Sex, Lies & Serious Money

28

Faith Mackey ate with one hand and phoned with the other, never stopping either, while Laurence and Theresa watched from the kitchen. Finally, she finished her sandwich, drank her water, and beckoned them outside.

“Okay,” she said, looking at her notes on a steno pad. “Laurence, I’ve got somebody coming over with some clothes for you and some hair.”

“Hair?”

“There’s a previous photograph of you with longer hair and a beard. We want to keep you looking the same — you’ll be less likely to be hassled in public.”

“Okay.”

“Who plays the grand piano?”

“I do,” Laurence said.

“Can you do standard cocktail stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want you playing when your guests arrive. It’ll give you a chance to look them over, and they’ll think you’re the hired help until I introduce you. Now, when did you buy the house?”

“Four days ago.”

“And moved in the same day?”

“Right.”

“They’ll already know that. Whose name is the house in?”

“Theresa’s.”

“You’re going to want to get that changed to a corporate name or a trust.”

“How would anybody know anything about the house?”

“Real estate agents are notorious gossips, and some of them string for the tabloids and worse, like the Drudge Report.”

“What’s the Drudge Report?”

“If you don’t know, you don’t need to. Some of the media may have already seen the sales contract. Have you closed?”

“No, tomorrow.”

“You can do the name change at that time. Ask your attorney to create a new corporation in your home state. Where is that?”

“Florida.”

“Good, call him today. Theresa?”

“Yes?”

“You’re going to be my daughter today. Have you and Laurence been photographed together since you arrived?”

“Not to my knowledge. Well, there was one moment when I thought...” She explained her feelings about the morning before.

“Okay, if that happened, he was your boyfriend who left to go to New York this morning. Don’t give them a name. Laurence, you’re my houseguest here, and you’re going back to California tomorrow. In fact, this cocktail party is taking place in California, part of the ground rules.”

“Whatever you say.”

Laurence told her about the incident with the intruder a couple of nights before.

“So, he’s smallish and drives a Mini, or some such?”

“Right.”

“He’ll probably be here. Let’s pick him out right away and be careful of him. Theresa, you will decline to be photographed. Laurence, I will place you against that wall over there to be photographed. The picture could be anywhere, not Santa Fe. After you are photographed, excuse yourself and go upstairs — tell them you have to pack for an early flight, don’t say where.”

“All right.”

The doorbell rang.

“Theresa, please get that. If it’s a lady with a makeup case, let her in. If not, call me.”

Theresa went to the door and came back with a lady with two cases.

“Laurence, Theresa, this is Betty Simmons, ace makeup artist and dresser. Laurence, try on the clothes Betty brought.”

Laurence took the case into the kitchen, put on the clothes, and returned.

“Excellent, a little on the scruffy side. When we get your makeup done you will be Laurence of old. They’ll have no idea what new Laurence looks like.”

“Are we going to answer questions?” Laurence asked.

“You are. They won’t care about Theresa because she’s my daughter and nothing to do with you.”

“What sort of answers do you want me to give?”

“Truthful ones, but avoid answers that give hints as to where you live or can be found or what your intentions are for the future.”

“They’ll already know about the New York apartment and the Palm Beach house,” he said.

“Nothing we can do about New York, unless you want to sell it.”

“No.”

“Okay, you’ve already sold the Palm Beach house and removed your belongings, closing in a few days. Let’s get that one off your map, along with Santa Fe. They’ll know about the Fairleigh, but you have hotel staff there to run them off.”

“Right.”

“Theresa, I’ll explain you as my daughter. Stick to that story, deflect questions to me or Laurence. You’re a civilian, and you don’t want to talk about your personal life, got it? Keep it polite, but cool.”

“Suits me fine,” Theresa said. “Where do I live?”

