Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

“I’m a very important man.” He looked up, catching her eye. “What?”

  “So you’re refusing to tell me what’s bothering you? It’s only a matter of time before we become an after-school special: you, bottling up resentment and finding solace in your secretary, Lorraine; me, looking for love at the bottom of a bottle.”

  He smirked. “A bottle of what, lightweight? Seltzer?”

  Marjorie climbed onto the bed and crawled over to him. “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I’m gonna sit on you.”

  “With that fat ass?” He looked unconcerned.

  “That’s it!” Marjorie sat squarely on Mac’s stomach, letting her weight fall as heavily as possible. Then she bounced up and down.

  “Holy shit. You’ve lost your mind. You think you’re going to get away with this?” His voice bobbled with her movement. He grabbed her wrists and flipped her easily off him. She managed to climb back on, this time straddling his hips. He grinned. “That’s better.”

  “Let go of my wrists or suffer the consequences,” she warned.

  “Not afraid of you.”

  “You should be.”

  Marjorie leaned down and licked Mac’s left hand. He released her, laughing hard. “You’ve, ha, you’ve lost your mind. Seriously. You just licked me. Are you four?”

  “My wrists are free! I win!”

  Perched on top of him, Marjorie raised triumphant fists toward the ceiling.

  “I think I win.” He smiled up at her.

  “Aw, thanks. Now, you wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I’d rather just stay like this.” He placed his hands on her thighs just below where her shorts ended, his fingers cool against her skin.

  “You want me to lick you again?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Mac!”

  He sighed and propped himself up on his elbows. “Fine. I’m a little … I don’t want to say ‘concerned,’ because he’s no threat—The thing is, I finally have you and it’s as good as, better than I imagined. I never thought I was relationship material, but it seems like maybe I can be.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Definitely. I just don’t like that guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “Your boss. Russ.”

  “Gus.”

  “Whatever. I don’t trust him. You need to be careful.”

  “Okay.” Marjorie shrugged. “But do you know something I don’t? Because he’s a pain in the ass, but basically decent.”

  “That’s what he wants you to think. I know men. He’s that do-gooder type, acting all moral. I don’t like it.”

  “Mac. Don’t take this the wrong way, but could you maybe be … jealous?”

  He frowned. “No. Why the fuck would I be jealous of that douche bag?”

  “Well, he’s not bad-looking and he’s successful and—”

  Mac shot her an impatient look. Seriously?

  Marjorie contained a laugh. “Sorry. No jealousy, then. I promise to be careful. But don’t worry. He’s a nice guy. Unlike you.”

  Mac smiled wickedly. “Yeah, I’m not nice at all. I’m a bad, bad boy. You should punish me.”

  Marjorie dissolved into giggles, collapsing onto him, her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her.

  “I love you,” he mumbled into her neck, his lips a tickle against her skin. “I think you should move in with me.”

  Unsure of how to respond, Marjorie closed her eyes, hung on tight, and hoped that it was enough for now.

  33

  In LA, an ever sparser elder generation reminisces about a long lost era, when no barbed wire and security cameras protected the HOLLYWOOD sign. In those days, the view of Santa Monica’s shore was unobstructed from as far away as 12th Street, and gridlock wasn’t a given.

  Now, traffic is a point of pride. Spread across a bazillion miles, the city has a shared language unhampered by any Tower of Babel. Navigating freeways may be torture, but residents enjoy no greater pleasure than debating the merits of routes.

  Marjorie was unaware of such things. When Gus picked her up in his Prius—a Hollywood staple that revealed little about economic status but much about political affiliations—she assumed traffic was terrible, but they were flying by the city’s standards. They turned from La Tijera onto La Cienega Boulevard, a long, wide thoroughfare that squiggles toward the hills past strip malls, industrial warehouses–cum–hipster galleries, and parkland. As the Clash clipped from the stereo, Marjorie gazed out the window, a dry breeze whipping her face, a pleasant lashing.

  The drive was so nice that she was disappointed when they pulled up to her boutique hotel, the Orlando. Gus pulled her suitcase from the trunk, feigning injury under its weight.

