“Who are the flowers from?”
Eliza whipped around. She hadn’t heard Declan come in. What was he doing home this early?
“Um, a woman on the school committee. Just a thank-you for…um, you know, helping with the silent auction,” she said.
“Nice,” said Declan, walking over to the refrigerator and opening the door. “Except you hate roses.”
She stared at the flowers. She did hate roses. She had forgotten. “Yeah, you’re right. So what are you doing home?”
“Had a meeting in Santa Monica that ended early and wanted to come home and see you guys,” he said, taking a container of leftover pasta salad out of the fridge. “Where are the kids?”
“They’re outside with Juana. I should go check on them.”
“Wait a second. Stay and talk to me. Before the madness enters,” he said, digging through the salad with his fork. He was avoiding peas, she knew it. He hated them. God, they knew everything about each other. She hated this flower, he hated that vegetable. There was so much history. Suddenly she realized that she had been looking at it from the wrong angle. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe discovering someone else, or getting that shivery feeling when you see someone like Tyler wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Because soon you inevitably do learn a person’s idiosyncrasies, and likes and dislikes, and the unfamiliar wears off. And it’s kind of sexy to have someone know you so well and still love you.
“Okay,” she said, turning around. Her husband looked cute in his blue and white striped shirt, blue blazer with gold buttons, and khakis. He pretended he was Mr. Bubble when he gave the kids baths. He called her throughout the day, so many times that it sometimes annoyed her, but he needed to hear her voice and share everything with her. He told her she was the love of his life, often. He wanted to hold her when they slept, even though the hair on his arms tickled her. He said to her, “If I died right now, I’d be happy because I was married to you.” The fluttering heartbeats were all there, just spread out over years.
“Tell me about your day,” said Declan.
•• 26 ••
It is difficult to remember time when you live in Southern California. There are no seasons to break up memories. It is almost always perfect weather: no blizzards, thunderstorms, or hurricanes to frame an event. People go swimming in January. School often runs into July. Existence there is like one giant watercolor, where all of the paint has run and blurred into a smeared colorful jumble, leaving the images indecipherable.
The girls in the pact knew what they wanted to do, but picking the moment was difficult. What day or month would be the day? What would differentiate that day from any other day? They had lives, routines, patterns. Everything was cyclical, continuous. Life was for the most part pleasant, stable. How then, to chose the moments to make your mark? Often you had to wait.
Victoria knew the means and effort that it would take to get rid of Wayne and had enlisted her friend as an abettor, but the timing was becoming a problem. It needed to go down at Wayne’s house. There was no other way she could search for the videotapes. But first he had a friend staying with him and now there was a little construction project on the kitchen, so Wayne was camped out at the Peninsula. She had hoped that everything that was going on would distract him, but he was more demanding and more insistent than ever, and frankly she was terrified. Wayne forced her to show up at events with Justin and then made her sneak off and have sex with him practically in public. Her fear of detection seemed to titillate him no end. She tried to refuse, but he was a bully, and a freak, and would threaten her and even knock on her door some evenings if she had not complied. So far Justin had no clue—thankfully he was never home—but she couldn’t live on the edge like this anymore. Every time the phone rang she jumped, every doorbell ping was like a dagger stabbing her heart. She feared for her children and she feared for herself. The more Wayne threatened to upset her life, the more she loved her life. She could kill herself for getting into this mess.
But now all she had to do was wait. Wayne would be back in his house the weekend before Thanksgiving, and she would make her move. And she would take her revenge on him in a big way. He would pay. He would feel pain. And then he would never be in her life again, all memory of him erased.
On a Saturday morning in October, Victoria had to put all thoughts of her illicit life out of her mind and escort Justin and the boys to a birthday party for the son of a big Hollywood producer. Austin and Hunter, who were only two and a half, had never even met the boy, who was turning five; nor had Victoria ever met the producer or his wife. But that was standard at these events, which were more about adults making connections, exchanging business cards, and checking out competitors’ spouses, than the child who was blowing out his candles. Victoria went to so many of these parties that she kept a closet full of wrapped birthday presents neatly organized by age and sex. If it was a really important child (meaning the parents were really successful), he or she received a gift from the top shelf, which were mostly electronics such as PlayStations. Real friends, the ones that they actually spent time with and knew, received presents from the bottom shelf, which were mostly board games, puzzles, and picture books (although never books about animals acting like humans; those drove Victoria nuts).