“New Jersey. The New York media don’t like going to New Jersey, and the L.A. media don’t know where it is, except that Tony Soprano lives there.” She checked her watch. “Okay, Theresa, you’d better scatter the food around where they can find it. Don’t serve them. Put a selection of booze on the bar with an ice bucket and some mixers and a bottle of white wine. Let them do the pouring, you can disinfect later.”

Theresa went to do Faith’s bidding and Laurence was taken by Betty to the dining room table, where she opened her makeup case. “You had longer hair before, right?”

“A little longer. I had it cut nearly a month ago and not since.”

“I’ll put in a few extensions and trim them, then I’ll give you a new haircut before I leave.”

“Okay.”

She took a fulsome beard from her case and painted some adhesive on his face.

“My beard wasn’t nearly this long.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll mow it back until you like it.”

“Is all this going to look real?”

“It will when I’m done. You could do movie close-ups and nobody would know.” She glued the beard firmly in place, then she spread a barber’s cloth over him and inserted the hair extensions, combed and trimmed them. Most of the beard ended up in Laurence’s lap.

“Now,” Betty said, “I’m going to make you look older and dissolute. We want a lot of contrast between old Laurence and new Laurence.” She painted a liquid under his eyes and on the end of his nose. “Scrunch up your eyes.” He did so, and she dried it with a hair dryer. When she was done, she brushed off the excess hair and took the cloth outside to shake it out.

Faith came and had a close look. “Betty,” she said, “this is fucking wonderful. I imagine something, and you make it happen!”

Laurence had a close look at himself in the dining room mirror. “I look ten years older,” he said.

“Then tell them that’s so,” Faith replied, looking at her watch. “Five minutes to go.” She walked around the living room, moving a lamp here or a pot there. “Betty, you’d better wait in the kitchen. Anybody asks, you’re a friend of Theresa’s and you don’t have anything to say. Hide your cases.” Betty packed up and moved to the kitchen, while Faith flicked a few hairs off the dining room table. “Okay, Laurence, you’re on the piano, until I call you over. Anybody asks, you don’t take requests.”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Rodgers and Hart, Irving Berlin, like that. It will bore these people rigid. Nothing up-tempo.”

Laurence sat down and began playing “Blue Skies.”

“Perfect!” Faith sang out as the doorbell rang, and she went to answer it.

Laurence watched from the piano, only occasionally glancing at his hands. They were a motley lot; quite young to sixtyish. He spotted the one from two nights ago instantly; no more than nineteen, dressed like the adolescent he was, unkempt hair, a camera with a long lens slung around his neck.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen, gather ’round,” Faith called out, beckoning them toward her. Theresa came in with a tray. “I’m Faith Mackey, you all know who I am. That’s my daughter, Theresa, from a much earlier, very brief marriage. This is my house. Theresa and her boyfriend picked it out for me, and I bought it sight unseen a few days ago. Her boyfriend left this morning for New Jersey. Laurence Hayward will join us shortly, and he will answer your questions, within reason. He’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, so don’t make a fool of yourself. For your information, we are all at this moment somewhere in the state of California, and that is where you are reporting from, though you won’t be specific. Got that?” The crowd responded with a murmur. “NO MAKING STUFF UP! You’ll get honest answers to respectful questions, and you’ll stick with them and our location story for your reporting. If you stray, you won’t be invited to another of these, ever, on either coast or in between. The fact that I bought this house is on deep background — not even the real estate agent knows I’m the buyer, and I want to keep it that way. I’m a publicist for others, not myself, so my vacation home will be our little secret. Blow it at your peril.

“Now, the bar is open, so help yourselves, but first sign the agreement forms stacked there, and with your real names, addresses, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses, plus the name of the medium you represent and the name of the person you report to. If you do not complete those forms, our little soiree will, for you, be a lot shorter than planned.”

The group went to the bar, made themselves drinks, then filled out and signed the agreements, which Faith collected and scrutinized.

“Musician, give us a little fanfare!” Faith commanded, and Laurence did so. “May I present Laurence Hayward!”

Laurence got up and walked toward the group, grinning inanely.