by Anita Hughes
“Did you approach Hugo?” Juliet asked.
“If Hugo told me the truth, I would have to tell Gabriella, and I couldn’t bear to hurt my granddaughter.” She shook her head. “I told the maître d’ I had a terrible headache and took the train back to Fornalutx.”
“I don’t believe it,” Juliet protested. “He treats her like a precious jewel and when he enters the room she’s like a girl on Christmas morning.”
“I went home and worked in the garden but my back ached and my knees hurt,” Lydia continued. “I made a plate of tapas and poured a glass of wine but I wasn’t hungry and I had a headache. Finally I called Hugo’s phone and a woman answered. When I asked where he was she said she didn’t know.” Lydia paused. “She hung up before I could leave a message.”
“That’s impossible,” Juliet exclaimed. “Why would he let another woman have his phone?”
“Perhaps he didn’t even know, pregnant women are quite volatile,” Lydia mused. “Maybe he wouldn’t tell Gabriella so she decided she would do it for him.”
“But Hugo and Gabriella seem so in love,” Juliet said.
“Every couple who are in love think the word was invented for them,” Lydia mused. “But love is like a fishing boat in a storm, it’s easy to be thrown off course by a shapely pair of legs.
“I remember the first time I met Hugo, Gabriella brought him to dinner,” she continued. “I never saw her look so beautiful, she was like a model in a fashion magazine. Her hair was glossy and her skin glowed and her eyes were like emeralds. After dinner she insisted on helping me with the dishes. She stood at the sink with her arms covered in soap and asked whether I approved.” Lydia dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I said what do you mean and she laughed and said she met the man she was going to marry.
“Young lovers are the most impatient people on earth. They would gladly move the hands of the clock to be together faster. Perhaps Hugo isn’t waiting to afford the perfect diamond or buy a restaurant, perhaps he’s waiting to make sure he hasn’t made a mistake.”
Juliet gazed at the aubergine ravioli and foie gras and realized she wasn’t hungry.
“You have to tell Gabriella, she must talk to Hugo.”
“I’ve attended Mass every Sunday for fifty years,” Lydia said. “God and I don’t see eye to eye on many things but we have interesting discussions. The one thing we agree on is you do anything to protect the people you love. If I tell Gabriella it will break her heart.”
“What will you do?” Juliet asked.
Lydia took a silver cell phone from her purse and handed it to Juliet.
“I never understood old people who don’t embrace modern inventions. If we don’t move forward, we’d still be riding donkeys and wearing clothes sewn by the village seamstress.
“I visited Gabriella at Casa Isabella this morning. It’s such a wonderful time of day, the sun streams though the windows and the kitchen smells of butter and cinnamon. I brought croissants and we talked about concerts in the Parc de la Mer.” She paused. “Then I went to see Felipe and left my cell phone in the kitchen.”
Lydia pressed a button on the phone and Juliet heard Gabriella’s high, clear voice fill the air.
“You recorded Gabriella singing?” she gasped. “She said she’s not interested in a recording contract. I can’t send this to Gideon without her permission.”
“If she goes to America the romance will die a natural death,” Lydia replied. “I can’t bear to see her heart broken and I don’t know what else to do.”
“But you’d be lying and going behind her back,” Juliet protested.
Lydia’s face broke into a watery smile. “That’s why they invented confession.”
* * *
Juliet stood on her balcony and gazed at the lights twinkling in the plaza. It was almost midnight and a thick fog settled on the mountains. She heard an accordion playing and people laughing.
She had been so upset she didn’t remember eating the almond cake with fig ice cream. She kissed Lydia on the cheek and hurried back to the Hotel Salvia.
Now she pictured standing in Casa Isabella’s kitchen listening to Gabriella talk about the new restaurant and Hugo’s plans for the future. She remembered watching them dance in the Plaza Maya and thinking they were like Amal Alamuddin and George Clooney.
She often had to do difficult things for her work. She remembered an artist begging her to deliver a Dear Jane letter to his girlfriend because he was too afraid she would break down in tears. She pictured the girl unsnapping her heart-shaped locket and saying the artist could keep it, she never wanted to see him again.
