She shook her head. “That’s not why I’m hesitating.” Adorable. He’d been in her house for the Scene. The Final Blowoff Scene. Why would Leah care if he overheard a phone call? She picked up the phone, viper-quick, as if she was afraid she would lose her nerve if she didn’t pick it up in a hurry. “What.”
Nellie’s charming contralto murmured in her ear. “Darling, thank you for picking up. You so rarely do. Rude, but then, you were never afraid of showing off your, ah, less appealing qualities.”
“What. Is. It.”
“Darling, you sound so chilly, even for you.” She had the nerve, the colossal fucking nerve, to sound chiding. Disappointed, even. Leah wondered if she was in danger of biting through her lower lip. When my teeth meet I will know I chomped too far. “I wanted to let you know that it looks like Mother Daughter Hookers Heroes is going to be picked up! Tom is on his way to Hollywood right now to work out the details; I insisted he get in on this from the very beginning. I simply refuse to get reamed on the gross again.”
Leah bit back a hysterical giggle. So . . . many things . . . to mock . . . She wondered if it was possible to have a sarcasm stroke. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“Darling, of course it does. I cannot star in Mother Daughter Hookers Heroes without a daughter.”
“So hire one.”
“That’s part of the hook,” she explained patiently, as if Leah didn’t know all the steps in the Hollywood dance. As if she hadn’t known since first grade, if Nellie would have allowed her to attend first grade instead of hiring tutors to cram her full of multiplication tables and “see spot run” between shoots. “It’s our comeback, not my comeback and some silly little nobody absolutely no one wants to see.”
“You have always overestimated my stardom, because of course it allowed you to overestimate yours. No one knows who I am—or was.”
“Is that any way for Little Miss Huggies to talk?”
“Former Little Miss Huggies. No.”
“That’s just the stage fright talking.”
“No.”
“So I’m going to messenger the script to you and—”
“No.”
“—you’ll have to be ready to take a studio meeting first thing Monday.”
“No.”
“Remember, jewel tones make your skin seem less sallow. And stripes make you seem . . . thick. Absolutely no stripes, darling. And your hair is . . .” A pause while It searched for the right word. “. . . fine. Literally fine; maybe you should try a thickening serum? Something to give you a little body?”
“No! For fuck’s sake, no! A thousand times no, how are you not getting this? Even for you? No!”
“All right, but at least use some hot rollers to give yourself a little bounce.”
Leah pinched the skin above her nose and told herself to stop chewing her lower lip. “No to everything. No to the comeback. No to body. No to stripes. No.”
“At last you’re speaking sense. You could be pretty, but not with the distraction of horizontal stripes. Remember that dreadful two piece you wore for the Fourth of July special? You looked so very thick.”
“I was two.”
“Yes, well, you’re not getting any younger.”
“Pay attention: no to everything. Comebacks, stripes, my matricidal urges, your utter inability to care for anyone but yourself, no.”
“Don’t be difficult, dear.”
“No to the Mommy and Me Fuck Fest television show.”
“I don’t understand.” Her contralto, even when she sounded flat and disbelieving, was still lovely. Leah actually shivered at the power of her voice, and was furious all over again that even she, who knew all of her tricks, wasn’t immune to her oldest, and best.
The second-to-worst thing: she could make you think she cared.
The worst thing: not only did she not care, she really didn’t understand.
Leah took a breath, held it for the count of five, then forced it out through her nose. “What? What was it? Exactly what was it about our meeting the other day that left you any doubt as to my feelings about being in your life at all, never mind going back to Hollywood with you? I will not do this, do you understand? I will never, never do this. Not again, not once, not for an HBO special and not for a toilet paper commercial.”
Archer, leaning against her desk, was trying to give the impression of a man who isn’t hearing every single awful word. If his eyes got any bigger, they would fall right out of his skull and hit the carpet: plop! In her current grim mood, that might make her laugh. Her mother’s legacy was clear: Leah was a terrible person.
“I used to love you, but you managed to stomp that flat by the time I had to take you to court. Now I don’t even like you, do you hear me? I don’t roll my eyes and tell myself that you’ll never change but that it doesn’t matter. I don’t joke about you with my boyfriend—”
“Darling, you don’t have boyfriends. Which reminds me, the producer is a lovely woman in her thirties who also happens to be gay, so if you could see your way to being extra extra friendly to her during the meeting and also after the meeting, we could get a head start on—”
“—or my colleagues or the mayor of Boston!” She had to raise her voice to be heard over her machinations. “I never speak of you. Ever. I never panic when Mother’s Day approaches because I don’t know what to get you and I never fret about the holidays because I know I won’t have to see you. I never feel any of those things daughters feel about difficult mothers. Absent contempt is the kindest emotion I can summon for you. The very kindest.”
“But—”
“Lose this number, or I will lose this phone. Do not call me again, ever, under any circumstances. If you want to give me a kidney, I don’t want you to call. If you want to apologize for the abortion of my childhood, I don’t want you to call. If you’re bleeding out, I don’t want you to call. Fuck your fashion advice. Fuck your career. Fuck your comeback. Fuck my comeback. Fuck you. Good-bye.”
