India's Summer

by Thérèse

  “He was? He did? You did just say ‘gorgeous’ as in GORGEOUS, right?”

  “Yes … ‘your gorgeous sister.’” Annabelle laughed. “Yes. So what would you like to do today?”

  “Annie. Let’s go out together. Let’s have lunch somewhere lovely … start again. I’m so sorry.”

  Refocusing with a smile, Annie seemed more energetic. “I’d suggest the The Ivy, but last time, they gave me a table up front and it ruined the whole meal. God! How I loathe that pack of paparazzi!”

  She paused for a second. “But there is this great Argentinean place in West Hollywood. It’s sort of off the beaten track. Joss loves it. Shall I have Tess call and book it? How ’bout one o’clock? I might even be able to fit in a swim in my own pool.”

  “Brilliant, Annie. You have a swim and I’ll soak up the sun for a bit.”

  “Oh! And I nearly forgot,” Annabelle said over her shoulder. “There’s an art show tomorrow night at the Raw Warehouse. Mr. Brainwash – he’s a graffiti artist, a friend of Banksy’s. You might enjoy it. I’ll fill you in over lunch.”

  C’EST LA VIE NOTE – Nobody in the Polo Lounge plays polo.

  Annie had said the words “warehouse” and “graffiti,” so India had dressed appropriately: in a pair of old cargo pants and a Mr. Rogers–like cardigan. One look at the hip scene around her and she wanted to vaporize. So this is “rock star casual,” she thought, checking out the parade of characters: the bleached denim, the bed-head hair, the Afghan coats (in this heat?).

  “Annie, this is incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She gasped as they were ushered into a dark, cavernous space by two bald and heavily muscled armed security guards, and “Mr. Brainwash” himself came up and kissed Annie smack on the lips.

  “Enchanté,” he shouted to India over the din of electronic disco.

  “Moi aussi,” she shouted back, proudly, at this short, disheveled looking Frenchman. He had his foot in a cast, which, far from slowing him down, only seemed to make him more wired and hyped up.

  “I fall off the ladder,” he said, grinning, lifting up his cast before zipping off with Annie in tow.

  India just stood there looking around, grateful for the darkness. Thank God no one knows me! she thought. Glancing over at a knot of people clustering around a giant silver rocket, she recognized the Olsen twins deep in conversation with Sharon Osbourne. What could they possibly have to say to each other? she wondered.

  Suddenly India’s mouth went dry. She felt her throat tighten. It was him. It was Adam Brooks leaning up, lazily, against a white pillar, arms folded across his chest. Turning her back to him, she tried to recover her equilibrium. Where the hell was Annie? And why, oh why, did he have to show up on a night when she was dressed like this? Maybe he hasn’t seen me, she prayed, swinging around toward the nearest wall, where she bumped into an image of a gun-toting Elvis.

  “Hey! India! Are you avoiding me?”

  “Adam,” she squeaked, “of course not. I’m delighted to see you.”

  “So what do you think of ‘Mr. Brainwash?’ They say he’s a genius, you know.”

  “Yes, but I’m struggling a bit with some of it,” she said, pointing to Elvis. “What’s with the gun? What does it mean?”

  “Forget the meaning,” Adam yelled across the din. “Meaning is meaningless in the case of ‘Mr. Brainwash.’”

  India’s chest was pounding. The physical presence of this man made her feel totally giddy. As they wandered through what seemed acres of space, India berated herself. Get a grip, girl. You’re almost forty years old. Yes, he’s good looking. OK, better than good looking. But it’s the intensity you really like. Half an hour later, as they toured the vast spaces, she was still waiting for him to shake her hand and vanish into the beckoning arms of some impatient starlet – maybe that Cynthia girl was about to appear any moment.

  India stopped at an installation. “What’s that?” she said.

  “That,” replied Adam with a straight face, “is a junkyard police car covered in graffiti on a plinth.”

  “In London, if we see a police car covered in graffiti, we tend not to put it on a plinth!” India laughed. Annabelle appeared be-side her. She looked exhausted.

  “Hi, Adam,” she said with a smile. “I don’t know about you and India but I have got to get out of here. Are you ready?”

