by Anita Hughes
“That’s a bloody waste of time,” Lionel grumbled. “How can a UCLA professor discuss the plague and London’s squalid living conditions when everyone in Los Angeles is healthy as a horse and he can see the Pacific Ocean from his classroom?”
* * *
“Why did you fire another director?” Lionel asked.
He sat in Gideon’s office, nursing a glass of sparkling mineral water. He gazed at the sun streaking through the floor-to-ceiling windows and wished he hadn’t left his sunglasses in the car.
“I didn’t fire Igor; he quit.” Gideon walked to the sideboard and selected a peach from a pewter fruit bowl.
“How hard is it to direct a music video? It’s not bloody Hamlet,” Lionel scoffed. “These directors think they’re vying for Oscars when they’re selling a song. It’s one step up from a Volkswagen commercial.”
“The first director, Jeffrey, quit too. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset Samantha.” Gideon rubbed the peach on his shirt. “They didn’t think she was right for the part.”
“What do you mean?” Lionel asked.
“You and I know she’s beautiful, but she belongs at the Royal Opera House swathed in diamonds.” He ate a bite of the peach. “We need someone with bouncing breasts and a golden tan.”
“How do you know if Samantha’s breasts bounce?”
“Donovan and I studied the footage.” Gideon fiddled with his Rolex watch. “He had a suggestion.”
“What kind of suggestion?” Lionel raised his eyebrow.
“That we hire an actress to lip-sync on the video,” he replied. “Samantha would record the song in the studio, and she could have final approval on who we choose for the part.”
Lionel glanced at Gideon to see if he was joking. He walked to the sideboard and opened a bottle of vodka. He added it to his sparkling mineral water and drank it in one gulp.
“You want to hire an actress to play Samantha?”
“It’s done all the time.” Gideon shrugged. “Do you think all male rock stars have golden manes and washboard abs? Most of the time you put a line of pretty girls in front of them so no one notices their receding hairlines, but sometimes it’s best to use a stand-in.”
“Samantha is a stunning blonde with legs up to her shoulders and eyes like amethysts,” Lionel spluttered.
“But she’s wrong for the video, we need a girl you’d find behind the counter in a soda shop,” Gideon said slowly. “We can record the album without a video, but these days radio stations are reluctant to take it.”
Lionel gazed out the window at the tall skyscrapers and lush palm trees. He put his glass on the sideboard and suddenly longed for London’s narrow alleys and dull gray skies.
“I’m going to sit in a dark bar and drink straight bourbon.” He walked to the door. “All this bloody sunshine and sparkling water make my stomach queasy.”
* * *
Lionel sat on a sagging vinyl sofa in Book Soup and flipped through Don Quixote. Ever since he discovered the book by Cervantes when he was in third form he took comfort in his mad adventures. He turned the page and rested his head against the cushions. He thought about his conversation with Gideon and his stomach heaved.
He had left Gideon’s office and debated going to Spago’s for a chopped salad and dry martini. But he didn’t want to watch valets in gold uniforms park Bentleys and Aston Martins. He didn’t want to listen to music executives talk about Billboard charts and wild parties in Laurel Canyon.
He strolled down Sunset Boulevard and entered Book Soup. He gazed at the bookshelves crammed with Penguin classics and felt his shoulders relax. He selected Dickens and D. H. Lawrence and walked to the back of the store.
He pictured Samantha’s slender cheekbones and small pink mouth and thought he couldn’t possibly say Gideon thought she was wrong for the music video. He would tell her the deal was off and they were going back to England. He would make up an excuse: his great-grandmother in Scotland had mortal influenza and he had to be with her.
He opened Little Dorrit and thought maybe it had all been a waste of time and he should go back to university. He pictured the leafy lanes of Cambridge and thought it would be lovely to spend the summer rowing on the Cam. He imagined eating bread-and-butter sandwiches with Samantha and taking her to King’s College Chapel.
Then he thought of his room above Penelope’s garage and his long shifts at Claridge’s. He remembered the hissing space heater and nights stacking Louis Vuitton suitcases. Could he really give it up when he worked so hard?
