Chapter 137: And the Award Goes To….
While Piggy was alerting the dogs of war—or at least one old war-dog with a toothsome bite—Rory had not been completely idle. When Piggy arrived back in the dining room, there was a beautiful confection on her plate that the chef had made special for her—whipped substitute egg-white and spun sugar and caramel in a form that rivaled any fairy-tale castle and was only slightly smaller than the average dollhouse. Although she did not feel like eating at all, Piggy exclaimed over the prize and did enough justice to it to be polite. She offered the rest of it to her seatmates—it had come with extra spoons just in case—and they were delighted to help her.
“Yummy,” said Eileen.
“It’s like heaven on my tongue,” said Chad.
“What a nice gesture,” Rory said. “You must go and thank the chef, Piggy.”
“Moi will send him a lovely note,” said Piggy, polite but composed. She was not quite ready to dredge up her effusive, over-the-top diva when she was so depleted.
“No, Piggy,” said Rory, his grey eyes intent on hers. “You really must.” Piggy looked at him, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. She had not quite made eye contact since her unhappy discovery about her companion’s occupation, uncertain of how much of her hurt she could mask from her friend and co-star, but the urgency of his voice compelled her. She took a quick breath. Oh my! Piggy thought. He could really take your breath away with those wolf-puppy eyes and that granite chin if he wanted to. His expression was intense, willing her to listen to him, and while he held her gaze he nodded ever-so-slightly.
“Moi must thank the chef,” she said brightly, and made as if to stand. At the slightest move of chair, the maître d' had arrived to assist her, and when she made her wish to see the chef known, he offered to bring chef directly to her table. Piggy demurred, not certain why she was supposed to say “no”, only that she was meant to. She took the maître d’s arm and allowed him to escort her to the chef’s office.
As they had at Roberto’s so many lifetimes ago, the entire complement of the kitchen came to respectful attention when she appeared, and she was ushered into the master chef’s office with great ceremony. His broad face split into a beatific smile and she allowed him to engulf her gloved hands in his.
“You honor me,” he said grandly. “You cannot know how you honor me.”
Piggy’s good breeding and flawless training stood her in good stead, and she was as gracious as she had ever been in her life, extolling the virtues of the food almost as lavishly as he extolled her own virtues. Eventually, Piggy smiled and withdrew her hands, but the chef took off his own hat and handed it to her.
“To remember me,” he said, and Piggy took the hat somewhat bemusedly. When she turned, the hat still in her hands, she was startled to find Chad and Rory behind her, dressed in the long white coats and poufy hats of the kitchen magicians.
“Here,” said Chad, holding out a coat. “This jacket’s a little long, but it will hide the dress. If you put your hair up under the hat, I think we’ll get away with it.”
Like a trusty steed, Finkel came when called, and if anyone noticed that one of the junior sous chefs who came out the employee entrance in back was shorter than usual, or had a soft, delectable snout, that anyone didn’t take a picture of it. In fact, the paparazzi waited with growing frustration and eagerness for Piggy to come out with her companions long after she—and they—had left the building. Eileen was left to pay the bill (discretely) and leave the restaurant (indiscreetly). When she came out unaccompanied, smiling for the crowd, and informed them that Piggy had already gone on to her matinee, there was open skepticism until it was confirmed by scouts on the inside.
“I don’t know how you missed her,” said Eileen with a smile. “She’s really quite the show-stopper.”
“Mrs. Mansfield! Mrs. Mansfield! Are you going to be representing Miss Piggy in…um…in anything?” the reporter trailed off uncomfortably. It isn’t illegal to say “Fire” in a crowded theater, but it is somewhat immoral. Likewise, dropping the “D-word” when there had been no genuine cause for it could have you shoveling horse-hockey instead of writing it if you proved to have jumped the gun. (Noone knew this better than Scribbler, but he wasn’t there). Despite the fact that his fellows were practically drooling for the floodgates to open, the one who actually opened those floodgates could easily be swept away, never to be seen again.
