My Lady Lipstick Read online

  “I was thinking of Evan—”

  “If you invite Evan to be a groomsman I will stuff the mattress on your honeymoon bed with gorse.” There was a short silence, during which Diana hoped he was replaying the few but effective times she had carried through with threatened reprisals. She was much smaller than he, but she was older, and William didn’t have a devious bone in his body. “I am not dating him and have no intention of dating him.”

  “But he lingers so hopefully. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “He’s watched too much Downton Abbey. He’s got a mouldering estate and thinks I have enough money to save it.”

  “Eventually you probably will.”

  “Sure, that sounds like bliss—spending wedded life waiting for Pita to die so I can rescue my milquetoast hubby’s mansion.”

  “Dad’s last checkup was picture perfect.”

  “That’s wonderful news, thank you for telling me.” Diana sent a prayer of gratitude into the ether for continued “all clear” health reports for Anwar, her stepfather.

  “So no groomsman upgrade for Evan.”

  “He’s so…unimaginative.” She had no ideal mate formed in her brain but she knew what she didn’t want: dull, dreary or dumb. “Remember that train track we found in the woods one holiday, all by itself?”

  “Yes! We had so much fun with it. Florence was the damsel in distress and you and I the rescuing Mounties.”

  Diana grinned at the memory. “The Evans of the world don’t know how to play.”

  “I have no unattached whimsical friends, alas, so no bridegroom date for you.”

  “I’m utterly heartbroken. Smashed.” Diana gathered up her empty cup and slipped off the bar height stool so someone else could have it. “Are you up some mountain about to break your neck?”

  “This from a girl who got her jollies doing backflips on bits of wood?” His voice thick with excitement and anticipation, he added, “I got it up here, now comes the fun part. It’s a twenty percent grade in places.”

  “Please stay alive until your wedding. I like Millie and want her in the family.”

  He laughed. “So I can wipe out after the wedding? You’d be losing a brother and gaining another sister?”

  “It’s a fair trade.”

  He snorted. “When will you be home?”

  “Before too long. I’ll let you know,” she evaded. She had been planning to head for home but the daring plan taking shape in her head was making her unsure of the next few weeks. “There’ll be dress fittings and the like. I won’t miss it.”

  He accepted her promise and she heard the snick of his helmet buckle as he disconnected. He thought she was fearless? William liked mountain biking and Florence, though still at school, thought vertical cliffs existed for her to climb. Miraculously, neither of them had suffered more than scrapes. She rolled her shoulder as she pushed out the door onto the street, feeling the click of the pins and metal that kept her clavicle in one piece and her shoulder functioning adequately for daily life.

  Normally on Thursdays, when there were no rehearsals scheduled, Diana would head into the North End for a slice of pizza and a walking tour around another landmark of the American Revolution. The job she had come to Boston for was done now, and she always went home after a job. She had no reason to linger.

  Unless, that is, she decided to make use of Anita Topaz’s letter. It felt like a gift she shouldn’t waste. But what did she really know? Not enough to take such a large risk.

  She left the coffeehouse and discovered that the soft day had turned to worse. The gray sky had darkened even more, and the wind had come up. It was no fit day to sightsee. Her stomach reminded her that solid foods had been consumed some hours earlier. She could go back to Mona Lisa’s for lunch, and see what she might be able to learn from the bartender.

  Liking the idea, and the thought of hot tomato soup and the chunk of Irish cheddar they served alongside it, she trekked back to the attic apartment, deftly got into the red wig, slipped in the contact lenses, and opted for no-label jeans and a blouse to complete her Actress costume of the day. She was very glad of her peacoat and gloves. Boston might be further south than London, but it gave the dank, chilled climate a run for its money.

  Mona Lisa’s was a lot busier than the day before. There was a bartender on duty in addition to Lisa. Lisa looked frazzled and chilled, which didn’t bode well for a tête-à-tête about the Paris/Anita setup.

