Genuine Lies

voice was unsteady. It was foolish to pretend he didn’t affect her. “Too fast.”
    “Not nearly soon or fast enough,” he muttered, but stepped away. Damned if he’d beg—for anyone, for anything. “All right. We’ll slow down for the moment. Seducing a woman in the kitchen with a trio of kids upstairs isn’t my usual style.” He went back for his beer. “You … change things, Julia. I believe I’d be better off to think this through as carefully as you.” He took a sip, then slammed the bottle aside. “Like hell I would.”
    Before he had taken a step toward her, stomping feet sounded on the stairs.

Gloria DuBarry was at an awkward age for an actress. Her official bio listed that awkwardness at fifty. Her birth certificate, under the name of Ernestine Blofield added five dangerous years to that mark.
    Heredity had been kind enough that she had required only minor tucks and lifts to maintain her ingenue image. She still wore her honey-blond hair in the short, boyish style that had been copied by millions of women during her heyday. Her gamine face was offset by huge and guileless blue eyes.
    The press adored her—she made sure of it. Always, she had graciously granted interviews. A press agent’s dream, she had been generous with pictures of her one and only wedding, had shared anecdotes and snapshots of her children.
    She was known as a loyal friend, a crusader of the right charities, Actors and Others for Animals being her current project.
    In the rebellious sixties, mainstream America had placed Gloria on a pedestal—a symbol of innocence, morality, and trust. They had kept her there, with Gloria’s help, for more than thirty years.
    In their one and only film together, Eve had played the carnivious older woman who had seduced and betrayed the innocent and long-suffering Gloria’s weak-willed husband. The roles had capped the image for each. Good girl. Bad woman. Oddly enough, the actresses had become friends.
    Cynics might say the relationship was aided by the fact that they had never been forced to compete for a role—or for a man. It would have been partially true.
    When Eve strolled into Chasen’s, Gloria was already seated, brooding over a glass of white wine. There weren’t many who knew Gloria well enough to see past the placid expression to the dissatisfaction beneath. Eve did. It was, she thought, going to be a long afternoon.
    “Champagne, Miss Benedict?” The waiter asked after the women had exchanged quick cheek pecks.
    “Naturally.” She was already reaching for a cigarette as she sat and gave the waiter a slow smile as he lighted it for her. It pleased her to know she was looking her best after her morning session. Her skin felt firm and taunt, her hair soft and sleek, her muscles limber. “How are you, Gloria?”
    “Well enough.” Her wide mouth tightened a little before she lifted her glass. “Considering how
Variety
gutted my new movie.”
    “The bottom line’s the box office line. You’ve been around too long to let the opinion of one snot-nosed critic worry you.”
    “I’m not as tough as you.” Gloria said it with the hint of a superior smirk. “You’d just tell the critic to—you know.”
    “Get fucked?” Eve said sweetly as the waiter placed her champagne on the table. Laughing, she patted his hand. “Sorry, darling, not you.”
    “Eve, really.” But there was a chuckle in Gloria’s voice as she leaned closer.
    The prim little girl caught giggling in church, Eve thought with some affection. What would it be like, she wondered, to actually believe your own press?
    “How’s Marcus?” she asked. “We missed you both at the benefit the other night.”
    “Oh, we were sorry to miss it. Marcus had the most vile headache. Poor dear. You can’t imagine how difficult it is, being in business these days.”
    The subject of Marcus Grant, Gloria’s husband of twenty-five years, always bored Eve. She made some noncommittal noise and picked up her menu.
    “And the restaurant business has to be the worst,” Gloria went on, always ready to suffer her husband’s woes—even when she didn’t understand them. “The health department’s always snooping around, and now people are crabbing about cholesterol and fat grams. They don’t take into account that Quick and Tasty’s practically fed middle-class America single-handedly.”
    “The little red box on every corner,” Eve commented, describing Marcus’s fast-food chain. “Don’t worry, Gloria,