She lived there November through February, renting it out the rest of the year, mostly to people in the film and TV industry.
“The old girl’s looking good,” I said.
“Thanks,” Reeny said. She flashed me a coy smile. “Oh, you mean Pendragon. It takes a lot to keep her — and me — in shape these days. Neither of us is getting any younger.”
“Well, you both seem to be doing just fine.”
“You smooth-talking devil,” she said. “You really know how to turn a girl’s head.”
We went aboard. A huge arrangement of tropical flowers wrapped in clear cellophane stood in a vase by the pilothouse hatch.
“Oh, hell,” Reeny groaned.
“Do you have a secret admirer?”
“Not so secret,” she said, removing the card and handing it to me without reading it.
The flowers were from Willson Quayle. “To my favourite Virgin,” the card read. “Let’s do it again soon. Call me.” It was signed with a florid “Will” and included a telephone number and email address.
“Oh, god,” she said, perhaps reading something in my face. “What does it say?” I handed her the card. She read it, then crumpled it in her fist. “I had dinner with him last night. The producer’s idea, not mine. He likes to keep the sponsors happy. I think he and Will are old pals and Will’s been after me for weeks to go out with him. So…” Her voice faltered, red blooming on her cheekbones.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I said.
“I wasn’t explaining myself,” she said. “Well, maybe I was. It’s just that I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
What was the right idea? I wondered. “I have to admit, he’s got good taste,” I said.
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” she said, picking up the flowers and unlocking the hatch to the pilot-house. I hadn’t been referring to the flowers, of course.
We went below. Standing the flowers on the chart table, she went into the small galley and took a bottle of white wine out of the under-the-counter fridge.
“Here,” she said, handing me the bottle. “Open this and pour a couple of glasses.” She went into the forward stateroom while I opened the wine. A minute later, she came out of the stateroom barefoot, wrapped in a big white terry robe, with her hair pinned up, emphasizing the strong lines and angles of her face.
“Thanks,” she said when I handed her a glass. She took a gulp, then said, “Why don’t you order the pizza while I take my shower.”
“Spinach, broccoli, and mushroom, with extra cheese.”
“You remember,” she said.
She went into the head to shower and I ordered a half-and-half pizza, vegetarian for her, all-dressed for me. When she came out of the head, hair damp, still wrapped in the big terry robe, she smelled of floral soap and baby powder, not quite as stimulating as her natural scent, but nonetheless pleasant. Her wineglass was empty, so I refilled it, and she took it into the master stateroom. She emerged a few minutes later dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with the Star Crossed logo on the back. Her wineglass was half empty. Or half full, depending on your perspective.
“One-Way Willie left some tapes of the show,” I said.
“Did you watch them?”
“Um, yes, sort of.”
“Pretty dreadful, eh?”
I hemmed and hawed, then hemmed some more, not sure what to say.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “You won’t hurt my feelings. I know it’s awful. We all do. Most of us, anyway. Kenny Shapiro, the director, thinks it’s the best thing since the original Star Trek. The principal writer, too. He’s about fifteen, I think.”
We stayed below, chatting and drinking white wine. She told me about her dinner date with Quayle. I was guiltily pleased that she hadn’t enjoyed it. “He couldn’t seem to keep his hands off me,” she said, demonstrating. “He kept touching my arm, my leg, my shoulder. And after boring me almost catatonic with these incredibly dull stories about the toy business, he seemed genuinely shocked that I didn’t go home with him.”
I told her about the man who’d died on my roof deck, but she had no idea who he was, of course. When the pizza arrived, we switched to red wine and ate above, on the aft deck, enjoying the late summer evening. The gentle breeze rattling through the forest of masts and spars and spreaders had an almost musical quality. Somewhere, someone strummed a guitar and sang quietly, albeit slightly off key, about paving over paradise. We didn’t talk much as we ate. The silences were comfortable.
“Can I ask you something?” Reeny said when we’d finished.
“Nothing too difficult, I hope,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”
“You should be able to handle it,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“The producers are pressuring us to do more nudity,” she said.
“Really?” I said, interest piqued.
“For the European market,” she added with a smile. “Ricky has a no-nudity clause in her contract, not even body doubles, so of the regulars, that leaves just me.”
“How do you feel about it?” I asked.
“I’m not sure.”
I leered pointedly at her chest. She filled out her T-shirt nicely, but she was not nearly as well endowed as her character. Reeny looked down, then back up at me, her smile turning crooked.
“How would it work?” I asked. “I mean, given Virgin’s, um, physical attributes. Latex boobs, like the monster masks? Or, what did you call them, body doubles?”
“The producers haven’t come right out and said so, but they’ve dropped a few not-so-subtle hints that they wouldn’t object if I got implants.”
“And how do you feel about that?” I asked. I knew how I felt. Faintly queasy.
“I’m not interested.”
“So what is it you wanted to ask me?”
“I guess what I wanted was some feedback, an objective point of view.” That made me smile. She smiled back. “I don’t have any particular qualms about gratuitously baring my, ah, attributes, as you put it, if the producers make it worth my while. I already gratuitously almost do anyway, although if I really did, there’d be some very disappointed fans. I’m going to tell the producers that they take me as is or not at all. There’s no way in hell I’m going to get implants.” She sat up, struggled to suppress a yawn. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
I stood. “I should go. You probably have to get up early.”
“I do,” she said.