Eileen paused dramatically, knowing the power she wielded over their livelihoods. “I think I can say with absolute certainty that Miss Piggy does not need my services,” she said lightly. She gave them a pitying smile. “But I have high hopes that as soon as Hades opens that ice-skating rink you’ve been talking about, Justin, then I might stand a chance.” Justin had the good grace to smile sheepishly and doff his hat to her.
The others laughed appreciatively at Justin’s expense, but one young man—brasher, less polite--stepped almost in front of her, blocking her path.
“Isn’t it true that Miss Piggy is planning on a solo career, now that she’s starring on Broadway? And didn’t she want to meet with you to discuss the terms of her—“
Medusa was said to be so hideous in her appearance that men turned to stone at the sight of her. Eileen, by contrast, was so magnificent in her disdain that she had the same power. The young man did not complete the sentence, and faded back not just before her but before hordes of his fellow journalists who surged toward him malevolently. Even among parasites, there is some honor, and there was not a reporter among them who wished to make the press a pariah in the eyes of one as powerful as Eileen Mansfield. They were almost obsequious in their attempts to be polite, hailing her a cab and seeing her into it before she left in a cloud of contempt and Chanel No. 5.
Alone in the back of the cab, Eileen smiled her wolfish smile. Although things had looked rather bleak for all of them back at the table, this had turned out better than planned. Piggy had had the chance to avail herself of the best divorce attorney on the planet—and had demurred. And while she had demurred, Piggy had reinforced the idea that Eileen was the preeminent divorce attorney on the planet. She smiled, thinking that, even in the midst of her own surprise and anxiety, Piggy had been kind to Rory, and had trusted him to do the right thing. When Rory had lured her into the kitchen—to safety and escape—she had simply gone without question, knowing he was honorable. And Chad, like Piggy, had insisted on making the grand escape with them, following his partner’s lead.
She had sometimes worried that—given what she did for a living—Chad would develop a very jaundiced eye about marriage and commitment, but she had been proven spectacularly wrong. Piggy had been right to trust Rory. Rory had done the right thing by Piggy. And Chad had been right to go where his heart led him—to help those he cared about. Of the four of them, they had all been right and she had been all wrong. Eileen sighed with satisfaction. I like to be right when I’m in court, she thought, but there are times when it is much, much better to be wrong.
Given the complications in getting away from the restaurant, Piggy and Rory arrived at the theater with just enough time to be dressed and ready, with no real time to fret. Since they had left the restaurant, Rory had been abject in his attempts to win forgiveness. Piggy finally got tired of granting it and smacked him on the back of the head.
“So you’re an idiot,” she snapped. “You’re not the first one and you won’t be the last one. It’s over. We did what we could with what we had. Marty will do the rest. Now stop hovering over Moi before I hi-yah you into next week’s show!”
Now that she had yelled at him, Rory believed that she had forgiven him, and he smiled as he watched her wrestle her wayward wig onto her head. Her face was flushed and she was still smarting from what would be—in all likelihood—a miserable media experience, but she could not think about that and go on stage at the same time.
Piggy might have still had the fresh face and sassy attitude of her “Babe” years, but she was old-school-Hollywood all the way. The show not only must go on, but it would go on, and she would not let the state of her personal life occlude what happened on stage. When she had been on The Muppet Show, it could be absolute and un-equivocated mayhem onstage and off but when her cue came, she hit her mark. She had played love scenes with Kermit when she was ready to rip his arms off and beat him with them, and she had played love scenes when her heart was truly breaking. She could not think about the scene in The Muppets Take Manhattan, when the train pulled slowly away from Kermit, without thinking about how close it had come to being the truth. If Kermit hadn’t proposed when he did…. Tears welled in her eyes and, seeing them, Rory was set to apologize again when Piggy suddenly laughed and shook her head. But Kermit had—he had! When Piggy had been ready to both consider both fight and flight, Kermit had come through—sweeping her off her feet and into the life she had dreamed about for so long.
