One Fifth Avenue

“I don’t know why you don’t believe me,” Flossie said, looking at Enid with hurt eyes. “I saw it myself. In the basement of the Met. I shouldn’t have let it out of my sight, but I had the Pauline Trigère fashion show in the afternoon. And Louise did go to the Met that day.”

“Flossie dear,” Enid said firmly. “Don’t you understand? You might just as easily have taken the cross yourself. If it exists at all.”

“But I didn’t take it,” Flossie said stubbornly. “Louise did.”

Enid sighed. Flossie had been beating this rumor drum for fifty years. It was her stubborn insistence that Louise had stolen this cross that had caused Flossie’s eventual removal from the board of the Metropolitan Museum in a charge led by Louise Houghton, who had subtly suggested that Flossie suffered from a slight mental impairment. As this was generally believed to be true, Louise had prevailed, and Flossie had never forgiven Louise not only her supposed crime but also her betrayal, which had led to Flossie’s permanent fall from grace in New York society.

Flossie could have worked her way back in, but she refused to let go of her crazy idea that Louise Houghton, a woman above reproach, had stolen the Cross of Bloody Mary and kept it hidden somewhere in her apartment. Even now Flossie pointed out the window and, with a wheeze, said, “I’m telling you, that cross is in her apartment right now. It’s just sitting there, waiting to be discovered.”

“Why would Louise Houghton take it?” Enid asked patiently.

“Because she was a Catholic. And Catholics are like that,” Flossie said.

“You must give this up,” Enid said. “It’s time. Louise is dead. You must face the facts.”

“Why?”

“Think about your legacy,” Enid said. “Do you want to go to your grave with everyone thinking you were the crazy old woman who accused Louise Houghton?”

“I don’t care what people think,” Flossie said proudly. “I never have. And I’ll never understand how my very own stepdaughter continued to be friends with Louise.”

“Ah, Flossie.” Enid shook her head. “If everyone in New York took sides over these petty, insignificant arguments, no one would have any friends at all.”

“I read something funny today,” the makeup artist said. “‘The Joys of Not Having It All.’”

“Not having it all?” Schiffer asked. “I’m living it.”

“A friend e-mailed it to m

e. I can e-mail it to you if you want.”

“Sure,” Schiffer said. “I’d love that.”

The makeup artist stepped back to look at Schiffer in the long mirror. “What do you think?”

“It’s perfect. We want it natural. I don’t think a mother superior would wear much makeup.”

“And after she has sex for the first time, we can make it more glamorous.”

The red-haired PA, Alan, stuck his head into the makeup room. “They’re ready for you,” he said to Schiffer.

“I’m ready,” she said, getting out of the chair.

“Schiffer Diamond is on her way,” Alan said into a headset.

They walked down a short corridor, then went through the construction department. Two tall metal doors led to one of the six sets. Inside, behind a maze of gray plywood walls, was a white backdrop. Several director’s chairs were set up a few feet away, clustered in front of a monitor. The director, Asa Williams, introduced himself. He was a brooding, gaunt man with a shaved head and a tattoo on his left wrist. He’d directed lots of TV and, recently, two hit movies. Milling around was the usual crowd of crew and executives, all wondering, no doubt, what Schiffer was going to be like. Difficult or professional? Schiffer was friendly but removed.

“You know the drill, right?” Asa said. She was led onto the set. Told to walk toward the camera. Turn to the right. Turn to the left. The battery in the camera died. There was a four-minute break while someone replaced it. She walked away and stood behind the director’s chairs. The executive producers were in a conversation with the network executives. “She still looks good.”

“Yes, she looks great.”

“But too pale, maybe.”

She was sent back to the makeup room for an adjustment. Sitting in the chair, she recalled the afternoon when Philip had knocked on the door of her trailer. He was still put out that she’d called his movie lousy. “If you think my movie sucks, why are you in it?” he’d asked.

“I didn’t say it sucked. I said it was lousy. There’s a big difference. You’re going to need much thicker skin if you’re going to survive in Hollywood,” she’d said.

“Who said I want to survive in Hollywood? And what makes you think I don’t have thick skin?”