by Thérèse
“What’s funny?” he asked, pulling into a space beneath the white veranda of Urth Caffé.
“Urth,” she said, pointing to the sign, “I imagined it was spelt ‘e-a-r-t-h.’”
“Ha! ‘Earth,’ right! Never even noticed.” He led her up the stairs, the waitress gazing at him adoringly as she escorted them to a quiet table above a tree-lined side street.
“So,” Adam ventured, before his voice was drowned out by a pack of bikers swinging round the corner revving their engines and India was left trying to read his lips.
“I forgot,” Adam said, apologetically. “It’s Saturday. Let’s get out of here.”
Steering her back down the stairs, he shouted in her ear. “How much time’ve you got?”
“All the time in the world,” she shouted back. “I’m on vacation.”
“Cool,” he said as they backed out of the parking space. “I’ll take the scenic route in that case … Brooks Tours at your service!”
“Thank you, Mr. Brooks.”
“You’re welcome.” He grinned.
“Just look at that sky and that ocean,” India said with a gasp as the car swung down the California Incline. The panorama of crumbling bluffs and endlessly blue ocean almost took her breath away. As they sped along the Pacific Coast Highway she watched the surfers climb up against the white foam of crashing waves before riding them in. She freeze-framed the moment. On the crest of a wave, she thought, contentedly, That’s how I feel right now.
Adam’s voice and a sudden stop brought her back to Earth.
“Okay. Latte good for you?” he said, climbing out of the car at Malibu Creek and heading toward the Marmalade Café. Minutes later, he reappeared with two cardboard trays and a squashy white paper bag. “Careful, it’s hot,” he warned her. “We’re almost there.”
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
India discreetly clutched the side of her seat as Adam accelerated and the car clung to the curve as tightly as wet silk on skin. There was nothing below them but air and ocean.
“The hillside’s still covered since the mudslides,” he said, slowing down as they came out of the curve and hit a straightaway.
“I thought it never rained in California,” India said, desperately combing through her hair with her fingers.
“Yep. It rains,” he said. “It pours, and you don’t want to be on this road when it does,” he added, pointing to a pile of flowers heaped on the roadside. Downshifting as they drove into the Malibu colony, he pulled up sharply into a garage. India followed him up a flight of wooden steps through a tiny, shiny steel kitchen and into a magnificently simple, sun-filled living room, where he yanked open the glass doors and bowed.
“Breakfast will be served momentarily.” he grinned. “Pull up a seat.”
Collapsing onto a huge blue-and-white-striped cushion, India dangled her long legs over the balcony. Far off in the distance, she saw a couple of low-flying helicopters outlined against the mountains, and closer by, some kids in wet suits dragging boogie boards across the sand. She watched them wading out through the shallow edge of the water before throwing themselves onto their stomachs as they reached the waves.
Adam was rolling back his shirt sleeves when he flopped down next to her.
“Is this where you live?” India asked, surprised that her voice had not come out as a high squeak. She sounded quite normal for someone losing power over her limbs; Adam was now undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.
Just keep looking at the ocean… she told herself, you’ll be fine.
“Yeah,” Adam said, “How lucky can you get, right? Wish I could be here more often, that’s all.”
India was grateful that he seemed to be oblivious to the somewhat unhinged state of his guest. Adam took a bite of blueberry muffin and sipped his latte. Following his lead, India did the same. She could see the edge of a sleigh bed in a bedroom off to her right.
“Do you surf?” she asked, swallowing hard. He was very close to her now.
“Used to jet ski,” he replied, gazing out at the sea. “Surfing’s a young man’s game. How ’bout you?”
“Ah yes! Those summer nights…” she said, hoping this implied fire pits and toasting marshmallows with tanned pubescent boys. “The Internet,” she said, laughing, “I surf the Internet.”
“And what do you do when you’re not surfing the Internet? Max asked you that at Joss’ party. But you never really answered.”
