THE CHRISTMAS GUEST

By
Dorothy Francis

 

Squinting into the sunshine pouring through his Fifth Avenue apartment window, J. Dekan Park III groped for the bedside telephone.  Ten o'clock!  Didn’t people realize a theater critic kept different hours than common folk?

            “Hello,” his voice croaked.

            “Mr. Park?”

            “Yes?” He sat up, responding to the throaty voice.  Few women called him these days.  He smoothed his thinning hair as if she could see across the wire.

            “This’s Tish Laymore.  Perhaps you’ve forgotten me, but I played the lead in “A Midnight Song” last year at the Odeon. I said some insulting things about you to the media after reading your review of my opening night. I’m calling to apologize.”

            Tish Laymore. He remembered. Beautiful.  Blond.  And built.  He recalled his scathing review.  She’d been quite good, but beginners needed to pay their dues.   Quick success spoiled them.  The play had closed immediately, of course.  That frequently happened when he wrote a negative review. 

At the time he had thought she might have been one of the ones who, out of a sense of failure, had committed suicide.   He hadn’t seen her onstage lately.  But so what if he caused a suicide or two.  Actors had to be tough.  If a bad review got them down, they wouldn’t have lasted in the theater anyway.  He took no responsibility for such deaths.

            “Mr. Park?  Mr. Park?  Are you there?”

            “Of course I’m still here.  And no apology’s necessary, Miss Laymore.  None.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Park, but I’ve carried my guilt feelings too long. At this Christmas season, would you let me apologize personally?  Tonight?  Please join me for a pre-Christmas dinner.  I’ve a little hideaway in Danbury and there’s a marvelous chef at the Palace Hotel.  Would you drive up tonight and be my guest?”

            Although her voice was a sexy purr, he hesitated. Danbury was a two-hour drive, and “Days of Glory” opened on Broadway at 8:00 tonight, starring newcomer Ashley Titus.  He smirked.  He already knew what his review would be. Why should he refuse the lovely Tish Laymore?  With luck, he could turn her guilt into a memorable holiday night.

            “How utterly charming of you to think of me.  I’d be pleased to accept.”

            “I’m so glad. Eight-thirtyish?  We’ll dine at the hotel then come to my apartment for dessert.”

“Miss Laymore, thank you for your thoughtfulness.”      

Hanging up, he relaxed against his satin pillow, dreaming of the coming evening. Occasionally he wrote a review without actually seeing the performance.  If he got caught, the playwright, the actors, and his newspaper could sue him.  It would mean his reputation and his job. But he didn’t intend to get caught.  Some actors were predictable—no point in watching amateurish drivel.  Rising, he enjoyed his usual champagne breakfast before he began writing tonight’s review.

Once finished, he dialed Jack Orvice, his trusted messenger. Good old Jack.  His generous tips enabled him to depend on Jack to do as he was told.  Jack would deliver the review to the newspaper at 11:00 P.M.—no sooner, no later.

Dekan began preparing for his date, going to Henri for hairstyling, to Phillip for a massage.  He stopped by the Gucci store for a pair of shoes and an overnight case.  At 6:00, the doorman brought his Porsche.  Later, in Danbury, he found the hotel easily. 

            His shoes sank into the plush carpeting of the hotel lounge. A male vocalist entertained at the piano bar.  Dekan ordered a martini, carried it to a sofa where he had a view of the hotel door.  He wanted to see Tish before she saw him. Seeing a woman first gave him an advantage and started the evening with him in control.

“Another drink, sir?” a waiter asked. 

Dekan looked at his three empty glasses. Tish was late. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

            “Has anyone asked for me?  J. Dekan Park the Third?  I was expecting a lady.”  He hated to be kept waiting—especially by a woman.

            “Perhaps the lady has been delayed,” the waiter said.

            “Bring me another martini, please.”

            Rising, he made his unsteady way to a bank of telephones and tried to look up her number.  No such listing.  He dialed the operator. 

            “Miss Tish Laymore’s number, please.”

The wire hummed for a moment, then the operator said, “I’m sorry, sir.  I have no Tish Laymore listed.”

            Dekan slammed down the receiver.  “Fool operator.” He returned to the sofa and ordered another drink.

            “Sir,” the waiter said, ”perhaps you’ll accept a complimentary cup of coffee.”

            “I’ll have another martini, please.”

In a few moments the hotel manager arrived.  “I’m sorry, sir, but we can serve you no more drinks.  I hope you’re not planning to drive.”

            “I was planning to stay right here tonight,” he lied, thinking of Tish Laymore’s hideaway.

            “I’ll see that you have a penthouse suite,” the manager said.

The bellhop brought in Dekan’s bag and helped him to his suite, turning on the TV as he left.

            “Call me if you need anything, sir.”

            Dekan didn’t reply.  Stood up! Tish Laymore had wanted revenge and this was her way of getting it.  His cheeks burned. Women didn’t stand up J. Dekan Park III.  He swayed on his feet, trying to think of a way to retaliate, and then he collapsed onto the bed.

            The next morning, his head ached and every muscle was screaming.  He rolled onto his back, listening to the irritating drone of a TV news announcer.

“Actress Tish Laymore, returning for ten curtain calls, bowed to standing ovations following her performance in “Days of Glory” which opened last night on Broadway.  Early yesterday morning, the star of the play, Ashley Titus, fell victim to laryngitis and understudy Laymore assumed the lead role, proving herself to be one of the finest actresses theatergoers have seen recently.”

            It took a few moments for the full impact of the announcement to sink into Dekan’s brain. Tish Laymore played the lead.  Ten curtain calls.  He thought of his review which people were at this moment reading over their morning coffee, the scathing review which suggested that even back-row seats were not far enough removed from Ashley Titus’s inept performance.

            He heard the announcer droning on about lawsuits involving reviewer J. Dekan Park III.  He rolled over and snapped off the TV.  Then he opened the penthouse window and jumped.