  India nodded, hands over her ears. “I’m starving,” she shouted. “Can we go eat somewhere?”

  “A brilliant suggestion,” Annabelle replied. “Adam? Maybe you’d like to join us?”

  India pretended that she hadn’t heard the question and scanned the room while a voice inside her screamed, Please say yes! Please say yes!

  Like an answered prayer, his eyes locked on hers and he nodded. “Great idea! Where?”

  Annabelle thought for a moment. “How ’bout the Polo Lounge? It’s usually quiet at this hour.”

  “Give me a minute,” Adam said, pulling out his phone and pressing speed dial. “You want a table inside or out?”

  “We’re easy,” Annie mouthed, grabbing India’s arm and steering her through the crowds toward the back entrance, where Robert would be waiting with the car.

  “Freedom, at last!” Annie sighed, pulling out her seat belt after telling Robert their destination.

  India lowered her voice. “Do me a favor,” she said as the car took a long turn and glided up past the line of palm trees and banana plants toward the Beverly Hills Hotel. “Don’t talk about what I do for a living.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me, darling, but I don’t quite get it. I mean, it’s not like you’re a lap dancer or a stripper. What’s the problem with teaching?”

  “It’s not the teaching. It’s just that I want to seem a bit more mysterious, more seductive, I suppose.”

  “Well, we could always talk about me all night. There’s a subject I never tire of,” Annie joked as they headed up the red-carpeted stairs.

  “Can we go to the loo?” India asked. “I mean restroom.”

  “Sure, I’ll lead the way.”

  This is so opulent it’s surreal, India thought, following Annabelle through the peachy pink circular lobby with its heavy Italian chandeliers, gilded balconies, and velvet settees. As the door swung open India saw two young women puckering their lips and playing with their hair in front of long gilded mirrors. They were both wearing baby-doll dresses and seven-inch Lady Gaga–style shoes.

  Shit! she thought, catching her own reflection and pulling her cardigan more to one side over her shoulder. If I had something sexy on underneath – I don’t know, maybe a French basque – I could take this off. But as I don’t, I’m just going to have to channel Diane Keaton instead.

  She took a deep breath. It’s all about confidence… she reminded herself. Say YES!

  Annie retouched her lipstick and then, as if sensing her discomfort, gave India an impulsive hug.

  “Relax, darling. He likes you. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. Let’s go.”

  Sweeping past the now star-struck girls in their baby dolls, Annabelle drifted across the marble lobby and through the mahogany swing doors into the bar of the restaurant.

  “Annabelle! How’s it going?” said a tiny middle-aged guy in a striped shirt, leaping to his feet and fiddling with his earpiece. “Great to see you.”

  “You, too, Jeff. It’s been too long,” she said, leaning down to air kiss each cheek.

  Hovering behind her, India took a deep breath as Adam shook Jeff ’s hand. As the manager escorted them toward a booth at the back of the room, Adam gently touched her waist. “I’m glad I came,” he said. India just looked at him, mutely, and smiled.

  Only tribal peace talks in Iraq seemed more complicated to India than Annabelle ordering food in a restaurant.

  “Does the soup have cream in it?” Annie asked. “Are there onions in the jus?” “And what about the salmon? Is it wild or farmed?”

  It’d be simpler to cook it yourself, India thought. Yo
u’d have a hard time ordering like that at the Cat and Lion pub.

  Annabelle took a while and then gazed up at the waiter. “I’ll have the halibut. Baked. No butter. No dressing, please.”

  “Make that two,” India chimed in. “Though I’d like lots of dressing with mine, please.”

  “So what did you think of the show, Annie? Did you buy anything?” Adam asked, after ordering the filet mignon minus the jus and with green beans instead of carrots.

  “I had them put a couple of pieces aside for Joss to look at tomorrow. He’s the expert, not me,” she said, unfolding a snow-white napkin and placing it on her snow-white pants.

  We can’t possibly be related, India thought, looking down at her creased cargos.

  “I bet the stuff would look great out in Malibu,” Adam added. “It really is an amazing house, Annie.”

  “Thanks. I love it, too. Especially for parties.”

  “So India,” Adam said, breaking into a bread roll and leaning across for the butter, “is it true you live in London?”

