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Your wish and all that....enjoy, dear ones!
Chapter 125: Getting Down to Business
This was not going the way he had expected. The man with the briefcase had not been making a pass—he had been making an offer, and Clifford had assumed that Tricia and the other girls would be thrilled to have the groundwork laid for them. But either he had miscalculated—badly—about what they wanted or he had not done a very good job of explaining the offer to them. He was choosing to think the latter, but also thinking that if he didn’t carry his point now it was going to be one heck of a long trip back to Mabel’s house. On foot.
“What on earth gives you the right to bargain on our behalf?!” Tricia demanded. He was taller than she was but not by much and she was right up in his grill, flushed with fury and indignation. The rest of the girls were still in the bar, but when Tricia’s reaction promised to become more heated than elated, Clifford had gestured her outside to the arguable privacy of the parking lot near the van.
“Whoa, whoa,” Clifford said. He would have put his hands out in a placating gesture (or to hold Tricia off if she decided to go for his jugular) but she was so close to him that he was afraid to make any hand gestures for fear of having his block knocked off. “I did no bargaining—“ he began.
“You got that right!” Tricia practically spat. “You probably think we’d settle for just anything because we’re girls—“
“You don’t know jack about what I think,” Clifford snapped, and the anger in his voice made Tricia step back in surprise. “I did not presume to speak for you—or for the band. I made it plain that I was just someone along for the show and that if he wanted to talk to the one in charge, it would have to be you.”
“Oh,” said Tricia, her face reddening in embarrassment. “I—“
“And I do not think that you could or should settle for anything other than a decent, fair-minded offer that does not impinge on your creative control or paint you into a corner musically!”
“Clifford, I—“
“And while I actually do know a thing or two about a thing or two—say, recording contracts—I did not, and will not presume to speak for you or about you.” Or to you, Clifford thought darkly, if you’re gonna bite my head off.
“Look—“
“And I am officially out of your business,” he said, dark eyes snapping. “You want to sign to make an album and go on tour with him—fine. But I’m not part of this package, and I am not part of your band, so go ahead and paddle your own canoe all you want.”
“Clifford, I didn’t—“
“Get in there!” Clifford demanded. “You think offers like this come every day of the world? The rest of the band is counting on you, little miss hotshot, so you’d better take it to the man like you mean it!” His voice was angry, but when he reached for her his hands were careful and gentle. Even when he was mad, he would not manhandle her or be rough with her. He took her shoulders gently and turned her around, then gave her a little push back toward the Bat, Bolt and Skull. For a moment, Tricia hesitated, and Clifford almost wished she would turn back, but then he saw her square her slim shoulders, straighten her spine and thrust her chin out pugnaciously. She stalked toward the door like she meant to do business.
Kermit was on his second cup of coffee when his phone rang, and he looked at it, answered it and had it up to his aural organ before the second ring. Ha! he thought. Take that, Marty! “Um, hello?” Kermit said.
“Hey! You’re finally getting the hang of that phone!” Marty said, and Kermit felt both proud and sheepish that Piggy’s agent had noticed.
“Well, having your wife on the opposite coast will certainly improve your phone skills,” Kermit said dryly, putting a purposeful damper on Marty’s enthusiasm.
“That it will,” Marty rumbled. “Look—speaking of—“
Kermit’s heart gave a great heave in his chest. He felt like he’d been crabby and morose last night on the phone with Piggy. He hoped this was good news….
“—um, look, I’m probably just an ol’ worrywart but I want to do something and I need your help.”
“My help?” said Kermit, scowling at the phone. He did not say, “The last time I helped you, you sent my wife to the opposite side of the continent,” but he could have, and they both knew it. “What can I help you with, Marty?”
“Look,” said Marty, and Kermit heard the wheedle in his voice. It cheered him, actually, that Marty was petitioning for his help, and he felt more benevolent than before. “I know that Piggy’s a big girl and she can take care of herself and everything, but the fan base has been on overdrive since she got on Broadway. I’m wondering if I maybe ought to send somebody up there to keep an eye on her—“
“Send me!” Kermit said, then clamped his hand over his mouth.
