by Harper Bliss
“Got it.” No use playing coy now. And Jill is such a good sport. She let me take her out last Wednesday and she showed up tonight. I can’t ask more of her. In a way, it’s more than I’ve been given by someone Lennox-related in a very long time. “Now that you’re here, do you want a tour of the house?”
“Sure, but let me order a car first,” she says. “I’ll let them know to pick me up in fifteen minutes.”
I don’t protest.
“This is where the magic happens,” I say, foolishly, when I show Jill my bedroom. Not a lot of magic has happened since I moved back to L.A., despite me sometimes telling Madison otherwise.
Jill doesn’t look very impressed. I assume it’s my words that are underwhelming and not the decoration of my bedroom, in which no other guests are allowed tonight.
“Oh wow,” she says when she sees the childhood picture of Leah and me, taken on the deck of the Malibu beach house my mother loved so much.
In the picture, Leah and I look as though we love our surroundings as well. We still had a mother then, after all. Leah still had more than twenty years to live.
“It’s the first thing I see every morning.” I always say good morning to my sister, as if she’s still alive and just woke up in the bed next to me.
“Does it… help?” Jill keeps her eyes glued to the picture.
“I guess. Otherwise I would probably move the picture.”
“It’s strange.” Jill leans against the wall. “I’m so much older than you are, yet I’ve not had to deal with a major loss like that.”
“You’re not that much older.”
“Still,” Jill says. “A lot of people my age have had family and close friends pass away. I’ve been spared that.”
I realize I know nothing of Jill’s family and I’m also left to wonder if she has many close friends. All she does, from what I gather, is work.
“That being said, I do know…” She doesn’t continue.
“What?”
She looks at the picture again. Leah and I must have only been three years old. Our smiles are wide and goofy. Sebastian had just been born. All those years that have passed, I think. Sebastian had to fake his way through rehab and I’m somehow getting my kicks luring Jill to a house party she would never have enjoyed, perhaps not even in her twenties or thirties. She seems a bit too uptight for that, although I could be wrong. Maybe she hasn’t always been a turtleneck-wearing workaholic.
“What were you going to say?” I sidle closer to her.
“Nothing.” She waves off my question. “I think it’s very moving that you keep this picture here. It says something about you that isn’t always obvious.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know, Ali.” She doesn’t smile, just tilts her head a little and stares at me in a peculiar way. It’s an expression I don’t really know what to do with.
The DJ in the garden turns up the bass and it thumps through me. It’s as though the revved up music intensifies the heat of the alcohol in my blood and I lose my balance for a fraction of a second. I steady myself against the wall and find myself face-to-face with Jill.
“Are you taking care of yourself, Ali?” Jill asks. “All these parties… is that really what you want?”
I scoff. She may be able to read me correctly half of the time, but the other half, she can be so wrong. “What are you talking about? I love this.”
“Okay.” She puts a hand on my bare shoulder. It takes me aback because I can’t remember the last time my father has hugged me—maybe when my mother died, but that was so long ago, I hardly remember. Certainly not when Leah died. Then, he just wrapped himself in a stone-cold silence. And yet Sebastian wondered why I had to leave. “Remember, I have your back, okay? If there’s anything you need, you let me know.”
I’m touched by her outpouring of concern. Maybe that’s why I really wanted her here tonight. Because I know that, in her own way, she cares about me. And she’s easy to talk to. I confide in Jill easily. She represents something that I’ve missed. Something a friend can’t give. She’s close enough to my family to understand, yet removed enough to not be part of the stubborn silence us Lennoxes adhere to when it comes to our emotions. And she’s a woman. A familiar woman. Someone who has always been there. Someone, I know, without having to play any games or put her to some foolish test, I should instinctively trust.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart.
I take a step closer and, under my sister’s celluloid gaze, I lean forward. Without giving it any further thought, my mind blank and hotly spurred on by her kind words, I press my lips to hers.
She pulls back immediately. “What the f—”
“Oh, shit. Oh, no, Jill. No, I didn’t mean to.” Oh, fuck.
Jill shakes her head. All the kindness that was present in her gaze just moments earlier has left. I see nothing but disdain for the spoiled brat who always just goes after what she wants without taking others people’s feelings into account.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
Jill’s phone beeps. “My car’s here.” She sends me one last disapproving look, then dashes out of the door and down the stairs.
Why did I do that? It’s not a question I can answer without the help of a few bottles of champagne.
10
Jill
How dare she? The three words keep flashing through my mind, thumping through my veins. How dare she invite me to her garish party with too much booze and drugs, lure me to her room, where I was sure to see that picture of Leah and her, and feel subsequently sorry for her, and kiss me?
Thank goodness my car has arrived. I slide into the back and sit there fuming as the lights of the Los Angeles night flicker outside.
This can only be explained by Ali’s unbelievable, grotesque privilege. I was nice to her—genuinely nice. Perhaps a sensation she doesn’t get to experience very often. And her confused, still-grieving mind took it for something else. For goodness’ sake. How am I going to work with her now?
