Who am I to risk forever?
The next morning I wake up in Pari’s arms. My face is pressed against her shoulder, and I have one hand on the breast nearest me. It’s like I’ve found my new favorite toy and have no intention of letting go. But she’s got one arm looped around my shoulders and the other on my wrist. Our legs are twined together. She’s in this with me.
After sleep has fled me, but before I open my eyes, I wonder what we look like. I’d kill for a picture of us right now, all wound together and happy. My pale gold against her brown. Our hair is a study in contrasts, with her dark jet and my blonde.
Where’s an intrusive drone when you really need one?
I crack a single eye open and peek up at Pari. She seems still sacked out. I’m not too surprised.
Still, I slip out of bed. I do it slowly and carefully, as if I’m a James Bond girl trying to escape the film alive. It hurts to have to do it, but I’m operating on an instinctual level. I need a break from the up and down that was yesterday.
Luckily, my emergency gym bag is still packed. It’s not the one I use every day, because I don’t love the way the strap cuts into my shoulder when I carry it and because it doesn’t have a separate pocket I can zip my dirty workout clothes into. I’m particular.
I get dressed in the dark and slip out the door so silently that Pari never moves. But the light in the hallway is still on, and a wedge of gold lays itself across her. I pause to look. As I watch, she rolls to her side, and one hand slips across the empty sheets where I just was. Maybe she’s looking for me.
I could crawl back into bed. Twist myself around her. Now I probably have that right, considering everything we’ve done over the past twenty-four hours. Pari would never notice I had left the bed.
Even better, maybe she would wake and I could kiss her shoulder in the way she likes. Things could proceed from there.
I shut the door behind myself. Because I’m apparently a fan of self-denial? Or self-torture, maybe, because the entire way to the gym, I’m thinking about how soft Pari’s bed is and how good she smells and the way she kisses me when she’s in the middle of an orgasm.
Walking into the glaring fluorescent lights of my gym gets me centered. Cindy, the countergirl, is folding towels.
“Hi, Rachel. You’re here early.” She’s bleary-eyed still, even though she has her hair in her usual ultrahigh ponytail and her standard neon workout clothes on.
“Am I?” I guess so, because the clock above her head says two minutes past 4:30 a.m. So I lie, because that’s what I do when countergirls make me feel uncomfortable, apparently. “I have an appointment in Los Feliz this morning.”
She pulls a face. “Ugh. I hate driving the Five. I never leave Orange County if I can help it.”
I let that go. It’s not my business if she’s batshit crazy. “Gotta go where the work calls.”
“Yeah, totally.” She smiles and we go our separate ways, pretending we’re friends.
I suppose we’re a certain kind of friends, kinda like Rhonda, who I wave to as I pass the mountain climber. She nods in return because she can’t—or won’t—let go of the handles.
I set up on the treadmill, but I don’t push it too far. Just a steady 7.5 miles per hour that lets me settle into the sweet spot, where my head clears out and the world goes far away. I have music in my earbuds, but even that becomes part of the background. The world turns into a hum that I don’t have to think about.
I run until I realize that the treadmills around me are starting to fill up with the prework crowd. I give up my machine to a middle-aged brunette lurking nearby.
As I stand there trying to get my air back, swiping my neck with the rough, bleach-scented gym towel, I eye up every single person in front of me. Most of them are in pretty decent shape, since this tends to be a no-frills sort of joint.
But not a single one of them looks actually attractive to me. Maybe that would change? If I knew them and they were nice to me. Maybe it would help if their mothers were charming and quietly supportive, reminding me gentleness still exists in this world.
I find space on the TRX apparatus and do balanced shoulder presses and assisted squats until I feel calm again. It takes a while. The trembling burn in my muscles takes longer to get lately. I hope it means I’ll look good in my wedding dress.