  She ordered what Lisa called “her usual” and sipped at the promptly delivered local ale. It reminded her of Jameson’s, though it was served far too cold. After a job in South Carolina, Diana understood the American fascination with icy-cold beer. But who wanted brain freeze in the middle of winter? The hot soup, delivered with a clattering rapidity, was most welcome. She wrapped a bit of the cheese in some of the soft French bread and dunked it in the fragrant bowl of red goodness. Her little vegetarian heart sighed happily.

  By the time she finished a few customers had left. Though it seemed unlikely, there was a chance if she lingered that Lisa might end up with a little time to talk.

  “I’m going to pop into the loo,” she said to the man next to her. “Don’t let her clear away the rest of my pint.”

  “She’ll have to break my arm.” He gave her an offhand grin, then returned his gaze to the basketball game playing on the TV over the bar.

  She took her time in the restroom in the hope that more customers would finish their midday visit and leave. She powdered her nose and went over the letter again in her mind. Reynard House Publishers was offering a spree to New York just to get Anita Topaz to a meeting. An hour’s meeting. All that expense for so little in return?

  A meeting to discuss “RonCon.” Which, she’d learned this morning, was an elite invitation-only speaker’s event, featuring celebrities and thinkers opining on an array of topics. A review of the previous year’s presentations had shown the common thread: how to monetize anything, with a good dose of how to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others while you did so. Capitalism without a soul, which perfectly described the conference’s founder and host, Ronald Keynes Reynard.

  The same Ronald Keynes Reynard who possessed a nearly three-hundred-year-old obsidian and ram’s bone artifact dubbed the Chumash Hammer. Its first provenance was as a gift “martillo y tamborito” from the Chumash tribe to Junipero Serra, and from a time when California was still shown as an island on Spanish maps. Years later, Serra gave the hammer and drum to the chief of the Yokuts. This was all documented in the ledgers of clerk-priests in Serra’s service. The drum, made of wood and animal skin, had probably not survived the centuries. Meanwhile, persons unknown had spirited the bone and stone hammer out of the Yokuts’s hands. It surfaced again a hundred years later during the Gold Rush through the Barbary Coast’s black market. Then it found its way into the clutches of wealthy miners and scions of families who’d moved to new lands to establish new empires.

  The photograph in her book was of the Chumash Hammer in its current resting place—a shelf in Ronald Reynard’s office, which was on the top floor of the corporate headquarters for Reynard Media Group at East Thirty-Seventh and Park in Midtown Manhattan. She had to assume that all the usual security was in place and possibly quite a bit more. Reynard was a political kingmaker. Having an invitation to meet with him in that very location cut through a lot of red tape and electronic locks.

  This was also true: Ronald Reynard liked to use the hammer to gavel in the beginning of his self-named greed-is-good conference. To which Anita Topaz was being invited. Diana’s instinct was that the Chumash Hammer would be much less secure at the conference but there would also be a lot more witnesses, some in the form of cameras. A great deal more visibility and risk than she liked.

  Well, lingering in the bathroom wasn’t going to get her any answers. She’d order another half-pint if it seemed like Lisa would soon be free for a chat. Otherwise, she’d need a Plan B.

  Chapter Five


  It was full-on one hundred percent March weather for the walk to Mona Lisa’s with her regular brownie delivery. Unlike yesterday, the sun hid behind a layer of high mist while the wind continued to stab into every gap in Paris’s clothing. Gusts snatched furiously at the box she was balancing on one shoulder, causing her to clutch it even more tightly. She gratefully stumbled out of the wind to discover that the bar also felt chilled to its core.

  Lisa, who had a bright red scarf wrapped around her neck and wore close-fitting fingerless gloves, asked Paris, “How does it feel colder today than it did in December? I don’t get it.”

  “I’m not from around here, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you chose it. I was following my heart.”

  Paris didn’t try to hide her eye roll. “Then it has its compensations, right?”

  Lisa’s ill-humor vanished. “That it does. Warmth at night is not an issue.”

  “Nobody likes a gloater,” a regular at the bar observed. “Have pity on the single people. You’re always bragging about you and the missus.”

