superior, condescending crap.
'Shit,' she muttered, feeling like a fat, frumpy giantess firmly entrenched on the wrong side of twenty-five. Miss High-and-Mighty had to be suffocating underneath her two-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater, but she looked as cool and crisp as a magazine ad. Some women, it seemed to
Sally, had been put on earth just for other women to hate, and Francesca Day was definitely one of them.
Dallie could feel the Dread Mondays descending on him, even though it was Saturday and he'd shot a spectacular 64 the day before playing eighteen holes with some good ol' boys outside Tuscaloosa. Dread Mondays was the name he'd given the black moods that seized him more frequently than he wanted to let on, sinking sharp teeth right into him and sucking out all the juice, In general, the Dread Mondays screwed up a hell of a lot more than his long irons.
He hunched over his Howard Johnson's coffee and stared out the front window of the restaurant into the parking lot. The sun wasn't up all the way and other than some sleepy-eyed truckers the restaurant was nearly empty. He tried to reason away his lousy mood. It hadn't been a bad season, he reminded himself. He'd won a few tournaments, and he and PGA Commissioner Deane Beman hadn't chatted more than two or three times on the commissioner's favorite subject-conduct unbecoming to a professional golfer.
'What'll it be?' asked the waitress who came up next to his table, an orange and blue hankie tucked in her pocket. She was one of those squeaky-clean fat women with sprayed hair and good makeup, the kind who took care of herself and made you say that she had a nice face underneath all that fat.
'Steak and home fries,' he said, handing her the menu. 'Two eggs over easy, and another gallon of coffee.'
'You want it in a cup or should I shoot it straight into your veins?'
He chuckled. 'You just keep it coming, honey, and I'll figure out where to put it.' Damn, he loved waitresses. They were the best women in the world. They were street smart and sassy, and every one of them had a story.
This particular waitress took a few moments to look at him before she moved away, studying his pretty face, he figured. It happened all the time, and he generally didn't mind unless they also gave him that half-hungry look that told him they wanted something from him he damn well couldn't give.
The Dread Mondays came back in full force. Just this morning, right after he had crawled out of bed, he had been standing in the shower trying to get his two bloodshot eyes to stay open when the Bear had come right up next to him and whispered in his ear.
Dallie had turned on the cold water faucet as far as it would go, but the Bear kept at him.
Dallie shook away the memory as the food arrived along with Skeet, who slid into the booth. Dallie shoved the breakfast plate across the table and looked away while Skeet picked up his fork and sank it into the bloody steak.
'How you feelin' today, Dallie?'
'Can't complain.'
'You were drinkin' pretty heavy last night.'
Dallie shrugged. 'I ran a few miles this morning. Did some push-ups. Sweated it off.'
Skeet looked up, knife and fork poised in his hands. 'Uh-huh.'
'What the hell's that supposed to mean?'
'Don't mean nothin', Dallie, except I think the Dread Mondays been gettin' to you again.'
He took a sip from his coffee cap. 'It's natural to feel depressed toward the end of the season-too many motels, too much time on the road.'
'Especially when you didn't come within kissin' distance of any of the majors.'
'A tournament is a tournament.'
'Horse manure.' Skeet returned to the steak. A few minutes of silence passed between them.
Dallie finally spoke. 'I wonder if Nicklaus ever gets the Dread Mondays?'
Skeet slammed down his fork. 'Now, don't start thinkin' about Nicklaus again! Every time you start thinkin' about him, your game goes straight to hell.'
Dallie pushed back his coffee cup and picked up the check. 'Give me a couple of uppers, will you?'
'Shoot, Dallie, I thought you was going to lay off that stuff.'
'You want me to stay in the running today or not?' ' 'Course I want you to stay in the runnin', but I don't like the way you been doin' it lately.' 'Just lay off, will you, and give me the fucking pills!' Skeet shook his head and did as he was told, reaching into his pocket and pushing the black capsules across the table. Dallie snatched them up. As he swallowed them, it didn't slip past him that there was a halfway humorous contradiction between the care he took of his athlete's body and the abuse he subjected it to in the form of late nights, drinking, and that street-corner pharmacy he made Skeet carry around in his pockets. Still, it didn't really matter. Dallie stared down at the money he'd thrown on the table. When you were born a Beaudine, it was pretty much predestined that you wouldn't die of old age.
'This dress is hideous!'
Francesca studied her reflection in the long mirror set up at the end of the trailer that was serving as a makeshift costume shop. Her eyes had been enlarged for the screen with amber shadow and a thick set
of eyelashes, and her hair was parted at the center, pulled smooth over her temples, and gathered into ringlets that fell over her ears. The period hairstyle was both charming and flattering, so she had no quarrel with the man who had just finished arranging it for her, but the dress was another story. To her fashion-conscious eye, the insipid pink taffeta with its layers of ruffled white lace flounces encircling the skirt looked like an overly sweet strawberry cream puff. The bodice fit so tightly she could barely breathe, and the boning pushed up her breasts until everything except her nipples spilled out over the top. The gown managed to look both saccharine and vulgar, certainly nothing like the costumes Marisa Berenson had worn in Barry Lyndon.
'It's not at all what I had in mind, and I can't possibly wear it,' she said firmly. 'You'll have to do something.'
Sally Calaverra bit off a length of pink thread with more force than necessary. 'This is the costume that was designed for the part.'
Francesca chided herself for not having paid more attention to the gown yesterday when Sally was fitting her. But she'd been so distracted by her exhaustion and the fact that Lloyd Byron had proved so unreasonably stubborn when she'd complained to him about her awful living arrangements that she'd barely looked at the costume. Now she had less than an hour before she was supposed to report to the
set to film the first of her three scenes. At least the men in the company had been helpful, finding a more comfortable room for her with a private bath, bringing her a meal tray along with that lovely gin and quinine she'd been dreaming about. Even though the 'chicken coop,' with its small windows and blond veneer furniture, was an abomination, she'd slept like the dead and actually felt a small spurt of anticipation when she'd awakened that morning-at least until she'd taken a second look at her costume.
After turning to view the back of the gown, she decided to appeal to Sally's sense of fair play. 'Surely
you have something else. I absolutely never wear pink.'
'This is the costume Lord Byron approved, and there's nothing I can do about it.' Sally fastened the last of the hooks that held the back closed, pulling the fabric together more roughly than necessary.
Francesca sucked in her breath at the uncomfortable constriction. 'Why do you keep calling him that ridiculous name-Lord Byron?'
'If you have to ask the question, you must not know him very well.'
