Villa Montparnasse, Room 212, 2:30pm
Bonnie stretched extravagantly when she woke, lazier and more well-slept than she had been, probably, since she got this dream job of nightmares. When she sat up and shook off the last fuzzy bits of sleep, she saw something on the bed next to her. A white rose, and a note:
-5pm, lobby. Leave the briefcase behind. Nez(mith)-
The handwriting was obvious, even if his means of access was not. Then again, maybe it was. Genie had swapped rooms, so why shouldn't she have coughed up a key? And Bonnie remembered, though she'd thought at the time it was a dream, that Nesmith was there with her. She'd begged a kiss, and he'd given her one. But the rest was silence. And how did he know she loved white roses? Who cares, she told herself. Correctly answering an unasked question was the coin of the realm for her and Nesmith. It was a bit late now, not to mention way too ironic, to question it.
She took the fancy cut glass water carafe from the table by the window and filled it with water, put the rose in it and set it on the bureau. Romance, Pam had said there should be some romance when you're in Paris. Well if this was as close as it came, it was more than okay. Nesmith didn't strike her as the stereotypically romantic type anyway, his close attention played out in a much less symbolic way. Like trips to New York to bring back a part of her she thought was gone forever, and making Benny's music come alive to an audience. She'd never craved the "classic romance" thing herself, the flowers and poetry (except for well written songs) that other girls she'd known seemed to live for. They were nice, but you couldn't take them all on their own as something special. But Mike's single rose touched her, anyway, as much as his silent visit, even though Ari had warned her time and again, "Flowers don't tell you anything, any jerk can buy flowers."
"Omigod, Ari," Bonnie gasped. Nesmith had said he had his number, but she knew the number for Strings Attached by heart, even now. It was before noon in New York, but it was also Friday. If Ari hadn't changed, he'd be there with a skeleton crew getting things ready for that night. She knew he hadn't changed, he would never. Big name or newcomer, every performer got the same treatment, and that included having the club set up as if every night was opening night.
She dialed 0 and told the desk, "S'il vous plait, chargez cet appel à la chambre deux-cent douze, merci beaucoup." Then she dialed the number that she'd never forget, even if she tried. A young man answered.
"Strings Attached, doors open at six-thirty, first set at eight. You wanna know who's playing, you gotta come down."
That made her laugh. Ari would advertise in the paper and on posters in the Village but he never gave information on the phone. He thought it made callers more inclined to show up out of curiosity.
"That's okay, I'm calling from out of town. Is Ari around?"
"Isn't he always? He's pretty busy, can I give him a message?"
"Just tell him Siobhan's calling from Paris."
"Oh, wow, long distance. I'll get him." She heard the phone bounce none too gently on the bar, and the call of "Hey, Ari, phone call from Paris! Yeah, Paris! I dunno, maybe it's Texas, come on and find out! Lady says to tell you it's Siobhan."
She really hadn't expected to cry; it wasn't even on her mind. But then she heard the breathless Brooklyn honk, and knew he had to have covered the length of the club in about two steps.
'Siobhan? Sweetheart, baby, Siobhan? Is that you?"
She tried to say something, but got tangled in tears after managing, "Ari? Yeah it's me…" After a second she went on, "Ari I'm so sorry…"
"Now just cut that out, you. Yeah so you left, so you didn't call or write, boo hoo me. Well here you are, and from Paris of all places. Texas, or France?"
"France. Forgive me, Ari? I didn't mean to walk away for so long, I really didn't, but it got easier and easier not to think about it…"
Now his voice was quietly understanding. "I know, kid. Forgive you? For what? There's nothing to forgive. Some things take some time, I know that. But I'm glad you called. Thank your friend Mike for giving you my number."
Now she started crying for real. "How could you think I forgot it? How could you think that… after all you did for us, for me, after all that time we spent there… it's like my own name, I could never forget it!"
"Calm down, now. Did I say you forgot? I think maybe you just needed a noodge. Okay, a kick in the pants maybe. So. You heard the tape."
"Yeah, I heard the tape. It was like getting out of jail, Ari, to know that it existed somewhere outside my head, that what Benny made could just sail through the air like it did before."