He glanced at the orange spines and thought what if Nabokov had abandoned Lolita and gone back to teaching university? What if Shakespeare decided not to risk the plague and stayed home in Stratford-Upon-Avon? What if Oscar Wilde was too afraid of being outed as a homosexual and became a Parliament member?
He had to make Samantha see that the music video was like the silvery wrapping paper you crumpled and tossed in the garbage. It was the lyrics that got under your skin and made your heart beat faster. It was Samantha’s high, clear voice that made you feel like you were on top of a roller coaster.
He looked up and saw the clerk frowning at his pile of books. He gathered A Tale of Two Cities and Lady Chatterley’s Lover and took them to the counter. He handed him a twenty-dollar bill and walked into the sunshine.
* * *
“You were gone a long time.” Samantha looked up from her textbook. She wore a red dress and white sandals and her hair was wound into a low chignon. “I’ve been studying all afternoon; I thought we could get dinner at Cantor’s Deli.”
“I brought you a present.” Lionel presented her with a green velvet jewelry case. “I passed Harry Winston’s and fell in love with the piece in the window.”
Samantha snapped open the box and drew out a diamond tennis bracelet. She turned it over and admired the platinum clasp.
“I realized I haven’t gotten you a proper gift since I gave you peonies from Penelope’s garden and home-baked butterscotch biscuits.” Lionel fastened it around her wrist.
“It’s gorgeous, but I thought you spent the afternoon with Donovan, practicing your harmonica,” Samantha replied, admiring the sparkling diamonds.
“Actually Donovan wasn’t at the office.” Lionel walked to the bar and poured a shot of Absolut. He added a twist of lime and drank it in one gulp. “Gideon did say Donovan suggested a small change in the music video.”
“I’m not going to wear a pink bikini.” Samantha picked up a yellow Hi-Liter. “And I refuse to jump out of a convertible. What if teenagers tried that at home?”
“The convertible wasn’t moving.” Lionel looked at Samantha and took a deep breath. “Donovan thought you’d be happier if you weren’t in as many shots.”
“I’d be thrilled, but I’m the one singing.”
“He thought they could hire an actress to play your part,” Lionel said quickly. “Apparently that young actress who was up for an Oscar was interested, the one who made the socially responsible film about women in Ecuador.”
“Penelope Cruz wants to play me in a music video?”
“I’m not sure if it was her, but someone like that.” Lionel shrugged. “Donovan thinks your look might not be what they’re going for.”
“They want a petite actress with dark hair and tan skin and huge breasts?”
“They’re not sure what they want,” Lionel admitted. His shoulders sagged and his forehead knotted. “But they think you come across as too reserved.
“I told him if you weren’t in the video we’re breaking the contract and going back to England,” he continued. “I booked two business class seats on the morning flight to Heathrow. I even ordered you the vegetarian meal, it’s always better than the chicken and mashed potatoes.”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Samantha mused. “I’ll have more time to study, the professor assigned the complete works of John Donne and Philip Sidney.”
“You do?” Lionel gulped.
�
��I can’t think of anything worse than spending the day standing in front of a wind machine in a miniskirt and stilettos,” Samantha said, drawing wide lines in her textbook.
“You never cease to amaze me,” Lionel whispered.
He strode across the room and slipped his hand beneath her dress. He felt the delicate silk of her panties and his whole body stiffened.
He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. He unzipped her dress and let it slide to the floor. He studied her lacy cleavage and long legs and thought she was a Roman goddess.
Samantha unsnapped her bra and stepped out of her panties. She unbuttoned Lionel’s shirt and ran her hands over his chest. She lay down on the pink-and-white comforter and pulled him on top of her.
“You do know how much I love you.” He touched her cheek.
“I do.” She nodded. “I love you too.”
Lionel drew her arms above her head and plunged inside her. He felt the exquisite sensation of disappearing into endless warmth and thought he was going to explode. He moved faster until her back arched and her body quivered and she wrapped her arms around him. He felt the final blast like a rocket launching and cradled her against his chest.