  “It’s true,” she said.

  “And is it still true that if you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life?”

  “I hope not,” India replied, “because, honestly, I am a bit tired of it.”

  “Well, the city’s one of my absolute favorites. I have a friend, a director, who has a fantastic apartment in Green Park. And last year, he asked me to play the lead in a new West End production. I was all set to move and then the financing fell…” Adam paused, annoyed, and reached down into his pocket to silence his cell phone. “I am so sorry,” he said, checking out the number. “I hate when this happens. But I think I have to take it.”

  “No problem,” Annie said. “It’s LA, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll make it quick.”

  India watched as he strolled through the French doors onto the patio. “It’s probably his wife.” She sighed.

  “He doesn’t have a wife anymore, darling, I told you. Relax.” Annie smiled.

  “My nerves are shot to pieces,” India confided.

  “Well … I’m feeling skittish myself. I’m so grateful you’re here … more than you know,” Annie replied, adjusting the linen scarf around her neck. Just as she seemed close to revealing what was really on her mind, Annabelle was ambushed from behind by two hands over her eyes and a whispered “Guess who, darling.” The accent was a pure Southern drawl.

  “Loretta,” Annie said with a wide smile, leaping up from her seat. “You look amazing. What are you doing here? Please, sit down and say hello to my sister, India.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, India,” the woman said as Adam arrived back at the table.

  “Hi Loretta!” Adam grinned. “You haven’t been anywhere near Brazil by any chance have you?”

  Loretta gave a deep-throated laugh. “You always cut to the chase, don’t you, Adam? It’s a good thing I have a sense of humor. Because as it happens, yes. A little R&R, you know?”

  India had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.

  “Well, it suits you.” Adam winked. “The R&R, I mean.”

  Soon after, the food arrived, and Loretta and Annie plunged deep into conversation. India turned to Adam. “What on Earth?” she said.

  “Dr. Perez?” Adam replied. “The plastic surgeon? Surely, you’ve heard of him?”

  “No,” India said.

  “Which is one of the reasons I want your number. You have no idea how refreshing it is to meet a woman who’s never heard of Perez. It proves there’s still hope for the planet.”

  “I get to score points for being out of touch or for not having a face-lift?” she asked, avoiding eye contact and focusing on her plate. (Omygod he wants my number! He wants my number!)

  “Both,” Adam said, touching her hand. “Like the lady said, I cut straight to the chase.” He pulled out his cell. “Damn thing just died,” he said, putting it away again. “Can you write it down?”

  India fumbled around in her purse for a pencil and ripped out a page from her leather notepad.

  “Profound Thoughts?” Adam said, peeking at the cover. “Is that for real?”

  “It’s a present from my friend in London. There’s not a lot in it!” She laughed, finally unearthing a pen from the depths of her purse and scribbling down her number.

  Tucking it into his pocket, Adam signaled a passing waiter for the check as Loretta hugged Annie goodbye.

  “Who was that woman?” India asked while the trio waited under the awning for a valet to bring Adam’s car around.

  Annie lowered her voice. “That, my darling, was no woman. I guess you haven’t been to Vegas in a long time. Best drag act in town.”

  India’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “You mean…?”

  Adam nodded. “Exactly. What happens in Brazil, stays in Brazil.”

  Annie fell asleep on the drive home while India gazed out the window, daydreaming. Can you daydream in the dead of night? she wondered as Robert pulled past the Bel Air gates and delivered them to the front door.

  “Go straight to bed,” India said, steering Annie out of the car, into the house and toward the stairs. “I’ll take care of the lights and alarm. Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks, darling. I’m too tired for words,” Annie said, kissing her and walking, slowly, up the stairs.

  Just as India was trying to figure out which button to push without setting off the sirens, her phone rang. Racing across the hall to the table, she grabbed it from her purse.

  “So I hope I’m not calling too soon,” said the gravelly voice on the other end. “How ’bout I pick you up at ten for breakfast at Urth on Melrose. They make a killer latte.”

  “Perfect,” India replied. “Great!”

  “Cool. Have a good sleep and see you then,” he said.

  “You, too,” she replied, in what she fervently hoped was a sultry tone.

