her eyes, held her hand, through the whole thing. Afterward, when Faith was allowed to see who it was who had taken her, she’d wanted to be left alone with him. But she came to Leah later that night to thank her: The girl cried in her arms, so moved. That’s when she saw how easily she could lose the girl, and that if she did, Faith would be at the mercy of people like Drew.
No one looked out for me when I was her age.

“What
did Simon talk about when you went to see him at the editing studio last week? You never told me.” She did not ask,
How did he look? What was his mood? Did he mention me, or did you have to ask him first?

“I told you.” She ticked off each item: “He’s busy with work, he’s not angry. He wasn’t sure if he was coming today. Jesus, Leah, it was a five-minute conversation.”

“You were gone longer than that.” The words leapt out of her mouth. She took another sip, as if the gesture could conceal the urgency behind what she had said.

“Please don’t start that shit again.” Faith threw the powder brush down. “Simon’s a pig. He acted like I was some kind of groupie bothering him.”

Laughter bubbled out of Leah’s mouth. Faith and her demure slave-girl act, all silence and obedience: That slave girl only appeared when Simon was present.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Faith stood, her eyebrows knotted. “I hate it when you do that—you never answer me!”

“Oh, that’s rich. No, don’t go away mad. I have a surprise for you.” Leah went to her closet and returned with a pair of embroidered silk dresses. She pulled her camisole off before putting on one of the gowns, an emerald green floor-length Susie Wong embroidered with dragons, the skirt slit up to mid-thigh. “Here. I had Sissy make a matching one.”

“Like I want some stupid matching outfit. We’re not sisters. I’m not your toy.”

Leah focused on breathing in slowly through her nose to prevent her expression from changing. Faith’s words should not upset her.

“Fasten it for me,” she said. “I just did my nails.”

I know you, my girl, for the beautiful liar you are. You want to please.

Slowly, Faith stood. As she fastened the last cloth-covered button, Leah said, “Pouting won’t suit you when you’re
thirty, Faith.”

The girl snorted. She took the dress from Leah, bunched it up, and raised one foot.

“Arms up.” Leah collected the garment into a coil and held it up. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to put on a dress? You could rip a lining if you step in with heels.”

Faith put her arms through the sleeves and tugged the dress down.

“Sit.” Leah guided her to the vanity and gave her a lipstick. “Liner pencil first.”

If Simon came back today
. . .

If
—what would she do if he did not? “Never rely on the submissive for anything. If you do, they’re running things, not you.”

Delilah. So good with the advice, but what about her own lonely life?

It will be
my
life soon, the one Delilah’s living.

Leah turned away from the lights that ringed the vanity mirror and closed her eyes. Afterimages of the filaments in each bulb flashed against her lids, multiplied:
burning wires, bent like staples. The memory of Simon’s fingers on her breast through wet silk, a glimpse of white tiles, glowed in her nerves and forced her eyes open.

“Don’t be so sad.” Leah opened a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and dabbed a drop on Faith’s neck. The girl made a face and tried to rub the scent off. “You said just the other day that you missed us doing things together.”

“I’m not sad,” said Faith. “It’s just the way I drew my lips on.” She threw the pencil down and reached for a tissue.

“Leave it. Come here.” Leah held out her arms and drew Faith toward the bed.
“Try these shoes.”

Green satin Gucci mules, still wrapped in tissue paper. She slid the girl’s feet inside them. Such a little femme she was,
though she clomped around in boots and jeans most of the time: despite her anger, she turned her ankle to get a better view of the shoes. And she had not stormed out of the room.

Did Faith remember how close they had once been?

“We’ll paint your toenails, Faith. Come here—you’re al-ways pulling away. Have I ever hurt you?”

Faith sat with her hands locked in fists, the front of her gown still unbuttoned. Sullen, scheming girl—she met with Simon as she’d been asked, but what had really happened between them?
Don’t think about it. It was an act of desperation to send her.

Leah ran her hand up Faith’s leg. Her fingers met a barrier of warm cloth.

“Still wearing cotton panties. After all the silk pairs I’ve given you.” She tsked and leaned against Faith’s knees. “Foolish girl,” she whispered. “You act as if you never loved me. And we both know that’s not true.”

Faith sat frozen, her mouth tight. Sasha, who had been ordered to stay outside the threshold, whined and
lay down. The curtains sighed and fluttered.

“One thing I do miss is your hair.” Leah retrieved a long auburn wig from a pile on the bed. “I had this made from my own hair, when I cut it off, years ago. When I tried to burn myself clean of being female.” She laughed—there she went again, blabbing things the girl would not understand. “There. Now you’re all dressed.”

Faith, auburn bangs askew on her forehead, pushed herself to her feet, but Leah was faster. They stood for a moment nose to nose. A muscle ticked under the girl’s left eye, and her breath whispered against Leah’s face. Downstairs, the security buzzer at the front door rang, but neither of them moved.

“It’s Angel,” said Leah. “He’s come to see if you’ll meet him somewhere private, where you can talk. Or did you two do your talking here in the house?”

Angel. She had not called him, though she knew he waited for her. He had not asked for the key to his collar back, had not returned the keys to her house.

Faith raised her hands, but before she could push free
, Leah gathered the ends of the wig tight under the girl’s chin and pulled her close. She licked the girl’s face from chin to temple, then stifled Faith’s protest with a kiss.

With a curse and a sob, Faith broke away and ran, slamming the door. A few moments later came the dull
, rhythmic thump of Sasha’s tail against the wood, a high-pitched whine. That dog was so tenderhearted that she would offer comfort to anyone.

Leah downed the rest of her wine. The glass clinked as she set it on the marble
vanity top. She hummed a snatch of music from
Giselle
as she combed her hair and fixed her makeup. No other doors closed, and no footsteps sounded on the stairs. When she opened the bedroom door, Faith stood at the end of the hall. Sasha crouched beside her.

“Put your shoes on, Faith. You’re going to help me do a session, and then you can go cry and plot all you like. If I’m right, that’s your friend Simon at the door.”

Do I hope too much? Is it him?
If it was, she should not open the door. That was the last taboo she had left to break: doing a session after drinking.

Leah reached out to straig
hten the collar of Faith’s dress, and her fingers jumped, full of the desire to tighten around the girl’s throat. But she pulled her hands back. She laughed and wiped her eye; she was falling apart with every breath, and no one noticed.

They went through the
hidden mural door into the gallery, the one that bisected the Hanged Man figure in the center of the painting, and from there to Leah’s office. Simon stood framed on the lower left quadrant of the security monitor above the desk. She felt lightheaded. Her forehead burned as if she had a rash.

“What’s wrong?” asked Faith. She stared as if Leah had suddenly grown wings.

“Nothing’s wrong. Why don’t you greet our guest.” Leah buzzed the front door open while Faith went to receive him.

Today would be different. Simon looked different, like the way he had that day in the park. It was not just that he appeared in overhead-angle video on the monitor, his sunglasses aimed into the distance as if he were ignoring her. It was something about who he was,
so remote and untouchable and clothed in his self, with a relentlessness of will that she had not noticed before—or perhaps had ignored. Giddiness roiled her stomach.