“Come on, we’re gonna be late,” Justin bellowed as Victoria finished buttoning Austin’s shirt. Although most of the kids showed up in ragtag outfits to these events, Victoria refused to dress her boys accordingly. If it was a party, they would wear crisp Papa D’Anjou button-down shirts tucked into neatly pressed Ralph Lauren lightweight cords. She was from the East Coast, after all. That is how people dressed. It always amazed her how casual people in Los Angeles were. Most of the adults put their sons in sports outfits, even for special occasions, and there would be wimpy pale boys wearing giant Lakers jerseys and shorts, as if the parents refused to believe their child was incompetent at athletics and thought instead that one day little Preston would surprise us all and play basketball like Kobe Bryant. It was pathetic. And the girls were always clad in animal prints and weird leggings. Animal prints on children? It made Victoria shudder.
The getups on the parents were worse. The mothers still believed they were sixteen, and though Victoria agreed that they all had sensational Pilates figures, she didn’t think that lowrider jeans with lacy pink thongs hanging out every time they bent down (which was as much as possible) was a good look. Her friends back in Greenwich would be appalled. The fathers were no better. At the party they went to the previous Sunday—it was held on the beach, at the club—one father had been wearing a T-shirt that said FORGET THE HORSE, RIDE THE COWGIRL! Victoria had wanted to vomit.
“Come on. I don’t want to be late,” snapped Justin when Victoria walked down the stairs holding Austin’s hand.
“You know, you could have gotten up with the boys and gotten them ready,” said Victoria defensively.
“I was working out,” said Justin, opening the front door and pushing Hunter and Austin outside.
“I would have loved to work out,” sighed Victoria with bitterness. “Unfortunately, there was no time. Someone has to look out for the boys.”
“You’re their mother, Victoria. Why do you resent everything you have to do for them? You act like it’s everyone else’s job. We’re not doing you any favors.”
“Whatever,” said Victoria, snapping Austin into his car seat. She didn’t want to admit it, but Justin was kind of right. She did resent that she had to do everything for her boys. They were so dependent on her. She had to feed them, dress them, get them into schools and the right playgroups. If she didn’t, no one else would. Of course, she had a nanny, but they usually wanted Mommy. And sometimes that just pissed her off. She wanted to relax, read a book, take a vacation. She loved her boys and she wouldn’t trade them for anything, but sometimes it all seemed like too much work. It made her cranky. Like she had permanent PMS.
“Okay, who are these people again?” asked Victoria.
“Russell Novotsky. Big, big producer, on the Paramount lot, just did Drag Race Three, which grossed one hundred and thirty-seven mil domestic, one ten foreign,” said Justin, reciting the box office figures by rote.
“And his wife?”
“Haven’t met her. Know she worked at Oliver Peoples on Sunset, think she’s an Orange County girl. She’s his second wife.”
“Lovely.”
“He wants Tad for his next movie, but Paul Walker’s also up for it, so I need to nail it down today,” said Justin, turning up the air-conditioning. He was always hot, even when it was fifty degrees outside. “Maybe you can make nice with the wife, have lunch or something. The kid goes to Brightwood—couldn’t hurt to make more connections.”
“Right.” It amazed her how much Justin knew about everyone he considered important, even if he barely knew them. He remembered names, birthdays, what schools they went to, what clubs they belonged to. He had some internal spreadsheet in his mind, as if he had swallowed Excel.