“Said that out loud, did you?” Marty chuckled, and his voice became warm and soothing. “I’d like to send you, bucko, but you’re up to your little green gills in post-production. I heard you got the film replaced.”
Good grief! Kermit thought. Was the man clairvoyant? Did he know everything?
“We did,” Kermit sighed. “And we found out what the problem was.” He hesitated. “You didn’t—you aren’t telling Piggy any of this, are you?”
“You bet your buttons I’m not,” Marty said. “She’d be down here in a flat second ready to go to war on your behalf.”
“I know,” groaned Kermit. “That’s why I didn’t tell her….” He trailed off. Marty might know about the film—he seemed to know everything about everyone’s projects in this business, but he did not know about the freezer. Kermit felt suddenly cold. If someone had taken a pass at him to hurt the studio, they might take a pass at Piggy! Why hadn’t he thought of that? He was an idiot, a buffoon, a—
“Kermit?”
“You were saying something about sending someone up there to take care of Piggy? Like a bodyguard?” Kermit sighed. “I’m for it, but she’d never go for that.”
Marty snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He could tell Kermit something he didn’t know, but what would be the point of it? Could the frog do anything from down here except hire protection? And wasn’t he taking care of that for him? “So, the question is—can you think of anybody we could send up there that she would put up with? Anybody who might blend?”
“Let me think about it a minute,” Kermit said. Blending meant Gonzo was out, and he couldn’t send Fozzie. Fozzie would spill his guts the second Piggy sat him down with honey pancakes and milk. The band could blend anywhere, and so could Rowlf, but they were all gone. All this he related to Marty. “I’m having a hard time thinking of anyone,” said Kermit. “I’d send Scooter but I might as well go myself. I’m no good here without him, and he can’t do the work without me. And besides—I can’t go. Yet.”
“Good to hear that ‘yet,’” Marty chuckled. “We're gonna work it out.”
“Yeah, I just wish—wait. Wait! I…I might know someone,” Kermit said excitedly. “I’m pretty sure he’s available, and Piggy won’t see him as a threat to her self-sufficiency.”
Kermit could hear Marty smile, and in spite of their differences, he felt warm and chummy with the man right now. If he knew Piggy, so did Marty, and if they couldn’t always be on the same side of things, at least they could collaborate.
“Sounds like a likely prospect,” Marty said. “Give me a name and I’ll give him a call. Oh! And if I wasn’t clear before, I’m gonna take the fall on this one, okay? She’s already mad at me, but she’ll be a good girl if I tell her I’m a foolish old man worried about her welfare….” This time, it was Marty who heard Kermit grinning into the phone. “Yeah, she’s a sucker for a soft touch,” Marty said. “So sue me.”
“I might, one day,” Kermit said conversationally, and then Marty laughed out loud and they got down to business.
After they hung up, Marty sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and neck. Okay, he thought. The hard part is over. Now comes the harder part. He picked up the phone again.
It took Piggy a determined 45 minutes to get the puffiness under her eyes to abate, but it was worth it. If she saw Thoreau or Howard without looking her radiant best, they’d be sure to rat her out to Kermit. For a moment, Piggy selfishly wished someone would rat her out to Kermit. Then he’d come up here in an absolute fury, ready to defend her and smother her with protectiveness and kisses. Tears sprang suddenly into her eyes and she dabbed them hastily. Smother is right. She did not need a defender. She could take care of herself.
"As long as you have your trusty Boswell around…," her brain taunted, and Piggy gave a little “Oh!” of vexation and threw herself out the door. She looked toward Mei-Wah’s door, but she knew her neighbor had gone in early to help get ready for the lunch rush. Carefully, Piggy entered the stairwell, only just aware that she was looking nervously for people who didn’t belong in the building, but she shook off her fears irritably. Mei-Wah had probably only been accosted because she had hot food on her. Why, at the theater, someone had tried to do more than mug her, so she was being a ninny worrying about muggers near the apartment. Besides, hadn’t she dispatched any of them that had dared to lay a grubby hand on her new purse? She felt suddenly better. Her phone rang and she looked down and smiled before answering.
