by Thérèse
“I feel like I’m in some kind of BBC minidrama,” she whispered to Annie. “I should be carrying a King Charles spaniel or something.”
“You look great,” Annie whispered.
“Yes, well, when you told me it was an afternoon fundraiser I was thinking more along the lines of those school bake sales at St. Mary’s, not this,” she said, nodding toward a girl in a black satin gown playing the harp. India was regretting the white cotton summer skirt and Liberty print blouse she had chosen so carefully.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting a crystal glass of champagne from a waitress who bore an uncanny resemblance to Penélope Cruz.
India followed Annie through the milling guests, past velvet covered auction tables and valuable paintings, silk embroidered cushions and cashmere throws. As she reached the jasmine-covered arbor, where Lizzie and some friends were clustered around a chintz sofa, she took a long sip of the deliciously fizzy drink.
“WOW! India, you look great!” Lizzie enthused, kissing her on both cheeks. You remember Stan? The hypocritical two-timing bastard I married? she said to herself.
“Nice to see you, India. It’s been too long,” Stan said without intonation. “And this is the extraordinary Florence,” he added, putting his arm, protectively, around the tiny, elderly woman next to him. She was so slight and bony, so frail in her two-piece Chanel suit and quilted bag that India thought she might blow away.
“Florence has just made a hugely generous pledge,” Stan gushed. “I don’t know how to thank her.”
“Oh. Stan, please,” the woman said coquettishly. “My little gift goes to such a worthy cause. It’s my pleasure, always. And you’re such an inspiration, you and Lizzie. Such a beautiful couple. You remind me how much I miss Larry.”
“I’m sure it must be hard without him,” Lizzie said, digging her fingernails into her palms.
“We were childhood sweethearts,” Florence said, her eyes shiny. “He waited until I was eighteen to ask my parents if he could marry me. It’s not like that these days, except when I look at the two of you.”
Lizzie refused to look at Stan, the charming shit who had somehow managed to wheedle a six-figure check faster than Henry could tie his shoelaces.
Nibbling on her third shrimp, India finished her champagne and accepted another from a Brad Pitt look-alike waiter.
“I’m on vacation.” She smiled cheerily.
“So happy for you.” He grinned back. “Have a good one.”
India was admiring Lizzie’s effortless chic; her classic, cream Prada sheath, her taupe patent leather pumps, sophisticated chignon and Tahitian pearl studs. Ten grand for the dress, two grand for the shoes, can’t see the purse… And I bet she can run on the treadmill for hours without breaking a sweat.
“So India,” Lizzie said, turning with relief to chat with her, “how long are you staying? I’d love to have you over for lunch. Are you free next week?”
“I am totally free, Lizzie. And I’d love it.”
The sound of a crackling microphone made any further attempts to talk futile. “Forgive me. I’m in public mode today and I think I hear them calling me,” Lizzie said graciously before floating across the lawn to meet Fran at the podium.
As Fran made her introductions, India set her phone to vibrate and desperately tried to visualize a text or call from Adam … He’s calling, he’s calling now. Then she settled back in her chair, mesmerized by Fran’s eloquence and stunned by the profusion of superlatives at her disposal; the myriad ways she found to compliment Lizzie’s compassion, intelligence, and wit.
You’d think she was awarding the Nobel Peace prize, she thought. Dr. White could pick up a few tips from her, that’s for sure.
As a group of African children sang and danced their way through “The Circle of Life” from The Lion King, India fought off a feeling of being emotionally manipulated and wandered toward a groaning buffet table. Torn between the lavender grilled prime beef tenderloin with artichokes and the miniature lamb chops with mint sauce and fingerling potatoes, she’d decided to have a bit of both, when her phone buzzed. It wasn’t easy, pro-longing the pleasure of picking up. It lasted for about ten seconds.
“Hey, it’s me, Adam. Where are you?”
“At a lunch with Annie,” she said, beaming. “What about you?” she asked, juggling the full plate with the phone.
“Can you talk now? Shall I call you back?” he asked.
“No, no, it’s fine.”