The party was in Brentwood, at a large brick Georgian-style mansion with an enormous front lawn, which now had two fire engines plopped on it. Upon further inspection, Victoria could see through the fence that there was also a petting zoo, a SpongeBob jumpy castle, and an In-N-Out burger truck. Fancy. The valet took their car, and Victoria and Justin both took one child’s hand, plastered on fake smiles, and entered the grounds.
“Hi!” said a fake-boobed blonde with a pretty face. “I’m Cindy, Atticus’s mommy!”
“Hey, Cindy. Justin Coleman, my wife, Victoria, my boys, Hunter and Austin,” said Justin smoothly.
“Glad you could make it! Come on in. The present table is over there,” said Cindy, motioning to a large rectangular table that could seat twenty and was now covered in gifts of all shapes and sizes for little Atticus. “And we’ve got a jumpy castle and everything else. You boys can go on a fire truck—we’ve got real firemen here!”
“Great, thank you,” said Victoria. “Where is the birthday boy? We’d love to say happy birthday.”
“He’s over there,” said Cindy, proudly pointing to a thin, pale boy clad in a Dodgers tank top and Adidas sweatpants, riding a pony.
Victoria and Justin moved on toward the attractions, guiding Austin and Hunter onto the fire engine and listening as a real fireman explained how he used his ladder. Justin kept his eyes darting around for someone he knew or had to ass-kiss, but even though there were crowds of people, there were few he recognized.
After sampling the In-N-Out burgers, holding the baby chicks from the petting zoo, and getting cotton candy for the boys, Victoria and Justin both had that odd sensation that they were lingering too long at a party where they knew no one. Justin seemed disappointed; he had assumed it would be more of an A-list crowd. Obviously so had the hosts, because there were three photographers on hand to snap photos. But aside from a few sitcom stars who hadn’t been on a hit show in ages and were reduced to making guest appearances on CBS comedies, it was slim pickings.
“Can we leave?” asked Victoria with a deep sigh.
“In a minute. I just need to say hi to Russell. There’s been a shit-long line of kowtowers all day, it’s been hard to get a second with him,” said Justin, anxiously staring at the host, who was talking with a couple.
“Well, get cracking, please, ’cause I want to go. Go stand in line if you have to,” said Victoria.
She was tired from smiling blankly at strangers and avoiding some of the women who were in her “Tiny Creatures” baby group the previous year. When the twins were a year old, the wife of one of Justin’s golfing buddies had insisted that she join Tiny Creatures, claiming it was the best group on the planet. The class was not the best. It was located in a very comfortable Craftsman cottage in Venice and was led by a woman named Evangeline Brimmer, who was a dour, humorless hippie who was fanatical about breast-feeding children until they were four, cosleeping, vegetarianism, and avoiding discipline at all costs (“because it hurts their little spirits”). The ladies in the group, who were all pretty much trophy wives with giant fake breasts, fake tans, and too much jewelry, all took her word as gospel, nodding profusely at every word of advice Evangeline spouted (“Let little Ava sample the poison detergent herself and she will learn on her own that it is dangerous”). The woman had practically no education, Victoria was certain, and no right to be teaching the class, and yet she charged an exorbitant five thousand dollars for six months and had a two-hundred-person waiting list, or so she claimed. Victoria went to about five classes before bailing, four more than she would have liked, but she felt guilty about the money. Justin didn’t care, but he encouraged her to hang on as long as she could to see if any of the women were married to someone he needed to know for business. Victoria quit before telling him that one of the women was the third wife of the latest studio chief at Fox.
“Be right back,” said Justin, bolting toward Russell as soon as he saw an opening. He didn’t notice that he’d left Hunter hanging off the edge of the fire engine. When it came to business he had a one-track mind.
Victoria watched as Justin greeted Russell, and knew how the whole conversation would go down. Bullshit, business, more bullshit. It was always the same.
“Is he your husband?” a voice behind Victoria asked.
She turned around and saw a very thin brunette who looked like a younger, darker version of Diane Keaton. She was clad in a purple and black floral dress that Victoria knew was from Marni, and held on tightly to the edges of the dark purple cashmere cardigan that she wore over it.
“Yes,” said Victoria.