  Lisa made a show of staring off into the distance. “Huh, where is it we live? Where are we right now?”

  “Crap,” he muttered.

  Lisa continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Are we in an Irish bar named after an Italian icon owned by a Swedish-American lesbian married to an Inuit woman where a Polish guy named Miguel is complaining about my free speech?” Two other regulars joined her to finish in unison, “We must be in America.”

  “Bite me,” Miguel said. “Please let those be fresh brownies.”

  Grinning, Paris gestured at the box she’d set on the bar. “You’ll have to beg her for them now.”

  Miguel shrugged. “It won’t be the most humiliating thing I do today.”

  Lisa passed over one of the bags from Paris’s box to him. “On the house, sweetie. You know I love you.”

  Paris was grateful for the bar byplay and laughed along, which had nothing to do with the fact that Diana had emerged from the restrooms and returned to a stool at the far end of the bar.

  Lisa handed over the usual cash for the brownies. “Fresh coffee isn’t quite finished brewing. I’ll bring it over. Lunch?”

  “Just coffee today, thanks.” Paris made a beeline for the table at the window.

  It felt a little bit junior high. Like the whole Maybe she’ll notice me not noticing her thing. Junior high—what happy memories they weren’t. Paris had always been odd girl out in more ways than one. It didn’t feel great that after everything else she’d been through she was still capable of drooling over a pretty straight girl.

  Lisa herself dropped off the coffee. “Did you insult each other or something?” Paris’s puzzled look apparently didn’t fool Lisa at all, because she added, “The two of you are aggressively not noticing each other.”

  “All I did was show her where a postal drop box was. There was no time to become bosom buddies.” And it was doubtful that Diana was into bosoms, Paris could have added.

  The same thought might have crossed Lisa’s mind as well. “She could be more trouble than she’s worth.”

  But it was said with more innocence than necessary. Paris shot her a suspicious look. “That reverse psychology thing won’t work.”

  Lisa shook back her blond surfer girl curls. “Oh honey, you’d be surprised.”

  She watched Lisa make her way back to the bar and let her gaze casually—she hoped—move on to where Diana had been sitting. Just as she realized Diana was no longer on her barstool, a throat was loudly cleared right in front of her.

  “Hi! You are a regular here, aren’t you?” Diana had what was left of her beer in one hand. A Boston Public Library book bag dangled from the other.

  “No more so than you, apparently.”

  “Not for long.” Faint lines of worry edged into the corners of Diana’s eyes. “Turns out the production might fold before we get much more than basic rehearsal pay. So I’ll be moving on as I’m barely making ends meet as it is. Hate to lose this place for lunch, though.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Yes, this is nice—not too pricey for the basics.”

  Diana glanced over her shoulder at Lisa. “How does she do it? It’s the second of March, she’s bundled up in a scarf and still looks like she just got back from the beach. I don’t mean an English beach, I mean a South of France beach.”

  “Her parents mated well, obviously.” Paris might have said the same of Diana’s parents. A slightly different result—where Lisa glowed like she’d just left off sunbathing, Diana was a shimmer of candlelight with pink cheeks, which made the red hair all the more vibrant. Sun and moon, like flip sides of the same feminine coin.

  Paris had to admit she’d always been intrigued by women like Lisa and Diana. Ex-girlfriend Kerry had been that rare creature, a gamer geek who was also a high femme. They all innately understood a world Paris was lost in, like a game where all the symbols made sense to only one kind of player. Paris was never going to earn the Experience Points and Adventuring Gear it took to navigate it—not now, not ever. She didn’t want to either, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t fascinated.

  She realized that Diana had asked her a question and was giving her an increasingly puzzled look. “Sorry. Writer’s hazard. A thought I was intrigued by.”

  “Do writers do that? Drift off into thought mid-conversation?”

  “This one does.”

  Diana’s expression had turned melancholy. “No rehearsal today, probably none tomorrow. Maybe you could recommend something to do that’s affordable to the soon-to-be unemployed? Affordable meaning free?”

  Paris gestured at the book bag. “You’re doing the best one already.”