“Piggy?” said Rory. “Are you…okay?”
Piggy had not explained, but she had wiped her eyes and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Moi is fine.” When Rory continued to look doubtful, Piggy had lifted her blue gaze up to his and glared at him. “You need to stop worrying about Moi and worry about what’s going to happen when we get ready to argue onstage--!”
Rory held up his hands and backed away. “Forewarned and forearmed,” he said, grinning, and left her to take his place in the wings.
In a theater office less than a mile away, a director’s feet hit the floor with a thump. It was impossible to remain seated with that sort of news in the air.
“Where did you hear that?” the man cried. “Do you—do you think it’s true?”
The voice on the other end of the phone line was muffled, but no less excited.
“Well, I know somebody who knows somebody who’s going out with the sister of the gal what sells tickets at the box office and answers the phone and he says it’s true. She—the sister—said Lowry came charging out of his office almost pulling his hair out, and she thought she heard him say, “But Marty" a bunch of times.”
There was nothing but heavy breathing on both sides of the phone line for a few minutes.
“I gotta call him.”
“You gotta call him.”
“And see if she’s available—“
“And see if she’d rather—“
“But I gotta act fast or—“
“But you need to get on it quick, before—“
“Right.”
“I know. Get off the phone already and call.”
But the man on the other end of the phone had already hung up.
Hearing about it third-hand was almost as bad as being there, only it wasn’t quite. If he had been there, he would have been responsible for spinning a twisted tale of unhappiness and woe in the beginning of a scandal that would have eclipsed anything that Hollyworld had seen in a while. But since he wasn’t there, he didn’t have to write it, and Missy wouldn’t have cause to hate him with a purple passion. Although his boss had blamed him for being on the wrong coast, that accusation had no real bite in it because they both knew that he had only come back kicking and screaming. There were limits to how far the truth could be manipulated before it became, well, stupid, and blaming him for jetting back when he had been so publically and rudely demanded to return just wouldn’t hold water. Besides, despite the drool-inducing almost-news from this morning’s jaunt out with her friends (Scribbler was guessing it had been the kid she danced with the kid who played Danny—how Missy had met Eileen Mansfield was anyone’s guess—and there had been plenty of guessing going on today) was already fading from the news feed because all eyes and all lenses would soon be focused on Tinseltown and the kind of shindig Tinseltown did best.
He was ready—that is, he was as ready as he could get. His tux was not new, but his shirt had been bleached and starched till it practically crackled, and he always could tie a snazzy bowtie.
Scribbler’s face softened. That wasn’t true. For years, he’d had a terminally crooked bowtie—heck, his old man had never owned a tie—and then one day Missy had seen him in a crowd of other camera hounds and chastised him for being all “catawampus”. She had marched over and tied the durn thing for him, to the delight and ribbing of his fellow journalists, but afterwards, she had allowed them to take pictures of her. The world had not known who she was destined to be then—not really—but he had known. He had known, and hanging around outside the cast entrance of the Muppet Theater was bound to get you some interesting shots. Then one night, Kermit had come out back and seen her chatting with the young photographic bucks in her sequinned dress with the slit up past the knee and that had been the end of that. Afterward, there had always seemed to be one of those…those unpleasant Muppets around the backstage door, one who smelled bad or ate cameras or blew up things that were still in use. The days of hanging around behind the theater faded.
He had tried hanging inside—once. It had not gone well. Missy had welcomed him, and he’d had a very insightful chat with The Swedish Chef, but Kermit had not wanted him backstage or within twenty feet of his co-star, and he had gone to great lengths to make that plain. For a nice guy, the frog could sure be direct and get his opinion across. Scribbler felt his neck muscles tighten and made a point to relax them.
