For a moment, I consider calling Sid, but then decide I haven’t much to report. I have no idea what they talked about, nor did I see Rick again. But I do remember the flash of apprehension I felt late that night when I awoke to find Paul on deck preparing to cast off before dawn—and offering no explanation for the early departure. I roll up the paper and stuff it into my shoulder bag.
Back out on Wilshire Boulevard, I head toward Saks Fifth Avenue, where I’ve parked my car. Once inside the store, I look around for the nearest salesperson to validate my parking ticket. But then, with time on my hands, I step onto the escalator. I have no business browsing in Saks, but it’s too early to show up at Donna’s house. I check out the cocktail dresses and evening wear, pretending that I’m actually in the market for a new ensemble for Carol’s charity function.
An elegant slip of a dress in smoky mauve falls from its hanger, its silky softness floating onto my hand. I turn to a mirror, dancing the dress in front of me by its angel-hair straps. Without spoiling my pleasure by looking at the price tag, I head for the dressing room.
“Meg? Meggie?” The voice stops me dead in my tracks. I turn slightly and come face-to-face with my husband-before-last.
“Dirck? What a surprise!”
“Yeah. Do you believe this? You look great.”
“So do you.” And he does. Leaner. A little less hair, more of it gray, but the same gravelly voice, same craggy features. “I thought you were still in New York. What’re you doing out here?”
“Oh, I’m up for a couple of things. You know, pilot season.” He shrugs, that careless New Yorker’s shrug I remember so well. “I’m still keeping busy with voice-overs. You know how it is.”
I do know, so I nod and smile.
“What about you? Working?” he asks.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I’m shooting a pilot next week.” I don’t mention I’m just a guest lead.
“Wow, good for you. Still raking it in while everyone else is scraping bottom. I gotta hand it to you, Meg. No one bounces back like you do.” He narrows his eyes, cocks his head. “Everything else work out okay? You had sort of a bad patch there after—what was his name? Paul something?”
“Yeah, well… that’s over.”
“Sorry to bring it up, but I saw it in the papers. As soon as I heard what went down, I said, ‘She’ll look out for herself. No guy gets the best of Meg.’ He sounded like a real shit, though. You managed to hang on to everything, right? The house and all?”
“Pretty much.”
“Yeah? Good for you. Just between us, did you manage to squirrel any of those millions offshore?”
“The stolen loot? No, I sort of missed my chance.”
“Hey, just kidding, you know?” He laughs.
“Sure, I know.” My jaws begin to ache. Am I really smiling? I don’t dare ask if Dirck’s still living in our former rent-controlled New York apartment. With nothing short of exquisite timing, my beloved two-bedroom prewar went co-op only a year before our divorce. My earnings had paid for it, but he managed to win it in the divorce settlement. Unfortunately, what we divvied up represented some of my best earning years. At least I didn’t get stuck paying him support when I got tired of playing Wendy to his Peter Pan. “Everything good with you?”
“Couldn’t be better. Pru and I are expecting. Can you believe it?”
I look at him in some confusion. “Pru?”
“C’mon, you didn’t know Pru and I finally got married?” I follow his gaze. A pretty blonde, heavily pregnant, stands by the cash register smiling at us. “Yeah. She’s due next month.”
“Well, congratulations, Dirck. That’s great.” Prudence? Of course. She was a young student in the acting class he was teaching before the divorce.
“About time, eh?” He laughs. “She’s turned my life around. I always wanted kids.” He nods toward the dressing room. “Hey, I’m not holding you up, am I? Go ahead and try that on while I get Pru. She’s just picking up something for her sister’s birthday. You two gotta say hello.”
“Sure. Why not?”
Why not? I close the door and sink onto the bench in the cubicle. The really bad thing about California earthquakes is that they never happen when you want them to. As I see it, an earthquake (anything above a 4.2 tremor) is the only remedy for this hugely hideous encounter.
“I always wanted kids”? I swallow hard, remembering the last occasion my doctor, a fan who appreciated my flirty pleading, reluctantly agreed to give Dirck and me another chance at in vitro.