But Gabriella was a friend, she didn’t want to do anything to hurt her. She couldn’t tell Gabriella about Hugo, but how could she do what Lydia asked? If she sent Gideon the recording without her consent, Gabriella would be furious.
She walked inside and unzipped her dress. She slipped on a cotton robe and sat on the floral sofa. She poured a glass of sherry and tried to stop the queasy feeling in her stomach.
chapter sixteen
LIONEL STOOD IN FRONT OF his closet and gazed at the row of Paul Smith blazers. He saw Tom Ford shirts and soft Armani leather jackets. He stroked a Saint Laurent cashmere sweater and thought it had been a long time since he felt like dressing for dinner with a woman.
He picked up a pair of Bally Loafers and remembered the joy of buying a new pair of shoes. He pictured standing in Battaglia on Rodeo Drive and admiring the selection of Prada loafers. He remembered waving his hand and saying he’d take them all and disappearing into the dressing room because he had a giant hard-on. He remembered seeing the shoe boxes stacked on the chrome counter and being afraid he was going to come.
He pictured scooping up silk ties at Lanvin in Paris and Canali suits in Milan. He remembered seeing his reflection in the revolving glass doors of the Hôtel de Crillon and thinking he looked like a million dollars.
He selected a yellow Ralph Lauren shirt and twill slacks. He paired it with a Thom Browne blazer and a pair of Gucci loafers. He fastened Montblanc cuff links around his wrists and glanced in the mirror. He smoothed his hair and hurried down the wood staircase.
* * *
Lionel stood at the marble bar in the living room and stirred a dry martini. He heard a knock on the door and called: “Come in.”
“You’re all dressed up,” Juliet said. “Are you going out?”
“Sometimes I enjoy putting on a dress shirt and a pair of slacks,” Lionel mused. “Fine clothes are more expensive and addictive than heroin. I once spent five thousand dollars on a Zegna blazer at Barneys because my personal shopper insisted I couldn’t eat at Per Se without it. God, you should have seen it on the hanger with its silk lapel and ivory buttons. It was more enticing than a new sports car or a beautiful redhead.
“I walked into the restaurant and the maître d’ offered to take my coat, but I held onto it like gold bullion. The porterhouse steak was juicier and the Rothschild cabernet was smoother and the crème brûlé was the best thing I ever tasted.” He sipped his martini. “But when I got home and hung the blazer in my closet, it was just a swath of fabric with some nice stitching.”
“I thought you said you wanted to meet this evening.” Juliet hesitated. “I can come back if you have dinner plans.”
“Gloria left a roasted chicken and baby potatoes in the oven. I thought we could open a bottle of rosé and eat on the terrace.” He stopped and looked at Juliet. “Unless you are meeting Henry.”
“He has to train for a match tomorrow.” Juliet shook her head.
“You think love is so resilient you don’t have to spend all your time together. But it needs to be nurtured with long walks and candlelit dinners.” He sat on the striped silk love seat. “When Samantha and I arrived in Beverly Hills we were inseparable. Then she started taking classes at UCLA and I worked on the music video and we could barely finish a room service omelet before falling asleep.
“And of course, when ‘Going to Catalina�
� rose to the top of the charts, I thought I was Mick Jagger. We received invitations to club openings and private parties, we were even invited to Prince’s wedding.” He paused. “I didn’t realize the only person I needed to be with was the one whose toothbrush shared a cup in the pink marble bathroom.
“Gideon wanted me to show him your lyrics on my Skype call,” Juliet cut in. “He asked me to take a picture of them and send it to him. You have to tell me what happened, you and Samantha seemed to have everything.”
He looked and Juliet and his eyes flickered. “I’m about to.”
* * *
Lionel sat at the Regency desk and ran his fingers over gold cardstock. He flipped through invitations to attend the opening of a new wing at The Getty and meet the chef at Spago’s. He glanced at the marble bar lined with brightly colored bottles and longed to relax with a copy of Catcher in the Rye and an aged cognac.