He drew her close and glanced at the pile of textbooks on the bedside table. He imagined some UCLA professor with blond hair and blue eyes discussing John Donne’s sonnets and felt a sudden chill. He draped the smooth cotton sheet around their shoulders and sucked in his breath.
* * *
“That’s a beautiful necklace.” Lionel placed the glass of Ovaltine in the sink. He closed the jar of marmite and put the loaf of bread in the fridge.
“Henry gave it to me, they are Majorcan pearls.” Juliet touched her neck.
“He has good taste.” Lionel took his cigarette case out of his pocket and tapped a cigarette onto the tile counter. “What was the occasion?”
“He just saw them in a jeweler in Palma.” Juliet shrugged, smoothing her hair behind her ears. “The pearls are man-made, I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“If you want to give a woman a gift you buy a silk scarf or a box of chocolates.” Lionel lit the cigarette with a pearl lighter and blew a thin smoke ring. “Jewelry always has an agenda: you had to cancel a weekend getaway to Paris or you forgot your anniversary and promise to never do it again.”
“You told me I didn’t believe in love.” Juliet’s cheeks flushed. “Maybe you were wrong, maybe I just hadn’t met the right man.”
“That’s the beauty of being young, you still think people change. It’s only when you look at the same face in the mirror for decades you realize you’ll always have the cleft on your chin.” He walked to the entry. “I’m going to the post office, the mailman won’t deliver my Harrods’s buttercreams until I pay the duty tax. Would you like to join me? We can stop at Ca’n Pintxo and share a plate of tapas.”
“I can’t.” Juliet shook her head. “I have a Skype call with Gideon at three P.M.”
“He was always the most punctual person in the music business,” Lionel mused. “He was always early for his lunch reservation at Spago’s and the first to arrive at the Grammys.”
* * *
Lionel watched Juliet disappear through the low gate. He searched his pocket for his cigarettes and realized he left them on the kitchen counter. He walked into the living room and picked up the phone.
He dialed the number and waited for it to ring. Suddenly he pressed END and put the phone back on the desk. He entered the kitchen and grabbed his gold cigarette case. He rubbed the engraved letters and slipped it in his pocket.
chapter fifteen
JULIET GAZED AROUND THE HOTEL suite at the orange wool rug and turquoise walls and sloped ceiling. She admired the ceramic vase filled with purple daisies and sideboard set with a pitcher of sparkling water. She grabbed a handful of macadamia nuts from a silver bowl and walked onto the balcony.
She remembered her Skype call with Gideon and her stomach tightened. She couldn’t tell him Lionel spent the week reliving his early career. She blithely smiled into the camera and said they were working together to deliver the new songs.
She had hung up and stepped into the white porcelain bathtub. She opened a copy of Mansfield Park she found in the hotel’s library but couldn’t concentrate.
She remembered what Lionel said about people not changing and flinched. He was wrong; people changed all the time. She wasn’t the girl who graduated from NYU and expected to sit in the front row of the Grammys. She didn’t picture attending music festivals in Montreux and Positano and sipping mojitos with Beyoncé and Gwen Stefani.
She knew working in the music industry was about long hours in the recording studio and riding on tour buses through the back roads of North Carolina. It was about convincing great artists they still had talent when they thought their latest songs were worthless.
She thought of the last two years when she thought she’d never meet the right guy. She pictured the last few days with Henry: strolling along the promenade in Puerto de Sóller and visiting the monastery in Valldemossa.
She stepped out of the bath and lathered her skin with Aqua de Palma lotion. She walked to the closet and selected a Nina Ricci dress and silver sandals.
She called Henry and left a message inviting him to dinner in her suite. She imagined nibbling salmon seviche and watching the sun set over the Mediterranean. She pictured his thick chest and smooth hands and shivered.
* * *
Now she walked inside and saw her phone on the glass coffee table. She listened to the message and heard Henry’s voice saying his coach insisted he have dinner with the Sports Illustrated reporter. He would sneak out when he could and they could share brandy tiramisu in the plaza.
