He led the way through the lobby to an empty lounge. The bartender was just finishing his nightly cash-out procedure, and upon seeing us, he sighed and his shoulders slouched.
My dad waved away his concern. "We're just going to sit. We're not going to order anything."
We found an empty banquette in the back, and I plopped down onto it while my dad fetched a stack of cocktail napkins from the bar. He handed me one, and I wiped the skin under my eyes. "Thanks," I said, sniffing.
He waited for me to speak, keeping his eyes glued to my face. Almost as if he were afraid to blink in fear that he might miss something.
"It's Jamie," I finally managed.
My dad let out a small laugh. "I figured as much." Then his eyes softened. "Did he cheat on you?"
I kept my head down as I shook it. I couldn't bring myself to look into his eyes. "I cheated on him," I whispered.
My dad sucked in a sharp breath, and I finally lifted my head and look at him. I could see the struggle on his face. This was a blow that he wasn't quite expecting. Although I was never able to read my father the way I was able to read other men, tonight it wasn't hard. He was blaming himself.
But I knew that my actions were my own, and I hadn't come here to pass the blame.
"Dad," I urged softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, "this has nothing to do with you."
He smiled at my attempt, but I could tell he didn't believe me. And for a moment, as I stared into his eyes, I swore I saw tears forming. But he blinked them away before I could be sure.
"Do you want to tell me about it?" he finally said.
I nodded. I did want to tell him. I wanted to tell him everything. But I wasn't sure how much he would want to hear. How much he was ready to hear.
"All of it?" I asked softly, my voice breaking.
"Yes," he confirmed, sounding confident. "All of it."
So I took a deep breath and started from the very beginning. From the moment I first walked in on him cheating on my mother. The moment I've always felt defined me and every choice I've made since. I had never told anyone about that night. Not my mom, not my friends, not even Jamie. And certainly not my father.
I watched his reaction carefully as I spoke; his face was emotionless, but his eyes gave him away. They showed remorse. And although it wasn't my motivation for telling him, it still felt good to have him acknowledge it.
But I didn't stop there. When I reached the part about becoming a fidelity inspector, his face finally registered. He didn't say anything, but I knew right away that he understood. And that he didn't blame me for doing what I did. For becoming what I had become. In fact, a small piece of him blamed himself.
I kept going. Talking until I reached the bitter end. Until I arrived right here, right now, at this very moment. As the words poured out of me, the relief came with it. Never had I told this story from start to finish. It had always been bits and pieces here and there, doled out on a need-to-know basis, depending on who was listening and what role they played in my life.
But sitting in that darkened, empty lounge, telling my dad everything, I knew it was exactly what I needed.
When at last I stopped, I took a deep breath and waited for him to speak. I didn't know what he would say—in fact, I hadn't a clue— but for the first time in my life, I wasn't scared. I wasn't cringing in anticipation of his reaction, the way I had when I first told Jamie what I did for a living or when I first told my friends. I was afraid of the way they would look at me. Afraid of being forever changed in their eyes.
But not now. Not here. Not with him.
I felt safe.
Wordlessly, my dad pulled me into his arms and held me. I snuggled into his chest and allowed myself to feel vulnerable. Wide open.
He began to sway gently back and forth, as if he were rocking a newborn baby. And the comparison wasn't too far off. Everything felt new right now.
We stayed like that for longer than I can remember. For a moment, I might even have fallen asleep. Right now there was such a hazy, blurred line between sleep and awake, they almost seemed to be one and the same.
When I started to come back to awareness and take note of my surroundings, I opened my eyes and caught sight of the deserted bar. The empty bar stools, the bottles of wine that lined the shelf, the cash register. And that's when our current location first struck me as somewhat odd. Why had my father agreed to meet me here? Was he afraid of waking Simone? But this hotel was at least eight miles from his house in Malibu. I had been so distracted by my grief when I called, I didn't even stop to think about where he had suggested we meet. It was only a seven-minute drive from my house in Brentwood, but he had been waiting for me when I got there. Had he already been here?