“Yes, Moishe—I’m coming.”
“Well, good,” said the cabbie gruffly. “I got the meter running and everything and when you didn’t show up after you called….”
Moishe’s worry dispelled her own.
“I’m fine,” Piggy insisted. “Nobody even knows Moi is staying here,” she chided, and Moishe merely grunted in return.
“Well, I’m being careful,” he said, “but you've got to be careful, too. Lot of crazies in this town.”
“Yes. Probably why Moi’s show is sold out,” Piggy quipped. “I’m coming out!” She hung up the little phone and stepped onto the street. Moishe had the cab door open and hustled her into the front seat in record time. Once he got in himself, he presented her with a hot coffee and a cheese Danish. Piggy looked at them and her smile grew tremulous.
“Little gal like you, living alone—you don’t eat half proper, I’ll bet,” Moishe grumbled to hide his pleasure. "Sylvia says I've got to bring you around to the house sometime and get some real food in you. You like potato pancakes?”
Piggy nodded, overwhelmed by the way he had opened his cab and his heart to her. She chose her answer carefully. “Tell Sylvia I would love to come by for a pancake sometime,” she said, smiling. “But not until my dressmaker leaves town!”
And Moishe just laughed, put the cab in Drive, and surged out onto the street.
Chad stumbled into the kitchen looking rumpled and in need of a shave. Wordlessly, Rory poured him a cup of coffee—real coffee—and waited until he’d taken a couple of grateful gulps to try to initiate conversation.
“Oh my gosh,” Chad mumbled. “This is heavenly. Is this real coffee?”
“Your mom is a peach,” said Rory. “And she’s gone out for Danish.”
Chad clutched his flat stomach protectively. “If she stays the week I’m going to grow old and fat!” he protested.
“Well, at least you won’t go alone,” Rory murmured, leaning against the sink and watching his partner’s melodrama with amusement.
Chad smirked and blushed. “So you say now,” he mumbled, “but we still have to go to brunch with your darling girl,” he complained. “My fur suit won’t zip and I’ll lose my job.”
“So we’ll order you oatmeal while we chow down on caviar on toast points.”
“You will not!”
“Come over here and warm up your coffee,” Rory said, laughing, and Chad did.
“Don’t know what I’m gonna do when my brother comes in,” said Sally Ann thoughtfully. “My apartment’s really small.”
“Is he cute?”
“He’s my brother!”
“So,” Gloria Jean repeated. “Is he cute or not?”
“And I repeat, he’s my brother. Which means he has fabulous cheekbones.”
“Does he have fabulous abs?” Laura May teased. She was still unencumbered by a boyfriend.
“Pretty much,” said Sally Ann. “They’re bored a lot, when they aren’t getting shot at. He’s been working out.”
“My apartment is available!” teased Gloria Jean, but Sally Ann just snorted.
“Your apartment is smaller than mine!” she protested.
“I know—that’s why I asked if he was cute!”
Sally Ann flung a shoe at her, but playfully. It was only a scuff, not a clog.
“Hey—he’s my baby brother. Be nice.”
Gloria Jean grinned and handed back the scuff. “How about I room with you, then, and he takes over my place? We’ve roomed together in some really tight places before.”
“Don’t even get me started on the bus lockers…,” Laura May began, and the girls all giggled. Sally Ann took one final look in the mirror, blotting her lipstick.
“So—how do I look? Ready for an audition?”
“Ready as you’ll ever be,” said Laura May. “And those shoes make your legs look amazing.”
Sally Ann smiled at her friend. “Thank you, Laura May. Now we’d better get going or Amy Lu will think we’ve forgotten her.”
“I hope they hire us!” said Gloria Jean. “I’m so bored I’m thinking of calling Rizzo up.”
“Aw, Rizzo’s not so bad,” said Laura May. “He can be a real sweet-talker when he wants.”
