Have to Have It

by Melody Mayer

  “Esme, Diane.” Mrs. Goldhagen's voice was crisp and direct. “Please come up to the main house at ten-forty-five. Steven and I want to meet with you.”

  That was it. No hello, no goodbye. In a way, Esme wasn't surprised. Diane and Steven were used to giving orders. Steven was one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, the creator of a dozen or more classic television dramas over his storied career, including three that were currently on the air. Aggressively casual, with a scruffy beard and the short haircut/baseball cap combo common to the balding Tinseltown elite, his usual jeans-and-T-shirt look belied a bank account that ventured high into nine figures. As for his wife, Diane, she was fifteen years younger, very thin, and quite pretty, with the sort of perfect blond hair that took tremendous upkeep at Raymond's salon to look as if it needed no upkeep at all.

  The Goldhagens lived a life of opulence that Esme never could have imagined before she'd come to work for them. Their Bel Air home made the mansions she'd seen on TV look like bungalows in her old neighborhood of Echo Park. It had two guesthouses, a private tennis court, and a swimming pool, as well as a putting green. Their garage held eight vehicles—Steven had recently taken an interest in collecting sixties Chaparral race cars modified for street use, so there were three of those, plus a Hummer, a Lotus, a Beemer (Diane's chosen mode of transportation), an Audi (the car they usually asked Esme to drive), plus a new Prius that had been delivered only the day before. There was a driver on call from sunrise to three hours after sunset, though he generally was engaged with chauffeuring Steven from one production set to another.

  Diane was Steven's second wife—they had met when she was a production assistant on one of his TV projects. According to Jonathan, Steven's son from his first marriage, Hollywood was full of couples like them. The town attracted great-looking women who married less-than-average-looking men whose money and success were more powerful aphrodisiacs than a perfect Kumamoto oyster. Now that Diane and Steven were married, she didn't work anymore, unless you counted her beauty upkeep (a full-time job in and of itself) or her charity work, which ranged from holding honorary positions at the Arthritis Foundation and the Los Angeles Jewish Federation to organizing the charity banquet aboard the Queen Mary steamship that had been the culmination of the L.A. Fashion Bash, aka FAB—the trendy Los Angeles equivalent of New York's Fashion Week.

  As Esme quickly towel-dried her hair, her stomach coiled into a tight knot of trepidation. Diane had caught her with Jonathan, in her guesthouse, which was strictly against the rules. The only saving grace, from Esme's point of view, was that they were not actually in bed. Since that was where she and Jonathan spent most of their time, she knew how easily this could have happened.

  Well, there was no way out. She looked around the guesthouse. It had been built in the 1930s and featured huge exposed beams, beautiful hardwood floors, and many built-in California redwood fixtures. The furnishings were in keeping with the rustic theme—there was even a cast-iron stove in one corner of the living room for chilly winter nights. Outside was a classic veranda with two white wooden rocking chairs, two orange trees that shaded the parking area, and a basketball hoop. Esme wanted to make her mind into a camera and take it all in: the tranquility, the orange and freesia blossoms, whose scents wafted in from the garden outside her bedroom window. Because she realized there was a good-to-excellent chance that she was about to get fired.

  Lydia Chandler

  Lydia Chandler sat on the living room floor of her aunt's guesthouse, wearing nothing more than the tiniest pair of La Perla pale pink French silk bikini panties that had come in one of the many unannounced packages that were regularly delivered to the house as a way to entice her famous aunt to wear, use, or consume something, and hopefully have her mention said product on the air. She could see the bedroom mirror from where she was sitting, and she liked what she saw: long, choppy blond hair, a deep tan, celery-colored eyes (well, she couldn't see those in her reflection, but she knew they were there), and a thin, almost waifish figure.

  Hot underwear was definitely not her aunt's thing; all the better for Lydia. She took a sip of yesterday's coffee that she'd reheated in the kitchen microwave and opened the old-fashioned black Moleskine notebook in which she'd started a letter to her mother. She knew that her mom wouldn't get the letter until the next airdrop into the Amarakaire tribal village deep in the Amazon basin of South America, where her parents were currently medical missionaries and where Lydia herself had spent practically the entire last decade.