I make my way to the office by nine thirty, clutching a Very Large Cup of Coffee, as my favorite little place calls it. I also have a box with scrambled egg whites Florentine, even though I had to stop at the cafe down the block to get those. The coffee shop has a whole-wheat breakfast burrito that I eat sometimes, but I’m trying to avoid cheese for the week before the wedding. The skim milk in my coffee is probably more dairy than I should have.
I drop all my stuff on my cluttered desk and have barely gotten two sips of the coffee before Julian appears in my doorway. He’s tall and incredibly skinny. It’s a good thing that he’s never had any desire to be in front of the camera: it would make him look like a walking skeleton. Otherwise, he’s pretty decent looking. His hair is sprinkled with white and usually just a little too long, hanging around his eyes. He looks like he could be the cousin of Antonio Banderas or something.
“I need you in the conference room.”
“Good morning to you too.” I plaster a smile on my face. “Yeah, I had a great weekend. Thanks for asking.”
“Richard is on speakerphone.”
“What the fuck? He never gets up before noon.”
“It’s five in London.” He makes a tipping-the-bottle motion. “And it’s been five o’clock somewhere longer than that.”
“Shit,” I mutter as I leave my desk and head for the conference room.
The table is huge—almost too big for the room. But Julian acquired it from a friend of a friend whose music studio hit the rocks. So it’s not only giant, it’s painted rocker red. I love it, the beast. But even as I step into the room, I can hear Richard’s voice coming from the speakerphone in the middle. He sounds tinny, and I’m not sure if it’s the result of the booze or the distance to the UK or my annoyance with him.
I slide right onto the table, sitting cross-legged in the middle, next to the triangular speakerphone. “Richard?”
“Rachel?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?”
“London. I told Julian.” His exasperation is clear despite the slushing of his words.
“In a pub? In a hotel room?” I run my hands through my hair and tug. Hard. “You’re not at Angela’s house, are you?”
There’s a pause that’s entirely too long. I could recite an entire soliloquy in the time it takes Richard to piece his lie together. “I am, but it’s not the same thing.”
“That woman is poison for you.” I shut down on the rest of my words. My hands ball into fists, and I scrub them against my eyes only to remember too late that I’m actually wearing mascara.
“We’re being friends. Friendly. There’re other people here too.”
Richard and Angela are the epitome of on-again, off-again. She’s had her own battles with substance abuse, but her biggest problem is her addiction to love. You’d think as an international star she’d have her fill of attention and adoration, but she never seems to get enough. She bounces mostly from man to man, but there have been rumors of coke-fueled orgies at her château in France.
So frankly the suggestion that there might be other people at her London town house is not a help. Odds are high at least one of them is a current paramour and she’d invited Rick to play the jealous fool for the group. “I’m going to send a taxi to get you.”
“Rachel, no.”
“Yes. And expect a call from your sponsor within the next ten minutes. If you don’t answer your phone, my next call will be to a security firm we have on retainer.” I’m bluffing, but he doesn’t have to know that. I’ll figure out someone to call. The fact that my production company is too poor to have a firm on retainer isn’t going to stop me. “They’ll haul you directly to
The Kusnacht before you’re even sober. Or I’ll let them put you on a plane back to the States, and you can go to The Dunes.”
He’s crying. I can hear it. I hold my breath long enough that my ears start to whine. I don’t want to miss any hint of acceptance. “Rick, you need to read the latest pages. The treatment doc is done with them, and man, they sing. You’re gonna shine. But you can act your ass off and no one will fucking touch you if you’re not sober.”
“Hollywood isn’t what it used to be.”
I know this. I don’t know if I’m grateful for it. “You can be on top again.”
“Call the taxi. Get me to The Dunes. Call Phil.” Phillip is Rick’s longtime assistant. I wonder where he is. He’ll be beside himself that all this happened on his watch. “The Alps are cold. I don’t want to be in the snow when I’m drying out.”
“It’s summer. I doubt there’s actual snow.” I make a “gimme” hand at Julian, and he gives me a tablet. It only takes a few swipes before I have a private car headed Richard’s way.