Stretching his shoulders, Scribbler sighed. He still had a few hours to kill before it was time to dress and drive, and he ought to try to make the most of them. He was more than passing aware that—even here—he was probably being watched to see if he was following orders. Looking back, he should have assumed that his landlady would end up on his boss’s payroll, encouraged to spy on him even a continent’s-length away. Thinking of his landlady in New York made him think of his friends there as well.
In a minute, he thought he’d call Harve and Gladys and find out how things were. In a text earlier, Harve had hinted about the misery their friends and family had been inflicting on the hateful landlady. Gladys was well-liked, and the community within the walls had been outraged over her attack. Given their number and resourcefulness, they were well able to make things miserable for their disagreeable lessor. Scribbler had snorted in amusement when told that, during the night, all of the landlady’s shoes had disappeared. He was looking forward to hearing the details of that raid. Then it was back to the old grindstone….
Tonight, Scribbler thought, I’ll be direct. I will lay out my case for her singular talent in the most convincing terms possible, and ol’ hubby will look like the ball-and-chain he truly is. He would do his best to show the world that hubby was too wrapped up in his own work to properly prize Missy the way he should. He would paint the broad outlines of a frog driven by profit and power and a beautiful pig trapped by her love for him, unable to use the full range of her talent. The world would realize that—if he was really the nice guy everybody said he was, then he would do what was right—set her free to do what was best for her. Scribbler grimaced. He didn’t expect Missy to like it—at first—but if that frog ever loosened the reins, she’d begin to see what she was missing, what she’d been missing all along. He just hoped and prayed that part of what she’d been missing was…him.
It wasn’t going to be possible to leave and come back, which meant that she had been away from her apartment since early-ish Saturday morning and wouldn’t get back until tonight after the show. Although her costume was here—and she was meeting the reporter who would be conducting her end of the interview here—there were things she wanted from her apartment. She had sent out a distress signal to Howard and Thoreau, who were meeting Mei-Wah over at her apartment. She had worried about interrupting their evening—they had tickets to Les Mis tonight—but since they were planning to be here for her interview backstage anyway before they went to the show, she couldn’t see trying to make poor Mr. Finkel try to figure out which of her personal things she wanted or needed. The thought of Moishe trying to sort through her toiletries and lingerie made Piggy blush and smile.
Everybody who was going home had gone home, and Piggy had the entire ladies dressing room to herself. The crowds outside the theater had swollen to frightening proportions—no doubt due to all the pre-Oscar hype, their attention-garnering romp through New York the night before and the morning’s unwelcome publicity. When Piggy and Rory had arrived back at the theater for the matinee, Mr. Lowry had been the soul of attentiveness. Although Piggy knew he was probably only reacting to the fear Marty had planted about her desirability to other shows, she had to restrain herself from telling him to shove off and stop hovering. She had worked for Kermit so long that she was used to a lighter hand on the reins.
Although Kermit could be demanding, he was also usually benevolent, and Piggy was reminded again of how different it was to work in the “real world,” where your castmates might be your friends but were usually not like family. She was also—frankly—used to more input into her character, even a well-drawn though limited one like Betty Rizzo. She was beginning to hate the stupid wig, and had a sudden, vicious thought that—in the mood he was in—she could probably have gotten Lowry to let her do anything she wanted to her hair in order to appease her.
But—and here Piggy began to smile—a director must be, of all things, the boss. As much as she had railed at Kermit, pleaded, cajoled, blackmailed and seduced him, he had still been the one in charge. Knowing him to be in charge had given her the confidence to ask for things she wanted to be different, because she knew that he always measured and weighed and balanced everything before saying “yes". More than once, Kermit had come home distracted and grumpy, his “little frog brain” a million miles away because he was trying to find the perfect mix for everyone—not just one. It had been Kermit who had taught her to look at the show itself as a separate entity, with the right to its own voice and its own considerations. After everything had been said and done, Kermit aimed to do what was best for the show first, for his cast and crew a close second and for himself…sometimes never. Alone for the first time since everything had gone so wrong this morning, Piggy felt a tear roll down her cheek.
