PARKING BENEATH the tall black palms, Keck went into the hotel and up to the suite. A dog began to bark when he knocked. He waited and then knocked again. He stood looking at the carpet. Finally,
— Who is it?
— It’s Booth.
— Who?
— Booth, he said loudly.
— Just a minute.
An equally long time passed. The dog had stopped barking. There was silence. He knocked again. At last, like the sweeping aside of a great curtain, the door opened.
— Come in, she said. I’m sorry, were you waiting?
She was wearing a tan silk jacket, casual in a way, and a smooth white T-shirt beneath.
— Something spilled in the bathroom, she explained, fastening an earring and preceding him into the room. Anyway, this ghastly dinner. What are we going to do?
The dog was sniffing his leg.
— The thought of spending the evening with that boring woman, she went on, is more than I can bear. I don’t know how you put up with her. Here, sit.
She patted the couch beside her. The dog leapt onto it.
— Get down, Sammy, she said, pushing him with the back of her hand.
She patted the couch again.
— She’s an idiot. That driver at the airport had a big sign with my name on it, can you imagine? Put that down, I told him.
Her nostrils flared in annoyance or anger, Keck could not tell. She had two distinct ways of doing it. One was in pride and anger, a thoroughbred flaring. The other was more intimate, like the raising of an eyebrow.
— The stupidity! He wanted to wave it around so people could see it, make himself important. Exactly what one needs, isn’t it? If there’d been anything, the least little thing wrong here at the hotel, I’d have flown straight back to New York. Bye-bye. But of course, they know me here, I’ve been here so many times.
— I guess so.
— So, what are we going to do? she said. Let’s have a drink and figure something out. There’s white wine in the fridge. I only drink white wine now. Is that all right for you? We can order something.
— I don’t think we have enough time, Keck said.
— We have plenty of time.
The dog had gripped Keck’s leg with its own two front legs.
— Sammy, she said, stop.
Keck tried to disengage himself.
— Later, Sammy, he said.
— He seems to like you, she said. But then who wouldn’t, hm? You have your car, don’t you? Why don’t we just drive down to Santa Monica and have dinner?
— You mean, without Teddy?
— Completely without her.
— We should call her.
— Darling, that’s for you, she said in a warm voice.
Keck sat down by the phone, uncertain of what to say.
— Hello, Teddy? It’s Booth. No, I’m at the hotel, he said. Listen, Deborah’s dog is sick. She isn’t going to be able to come to dinner. We’ll have to call it off.
— Her dog? What’s wrong with it? Teddy said.
— Oh, it’s been throwing up and it can’t. . it’s having trouble walking.
— She’s probably looking for a vet. I have a good one. Hold on, I’ll get the number.
— No that’s all right, Keck said. One is already coming. She got him through the hotel.
— Well, tell her I’m sorry. If you need the other number, call me.
When he hung up, Keck said,
— It’s OK.
— You lie almost as well as I do.
She poured some wine.
— Or would you rather have something else? she said again. We can drink here or we can drink there.
— Where’s that?
— Do you know Rank’s? It’s down off Pacific. I haven’t been there in ages.
It was not quite night. The sky was an intense, deep blue, vast and cloudless. She sat beside him as they headed for the beach, her graceful neck, her cheeks, her perfume. He felt like an imposter. She still represented beauty. Her body seemed youthful. How old was she? Fifty-five, at least, but with barely a wrinkle. A goddess still. It would have once been beyond imagination to think of driving down Wilshire with her toward the last of the light.
— You don’t smoke, do you? she said.
— No.
— Good. I hate cigarettes. Nick smoked day and night. Of course, it killed him. That’s something you never want to see, when it spreads to the bone and nothing stops the pain. It’s horrible. Here we are.
There was a blue neon sign from which the first letter — F— was gone; it had been gone for years. Inside it was noisy and dark.
— Is Frank here? Deborah asked the waiter.
— Just a minute, he said. I’ll go and see.
Some heads had turned when she walked past the bar, her insolent walk and then seeing who she was. After a few minutes a young man in a shirt without a tie came back to where they were sitting.
— You were asking for Frank? he said, recognizing them but politely not showing it. Frank isn’t here anymore.
— What happened? Deborah said.
— He sold the place.
— When was that?
— A year and a half ago.
Deborah nodded.
— You ought to change the name or something, she said, so you don’t fool people.
— Well, it’s always been the name of the place. We have the same menu, the same chef, he explained cordially.
— Good for you, she said. Then to Keck, Let’s go.
— Did I say something wrong? the new owner asked.
— Probably, she said.
TEDDY HAD CALLED and cancelled the reservation. She wondered about the dog. She hadn’t bothered to remember its name. It had lain in its bed on the set, head on paws, watching. Teddy had had a dog for years, an English pug named Ava, all wrinkled velvet with bulging eyes and a comic nature. Deaf and nearly blind at the end, unable to walk, she was carried into the garden four or five times a day where she stood on trembling legs and looked up at Teddy helplessly with chalky, unseeing eyes. At last there was nothing that could be done and Teddy drove her to the vet for the last time. She carried her in, tears running down her cheeks. The vet pretended not to notice. He greeted the old dog instead.
— Hello, princess, he said gently.
With one of the small ivory spoons Teddy put some caviar on a piece of toast and ate it. She went into the kitchen for the chopped egg and brought it into the living room. She decided to have some vodka as well. There was a bottle of it in the freezer.
With the egg and a squeeze of lemon she served herself more caviar. There was far too much of it to even think of eating; she would bring it to the set the next day, she decided. There were only two more weeks of shooting. Perhaps she would take a short vacation afterward. She might go down to Baja where some friends were going. She had been to Baja when she was sixteen. You were able to drink in Mexico and do anything, although by that time they were often in separate beds. They had twin beds in the apartment on Venice Boulevard and also that summer in Malibu in a house rented from an actor who had gone on location for six weeks. There was a leafy passageway that led to the beach. She didn’t wear a bikini that summer, she was too embarrassed to, she remembered. She had a one-piece black bathing suit, the same one every day, and an abortion that fall.
THERE WAS A MOTH on the windshield as they headed back. They were going forty miles an hour; its wings were quivering in what must have been a titanic wind as it resisted being borne into the night. Still, stubbornly, it clung, like gray ash but thick and trembling.
— What are you doing? she said.