Flattered that he’d remembered, but flustered, India groped for words.
“Well, it’s sort of hard to explain, really,” she started as he leaned forward and looked at her with eyes that were bluer than the already incredibly blue sky. “I help people develop their confidence and understand what they can do to change their lives.”
Adam propped himself up on his elbows and stretched out his legs. “Like a life coach, you mean?”
“Not exactly. More like a facilitator. I use these techniques I learned from Stanislavski.” Where did that come from? she wondered. “Do you know his work?”
“Not as well as I should, but I’ve taken a few American method classes. What kind of techniques do you use?”
“Ah … good question,” she said. “Stanislavski took some of the disciplines of yoga and applied them to training actors. He was light-years ahead of his time, you know, mixing psychology with yoga. I’ve adapted them for non-actors … that’s all.”
“Sorry. What do you mean?”
I have no idea what I mean, India thought. But Adam’s interest, his curiosity, felt as stimulating as a dip in the North Sea. Brushing some crumbs off her lap, she took a deep breath.
“Well, take tai chi, for example. It’s an Eastern tradition, right?” (Shit, I think it might be a drink…) But people in the West have adopted it too. It works. Maybe not in exactly the same way as in the East, but it’s effective nonetheless.”
“Do you teach yoga?”
“No. I rely on the drama techniques I learned at university.”
Adam nodded. “And do people really manage to shift their thinking? Make changes?”
“Some of them do,” she said, standing up and stretching in what she hoped was a very centered, limber move reflecting years of posture training.
“How many people do you usually workshop?” Adam asked, rising, she noticed, in a single fluid motion from his own sitting position on the cushion.
“I workshop thirty at a time. Any more than that and I lose my focus.”
(I workshop? I WHAT? God, I’ve come over all American. I just used a noun as a verb. Any second now I’ll be saying things like “clusterfuck” and “whatever.”)
Keeping her shoulders back and her toes out and wishing she wasn’t quite so self-conscious, she strolled inside toward the fireplace.
“And what about you? Did you always want to act? Even as a kid?”
“It was an accident. That’s the truth. I just stumbled into it. I know people expect you to say it was a long, hard struggle, years of waiting tables and endless auditions. But it wasn’t. Not for me.”
“And is this your family?” India asked, holding up a framed photograph.
“Yes. That’s my dad. He’s a playwright. And my mom, she was an artist, a wonderful painter.”
“Was?” India asked quietly.
“Mm … yes. She died a couple of years ago. That’s one of her paintings above the mantel there,” he added, pointing to a hauntingly beautiful watercolor above the fireplace.
“Reminds me of a Rodin,” India replied, gently. “Le Jardin des Supplices. The figure has the same auburn hair.”
“It was a self-portrait. Mom was extremely talented.” He smiled. “I was her only pride and joy.”
“You were an only child?”
“Yeah. But I wasn’t lonely. Our house was always lively, full of artists and actors. I used to think it was normal to sit in all night on conversations about Edward Albee or Salinger or Brecht.”
India tried to block out thoughts of h
er own childhood; the door slamming the night their father left, Annie’s suitcase in the hall soon after, promises to be back at the weekends, weekends that never happened, weeks that turned into months. How she had put her own plans on hold, unable to wrench herself away from her mother. Thinking back now, she felt that same knot in her stomach and tightness in her throat.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said, putting down the photograph. “To have all those interesting people around you growing up, all that encouragement.”
“I know, believe me. I know. It’s why I don’t trust myself sometimes. Like becoming an ‘overnight success,’ you know?”
“I can’t imagine what that must be like,” she replied.
“It’s weird,” Adam said. “Makes me feel like I didn’t earn it. My shrink tells me I should get over it. But guilt is in my DNA. Maybe I should try one of your workshops.”
“Ha! Right.” India smiled weakly as he handed her a glass of Pellegrino.