Oh, for frog’s sake, she thought irritably. What is wrong with me lately? I am strong! I am invincible! I am woman!
Okay, so she missed her frog—what else was new? And the press were scum-sucking parasites—necessary, it was true—but nasty nonetheless. So what if they said things about her that weren’t true? So what if they didn’t understand how she felt about Kermit or how he felt about her—who could? Why on earth was she such a wreck over things that she could usually dismiss (or simply rail against) as “business as usual”?
Eventually, because there was no escape from it, Piggy faced the truth. She was miserable and unhappy because what she’d done today—although it had been unintentional—was going to hurt Kermit. In spite of everything that had happened to them so far, none of it had really been her fault. It had all been a sad combination of rumor and innuendo, and they had simply borne up under it together. Now, in the midst of what they couldn’t control, she had made a mistake that would hurt Kermit and might hurt the movie—a mistake that could have been avoided if she’d been less anxious to go out and socialize.
She had been looking forward to seeing Kermit tonight, but now she was fearful of what she would see in his eyes. Would he be angry with her? The thought that he might have to present a hearty and happy demeanor when he was being taunted and ridiculed by ignorant bloggers—and with something that she had brought down on their heads—was mortifying. She assumed he’d heard by now. She wondered if the hordes of reporters had camped out on their lawn again. She wondered who had told him and why he hadn’t called, or texted. She wanted to talk to him—oh, how she wanted to talk to him before tonight!—but she didn’t think she could do it without bawling.
Her phone, sitting on the dressing-room table, began to buzz. Hastily, Piggy blew her nose and wiped her eyes before picking it up and looking at it. If it was Kermit, she needed to be composed. Marty. Oh. Thank goodness. She could talk to Marty.
“Y—Hello? Marty? It is Moi.”
“Hi Doll,” Marty said. His voice was kind, and Piggy was glad that he was not chastising her for causing problems. “How you holding up?”
Piggy let out a shaky breath, but that was all, and her voice was clear and firm. “Moi is fine,” she said softly. “When I got back to the theater, Moi could tell that you had been busy.”
“So, Lowry came kowtowing, did he?”
“He tried,” Piggy admitted. “But I sort of didn’t let him. I just kept insisting that there was some misunderstanding and that I was very happy here.”
“You at the theater still?” he asked. “I thought you would be home by now.”
Piggy didn’t want to explain about the crowds or admit that she wasn’t sure she could get to her apartment without being followed. The scrutiny had been intense, and she was actually glad to not have the worry of trying to go home and return surreptitiously. “Moi is resting and getting ready for tonight.”
“Not a bad plan. Matinee go okay?” Marty asked, and Piggy had to smile. Marty never asked how her performances went—not really. He knew he would hear before she told him, and he knew she would tell him. So if he was asking about her performance, he was just trying to comfort her, and listen to her and wait his chance to say what he really wanted or needed to say.
“The matinee was fine,” said Piggy. It had, in fact, been stellar, because she had poured all the energy and angst into her role, and the energy from that had generated energy from her co-stars. Harrison had been sizzling tonight—insolent and laid-back cool and devastatingly charming onstage—and everyone had loved it. “The audience was great.”
“You, um, wanna tell ol’ Marty what happened today? Or talk about it?”
Piggy was almost undone by the tenderness in his tone, which probably explained what happened next. She had made up her mind to be cool and collected and calm, but sometimes things don’t go as planned.
“Moi made a mess of everything!” she wailed. “I just went out to brunch with some friends and…and—“ She stopped and took a deep trembling breath.
“I know, Honey,” Marty said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it was! I mean—it could have been. I should have recognized her! Moi should have known!”