“Okay,” Adam said, fading out for a moment. “Listen, we’re throwing a bash for Fred Stein at Chateau Marmont later. I’m over here now, pulling it together. Wanna come? Max could pick you up and I can drop you off… You could have another nice sleep on the way home.”
“Very funny.” She laughed.
“So you’ll come?” he said.
“I’d love to. Tell me, who’s Fred Stein?”
“Okay, India. Now I really do know you lead a sheltered life. He’s the only other living director whose name can be spoken in the same breath as Spielberg.”
“Right,” she said. “Well, I look forward to meeting him then.”
“Max’ll pick you up around seven thirty if that works for you?”
“It works for me. Yes. Sounds cool.” Did she just say “cool”? Yes, she said “cool.”
“See you then,” Adam replied.
India now had zero appetite. Dropping the phone into her bag, she abandoned her plate, and then spotted Annie across the garden. It was three o’clock, and her sister looked weary beyond words. Deftly sidestepping a young woman’s attempt to engage her in conversation, India moved swiftly across the lawn.
“Thank God,” Annie whispered. “Ready to go?”
“Yes. It’s been lovely but I’m dying in this heat.”
“Take care and thank you so much for coming,” Fran said, shepherding an elderly man and his wife down the pebbled path toward their waiting chauffeur while Annie and Lizzie stood near the door.
“Phew!” Fran smiled, kicking off her high heels before coming back to join them. “Those two should have their own star on the Walk of Fame. They’ve been together fifty-three years.”
“Wonderful, yes, gives you hope for us all,” Annie replied, opening her blue ostrich leather wallet and handing her friend a check.
“It’s too much,” Fran said, catching a brief glimpse of the zeros.
“It’s my pleasure, darling. I adored watching those kids dance. You’re a saint.”
“Not quite, Lizzie,” she said as they hugged and she turned to India. “By the way, I hear you’re keeping very busy. He’s quite elusive, your Mr. Brooks. You must be doing something right.”
“I’m trying,” India said, laughing.
As Annabelle negotiated their way through a detour off Sunset and onto the UCLA campus, India broke the silence. “You’re very thoughtful,” she remarked. “ Anything I should know about?”
“I’ve been dying to talk to you, darling,” Annabelle said, veering away from the throngs of kids on skateboards and bicycles jumping blindly off the sidewalks and curbs and onto the street. “I really have. But the timing just hasn’t been right. And there’s so much going on…”
“Watch out!” India shouted as a black four-by-four Lexus shot out in front of them.
“Relax, darling. The kids here start driving when they’re fifteen after about two lessons. Talk to me. Tell me about what’s going on with Adam,” she said, keeping an eye on the Lexus as they stopped at a red light.
“Remember that night at the Polo Lounge when I asked you not to mention my teaching? I wanted to seem mysterious?
“Ah yes.” Annabelle said as the light changed and the traffic inched forward. “I remember. The thing is, I’ve always been so proud of what you do, darling – ”
Annabelle stopped midsentence and suddenly sat up straighter. After passing them in such a lethal hurry, the Lexus now seemed to have slowed down. “Okay,” she said, “lock your door. Don’t panic.”
“What is it?” India asked. “Omygod, he’s out of the car. He’s coming toward us.”
“Fuck,” Annie muttered, as a guy ran up and took their picture through the windshield. Her hands were trembling as she rested her head on the steering wheel.
There was a deafening blast of horns from behind them.
“Do you want me to drive?” India asked.
Annie lifted her head and laughed. “Yes, right. Then we’d really be in trouble. Sorry, you never know… the minute… Just distract me. Tell me more about Adam. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yep!” Annie said, slowly turning the corner and finally moving back onto Sunset.
“Well, I ended up somehow giving him the impression that I teach adults, not kids, and he suggested I open some workshops here. He even said he’d help.”
Annie took her eyes off the road for a moment, and smiled. “But that sounds terrific. Everybody comes to LA to reinvent themselves. You could teach acting or become a voice coach or…”
“You really think so? I’m so tired of seeing the same people and doing the same thing every day. And Annie – we’re about to turn forty.”