She gazed at her reflection in the mirror and felt her shoulder deflate. She saw her phone buzz and picked it up.
“Juliet.” Lydia’s voice came over the line. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, you’re probably going to dinner and dancing with Henry.”
“Actually I was about to order a room service spinach salad and curl up with Jane Austen.” Juliet smiled.
“It’s a gorgeous night,” Lydia replied. “I was hoping I could tempt you to join me for grilled foie gras with aubergine ravioli in the garden.”
“That sounds lovely but I’m quite tired.” Juliet faltered. “I don’t think I can hike to Fornalutx.”
“Good, because I made reservations at the Gran Hotel Sóller,” Lydia said. “The chef makes the most delicious apple tartin but he’s an old flame and I don’t want him to get the wrong impression if I dine alone.”
Juliet pictured platters of fresh fish and Majorcan vegetables and realized she was starving. She fastened the pearl necklace around her neck and smoothed her hair.
“I would love to.” She smiled. “I’ll meet you in the plaza in twenty minutes.”
* * *
“What a gorgeous hotel,” Juliet said, gazing at the tall French windows and marble columns.
They sat at a square table in the courtyard, sipping a smooth Chardonnay. Juliet glanced at the lights strung over the cobblestones and plaster walls covered with ivy and thought she had never eaten anywhere so beautiful.
“The Gran Hotel Sóller was built in the nineteenth century as a private palace and it’s the crown jewel of Sóller,” Lydia explained, tearing apart a baguette. “I used to bring Gabriella for dinner when she was a little girl, she would order cold tomato soup and a Shirley Temple.”
“I’m glad I came.” Juliet looked up at the black sky studded with stars. “It’s such a beautiful night, it’s a shame to stay inside.”
“When I lived on the farm, I stopped working at six P.M. and took a hot bath,” Lydia began. “Then I put on a pretty dress and a pair of pumps. I fixed myself a martini and watched the sun slide behind the mountains and thought I was quite lucky.
“People think you should only dress up if they live in a city or dine at elegant restaurants, but there’s nothing better than Italian silk again
st your skin. I didn’t care if no one saw me except the cows and Felipe, beautiful clothes always made me happy.”
“Your dress is exquisite,” Juliet said, admiring the teal tunic with gold buttons.
“I had to go to the dentist in Palma and visited my favorite boutique,” Lydia replied. “It’s tucked in an alley off the Avenidade Jaime III and filled with dresses by Carolina Herrera and Saint Laurent. Every time I enter, I’m afraid I’m too old to wear a new cut or color but the salesgirl assures me I look perfect.” She sipped her wine. “One of the pleasures of getting old is your eyesight fades and you are more forgiving with your own reflection.
“I spent the afternoon at La Seu Cathedral,” she continued, eating Iberian pig and white truffles. “It has the most fascinating history. The first stone was laid in 1230 by Jaume I to thank God for sparing his ship in a storm and delivering him back to Majorca. But it took almost four hundred years to build and wasn’t completed until 1601.
“The spires are as tall as Notre Dame Cathedral and there are over a thousand stained glass windows.”
She paused. “I always imagine Gabriella gilding down the aisle in an Oscar de la Renta gown. She would be such a beautiful bride with her long dark hair and green eyes.”
“I’m sure she and Hugo will have a lovely wedding,” Juliet agreed.
“After I visited the cathedral I went to a little café in La Llonja,” she continued. “Cars aren’t allowed and the streets are full of florists and fruit stalls. I walked inside and saw a couple sitting in the back. The woman had curly black hair and looked like she’d been crying. The man stroked her hand and tried to comfort her.”
“He turned in my direction and I realized it was Hugo. I watched the girl jump up and run outside.” Lydia stopped and looked at Juliet. “She wore a cotton dress and sandals and was at least three months pregnant.”
“She could have been a friend,” Juliet stammered. “It may have nothing to do with Hugo.”
“I saw her face when she raced out the door and remembered when I received the letter from Enrico saying he was too young to be a father.” Lydia paused. “She looked like a young doe who was lost in the forest.”
