The price tag that went with the apartment was not a favor, by the way. But Bobby didn’t mind. The louder he shouted, the better chance there was of Susan hearing him, or so he’d reasoned.
It hadn’t been the broker’s spiel of fourteen-foot ceilings, exquisite balustrades, and proximity to Central Park that persuaded him to dig deep into his pockets for The Dakota. It was the fact that John Lennon had lived and died there. Why, he might even run into Yoko Ono on her way back from shopping. They’d pass each other in the hall. “Aren’t you Bobby Anderson from Devil Take You?” she would ask, while fishing into her handbag for her apartment key. She might then invite him in for a cup of tea and to show him her John Lennon photo album. It would feel like being back home in L.A. where speaking to the rich and famous was a granted part of his life.
Bobby had to remind himself several times as he got ready to leave California, that the purpose of his trip was love, not fashionable living.
But, once again, Susan was not thinking of him—despite the fact that his story of moving was all anyone could talk about. Had his actions hadn’t been just a little bit hasty? He wasn’t known for jumping the gun. Had he jumped the gun? If he thought about it too much his palms got pasty and he forgot how to breathe. He would have to keep going and figure it out later. Many actors took theatre breaks only to return to the big screen, stronger and more popular than ever for it. Who were they again?
Lester was a problem when it came to moving. To put it bluntly, he would not go. Bobby wasn’t quite sure that he needed Lester, but he wanted to close up his Beverly hills house until his return, and he couldn’t just pay Lester to hang around.
But that was exactly what he ended up doing, because Lester had a girlfriend working on a movie set as and she would not leave California. Lester was hopelessly in love. What could Bobby do? Wasn’t he also hopelessly in love? So he closed up the house, except for the guest villa, and let Lester stay there.
He told himself that his butler could watch over the property in case of squatters. Also, he could keep an eye on Andy, making sure the garden stayed green in his absence, instead of some rushed clipping and over watering a week prior to his return. He could also ensure that the pool was maintained. Whether Lester and his girlfriend made use of the pool was assumed, but nothing was said. If they wanted to use his one and only gem, so be it. He would just shift the thought to the back of his brain until he got back.
But when would he get back? So far Judge had come up with zero. He had gone to every hospital and looked for a Susan as a patient in every ward, in any condition, but he hadn’t come any closer to finding her than the day he started. Not one single clue. Of course there were plenty of Susans in need of medical assistance, but none matching Bobby’s description. Bobby’s only chance was to keep meeting Susan on the island, retrieve as much information from her as he could, and rescue her himself.
CHAPTER 23
When Rosa first heard that they were moving without Lester, she had shrugged her shoulders and tried not to care. She didn’t need Lester to help her find her feet as he had done when she first came to work for Bobby. Anyway, she had heard that New York City was nice, and she was used to nice by now. But even after a series of Hollywood employers, Rosa did not, in fact, know nice. She only thought she did.
When Bobby and his makeshift family of Rosa and Tony—for Bobby realized that he needed at least one friend, pulled up to The Dakota, Rosa was not prepared. Was it true that this was the best address in Manhattan?
As Bobby’s realtor swung open the double doors that led to the most luxuriously furnished home Rosa had ever laid eyes on, all she could think was: Now this is nice!
Rosa’s room was modest in that it overlooked the courtyard instead of Central Park the way Bobby’s did, but the entire room: furniture, fixtures, and linens, which seemed to have been imported straight out of an old French movie, was anything but modest. This room, Rosa concluded, was made for some beautiful mistress of the royal kind, instead of a second rate live-in maid from Mexico.
Rosa did not know the difference between lavender and eggplant, or how blush pink and baby pink could be considered two completely different colors, and she certainly couldn’t tell you how an East Bridge bed differed from one with tufted linen, but she could tell that whoever furnished her little room knew what they were talking about.