At the time, I had a recurring role in a popular television series, a show about doctors in an inner-city hospital. I played a hospital administrator having an affair with the chief surgeon, but the storyline was steaming to its conclusion. Charting my fertility course against the story arc, I felt confident about starting the drug regimen necessary to produce a premium harvest of eggs. But at eight o’clock the evening before the follow-up procedure to introduce the fertilized eggs from some high-tech Petri dish back into my uterus, I got an unexpected makeup call for the next morning. The schedule had been changed. With a sinking heart, I called my doctor and said, “Trust me. Somehow I will make it.”
By mid-morning I knew I was in trouble. But the director was Dougie Haliburton, and I decided to confide in him. He came through for me, shifting two scenes, grabbing my close-ups first and finessing the reverse shots. I wrapped in time to get to the clinic for the procedure.
But the toll was costly nonetheless. I wasn’t in a physical, mental, or emotional state to become pregnant. Dirck, who’d insisted on taking me to the clinic, had neglected to fill his gas tank, and that essentially ended the union of two people who should never have mated in the first place. We’d been brilliant together in a national tour of Barefoot in the Park. But was that any reason to marry? I sat in the car fuming as Dirck tanked up, a Movieola replaying endless clips in my mind of every last humiliating act we’d ever submitted to in the fertility arena. Pumped up on hormones and adrenaline, I could have walked to the hospital carrying his goddamn car on my head.
When the in vitro procedure inevitably failed, Dirck tried to cheer me up, saying, “Hey, at least we’re free to go cycling in Tuscany next summer.”
I’m replaying this exact moment as I peek through the louvered doors of the cubicle and spot Dirck, looking impatient, poking his head around the entrance to the dressing rooms. I toss the dress across my arm and push open the door.
“Hey, okaaaay,” Dirck says. “Meg, Pru. Pru, Meg. How about this?”
The bountiful blonde and I greet each other warmly, each of us signaling to the other that we’re in a rush, no time for a long chat neither of us actually wants to have. No hugs or kisses on the cheek, either, because, thankfully, our hands and arms are full, and her belly’s in the way.
“Pru’s a big fan of yours. Tell her, Pru.”
“A really big fan, Meg. I used to beg my mom to let me stay up to watch you on Holiday. You were just great.”
“Thanks, Pru. And congratulations, you two,” I say, slipping away. “Great to see you, Dirck.”
“Ciao, kid. You’re lookin’ great.”
I hurl myself onto the escalator, realizing almost immediately that the mauve silk dress is still draped on my arm. I spin around in a futile attempt to clamber back up the moving steps. All I need now is to pull a Winona Ryder, with some beady-eyed store detective body-tackling me for shoplifting. Dirck comes into view, steering Pru toward the escalator. I whip around and ride to the bottom, retracting my prayer for an earthquake. I’ve no desire to be trapped in rubble with Dirck, Pru, and their bun in the oven.
Holding the dress at arm’s length, I step off at the next floor and swiftly head toward the nearest saleswoman. “Doesn’t work for you?” She takes the dress, barely glancing at me.
“Afraid not, but I’ll look around some more.” I smile, satisfied our brief exchange sounded perfectly normal. She turns to another customer while I circle the Armani collection. I paus
e in front of a three-way mirror, holding a jacket on a hanger, examining my reflection. I look pretty normal, too, which is no small feat given my circumstances.
But while I may look normal holding a two-thousand-dollar Armani jacket, I know I have a zero bank balance and could be only a misstep away from pushing a bent grocery cart loaded with plastic bags and corrugated cardboard down the street. After all, I’ve watched a homeless woman getting hustled out of a drugstore while I stood three feet away from her, just as homeless. Keeping one’s teeth and not wearing a grungy knit watch cap to cover matted hair is pretty much essential to keeping one’s tenuous standing in the community.
The saleswoman, wearing a black suit and sensible shoes, appears behind me in the mirror. Has she seen through my guise? Am I about to be shunted into the street? Here, you! Hand over that Armani before I call security!
Instead, she says, “That jacket is made for you, trust me. You really ought to try it on.”
“No, thanks.” I smile and then give her the hanger. “I don’t really need it.”
