"No, I haven't heard of it," I said.

"Haven't heard of it? Oh dear. Well, maybe you'll like it," she said and I went to the parlor. I found the phone book and discovered three Gina Simons, but the address pointed out the right one.

With my fingers trembling again, I lifted the receiver.

It was an antique brass and ivory dial phone and I misdialed the first time and got a phone number that was disconnected.

I dialed correctly the next time, but after only three rings, an answering machine came on.

"This is Gina Simon. I'm sorry I'm not able to take this call. Please leave your name, the time of your call and a brief message at the sound of the beep," the voice directed. I listened closely. It did sound like Mommy, but there was an affectation, an attention to diction I didn't recognize. I waited and called again just to hear the voice. It sounds like her, I told myself. It must be Mommy.

Dorothy entered the parlor, a small white angora cat in her arms.

"This is Fluffy," she said. "Isn't she beautiful?"

"Yes, she is."

"Philip won't let me keep her in the house proper. She stays with Selena. He says whenever she's permitted to run through the house, she leaves hairs everywhere. He's so finicky about the house. If a piece of dust is out of place, Philip knows it."

She sighed and sat in the soft cushioned chair across from me, the cat purring in her lap.

"So, did you try calling that woman?"

"I got an answering machine," I said. "It sounds like my mother."

"Did you leave a message?"

"No. I wasn't sure what to say."

"She might have been there, listening," Dorothy said, nodding. "People often do that here. They wait to see if it's someone important and then they answer. If it's not someone important enough, they let the machine take the call. It's a power thing, Philip says."

"Power thing?"

"Yes, you just don't speak to anyone. It diminishes your importance."

"I can't imagine my mother thinking that way."

"Well, if this woman wants to be someone in the industry, she behaves that way, believe me. I've met enough of them."

I thought about it. What was it Billy Maxwell had told me just before I had left New York . . . be prepared to find a very different woman, even if she was my mother. Perhaps that was very true.

"I wish the world we lived in wasn't so conscious of every little thing," Dorothy said, dreamy-eyed as she petted the purring cat in her lap. "Philip wants me to be perfect, to remain perfect. If I have a hair out of place, he asks why I didn't go to the beauty salon this week," she said a bit more mournfully than I would have expected.

"He doesn't seem like that," I told her. She snapped out of her reverie and raised her eyebrows.

"He's a man, isn't he? They're all the same, waving a magnifying glass over you, checking for wrinkles, for age spots, measuring your bosom, your waist, your hips, looking for an ounce of ugly fat.

"I have a personal trainer," she continued, "who comes to the house three times a week. It's such a bore, but I bear it for Philip's sake. And my own, I suppose," she said with a sigh. "Well, a woman has to do all she can, doesn't she?" she added.

"I'm not sure. I've never really thought about it I guess," I said.

"Of course you haven't. You're still young and beautiful. You have a way to go, but believe me, one day you'll wake up and look in the mirror and notice a little wrinkle here, a little more puffiness there and you'll realize it's going to take some work to look beautiful.

"Of course," she continued, "if you're bright enough, you won't settle for just anyone and you'll marry someone substantial as I did, so he can provide you with the best there is when it comes to cosmetic surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Now don't sit there and flatter me and tell me you didn't notice how firm my buttocks are for a woman of my age without thinking I had something done," she said smiling.

"I didn't really notice, but . ." An operation on her rear end?

"It's nothing more involved than a tummy tuck.

I can't tell you how. many times I've had that done.

Oh, and my eyes of course. Some people are so lucky.

They're born with genes that help them to remain young-looking longer. Philip's mother, for example, hardly had a wrinkle in her late seventies and look at Philip. Well, it's always different for men anyway.

They can have wrinkles. It makes them distinguished-looking, but we girls .

"Well," she said with a little more animation in her face, "do you think our sexual relationship would be as strong as it is if I didn't keep myself attractive?

There's an article about it in my latest issue of Venus.

According to scientific studies, a successful relationship means a husband and wife make love on the average of five times a month, even at our ages. I told Philip about it and he said his own research indicated between four and six times. We mark the calendar. You probably noticed it on the wall by our bed. Philip appreciates order in his life.

"Oh, I know what men do when they have ugly wives," she continued, ignoring my gaping mouth, "especially in this town," she said, nodding. "A woman has to work on her relationship. That's her job.

And I don't mind telling you I'm very successful at it.

"You saw how the young male waiters were gazing at me at The Vine," she said, batting her eyelashes and smiling. "They have no idea how old I am, and they'll never know," she said firmly. "You guard your age like you guard your life. Never tell a man your true age. Always subtract five to seven years at the least," she advised.

"Oh no," she said suddenly, rising to her feet.

"Desperate Lives has started. Quickly," she ordered and marched out of the parlor.

I sat there for a moment, trying to digest the things she had told me the way you would try to digest food that was far too spicy. The words kept repeating themselves.

"Come along, dear!" she shouted.

I rose and joined her in the hallway. She turned in to the den and flipped on the television set. Then she plopped herself into her overstuffed chair, curling her legs under her lap, and gazed at the television screen like a teenager about to see her teen idol. I sat on the sofa beside her and listened to her little moans and sighs as one handsome young man after another paraded before us on the large television screen.