“Not in this town darling. Keep that one under your hat. I intend to stay thirty-six for at least another ten years. Seriously though, I do think it’s a marvelous idea. And you’d be so good at it. It’s not like you’re pretending to be a dentist or a surgeon. That would be bad.” She laughed. “You’re a teacher. Period. Plus, I would love it if you moved over here. I miss you.”
“Yes and you’re all the family I’ve got,” India said. “At least you have Joss and the kids. You know, I really did think that Dad might have at least put in an appearance at Mother’s funeral.”
“Darling, even if he had, there’s no guarantee he would have turned up sober, and it was bad enough as it was. Let it go…” She paused.
India broke the awkward silence. “Annie! It means a lot to me that you think it’s possible.”
As the sign for Bel Air appeared in the distance, Annie glanced in her rearview mirror and signaled to make the turn. “And what about Adam Brooks? He’s clearly smitten. He’s not playing hard to get, is he?”
“No, he isn’t. And I’m pinching myself about it,” India confessed. “He’s arranged for Max to pick me up later for a birthday party at Chateau Marmont.”
“Ah! Yes – dear Freddy. I sent our apologies a few weeks back. Joss can’t be dragged out these days, he’s so over the scene. You’ll have fun though.”
Preempting India’s next question, Annabelle added, “You can wear anything but the new Jimmy Choos.”
“Thank you. I love you,” India said as the gates to the house swung open and she jumped out of the car.
“Fantastic!” she shouted, running for the guest room to shower. “I’ll talk to you later.”
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Lizzie felt so defeated, so empty, after Fran’s luncheon with Stan, that her head throbbed. When she’d seen him flirting shamelessly with yet another hot blonde starlet, she’d done something that was totally against her own rules. She left. She left without even saying goodbye. With the car windows wide open, she drove straight toward the ocean at Santa Monica and parked. Breathing in the sea air and watching the neon lights of the merry-go-round, she tried to put her thoughts and her feelings into some kind of order.
Lizzie had always known that Stan was driven, fiercely ambitious. He’d graduated cum laude from Harvard and wasted no time taking advantage of his contacts, building up a law practice so quickly and successfully, people were still stunned. She also knew that his first wife, Joan, had wasted no time in divorcing him. Especially after discovering his affair with her best friend and the godmother of her children. The divorce settlement became the talk of the town and was on record as the craziest pay-out in the history of Hollywood philandering.
Looking back now, Lizzie understood that Stan had set about finding himself a new wife the same way he might have bought a racehorse. She had to be young, intelligent, socially dynamic, and rich. Lizzie fit the bill on all counts. A civil rights lawyer with an independent income, she defied her own instincts (not to mention everyone else’s) and married him. She bought the trophy house for him as a wedding gift, a house she hated. And she spent years entertaining new clients while Stan sipped his Rémy Martin and showed off his art and fine wine collections, and his staged golf-ing photos at Pebble Beach with Padraig Harrington. The ones with Tiger Woods had mysteriously disappeared some time ago.
Blowing her nose with a scrunched up tissue, Lizzie finally accepted she had to go home, although the thought of checking into the Montage for a deep tissue massage and room service was tempting. Backing up slowly, Lizzie took one last look at the merry-go-round and headed back up Wilshire Boulevard.
Sneaking upstairs, Lizzie ignored the relentless pound of punk coming from the back end of the house and the sounds of Disney in the kitchen. After closing the doors to her bedroom, she clicked the remote and a Gershwin prelude filled the room. This was her reward, a night off all by herself. Slipping out of her tight linen sheath and kicking off her taupe heels, she began sorting through her closet. It calmed her, this ritual of rearranging the padded hangers and touching the soft cashmere.
When she heard the hammering at the door, she dropped a sweater to the floor and grabbed a bathrobe. “Stop hammering,” she yelled, impatiently. “I’m coming.”
“It’s not my fault! It’s not my fault!” the girl shrieked. It was Sophie’s friend. She looked terrified. She was shaking.