  There really was no quicker way to communicate. Cell phone, e-mail, even telegraph—essentially impossible. There wasn't even a ham radio set. Outgoing mail had to be taken by skiff down the Rio Negro to start its journey to wherever. And the only time her mom could call was on her infrequent visits to Manaus, the nearest city large enough to have reliable phone service.

  One good thing about her relationship with her mother, she thought as she wrote “Dear Mom”: she could tell her mom anything and never get judged for it. Well, maybe not quite everything. For example, she could tell her mother that she now had a boyfriend, Billy Martin, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the guy who played Clark Kent on that TV show Smallville, even though her mom had never seen Smallville since there was no TV in the rain forest. But she couldn't tell her that while she had been ready to have sex with Billy practically from the night she met him, Billy was a romantic who wanted to wait until they “got to know each other better.” Fact was, Lydia had been ready to join the ranks of the nonvirginal for years. However, all of those years had been spent living amongst nearly naked guys who had rotting brown teeth, were five feet tall, and carried spears.

  Lydia nibbled on the end of her pen again. Maybe she could tell her mom how she felt about sex. It was possible; that was how cool her mom was. She definitely didn't have that kind of relationship with her father, which made her appreciate her mother that much more.

  From the moment her parents had ruined her life by trading in their very, very rich and privileged Houston existence for a grass hut and roast monkey for dinner, Lydia had wanted nothing more than to get back to America. Especially in the last year or so, when her fantasies had been filled with boyfriends and first kisses and exactly where those kisses might lead. She'd even threatened to swim back. Then her aunt Kat had offered her a lifeline—the chance to come to Beverly Hills and be the nanny to her two children. Kat lived with her longtime partner, Anya Kuriakova, another former tennis champion. Their love affair and subsequent marriage in Massachusetts had been sensational tabloid fodder, but after some Ama fertility rituals Lydia had observed, it all seemed rather quaint. Her aunt was gay. So what? All that really mattered to Lydia was that they lived in an actual zip code. That the zip code was 90210—Beverly Hills—was karmic icing on the cake.

  Dear Mom,

  Greetings from Beverly Hills!

  How are you and Dad? How is Balagak, the shaman? I have not been following the weather— I guess I could do it on Kat's computer, but I've barely figured out how to set up an account on Yahoo for e-mail. Most of the time, I don't even remember to check it! I would give you the address, but I know there is no way you could even e-mail. You seem so far away. I guess that's because you are.

  So, about my job. I hate to tell you this, but your sister Kat's partner and the kids are a mess. I sort of remember Anya from when she and Kat were both on the tennis circuit, and I remember her as nice. What the hell did I know? Mom, she is like this tennis Nazi. She has totally ruined Martina and Jimmy. Neither of them knows how to have any fun; basically they are scared of their shadows. Actually, they're afraid of Anya— Momma Anya, as they call her. She is so controlling that she makes a list for me every morning of my duties with the kids, and it's so detailed that she practically tells me when they're allowed and not allowed to take a crap. Anya has the kids thinking they are allergic to anything with milk—I have to tell you that I like fresh goat milk a LOT better than the pasteurized and homogenized white stuff that you b
uy here in the supermarket—but the fact is they're not allergic at all. When I tried to tell Anya this she was ready to dump a school of piranhas in the pool and then toss me in afterward. She is not very happy with me right now, probably because I'm trying to bring some F-U-N into her kids' lives.

  Los Angeles is fabulous. You can do anything or get anything, any time you want it. You want to go to the movies at midnight? No problem. Eat Chinese food at four in the morning? Everything is for sale, and I do mean everything. All it takes is money to buy it. Okay, I can hear your voice in my head reminding me about the waste and the evils of a consumer-based culture. But Mom, I love it.

  I've made a couple of good friends. We met at the Brentwood Hills Country Club, and both of them are nannies like me. Esme is a great girl from a really poor section of Los Angeles. She's the nanny to this big Hollywood producer who makes a lot of television shows. I like her. She doesn't take shit from anyone. She does tattoos of her own original designs. I'm thinking about getting one, maybe a huge gecko on my back. My other friend is Kiley, who works for the rock star Platinum. Remember you used to play her CDs when we still lived in Houston? Anyway, Platinum got arrested for drug possession, so Kiley's situation is a little dicey.