"I gotta say, that is the nicest, most solid decent thing I've seen in years, what your friend Mike did."
"I know." Uneasy that he might start asking questions she couldn't answer just yet, Bonnie said, "So you haven't asked what I'm doing in Paris."
"So?"
"So we're doing an episode in Paris, same crazy crap we do in L.A. but 'more exotic' Bob says. You know what I do, right Ari? Working for Bob Rafelson, he's crazy and can be a real pain but he also is like trying to keep up with a psycho genius. Not that he's always right, but he just spews out the ideas and makes the plans and my job is to do the details. And ride herd on the most appropriately named band of hooligans in the business."
"Sounds like you like your job. I already know you're good at it."
"Jury's out on both sometimes, man. This week… fifty-fifty. But how are you? How's the club?"
"I'm a few years older and a few pounds fatter, but lighter in hair. Club's the same as always, a bottomless pit of hopeless cases and occasional mind-blowing miracles."
(like Benny, they both thought simultaneously)
"I miss you, kid. Think you might pry yourself loose from your jet setting career to visit an aging Jew folk music impresario?"
"I'd really like to, Ari. I'm just so busy…"
"Yeah, yeah, so am I… busy is bullshit, and you know it. You think you have all the time in the world, well you don't. Nobody knows that better than you. Come back, spend a few days, bring that rock star boyfriend of yours. I got the feeling he was really itching to get back into some real music."
"He's not my boyfriend, we're just, I dunno, whatever we are. But you're right, he gets so he's crazy to sit down with the real thing. There's a club in L.A., the Troubadour, he plays there with his friends sometimes. I think he'd like Strings."
"Well we ain't no Troubadour, but it's sure as hell the real thing. Look, this must be costing a fortune."
"Haven't you heard? I work for Raybert, the hottest production company in Hollywood, I'm just swimming in money. But unfortunately part of my job is to make sure the pool stays full, so yeah I should go." There was a second or two of silence. "Ari? You there?"
"I've been here all along, sweetheart. I always will be, whenever you want to come home for a visit."
"I will, I swear I will. We got a few more epis to tape after this monster and then we get four weeks off. I'll be there, I swear."
"Bring your boyfriend. I hear he plays a mean guitar."
"Jesus H, Ari, he's not my boyfr…"
"Sez you. Oy re-voyar, Siobhan sweetie."
The line went dead.
Bonnie hung up the phone, staring and smiling at it, shaking her head as if it were Ari sitting there. She looked over at the rose on the bureau.
"He really isn't. He's just… pretty much exactly what I need every time I need it, and I know it's not because it comes naturally."
The small mantel clock was chiming three-thirty. Time for another luxurious shower and leisurely lounge-about before she went downstairs.
Five pm... Leave the briefcase behind.
"Dig that," she declared as she headed for the bathroom.
Downstairs, Davy was getting ready to hit the street again, having chatted up a willing barmaid who now waited for him at a local café. And thank God she could speak English and was not inclined to deep, meaningful conversation. As he exited the lobby, he nearly collided with a statuesque brunette wearing a tight fitting blue dress and very high heels.
"Allo, luv, didn't see ya there." He eyed her up and down (mostly up) appreciatively.
"Je cherche Bonnie Morris," the woman spoke in Russian-accented French, then corrected herself to speak in Russian-accented English. "I look for Bonnie Morris."
"Ah, well she's staying here but I don't know where she is at the moment. She and me mate have a date at five o'clock," he pointed to his watch, "five. She should be by around then. But y'know we already got all the models we need, so don't know if she can help you." She looked a little rough compared to the women they'd hired that afternoon. Maybe she was looking for work as an extra.
"Is okay. I will wait." She moved to a café next door and sat down at one of the tables.
"Groovy. I'm off then."
The woman lit a cigarette and ordered a kir from the waiter. Then she sat back, crossed her legs, and kept a steady eye on the door of the hotel, watching and listening for any women who were speaking English and seemed to be here on the business of making television films.
"S'il vous plait, chargez cet appel à la chambre deux-cent douze, merci beaucoup." - "Please charge this call to room two-twelve