Tyler was lying back on the couch, shoes flipped off, legs on the arm, popping peanuts into his mouth. She in turn was sitting Indian-style on the floor, swirling the red wine in her glass.
“Why do you think people are obsessed with famous people?” asked Eliza. “I mean, why do you think they want your autograph or a picture with you? What do you think it is?”
“Oh, I know what I think it is. I believe that people are not really so excited to see me; I think they’re more excited for me to see them. It’s like this: if someone famous, someone who everyone knows, sees you, an average Joe, then it validates you in a way. It’s mad, but people think that if I see them, acknowledge them, have a smoke or a pint with them, then they exist.”
Eliza thought about that for a moment. She supposed it was true. So many people wanted to be recognized, noticed.
“You’re right. And I’m sure that everyone wants a little bit of your luster to rub off on them.”
Tyler sat up and smiled. “I don’t know if I have luster…just lust. Hey, you want a beer?”
“No thanks,” she said, watching him walk over to the minibar. It was now almost five o’clock. She was drunk and had a baby to go home to. “I should go…”
Tyler turned around in surprise. “Why? I thought we were just getting started.”
He stared at her for a long time, and she saw an intensity in his eyes. She’d seen it on-screen, but it was overwhelming in reality, and especially now that it was directed at her.
“The babysitter…” she said lamely.
He looked at her again and saw she was conflicted. “You haven’t even asked me about my next role,” he said, marching back to the couch and plopping down. He took a swig of his beer.
Eliza turned and faced him. “Oh yeah—what is it?”
“I’m going to play Mr. Darcy. They’re doing another remake of Pride and Prejudice.”
Eliza groaned. “Not again! We don’t need another. No offense, but the BBC version with Colin Firth was amazing! Why did you agree to do it?”
“Relax, it’s on stage in London. And why not? I want to play a lovable character. Everyone loves Mr. Darcy. Why is that, anyway?”
“First off, he’s not exactly lovable. Although every woman does love Darcy. I cannot deny that I’m also in that fan club,” she said, smiling.
“I only just read the book, and he seems like a nasty bloke. Until the end. I thought the ladies would like the gentle rich guy—you know, Bingley. He’s all sweet and sensitive, caring and generous. That’s what women want, at least according to women’s magazines.”
“No, no. Women want two things: they want the guy to be a total rogue initially, but then they want him to change for them. There’s nothing sexier than a guy who will change for you.”
Tyler nodded. “Okay then.”
“And the thing about Darcy,” began Eliza, the wine controlling her thoughts, “is almost like what you said about famous people. Elizabeth Bennett, Jane Austen makes clear, is not the prettiest girl in the room or the town, but she is the cleverest, the most desirable if you really get to know her, and certainly the most accessible to the readers. Because that’s how every woman views herself: as the most special once you get to know her. That’s why we love Darcy. He can have any girl he wants in London or Hertfordshire, but he picks the one with the brain and the wit…”
Eliza’s voice trailed off, and she became embarrassed. She looked at Tyler, who was sitting up on the couch, watching her keenly. The room was dark now, and the rain had started to come down again outside.
“That sounds like you,” he said. Before she could answer, Tyler stood up and walked over to Eliza. He cupped her face with his hands and leaned in and kissed her. Eliza was stunned. At first she didn’t kiss back, and then she did, but then she pulled away.
“Tyler…” she said, putting her head down so she wouldn’t have eye contact with him.
“I know you feel it too,” he said, rubbing his hands up and down her arms.
“I’m married,” she said lamely. She was, but it sounded so stupid. She felt immature. Immature for not wanting to cheat? she asked herself. Yes.
“Is that the only reason?” asked Tyler, raising her chin up to face him.
She stared into his eyes. She felt as though she were in a movie. If only she was an actress and could make out with him and then head home to Declan and tell him, Yeah, honey, made out with Tyler Trask today, all in a day’s work. But this was real life.
“It would be just…wrong,” she said, her voice a whisper. She could feel his breath on her face, and his hands were still running up and down her arms. It would be so easy to collapse into him, feel his hard chest press against her. He seemed so big and strong, and she liked that she felt little and weak next to him. It made her feel safe and protected. But she was no longer safe.
“It’s not wrong,” said Tyler, staring at her. “You’re only human. You don’t need to be the good girl, Eliza. You just have to do what your heart wants.”
It was the phrase “good girl” that jolted Eliza back to reality. She pulled away.
“I have to go,” she said, walking over to the chair and grabbing her bag and coat. Tyler watched her gather her belongings in silence.
“Sorry,” she said softly. She was embarrassed, but now determined to get out of there. It made her feel weird that Tyler wasn’t saying anything, just watching her curiously. When she got to the door, she turned and faced him. “In another life…” she said. It sounded dumb, but it was true. She would be his if things were different.
“I know I’ll see you again, Eliza. In this life. I know this was meant to happen. I will be waiting for your call,” he said, with such force that Eliza was convinced that they would meet again. He leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek, and then she opened the door and was gone.
Suddenly Eliza was back in her bed in the Palisades and late to drop Donovan off at preschool. What was the point of being a good girl? Why not live her life?