“You’re married to Justin Coleman?” she asked, skeptical.
“Right. I’m Victoria Rand. And you are?” she asked, holding out her hand. No one in L.A. shook hands, but Victoria refused to acclimate.
“I’m Ruthie Marmon,” she said, shaking Victoria’s hand limply. “I used to be married to Wayne Mercer.”
Victoria felt the blood rush to her face as she carefully maintained eye contact with this woman. She couldn’t read her tone. Did she know about her and Wayne? Or did she just know that Wayne hated Justin? Her mind started to race.
“Nice to meet you,” said Victoria.
“I always wanted to see Justin’s better half,” she said, again her tone neutral. What did that mean? Victoria kept her eyes on Ruthie, but she couldn’t gauge anything from her expression. She didn’t arch an eyebrow or emphasize her words to make “better half” sound bitchy. She spoke flatly, without any inflection.
“Oh.” Victoria laughed nervously. “Why’s that?”
Ruthie lifted her head higher and finally a small smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. “Because he’s such a son of a bitch.”
She said it without venom, as if she had just stated a fact, such as that it was supposed to rain tomorrow.
“Ha ha,” said Victoria, fake laughing. “I guess you could say that about a lot of people in this town. That’s what I heard about Wayne also.”
“I’m sure you heard that,” said Ruthie, her eyes narrowing. She emphasized the “you,” thought Victoria. Didn’t she? “It’s true,” she said, shrugging. “That’s why I divorced him.”
“Oh,” said Victoria.
“But you’re still with him,” said Ruthie.
“With who, Wayne? Don’t be crazy,” said Victoria, her blood pressure rising.
Ruthie gave her a quizzical look. “I mean you’re still with Justin. Are you with Wayne, too?”
“No, no. I didn’t know what you meant.” Shit, shit!
Ruthie stared at her in disbelief. “Right. Well, bye,” she said, turning and walking away as quietly as she had come.
Victoria was shaken. As soon as Justin returned she scooped up the boys, turned in the valet ticket, and gathered them in the car when it came. She didn’t let out a breath until then. Shit, now this Ruthie thinks I’m with Wayne. But what was that whole thing about? How dare she call Justin a son of a bitch! He may be, but who
is she to say something? Unless…
“Do you know Ruthie Marmon, Wayne Mercer’s ex-wife?” she asked, turning to Justin.
A small smile crept across Justin’s face. “God, I haven’t heard that name in a long time. Was she there?”
“Yes. Answer my question.”
“Yeah, I know her.”
“Did you fuck her?” asked Victoria.
“Vic! The boys are in the backseat!”
“Answer me,” hissed Victoria.
“Jesus, yes, but a long time ago, before us.”
“When she was married to Wayne?” asked Victoria.
“Yeah,” said Justin, rubbing the back of his gelled head against the seat. He was obviously relishing the memory.
“You are scum,” said Victoria.
“It was before we were married. What do you want?”
Victoria remained silent the rest of the trip. So maybe Wayne knew who she was all along. Maybe this was all part of his revenge. Congratulations, Victoria. Great job.
•• 27 ••
Since her weekend in Boston, Leelee was a new woman. She had never felt like this before, so euphoric, so complete. She now knew what the phrase “walking on air” meant. She had forgotten how good sex was, and she had forgotten how great Jack was. Every mundane activity became bearable because Leelee knew that it was merely temporary. She and Jack had been talking, he had poured out his soul to her, and he had admitted that he couldn’t continue living his life with Tierney anymore. It was all a lie, anyway. He confessed that they lived entirely separate lives. She was obsessed with going out all the time; there was not a charity ball or store opening that she would miss. She was hell-bent on becoming a fashion and society icon. She was the most superficial, dull, shallow girl he had ever met, and they had absolutely nothing in common. She was blowing through his money on her couture clothes and Verdura jewelry (although it would be hard to “blow through it” considering he had multimillions), and he had had enough. He wanted someone with character, someone who understood him and took care of him. He wanted Leelee.
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