Seeing Me Naked

by Liza Palmer

“To the television?” he asks.

  “Yes, Chef,” I say.

  “Today?” he asks, looking at Samuel.

  “Yes, Chef,” Samuel answers.

  “I’m opening a little patisserie at the Grove next year. I thought you two might run it,” Christian throws out. Fucking perfect. I can’t look at Samuel. I don’t know if he’s thinking about it. Shit, I don’t know if I’m thinking about it.

  “No, thank you, Chef,” I force out, turning down the job that could have been next up on my five/eleven-year plan.

  “No, thank you, Chef,” Samuel adds. My face breaks in half with the widest of smiles. I want to take Samuel’s hand and skip right out of here, out into the swaying poppy fields that should be right outside the restaurant door. Movie-magic fantasies in a movie-magic town.

  “Well, then . . .” Chef says, his hand on his hip, looking dejectedly out into his kitchen.

  “Thank you, Chef, for this opportunity,” I say.

  “Thank you, Chef,” Samuel says.

  “You leave me with—what—this Julie tonight?” Chef asks.

  “She has talent,” I say.

  Chef smiles. “But it is not in the kitchen, yes?” Samuel and I don’t answer. I won’t go out talking shit, no matter how much Julie has pissed me off. “Do you know the girl at Bastide?” Chef asks.

  “The head pastry chef?” I correct.

  “Oui. She is talented, no?” Christian asks.

  “She’s incredible. She’s revolutionary,” I respond.

  “Do you have her number?” Christian asks. Samuel looks to me. Unbelievable.

  “Yes, Chef,” I answer.

  “Get this to me before you go,” Chef says, waving his hand in dismissal. Samuel and I thank him again and walk into the kitchen.

  “I’ll be right out,” I say to Samuel. I walk over to the pastry corner and lean on the counter next to Julie, my purse still hanging on my shoulder.

  “I’m totally in the weeds now, you know,” Julie huffs, bustling around the pastry station. Christian sends over two sous chefs to the pastry corner. They await Julie’s command.

  “I just wanted to . . .” I dig in my purse, pulling out a recipe box that I’ve filled with blank index cards, setting it on the counter right next to Julie. I continue, “If you’re going to make it in this business, you’re going to have to charge the castle on your own horse.” I stand tall, pushing myself away from the counter. Julie picks up my gift and sets it beneath the counter. She doesn’t make eye contact with me as she begins my recipe for the almond cake with mission figs.

  I catch up with Samuel outside the restaurant. No poppy field, but the sweetest chill air wafts past the both of us. Freedom.

  “You ready to see the set?” I say, beeping my car unlocked.

  “Hells yeah,” he says, smiling wide.

  I pull up in front of Rascal’s—my—Santa Monica house. All the crew trucks are here already. I creak open the front door, and my heart soars. The house is empty, save the ebony hardwood floors. The high ceilings. The huge windows. The arched doorways. It’s gorgeous. I walk quickly through the rest of the house. The front bedroom is adorable, perfect for an office or a guest room. Rascal’s air mattress rests in the corner with his overnight bag of clothes spilling out across the floor. I walk into the master suite. The rounded Spanish architecture allows the room to feel soft and warm. The hardwoods are flawless. They anchor the room and give it such depth. It’s breathtaking. I walk over to the window and get my first look at the incredible ocean view.

  “You coming?” Samuel yells. I turn away from the window and take a last look around the master bedroom. Once Daniel sees this house, he’ll certainly want to spend more time here. A sleepover—that’s all I ask.

  I walk through the rest of the house, finding the kitchen. I am stunned. It’s beautiful. I’m excited to meet the designer Mom hired, and on such short notice. What she’s done is truly a miracle.

  The entire room is painted a pale robin’s-egg blue. The exposed beams are a deep chocolate brown. The crown molding and trim are a creamy white. The camera setup occupies half of the room, cords and cameras and a bank of computers. I look up and see about twenty lighting rigs hanging over the room. I can feel the heat on my face. There is a lovely island made from that same deep chocolate butcher block in the middle of the room, with a stovetop on one side and a sink on the other. Samuel and the culinary producer are going over the ingredients for the hot-cocoa recipe we’re going to do in the next show. Samuel’s whole body looks loose and easy, his shoulders relaxed, his smile constant. The culinary producer is wearing the headset and carrying a clipboard she’s never without. Paul and Hunter are sitting behind the bank of computers, and I can hear them running the show opener over and over again. There’s more counter space on the wall behind me, along with a pair of convection ovens. All along the top of the wall are old black-and-white photographs.

