“They served you a decent lunch, I hope,” he said, as though he were early instead of nearly two hours late. His style generally threw people off guard, and made them forget they'd been angry at him for being late, but Abe refused to be distracted and got right to the point.

“We're here to talk about your finances, Coop. There are some decisions we have to make.”

“Absolutely,” Coop laughed as he sat down on the couch and crossed his legs. He knew that within seconds, Livermore would bring him a glass of champagne, and he was right. It was the vintage Cristal he always drank, chilled to the perfect temperature. He had dozens of cases of it in his cellar, along with other fabulous French wines. His cellar was legendary, as was his taste. “Let's give Liz a raise,” he beamed at her, and her heart went out to him. She had some bad news for him too. She'd been dreading telling him all week, and had put it off until the weekend.

“I'm firing all your domestic help today,” Abe said without ceremony, and Cooper laughed at him, as Livermore left the room expressionlessly It was as though nothing had been said at all. Cooper took a sip of the champagne, and set the glass down on a marble table he'd bought in Venice when a friend's palazzo had been sold.

“There's a novel idea. How did you come up with that? Shouldn't we just crucify them, or maybe shoot them perhaps? Why fire them, it's so middle class.”

“I'm serious. They've got to go. We just paid their salaries, they hadn't been paid in three months. And we can't pay them again, we can't keep up this kind of overhead, Coop.” There was a sudden plaintive note in the accountant's voice, as though he knew that nothing he could say or do would make Cooper take him seriously. He always felt as though someone had pressed the “mute” button when he was talking to Coop. “I'm going to give them notice today. They've got to be out of here in two weeks. I'm leaving you one maid.”

“How marvelous. Can she press suits? Which one are you going to leave me?” He had three maids, as well as a cook, and the houseman who'd served lunch. Livermore, the butler. Eight gardeners. And a driver he used part-time for important events. It took a lot of staff to run his enormous house, although he could have done without most of them. But he liked being well served, and indulging himself.

“We're leaving you Paloma Valdez. She's the cheapest one,” Abe said practically.

“Which one's she?” Coop glanced at Liz. He couldn't remember anyone by that name. Two of them were French, Jeanne and Louise, he knew who they were, but Paloma didn't ring any bells with him.

“She's the nice Salvadorian I hired last month. I thought you liked her,” Liz said, as though speaking to a child, and Coop looked confused.

“I thought her name was Maria, at least I've been calling her that, and she didn't say anything. She can't run this whole house. That's ridiculous,” he said pleasantly, as he glanced back at Abe. Coop looked remarkably unruffled by the news.

“You have no choice,” Abe said bluntly. “You have to fire the help, sell the cars, and buy absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing, not a car, not a suit, not a pair of socks, not a painting or a place mat for the next year. And then maybe you can start to dig yourself out of the hole you're in. I'd like to see you sell the house or at the very least rent the gatehouse, and maybe even part of this house, which would bring some money in. Liz tells me you never use the guest wing in the main house. You could rent that out. We could probably get a big price for it, and for the gatehouse. You don't need either of them.” Abe had put considerable thought into it, he was very conscientious about what he did.

“I never know when people are coming from out of town. It's ridiculous to rent out part of the house. Why don't we just take in boarders, Abe? Or turn it into a boarding school? A finishing school perhaps. You come up with the oddest ideas.” Coop looked vastly amused and as though he had no intention of doing any of it, but Abe was glowering at him.

“I don't think you have a full understanding of the situation you're in. If you don't follow my suggestions, you're going to have to put the whole house on the market and sell it in six months. You're damn near bankrupt, Coop.”

“That's ridiculous. All I need is a part in one major film. I got a terrific script for one today,” he said, looking pleased.

“How big is the part?” Abe asked mercilessly. He knew the drill.

“I don't know yet. They're talking about writing me in. The part can be as big as I want.”