“Yeah,” said Gloria Jean. “He’s not a bad sort.” She took a deep breath. “Good thing I’ve got this audition to think about,” she said. “Otherwise….”
And here, her friends had pity on her and dragged her out the door before she could call.
The phone in Howard’s room rang. Howard shrieked, still shaving, but Thoreau walked calmly over and answered it after the first two rings.
“Only my friends have this number,” he drawled into the phone.
“That probably explains why Moi has it,” said Piggy’s amused voice. “I called your cell first but you didn’t answer.”
Thoreau looked down at his phone in surprise. He had a vague recollection of turning the sound off the night before to prevent it ringing at an awkward moment.
“You did, Darling,” Thoreau admitted. “Excusez-moi, mon chere!”
“And why didn’t you answer your phone?” Piggy demanded.
“Are you here at the hotel?” Thoreau said, dodging artfully. “We’re having coffee in Howard’s room!”
“J’arrive! Keep your pants on!” Piggy growled, and stepped out of the elevator. There was a second—when a trenchcoated man came bustling down the hallway—when Piggy almost shrieked with terror, but she managed to get a grip on herself. The man looked up from his phone, realized he was bearing down on her impolitely, and slowed his gait.
“Pardon me,” he said, raising his hat.
“Not at all,” said Piggy, and the man looked at her closer.
“I say,” he said suddenly. “I beg your pardon, Miss…Miss Piggy.” He smiled charmingly. “I thought that was you. Sorry to have startled you.”
So it had shown, Piggy thought dismally. She had to get a grip on herself. If she went around jumping at every little Tom, Dick or Donald, she’d work herself into a state of exhaustion.
“Not at all,” she repeated, and gave a little laugh before trotting down the hall to Howard’s room.
The door opened before she could knock, and she was—at once—engulfed in the arms of friends. If they notice she clung to them a little longer than she usually did, noone commented. When she came into the room, she was all business.
“I believe you have a present for Moi?”
Chapter 125: Getting Down to Business
This was not going the way he had expected. The man with the briefcase had not been making a pass—he had been making an offer, and Clifford had assumed that Tricia and the other girls would be thrilled to have the groundwork laid for them. But either he had miscalculated—badly—about what they wanted or he had not done a very good job of explaining the offer to them. He was choosing to think the latter, but also thinking that if he didn’t carry his point now it was going to be one heck of a long trip back to Mabel’s house. On foot.
“What on earth gives you the right to bargain on our behalf?!” Tricia demanded. He was taller than she was but not by much and she was right up in his grill, flushed with fury and indignation. The rest of the girls were still in the bar, but when Tricia’s reaction promised to become more heated than elated, Clifford had gestured her outside to the arguable privacy of the parking lot near the van.
“Whoa, whoa,” Clifford said. He would have put his hands out in a placating gesture (or to hold Tricia off if she decided to go for his jugular) but she was so close to him that he was afraid to make any hand gestures for fear of having his block knocked off. “I did no bargaining—“ he began.
“You got that right!” Tricia practically spat. “You probably think we’d settle for just anything because we’re girls—“
“You don’t know jack about what I think,” Clifford snapped, and the anger in his voice made Tricia step back in surprise. “I did not presume to speak for you—or for the band. I made it plain that I was just someone along for the show and that if he wanted to talk to the one in charge, it would have to be you.”
“Oh,” said Tricia, her face reddening in embarrassment. “I—“
“And I do not think that you could or should settle for anything other than a decent, fair-minded offer that does not impinge on your creative control or paint you into a corner musically!”
“Clifford, I—“
“And while I actually do know a thing or two about a thing or two—say, recording contracts—I did not, and will not presume to speak for you or about you.” Or to you, Clifford thought darkly, if you’re gonna bite my head off.
“Look—“
“And I am officially out of your business,” he said, dark eyes snapping. “You want to sign to make an album and go on tour with him—fine. But I’m not part of this package, and I am not part of your band, so go ahead and paddle your own canoe all you want.”