  I look closely. They’re of us. My family. The classics. Rascal and me—me trapped in that godforsaken ice cream bucket, Rascal giggling wildly. Dad in his official navy portrait. Mom posing on a jetty looking like a pinup girl. There are a few new ones I’ve never seen. Mom and Dad when they were probably younger than I am now. Rascal’s little curly mop of a head behind a sea of wheat. All four of us together in some shot we did for a retrospective a few years back. The last one is of me. I’m sitting on Dad’s lap with a red sweater on, and it’s sliding up enough to see my little belly. I’m wearing some horrible quilted 1970s pants and no shoes. It looks like I was trying to talk, because my mouth is twisted, neither smiling nor still. Dad is in the very corner of the shot, and he’s looking down at me. The look on his face is . . . the look. The caramel/molasses look. I stare at the picture, going deeper and deeper in.

  “How do you like it?” Mom asks, coming up behind me. She takes in the picture I’m looking at.

  “It’s stunning. It’s beyond stunning. The designer—when can I meet her?” I ask, hugging her.

  “I did it, darling,” Mom confesses, her hands folded in front of her. I look around again at the kitchen. No brass plaques. No “aged” armoires. No textbook, uninspired Zen gardens. I look at the pictures, so lovingly chosen. Not one misstep. Mom’s true style.

  “Oh, Mom, it’s gorgeous. How did you? When did you?” I say, still standing with my mouth agape.

  Mom smiles. “Rascal called from New York, and I just thought, why not?”

  “This is just . . . it’s . . . I’m speechless,” I say, hugging her tightly.

  “I think I wore poor Paul out with all of my questions,” Mom says, looking back at the bank of computers. He flashes her a genuine smile. Mom blushes slightly.

  “Whatever it is you did, Mom, it’s . . . I just can’t imagine a place more perfect,” I say.

  “I’m glad you like it, darling,” Mom says, patting my back. I inhale deeply. Her scent. A slight hint of rose.

  “You are going to make it to the charity event this week, aren’t you, darling? It’s at the Mayers’ in Beverly Hills. I was also wondering if Daniel might donate a couple of tickets to one of those basketball games. I’m sure it’d be quite popular. Nevertheless, I’d love it if both of you could make it,” Mom says, her organizer flipped open on the butcher-block countertop. She’s more at home here than I am right now. I wonder if she’s heard from Dad. Do I ask? Do I ruin the moment? Would she tell me if she had?

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “What are you going to donate?” Mom asks, her pen at the ready.

  “Hmmm. What about a backstage pass? A tour . . . a seat at the picnic table for one of the shots . . . something like that?” I ask as I take in the rest of the house. I can hear the fountain from here. The flora and fauna framing the house is lush and calming.

  “Are you thinking of moving in here, darling?” Mom asks, her face slightly giving away her desire for me to do just that.

  “I’ve already hired movers,” I answer, knowing I’ve done the right thing. Why
would Daniel and I spend our nights in that slaughterhouse when we could have this refuge waiting for us? I know he feels like he should have been in the loop on this house, but I wonder if he can get past that long enough to appreciate it as much as I do. I wonder if I’m not the only one in this relationship with a bit of an ego problem.

  “Are you bringing a guest? To the Mayers’, I mean,” Mom clarifies, inadvertently setting the wheels in motion on another invitation altogether.

  “Daniel. I’ll invite Daniel Sullivan,” I say. Samuel comes across the kitchen.

  “Oh, Samuel, lovely to see you. How’s Margot?” Mom asks.

  “She’s— Well, she’s . . .” Samuel trails off.

  “She’s miserable, right?” Mom finishes.

  “Yes, I believe she is. Which brings me to— Elisabeth, Margot wanted me to ask if you and Daniel would like to come over for a Christmas Eve/housewarming/‘get this baby out’ dinner,” Samuel says.

  “Sounds great,” I say.

  “I’ll tell her to deal you guys in, then. Look at us, hanging out on a school night,” Samuel says, and laughs.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The pilot for my brand-new television show is airing right now. I’m not watching.