But fatigue began to rise in my body like mercury in a thermometer. I felt my eyelids getting heavier and heavier and drifted off a few times, only to be wakened by her shouts at the television set, complaining about something a character said or did, as if she thought they could actually hear her.

"Doesn't that just get you infuriated," she railed, turning my way. I nodded, even though I had no idea why she was so upset. "And I hate it when they leave you hanging like that. But," she said, smiling suddenly, her mood swinging radically in the opposite direction, "as Philip says, that's how they get you to tune in night after night and how they get to sell all those products. You look tired, dear. Perhaps you should go to bed. I know it's late for you."

"Yes, I guess it's all finally caught up with me,"

I said, rising. "Thank you so much for everything."

"Nonsense. Tomorrow, right after breakfast, we'll go to Rodeo Drive and get you something proper to wear. Don't," she said, raising her hand to stop any protest, "say anything that will make me deaf. Philip and I have no children. I was never fond of the idea of being pregnant and Philip really can't tolerate little people very well anyway. But we both enjoy doing things for young people now and then. When they're deserving, as you are, of course." She smiled. "Have a good night's rest."

"Thank you," I said again, too tired to argue anyway, and went upstairs, taking the steps as if I were already walking in my sleep.

Despite my exhaustion, before I turned out the lights and crawled under the cover, I lifted the phone receiver and dialed Gina Simon's number. It rang and rang until the answering machine came on again, and again, I listened closely to her voice, feeling more and more confident that it sounded like Mommy's voice.

Or was I just wishing it did?

And why wasn't she picking up? Had she gone away? Maybe it would be days, weeks, before I stood face to face with her.

I lay my head back on the pillow and closed my eyes, grateful I was too tired to continue thinking, but still apprehensive as to what tomorrow would bring.

5.

A Bitter Pill .

Once again it was a gentle knock on my door that woke me, but this time a pleasant-looking woman with strands of gray running through her dark brown hair entered. The breakfast tray she carried was laden with a silver coffee pot, cup and saucer, a plate, silverware, eggs in a dish, a croissant, jelly and butter and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

Alongside everything was a small vase with a single fresh red rose.

"Good morning," the woman said. She had a pretty smile brightened with the warmest blue eyes I had ever seen. She was about five feet two with a small bosom and hips definitely too wide for Dorothy's taste. Her forearms were strong, but she had small hands. "I'm Christina, Mrs. Livingston's maid.

She asked me to bring up your breakfast this morning."

"Oh, you didn't have to do that," I said, sitting up and struggling to get my eyelids to stay open.

"What time is it?" I gazed at the clock in the belly of a light blue ceramic, seagull. "I've never slept this late."

"It's all right, dear. Mrs. Livingston insisted,"

Christina said, placing the tray on a bed table she'd retrieved from the closet.

"You have two, two-minute soft-boiled eggs,"

she said, lifting the cover to show me. "Did you want anything else? Hot cereal, different juice? I have freshly squeezed grapefruit or prune."

"No, this is fine, but I could have come downstairs," I said, uncomfortable with all her fussing.

"Only Mr. Livingston comes down for breakfast as a rule," Christina replied with a smile.

"He reads the morning papers and doesn't mind eating alone. Mrs. Livingston always takes her breakfast in bed. Do you have everything you need?" she asked, walking into the bathroom. "More towels, anything?"

"I'm fine at the moment," I said, drinking my juice. "Thank you."

She nodded at me and watched me take a few bites of the croissant.

"I hear you're from the East and this is your first trip to California," she said.

"Yes."

"I've never been to New York, but I hope to go one of these days. I have a daughter who can't be much younger than you," she added. "Her name's Stacy. She's starting community college this year, working at a department store and taking some courses. She wants to be a grade school teacher."

"That's great," I said. "I guess she likes working with children."

"Yes, she's a great help with my others. I wish we could afford to send her full-time, but . . . we just can't at the moment."

"How many children do you have?"

"I'm raising four," she added.

"Four?"

How did she manage raising four children while working as someone's maid, and have such a pleasant personality? I wondered.

"The youngest is six, a boy." She paused at the doorway. "Just leave everything beside the bed. I'll be up later," she told me. "Let me know if you need anything," she added as she left.

I couldn't help feeling guilty about being pampered so much while I had yet to make contact with Mommy, so I ate the delicious breakfast quickly, then showered and dressed, taking more time than usual with my hair. Dorothy had made me so self-conscious about my looks I was afraid she would rush me off to the beauty parlor if I didn't look pretty enough to greet the California morning.

Mr. Livingston was just leaving the house when I came down the stairs. He wore a pin-striped suit and maroon and white tie. He stopped at the front door to look up at me as I descended.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning."

"I hope you had a good night's rest," he said without a smile.

"Yes, thank you."

"Well, enjoy your day," he added. He looked uncomfortable speaking to me alone. He fumbled with his briefcase and then hurried out the door.

I thought about dialing Gina Simon's number again, but imagined I would only get the answering machine. It was better to go over there in person. I had to wonder if Sandy Glee had told her she had a visitor and then described me to her.

"Excuse me, miss," Alec said, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. "You have a phone call."

"A phone call? I do?"

"Your name is Melody, is it not?" he asked sharply, as if he thought I was being critical.

"Yes."

"Then, you have a phone call. You can take it in the parlor," he said nodding in that direction.