I’m about to turn away when I notice a third figure reflected in the mirror, a red-haired woman browsing through a nearby rack. She looks familiar. In a flash I realize she’s the woman I glimpsed in the sedan Donna nearly sideswiped. She’s no longer wearing the chartreuse jacket or the oversized sunglasses, but it’s definitely her. She glances up, and I anticipate a look of recognition, but she turns away, showing no sign she’s even seen me.
I head for the escalator, reasonably sure my former husband and his pregnant missus are long gone. What if Paul had emerged from behind a rack of Calvin Kleins instead of Dirck? My heart bobbles at the thought. It occurs to me that wherever I turn I half-expect to see Paul. I’ve no idea what I’d do if he did appear. I’m pretty sure my first impulse would not be to call Sid. Or Jack Mitchell.
I stand outside Saks, waiting in the long shadows of late-afternoon sun for the parking attendant to deliver my car. There’s nothing like complimentary valet service to make me feel privileged again. Only a year ago I used to take such things for granted, like a casual lunch with a friend. These days I dine alone. Any sort of get-together generally requires splitting a check and adding a tip. With a surge of giddiness I realize I’m actually looking forward to seeing Donna this evening. Am I that starved for companionship?
As I walk down the steps to my car, the redhead passes me, heading toward a familiar green sedan pulling up at the curb. I’m relieved that neither the woman nor the driver appear to recognize me.
The parking attendant opens my car door and steps aside, smirking as he gives me the once-over. I hand him my parking stub, looking him in the eye. What business is it of his if I choose to drive around in a car packed with several changes of clothing, a small library of reading material, and sundry items—toiletries, cleaning supplies, and a basket of small electronic heating and lighting devices that plug into the cigarette lighter? How does he know I’m not moving from house to house, a carload at a time? Homeless people don’t have their cars valet parked—do they? One of life’s small pleasures these days is free valet parking at selected fine stores.
Somehow I’ll have to conceal the extent of my stowed belongings from Donna. Unloading will require multiple trips, perhaps under cover of night. I’m still mulling strategy as I reach the turnoff to her place. A road bordered by eucalyptus leads into a stone-paved forecourt encircling a fountain banked with azaleas. The elaborate entranceway is my first clue that any assumptions I’ve made about Donna require major revision. Inez Berger’s bungalow would fit comfortably in Donna’s driveway.
I pull up under the portico and park, staring agape at the stately two-story, half-timbered stone structure Donna calls home. Clearly a new game plan is called for. I pocket my car keys and leave everything else behind in the Volvo.
Rosebushes thick with white blooms line the walkway. I pause to breathe in their heady fragrance and take another look around. For all its baronial splendor, the house has a storybook charm. Wisteria clings to the gables, and flower-laden vines drape mullioned windows. Rust-colored ivy entwines a fieldstone chimney. Wide stone steps lead up to a heavy wooden front door fitted with a gated, wrought-iron peephole.
Before pressing the doorbell, I look back across the portico to the eucalyptus, native oak, and olive trees that conceal the property from the street. So content am I to stand in the portico, savoring the sweet scents of jasmine and rose, that I’m startled when the door swings open behind me. I turn, almost expecting to see a servant girl in mob cap and pinny. Instead it’s Donna, wearing a floral print shift and sandals, looking years younger than the woman I spent the morning with caroming around Beverly Hills.
“You’re here,” she says, with a sunny smile. “C’mon in.”
“Thank you, Donna. Listen, I hope this is okay with you. I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, please! I couldn’t be happier. I’d hate thinking about you trying to sleep through plaster dust and paint fumes.”
“Right,” I say, thankful for the reminder. “It was pretty bad the last couple of nights.”
I step inside, my eyes sweeping from the massive stone fireplace up to the balcony overlooking a two-story living room. The densely furnished interior, with its eclectic mix of Craftsman and Art Deco, has the feel of a ’30s film set. I sense Donna enjoying my amazement.
“Tell me, did I just enter a time machine? Or is this where the rest of the MGM props ended up? And does Debbie Reynolds know?”
