by Thérèse
How India longed to be French. Just the faintest whiff of lavender or baked bread always sent her back to that high school trip to Provence. The confidence, that certain je ne sais quoi… For a while, she’d assumed it must have something to do with baskets. She’d never seen so many; swinging from bicycles, hanging from ceilings, balanced on window ledges. They used them for everything, from decorating doorways and carrying bread or laundry to ferrying babies. On several trips to Paris she’d focused more on clothes and noticed another obsession, this time with scarves, which curiously enough, were often tied around those baskets as well as on necks, heads, purses, bicycles and babies. This marked the beginning of India’s extensive scarf collection, which, in the absence of that elusive je ne sais quoi, remained unworn. She also abandoned all attempts to speak the language, after a humiliating experience in a Paris brasserie, where the waiters had met her order with condescending amusement.
She poured herself another glass of wine, then removed a couple of turtleneck sweaters from her suitcase, and the worn leather jacket from her carry-on bag.
After failing to become French, India had decided on becoming quintessentially English. This was when she graduated from high school and moved to the countryside, to a college in Stratford-on-Avon. Forget romantic visions of making love under old oak trees and meandering through fields of cowslips and buttercups in fine white cotton dresses. The reality turned out to be a lot more prosaic. The men she met were mostly farmers and, without exception, the girls all wore green sludge jackets, riding boots, and jodhpurs on weekends, pleated skirts, flat shoes, and pearls during the week. “I refuse to be cloned,” she’d decided, giving up the ghost and transferring her teaching course to London, to the joys of a nearby Starbucks and Nine West, her favorite shoe store at the time.
The trill of her cell phone roused India from what was fast becoming a depressing trip down memory lane. She flung herself on her bag and rooted around till she reached the bottom and pulled it out.
“Hello, hello?” she said, breathlessly.
“Been shagging again?” Sarah laughed.
“I wish,” India said, and settled down on the bed to chat with her best friend. Sarah was a nurse who lived in the hopes of meeting an Italian aristocrat, being whisked off to Tuscany, and drinking Chianti. So far, the closest she’d come was a blind date with a policeman in an Islington trattoria.
“Here, know what I read in a magazine today?”
“No idea!”
“It said that men are their most honest at the exact moment before ejaculation. For real, that’s what it said.”
“Who’s done the research?” India laughed. “More importantly – what kind of magazines are you reading these days?”
Sarah laughed. “Marie Claire, as it happens. Get a copy for the plane.”
“Will do.”
“Are you all packed?”
“Not exactly.” India surveyed the chaos around her. “I haven’t a clue what I’m going to be doing when I get there. And I didn’t check the baggage allowance.”
For the next twenty minutes, they talked about her plans, or lack of plans, in Los Angeles.
“Annie and Joss love having me around – well, for the first few weeks at any rate. But visiting isn’t the same as moving in, is it?” India said, attempting to button up a cardigan with one hand.
“I suppose even with their great contacts, you’re going have to work out what you want to do if you want to stay on,” Sarah agreed.
“That’s the problem. I’m good at teaching. I had such a passion for it. But if I have to fill in one more standard assessment form… It’s soul destroying. If I’d wanted to be a bookkeeper…” She trailed off. “I’ve got to get out of there, Sarah. At this rate I’ll end up some twisted old spinster like Miss Roberts.”
“You could get another cat.”
“And grow a beard I suppose.”
“Just think of it as a vacation for now,” Sarah said, laughing. “Try and relax. You’re tired; enjoy yourself.”
India sighed. “What am I going to do without you?”
“Date Bradley Cooper? Soak up the sun? Shop on Rodeo Drive?” Sarah offered.
“Sarah. I love you.”
“Love you too. Send a postcard. Skype me. Or ‘whatever,’ as they say over there!”
“Will do. Bye.”
How Sarah manages to stay so upbeat after giving injections and checking prostates all day is a mystery to me, India thought, clicking the off button and opening her wardrobe.
What would Audrey wear? she wondered. After a few minutes she pulled out her Agnes B. wraparound black dress and held it to her shoulders in the Cheval mirror. “I shall wear my hair up!” she decided. “Très chic.”
