by Thérèse
“It’s obvious you’re a great teacher,” Lizzie said.
“How so?”
“India, you have such a spark and such great energy.”
“Thank you, that means a lot.”
“So … where to start?” Lizzie said, breaking off a tiny piece of croissant. “Okay. What can I tell you? The kids here aren’t legal to drink until they’re twenty-one but they can carry a gun when they’re eighteen.”
“And they can drive a car when they’re sixteen. What’s that about?” India interrupted.
“It’s crazy. They don’t know how to make a sandwich for themselves but they’re on the roads in those Escalade tanks or their BMW or Mercedes. That’s the divine right of every sixteen–year-old around here,” Lizzie continued.
“It’s surreal. I mean, what do you have to look forward to if you get everything so easily? What’s that teaching them?” India tore at her chocolate muffin, swiping away the flying crumbs.
“There’s no school uniform, so you see all these twelve-year-olds with their Chanel backpacks and Louis Vuitton purses. If it wasn’t so sad it would be funny,” Lizzie said, dryly. “So how is it different in London?”
“We have our fair share of drug problems, believe me, and kids start to drink young, but I put a lot of that down to a lack of money. The class sizes are huge. Annie’s dog gets more individual attention at Doggy Daycare than my schoolkids do. She gets a printout of what Clooney’s had for lunch each day, for God’s sake.”
“India, you have no idea how dysfunctional these families can be,” Lizzie answered. “I worked as a civil rights lawyer downtown for a while; only half an hour away from here and yet it’s another world; real poverty, teacher shortages, crime rate through the roof. To me, it seems almost like a kind of abuse not to train these privileged kids on this side of town to give back.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, at Sophie’s school the ‘community service’ requirement is a complete sham. They can pass it just by picking up trash on the playing field. There are no real volunteer programs, no weekly social responsibility. So they live in this vacuum where everything’s easy. At some level, they’re bored.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Why don’t you apply for a job here? We’re desperately short of teachers.”
“That’s just it, Lizzie. I don’t want to be in a school or a college. I want to work with people, have a laugh with them, challenge them, but not go home to mark a thousand essays and write reports and fill in endless grading forms.”
India paused for a second, then asked her the direct question she had been asking herself.
“Do you think I could somehow run some workshops, courses for parents? They could be sessions where I would give them some practical help with managing their kids. They must be feeling pretty lost themselves to be letting everything get so out of control. I mean you were … Joan is.” India blushed. “That came out the wrong way, sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. A lot of my friends have younger kids, like me, and we’re thrown into this world of teens unprepared. I’ve been coping with Sophie and her clique of cheerleading friends without any guidance for an eternity.”
“That must be so hard,” India said, shifting her chair to let a woman with a baby in a stroller get by.
“It’s really difficult to fight the culture, and yes, I think there’s room for something here. I mean, there’s all this advice for toddlers; the Supernanny books and her reality show. And what you say is true. You hit the teen stuff without a road map. There’s not a whole lot of help out there until there’s a crisis.” Lizzie sighed.
“I know I haven’t got kids of my own, but I do have a lot of experience with teenagers and mothers. I’ve learned a lot over the years that I could share, but I don’t really know how I would get started here in LA.”
Lizzie smiled. “Well, Supernanny’s English, and she doesn’t have kids of her own either, but we all listen to her because she makes a lot of sense. I’m thinking this through on my feet, but how does this sound for a first shot?” She paused. “We create an invitation-only evening at my house, with handwritten invitations, the same way I promote my friends’ jewelry lines and books.”
India leaned forward on her elbows, listening hard.
“So people come to your house and then what?”
“Well, we’ll have wine and canapés and you can do a little presentation about how to survive your kid’s teenage years. You’ll make it entertaining – how could you not? You always make me laugh and think at the same time.”
India smiled and Lizzie continued her train of thought.
“Then you can tell everyone that you’re starting a support group… You could also say you’re planning on writing a book, a ‘survival guide’ for parents, and you want their help with it.”