•• 11 ••
At ten o’clock Helen finally got out of bed, threw on her army pants and a small black James Perse T-shirt and made herself a pot of herbal tea. She cupped the mug in her hands, letting the steam give her a mini facial, and opened the screen door. After plopping herself on her favorite chair on the deck, which afforded a pristine view of the ocean, she took a sip of the Red Zinger and thought about what she would do that day. Suddenly, she was interrupted by the phone. She wasn’t going to answer it, but Wesley always reprimanded her when she didn’t. What if something happened to Lauren? he’d say. She didn’t want to get into a “row” about it, so she reluctantly made her way inside and picked up the cordless.
“Oh, hello, Helen, it’s Margaret,” said her mother-in-law on the other end of the phone. Although she was well on in years, her clipped British voice always remained energetic and chipper, although void of friendliness.
“Hello, Margaret. You’re up late. What time is it in England?” asked Helen, looking at her watch.
“Oh, we’re not in England. We’re still in New York,” said Margaret.
“New York? I didn’t know you were in New York. Are you coming to L.A.?” asked Helen, hoping the answer was no.
“No, that’s why we saw Wesley here this weekend. Such fun…anyhow, we’re sorry not to see you and Lauren, but we are doing a bit of a shop tomorrow and I need her size. I want to buy her some proper dresses. Wesley showed me some pictures of her and she seems a little…casual. Like a hippie. I found a store called Bonpoint that is just charming and lovely…”
As she continued her rambling, Helen zoned out. Wesley had gone to visit his parents in New York? She knew he had gone to New York, but she thought it was just to meet with a screenwriter about some movie. He had never mentioned that his parents were there. Why didn’t he tell her? Why didn’t he want her to go? She loved New York. It would be fun to take Lauren, she hadn’t been since she was very little. They could go to Serendipity, and maybe a
Broadway show…Why hadn’t Wesley invited her?
All of Helen’s deepest and darkest insecurities seized her. Was Wesley with someone else? Was he ashamed of her? Why did they never tell each other anything? She got off the phone with Margaret quickly and walked back into Wesley’s office, where he sat on the tufted leather couch, reading a script.
She leaned against the doorway and watched him. His features had thickened over the years, and there were more lines cutting through the skin on his forehead. That, coupled with the hair loss, actually gave a more distinguished impression. He seemed like someone who had made it. He had that wonderfully posh British accent, that confident Oxford gait, and those smooth Sloane manners. And yet…he hadn’t made it. His great-grandparents had made it.
“You didn’t tell me you saw your parents in New York,” Helen said, her arms folded.
Wesley looked up in surprise. “I didn’t? Sorry, love.”
“Why didn’t you want me to come?” she asked, her voice wounded.
“I didn’t think you would have wanted to come. You don’t like my parents,” he said, his voice even, but filled more with surprise than recrimination.
“I like your parents,” she said lamely. She didn’t, really. “I’m just really stunned you wouldn’t have asked me.”
“Sorry, love. I will next time.”
Helen stared at Wesley, who stared back at her. She didn’t even feel anger. Just…emptiness. It was more of a facade, as if she was supposed to care that he didn’t ask her. She also felt that it was not right that he didn’t even tell her. But then, they really didn’t talk anymore. And she remembered that when he told her he was going to New York she had taken a phone call from her pottery teacher in the middle of the conversation. So maybe he would have if she had given him the opportunity.
“Well, I’m off,” she said.
“Have fun,” he said, already looking down at his script.
Helen walked out, her bare feet tingling from the cold concrete floor as she made her way back to the patio. Had she and Wesley ever had anything to talk about? She couldn’t remember. They had cultivated a level of aloofness that shielded the bubbling layer of hostility laying beneath it. But now that apathy was so normal that it would have been odd to exist without it. The only thing they ever quarreled about was Lauren, and on her Helen had ceded to him years ago. He was right; he was a better parent. He had never said it, but she felt it. And anyway, what would she know about parenting? She had been adopted from a Korean orphanage, disposed of by her own flesh and blood, only to be “saved” and transported to Orange County by religious zealots with whom she never bonded. Okay, Wesley, chalk up a point for your team. She felt anger stir within her. She blamed Wesley for every unpleasantness and inconvenience in her life. She knew it was wrong, but he was around, he was there, so who else could she blame?
Why had they married? There must have been something that brought her to marry him. He was older, and wiser, and made her feel safe. Suddenly she shuddered. Was it only because…? No, it couldn’t be. And yet the only memory she had of truly loving Wesley and knowing with certainty that he would be the right person for her was that night. Oh, God, she hated to think about that night.
She leaned her head back in her chair and closed her eyes, trying to think of something else, but her mind kept drifting back to the defining moment for her and Wesley. She was young then. She’d just majored in communications at Boston University and headed back west to Los Angeles to try her luck in the film world. She was unable to land a coveted spot in the CAA training program, so she took a position as a “D girl,” or development assistant, in a small production company owned by Dirk Hastings, a big shot director whose last few action movies had made more than a billion dollars combined. It was in theory a glamorous job; she’d meet with writers and wannabe directors all day and listen to pitches and then read scripts all night in an effort to find the next directing vehicle for Dirk. Problem was, Dirk already had his next five films lined up and little to no interest in producing one with a novice director (even though he claimed in every interview that he wanted to “cultivate talent”) so the whole thing was a sham vanity project. He had cool offices in a loftlike space on Sunset, but as one of only three other people working there, Helen was bored out of her mind.