FACEBOOK STATUS – I’m stuck in a holding pattern.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay, and thank you for your patience. There seems to be more air traffic than usual. We will be making our descent just as soon as we have clearance.”
India fidgeted nervously and tried not to look out at the wing. Were those flaps supposed to be opening and closing like that? She’d never been fond of flying. And her seat had been in an upright position for thirty minutes. She was dying to get up and stretch. Thanks to Joss’s air miles, India was flying business class. The copious amounts of decent, free champagne, not to mention the fine Sauvignon, had soothed her nerves for a while, but now she had a slight headache.
She looked again at the “leaving” presents Sarah had given her, at the tiny pink leather Smythson notepad inscribed in gold lettering C’est la Vie and its bright blue companion, Profound Thoughts.
“No guesses which one I’ll fill up first,” India had joked, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gifts.
Sarah knew India so well, how she was always planning on writing a book and constantly scribbling down notes; observations, one-liners. She tucked the notepads back into her handbag, and, as the plane circled inland, she tightened her seatbelt again. They were so low she could see the lines of freeways, the mathematically precise grid of the streets, and the road signs. Clutching the armrest, she closed her eyes as the Airbus bumped down on the runway and braked sharply. Please, please, let this be a whole new beginning, India pleaded silently. I am so ready to start over again.
An hour later, she was edging her way toward the head of the line at Immigration Control, where a decidedly unwelcoming official greeted her with a nod, and took her passport.
“Press your thumbs there,” he said, indicating a plastic screen.
Finger printing? India wondered, awkwardly pressing each thumb as instructed.
“Look into the camera now,” he ordered, tapping endlessly on his computer keyboard.
“Do I smile?” she asked, getting even more nervous. More tapping.
Maybe there’s an alcohol limit for getting into America, she thought, half serious now.
“What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?” he continued humorlessly.
Okay, India registered. This is not the time to bring up Bradley.
“I’m here to visit my sister.” She smiled.
There was a pause. His face remained expressionless, then her passport and visa were thumped, and India stepped into the “Land of the Free.”
It seemed that lots of other people had had the bright idea of tying a ribbon around their suitcases. Eventually, she dragged her Samsonite off the conveyor belt and headed toward the line for customs.
“Are you bringing any livestock into the country, ma’am?” a heavily armed official asked.
“Not today,” she said, smiling, wondering how one could possibly smuggle a chicken onto a plane and why.
“I do have some English chocolate though,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll give you some if you promise to ignore the chicken.”
“Ma’am, in the United States it is a felony to attempt to bribe an officer,” he said sharply, before ticking her customs form and letting her pass through.
Whatever happened to “Have a nice day,” she wondered. It’s not like I was trying to bring in lard from the Ukraine.
Scanning the crowd, her face lit up the moment she recognized Annie’s driver, Robert.
“Wonderful to see you, Miss Butler,” he said, reaching for her luggage. “Welcome back!”
The air outside the terminal was dry and dusty. Trailing closely behind Robert as he crossed the frantically busy street, India looked forward to settling into the soft leather seat of the air-conditioned Town Car.
This is the life, she thought, as Robert deftly switched lanes and the car raced away from the International Terminal onto the sprawling lanes of the freeway. Cocooned in the luxuriously cool, dark car, India amused herself, looking at the blur of garish billboards. Number of people dead from smoking this year (Enough?) … Financial problems? Bankruptcy could be the solution. (Fun solution?)
Taking advantage of a brief traffic jam near the exit, India brushed her hair and touched up her makeup. Then, there they were, driving past the ornate iron awnings that spelt out the magic words, “Bel Air.” This was where Annabelle and Joss had their main home and where they spent most of the school year. Picture perfect, India thought, gazing out at a hacienda-style estate lined with dozens of lemon trees, an old mock-Tudor mansion, and what appeared to be a replica of Buckingham Palace, complete with porticos, stone lions, and a spectacular Trevi fountain.