The bedroom’s cream-colored peek-a-boo bed was deeply tufted and wonderfully inviting. The raspberry bed linen matched perfectly with the blush pink walls. A paisley bench nestled at the edge of the queen-sized bed begged her to lay her luggage down and take a load off. A cream cashmere throw, left enticingly draped over a gold Louis XVI armchair, made her feel instantly at home. There was even a small glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling for goodness sakes. To top it off, a rug made from hand-knotted Tibetan leaves (hand-knotted Tibetan leaves!) beckoned to her feet from below.
It was all too much. Rosa almost dared not investigate the adjoining bathroom that was to be hers for fear of waking up back in Mexico in a stinky stuffy bedroom she shared once with her two older (and quite frankly, scary) brothers, and her sulky younger sister. Was this all a dream? If it was, she wanted to stay dreaming.
“Rosa!” It was Bobby. No, this was not a dream. She was really here. She poked her head around the door to the bathroom and let her eyes briefly rest on the ivory Ambelia sink chest, handcrafted from mahogany and heavily distressed. To Rosa it looked like an overly fancy curvy chest of drawers with an old fashioned sink on top. Like the new expert that she was, she decided that she liked it.
The shower was a simple step-in glass enclosure, the kind she had back in L.A., but again, there was a chandelier—in the bathroom!
Rosa clicked her tongue and sighed. She needed to hit the lottery one day, the big one, because she could get used to this.
Tony had come because Bobby couldn’t bring his mother. It was that simple. A man, especially a serious one, cannot travel with a maid alone. He needs support. So Bobby had Tony, and Tony had time, since Tony wanted to be an actor and was terrible at it. But Tony was costing him, with the extra room. Renting a three bedroom apartment at The Dakota was like asking for a 1978 bottle of Montrachet from Domaine de la Roanee-Conti: expensive and hard to come by.
But the broker’s friend of a friend’s love for Bobby knew no end. However, the cost of this friendly connection would include a date with Emily, the broker, that night. This request hadn’t really come as a surprise to Bobby. Not wanting a date with him would have been even stranger.
Bobby got ready in his usual manner: a pair of black corduroys (because the restaurant in question prohibited entry with jeans); a black button up shirt, rolled slightly at the elbows; slightly bared chest; slightly jelled hair; slight dash of aftershave; and slightly drunk, because in all honestly, the broker was no hottie.
Bobby hoped the small talk wouldn’t be only about property. If worse came to worst, he could tell her about his place in Beverly hills. Surely she would like that. Or he could elaborate on his mother’s villa. The thought of Emily wanting to give either one an appraisal, however, worried him slightly. Knowing him, he would find it hard to say no, even though Emily was no hottie. He might he have not found that such a problem a few weeks ago, but there was Susan now. And what about Susan? She was forgetting about him again when he needed her most. Rehearsals were about to start at the Boardhurst Theatre and he felt vulnerable. He might even spill his guts tonight to a woman he had only spoken to twice on the phone and had met once—today!
At least Tony and Rosa seemed happy. Rosa hummed as she unpacked the grocery shopping that had so magically arrived by home delivery fifteen minutes earlier—Rosa loved the simplicity of the home-delivery system of the Upper West Side. Tony liked it too. He had a bag of newly purchased nachos open in his lap, feet up, nacho dip in one hand and the remote for the Bang & Olufsen 100 Hz plasma screen T.V. in the other.
Bobby wished he could join him. Thank goodness he’d brou
ght Tony. He would join him tomorrow and just chill. Tonight was business; after that he was free.
CHAPTER 24
Emily was not your typical real estate broker. Well, on the one hand she was addicted to her job, and she did sleep with her cell phone under her pillow; but on the other hand, Emily didn’t really want to be in real estate at all, despite the money she reeled in. What she wanted to be, deep down inside, in a secret place she hid away from the entire world, was an actress. She had wanted to try out for school plays when she was growing up, but she had always been seen as the academic type, not to mention the too tall unattractive type. She had never felt confident enough to audition.