“If you get what you want too easily, too quickly, you lose your drive. I mean, if there’s no struggle, the energy just sort of dissipates… What was it Shakespeare said? ‘Give me a surfeit…’ Hell, what’s the line?”
“‘The appetite may sicken and so die?’” India offered.
“Precisely,” he said.
“We call that middle-aged angst,” she said. “It’s when not having a problem becomes the problem.”
“I like how you fill in my blanks. I’m not used to it.”
“Believe me, it’s a long time since I’ve had blanks to fill in,” she said, smiling at him.
“How about a walk? Nothing like a walk in Malibu to clear an existential head.”
She nodded.
“The thing is, I don’t want to make formulaic movies for the rest of my life,” he said, hauling some wooden steps down from the deck till they touched the sand. “The last one was just…”
“I’m afraid I didn’t actually see the last one,” India confessed. “I don’t go to the movies much in London.”
“Probably because you have a life. People in London have more to do than make movies or go see them. Here in LA, it’s like Woody Allen said, ‘The only cultural advantage to LA is turning right on a red light.’”
He grabbed her hand to steady her as she landed next to him with a bump on the hot sand, and they walked together to the water’s edge.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Clooney was slobbering noisily at his water bowl as Annabelle read India’s note. She poured two cups of Maria’s freshly ground fair-trade Chilean coffee, and walked barefoot across the lawn to Joss’ den. Tiptoeing through the wooden doorway, she found him curled up on the couch, reading. She liked this room, maybe because it was all Joss. He’d bought the beautiful antique Native American carpets himself and dragged them home after a gig in Santa Fe. The old oak coffee table had been bought at the auction of one of his silent screen idols. “The poor woman died broke and forgotten,” he’d said that afternoon. Sometimes, when he was away on tour, Annabelle would come in, close the door, and just stand there, gazing at the pictures of him; the walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with photographs – Joss with arms around Mick Jagger, another one of him laughing with Rod and Stevie. Dozens of golden discs and graphic cartoons covered the hallway that led into a small, state-of-the-art recording studio. She was as happy as he was in here, always had been.
“Hey, you,” she said, walking over and kissing him on top of his head. “Thought you might like some coffee.”
“Ah! You’re a mind reader, Annie,” he said, jumping up like a teenager to give her a hug.
She leaned into him and snuggled. “What time are you and Kenny taking the girls?”
“Depends what time I get out of here, doesn’t it?” he whispered, running one hand, slowly, down her back. Moving over to the door, he locked it and gently untied the belt of her robe. She smiled and let it slip to the floor.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Annie was delighted that Lizzie had said yes to a last-minute lunch date at Il Cielo, her favorite Italian spot, but as she sat back in the car, she fought the impulse to touch the lump in her throat. Why hadn’t she called the doctor? Because she was terrified, that’s why. Because a few more hours in denial wouldn’t kill her, she decided. As the car slowed down outside the restaurant in Beverly Hills, she fumbled around in her bag for her lipstick.
“Thanks, Robert,” she said as the car came to a gentle stop and the door lock clicked open. “Why don’t you take some time off for your own lunch? Lizzie can drop me off.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” Robert replied. “You know I don’t mind waiting.”
“Of course I’m sure,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. “Enjoy the afternoon.”
A young waiter was standing under the arched entranceway.
“You are Miss Butler-Elliot?” he said, awestruck.
“So they tell me,” she replied, lightly.
He stood motionless, nailed to the floor, gaping. Annabelle was accustomed to putting other people at ease. It was part of her job.
“I’m here for lunch?” she suggested.
“Oh yes, such an honor, my privilege,” he said, in a heavy Venetian dialect. Opening one arm wide, as if to take a bow, he directed her to a circular table tucked discreetly amid leafy vines, where he scraped back a wrought-iron chair and gave an Elizabethan flourish to her napkin.
Annie appreciated the secluded spot. But the possibility of privacy had been spectacularly blown away by his theatrics. Still, she was gracious.