Oh, God, I thought with sudden panic. Was he here with another woman? Was he having an affair here?
The realization made me feel sick to my stomach. And I felt my old instincts start to kick in once again.
Don't ask if you don't want to know. Avoid the subject. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
But those days were over now. I had just spilled my entire life story to the one person who, up until a year ago, didn't know anything about my life at all. I think it was safe to say that we were well past avoidance.
I lifted my head and looked up at him. "Dad, why were you at the Huntley?" I asked point-blank.
My dad bowed his head in shame, and I felt the queasiness start to overtake me. I was right. He was here with another woman! And God knows what I had interrupted when I called.
I fought to keep my eyes glued to his face. To not look away. Because that's what my gut was telling me to do. What I had always done.
"Simone and I are over," he admitted softly. "She kicked me out last week. I've been trying to call you to let you know, but you haven't been answering your phone lately." He stopped long enough to give a quick nod toward the tears on my face. "Clearly, you've had a lot on your plate."
I felt some relief. Immediately followed by guilt. "So you're not here with another woman?"
He let out a sarcastic laugh. "No. I'm here alone." Then, after a beat, he added, "Although, since we're being honest, I should probably tell you that Simone kicked me out because I cheated on her."
I nodded, finally understanding. I'm just not sure why it took me this long to accept it. My dad was never going to be the sitcom father I used to watch on TV. He was never going to be the home at six, flowers on special occasions, faithful, loving husband I always wanted him to be.
But you only get one father. And he was mine.
And I wasn't really one to throw stones. Especially when the glass house I had inhabited for so long was now lying in shattered pieces at my feet.
"So what happens now?" I asked, wiping under my nose with a crinkled cocktail napkin. "Does she get the house?"
He nodded. "Yeah, it was the least I could do. She was so crushed. And honestly, Jenny, I was, too. I really thought this time was going to be different. I loved her differently. It just felt right. But I guess it was me who wasn't different."
"It's okay, Dad," I said, reaching out and patting his shoulder. After all the consolation he had given me in the past hour, the least I could do was return the favor. "Don't be so hard on yourself."
He chuckled at that. "Right."
"You just need to stop getting married. Or you'll never find a permanent place to live."
He smiled at my attempt to lighten the conversation. But it was fleeting. His face suddenly turned serious again. "Actually, that's something else I needed to talk to you about."
His tone sent a shiver through my body. Although I couldn't imagine how he could drop anything worse in my lap than "I cheated on my third wife and she kicked me out."
But apparently, I was wrong.
"I'm moving to Paris."
"What?" I choked out, feeling the room start to spin. Just when I thought I had finally gotten that spinning problem under control. "You're doing what?"
"My firm wants me to head up their new offic
es out there. I just found out last month. I wasn't going to take it. Simone wanted to stay here. Apparently, she's been thinking of starting an acting career, I don't know. But after what happened between us, I figured, why not? Fresh start. New country. And besides, infidelity is practically expected over there. So I suppose I'll fit right in."
A small laugh escaped my lips, but my head was reeling. He couldn't leave. He couldn't go to Paris. Not after everything we'd just gone through in the past . . . well, ninety minutes! We had finally made some kind of breakthrough. We had finally reached the point where I thought we could have a real relationship. Not the fake, artificial, don't-talk-about-anything-personal kind that we'd been having for the past year. And now he was going to leave?
"I know it's bad timing," he said, responding to my stunned silence. "But I think it's for the best. I just need a change of scenery. You understand that, right?"
I nodded. I did understand. More than he knew. If anyone needed a change of scenery, it was me. If anyone needed a fresh start in a new country, it was me.
"I really want for you to come visit, though," he was saying. "As often as you want."