He thought of all the events he attended in the last few weeks: a pre-Grammy party at Château Marmont and a private screening of Jerry Maguire. He pictured walking into glass mansions in Laurel Canyon and seeing the lights of the city far below. He remembered sipping Möet & Chandon and nibbling salmon tartare and thinking he was walking on air.
But Samantha signed up for a night class on eighteenth-century pastoral literature so he had to navigate the Hollywood Hills alone. He could never put his Fiat Spider in the correct gear and didn’t understand why there weren’t any streetlamps. A few times he had to wait for a speeding Aston Martin or chauffeur-driven Bentley to pass before he could navigate a steep gravel driveway.
Gideon insisted he socialize so he dutifully bought Calvin Klein blazers and Hugo Boss shirts. He got daily shaves at the hotel barber and left his patent leather shoes in the hallway. Each time the valet knocked on his door with a pair of gleaming Balmain Loafers he felt a small thrill.
* * *
Now he glanced at Samantha’s side of the bed with its notebooks and array of pencils and felt something pressing on his chest. She started each day with twenty laps in the pool and a bowl of porridge at the Polo Lounge. Then she slipped on a pair of Keds and walked ten blocks to UCLA. She returned in the early evening with a double latte and pages of new reading.
Sometimes when he entered the suite after midnight he wished he told Gideon he couldn’t attend the reception for the king of Denmark. He fingered her copy of Cranford and thought he would give anything to share a raspberry cheesecake and discuss Elizabeth Gaskell.
But then he heard“Going to Catalina” on the radio and felt his heart race. The video was on maximum rotation on MTV and the song soared up the charts. He suddenly pictured Amber Harper with her auburn hair and full breasts and chuckled. Donovan might drive him crazy with his research studies and pressed jeans but he knew his audience.
The minute Amber arrived at the audition humming a Beach Boys song Donovan knew she was perfect for the part. Lionel glanced over her résumé at her two years as a drum major at USC and her appearances on The Young and the Restless and reluctantly agreed.
He called Samantha to get her opinion, but she said she was too busy with midterms to come to the studio and trusted Lionel and Gideon. Lionel hung up and told Amber the good news, and she hugged everyone on the set. The next morning she arrived wearing a pink miniskirt and carrying a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
* * *
Lionel glanced at the invitation to a private showing of Dolce & Gabanna’s fall collection. Suddenly he tore it in half and tossed it in the garbage. He called the concierge and then he grabbed his keys and strode out the door.
* * *
“I thought you had a cocktail party to attend.” Samantha entered the suite. She wore a yellow blouse and white capris and sneakers. She juggled a coffee cup in one hand and a stack of textbooks in the other.
“It’s a fashion show.” Lionel fiddled with his gold cuff links. “And if I sit on one more hardbacked chair drinking warm champagne and looking at dresses I wouldn’t let my daughter wear, I’d never let her leave the house. At least in London you have to wear a coat and stockings to keep warm, here girls think nothing of wearing dresses the size of Band-Aids.”
“You don’t have a daughter.” Samantha giggled, putting her coffee cup on the glass coffee table.
“That’s your fault entirely, we could make one right now.” Lionel kissed her on the mouth. “A little girl with blond hair and blue eyes and your gorgeous legs.”
“It will have to wait.” Samantha pushed him away. “I had a tutorial during lunch and I’m starving. I’m going to order a club sandwich and tackle Thackeray’s Vanity Fair.”
“Actually I made dinner reservations at The Ivy,” Lionel said, fixing his tie.
“No one eats at The Ivy except Meryl Streep and Robert Redford,” Samantha protested. “I don’t have anything to wear and I’ll be late with my assignment.”
“I’ll write your professor a note.” He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. “And I already picked out your outfit.”
Samantha gazed at the king-size bed and saw a stack of silver boxes tied with gold ribbons.
“What did you do?” she gasped.
“We live one block from Rodeo Drive.” Lionel handed her a box. “I went shopping.”