  I’m at the Hollywood Christmas Parade.

  That’s right. Freezing my ass off to watch B-list celebrities drive by in vintage cars while we listen to marching bands perform the one song they all know: a cross between “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” and the theme from Star Wars.

  “You know I’m Tivoing it, right?” Daniel says as he rubs his hands together, trying to get warm. Marilyn has a blanket over her; she’s sitting comfortably in one of those soccer-field chairs everyone goes on about. After sitting in one tonight, I want to decorate my entire living room with them. They’re so damn comfortable and convenient. Cup holders in the chairs! Truly inspired.

  “I know. Maybe we can even watch it later. You know, after we watch your dad fly down Hollywood Boulevard in a giant sleigh,” I say. Where did that sentence even come from? And said from a soccer-field chair while getting loaded on hot toddies, no less. Life is good.

  “When do you find out how you did?” Marilyn asks.

  “We’ll know by tomorrow what the numbers are,” I say. Meaning, by tomorrow I’ll know that the show has tanked and I’m going to be burdened with the deed to Rascal’s house and no job to pay for it. Awesome.

  I couldn’t sleep last night at all. Paul and Donna both called, letting me know that everything was looking great. They didn’t have any numbers yet but promised to get them to me as soon as possible. Paul assures me everything is fine. Daniel and I dropped his parents off at the airport early this morning. Aside from worrying about how the pilot fared, this charity event has been weighing on us all day. Daniel has changed his shirt three times already, each one looking identical to the last. He’s settled on a crisp white shirt, the silvery tie I bought him, and an impeccably cut suit that the UCLA head coach urged him to buy. Of course his mom noticed his need for a new suit first. The last time Daniel met the majority of my family, he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Not quite the first impression he wanted to make. I’m also not completely over my fear of a replay of that night with Avery. I know Daniel is a good man, but since I’ve prized wit above all else, it’s nights like these that test the very foundation of my supposed metamorphosis.

  We pull up in Daniel’s SUV to the monstrous McMansion just off of Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills. I am hit with the irony of the venue: Children of the Homeless and the biggest house I’ve ever seen. The sight of red-vested valets, Mercedes after Bentley pulling up in front of a house that could be used in a reality show to house all of the Bachelor hopefuls, has made Daniel especially tense. The Grecian gown I’ve chosen is stunning. A dark silvery-gray one-shoulder affair with beaded details at the waist and neckline. My hair is in a messy updo that took an hour to look windswept. My teeth are quietly chattering as I try to look effortlessly gorgeous. I’ll be fine once I get inside, but for now I make do with the warmth of how Daniel looks at me while we make our way up the grand staircase into the mansion.

  “You look dashing, Mr. Sullivan,” I say, kissing him.

  “Why, thank you,” he says, grinning. Holding him, I can feel that he’s tense.

  “Now, if you turn your back, they’ll shoot you with a tranquilizer dart, drag you off to some back room, and proceed to eat you,” I say, linking my arm with his as we stand before the front door, which is decked in garlands of magnolia wrapped in copper-colored ribbon.

  “So look out for tranquilizer darts,” he says. He holds my hand tightly as we open the door and step onto the marble floor of the foyer.

  The Mayers are a husband-and-wife producing team whose projects usually feature car chases, fiery explosions, and huge box office. Big money. Big new money. The foyer is anchored by a twenty-foot Christmas tree that is decorated in what must be a designer-themed color scheme of copper and the deepest of reds. More garlands of magnolia run up and down the sweeping double staircase, forcing me to stare at the huge Baccarat chandelier that hangs above. I watch as Daniel takes it all in. I squeeze his hand tightly as we approach a small blond woman at a table right in front.

  “Elisabeth Page and Daniel Sullivan,” Daniel says. The woman looks up. Her age-defying pulled-tight skin holds up better from afar: up close, she is terrifying. Her perfectly matched red and green outfit is absolutely adorable. Her blond bob shimmers in the glow of the twinkle lights. Her desperation to stay young is palpable.