But I was hardly listening. I was too busy trying to contemplate the words that were bubbling up inside me, ready to pop out of my mouth without regret, without consequence, and most of all without looking back.
But there was really nothing to think about. Contemplation is only necessary when you're faced with multiple options. A crossroads of numerous possible paths. For me, there was only one.
"I'm coming with you."
32
false friends
The only person I contacted before I left was Lauren Ireland. And the only reason I called her was to tell her that I was closing the doors of the Hawthorne Agency and could she please relay the news to everyone else. She begged me to reconsider, but I was resolved in my decision. I no longer wanted anything to do with that world. It had chewed me up and spat me out and made it very clear that I wasn't welcome. So I was leaving.
When I refused to change my mind, Lauren suggested that perhaps she could take over the agency instead. I agreed without reservation and told her I'd have my lawyers transfer everything to her name. I warned her about the situation with Katie and Dean Stanton, and she took the news in stride. For some reason, it didn't seem to bother her as much as it had bothered me, and she calmly stated that she would take care of it.
Who knows, maybe she would be better suited for this business than I was. Maybe it would treat her better than it treated me. If she could cope with the pressure and the drama and the way it all messed with your head, then maybe she'd have a shot at surviving it. Or maybe she wouldn't. Either way, it wasn't my problem anymore. And that was more liberating than anything I had ever experienced.
Everything happened very fast after my late night soul-baring session with my dad. He was leaving in less than a week, and I was determined to leave with him. It didn't make sense for me to stay around any longer than I had to. The agency was gone. Jamie was gone. There was nothing left for me in Los Angeles.
I emptied my savings account into traveler's checks and paid some guy on Craigslist fifty bucks to unlock my iPhone so that I could use it abroad. I didn't pack much, just a few essentials and some of my favorite clothes. In staying true to my vow for a fresh start, I wanted everything in my life to be new, even my clothes. So much of my wardrobe and material possessions were tied to my old life. And I figured it would have been counterproductive to drag the past with me five thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean.
Besides transferring ownership of the agency, there wasn't much left for me to do. And by Thursday morning, I was gone.
I didn't tell anyone I was leaving because I knew it would have made it harder. It would have led me to doubt my decision. And I didn't want to doubt it. I just wanted to go and not look back. I just wanted to do the first unpredictable, spontaneous thing I'd ever done in my life. And I didn't want anyone talking me out of it.
Because God knows they all would have tried. My mom, my niece, Hannah, Sophie, John, maybe even Zoë if she decided to pick up the phone and talk to me. They all would have told me I was being rash and overreactive and that I should allow myself some time to stop and think things through before I moved to any foreign countries. But I had been thinking things through my entire life. For once, I just wanted to do something and not think about it. For once, I wanted to let my emotions guide me instead of my head.
And if I called them from Paris, then it would be too late to convince me to stay.
From the moment we landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, I felt an overwhelming mix of sadness and relief. Paris had always been my favorite city in the world, and I immediately found comfort in its sights and sounds and smells. It was nothing like Los Angeles. The culture, the language, the landscape. But I figured the more foreign the better.
I quickly fell into a new routine. After my dad left for work in the mornings, I would get dressed and stroll down to the cafe on the corner to enjoy a thé au lait (tea with milk) and a brioche while making small talk with Pierre, the friendly French waiter who worked the morning shift. Then I would turn on my iPod and just walk. I never planned where I would go. I never once looked at a map. I'd just start walking until I didn't want to walk anymore. And then I'd find my way back home using the Eiffel Tower as my guide.
Sometimes I would be gone for ten minutes, sometimes a few hours. It's amazing how Paris can kind of suck you in like that. Where you feel as if you could stay forever and be perfectly happy. I don't know any other city in the world like that. And the more I walked, the more I started to believe that I could one day be happy again. I guess that's why they call it a "magical" city.