“That’s a fantastic idea. You’re brilliant, Lizzie, and you know, I could write a book on all this. I really could. Like Supernanny – Superteacher. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Listen, I really love this idea. I’m more than happy to help. Sophie and Henry are not my favorite people right now, but I also know they’re not bad human beings. Deep down they’re lost and scared … just like me.” She paused, then said quietly, “And you know, it did happen on my watch. I should have been paying more attention.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” India said. “We do the best we can at the time. By the sound of it, this was always going to happen and thankfully it WAS on your watch.”
Lizzie smiled. “Let’s talk more about this when I’ve had a chance to think it through. We can make this work. We need you here.” She stood. India rose too, and they lifted their Styrofoam cups in a toast. India scooped her leftover chocolate muffin in a napkin and threw it in the trash, while Lizzie picked up India’s sweatshirt from where it had fallen under her chair.
“Everything happens for a reason. At least that’s what I tell myself lately,” Lizzie said, hugging her. “I’ll call you later.”
PROFOUND THOUGHTS NOTE – Check exchange rate.
India gulped and stared at her bank statement in horror. There’s been some dreadful mistake, she thought. Maybe I’m the victim of identity theft.
Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, she pulled the gilt bergère chair closer to the secretaire and scrutinized the figures. The trip to Agent Provocateur (a wise investment that had certainly given her and Adam a great return) had come out at fifteen hundred dollars (plus tax).
The highlights, lowlights, waxes, manicures, pedicures, thread-ing, teeth whitening, dermabrasion facials, and Botox added up to another two thousand terrifying dollars. (All the more horrifying when converted to pounds on her English credit card.)
Clearly the jaunt to Fred Segal had been a grave error, but she would need the yoga pants and cutoff tops (in a variety of colors) for her workshops and the Fendi tote to carry her papers. The La Perla bikinis and Louboutin clutch had seemed imperative at the time.
And then there was the outrageous Smythson bill. India sat back and ran her finger over the gold lettering and the blind-embossed pressed flowers of the hand-engraved invitation card. What a moment that had been, sitting with Lizzie on the leopard-print chaise, sipping champagne and picking them out. The expense had clearly been worth it; as Lizzie predicted, the acceptances were flooding in. Lizzie had moved at warp speed to set up India’s event and now, just ten days later, it was only a matter of hours away. The idea of making a speech to thirty or so of Lizzie’s contacts was daunting enough in the abstract, but now it was a terrifying reality.
India scrunched up a bundle of receipts. She had much more important things to be doing right now. She closed her laptop and picked up the Mont Blanc pen.
How to begin? she wondered. “Dearly beloved…” Scratch that. “Friends, Romans, countrymen…” Been done. Okay, get serious. Two hours and several laps around the garden later, India decided she was as prepared as she was ever going to be. Tossing aside her notes, she ran inside, stripped, skip
ped into the steamy shower, and spent the next twenty minutes singing to loosen up her vocal cords.
“They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no…”
She toweled off, spritzed herself with Mitsouko, and climbed into an Agent Provocateur satin body and a tiny lace thong. How can they charge so much when there’s so little fabric involved? She mused, carefully pulling on a fine mesh stocking, then zipping her ruched silver Nicole Miller dress and wriggling it down until the hem skimmed her knees. Picking up a tiny stack of copper-plate business cards (with hand-painted edging), she put them inside her new sequined clutch and snapped it shut, then squeezed into Annabelle’s patent leather Prada four-inch pumps. She did a full turn in the long mirror.
Good, she decided. A look that says “gravitas” and at the same time, “call me sister.”
India ran outside, surprised to see that Robert was waiting.
“Miss Butler called from Hawaii,” he explained, opening the car door for her. “She said she wanted to make sure you didn’t get to Beverly Hills via San Francisco.”
“Ah … she has a point, Robert. I still can’t get the hang of that GPS. Thank you.”