Annie’s house was a surreal mix of French and Spanish Colonial styles, beautifully proportioned and elegant, with a pitched tiled roof and a long, gated driveway lined with olive trees. The car pul ed up at the carved wooden door where Maria stood, waiting to greet her. A small, dark-haired Mexican in her early fifties, Maria had worked for the family for twelve years and was especially fond of India. Unlike many houseguests, India was considerate and even washed her own underwear.
Leaping out of the car, India embraced her.
“Cómo estás?” Maria said, returning the embrace warmly. “Te ves muy bien.”
Taking India’s hand luggage, Maria started walking across the impossibly green lawn toward the annex. India loved coming back to the guest suite. The ceilings were as high as cathedrals and the tall bay windows overlooked a small, secluded patio surrounded by a fragrant lavender hedge. Thanking Robert profusely, and unsure about tipping, she hesitated for a moment before catching up with Maria and slipping through the door into her own private paradise.
Nothing had changed. The pale green silk-lined walls were bare but for the strikingly colorful de Kooning hanging on the wall by the shuttered windows. Taking in the priceless, jewel-toned oriental rugs scattered across the polished floor, India smiled. Hardly ”benign neglect,” she thought. More “benign opulence.” Fiddling with the remote control, she was delighted to see the gigantic wide-screen HDTV slide up discreetly from its cabinet. Then she looked longingly at the California king-size bed with its pristine linen sheets, down pillows, and white Frette coverlet.
But it was Annie’s own thoughtful and very personal touches that always meant the most to India: the handmade vellum note-paper, India’s favorite Moulton Brown soap in the bathroom, and the card on the bedside table with a note: “Maria’s cooked your supper. Please don’t wait up for me. I just can’t WAIT to see you in the morning. Love you, xxx.”
India had yet to master the art of relaxing while staff looked after her and was feeling extremely awkward as Maria laid out a stack of thick Turkish bath towels. To distract herself she started sorting through her English “souvenirs,” the little gifts she’d brought from London: Jo Malone candles from Bond Street (but really from the duty-free) for Annie, candy for the kids, and an outrageously expensive Pop art Paul Smith tie for Joss, who liked to wear them when he had dinner with the designer.
The guy’s impressive, he said to her once. “Never fails to recognize the exact year and season of every tie. “
After Maria left her alone, she took a quick shower, went over to the house, ate a delicious risotto, drank two glasses of Kermit Lynch Sancerre, and headed groggily back to bed for a good night’s sleep.
PROFOUND THOUGHTS NOTE – Wahoo!
The glorious California sun had barely risen over the horizon when India sprang out of bed. It was 5 a.m.
Too early to wake Annie up, she thought, dashing over and opening the wide doors of the walk-in closet. A few sorry-looking linen shifts and two shirts hung there limply, as if forgotten by a departed guest. The rest of her clothes were still strewn across the floor.
Shit, those creases are supposed to fall out overnight, she thought. I should have brought that Ghost dress… Never mind. At least I remembered my new bikini.
A slow, luxurious swim in the infinity pool soon recharged her spirits. Reluctant to get her hair wet, she concentrated on keeping her head above water. What a metaphor for my life, she thought as she did a few more laps. Then she toweled off and ran toward the kitchen. Annie looked up the second the door opened and rushed across the room. Throwing her arms around India, she locked her in a bear hug.
“Look at you.” Annabelle grinned, stepping back and taking both of her hands. “Here you are… I’ve been counting the days.”
“I’ve been counting the months!” India laughed. “I can’t believe I’m finally here. I’m really here!” She paused. “You look so beautiful, Annie. Your hair got lighter and your skin’s amazing. You haven’t even got tiny frown lines, and your forehead’s so smooth. Teaching’s giving me wrinkles. I’m obsessed. See this frown line here?” she said, running a finger between her eyebrows.
“Thank you,” Annie said, turning around to fix the lid of the gurgling coffeemaker. “Good flight?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Great. The seat went almost flat and the food was good, too.” She grinned. “I could get used to that.”