The first few weeks flew by rather quickly. My dad and I went to dinner together almost every night and spent the weekends visiting nearby sites like the Versailles, Mont-Saint-Michel, and the dark, musty champagne caves of Reims, where the world's finest bottles of champagne are born. We would talk about everything from religion to politics to culture and even relationships. There were no more taboos. No more minefield topics to step around. It was real and raw and authentic. The kind of father/daughter relationship I used to see in other people's lives but never dreamed I'd ever experience in my own.
The city seemed to welcome me with open arms. As if I were a lost, wounded soldier returning from war and Paris was the kind, gentle-hearted countryside woman who took me in, gave me shelter and food, and helped me heal. And it wasn't long before memories of Ashlyn, the agency, and everything that happened there faded into the background noise of people, traffic, and French sirens.
But the problem wasn't forgetting about work. Those memories left quietly and without a fight. The problem was Jamie. He was everywhere. In the drive from the airport to the city, in the beautiful stone monuments that I passed on my morning walk, sitting next to me in the cafe at breakfast. The memory of the trip we had taken here together only a year ago was still fresh in my mind, as if it had happened just yesterday. And seeing those same places that we had visited—standing in front of them, walking through them—only made it worse. And as much progress as I was making getting past everything else, the wounds that Jamie had left behind seemed to reopen every day, with every step. As if someone were constantly tearing out the stitches that had promised to hold me together. And every night I would find myself bleeding again.
Sophie and I e-mailed often, despite the fact that she vowed never to forgive me for skipping the country without telling anyone. In every e-mail, she asked me how long I was going to stay, and I repeatedly answered the same thing: "I don't know. As long as it takes, I guess."
Most of John's correspondence was laden with long-winded accounts of the local L.A. gossip. The biggest news, of course, was the story of Dean Stanton, the powerful head of New Edge Cinema, who had recently separated from his wife, was now dating one of his former nannies, and was rumored to have cast her in his studio's next film. I assumed this mea
nt that Katie would no longer need her job at the Hawthorne Agency after all. Not when she had someone like Dean Stanton on hand to help launch that acting career she'd always wanted.
I sent numerous e-mails to Zoë over the first few weeks, most of them saturated with apologies and lengthy soul-searching paragraphs describing everything that I'd come to realize since we'd last spoken (or, more accurately, screamed), but I hadn't received a single reply. I wanted to believe that her e-mail simply wasn't working or that she had changed addresses and forgotten to tell me, but I had entered a new phase of honesty in my life. Refusing to lie to anyone . . . most of all myself. So eventually I had to admit that Zoë's e-mail was working fine. She just wasn't responding.
The only person I didn't attempt to contact was Jamie. And the memory of the last time I saw him—walking into his loft with another woman—continued to haunt me. But the fact that he had yet to reach out to me only confirmed my belief that he had moved on. And now it was time for me to do the same.
Sometimes during my walks, I would sit on a bench in a park or a garden somewhere in the city and just watch people as they passed. Paris is the most wonderful city in the world for people watching. Because everyone is out on the street. Everyone's reaction to life is out in the open. From the moment I got here, I noticed that my ability to read people's minds had severely diminished. Maybe it was the foreign language or the unfamiliar culture, or maybe my burning desire to let go of all my attachments to the past had forced me to block it out, but the minds of the French men passing by me were unusually quiet. At first it terrified me. I had never heard such silence. But after a while, I came to appreciate the stillness and the mystery of strangers. It made people watching that much more fun. A challenge. For once I wasn't inundated with other people's problems. Other people's stories. And I hoped it meant I could concentrate on unraveling my own. Because God knows I hadn't done a very good job of it thus far.
When my Parisian sojourn reached its one-month mark, I decided that I needed to find something to do with my time. I had been wandering around the city for three weeks straight, and I was starting to crave some kind of direction. Although my dad had been paying the rent on the apartment here, I was still paying my mortgage back in L.A., and without a steady income I knew my resources would eventually run dry.
The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men Page 30