When they got to Lizzie’s, Robert said, “Miss Butler, when you’re ready, just call. I’ll be two minutes away. Have a wonderful evening.”
“Thank you, Robert. I will.” Omygod, India thought, catching a glimpse of waiters weaving between cocktail tables balancing trays of champagne and women milling around in the stone courtyard. Slipping in unnoticed through the side entrance, she stopped to admire the Henry Moore sculpture, the garden, and the geometrically arranged tables draped in white cloths with or-chid centerpieces. Lizzie had really gone all out for her. Squeezing behind the line of stewards taking instructions from the chef, India was reminded of being backstage before Annie went on in a show at Covent Garden. And then she realized: Omygod. I AM the show!
Lizzie was waiting by the kitchen door to greet her, looking elegant as ever in an Yves Saint Laurent Le Smoking suit.
“Great. You’re in good time, India. I’m going to start getting people into the drawing room. Do you want a few minutes to yourself? You look amazing.”
“Thanks, Lizzie. I’d no idea you were going to go to so much trouble. This all looks incredible. I’m so nervous.”
“You’ll be great. Relax. They’ll love you… Through there…” Lizzie said, directing her to the bathroom. “I’ll see you in a minute.”
India darted in and decided against using the Toto toilet. It had too many options. She didn’t want to risk a misplaced water jet and wasn’t sure she had time for a full blow-dry. She checked her hair and makeup, went over her opening lines a few more times, then took a very deep breath.
Focus. You can do this. You want this… FOCUS… Are you ready? SAY YES!
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Lizzie beamed at the group of women assembled around glass-topped tables, sitting on low banquettes, or swinging their legs in the basket-style seats of her high-ceilinged drawing room. “What an amazing turnout. Thank you all so very much for coming, and thanks to Forest Wood School for extending the invitation to so many parents. Please meet my wonderful friend, India Butler.”
A healthy smattering of applause greeted India, who stood up and joined Lizzie at the oversize brick fireplace. “India has been an absolute inspiration to me and to my family,” Lizzie continued. “I would like to share just a few of the qualities of this remarkable woman, who has brought such a light into my world. India is one of those women you know instantly you can trust. She is an extremely sensitive facilitator with more than eighteen years’ experience dealing with teenagers in London. She has worked with countless parents to help steer them through the turbulent years when children can be at their most challenging. Knowing her I have discovered new depths in myself, and I have begun to appreciate my strengths and my resilience.”
Lizzie paused to wipe away a tear, and India began rapidly reframing her own opening words. I’m going to have to be more effusive, she decided.
“India is writing an exceptional book that will help guide us through these emotionally turbulent years. I will have the privilege of hosting her first series of workshops here in my studio. I hope that you will all sign up for them tonight. Congratulations for the courage you have shown by being here this evening. We mothers need to ‘come out,’ admit when we are struggling, and ask for help. We must be supportive of one another. With India’s help I know we can do this. Please join me in welcoming my dear friend, India.”
Another round of applause and Lizzie gave India a hug.
“Thank you so much, Lizzie,” India said, surprised at how emotional she was suddenly feeling. She continued: “Lizzie is taking my dream of working with you all and helping me turn it into a reality. I can’t thank you enough, Lizzie.”
Lizzie smiled at her and sat down on one of the Eames armchairs.
Five hours later, India called Sarah. “I can’t remember a single thing I said!” She laughed. “It’s all a blur. But it must have been good, because nearly everybody signed up. Lizzie gave me such a buildup, I thought she must have been talking about someone else.”
“I’m sure you were brilliant,” Sarah said. “I’m so excited for you. How was dinner?”
“Wonderful. All these women kept coming over to say how much they’re looking forward to the workshops. The food was incredible, though I was too excited to eat much. Sarah, I miss you madly, but I’m having a wonderful summer. I love it here. You have got to come out at some point, promise?”
