Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [28]
“Well then, I accept.”
“Then can we just get on with this?” he asked softly.
“Addie! Addie? Addie!”
“Dyan, what’s wrong? Have you had an accident?”
“No, Addie. Yes. No. But I need help.”
“Are you in jail?”
“No-no-no. I need—I need—”
“Dyan, shut up and take three deep breaths.”
And so I did as I was told.
“Now, tell me,” Addie said.
“I’m cooking dinner for Cary.”
“Oh dear.” Addie knew better than anyone that I couldn’t find the right end of a can opener. “How did you get yourself into that?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a sigh. “He asked if I could cook—”
“And you told him yes?” Addie replied with alarm.
“But it’s worse than that! The shoot ran really late. I don’t have anything in the fridge. Nothing!” Plus, Corky’s housekeeper hadn’t shown up and the place looked like a bunch of frat boys had held an initiation party in it.
“I’m your agent, and I’ll get you jobs, “ she said, “but I’m not coming over to cook for you and Cary Grant!”
“Addie, I’d never ask you to do anything like that! No, I’m going to call La Scala and order takeout. Cary loves their rosemary chicken.”
“Better order a vegetable too.”
“Great idea! He loves their creamed spinach too.” Neither of us could cook, but when we put our heads together, we were unstoppable when it came to ordering. “Oh,” I added.
“Oh?”
“I was going to ask you to pick it up for me. The apartment is wrecked and I’m a mess. He’s due at eight.”
“Dyan, let me ask you something. What creature are you most afraid of?”
“Snakes.”
“Your next role will be Ismelda the Snake Lady.”
“Who’s Ismelda the Snake Lady?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to have a screenwriter working on it by tomorrow morning.”
With that, I whipped through the apartment like the White Tornado. I washed the dishes, polished the dining room table, stuffed my dirty clothes under the bed, and vacuumed. Then I took a quick shower and—with one bold sweep of the hand—dumped all of my cosmetics into the top drawer of the vanity. Then I got out the new hand towels my mother had sent me—they were pink and black, with little poodles embroidered in rhinestone on one side—and I hung them with great flourish. Done!
The next moment, Addie was at the door with the contraband chicken that I would brazenly pass off as my own creation. She hurried inside and helped me slide the food into ceramic dishes. “I’ve got an idea!” she said. “If you turn on the oven, he might really believe you cooked!”
“There’s a place in espionage for us, Addie!”
“What do you have to drink?”
“Oh.” The good bottle of champagne I’d picked up for the occasion was still in the freezer, where I’d forgotten it that morning. Now it was frozen solid.
“Okay, champagne-sicles,” Addie said. “Good-bye and good luck!” She then gathered up the incriminating La Scala bags, kissed me good-bye, and hurried off.
Cary must have pulled up just as Addie drove off. I flung myself back on the couch with an open book and tried to look pleasantly drowsy. That’s the kind of girl I was—I could act, I could cook, I could read. No, sir, life didn’t faze me! Then I remembered my cooking apron and put it on so that I could greet Cary at the door like a perfect 1950s housewife.
“You’re right on time!” I said, beaming.
“Yes!” he said. “And I’m famished. It smells great.”
“Rosemary chicken.”
“Great,” he said. “I’ll go wash my hands.”
I went to the kitchen and made a convincing racket—banging plates, slamming the oven door, opening drawers—then I slipped into a pair of oven mitts and took the warm plates to the table. Ha ha ha, my grandest culinary deception since I claimed credit for my high school boyfriend’s birthday cake.
Cary came out of the bathroom holding his hand vertically. It was gushing blood. “One of your poodle towels attacked me,” he grumbled. He had cut his hand on one of the rhinestones. “Maybe I’ll trade you Gumper for those towels. They’re certainly a lot more dangerous.” His sense of humor was masking some genuine irritation.
“Let me find