Maybe we should pretend it never happened. No. That’s the Lennox way. We will talk about it. She will apologize more. And we’ll move on. I was too shocked to examine her features, but she did look very sorry. She’d probably drunk too much. Or shared the joint that made Madison high.
Just one of those nights, I mumble to myself. The worst of the shock has subsided and, as we hurtle down Sunset, I realize I’m actually not that shocked by Ali’s inappropriate behavior. Not only because she’s a Lennox, but because of the generation she’s part of. The I’ll-have-that-right-now generation.
I tell myself that I can easily shake this off. This doesn’t have to impede our plans to take the reins at Lennox. But it does make me realize that I need Ali more for that than she needs me. Although she needs me too, if only to ward off Sebastian. It’s only together that we can beat him for control over Lennox.
I take a few deep breaths and then allow myself to follow a different train of thought. Regardless of her psychological motivation behind it, her obvious vulnerability and sensitivity, why would Ali, who could go out into the night and kiss any woman she wanted, kiss me?
I have no response to that, except circumstance and context, which will have to do for now.
On Sundays, I always try to ban thoughts of anything work-related and, instead, enjoy what I call my private life. Perhaps I should make more effort to turn it into something vibrant and joyful, but that will have to wait until at least next week. This particular Sunday, I can’t get Ali out of my head. So much for trying to move on.
Because I’m agitated, I scroll through the Financial Times newsfeed. Equally, on Sundays, I try to avoid the news, because it always sets my thoughts off into a direction that’s the opposite of relaxed. I should go for a hike. Or go see a movie. Or maybe I should do some cooking. I find myself walking around my apartment, not knowing what to do with myself.
When my phone rings, I hope it’s work. Who else c
ould it be?
It’s Ali.
I consider not picking up at first, but the ring is so insistent, so pleading, a bit like the look in her eyes last night. The girl whose party was raging downstairs while she was looking at a picture of her dead sister. So of course, I pick up.
“Jill.” Ali’s voice is hesitant. There’s nothing of her millennial self-possessed confidence in it. “I—um, can I see you? I just… I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I feel I need to apologize to you as soon as possible so we can put this behind us. I don’t—”
“Ali, calm down.” This is a girl who hasn’t had a mother since she was five, I remind myself. “It’s fine,” I lie. “It never happened. Okay?”
“Can we meet before we see each other at the office tomorrow?” she asks, suddenly eloquent again.
It might not be a bad idea. This is not the kind of energy I want to waltz into work with. Best to get rid of it as quickly and swiftly as possible. “Sure. Let’s meet today.”
“I’ll come to you. Can you text me your address, please? I’ll leave within the next half hour.”
Now it sounds as though I no longer have any say in the matter. “Okay. See you in a bit.”
When we hang up, I do as instructed and text Ali my address. It should take her at least half an hour to get here from Silver Lake. I glance around my living room but, most days, I don’t spend enough time in it to create any sort of mess. I do see the irony in working for a large paycheck to afford a beautiful home but working too much to spend any significant time enjoying it. At least Ali threw a party at her house. When was the last time I had people over? I have to strain my memory and I still can’t come up with an answer—that’s how long it has been. Ten more years of this, I tell myself, like I always do. And then I’m through. I’ll have plenty of cash stowed away to maintain my standard of living until I’m well past a hundred years old. I’ll take up a hobby. Perhaps get a dog and go for long walks. I chuckle. I have no idea what I’ll do when I retire. Maybe I should start looking for someone to share my retirement with. But that’s the deal I made with myself. For now, work comes first.
I straighten some things around the apartment and then, before I know it, Ali rings the bell.
11
Ali
When Jill opens the door, I hide my face behind my hands, to show her exactly how sorry I am. And sorry isn’t even the worst of it. I mainly feel shame that sits like a heaviness in the pit of my stomach.
“Come in, Ali,” she says.
I peek through my fingers first, then let my hands fall away. Jill’s not wearing her office turtleneck sweater today—it is Sunday after all. Instead of examining her outfit, my gaze is drawn to the view from her living room window.
“Well fuck me. You can almost see all the way to the ocean.”
“Hm,” is all she says. I haven’t come here to discuss the unexpected expanse of her view. “Can I get you anything? I was expecting to see you more hungover.”
“I’m fine. I just, uh, want to get this over with.” I sit in the armchair by the large window overlooking the Financial District and beyond it.
“Sure.” Jill lowers herself into the couch, which is the same as the one she has in her office. “While it’s probably good that you came, let’s not make a big deal out of this. I can see it for what it was, you know. We all do crazy impulsive things sometimes that we regret instantly.”
“Really? Do you?”
“I most certainly have done. Of course, I have.”
