The couple sitting at the table in the Queen's Grill are people I've never seen before, who don't even vaguely resemble the Wallaces. The man glowering at me is much older than Stephen; and the woman, confused, looking down at her plate, is much dowdier and plainer than Lorrie.
Marina has turned her head away so her face is just a blur.
I'm the only one smiling and relaxed, which amazes me since the only things that look even remotely familiar are the small mound of caviar on my plate and the carafes of the wine Stephen ordered and the Japanese women, in shadows, at the next table.
The original and the three copies I requested are spread out on a desk I'm chain-smoking at, and it's so cold in the room I'm half-frozen, wearing two J. Crew sweaters under the giant Versace overcoat, and the remains of today's hangover linger, insistent, like some kind of reminder. I'm vaguely aware that tomorrow the QE2 docks in Southampton.
"So you're not going to Paris?" Palakon asks. "So you'll be in London after all?"
A long stretch of silence that I'm responsible for causes Palakon to snap, "Hello? Hello?"
"Yes," I say hollowly. "How did you figure that... out?"
"I just sensed a change of heart," Palakon says.
"How did you manage that?"
"Let's just say I know these precocious moments of yours usually come to an end," I hear him say. "Let's just say I concentrate intensely on you and what you have to say and do." A pause. "I'm also viewing everything from a different angle."
"I'm a lover, not a fighter, Palakon," I sigh.
"We've located Jamie Fields," Paiakon says.
Briefly, I glance up. "So my job's over, right?"
"No," Palakon says. "Just made easier."
"What are you doing right now, Palakon?" I'm asking. "Some lackey's giving you a pedicure while you're eating a giant box of mints? That's what I'm picturing."
"Jamie Fields is in London," Palakon says. "You'll find her the day after tomorrow on the set of the movie she's shooting. All the information you need will be waiting for you at the hotel. A driver will pick you up-"
"A limo?" I ask, interrupting.
A pause, then Palakon gently says, "Yes, Mr. Ward, a limo-"
"Thank you."
"-will pick you up in Southampton and drive you into London, where I will contact you."
I keep moving all four copies of the photograph around, repositioning them while Palakon drones on. I light another cigarette before stubbing out the last one.
"Do you understand, Mr. Ward?"
"Yes, I understand, Mr. Palakon," I answer in a monotone.
Pause. "You sound on edge, Mr. Ward."
"I'm just trying to ascertain something."
"Is that it, or are you just trying to strike a pose?"
"Listen, Palakon, I've gotta go-"
"Where are you off to, Mr. Ward?"
"There's a gnome-making class that's starting in ten minutes and I wanna get a head start."
"I'll talk to you when you arrive in London, Mr. Ward."
"I've already marked it down in my datebook."
"I'm relieved to hear it, Mr. Ward."
1
I find Felix the cinematographer at the piano bar, hunched over an array of snifters half-filled with brandy as he stares miserably at his own reflection in the mirrors situated above the racks of alcohol, relentlessly smoking Gauloises. The pianist-who I'm just noticing much to my horror is also the male aerobics instructor with the hideous teeth- plays a mournful version of "Anything Goes." I take the stool next to Felix and slap the photograph next to his arm. Felix doesn't flinch. Felix hasn't shaved in what looks like days.
"Felix," I say, trying to contain myself "Look at this photo."
"I don't want to look at any photos," Felix says miserably in his halting, untraceable accent.
"Felix, please, it's important," I say. "I think."
"I'm not supposed to look at the photo, Victor."
"Fuck it-just look at the f**king photo, Felix," I spit out, panicking.
Felix turns to me, muttering "Grouchy, grouchy," then glances tiredly at the picture. "Yeah? So? People having caviar, people not looking so happy." He shrugs. "It happens."
"Felix, I did not have caviar with these people," I'm saying. "Yet this photograph ex-ex-exists," I sputter.