“Clifford, I didn’t—“
“Get in there!” Clifford demanded. “You think offers like this come every day of the world? The rest of the band is counting on you, little miss hotshot, so you’d better take it to the man like you mean it!” His voice was angry, but when he reached for her his hands were careful and gentle. Even when he was mad, he would not manhandle her or be rough with her. He took her shoulders gently and turned her around, then gave her a little push back toward the Bat, Bolt and Skull. For a moment, Tricia hesitated, and Clifford almost wished she would turn back, but then he saw her square her slim shoulders, straighten her spine and thrust her chin out pugnaciously. She stalked toward the door like she meant to do business.
Kermit was on his second cup of coffee when his phone rang, and he looked at it, answered it and had it up to his aural organ before the second ring. Ha! he thought. Take that, Marty! “Um, hello?” Kermit said.
“Hey! You’re finally getting the hang of that phone!” Marty said, and Kermit felt both proud and sheepish that Piggy’s agent had noticed.
“Well, having your wife on the opposite coast will certainly improve your phone skills,” Kermit said dryly, putting a purposeful damper on Marty’s enthusiasm.
“That it will,” Marty rumbled. “Look—speaking of—“
Kermit’s heart gave a great heave in his chest. He felt like he’d been crabby and morose last night on the phone with Piggy. He hoped this was good news….
“—um, look, I’m probably just an ol’ worrywart but I want to do something and I need your help.”
“My help?” said Kermit, scowling at the phone. He did not say, “The last time I helped you, you sent my wife to the opposite side of the continent,” but he could have, and they both knew it. “What can I help you with, Marty?”
“Look,” said Marty, and Kermit heard the wheedle in his voice. It cheered him, actually, that Marty was petitioning for his help, and he felt more benevolent than before. “I know that Piggy’s a big girl and she can take care of herself and everything, but the fan base has been on overdrive since she got on Broadway. I’m wondering if I maybe ought to send somebody up there to keep an eye on her—“
“Send me!” Kermit said, then clamped his hand over his mouth.
“Said that out loud, did you?” Marty chuckled, and his voice became warm and soothing. “I’d like to send you, bucko, but you’re up to your little green gills in post-production. I heard you got the film replaced.”
Good grief! Kermit thought. Was the man clairvoyant? Did he know everything?
“We did,” Kermit sighed. “And we found out what the problem was.” He hesitated. “You didn’t—you aren’t telling Piggy any of this, are you?”
“You bet your buttons I’m not,” Marty said. “She’d be down here in a flat second ready to go to war on your behalf.”
“I know,” groaned Kermit. “That’s why I didn’t tell her….” He trailed off. Marty might know about the film—he seemed to know everything about everyone’s projects in this business, but he did not know about the freezer. Kermit felt suddenly cold. If someone had taken a pass at him to hurt the studio, they might take a pass at Piggy! Why hadn’t he thought of that? He was an idiot, a buffoon, a—
“Kermit?”
“You were saying something about sending someone up there to take care of Piggy? Like a bodyguard?” Kermit sighed. “I’m for it, but she’d never go for that.”
Marty snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He could tell Kermit something he didn’t know, but what would be the point of it? Could the frog do anything from down here except hire protection? And wasn’t he taking care of that for him? “So, the question is—can you think of anybody we could send up there that she would put up with? Anybody who might blend?”
“Let me think about it a minute,” Kermit said. Blending meant Gonzo was out, and he couldn’t send Fozzie. Fozzie would spill his guts the second Piggy sat him down with honey pancakes and milk. The band could blend anywhere, and so could Rowlf, but they were all gone. All this he related to Marty. “I’m having a hard time thinking of anyone,” said Kermit. “I’d send Scooter but I might as well go myself. I’m no good here without him, and he can’t do the work without me. And besides—I can’t go. Yet.”
“Good to hear that ‘yet,’” Marty chuckled. “We're gonna work it out.”
“Yeah, I just wish—wait. Wait! I…I might know someone,” Kermit said excitedly. “I’m pretty sure he’s available, and Piggy won’t see him as a threat to her self-sufficiency.”