  You wouldn't believe all the kids who do drugs here. It's funny, I know that the Amas blow only God knows what up their noses, but their kids know not to do it until the elders decide they are ready. In Los Angeles, there really aren't any elders looking out for anyone. For me that's great. But for kids … not so great.

  Well, write to me when you get a chance. I know that pens and paper are precious. So sorry I missed your phone call when you were in Manaus! I miss you so much, Mom. Say hi to Dad and to Balagak.

  I'll write to you again soon.

  Love,

  Lydia

  She signed her name in a schoolgirly scrawl, probably because when she'd lived in the rain forest, she hadn't had a whole lot of practice. Then she realized that she had neither envelope nor stamps. Well, she'd just have to look up at the main house—it shouldn't be too hard. She hadn't seen Anya all morning. That might be a good thing, since undoubtedly Anya was still pissed off at her from the day before.

  Lydia winced, recalling the confrontation. Ever since she'd arrived in paradise, she'd been raiding the moms' closets and drawers. There, she'd hit the mother lode: cashmere tank tops, heaps of candy-colored Juicy Couture sweat suits, several train cases brimming with Nars and Dior lip gloss palettes, dozens of Swarovski crystal-crusted bangles. They had way more stuff than they could ever use, and Lydia had shown up in Los Angeles with nothing more than the clothes on her back.

  She had assumed that Anya was clueless to what was being borrowed. Turned out her aunt's partner had been keeping a detailed list, which she'd yanked from her purse quicker than a cobra strikes a river rat. Anya's plan (she'd informed Lydia with far too much relish) was to present this inventory to Kat when Kat returned from her business trip.

  Whatever. Lydia felt certain she could make her aunt understand her plight. A girl couldn't walk around Los Angeles naked, after all. Not that it would have disturbed Lydia all that much (except in the fashion sense—she adored designer clothes), since she was utterly comfy in her own skin.

  But think of all the boys she'd get hot and bothered and then have to disappoint.

  Hell. Kat would understand on a humanitarian basis alone.

  “So … Mom! Good to hear from you,” Kiley cried, trying to sound as cheerful and carefree as possible. It came off false and she knew it. “What's up?”

  “What's up?” Jeanne McCann cried. “What's up? Your boss got arrested for drugs and they took her kids away. It was all over The Today Show this morning!”

  “Really?” Kiley played dumb.

  “Stop that right now, Kiley. I was not born yesterday. When were you planning to tell us?” her mother demanded.

  “I just wrote you a letter about it.” Kiley tried to keep her voice calm, and unconsciously crossed her fingers before adding a lie. “You don't have to worry, Mom. It's a big publicity stunt.”

  “Kiley” Kiley winced. She could hear the disappointment in her mother's voice. “They made her house a crime scene.”

  Think, Kiley, think.

  Kiley tried, but someone turned up the radio station on the sound system. She had to raise her voice over the music.

  “Uh … I bet it was really exaggerated on TV, Mom.”

  “Where are you right now, Kiley?” her mother demanded. “And what is that crazy music?”

  “I'm … in a coffee shop. Having … coffee.” She nibbled nervously on her lower lip. Across the table, Jorge offered a sympathetic look. “I stayed with one of my friends last night.”

  “Which friend?”

  “Another nanny. But don't worry,” Kiley assured her mother. “I'll be back at Platinum's in a couple of days.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, Mom. Really, there is totally nothing to worry about.”

  Her mother sighed. “It looked really bad on TV, Kiley. Three of my friends have called me because they saw it too. Everyone knows you were working for that crazy woman.”

  “I'm still working for her,” Kiley insisted. “This whole thing will blow over.”

  “What will you do if it doesn't? Where will you live? Who is going to look out for you? Kiley? Are you there? Are you there?” Her mother's voice rose with each question.

  “Breathe, Mom,” Kiley counseled. “In, out, in, out. I promise you, I'm fine.”