“Sounds like a cameo to me,” Abe said, as Liz winced. She hated it when people were cruel to Coop. And reality always seemed cruel to him, so much so that he never listened to it. He just shut it out. He wanted life to be pleasant and fun and easy and beautiful at all times. And for him it was. He just couldn't pay for it, but that never stopped him from living the way he wanted to. He never hesitated to buy a new car, or order half a dozen suits, or buy a woman a beautiful piece of jewelry. And people were always willing to do business with him. They wanted the prestige of having him wear or use or drive their things. They figured he would pay for whatever it was eventually, and most of the time he did, when he could. Somehow, in time, the bills got paid, mostly thanks to Liz.

“Abe, you know as well as I do, that with one big film, we'll be rolling in money again. I could get ten million dollars for a picture by next week, or even fifteen.” He was living in a dream.

“Make that one, if you're lucky. Or more like five hundred thousand, or three or two. You can't pull in the big money anymore, Coop.” The only thing he didn't say was that Cooper Winslow was over the hill. Even Abe had boundaries about what he felt he could say to him. But the truth was he'd be lucky to get a hundred thousand dollars, or maybe two. Cooper Winslow was too old to be a leading man now, no matter how handsome he was. Those days were over for good. “You can't count on a windfall anymore. If you tell your agent you want to work, he can get you some commercials, for fifty thousand dollars, maybe a hundred if the product is big. We can't wait for big money to come in, Coop. You've got to cut back until it does. Stop spending money like water, reduce the staff down to next to nothing, rent out the gatehouse and part of this house, and we'll take another look at things in the next few months. But I'm telling you, if you don't, you'll be selling this house before the end of the year. I think you should. But Liz seems to think you're determined to stay here.”

“Give up The Cottage?” Coop laughed even more heartily this time. “Now that is an insane idea. I've lived here for more than forty years.”

“Well, someone else will be living here if you don't start tightening the belt. That's no secret, Coop. I told you that two years ago.”

“Yes, you did, and we're still here, aren't we, and I'm neither bankrupt nor in jail. Maybe you need to take mood elevators, Abe. They might help that dismal point of view.” He always told Liz that Abe looked like an undertaker, and dressed like one. Coop didn't say it, but he strongly disapproved of Abe wearing a summer suit in February. Things like that bothered him, but he didn't want to embarrass him by commenting on it. At least he wasn't suggesting Coop sell his wardrobe too. “You're serious about the staff, aren't you?” Coop glanced at Liz, and she was looking at him sympathetically. She hated knowing how uncomfortable he would be.

“I think Abe's right. You're spending an awful lot on salaries, Coop. Maybe you should cut back just for a little while, until the money starts rolling in again.” She always tried to allow him his dreams. He needed them.

“How can one Salvadorian woman possibly run this entire house?” Coop said, looking momentarily stunned. It was a truly absurd idea. To him at least.

“She won't have to, if you rent out part of it,” Abe said practically. “That'll solve one problem at least.”

“Coop, you haven't used the guest wing in two years, and the gatehouse has been closed for nearly three. I don't think you'll really miss either one,” Liz gently reminded him, sounding like a mother trying to convince a child to give up some of his toys to give to the poor, or eat his meat.

“Why on earth would I want strangers in my house?” Cooper asked, looking bemused.

“Because you want to keep the house, that's why,” Abe said doggedly, “and you won't be able to otherwise. I'm dead serious, Coop.”

“Well, I'll think about it,” Coop said, sounding vague. The whole idea just didn't make sense to him. He was still trying to imagine what his life would be like without help. It didn't sound like much fun to him. “And you're expecting me to cook for myself, I assume,” he said, looking nonplussed.

“Judging by your credit cards, you're out for dinner every night anyway. You'll never miss the cook. Or the rest of them. We can get a cleaning service in from time to time if things get out of hand.”

“How charming. A janitorial service perhaps? Maybe we could get a crew of convicts on parole, that might work.” There was a spark in Coop's eyes again, and Abe looked exasperated.

“I've got their checks, and letters giving them all notice,” Abe said, looking grim. He wanted to be sure that Coop understood he was really going to fire them. There was no other choice.

“I'll talk to a realtor on Monday,” Liz said in a soft voice. She hated upsetting him, but he had to know. She couldn't just do it without warning him. But she thought renting out the two guest facilities was actually not a bad idea. Coop wouldn't miss the space, and they could get a very high price for the rent. She thought it was one of Abe's better ideas. And it would be a lot easier on Coop than selling the place.