"I'm quite a big fan of yours," Klein said, smiling as he opened the door leading into the hall.
She paused in the doorway, preoccupied, a fingertip pressed to her lip. She glanced to the doctor.
"You don't think a psychiatrist, huh?"
"I don't know. But the best explanation is always the simplest one. Let's wait. Let's wait and see." He smiled encouragingly. "In the meantime, try not to worry."
"How?"
She left him.
As they drove back home, Regan asked her what the doctor had said.
"That you're nervous."
Chris had decided not to talk about her language. Burke. She picked it up from Burke.
But she did speak to Sharon about it later, asking if she'd ever heard Regan use that kind of obscenity.
"Why, no," replied Sharon. "I mean, not even lately. But you know, I think her art teacher made a remark." A special tutor who came to the house.
"You mean recently?" Chris asked.
"Yes, it was just last week. But you know her. I just figured maybe Regan said 'damn' or 'crap.' You know, something like that."
"By the way, have you been talking to her much about religion, Shar?"
Sharon flushed.
"Well, a little; that's all. I mean, it's hard to avoid. You see, she asks so many questions, and---well... " She gave a helpless little shrug. "It's just hard. I mean, how do I answer without telling what I think is a great big lie?"
"Give her multiple choice."
In the days that preceded her scheduled party, Chris was extremely diligent in seeing that Regan took her dosage of Ritalin. By the night of the party, however, she had failed to observe any noticeable improvement.
There were subtle signs, in fact, of a gradual deterioration: increased forgetfulness; untidiness; and one complaint of nausea. As for attention-getting tactics, although the familiar ones failed to recur, there appeared to be a new one: reports of a foul, unpleasant "smell" in Regan's bedroom. At Regan's insistence, Chris took a whiff one day and smelled nothing.
"You don't?"
"you mean, you smell it right now?" Chris had asked her.
"Well, sure!"
"What's it smell like?"
She'd wrinkled her nose. "Well, like something burny."
"Yeah?" Chris had sniffed.
"Don't you smell it?"
"Well, yes, hon," she'd lied. "Just a little. Let's open up the window for a while, get some air in."
In fact, she'd smelled nothing, but had made up her mind that she would temporize, at least until the appointment with the doctor. She was also preoccupied with a number of other concerns. One was arrangements for the dinner party. Another had to do with the script. Although she was very enthusiastic about the prospect of directing, a natural caution had prevented her from making a prompt decision. In the meantime, her agent was calling her daily. She told him she'd given the script to Dennings for an opinion, and hoped he was reading and not consuming it.
The third, and the most important, of Chris's concerns was the failure of two financial ventures: a purchase of convertible debentures through the use of prepaid interest; and an investment in an oil-drilling project in southern Libya. Both had been entered upon for the sheltering of income that would have been subject to enormous taxation. But something even worse had developed: the wells had come up dry and rocketing interest rates had prompted a sell-off in bonds.
These were the problems that her gloomy business manager flew into town to discuss. He arrived on Thursday. Chris had him charting and explaining through Friday. At last, she decided on a course of action that the manager thought wise. He nodded approval. But he frowned when she brought up the subject of buying a Ferrari.
"You mean, a new one?"
"Why not? You know. I drove one in a picture once. If we write to the factory, maybe, and remind them, it could be they'd give us a deal. Don't you think?"
He didn't. And cautioned that he thought a new car was improvident.
"Ben, I made eight hundred thou last year and you're saying I can't get a freaking car! Don't you think that's ridiculous? Where did it go?"
He reminder her that most of her money was in shelters. Then he listed the various drains on her gross; federal income tax; projected federal income tax; her state tax, tax on her real estate holdings; ten percent commission to her agent; five to him; five to her publicist; one and a quarter taken out as donation to the Motion Picture Welfare Fund; an outlay for wardrobe in tune with the fashion; salaries to Willie and Karl and Sharon and the caretaker of the Los Angeles home; various travel costs; and, finally, her monthly expenses.
"Will you do another picture this year?' he asked her.
She shrugged. "I don't know. Do I have to?"
"Yes, l think you'd better."
She cupped her face in both her hands and eyed him moodily. "What about a Honda?"
He made no reply.
Later that evening, Chris tried to put all of her worries aside; tried to keep herself busy with making preparations for the next night's party.
"Let's serve the curry buffet instead of sit-down," she told Willie and Karl. "We can set up a table at the end of the living room. Right?"
"Very good, madam," Karl answered quickly.
"So what do you think, Willie? A fresh fruit salad for dessert?"
"Yes, excellent!" said Karl.
"Thanks, Willie."
She'd invited an interesting mixture. In addition to Burke ("Show up sober, dammit!") and the youngish director of the second unit, she expected a senator (and wife); an Apollo astronaut (and wife); two Jesuits from Georgetown; her next-door neighbors; and Mary Jo Perrin and Ellen Cleary.
Mary Jo Perrin was a plump and gray-headed Washington seeress whom Chris had met at the White House dinner and liked immensely. She'd expected to find her austere and forbidding, but "You're not like that at all!" she'd been able to tell her. Bubbly-warm and unpretentious.