Kermit could hear Marty smile, and in spite of their differences, he felt warm and chummy with the man right now. If he knew Piggy, so did Marty, and if they couldn’t always be on the same side of things, at least they could collaborate.
“Sounds like a likely prospect,” Marty said. “Give me a name and I’ll give him a call. Oh! And if I wasn’t clear before, I’m gonna take the fall on this one, okay? She’s already mad at me, but she’ll be a good girl if I tell her I’m a foolish old man worried about her welfare….” This time, it was Marty who heard Kermit grinning into the phone. “Yeah, she’s a sucker for a soft touch,” Marty said. “So sue me.”
“I might, one day,” Kermit said conversationally, and then Marty laughed out loud and they got down to business.
After they hung up, Marty sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and neck. Okay, he thought. The hard part is over. Now comes the harder part. He picked up the phone again.
It took Piggy a determined 45 minutes to get the puffiness under her eyes to abate, but it was worth it. If she saw Thoreau or Howard without looking her radiant best, they’d be sure to rat her out to Kermit. For a moment, Piggy selfishly wished someone would rat her out to Kermit. Then he’d come up here in an absolute fury, ready to defend her and smother her with protectiveness and kisses. Tears sprang suddenly into her eyes and she dabbed them hastily. Smother is right. She did not need a defender. She could take care of herself.
"As long as you have your trusty Boswell around…," her brain taunted, and Piggy gave a little “Oh!” of vexation and threw herself out the door. She looked toward Mei-Wah’s door, but she knew her neighbor had gone in early to help get ready for the lunch rush. Carefully, Piggy entered the stairwell, only just aware that she was looking nervously for people who didn’t belong in the building, but she shook off her fears irritably. Mei-Wah had probably only been accosted because she had hot food on her. Why, at the theater, someone had tried to do more than mug her, so she was being a ninny worrying about muggers near the apartment. Besides, hadn’t she dispatched any of them that had dared to lay a grubby hand on her new purse? She felt suddenly better. Her phone rang and she looked down and smiled before answering.
“Yes, Moishe—I’m coming.”
“Well, good,” said the cabbie gruffly. “I got the meter running and everything and when you didn’t show up after you called….”
Moishe’s worry dispelled her own.
“I’m fine,” Piggy insisted. “Nobody even knows Moi is staying here,” she chided, and Moishe merely grunted in return.
“Well, I’m being careful,” he said, “but you've got to be careful, too. Lot of crazies in this town.”
“Yes. Probably why Moi’s show is sold out,” Piggy quipped. “I’m coming out!” She hung up the little phone and stepped onto the street. Moishe had the cab door open and hustled her into the front seat in record time. Once he got in himself, he presented her with a hot coffee and a cheese Danish. Piggy looked at them and her smile grew tremulous.
“Little gal like you, living alone—you don’t eat half proper, I’ll bet,” Moishe grumbled to hide his pleasure. "Sylvia says I've got to bring you around to the house sometime and get some real food in you. You like potato pancakes?”
Piggy nodded, overwhelmed by the way he had opened his cab and his heart to her. She chose her answer carefully. “Tell Sylvia I would love to come by for a pancake sometime,” she said, smiling. “But not until my dressmaker leaves town!”
And Moishe just laughed, put the cab in Drive, and surged out onto the street.
Chad stumbled into the kitchen looking rumpled and in need of a shave. Wordlessly, Rory poured him a cup of coffee—real coffee—and waited until he’d taken a couple of grateful gulps to try to initiate conversation.
“Oh my gosh,” Chad mumbled. “This is heavenly. Is this real coffee?”
“Your mom is a peach,” said Rory. “And she’s gone out for Danish.”
Chad clutched his flat stomach protectively. “If she stays the week I’m going to grow old and fat!” he protested.
“Well, at least you won’t go alone,” Rory murmured, leaning against the sink and watching his partner’s melodrama with amusement.
