“What about the audience? Sometimes, I’ve heard,
critics may hate a movie, but audiences adore it.”
Bruno’s head fell back against the sofa. “They
walked out. The theater was less than half full after the
intermission. We should have barred the doors. Oh, my
God, what’s to become of me?”
Ellie entered the living room with great caution, as
if she expected someone to hand her a poisonous asp.
She was still shivering inside the heavy black cloak as
she sidled up to Bruno and leaned down. “Hey, maybe
it’s not so bad. You know—every great producer has a
flop sometimes. Look at all the successes you’ve had.”
“That was then,” Bruno muttered. “This is now.”
Dade Costello, in his long brown velvet mantle and
Frisbee-shaped hat, passed in back of the sofa behind
Bruno. “I told you so,” he said, and moved on.
Bruno groaned some more. A cell phone rang from
somewhere. Bruno automatically reached for his, but
no one was on the other end. His expression was bleak
as Ellie pulled out her own cell to take the call.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Her sweet face turned
sour. “But . . . isn’t it possible that . . . Yes, I suppose
you’re right. Still . . .” She listened, then sighed.
“Okay . . . If you say so. Sure, you know I always do.
Bye.” She rang off, shot Bruno a blistering look, and
walked off toward the bar, where another newcomer,
attired in a pioneer woman’s gingham dress and floppy
bonnet, was accepting a drink from Cathy Rankers.
Angela La Belle came over to the sofa. Judith drew
back, assuming the actress wanted to speak with
Bruno. But Angela ignored the producer and spoke to
Judith instead.
“I see the truffles finally turned up. At least one
good thing happened tonight.” With a swish of Scarlett’s skirts, she turned away.
“You see?” Bruno whispered hoarsely. “You see
how they turn on me? That’s the way the business
works. A hundred successes and one failure—that’s all
it takes to bring you down, to make you a nobody.”
Judith glanced around the big living room. Still
wearing their masks, Ben Carmody and Dirk Farrar
were talking by the piano. Judith recognized them by
their costumes. Dirk cut a dashing figure in his satinslashed doublet and hose; Ben looked more like his
sinister screen self in the nineteenth-century frock coat
and top hat. Judging from their body language, neither
seemed happy.