  Kiley could hear her mother panting for air through the phone. She was hit by a pang of guilt. Her father was too distracted by the local tavern to pay much attention to what was going on with her mom and her panic attacks. He wasn't the most nurturing of people, even in the best of circumstances, claiming it was his wife's own fault for refusing to take any kind of medication for her “nervous condition.” Kiley's mom had been raised a Christian Scientist, and didn't believe in pharmaceutical intervention. Sometimes kava root and passionflower herbs helped her, and sometimes they didn't. Kiley knew she was the only one who could consistently talk her mom down when her panic spiraled out of control. Kiley also knew that this particular downward spiral was all her fault.

  “I'm really sorry, Mom,” Kiley said softly. “I should have called you.”

  “Yes, you should have,” her mother said. “I let you stay in California by yourself because I trusted you. To see this on TV before I heard it from you—it's terrible, Kiley.”

  Kiley flushed, ashamed. “I knew you'd worry—”

  “When I get my break at the diner I'm walking down to La Crosse Travel and buying you a plane ticket home.”

  Now it was Kiley's turn to panic. “No! Mom, you can't!”

  “Home, Kiley,” her mother insisted. “I'll call and tell you which flight.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. It's time you faced reality, Kiley. It's over.”

  Esme went to her chest of drawers—eighty years old, it had been purchased by Cary Grant when he'd owned the estate—and threw on a black long-sleeved tee from an outlet mall (it had a couple of holes, but whatever) and a faded pair of Blue Asphalt jeans from ninth grade, along with a battered pair of black Old Navy flip-flops. No makeup, no lip gloss, no nothing.

  I'm the nanny, she reasoned. My job is to look after the kids, not to look good. All the Wet 'n Wild lip gloss in the world isn't going to change whether or not they fire me.

  Esme sent up a little prayer: Por favor, don't let that happen.

  She'd been so ambivalent about taking the job. But now, after two weeks, she felt panicky at the idea of losing it. She'd been offered the gig when Diane had come back from a charity trip to Colombia with an unanticipated gift for her husband— identical twin girls she'd adopted in Cali. Their real names were Isabella and Juana, but Diane had renamed them Easton and Weston, and they were identical except for a heart-shaped beauty mark on Weston's cheek. Diane didn't speak Spanish, nor did the g
irls speak English. Since Esme's mom and dad worked off the books as the Goldhagens' housekeeper and groundskeeper, Diane had turned to Esme's mother for help. Mrs. Castaneda had suggested Esme. That had been good enough for Diane to offer Esme a trial employment period as her nanny.

  “Esme? You in here?”

  Esme's heart raced when she heard Jonathan call her from the front door. A young actor who'd gotten excellent reviews in a well-received if not well-attended independent feature called Tiger Eyes, he'd taken an immediate liking to Esme. More than a liking. Though she'd fought it, she'd taken more than a liking to him too. He was amazing-looking: short brown hair, startling blue eyes, and the rangy build of a born athlete. Easily six foot one, he had charm, manners, and a graceful ease about him, as well as a sensitivity that Esme had never encountered in the macho guys of Echo Park. If she drew a circle that was Jonathan, and then drew another circle that was Junior, her ex-gang-leader boyfriend from the Echo, those circles wouldn't intersect at all. They were that different from each other.

  No, that wasn't entirely true, Esme realized. They were both good people. In fact, maybe Junior was even a better person. At least he had been tested in his life. Jonathan had always had it easy.

  “I'll be out in a minute!” she called back to him.

  She peeked out of her bedroom door and caught his eye. He'd evidently come straight from the tennis court, since he wore a tennis shirt, warm-up pants, and carried three Head racquets under his right arm.

  Two minutes later, Esme stepped outside, having rebrushed her hair into glossy perfection and traded in her ratty T-shirt for a blue one she'd found at a really trendy thrift store in Hollywood. It fitted her just so, and she left the first three buttons unbuttoned to hint at her curves. She had her pride, after all. She found him sitting on the stone bench by the far end of Esme's parking area—an area that doubled as the estate's basketball court.