* * *
They sat at an outdoor table and talked about the new James Bond movie and a gallery opening in Santa Monica. Lionel sipped a Bloody Mary and felt his shoulders relax. Los Angeles was full of things to do and Samantha was perfectly happy. He gazed at her blond hair knotted in a low twist and her mouth coated with pink lipstick and thought she never looked so beautiful.
“If we ate outside in London during the summer, it would probably rain during our entrée.” Lionel nibbled penne with tomato sauce and buffalo mozzarella. “And have you ever tasted such delicious tomatoes? They’re sweeter than a Violet Crumble. We should dine out more often, there’s a new sushi place on Sunset and a pizzeria in Brentwood.”
“We can’t eat at restaurants every meal, I have to write two papers and study for my entrance exams.” Samantha tucked a stray hair behind her ear.
“You don’t have to study. We could stay and buy a house in the Hollywood Hills,” Lionel said slowly. “I know you miss London, but we could stock the pantry with quince and lemon curd and install an Aga cooker in the kitchen. When you walk outside, you’d see birds of paradise and the ocean.” He took a deep breath. “It’s so much easier living in California, there are leafy streets where you can park your car without being afraid it will be sideswiped by a double-decker bus.”
“I like having seasons,” Samantha replied. “When spring comes you actually enjoy the sun on your face and grass between your toes. Here people complain if they have to wear a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of closed toe shoes. And I don’t want my vegetables to taste like candy, I like eating soggy brussels sprouts so I can enjoy a slice of vanilla custard.”
“No one likes brussels sprouts.” Lionel stabbed a shiitake mushroom with his fork. “And I haven’t met anyone in Los Angeles who complains. They all have white smiles and tell you to have a nice day.”
“That’s the point.” Samantha’s eyes flashed. “I don’t want to be surrounded by strangers with permanent tans and American accents. I want to sit in my mother’s kitchen with a cup of tea and a plate of cauliflower cheese. I want to moan that the girls in my first form history class are more interested in the color of their nail polish than the Battle of Hastings.”
“But you left Ireland because it didn’t have opportunities,” Lionel protested. “That’s why you live in London.”
“But we’re still in the same time zone and she understands when I comment about the tube or Prince Harry’s red hair.” She stopped and looked at Lionel. “You’re the one who mentioned children. How could we start a family without grandparents nearby to feed them creamed corn and read Paddington Bear?”
“It’s the end of the twentieth century. You could fly from Heathrow to LAX faster than you
can drive on the M-16 on a holiday weekend.” He reached for her hand. “Why would we want to go back to constant rain and snarled traffic when we can eat under fruit trees in the middle of the city?”
“Because life isn’t about owning a convertible or eating a perfectly poached artichoke. It’s about sharing your accomplishments with the people you love and keeping your promises.” She suddenly jumped up. “We said we’d be here for a year and that’s what I intend to do. I have to go. You can finish my mesquite swordfish with steamed broccollini.”
* * *
Lionel drank a long gulp of his Bloody Mary and thought he never loved Samantha more. He wanted to spend every night with her pressed against his chest. He wanted to have an army of blond children with grubby fists and knobby knees.
He glanced at a couple stepping into a cream Jaguar and thought why did it have to be so difficult? They could have houses in Los Angeles and London and Paris. They could take their children to Walt Disney World and sailing in the Bahamas.
He put his fork on his plate and signaled the waiter.
“Chef Lars wanted to tell you dinner is complimentary.” The waiter approached him. “He made his special triple-layer chocolate cake, he is a big fan of your song.”
Lionel gazed at dark chocolate surrounded by raspberries and whipped cream. He put his napkin on his plate and stood up.
“Tell Lars thank you,” he mumbled. “But I don’t want any bloody dessert.”
* * *
Lionel took off his cuff links and dropped them on the Regency desk. He heard the bedroom door open and saw Samantha wearing a pink cotton robe and slippers.
“I’ll sleep in the living room.” He looked up. “Don’t worry, I have my own pillow.”
“My mother called,” Samantha said. “You invited her and my father to the Grammys. You sent them plane tickets and booked a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise.” Lionel poured a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter.