  A uniformed valet guy stepped forward and handed Gus a ticket. “Checking in?”

  Gus nodded and led Marjorie through automatic doors inside. “The hotel isn’t fancy, but it’s nice and central,” he explained. Of course, all Angelenos believe that they live in convenient neighborhoods because they’ve oriented their experience that way. West siders and east siders alike brag about rarely crossing the divide. Gus was no exception. “I live around the corner here on Blackburn, so you won’t need a car. I’m assuming that’s best.”

  At the check-in desk, two attendants were busy helping other guests. “Why would that be best?”

  “I know you New York City kids can’t drive.”

  “I will have you know that I am an excellent driver,” protested Marjorie. “Mostly.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “Well, I haven’t driven that much! I only got my license two years ago.”

  “See? NYC kids.”

  “Is that some kind of Philly snobbery? You’re not proud enough of your cheesesteaks? You have to disparage us?”

  A clerk gestured them over. Soon, Marjorie was upstairs, unpacking her suitcase, while Gus headed home. The room was modest but sweet, with plush white pillows and a small sofa. How luxurious to have space to herself, where unpaid bills, unread books, and unrealized dreams didn’t stain the landscape, with gratis gardenia-scented bath products, and where someone else made the bed and washed the towels.

  She pushed back hazy white curtains and looked out the window. The purple mountains, fuzzy from smog, lazed in the background like a homebody on a well-worn couch, the slighted valley at its back. Quaint buildings on West 3rd Street looked more suited to a small city than this sprawling metropolis, only a few stories tall and housing independent shops: a Magnolia Bakery, a nail salon, pizza joint, travel bookstore, bodega (called “convenience store” here).

  This understated neighborhood bore no relationship to tourist destinations like Rodeo Drive, Universal Studios, or Hollywood Boulevard with its costumed character photo ops and stench of deterioration. En route to the airport in New York, Gus had promised that LA would surprise Marjorie. Suddenly, she felt inclined to believe him. Gazing out toward an uncertain future didn’t make her feel lost. She was like a Jane Austen heroine, awaiting a visitor to render a boring drawing room exciting again. (Maybe Belinda was right about Bath.) She felt the buzz of possibility.

  Marjorie let the curtain fall back. She and Gus would start watching films the next day. How should she occupy herself tonight? She hadn’t contacted her acquaintances here, remembering—with a pang—that Brianne’s e-mail had described her as deranged. She wouldn’t let that ruin her time. She threw her hair into a bun, applied lip gloss, changed into sandals, and went out.

  The air was amazing; July in Los Angeles was quite comfortable. The more torturous heat would come in September, somehow surprising residents year after year. Marjorie wandered past the hotel’s busy restaurant and storefronts before arriving at gourmet market and eatery, Joan’s on Third, LA’s answer to Dean & DeLuca.

  Diners—golden and glowing to Marjorie’s eye—sat outside in aviator sunglasses with small pups tied to their metal chairs. They snacked on Chinese chicken salads, pretending not to assess each arrival’s celebrity status. Women clutc
hed oversized purses and “boyfriend” cardigans, as the weather could shift on a dime. Men wore fitted V-neck T-shirts and gelled faux hawks. Exaggerated hand gestures outed many as actors.

  Marjorie was about to step inside, when a bing! alerted her to a text from Gus. Several bystanders checked their own phones, then visibly deflated.

  Have dinner mtg with fest organizer. Want to join?

  Sure! When?

  Meet at 6? Have to drag you to a pool party first. You’ll get a dose of “LA.”

  Bring it.

  My address: 8431 Blackburn. Need directions?

  No. I can walk around the corner all by myself.

  I knew I hired you for a reason.

  You didn’t hire me. Michael did.

  Later, primped and ready, Marjorie waited outside Gus’s building, a Spanish-style house subdivided into an upper and a lower unit—what Angelenos refer to as a “duplex.” A lone palm tree sprouted from a well-manicured lawn. The walk was lined with white night jasmine, which wafted a smell so sweet at sundown in summer that it reminded passersby of stolen kisses behind barns, cold lake swims, and first loves. A hummingbird zoomed from one bird-of-paradise flower to another, never idle.