“Upstate New York sounds nice.” Rick sounds so weary; I want to cry with him.
“Promise me you’ll tell them about Angela when you’re in therapy.”
“She was the love of my life.” I hear an echoing knock in the background, and I wonder where he is. In a bathroom somewhere, with the door locked and his iPhone pressed to his ear? Richard is still a good-looking guy. He’s gone stark white, but it works on him. “I’m not going to have another Angela.”
“Your car is three minutes away. I want you to stand up and walk out of the house. Never put the phone down. Do not answer anyone who’s there. Just listen to the sound of my voice.”
“Okay.” He scrambles around, probably standing up. “Okay, I’m listening.”
And now I have to figure out what to say. Just fucking lovely. Panic sends my heart into my throat. I throw a look of terror at Julian, but he lifts his shoulders and spreads his hands wide.
I swallow. “Here’s the brutal, honest truth, Rick. You will never, ever have another Angela. That’s true.”
He makes a noise like he’s been punched in the stomach. I hear a woman’s voice in the background.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes,” he says, all the rawness of his life in one word.
“Someday, you will be incredibly thankful there’s no Angela. Because you’ll find someone else. Someone who’s good to you, and good for you, and makes you realize that you’re not a shitty person.” I don’t know what I’m talking about, but at the same time, I can’t see anything but the memory of Pari’s eyes as she rose above me last night. When she was soft with coming and making me feel just as worshipped. “You’re okay. You’re a good human, a really good person, Richard. You deserve to be loved by someone who loves you back.”
He comes really, really close to saying no. I can feel his negativity through the silent line. A woman speaks in the background. Is Angela right there? God, it’s got to be breaking his heart if she is. “Promise me?”
“I do. Everyone deserves it. You, especially, Richard. Why did you call here?”
“Because I knew you’d talk me down.” His voice is rough. “Because I knew you’d help me go. Forever.”
He’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Angela. Tears are slipping down my cheeks. “She might have loved what you guys used to have, but she doesn’t love you now. Real love doesn’t hurt. It only ever feels good. Richard, it feels safe.”
“I can’t wait to feel that.”
“You will.” I swallow. “You will.”
“The car is here. I’m going to go.”
He wants to get off the phone so he can mourn in the privacy of the closed-off car. I haven’t known him long, but I know him well enough to be able to guess. Probably because it’s the same thing I’d do in his situation.
“Julian has Phil on the other line. I’m booking a ticket for you right now. Staff from The Dunes will be waiting for you at JFK.”
“Thanks.”
“Richard?”
“Yeah?”
“Good luck. I’ll buy you a coffee when you’re out.”
I have a couple more calls to make, but by the time I’ve run through them all, I think everything is in place. The next flight isn’t for about three hours, which is potentially enough time for him to get in trouble at the airport lounge. But Phil thinks he can get a nurse he knows there in time. And the nurse is an ex-Marine, so bonus points for not letting Richard slip away.
Eventually I fall backward on the conference table. I throw my arms out to the sides, but the table’s so big that I can’t feel the edge. “Jesus, Mary, and Christ.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” Julian sketches a cross over himself. “It’s only with His mercy that we made it through this.”
Sure, if God’s mercy meant me pouring my soul out for a has-been, could-be-once-again actor’s emotional exorcism. “I still don’t get why he’d call here. Call me.”
Julian puts his big hand on my forehead and turns my face toward him. “You don’t?”
He’s looking at me in a way that says he’s being Intent Julian.
“I’m so exhausted,” I say. I look up at the ceiling and then close my eyes. “I was up late, and then my day started early, and then I went to the gym. Can’t you just say it?”
“He sees a kindred spirit in you, Rachel.”
“I’ve been out of rehab for more than three years. I don’t restrict. I eat healthy.” My omelet this morning had been double egg whites and double spinach. He’s so full of shit.