Leah hung up, waiting to feel devastated and bereft. She supposed she’d burst into undignified tears again, as she had in the driveway. Archer seemed to think so, too; he was already moving to her, his arms out in a pre-hug. He had a “there, there” expression on his face; he was fully ready to kick into Comfort Mode.
She held up her hands like a traffic cop and he stopped. “No, I’m fine.” She managed a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Okay?”
“Yes. Okay. That’s . . .” She paused and considered. “That’s been stuck in my head for a while. It feels good to get it out.”
“The way you’d feel good after a family therapy session!” he insisted.
“Ah . . . no. Not at all like that.” Her smile felt a little more real this time. “You charming idiot.”
TWENTY-SIX
Leah drove him home and to his astonished delight, she wouldn’t let him out of the car until they were both panting and his erection hurt. A good hurt, though, the best hurt. The if you don’t let me out of these jeans I’m gonna throw up in your underwear hurt.
He hadn’t been expecting snuggling of any sort. Not after the final-final blow-off with her mother. He’d been a little surprised, and impressed, at how Leah held it together that time. Now he realized that she wasn’t so much holding it together as she was celebrating her freedom.
Her hands were everywhere and her mouth was full of kisses, and best of all, most wonderful of all, she wasn’t at all stingy with them. Where her fingers went her lips followed, and he felt like he was being marked in the loveliest possible way. Her breath kept hitching and would occasionally suspend entirely which made him feel like he was having a heart attack, if heart attacks were intensely erotic. And ah, God, her mouth. Lips and tongue busy against his and he was again reminded his earlobe had a nerve connection straight to his cock.
Oh, sure, he’d rea
d things and done some late-night one-handed Internet research, but nowhere in any of that did someone ever come out and say, “In case you missed that day in anatomy, your earlobe connects to your cock when a lovely dark-eyed brunette has her tongue on it.”
Even better, she was letting him put his hands in places his hands had only dreamed of
(hands dream?)
as he skimmed his fingers beneath her shirt and over the curve of her bra, mindful, always fucking mindful, of the balisong knives. If she had flinched back or even stilled, he would have immediately withdrawn
(my hands and I are terribly sorry, ma’am; it would be terrific if you didn’t stab me again also please don’t cut them off thank you and good night)
but she pressed forward into his fingers and he groaned into her mouth. “Feel like . . . teenager . . .” was all he was able to mumble against her lips, which curved into a smile.
“I wouldn’t know.” Her fingers had gone to the button on his jeans. Ohhhh little fly button, how I envy thee. “I spent most of my teen years in auditions, or studios, or on various hunger strikes to punish Nellie. Once she even noticed.”
“Here’s a plan: let’s not talk about your mom right this minute.”
“Agreed.” Her fingers had undone the button, he was enchanted to note. “I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was twenty.” Her fingers had moved to his zipper and he couldn’t stand it any longer, he brought his hand up to the nape of her neck and pressed his mouth back to hers, caught her deft fingers with his bigger, clumsier ones
(“what are you DOING?” his libido shrieked, betrayed, “have you gone MAD?”)
and pressed them to his heart.
“Shy,” she purred into his mouth.
“Yes, that’s exactly what it is. Shush now. More kissing. This is the stuff you missed.”
So he showed her and she delighted him with her questions and low giggles, and yeah, it was a little like high school but also a little not, because the girls in school didn’t whisper wonderful filthy things in his ear, didn’t press and rub through his jeans and ask things like, “There? More? And how about there? Yes?” The girls in school never made the earlobe-to-cock connection. They never made his brain melt.
And incredibly, he could hear “No wire hangers, ever!” somewhere in his head, which was a bit of a mood dampener, but not entirely, since his need for Leah was a great scary throbbing thing. Maybe she heard it, too, because they finally fell apart, broke apart, and then he was stumbling out of her car and up the walk to his house, and she was waving at him from the driver’s seat. The dome light shone on her dark hair, which was lovely, but the rest of her face was in shadow, and that bothered him, though he was too dazed with lust to put his finger on why.
TWENTY-SEVEN
She was watching Archer staggering away from her car and realized she was panting, just a little, when her phone twitched again in her pocket, bleating, “No wire hangers, ever!” The noise was muffled due to placement, but no less unpleasant. Her lust instantly damped down and disappeared, ice water tossed on flames.
She fished the phone out and glared at it. Even Nellie couldn’t be this dense. Not after the Fuck You medley phone chat. Something wrong? Trouble at the old mill? Something she needed Leah, and just Leah, to handle? Was it possible? Did she have the nerve?