  The door swung open and out sauntered Gus, relaxed in his own element. His dark T-shirt, better manicured jeans, and high-tops apparently equaled evening attire.

  “Hey. You found it.”

  “Confirming once again that I’m not mentally challenged.”

  “‘Confirming’ seems like a strong word, but this strengthens your case.”

  Marjorie thought she looked pretty good, bordering on risqué in the cleavage department, but Gus didn’t glance in her direction. Not that she required his affirmation, but he was a straight man, right?

  She sighed. “Nice place.”

  He looked back at his building, as if jogging his memory. “Thanks. The landlord says Charlie Chaplin once lived there.”

  “That’s cool!”

  “Honestly, if Charlie Chaplin lived in all the homes people claim, he would have had to move daily, but yeah.”

  As they walked to Gus’s car past other charming façades, with dogs and cats strategically perched at windows, Marjorie envied the stress-free lives she imagined unfolding inside. (In fact, as they passed, an out-of-work actor received a rejection call from his commercial agent, who was one failed audition from dumping him; a couple argued about the price of their cable package; a hungover personal trainer—late for her next session—wondered why the hell she’d slept with that guy, again.)

  “I think I like LA.”

  Gus smirked. “After all of two hours.”

  “When you know, you know.” Marjorie ducked into the Prius and strapped on her seat belt. “So where are we going?”

  “The Mondrian.”

  “Wait, Skybar?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No way! That’s so classic!”

  “My friend DJs an afternoon party there. I never go, but it’s his birthday, and I swore I’d stop by.”

  Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “You have friends who are DJs?”

  “I’m not a fucking geriatric.” Gus tore his eyes from the road to shoot her a dirty look. “Don’t make me regret bringing you.”

  That shut up Miss Plum.

  Gus pulled into the tall white hotel’s precarious driveway and collected a valet ticket, suggesting the attendant keep the car close as their visit would be short. The sparse lobby was all light woods, sharp angles, and mirrors. Women in heavy makeup wandered through, tight dresses dotted with grommets, Swarovski crystals, and sequins. This was the stuff of Los Angeles’s breast-implanted rep.

  Gus came up behind Marjorie, startling her. He whispered in her ear, “We’re literally staying for ten minutes—one drink. Whichever comes first.” The breath from his lips sent a shiver down her body. Must be chilly in here.

  A door guy checked Gus’s name off a list and let them pass. The party was in full swing. Revelers lounged in cabanas and on chaises around the rectangular pool. Some had stripped down to bikinis and trunks—showing off sculpted arms and abs—and dipped their toes, while sipping cocktails. Most were too busy bopping to trance and ’80s pop remixes to notice, but the view was stunning: West Hollywood seemed to extend forever, the bar on the edge of the world. The sun faded, experiencing its own early evening ennui.

  “I’m going to say hi to my friend, so he knows I showed. You want to come meet him?”

  Marjorie envisioned standing dumbly to the side, while Gus tried to talk to his friend midrecord scratch. “I think I’ll grab a drink.”

  “All right. You’re okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Okay. See you in a sec.”

  Marjorie watched Gus beeline for the DJ booth. She wasn’t the only one: A duo of bleached blondes followed shamelessly with their eyes. Marjorie shook her head and headed for the bar.

  “Can you make a pisco sour?”

  The beefcake bartender grinned. “I can, but I won’t.”

  “Is that—are you’re kidding?”

  “No joke, Mama. We’ve just got the two signature cocktails with this new low-fat liquor.”

  Only then did Marjorie notice the bottles of Snow Lite vodka on display. She would have burst out laughing if she wasn’t about to have to drink the stuff. “What flavors do you have?” Please don’t say “peanut butter.”

  “Wheatgrass or kimchee.”

  Well, that was a stumper. “Whichever’s better.”

  He mixed, then handed her the drink, pumping his head to the music. “Enjoy, Mama!”

  Marjorie wandered to a corner to take a sip, in case she had to spit it out, when a disembodied voice demanded, “Who are you?”