Annie smiled. “Are you ready for breakfast? I think I know the answer. We have the house all to ourselves. Joss thought we’d appreciate the time to catch up.”
“He’s so thoughtful. Yes, I’m starving. Have you still got that waffle machine?”
“Ready to go,” Annie said, dragging it out of a drawer. “Orange juice in there” – she nodded toward the refrigerator – “and there’s a fruit plate ready too.”
“It’s like I’ve never been away,” India said, opening the heavy steel doors to the fridge. She pulled out a jug, placed it on the kitchen table, and then dashed over and gave her sister another hug.
“I want all the news. How did the girls get on in Hawaii? Do they still hang out with the Nicholsons? Is Bella still freaking out over meeting Jason Mraz? Will I recognize them? Did they get the backstage passes for Miley Cyrus?” India was remembering how shocked she had been seeing them go off to school with their (monogrammed) Louis Vuitton backpacks and Juicy Couture pants, or the time their friend’s dad had ordered in tons of real snow so they could all enjoy a white Christmas. That was the year he also flew them in his the Gulfstream jet to a bar mitzvah in Vegas. At the time, India was not sure if she was disgusted or jealous.
“Yes, yes, and yes.” Annabelle laughed, setting out a couple of plates. “But not in that order. They’re still cute as hell but Bella is starting to get attitude already; can’t think who she takes after!”
“And Joss? Are things good?” India probed.
“Yes, we’re good. Really good,” Annie said with a smile. “He just came off tour and he’s loving the Malibu place. It’s very laid-back. He’s set up another recording studio there. Says he feels more creative by the ocean.”
“I can’t wait,” India said, “and it’s a beach party, right?”
“Just a few friends. Joss has it all organized – special charcoal for the barbecue, meat from Spago’s kitchen. He’s in his element, hanging out.”
“So what shall I wear?” India asked.
“Don’t even think of worrying what to wear,” Annie told her. “Malibu’s very casual. It’s come as you are. So now fill me in. Tell me, how’s Sarah? Is she still
trying out the dating agency? How’s the job? Any men on the horizon?”
The hours flew by. Annabelle and India hardly left the kitchen all day.
PROFOUND THOUGHTS NOTE – California Casual?
Late next morning they packed up overnight bags and drove out to Malibu. Looking forward to a relaxed afternoon with Annie’s friends and her nieces, India planned to swim at the beach, too.
“It’s almost like being in the country,” Annie had told her.
They drove down Sunset Boulevard past the suburban estates of Pacific Palisades and onto the Pacific Coast Highway. After a few miles, Annie turned the SUV expertly up the incline of a steep hill that led them a few miles into the canyon. Then she slowed down on a tiny dirt road, avoiding the lines of precariously parked cars. The sprawling ranch property was set way back in acres of land. While they waited for the electronic gates to open, India noticed a large sign underneath the surveillance cameras. “Private Party: No Tweets or Video, Please.”
“That’s funny, Annie.” She laughed. “Do we get a full body search? Hope so, it’s been a while.”
“We try to keep this place a secret,” Annie said, laughing. “Well, we’re a bit late. Let’s freshen up quickly.” She climbed down from the car and led India up a back stairway.
India splashed her face and straightened her hair in a bathroom. She had opted for a white linen shirt, black capri pants, and flat leather moccasins. This was working beautifully, or so she thought, until Annie reappeared in a heavily jeweled Tory Burch smock, meticulously ripped blue jeans, and high, gold, strappy Jimmy Choo sandals.
“Come on, darling. Joss and the girls are bursting to see you,” Annie said, grabbing her hand and leading India down the stairs and into the garden.
A woman passed by in a long sequined evening dress, also wearing emerald earrings and a choker of enormous black pearls. Obviously this “California Casual” look doesn’t come cheap, India thought, and began speculating on the total cost, starting with the woman’s highlighted hair, her makeup, manicure, pedicure, shoes, handbag, and jewelry. She’d reached a rough estimate of $5,500 and was about to start on Annie, when she was interrupted by a shout from Joss. He raced across the garden and lifted her up off the ground for a hug as she threw her arms around him.