When Emily dropped out of Harvard—ruining all of her father’s dreams and practically giving him an early heart attack at fifty-nine in the process—to pursue a career in real estate, she had tried forgetting her dream of getting up in front of the big screen. But recently… recently she had remembered her dream, and now she had her chance. Tonight she would show Bobby Anderson the time of his life, and ever so gently persuade him to help jump-start her new career in movies. He just had to help her. She had enough money; what she needed in her life now was purpose.
Emily had been practicing her lines all week in anticipation of this date. She knew she would get the date, just as she knew she would get the apartment—although, to be honest, she had the apartment sitting empty for four months before Bobby came along. Nobody wanted to rent for the ridiculously high monthlies the owners were asking. Emily secretly suspected they didn’t really want to rent at all, and were using the elevated price as a deterrent for pesky lessees. However, they loved Bobby, and also Bobby could not be deterred. She admired that about him. Of course, she could have found him a much cheaper option with even better rooms than The Dakota, and right by Central Park as well, but even she knew that that was not the same. She marveled at Bobby’s stubbornness. She too went for what she wanted; the only difference being that she was also reasonable.
Bobby decided not to fetch Emily in a chauffeur driven limo, as she may have expected. Instead, he took a cab and met her just outside the three Michelin star restaurant, Brooklyn Fare, which also happened to be a grocers. It was located only a few blocks down from the Brooklyn Bridge and Emily had promised Bobby the best meal of his life. “Better than a restaurant in Manhattan?” “Yes, Bobby.”
Emily had reserved seats at the last minute, which is practically unheard of for such an exquisite dining experience, but her father and Chef Cesar Ramirez had been friends once—which actually still didn’t help her to get a reservation, because Chef Cesar Ramirez was not taking calls.
What got her the reservation in the end, after much begging, name dropping, and further attempts of persuasion (all too, which failed) was to offer the Maitre d’, Chris Stands, a free night at one of her exclusive rooftop apartments in Gramercy. Chris silently canceled a couple that had booked eight weeks in advance and bumped Emily and Bobby up the list. Emily knew it wasn’t enough to offer people money; you had to offer them dreams. And it just so happened that the Maitre d’ had a boyfriend he dearly wanted to impress. Emily’s apartment on Gramercy Park was a Matire d’ in love’s dream come true.
Bobby had never shared a dinner table with complete strangers before, but that was exactly what dinner at the Chef’s Table called for. Bobby and about eleven other guests, including Emily, sat at an oval table with an uncountable number of copper pots hanging precariously above their heads, watching in wonder as Chef Cesar Ramirez worked his magic.
Chef Cesar nodded to Bobby in a way that let Bobby know he knew who he was; but he did it with the other guests as well, so Bobby assumed he wasn’t the only hot shot there. In fact, unbeknownst to Bobby, in a line of New York City hotshots dining at the Brooklyn Fare that night, he was just above Emily, and not by that much.
“Do you like the scallops?” Emily asked, taking a generous bite of raw scallop nestled on a bed of snow-white cauliflower marinated in blood orange and soy vinaigrette.
“Is that what that is?” Bobby asked.
Emily laughed. She couldn’t help but like Bobby. He was so boyish and easy to please, so unlike the crowd she usually dealt with in the city. They were, quite frankly, above pleasing. They were so busy being bored with what they already had and challenging you to constantly do better, that it had become quite tiresome. Bobby was a brief breath of fresh air.
“Do you come here often?” Bobby asked.
“No, not often.” Ordinarily Emily would have added some smart remark to this question and given an un-truth about how many times she frequented one of the best restaurants in the city, but with Bobby she felt she could be a little more honest. He was already impressed; she didn’t have to push it.
“It’s nice.” And he meant it. He liked watching a chef work out in the open instead of hidden away in a kitchen somewhere. He thought it was similar to a culinary lesson he would never repeat at home.
Delicacies appeared before him like magic; and there wasn’t even much need for dinner conversation with so much action and entertainment coming from the chef. It was a relief not to have to talk.