  She turned to discover an early twenty-something, bearing an uncanny resemblance to young Michael Jackson despite short shorts and neon Ray-Ban sunglasses.

  “I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?”

  “Yes. Who did you come with?”

  “Gus.” She pointed to the DJ booth, where her boss laughed with his friend.

  “I don’t know him. Is he a producer?”

  She shook her head. “A distributor.”

  “Oh.” The kid looked disappointed. Marjorie fought an irrational urge to apologize.

  “What do you do?” she asked.

  “I’m an actor, singer, writer/director/producer, hair stylist, makeup artist, T-shirt designer, and faith healer. But right now I’m a canine mobility companion.”

  “Like … a dog walker?”

  He pursed his lips. “I work for a very upscale company called Raise the Woof, so. I took Henrietta Sweet’s bichon frise up Runyon today. No big deal.”

  “I actually don’t know who that is.”

  “OMG. Where have you been? She’s the bad girl on season two of The Waxers of Woodland Hills. The one who freaked in the middle of a Brazilian and made her client leave with only half her pubes removed!”

  Marjorie was not familiar. “For celebrity clients, do you have to go to puppy psychiatrists or animal psychics or whatever?”

  “Only the first dog walker gets to do that. I’m the second assistant, but I’m hoping for a promotion. If my TV pilot doesn’t sell before then.”

  “You wrote a TV pilot?”

  “Not yet, but it’s up here.” He pointed to his egg-shaped cranium. “Melody—that girl by the daybed, the one with the good chin job—practically knows Chris Harrison, the host of The Bachelor. Her cousin serves him every morning at Coffee Bean. Melody thinks she can get herself on the show. That’s instant access.”

  “I’ll say I knew you—actually, I didn’t get your name?”

  “Stardom.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I changed my name to manifest success. What’s yours?”

  “Marjorie.”

  “Oh. You should rethink that.” Stardom examined her face. “You’re very pale. Don’t you spray tan?”

  “No, I live in New York, land of pasty peop
le.”

  “No way! I’m here for my career, but I’m totally a New Yorker at heart.”

  “You visit a lot?”

  “I’ve never been. But I watch tons of Sex and the City reruns with my girlfriend. Actually, I better go find her.”

  “You have a … girlfriend?”

  “Melody. The one with the great chin, remember? We’re in a polyamorous relationship, but Blake is at a v-o audition. Wait! Is that Jeremy Piven? I gotta say hi! I walk his aunt’s poodle. We haven’t met, but we’re practically family. Instagram me! @Stardom4EVA.”

  Marjorie stood slack-jawed, as Gus approached. For once, he seemed like a friendly face. “You ready?” he asked. “Looks like you didn’t even start your drink yet.”

  “I think it’s probably safer if I don’t.”

  Marjorie was grateful to return to what Gus described as “the real LA.” They arrived at an unassuming sushi restaurant, Hama, in Little Tokyo and, despite a substantial number of people waiting, were seated right away. Their “date” had put his name on the waiting list long before.

  “Of course,” murmured an amused Marjorie, as she followed Gus over to a middle-aged man who might have been the Unabomber with his salt-and-pepper beard, misshapen pharmacy sunglasses, and baseball cap.

  “Marjorie, this is Benny Hamish.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He nodded, taking her hand in his warm own.

  As they settled across the table, he tucked a New York Times underneath his chair and frowned at Gus. “This guy doesn’t know squat about economic recovery. He’s a goddamn used-car salesman, a haircut, telling people what they want to hear, swindling them out of their last dollars.”

  Marjorie peered around. What guy? Benny seemed more like an eccentric uncle than a film festival organizer.

  “Mitt? We’ll see if he releases those back taxes, I guess.”

  “Yeah, right!” exclaimed Benny, slamming his fist on the wooden table, causing the soy sauce canister to toggle. “This guy? This guy! He’s never gonna do that. And our guy—he needs to step it up in the debates. Show this overprivileged, ass bag bully what’s what.”

  “Ass bag,” said Marjorie before realizing she’d spoken out loud. Benny peered at her, as she tried to recover: “That’s new for me. I like it. Adding it to my repertoire.”