As Jill looks at me, her face awash with kindness and understanding, the sensation that overtook me last night threatens to engulf me again. But today, in the daylight, I’m sober and able to not let my emotions guide me. “I’m sorry. It was just so out of line—and out of character. You must think that because I’m a Lennox I just do whatever I want without taking other people’s feelings into account. That does happen sometimes, I’ll be the first to admit that. I’ve certainly kissed people who, in hindsight, I shouldn’t have gone near. I suffer from poor judgment sometimes, I guess. But last night was just… temporary insanity.” I try a smile. “Thanks for being such a good sport about it.”
“You don’t have to thank me. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. Okay?”
I nod. But as I do, my eyes are drawn to her lips. They suddenly appear very kissable—again.
“You were emotional,” she continues. “And vulnerable.”
“And I’d had too much to drink. Way too much.” I glance out of the window, away from Jill’s pillowy lips. “I just don’t want you to think that’s why I invited you to my party. It was never my intention.”
“Okay. No more party invitations like that, please. I hope we can agree on that.”
“I thought we already had.” I can feel myself relax a little—as long as I don’t look at her face for too long. “No more untowardness from me, I solemnly swear.” I let my gaze sweep along her living room. “This place is amazing. Have you lived here long?”
“Must be coming up to seven years now.” Jill leans back and folds one leg over the other.
I try to focus on the apartment, which blends modern features with classic furniture so effortlessly, but I do have to look at her once in a while. What will she think if I don’t? That I’m not capable? I guess it would illustrate my shame. But, as I sit here, I feel my shame making way for something else.
Jill’s dressed in jeans and an even more casual blouse than she wore last night. It’s nice to see her neck, I think. Why does she always hide it at work? Is it a symbolic act of protection against corporate vampires?
“Madison was quite taken with you, by the way. She stayed over and this morning you were the main topic of conversation.”
“Did you tell her about the kiss?”
Hearing her say the word kiss out loud sends a frisson of something up my spine. She named it. She made it more real. “No. I’m not telling anyone. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Agreed.” Jill leans forward, placing her elbows on her knees. “Look, Ali, if there’s ever anything you need to talk about, I’m here. That hasn’t changed. I want you to know that.”
“For someone so high up at Lennox, you are very kind, Jill. How did you claw your way to the top being like that?” A thought flashes through my head—one I have to push away immediately.
“Contrary to Lennox belief, being nice to people can get you places.” She grins at me, but I can’t respond.
The thought flashing through my head is so persistent, that my imagination takes over and a slew of very disturbing images is projected in my mind.
“This is going to sound extremely inappropriate and I apologize if I’m off the mark.” I shuffle in my seat. “But, um, you and Father haven’t, like, you know, had any dalliances over the years?”
“How do you figure that?” Jill says matter-of-factly. “You know I’m a lesbian.”
“Well, yes, but sometimes, when certain things are at stake, people can become surprisingly fluid.”
“What are you suggesting? That despite being a lesbian, I slept with him so I could become COO?” She arches up her eyebrows. “Sometimes I do worry about what goes on in that head of yours.”
“When you put it like that, it sounds very offensive. Let’s just say my father never honored my late mother’s memory. He brought a boatload of often much-younger women into our home. Leah and I used to give him so much flack for it, but in the end, we were just glad that none of them ended up being our stepmother.”
“Who cared for you when you were children and your father was at work?”
“Nannies.” Jill doesn’t seem too offended by what I’ve just said. I’m pleasantly surprised. She seems to have equal measures of compassion and toughness in her. “Let’s see if I can remember… There was Elizabeth. Juanita. Rachel. Connie. Connie Number Two. We even had a Manny once. I think Dad was getting desperate. There were so many. For some reason, they never stuck around.” Leah, Sebastian, and I were
so spoiled, one of us always found some fault with the person charged with our care. It’s hard to please three bereft but privileged children all at once.
I only now notice a series of picture frames on the sideboard next to the window. “Do you mind?” I ask, but I don’t wait for her to reply. I get up and walk over to the sideboard and examine the pictures. I feel like I’ve told Jill quite a bit about myself already. Maybe this is my chance to learn some things about her—perpetually closed book that she is.
“Parents?” I ask. Jill couldn’t look more like the two people in the picture. She has her mother’s bright blue eyes and her father’s asymmetrical mouth.
Jill walks up to me. “Yes.”
“Still alive?”
“Oh, yes. Very much so. They’re in remarkable health. They live in Montauk. Must be all the sea air that keeps them young.”
“We live close to the ocean.” I examine the picture further. “How old are they?”
“Eighty and eighty-two,” Jill says. She takes the picture from me and a new kind of tenderness burns in her glance.
“They’re my father’s age. That’s so funny… and weird.”
My gaze scans over an array of pictures of other people—maybe they’re cousins or something—until another picture catches my attention. “Who’s this?” In the picture, a twenty-something woman looks candidly into the camera, a bright smile on her face. Her hair is long and black, her eyes mysterious and dark.
“An old friend,” Jill says, in a tone that doesn’t promise more elaboration.
“What’s her name?” I push.