Chad smirked and blushed. “So you say now,” he mumbled, “but we still have to go to brunch with your darling girl,” he complained. “My fur suit won’t zip and I’ll lose my job.”
“So we’ll order you oatmeal while we chow down on caviar on toast points.”
“You will not!”
“Come over here and warm up your coffee,” Rory said, laughing, and Chad did.
“Don’t know what I’m gonna do when my brother comes in,” said Sally Ann thoughtfully. “My apartment’s really small.”
“Is he cute?”
“He’s my brother!”
“So,” Gloria Jean repeated. “Is he cute or not?”
“And I repeat, he’s my brother. Which means he has fabulous cheekbones.”
“Does he have fabulous abs?” Laura May teased. She was still unencumbered by a boyfriend.
“Pretty much,” said Sally Ann. “They’re bored a lot, when they aren’t getting shot at. He’s been working out.”
“My apartment is available!” teased Gloria Jean, but Sally Ann just snorted.
“Your apartment is smaller than mine!” she protested.
“I know—that’s why I asked if he was cute!”
Sally Ann flung a shoe at her, but playfully. It was only a scuff, not a clog.
“Hey—he’s my baby brother. Be nice.”
Gloria Jean grinned and handed back the scuff. “How about I room with you, then, and he takes over my place? We’ve roomed together in some really tight places before.”
“Don’t even get me started on the bus lockers…,” Laura May began, and the girls all giggled. Sally Ann took one final look in the mirror, blotting her lipstick.
“So—how do I look? Ready for an audition?”
“Ready as you’ll ever be,” said Laura May. “And those shoes make your legs look amazing.”
Sally Ann smiled at her friend. “Thank you, Laura May. Now we’d better get going or Amy Lu will think we’ve forgotten her.”
“I hope they hire us!” said Gloria Jean. “I’m so bored I’m thinking of calling Rizzo up.”
“Aw, Rizzo’s not so bad,” said Laura May. “He can be a real sweet-talker when he wants.”
“Yeah,” said Gloria Jean. “He’s not a bad sort.” She took a deep breath. “Good thing I’ve got this audition to think about,” she said. “Otherwise….”
And here, her friends had pity on her and dragged her out the door before she could call.
The phone in Howard’s room rang. Howard shrieked, still shaving, but Thoreau walked calmly over and answered it after the first two rings.
“Only my friends have this number,” he drawled into the phone.
“That probably explains why Moi has it,” said Piggy’s amused voice. “I called your cell first but you didn’t answer.”
Thoreau looked down at his phone in surprise. He had a vague recollection of turning the sound off the night before to prevent it ringing at an awkward moment.
“You did, Darling,” Thoreau admitted. “Excusez-moi, mon chere!”
“And why didn’t you answer your phone?” Piggy demanded.
“Are you here at the hotel?” Thoreau said, dodging artfully. “We’re having coffee in Howard’s room!”
“J’arrive! Keep your pants on!” Piggy growled, and stepped out of the elevator. There was a second—when a trenchcoated man came bustling down the hallway—when Piggy almost shrieked with terror, but she managed to get a grip on herself. The man looked up from his phone, realized he was bearing down on her impolitely, and slowed his gait.
“Pardon me,” he said, raising his hat.
“Not at all,” said Piggy, and the man looked at her closer.
“I say,” he said suddenly. “I beg your pardon, Miss…Miss Piggy.” He smiled charmingly. “I thought that was you. Sorry to have startled you.”
So it had shown, Piggy thought dismally. She had to get a grip on herself. If she went around jumping at every little Tom, Dick or Donald, she’d work herself into a state of exhaustion.
“Not at all,” she repeated, and gave a little laugh before trotting down the hall to Howard’s room.
The door opened before she could knock, and she was—at once—engulfed in the arms of friends. If they notice she clung to them a little longer than she usually did, noone commented. When she came into the room, she was all business.
“I believe you have a present for Moi?”
How many times?
Kermit wears buttons?! Thought all he wore was that collar of his.
Should it be snowing?
Uh no, I don't think so.
Indubitaposilutely!
