Invisible(63)

“There’s a woman who wants to see you,” she said simply, and Antonia tried not to look annoyed. She missed the efficiency of Margaret and Brigid in London, but she didn’t need them. The housekeeper she’d hired locally was of a different caliber. She had worked for the previous owners for years.

    “Do you know who she is?” Antonia asked her.

“No. She didn’t say.” Antonia had the feeling she was selling something and didn’t want to deal with her, but the housekeeper didn’t seem to be equal to the task, so she got up from her desk and ran rapidly down the stairs. She wanted to get back to work. She was excited to be writing again. It made her feel free. She could do whatever she wanted.

The woman was sitting in the kitchen where Alva, the housekeeper, had left her. She was looking around, interested in her surroundings. And she gave a start when Antonia walked in. She looked a little worse than she had from Antonia’s office window. Her hair was badly dyed jet black and appeared painted on. She was wearing heavy makeup at ten o’clock in the morning, and her face was lined and weathered. You could see her bra through the blouse. She had a generous bosom. She was wearing bright red lipstick, and had a full sensual mouth. She seemed tired or used, as though she had seen too many good times and some hard ones, and the room was filled with the smell of cheap perfume. Antonia guessed her to be in her mid or late fifties.

“I’m Antonia Quist,” she said in an authoritative voice. She used her married name except for her writing, where she still intended to use her maiden name. “May I help you?” She hoped the woman wasn’t going to be hard to get rid of. She seemed like she had a mission. And she had a cheap plastic purse under her arm, decorated with rhinestones, most of which were missing.

The woman was staring at her intently, which made Antonia uneasy. She hoped she wasn’t crazy. She didn’t seem dangerous, just kind of sleazy.

    “You’re Antonia Adams, right?” Antonia could hear her French accent immediately, but her English was fluent.

“Yes, I am. And you are?”

“Fabienne Wheeler,” she said, narrowing her eyes at Antonia. “I used to be Fabienne Basquet…and Fabienne Adams. Does that mean anything to you?” she said in a wheedling tone. “I’m your mother,” she said, as though Antonia was supposed to rush into her arms and embrace her. Antonia was shocked but didn’t let it show. Her acting lessons served her well. She had waited eighteen years for this moment. But the woman looked nothing like the woman Antonia remembered and had hoped to find. She wasn’t beautiful anymore. The years hadn’t been kind.

“I recognize the name,” Antonia said coolly. She didn’t invite her to sit down again, or offer her a cup of coffee. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.” She didn’t know what else to say eighteen years after she’d walked out on her, with no news since.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy. I moved to L.A., then I moved to Vegas. I’m an actress,” she explained as though Antonia knew nothing about her. “I moved to New Orleans for a few years. I got married and moved to Buffalo. Then I got divorced, and moved to Connecticut.” She’d been all over the place and the marriage explained why Antonia couldn’t find her under Basquet or Adams.

“I tried to find you in L.A. when I was in college, but you weren’t listed and I didn’t know where else to look.”

Fabienne nodded but didn’t show any interest in what Antonia told her.

“I was an actress, and I want to get back into acting again. I know your husband was a big deal moviemaker. Sorry for your loss, by the way.” It was the phrase Antonia had most come to hate, it was like a dismissal when people didn’t really care, or know what to say. “And he put you in some movies, so you’re an actress now too. I figured you have some good connections and maybe you could help me.” She looked hopeful as Antonia stared at her in disbelief.

    “That’s why you came here? Eighteen years after you left me, never called, never even sent me a postcard, and now you come here and want me to get you work?” Antonia could feel anger begin to rise up in her like bile.

“Yeah, well, I guess you inherited my talent. And since I’m your mother, and you know the right people, maybe you want to help me.” Antonia wanted to ask her if she was crazy. But she could see now that what her father said about her was true, she was so narcissistic and obsessed with herself that it didn’t even dawn on her how inappropriate it was, and he was right, she did look like a cheap tramp too. She figured that Fabienne must have been much better-looking when her father met her. He wasn’t given to dating trampy-looking women, but she’d obviously seen eighteen years of bad road in the meantime, and had probably fallen on hard times when she left him and things hadn’t panned out for her in L.A. She didn’t ask Antonia how her father was, or even how she was. She had a single-track purpose.

“I’m not in the business anymore, and my husband died a year ago. And I can’t imagine why you’d come here and think I would want to help you. It took me a long time to get over your walking out on us, and my father never forgave you. You ruined his life.” She didn’t add “and mine.” Hamish more than made up for it in three short years.

    “Yeah, I guess that’s right. I saw you in a movie, you were pretty good,” she said, as Antonia tried not to lose her temper.