Somewhere between the panna cotta of sea urchin with ocietra caviar and the crispy pork belly with red wine and mustard powder, Emily realized that what she wanted to ask Bobby should probably be left to a more quiet location. Had she chosen badly with the Brooklyn Fare Kitchen? Sure, it was a popular place and showed good taste on her part, but it wasn’t what one would exactly call “intimate”.
Sadly, she realized that after dinner they would probably head their separate ways. She knew Bobby wasn’t interested in her as far as going back to her apartment for coffee was concerned. He had made it quite clear in Yes magazine that he was after a special girl. Also, she could tell that he was only doing her a favor by going out with her tonight. If she wanted to ask him something important, it would have to be sooner rather than later; especially sooner than the arrival of the bill, which judging from his wine choice would be higher than even she was willing to go.
“How’s the apartment?” she asked, as way of conversation.
“I guess its fine. My crew seem happy there.”
“Good. It really is prime real estate.”
Bobby nodded and put another bite of pork belly into his mouth.
“Did you know that Antonio Banderas and his wife got turned down from buying there?”
“Really? In that case I don’t have a chance.”
“Would you want to buy?”
Bobby chuckled, but didn’t bother answering. He didn’t really want to play the real estate game. He’d had quite enough of real estate since he started earning enough money to deal in it, and there was only so much that could be said about property (in his opinion). Also, no, he would not buy at The Dakota. He was sure Susan would prefer something a little more Greenwich Village style. He had only rented at The Dakota to draw attention. Once he had Susan, he planned on a more bohemian lifestyle, but without the poverty.
But maybe Bobby wasn’t too sure anymore about what he wanted. His energy was consumed with wanting the one thing it seemed he couldn’t have: Susan. However, that was too much to mention to someone like Emily. For some odd reason she reminded him of an overly ambitious hairdresser. Her intensity exhausted him if he gave it his full attention, which was why he had concentrated on Chef Cesar Ramirez for most of the night.
Emily felt frantic. Desserts were next and she still hadn’t told Bobby about her childhood ambition of stardom. She knew she wasn’t a great looker; her tall heavy frame was far from glamorous, but she was sure she could act. She was so sick of doing anything else. She had to act.
“Bobby?”
Bobby sighed. Was this going to be another housing question? Exhaustion was starting to kick in, and at this point he just wanted to get to bed.
“Bobby?”
Where was this cold place? He was on the beach all right—Susan’s beach, but the sun wasn’t shining. A cold night beach. He
’d been on beaches at night before, usually with a cocktail in one hand and a beautiful girl in the other, but this beach was not that sort of beach. Crabs crawled around him and he could hear the click clack of their body parts as they crept along the sand. The stars above did not twinkle down in that cozy way stars are supposed to. These stars stared at him and made him feel lonely. Where was she? He had heard her call, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. He had never been on her island at night before.
“Bobby.”
“Susan!” he yelled as loudly as he could, but his voice just echoed back at him.
Bobby got up from the sand and looked towards the coconut forest. She must be in there. He didn’t like the idea of going into that place at night. Caribbean tarantulas came to mind, but oh joy if she were there!
With a drunken gait—how much wine did he consume with Emily?—he half jogged, half dragged himself to the trees. Once there, he tried to find the fallen coconut tree with the help of the half moon; but it wasn’t easy. His eyes were unaccustomed to the darkness and his feet kept hitting stones in the sand.
At last he found the fallen tree, but Susan wasn’t sitting on it as he had hoped. “Susan!” he yelled.
“Bobby?” A weak voice came from somewhere nearby. Bobby searched frantically about and finally saw her, a dark shape against the bark of a tree. Susan was curled into a ball as if she was freezing to death.
“Susan!” Bobby lunged to her side and put his arms around her. “Susan.”
“Why are you calling me that?” she asked with a frown.
Now it was Bobby’s turn to frown. “That’s your name,” he said.
In Your Dreams Bobby Anderson Page 11
