Flower Power

Thanks to her talent, ferocity, beauty, and brains, billions' Maggie Siff is no garden-variety star.

- Chip Brown

THE DAY WILL pretty much take care of itself if Maggie Siff can just get out of bed.

Hers is a large bed in a modest apartment not far from Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. Her difficulty has nothing to do with the usual problems that make it hard for people to get out of bed, like the pointlessness of life or a dull job. It’s really just a question of excessive togetherness, which sometime during the night will have turned the mattress into the cabin room scene from A Night at the Opera or, closer to home, a rush-hour subway car on the F train.

On one side is Siff’s husband, Paul Ratliff, a psychotherapist. Insinuated between them is their 5-year-old daughter, Lucy, who will have wandered in from a bed of her own. Flanking Siff so that it’s almost impossible for her to roll over will be their shaggy 80-pound Labradoodle, Augie, who has soulful eyes and a face that resembles an Old Testament prophet’s. And finally, snugging up the works like an extra layer of bubble wrap, is Iris the cat.

“When I wake up, I can hardly move,” says Siff.