  “I was thinking of something out in the fresh air. Though today it’s beastly outside.”

  “You haven’t been here long?”

  “Only a month or two. You could call me a traveling actress. I scrape by. Well, not always.” She shrugged. “I sold my car a while back. Can’t afford a smartphone. For the thrill of the greasepaint it’s worth it. This is disappointing though. I was hoping not to have to move on for at least three more months.”

  Paris wasn’t sure when it happened, but Diana was now sitting across from her, explaining the life of an ever-hopeful itinerant actress. Her freckles seemed lighter today, as if the depression and stress of probably losing her only source of income had drained some of the life out of her.

  “Most people settle into a community and get regular jobs and when the semi-annual production is announced they go out for it and mostly, they get the gigs. I hate the waiting around. And most of the regular jobs—I’m not fond of them either.”

  “So what all have you done?”

  “I’ve been Desdemona in Detroit, Mustardseed in Memphis… Ferris Bueller’s sister in a really weird adaptation of the movie. That was in Belfast. I’ve lost track of all the times I’ve been cast as ‘best friend of the lead plus understudy to all female roles’.”

  “Doesn’t it get tiring, all the moving around?”

  Diana’s shake of the head was emphatic. “Not in the least. Play’s the thing. I’ve learned to travel light.”

  There was almost a warning in those words and Paris felt a chill. “Where are you from? I can definitely tell you’re not from here.”

  “Derry.” At Paris’s continuing look of non-comprehension she added, “Northern Ireland. I’ve worked hard on my BBC broadcaster accent. So I sound like I’m from nowhere and everywhere in the UK.” She cracked a lopsided smile. “You lot are fairly daft about accents, so I seem to get more parts here. Though I can do American broadcaster too.” She fluttered her eyelashes and cleared her throat. “We’ll have film on this new development and more at eleven.”

  If Paris had had her eyes closed, she would have thought it was a different person speaking. Diana’s voice had lost all traces of lilt and picked up the narrow nasal tones of a generic Hollywood performer. No longer a memorable voice, it was still modulated, a bit h
usky and with a touch of honey. “That’s impressive.”

  “Just takes practice and the mindset. Acting is what I’m good at. I’m hanging in there until other people think so too.” She sipped at her nearly empty beer. “So what are you going to do about your problem?”

  Paris was puzzled for a moment, then remembered that Diana had seen the letter. “I haven’t decided,” she said in a none-of-your-business tone.

  “I’m nosy. I know. I’d give my eyeteeth to go on a trip like that right now. Though not by air—I’d take the train.”

  “Why the train?”

  “I miss them. Trains are big all across Europe. And security at airports is so tedious.”

  “Well, I won’t be going by plane, train, or automobile.”

  “They’ll take no for an answer?”

  She’d told herself she’d decide tomorrow and now it was tomorrow. But she didn’t need someone to pressure her. Paris bled off a pulse of anxiety by drumming her fingers on the table. “They have to.”

  The rhythm of Paris’s nervous tapping was the only thing that broke the silence that fell. Paris realized they’d arrived at that awkward moment when the other person expected her to pick up the conversational ball and bat it back. Conversation became harder when her anxiety was high.

  It was a profound shock when Diana reached across the table to still Paris’s drumming fingers. Her hand was warm and gentle and so was her voice. “It’ll be okay.”

  Paris was stunned. Why, instead of panic, did she feel more at ease? Hopeful even? “I don’t think so. They really don’t want to take no for an answer.”

  “And you really don’t want to go?”

  “It’s not about what I want. I can’t.” Diana’s eyes held a question, and Paris was afraid of what it might be. She slipped her hand from beneath Diana’s. “I want to write books and be left alone.”

  Diana let out a sympathetic sigh. “The limelight isn’t for everybody.”

  “Speaking of writing, time for me to get back to work.” Unable to soften the abruptness of her departure, Paris was still pulling on her coat as she cleared the bar’s green door. All the way home she cursed her rudeness, even though she knew there were things about her that would never change no matter how much she wanted them to.