But I need you to pick me up at the clinic after the procedure. And while you’re there . . . I don’t mean to be insensitive, darling, but neither of us is getting younger. Now don’t worry, I already talked to Dr. Weinman and he’ll be happy to discuss a few simple procedures with you. He’s got your complete medical history and everything, so don’t eat anything the night before you pick me up . . . of course you don’t have to have anything done but if you come to your senses, you’ll be all set. Okay? Darling?
and
But the reporter won’t talk to me unless you’re there; People magazine is doing a “Where Are They Now” feature about celebrity moms. You can take the SATs next year . . . yes, it’s wonderful that most fifteen-year-olds don’t get invited to take it but that proves my point . . . there’s always next year, and also the year after.
and
But they loved you, they just loved you, and all you’ll need to do is diet down enough so you can play a young girl dying of anorexia and, yes, I know the part calls for a twelve-year-old and you’re fourteen, but once you skip enough meals you can pull it off. And darling, really, the dieting alone will bring us—you—more opportunities to work.
Did she have the nerve? Why was Leah even asking herself such an obvious question? Of course It had the nerve! It was made up of fifty percent ambition and fifty percent nerve (and zero percent maternal instinct.) A month ago she never would have asked herself the question. Gah, interaction with Archer was making her soft.
Even as she was wondering why she was doing such a thing, Leah held the phone to her ear. “What.” She held her breath, waiting for that lovely shimmering voice, the sound of pain.
And . . . nothing. Nellie was either marshaling new arguments
It’s not that I don’t love you, darling, it’s that you’re not especially lovable.
or had misdialed
Sorry, darling, thought you were the colonic clinic. But while I’ve got you, when was the last time you had a good cleansing? From the look of your complexion, I would guess it has been a while.
or was sucking in breath for a patented scolding. Most popular: You Don’t Know What I’ve Sacrificed for You. Runner-up: I Can’t Believe You Would Deny Your Own Mother Although People Often Mistake Us for Sisters.
Nothing on the other end but careful, slow breathing. Was she nervous? Working up the nerve to ask for something else Leah could never give her? What could be worse than Mother Daughter Fuck Fest? So many, many things. The thought was staggering.
“No,” Leah said firmly. “Whatever it is, no.”
She shut off her phone for the night, which is why the police couldn’t immediately reach her with the news.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Morning, and for the first time in a long time, Leah could not wait to start the day. Positive note number one: she hadn’t been stabbed to death. Positive note number two: it was Saturday, no clients. Positive note number three: Archer had proposed various silly, romantic interludes, all under the guise of researching her eventual murderer. She doubted their ability to get much work done while playing miniature golf
(I’ve driven past that place a hundred times and always thought it was a silly activity. But apparently the old saying is, one hundred and first time is the charm. And if you can get your ball to go into the whale’s blow hole, you win a free game. Which I may actually play, as long as it’s with Archer.)
or having a picnic at Cat’s park
(that “pond” is nothing more than a glorified mud puddle riddled with duck feces and yet I’m intrigued at the thought of eating near it)
although she did not doubt that it would be fun—or at least interesting—to try.
Whatever they did, she had promised to call him around lunchtime with a plan. And she had promised under duress, since she would have said almost anything
(“I’m not sure I—”
“Oh please please please please please please please please please please please please please please call me or I’ll diiiiiiiie! I’ll just flop over and DIE.” Then, in his normal baritone, “What? Too needy?”)
to get him to stop making that horrible noise.
She was in the shower, cursing and trying to get shampoo out of her eye, when she remembered her phone was off. She almost never did that; Insighters got the occasional frantic call in the middle of the night, so she hurried through the rest of her shower, blotted herself dry, then retrieved her phone and turned it back on. While waiting for the thing to burp out various tones alerting her to voicemails and e-mails, she got dressed.
For the first time (in a long time) she dressed for someone else as opposed to clinic wear, or her court suit. Administration preferred Insighters in professional attire—suit jackets, skirts or trousers, like that—while acknowledging that their job was messy, both literally and figuratively. Sometimes clients did not respond well to news that they used to be Mary Mallon, aka Typhoid Mary. Sometimes that meant going home to wash vomit out of her jacket. Many of her colleagues wore a lab coat over their clothing; Leah just tried to stick to wash-and-wear fabrics and a high-quality laundry soap. Insighters weren’t doctors, and while many of her colleagues encouraged their clients’ dependence, Leah wanted no part of such things, and eschewed lab coats. And also touching.
Today was different;
(hooray! “different”! what a wonderful word!)
today she could dress as she liked, so she indulged herself with a pair of rose-colored capris, a cream-colored tank top trimmed at the neck with lace, and a cardigan a few shades darker than her pants. As her phone started chiming, she found her tan oxfords and slipped one on, then glanced down at her phone, which, judging from all the pings and chimes, was about to self-destruct.
What the hell is this? Four voicemails? Nellie just doesn’t know when to quit.
But none of the voicemails were from her mother.
“Ms. Nazir, this is Detective Preston from the CPD. Please call us back immediately.”
Archer.
Oh, fuck. Archer!
The other voicemails were from the police as well, though she didn’t hear the entirety of the second one, since for some reason the phone was falling away from her, turning over and over before it finally—how was it falling in slow motion?—hit the tile and she heard a faint “crack.”
Or would have, if she hadn’t clawed for her keys and sprinted out the front door. The phone might be tumbling in slo-mo but she was in overdrive, and it still didn’t seem fast enough.
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