But he kind of shrugs in a way that shows he doesn’t care about whatever I’m saying. “I guess we’ve got a bit of a break for the next few weeks. You can double your honeymoon if you want.”
“Thanks,” I say weakly. Naturally I hadn’t meant to take a honeymoon vacation at all when this started. But Julian was shocked when I told him so. I used the pressure of Rick’s movie as a counter. Then Niharika showed up with her buckets of expectations. It was all we could do to keep her from booking us a trip to Cozumel.
Now though? Now the idea of two weeks hanging out with Pari sounds amazing.
“I’m promoting you to line producer for Richard’s film.”
I’m with it enough to crack open one eye. “I want a raise.”
He names a figure that isn’t huge, but it’s enough to cut a few months off my loans. Everything comes back to those stupid loans eventually.
“You’re going to end up owning this joint with me, kid.”
“Owning a second-rate production company with financing more precarious than certain small nations. Be still, my heart.” Except my heart actually is fluttering, and not in an I’m so excited, I can’t stand it way. It’s something else. All the stress of the last hour, maybe. I press a hand flat over my sternum, but that seems to make it worse.
“You could do worse in this town,” Julian replies. He’s watching me; I can feel it. I sit up and tug down the hem of my shirt. “If you feel like sticking around.”
The mehndi party is held at Aishwarya’s house in Calabasas the day before the wedding. Nikki and I drive up together, and it takes close to three hours to get there in midmorning traffic. Nikki is slack-jawed when we pull up to the security gate and have to be checked against a guest list.
“Isn’t this where Katie Holmes and Suri live?”
I shake my head as I navigate my beat-up Civic down streets designed with exactly enough curve to be casual and relaxed. Which seems like an oxymoron. “No, they’re like a mile away. In the fancier neighborhood.”
“Jesus Christ,” Nikki mutters. “I’d hate to go in that one. I’m already feeling out of place.”
I know what she means. The streets are lined with houses that swallow up their small tracts of land. They are all carefully European looking, with dark wood front doors and pitched roofs, as if Calabasas has ever even heard of snow.
The address we pull up to is more of the same. Th
e front walk is outlined with delicate blossoms and hearty greenery. I wonder how much water must have cost them during last year’s drought.
A valet in a gray vest is waiting for us at the curb, complete with a podium and key box. I trade my keys for a ticket, and Nikki and I grab our purses from the back seat. As quickly as a wraith, he disappears with my car. I stare after my taillights, wondering where he’s taking it, but that’s not really the point. A valet at a daytime house party is the point.
My toes and fingertips tingle as Nikki and I walk up the cobblestone front walk. Pari is doing okay for herself, but she’s certainly not rich.
Her family? Rich.
“Just think, you’re marrying into this tomorrow.” Nikki bends down to sniff a flower. “These are heritage blooms, I think. They smell different than the new stuff.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not marrying this. Being a house and therefore an inanimate object aside, this is Aishwarya’s house. Not even Pari’s mom.”
“I wonder what her house in India looks like.”
I hadn’t even thought about it. Somehow I’d decided that it would be incredibly comfortable, but that was probably more to do with my opinion of Niharika. And rugs. There would be lots of pretty rugs. Probably my cultural ignorance.
The last few days have been absolutely insane. Pari’s family has been arriving in droves. Niharika has been quite strategic, deploying me to drive only the family members she believes will be friendly and open with me. She’s chosen well so far. Everyone I’ve ferried to various hotel rooms has been incredibly sweet and kind. Pari’s dad, Sadashiv, came in the day before. He was cool but polite.
All in all, I consider it a win so far.
I give myself a last-minute tidy up at the front door. I’ve worn comfy capris on Pari’s advice. They’re loose linen with wide legs, because maybe that would get me fewer “you’re so skinny” comments from Pari’s family. I’m wearing a gauzy blouse layered over a tank top for the same reason.
Nikki squeezes my arm. “It’s gonna be great. You’re a star.”
“A star?”
Far From Home Page 15