  “Oh my God! Elisabeth Page? I just loved your show last night! Barbara? Barbara? It’s Elisabeth Page! From the Food Network!” Now the little blond woman is causing a scene. Daniel tucks his arm around my waist, bringing me in closer. He beams down at me. So proud. I soften and take a deep breath. Barbara comes over, and they ogle me just long enough to make me completely uncomfortable. I say “thank you” over and over again. They tell me all of their stories about the Hollywood Bowl and how they are totally going to make those red velvet cupcakes for the upcoming charity bake sale next week benefiting Music in the Classrooms. The line grows behind us.

  “Thank you so much. May we?” I motion toward the inner sanctum of the gaudy foyer filled with the Hollywood elite and the waiters who look like runway models.

  “Oh, of course! Of course! Please say hello to your mother for me, honey,” the blond woman says as she hands us two tiny Santas. A door prize of sorts. Daniel and I walk past her, holding our Santas awkwardly. His eyes dart around the foyer as he pockets his Santa.

  “Is that a Santa in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” I joke nervously, looking around the room in search of my family. I love that Daniel is here with me in theory, but I can’t help feeling awkward about his presence. I guess I’m just globally worried right now.

  “You probably want to wait until people have had a few drinks to start with those kinds of jokes.” Daniel rests his hand on the small of my back as we wind our way through the crowded room. I scan the room for Mom. No doubt, she’s positioned herself in some omniscient perch that only a World War II sniper could sniff out.

  “The food is back through there. The liquor is probably back there, too,” I say.

  “Darling!” I hear the hounds. I stand up straight and look at Daniel. There is terror in his eyes.

  “Mom, you look ravishing,” I trill. She is wearing a black floor-length dress, simple and flowing. She leans in and kisses me, wiping off her lipstick, as she always does. She pulls back and takes Daniel in.

  “Daniel, so nice to see you again,” Mom says, giving him the most polite of hugs.

  “And you, Mrs. Page. Always a pleasure,” Daniel says, his voice tight and formal. I’m not breathing.

  “Oh, please. Call me Ballard,” she says.

  “Ballard, then. It’s a pleasure. I brought those tickets you asked about,” Daniel says, passing her an envelope with two front-row seats to the UCLA season opener
.

  “Oh, how wonderful. Thank you so much,” Mom says, taking the envelope and kissing him on the cheek. Her smudge of lipstick is visible, and she looks to me, then to Daniel. Daniel leans down a touch. She gracefully raises her hand and wipes the smudge from his cheek.

  “Thank you again for inviting me,” Daniel says, straightening back up to full height.

  “My pleasure,” Mom says.

  “Mom, would you like us to get you some champagne while we’re back there?” I ask. There’s an edge to her tonight, a hollowness. Her eyes are darting across the room. In my mind, I replay the several thousand phone messages that Rascal and I have gotten from Dad and wonder what his path to redemption looks like with Mom. I would think that there is no forgiveness for Dad without Rascal allowing the first steps. And rightfully so.

  “Oh, no, dear. Thank you, though. I’m going to find your brother—he’s here somewhere. He’s brought that unfortunately named girl . . . Dinah.” Mom gives me the most subtle of raised eyebrows. The fact that she remembered Dinah’s name at all is a huge vote of confidence for the girl. I take this opportunity to pull Daniel away and inch closer to the bar.

  “Your mom is nice,” Daniel says.

  “Don’t let her fool you. She’s loading the tranquilizer dart as we speak,” I say. Daniel and I squeeze through the bevy of Hollywood types milling around the room, staring at us that two seconds longer than normal, making sure we’re not “somebody.”

  My heart begins racing. My one hope for the evening is to somehow be genuine through all of this. I watch as Daniel looks people up and down, at the clothing right out of a comic strip of what wealthy people dress like. Am I simply used to all of it? I feel as if I’m seeing it all for the first time through his eyes. What must he think of me? For all of my posturing that I’m not part of this world, here I am, air-kissing with the best of them. He’s straightened his tie approximately fifty-seven times since we first entered. I take his hand and hold it in mine.

  “Elisabeth?” Rascal is standing next to the long buffet table. He’s holding a tiny plate filled to the brim with appetizers I’m at a loss to identify. My eyes fall on The Girl. Rascal spears a crab something from a serving tray and finds a spot for it on the last corner of his plate. His black eye is now a shade of purple-y yellow. Daniel doesn’t react at all to the eye. He extends his hand to Rascal, who shifts his plate to shake Daniel’s hand back. We all wait for Rascal to introduce us to The Girl.