“Feels like a museum, doesn’t it?” Donna laughs. “My grandfather built this place back in the late twenties. I grew up here, actually. I’ve never really lived anywhere else. How about a glass of wine while I show you around?”
“Perfect.” I follow her down three steps to a sunken living room, my eyes falling on a side table with stacks of vintage Photoplay magazines. “Your grandfather was in the movie business?”
“You’d think so. He would’ve loved it. You see that hat with all the ribbons on the piano over there? It belonged to Mary Pickford. The spectacles on the coffee table were worn by Harold Lloyd. This ice bucket was Charlie Chaplin’s.” She lifts a bottle of white wine from a silver urn on the coffee table. “My grandparents knew a lot of film people, but most of this stuff came from estate sales.”
I pick a gray fedora off a hat stand near the stairway. “Let me guess. Fred Astaire?”
“William Powell.” She pours wine into an etched goblet and hands it to me. “The crystal was a wedding gift to Joan Crawford and Douglas Fairbanks Jr. And those silver tap shoes on the bookcase belonged to Crawford, too.”
“You’re kidding!” I take a sip of wine, then hold the glass up to the last rays of sun splaying through the leaded windows. “I can’t believe you actually use these.”
“I’ve lived with this stuff my whole life. After a while—” She shrugs and sips her wine. “Anyway, I’m not a collector. I just dust the stuff everyone else in the family collected.”
“So what did your grandfather do?”
“Remember the Savoir beauty bar? He started making soap in Belgium, then here. He sold the company shortly before he died. But he loved the movies. My mom ran Deanna Durbin’s fan club for a while.”
I shake my head, taking in the vintage lobby cards and posters on the walls, the bust of John Barrymore atop a credenza. “This place really is a museum.”
“I’m afraid so,” Donna says. “C’mon, let me show you your room.” She heads up the stairs, and I follow, wondering what screen legend’s bed I’ll be sleeping in tonight. Garbo’s, I hope.
As it turns out, the guest room at the end of the hall has been dubbed the Deanna Durbin Suite, but the only sign of tribute is an oil painting of the teenage star hanging over the bed. Donna assures me that the queen-size bed itself is relatively new.
“You’ll be the most famous person who’s slept in it so far,” she says. “It was a bit of a shrine in here, but I cleared out most of Deanna’s things this afternoon an
d stored them in the attic. By the way, that little chintz-covered armchair was in her studio dressing room. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“Oh, yes.” I glance out the dormer window and see my Volvo safely tucked under the portico for the night. “I love it.”
“Good. I’m glad. And the bathroom’s through that door. The closet and drawers are empty, so you can just make yourself at home.”
“Well, I won’t be moving in.” I laugh, even as that very thought takes hold. “But I’m tempted.”
“Stay as long as you want. I hope you brought some things with you. Why don’t you settle in while I get supper on the table?”
“Great.” I look at Donna, wondering if she has any idea how easily she could end up with a permanent houseguest. Perhaps I could tell her I’ve decided to gut my house and do a complete renovation that will take, oh, six months or so. “Thanks, Donna. I’ll just wash up a bit and then give you a hand.”
I check out the closet, breathing in the scent of lavender sachets. Deanna Durbin herself would have been thrilled with the pink-and-white tile bathroom, its vanity shelves stocked with every sort of amenity one could need. This sure beats rooming with Inez Berger, or skulking into Marion Singleton’s Bentley. I wash my hands with a bar of French milled soap, wondering how soon I’ll have to call the Volvo home again.
I glance out the dormer window, trying to decide how much I should clear out of my car before dark. I can’t wait to see what my underwear looks like folded in a drawer again. I’m about to turn away when I catch sight of a green sedan cruising slowly down the road, half-hidden in the shadows.
There’s no mistaking the face in the passenger window. It’s the redhaired woman, craning her neck to look up at Donna’s house.
I step back, although I doubt she can see me in the darkened window. The car pulls slowly out of sight behind the eucalyptus. My legs cave, and I sink onto the bed. Who is she? What in the world does she want from me?
“Well, you’re doing all right for yourself. Aren’t you going to bid on the weekend for two in Paris?”
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 8