“Lovely,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “Perfect.”
It wasn’t long before Lizzie appeared, waving frantically from beneath the pagodas, and ran over as if jet propelled. Annie grinned as they kissed. “Three kids and you look about sixteen years old. I don’t know how you do it!” Annie exclaimed.
It was almost true. Lizzie was the epitome of sleek chic. Her long streaked hair was blown straight, her skin buffed, and her emerald green eyes were accentuated with just the faintest hint of violet shadow. She wore an exquisite topaz necklace around her bronzed neck, and an elegant peach silk blouse and white jeans.
“Ha!” her friend whispered. “Thanks. I feel like shit! Rhonda didn’t sleep a wink last night and the boys had me up at five. The housekeeper called in sick and I had to drive, round-trip, for a playdate all the way to the Palisades.”
“My God! Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come to you or we could have met up tomorrow. I remember showing up on the set after two hours’ sleep. It’s murder.”
Scanning the menu, Lizzie sighed. “Are you kidding? I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Don’t ask me how I could feel claustrophobic in fifteen thousand square feet of space, but I do.”
The waiter was back. “Miss Butler, let me tell you about the specials we are having today.”
“We’re not terribly hungry,” Annie said, cutting him off, politely. “Could we just order two of your arugula salads, please, with dressing on the side? And oh! Lizzie? A half bottle of Gavi?”
“Great idea,” Lizzie agreed. “Maybe even a full bottle. And Pellegrino.”
“Excellent choice,” the waiter noted, nodding as he backed up. Lizzie touched her friend’s cheek. “So where’s India?” she asked.
“A coffee date with Adam Brooks.”
“Wow! That was fast work. How long’s she been here?”
“A week. I’m really glad to see her, but she’s having some trouble settling in. I think she’s had a rough year. But how’s Tom and the flu?”
“He’s much better but he gave it to Rhonda. We seem to share everything in our family … including husbands.”
Lizzie was suddenly close to tears. “She’s eighteen, for Christ’s sake…”
Annie looked at her. momentarily confused, and then concerned.
“I’m talking about the nanny. Eighteen, and my husband was screwing her.”
“Oh God, I know, Li
zzie. I am so sorry. Do you feel like talking about it?”
Waiting, patiently, until the waiter had uncorked and poured their first glass of wine, Lizzie wiped her eyes with the edge of a linen napkin. “Look, it’s not like I thought I married the Dalai Lama, you know? But the nanny? Puhleeze.”
“I don’t suppose I can ask why you’re putting up with it?”
“Of course you can ask. I’ve been asking myself the same question lately. I told my shrink yesterday I might finally be finding the courage to walk away. Stan has joint custody of his older kids and they’re making my life a living hell.”
Annie listened quietly as Lizzie shared the weight of her sadness.
“Henry treats me like staff, refuses to pick up after himself and loves provoking Tom and Jack. And I detest his friends. They’re just awful.”
“Are they around every weekend?”
“And then some,” her friend replied, picking her way through her salad. “And don’t get me started on Sophie. She’s spoiled rotten.”
Annie didn’t much like the teenage stepdaughter either.
“It’s strange,” Lizzie said, almost wistfully. “I remember how I admired your strength. That time when you stood your ground with Joss.”
“Yeah, well. It was years ago, before the kids. It hurt but I knew that woman was just a groupie. I mean, she was never a real threat.”
“But you left, Annie. And he came back to you on your own terms. No way he’d risk losing you again. We all know that. My problem is I’m scared stiff.”
“We’re all scared, sometimes,” Annie said, putting her hand over Lizzie’s. “Anyone who says they’re not is lying. Or has nothing to lose.”
“Whatever. I still admire you.”
“Thanks, Lizzie. There are so few people I genuinely trust. And you’re one of them. So what now?”
“What now? How ’bout this?” she said, lifting her wrist and pointing to her Cartier Panthere bracelet. “My consolation prize.”