Lizzie went cold with fear and grabbed the girl by the shoulders. “Calm down. Count to three. And tell me what’s happened. Is it Rhonda? The twins? What?”
“We were only messing around. I didn’t give her anything, I swear,” she slurred.
Lizzie felt lightheaded, nauseous. Racing down the corridor, she flung open the door to the bathroom. Sophie was lying in a pool of vomit, her head tilted at an odd angle on the toilet bowl.
“CALL 911 NOW!” she ordered, then pushed past the girl and ran down to her room in search of her cell. She flung herself into a pair of jeans. Where the fuck was Stan?
The girl was whimpering next to her. “Tell me what she’s taken!” Lizzie said. “THINK.”
“Nothing,” the girl muttered. “Nothing.”
“It was something. Tell me. Look at her. Tell me right now. What did she take?”
Lizzie looked around. The bathroom floor was chaos, littered with junk food, dirty clothes, makeup. Then she saw the bottles of vodka and scotch. Not sure whether to move Sophie or leave her where she was, she gently lifted her wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, weak, but there. Lizzie’s friend sat down, rocking back and forth, crying uncontrollably. It was just past midnight. Stan should be home.
“Stan! Stan!” Lizzie shouted, desperate for backup. Would the ambulance never come? Her voice was lost in the wail of sirens. At last he appeared at the door looking shell-shocked. Dazed. Flying downstairs to open the doors, she watched as the emergency crew set up a stretcher. Answering their rapid-fire questions: “Drugs? I don’t think … maybe … don’t know … vodka, vodka yes. Definitely too much to drink…” She looked at Stan as they wheeled Sophie out of the bathroom and toward the stairs. The man, the father of this child, hadn’t said a single word.
Lizzie’s voice was pure ice. “She’s your daughter. Get Joan out of bed right now! Call her, and take responsibility for something for once in your life.”
Stan left the room like a child simply doing what he was told.
“Take off your clothes and get in the shower,” Lizzie said to Sophie’s friend, firmly. “You’ll feel better.”
Turning the water on full blast, she took the girl’s hand. “What’s your name? I have to phone your parents.”
“Amy. My name is Amy Stein. I’m sorry. Don’t tell my parents,” she pleaded, stepping into the shower.
“It’s okay,” Lizzie reassu
red her as she waited, then handed her a towel. “ Lie down. Get some rest. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Where the hell is Henry?” Lizzie wondered. “How could Sophie’s brother possibly have slept through this?”
Knocking on his door, she told him what had happened and, miracle of miracles, he was calm. He found Amy’s cell phone, called her parents, and tentatively put his arms around his stepmother.
“Tea?” she asked, moved by the boy’s affectionate gesture, by his youth. “I’ll make us some tea while we wait for the Steins.”
C’EST LA VIE NOTE – Hope Chateau Marmont is earthquake proof.
India almost had a heart attack when the fire engine screamed up from behind them and Max pulled his silver Maserati briefly over to the side of the road. Cutting and weaving again through the traffic on Santa Monica toward Sunset, he grinned. “You’re a knockout!” he said. “Adam’s a lucky guy.”
“Thanks.” India beamed, yanking Annabelle’s Stella McCartney minidress down over her thighs.
If I do come to live in LA it’ll be Hollywood, this end of town, she thought, taking in the jumble of cowboy bars and shacks, the tacky sex stores nestling along sleek high-rises. As they swung into the steep incline of the driveway at Chateau Marmont, the soft convertible roof slid closed over their heads and Max braked, sharply.
Someone was banging on the windows. India ducked at the blinding flashes of light and put her hands over her ears as the crowd shouted Max’s name.
“Hey, Max? How was rehab?”
“Is that your date?”
“Is your sister here, Max?”
“Max, Max.”
“Fuck it. I’m sorry, India. I should have warned you. Just stick close to me and it’ll be all right.”
India sat frozen in her seat before scrabbling around the floor in search of her Jimmy Choo clutch and faux fur stole. “Is it always like this?” she asked Max.