“Try stopping me! Love you. And India – well done, you deserve this.”
India knocked a water glass off the bedside table as she scrambled to grab her phone. It was Lizzie.
“Hope I’m not calling too early. I just got the kids off to school. You were great last night. I told you… They all loved you. Twenty-nine women signed up. You’ve got yourself two classes a week! Congratulations!”
“Lizzie, I cannot thank you enough. It was a wonderful night. I hardly slept. I was so pumped up on adrenaline. It really did go well, didn’t it? And you put together such an amazing dinner. I’d no idea it would all be so … well, glamorous … and the food was to die for. Thank you. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.” Lizzie laughed. “I just want to give you a heads-up. You can expect a call from Larry Hertz this morning. He’s an agent at CAA. He’s such a celebrity fucker – he loved the idea of Annabelle Butler’s twin sister writing a book.”
“Omygod, Lizzie, you’re a fast worker.”
“Let me know how it goes and if there’s anything else I can do.”
“I will. I’ll call you later. Oh. And Lizzie, I want to give you something for the use of the studio and also I hope you know that any work you might want to do in my courses will always be on the house, always, Lizzie. I mean it.”
“Okay, India. I might take you up on that offer. I could certainly use the help. But the studio is just sitting empty. It’s yours. No charge. If it all goes well, you can open up in Brentwood Village at some point.”
“That’s wonderful, Lizzie. Thank you, thank you so much for all you’ve done to make this possible.”
India kept her phone tightly clamped in her dressing gown pocket as she did laps around the room. She was too excited to even think of getting dressed and too distracted to do anything more than make coffee and sit on the kitchen sofa waiting. She bounced up the second her cell buzzed.
“Larry Hertz putting in a call for Miss Butler. Can you hold, please?”
India hung on for what seemed an age and then found it almost impossible to keep up with Larry as he yelled in her ear at machine-gun-fire speed in a thick Brooklyn accent.
“I’ve put in a call to a few of my contacts to see if they’ll bite. I’ll need a proposal to do a real pitch. Celebrity endorsements sell. This’ll sell. I might be able to get an advance … can’t promise … publishing business is in the toilet, but with the right hook�
� It’s all about getting an angle.”
India wasn’t at all sure what he was talking about. He seemed to be using a lot of fly-fishing terms.
Larry got back to her within a few hours. “Okay, they’re hooked and I reeled ’em in. I need a fast turnaround on a proposal. Peter Cohen in my office is expecting your call. 310-693- …” India didn’t have a pen, and he’d already dropped the line. She took a deep breath and then called the CAA switchboard.
Larry had made writing a book proposal sound easy, but by the time she’d finished talking with Peter, she needed to lie down for half an hour. The guidelines were straightforward but involved all kinds of research. What were the competitive books in the field? The comparable ones? How did she plan to market it? How fast could she get Larry a one-page outline, a summary, an overview, sample chapters, a résumé, a list of signed A-list celebrity endorsements? Could she make sure it was double-spaced, in 12-point Calibri or Times New Roman and draft a cover letter? And a strap line to go with the title?
India’s head was racing as she started her research and began googling.
Why is Supernanny wearing hot-teacher glasses? she wondered. Everyone knows nannies don’t wear glasses or suits … what’s with that? Well, nobody’s persuading me into a cap and gown no matter how many books it’ll sell.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
“Hi, India. Have you got a minute?” Lizzie whispered. “I thought of you just now, and I have to share.”
“Absolutely. I’ve been stuck in front of the computer all morning,” India said, closing the shutters in her bedroom. “Go on … but speak up a bit, there’s a lot of background noise.”
“I’ve come into the garden to make sure nobody’s listening. Can you hear me okay now? Good. So … Joanna, one of Sophie’s friends, has just left the house. Stan’s sending Sophie off to New Leaf for a month, and from the way she and Joanna were clinging onto each other, you’d have thought they were auditioning for a part in Titanic.”