“Honey, Piggy…look kid,” said Marty patiently, trying to wedge a word in. Piggy had gone from reserved to voluble, pouring out her worry in a torrent. “Piggy, Piggy—calm down, won’t you? You can’t know everybody on sight, kid—not in this business. Even I don’t know everybody in this business.”
“Everybody knows you, Marty,” Piggy said wistfully, and she could hear Marty smile.
“Maybe,” he admitted, “but that’s just because I’m an old dinosaur who—“
“And Kermit is going to be upset with me!” Piggy burst out, unable to help herself. “He won’t say it but he’ll be mad at me!” Kermit had always been irritated when she brought the press barging into their lives—well, maybe not always, but mostly—and she did not think she could stand it if he were hurt and exasperated with her when they saw each other live.
“Kermit’s not going to be mad at you, Honey. He was very understanding.”
“You—you talked to him?” Piggy said, hungry for details. “What did he—is he upset? Oh, I know he’s hurt. And he probably is mad at Moi, but he’s too nice to say it—“
“He’s not mad at you.”
Piggy gasped and put a hand to her mouth. It wasn’t—it couldn’t be—
“I’m not mad, Piggy, and I’m not hurt. It's just—these things happen, you know? And they happen to us a lot, I know it seems, but that’s just…that’s just because the press can’t ever seem to get enough of you.”
“Kermie! Oh! Kermie, I—I’m so sorry!”
But Kermit just chuckled, his voice warm. “Don’t be sorry. Don’t—just don’t worry about it, okay? I’m fine. We’re fine.”
“It was an accident,” Piggy said, her voice very small. “I didn’t know she was a divorce attorney.”
“Do you know how glad it makes this frog that you don’t recognize the most well-known divorce attorney in the business?”
“Kermie, I—“
“And even if you did, I’m telling you now, Piggy, that you could call anyone you want and you could hire anyone you want and you are never, not ever, going to get rid of me. So that’s, um, that.” There was a grumpy, possessive undertone to his voice that thrilled her, and her voice was soft and husky.
“Oh, Mon Capitan….” she breathed.
“That’s right,” Kermit said firmly. “Your captain. Honey, I’m…I’m sorry that everything has happened when I’m not there to, um….” She heard a sound and could just see Kermit craning around in Marty’s desk chair to see if he was overheard. “You know. But I’m going to see you tonight, okay?” He sounded so sure, so confident, but that little tentative “okay” on the end sealed the deal.
“Okay, Kermie. Just vous and me.”
“That’s right. Just you and me and, um, about six million fans. Are you ready?”
“Moi is ready—but you better get ready. I intend to be positively gorgeous tonight when vous see me.”
“Why should today be any different than any other day?” Kermit murmured.
“It was very sweet of you and Marty to call me.”
“I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“Moi is okay. Are you sure you’re okay, Kermie?”
Kermit smiled. “I’m fine. Um, I gotta go so I can get a few things done before tonight. You want to talk to Marty again?”
“Tell Marty I’ll call him.”
“Goodbye, Piggy. See you, soon.”
“Goodbye, Mon Capitan.”
Kermit put the phone down on the cradle and turned to look at Marty.
“She said she’ll call you. Thanks for asking me to come and, um, do that with you. I think that went okay.”
“It went great. I think she’s more worried about you than anything.”
Kermit nodded. It did not surprise him, but it did not console him, either. “Piggy will be fine,” said Kermit. “She’s tough.”
Marty put his hand on Kermit’s shoulder and left it there, communicating what comfort he had. For a moment, Kermit stood up straight, shoulders back, head high, but Marty felt the tension in his wiry frame. He squeezed Kermit’s shoulder gently and—finally—felt Kermit slump, no longer pretending a vigor he did not feel. They stood that way a moment, not looking at each other, then Marty patted Kermit on the back.
“You’re one of the good ones,” Marty said, and walked Kermit to the door.
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Okay, then me take a book on cookies. And a glass of milk.