  India walked across the lawn as if in a trance. Did I sound too available? she asked herself. Should I have said I was busy? Did I really say “perfect”? Maybe I said “great.” Yes, I definitely said “great” … I should have said “cool”…

  Once inside, India brushed her teeth, then, without taking her usual shower, she put on her nightdress and sank into the freshly ironed sheets. What to wear? It would have to be casual, but what was “coffee casual”? She was going to get it right this time, blow him away with her casualness. Her meandering thoughts trailed off into a gentle fog as she snuggled down to sleep.

  PROFOUND THOUGHTS NOTE – Ohmygod.

  “Coffee’s made, darling,” Annabelle shouted. “OK, Clooney,” she snapped, grabbing the panting dog by the collar and attaching the leash. “Bloody dog walker didn’t show today. I’ll be about an hour. OK, Clooney. Let’s go.”

  India stepped out of the way carefully, remembering Annie had told her the other night that the dog was taking tranquilizers because he’d nipped one of the kids. She’d been stunned to hear they’d hired a professional dog therapist who was taking notes on Clooney’s moods.

  The dog’s got a shrink! she’d thought. That gives whole new meaning to the expression “barking mad.”

  Blowing on her coffee as she sat at the kitchen desk, India loaded Google onto the wide-screen Mac and typed in “Adam Brooks.”

  “Shit!” she muttered, wiping hot coffee off Annie’s glasses case and turning back to the screen.

  “Oh my God!” There was a photo of Adam striding out of the ocean like some sea god, toting a surfboard, his six-pack glistening in the sun, his wetsuit clinging to his thighs. Skimming through the info on his career, she read: “Born in 1965, film actor, best known for his portrayal of…” She moved ahead to “Personal Life.”

  “Briefly married in 1993 to Chloe Depardu, the French TV presenter… FRENCH TV presenter?” she muttered. “This is bad … really bad.”

  Yanking her phone out of her dressing-gown pocket, she speed-dialed Sarah.

  “It’s me again. Okay, I’m o
nline and I just found out Adam was married to some basket-carrying, scarf-tying French TV presenter. If she couldn’t hold on to him, what chance have I got?”

  “Breathe,” Sarah said calmly. “Breathe.”

  “Sarah, nobody loses out to a French woman. It’s just one of those rules.”

  “Maybe she left him? Did you think of that?”

  “That’s even worse. He’s probably still trying to get over her and listening to some Carla Bruni CD as we speak.”

  “Hang on, India. I’m googling. Aha! Scroll down the page. See? It was EIGHT years ago. That’s practically the Paleolithic Age in Hollywood. I bet he doesn’t even remember what she looks like…”

  “Oh my God! Check out her boobs,” India muttered. “He’ll remember those for sure. Shit. It’s almost ten o’clock and I’m not even dressed.”

  “Go for it, girl.” Sarah laughed as they both clicked off.

  India raced upstairs to Annabelle’s closet. Five minutes later, she heard the roar of a car in the driveway. Pouring herself into a pair of skintight jeans (with some stretch, thank God), she grabbed a sleeveless white shirt and peeked out the window to the driveway, where Adam sat in a gunmetal gray Porsche convertible. Yanking her hair into a clip, she dashed downstairs and scribbled Annie a note. Stopping for a moment in front of the hall mirror, she caught sight of Adam’s full-blown image still on the computer screen. She opened the front door and slowly, ever so slowly, closed it tightly behind her.

  “I heard you arrive,” she said, casually. “Thought I’d save you coming in.”

  “Hey!” He grinned as she headed for the left side of the car. “Are you planning to drive?”

  “Oops,” she muttered, running around to the passenger side. “I’m still not used to how you all drive on the wrong side of the road.”

  Bending her knees, she slipped as graciously as possible into the low tilted seat.

  “Carmen, okay?” Adam smiled, fiddling with the sound system.

  “Perfect,” she said, nodding. “I love Italian music.”

  As they drove down Bellagio and onto Sunset, India soaked up the scenery: So many palm trees, she thought. So why no coco-nuts? The thrill of being so near him was giving her palpitations. As Adam turned onto Melrose past a row of antiquarian bookstores and interior design boutiques, she smiled.