operation she imagined would be much more expensive than a standard agency. The nature of the project required a prestigious address and a diversified, well-paid staff. It would take a fortune just to get started. Still, the more she thought about it, the more certain she became that the right person could make it work. Unfortunately the right person had only five thousand dollars in her savings account and an under-abundance of courage.
That evening she met Simon Kale for tandoori at the Indian Pavilion. “What would you do if you weren’t already filthy rich and you needed big money?” she found herself asking.
He plucked some fennel seeds from the bowl in front of him. “I’d clean apartments. Really, Fleur, it’s impossible to find good help. I’d pay a fortune for someone reliable.”
“I’m serious. How would you go about it if you only had five thousand dollars in the bank and you needed a lot more? Like six figures more.”
“Are we eliminating drug dealing?”
She lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Well, then…” He selected another fennel seed. “I’d say the fastest way would be to pick up our telephone and call that bitch Gretchen Casimir.”
“That’s not an option.” Modeling was the one thing she wouldn’t consider. If she did this-not that she would, but if she did-it would have to be all hers.
“Have we considered prostitution?”
“Fishnet stockings are so unflattering.”
He brushed a stray seed from the sleeve of his silky gray shirt. “Since we’re being so picky, the best way would probably be to demand a loan from a filthy rich friend.”
She smiled at him. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you? I’d only have to ask.”
He pursed his lips. “Which, of course, you won’t.”
She leaned across the table and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Any other ideas?”
“Mmm…Peter, I suppose. He’s your best bet, considering all these silly restrictions you’ve set up.”
“Our Peter Zabel? Lead guitarist for Neon Lynx? How could he help me?”
“Tell me you’re kidding, pet. You used to place all those phone calls to his brokers for him. Peter knows more about making money than anyone I’ve met. He’s made a fortune for me in precious metals and new stock issues. I can’t believe he never gave you any tips.”
Fleur nearly knocked over her water glass. “Do you mean I was supposed to take him seriously?”
“Fleur…Fleur…Fleur…”
“But he’s such an idiot!”
“His banker would most definitely disagree.”
Another week passed before Fleur got up the courage to call Peter and lay out the situation in the vaguest terms. “What do you think? Speaking hypothetically. Could a person do anything with only five thousand dollars to start?”
“Depends on whether you’re willing to lose it or not,” Peter said. “High return means high risk. You’re talking commodities trading-currency, fuel oil, wheat. If sugar goes down a penny a pound, you lose your nest egg. Very risky. You could end up worse off than you are now.”
“I supposed…Yes.” And then she was horrified to hear herself go on. “I don’t care. Tell me what I have to do.”
Peter explained the basics, and she began spending every spare minute with her head buried in the books and articles he recommended on commodities trading. She read the
Following Peter’s advice, she invested two thousand in soybeans, bought a contract for liquefied propane, and, after studying weather forecasts, spent the rest on orange juice. Florida had a killer freeze, the soybeans rotted from too much rain, but liquefied propane went through the roof. She ended up with seven thousand. This time she divided it between copper, durum wheat, and more soybeans. Copper and wheat tanked, but soybeans pulled through to the tune of nine thousand dollars.
She reinvested every penny.
On April Fool’s Day, Kissy landed the plum role of Maggie in a workshop production of
Once rehearsals began, Fleur didn’t see Kissy for days at a time, and when she did, Kissy was distracted. Not a single hunk passed through their apartment, and Fleur finally accused her of celibacy.
“I’m storing up my sexual energy,” Kissy replied.
The day of the production, Fleur was so nervous she couldn’t eat. She didn’t want to see Kissy humiliated, and there was no way her little fluff ball of a roommate could take command of a heavyweight part like Maggie. Kissy belonged in sitcoms, exactly where she didn’t want to be.
A freight elevator took Fleur up to a chilly Soho loft with clanging pipes and peeling paint. The small stage at one end held nothing except a big brass bed. Fleur tried to convince herself the bed was a good omen where Kissy was concerned.
The audience was made up of other unemployed actors and starving artists, without a casting agent in sight. A bearded guy who smelled like linseed oil leaned forward from the row of chairs behind her. “So, are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”
“Uh-the bride,” she replied.
“Yeah, I thought so. Hey, I dig your hair.”
“Thanks.” Her hair brushed her shoulders now and attracted more attention than she liked, but cutting it felt like a weakness.
“You want to go out sometime?”
“No, thanks.”
“That’s cool.”
Fortunately the play started right then. Fleur took a deep breath and mentally crossed her fingers. The audience heard the sound of a shower running offstage, and Kissy made her entrance in an antique lace dress. Her accent was as thick as summer jasmine. She stripped off the dress and stretched. Her fingers formed tiny claws in the air. The man sitting next to Fleur shifted in his seat.
For two hours the audience sat spellbound as Kissy prowled and hissed and scratched her way across the stage. With dark, desperate eroticism and a voice like dime-store talcum powder, she radiated Maggie the Cat’s sexual frustration. It was one of the most riveting performances Fleur had ever seen, and it came straight from the soul of Kissy Sue Christie.
By the time the play was over, Fleur was drained. Now she understood Kissy’s problem in a way she couldn’t have before. If Fleur, Kissy’s best friend, hadn’t believed she could be a serious dramatic actress, how could Kissy hope to convince a director?
Fleur pushed her way through the crowd. “You were incredible!” she exclaimed, when she reached Kissy’s side. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“I know,” Kissy replied with a giggle. “Come tell me how wonderful I was while I change out of costume.”
Fleur followed her to the makeshift dressing room where Kissy introduced her to the other female cast members. She chatted with all of them, then perched on a chair next to Kissy’s dressing table and told her another dozen times how wonderful she’d been.
“Everybody decent?” a masculine voice inquired from the other side of the door. “I need to pick up the costumes.”
“I’m the only one left, Michael,” Kissy called out. “Come on in. I have somebody I want you to meet.”
The door opened. Fleur turned.
“Fleurinda, you’ve heard me talk about our brilliant costume designer and the future dressmaker to the Beautiful People. Fleur Savagar meet Michael Anton.”
Everything stopped like a damaged frame of film frozen in a movie projector. He wore an antique purple satin