Those were the days, thought Helen. All the possibilities in the world, no obligations. She’d spend her evenings with friends from BU, attending industry parties that their bosses had been invited to but sent them instead, or at crappy “women drink free” happy hours, where they would fill up on two-dollar jalapeño poppers and buffalo wings in an effort to save money on dinner. It was all very carefree, until that one night. That one fatal night. Helen was at a bar on Melrose with a girlfriend—she couldn’t even remember her name years later—letting a rowdy group of Australian guys buy them woo-woo shots, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see an older man, well dressed and with a receding hairline but youthful eyes.
“Hi, Helen,” he said in a British accent.
She had no idea who he was. “Hey, how are you?”
He smiled. “I’m well.” He stared at her and smiled. “Wesley Fairbanks. I met with you last week about possibly directing Fireworks.”
“Of course!” said Helen, still not remembering him at all. He was so nondescript. Had she really had a meeting with him? She would have remembered the accent, wouldn’t she have?
“Well, cheerio,” he said.
“Wait,” she said, feeling bad. “Have a shot with us!”
He was nice. They talked all evening. She wasn’t at all attracted to him, but she was impressed by how articulate and intelligent he was. He was not at all like anyone she’d met in Hollywood. He was totally unpretentious, embarrassed a bit to be pounding the pavement looking for work, and he was reserved and well mannered. She knew they were having a pleasant time, but she felt the age abyss between them, and several times during the conversation she felt young and silly. It would never have occurred to her that he looked at her in a romantic sense, and she was surprised when he asked her out.
“Oh! Okay,” she said. She didn’t want to be mean, but she wasn’t really that interested. He was old! She only dated younger guys—really hot guys who looked like Brad Pitt.
“Morton’s? Friday at nine?” he asked.
She had always wanted to go to Morton’s. That sounded so grown up. Enough with going out with friends and taking advantage of the free hors d’oeuvres at happy hour. Hell, yes, she’d go with this guy for a good free meal.
“Sure. But make it ten,” she added. She didn’t want to flush the entire night down the toilet, so she thought she might want to get in some drinks at Trader Vic’s beforehand.
“Okay, well done then,” he said cheerfully.
She wrote it down in her date book and didn’t think about it for the rest of the week.
On Friday, Dirk made one of his rare appearances in the office. He was tall and thin, with bushy dark hair, and had a loud voice that could be heard across any room. Helen was a little intimidated by him. She had heard that he was really mean to the women in his movies, even the famous actresses, always telling them how fat they were and calling their agents to complain that they were ruining the movie due to their obesity, when the truth was they were almost anorexic. It was some sort of a disorder. She had heard he was a woman hater, and it was believable. But he was brilliant, and that was a turn-on. Brilliant and difficult, a little bit crazy but passionate, so of course any woman he came into contact with left him feeling a little bit in love, and Helen was no different. Dirk had never seemed to notice Helen; even though it was such a small office and they had been in several meetings together, she firmly believed that if she ran into him out of context he wouldn’t know who the hell she was. And yet on this particular Friday, Dirk came storming into the office, ranting about the evils of the studio, and stopped short at Helen’s desk.
“What do you think, Helen? Do you think I sho
uld tell the folks at Paramount to go fuck themselves?”
Helen was so surprised that he knew her name that she didn’t even think before she answered the question. “Yes,” she said, nodding.
“That’s what I thought! FUCK MY AGENT! FUCK MY LAWYER! They just want my FUCKING money!” he yelled, stomping into his office. He entered the room and then popped his head out a second later.
“You’re having dinner with me tonight. You probably like sushi, right? Just like mom used to make?”
“I’m Korean, not Japanese, and my mother is a blue-eyed blonde from Orange County who only knew how to pop a TV dinner into the microwave,” said Helen tartly. “But yes, I like sushi.”
He was totally nonplussed. “Great. We’ll leave as soon as we’re done.”
Helen was speechless. She wasn’t sure if she should be offended or unfazed, so she chose to ignore it.
But by the end of the day, when everyone else in the company had left and Dirk still had not emerged from his office, Helen thought that maybe she had misheard him. Had he invited her to dinner? She could see him through the glass door in his office, chatting on the phone, his legs up on his desk, his hand going in and out of a bag of Fritos. The clock ticked past departure hour, and Helen lingered. Finally, she decided to knock on his office door to see if he was ready. He looked up at her and motioned her in, still on the phone.
“Fuck that shithead. Fuck it,” he said into the receiver.
Helen stood at the door, her back pressed against it, and waited. He talked on and on for almost ten minutes, and she started to leave, but then he put his finger up for her to wait. Finally he got off the phone.
“What do you want?” he asked roughly.
“Um, you asked me to dinner,” she said weakly.
The Infidelity Pact Page 8
