Poet’s blouses had been my thing for a long while—silky slips of fabric with my circle of fake diamonds pinned at the cuff of one puffed sleeve. I’d sold a few lines to Neiman Marcus, and a couple others to a boutique, but for the last few years, no one seemed interested. Ditto for the line of trumpet skirts I’d designed last spring. But my real passion was in the even girlier stuff—the halter dresses, the flounced party skirts, the elegant gowns. I wanted to design clothes I would wear myself. But in L. A., would I ever wear those things again? When we walked the beach, I wore a casual skirt and T-shirt. When we went to dinner, most places were much more casual than New York.
Yet as I pulled into the apartment parking lot after meeting Rosita and Victor, I remembered that I did have something to dress up for very soon. The premiere for Declan’s movie, the one he’d filmed with Lauren, was only a few weeks away.
I began to rework a dress I’d designed years ago in preparation for the premiere. Unfortunately, the work didn’t exhaust me as I’d hoped, and sleep continued its elusive hide-and-seek. Insomnia, I learned, is one of the most ghastly of all medical conditions.
People who can sleep through tornadoes, the way I used to, have no capacity to understand this. “You’re a little tired, huh?” they might say. “Well, just get some rest tonight.”
You consider strangling them, but then you would go to prison, and it would be even harder to sleep, so you just give them a patient, bleary-eyed smile.
I was committed to L. A., for Dec’s sake, and yet it was difficult for me to get accustomed to the way the city looked. It was something to do with the constant mix of the ugly and the beautiful: the beige-painted concrete buildings next to the natural loveliness of the palm trees; the homeless man with soiled plastic bags for his pillow, passed out next to a boutique on Third Street Promenade, where girls emerged with their own plastic shopping bags, their eyes lined with kohl, their lips pearly pink.
But surely, I told myself, this was purely American—the way the ugly and the beautiful converge. New York had its own mix, its own ugliness, ugly people. In Manhattan, for instance, there were the bond traders, brash packs of men talking too loudly and smoking cigars (“Cubans!” they told anyone who would listen). In L. A., the traders were replaced by thin-hipped boys in their twenties, smoking French cigarettes, claiming to be movie producers. Produce, production, producers—these words, I’ve decided, are the most vague in the entire English language.
The newness of the city bothered me, too. There were no turn-of-the-century monuments, so few prewar buildings. The city lacked, for me, a certain antiquity of character. It seemed a city without a soul. Or maybe I was losing mine.
Jack Nicholson took me to the bathroom one night.
Dec had come home early from his Scottish-hen job and, sensing that I was restless, he took me to Shutters to have a drink. It was a New England–style hotel with gray shingles and little white balconies overlooking the ocean. Inside, the lobby bar had overstuffed leather couches and chairs surrounding a crackling fireplace.
We sat near the fire and ordered a bottle of wine with a big cheese board. We cuddled and talked, and he made me remember why I was there with him, in that city.
After an hour, I went looking for the ladies’ room and got turned around. I stopped to ask directions from a guy in a sport coat.
“Let me walk you there,” he said in a mischievous and strangely familiar voice.
I glanced at him as he led me down a marble hallway. He looked familiar, too. A second later, I realized who he was. I felt like gushing. He was one of Emmie’s favorite actors, and I debated telling him that. I actually considered the dreaded line he’d heard a million times—I really enjoy your work—but I’d been in L. A. just long enough to know better.
So I did what any good Los Angeleno would do. I pretended not to recognize him.
chapter 10
I didn’t know what to expect of Declan’s first movie premiere, but I knew I liked the sound of…the red carpet.
My gown was a black halter style with the circle pin at the base of a very deep V-neck, which came almost to my waist. Dec looked dashing in the Hugo Boss jacket we’d found for him on sale at Daffy’s. I was a little more dressed up than Dec, but isn’t that usually the case with women? Yet, when we arrived at the theater, I realized I was more dressed up than nearly everyone. Many of the women wore jeans and stilettos. The men were in everything from khakis to tracksuits.
There was indeed a red carpet stretching from the street to the theater’s entrance. The carpet was rather short and thin, and looked somehow plastic, but the theater was ablaze in lights, and there was a buzz from the crowd behind the barricades—reporters, photographers, TV cameramen and a few fans. Hip-hop music pumped from speakers. The rain had stopped for once, and it was balmy under all those lights.
How wonderful it was to hand the car keys to the valet and walk those twenty or so feet, knowing this was Declan’s first big movie. Declan was unrecognizable to most people, and so we moved down the carpet in a leisurely way, answering a few questions from the reporters who were asking everyone the same thing. “How do you feel tonight?” “What do you expect from the movie?” “Was this a tough shoot?” Declan did a great job, though of course there wasn’t much to say. In between the questions, we giggled like two kids who’d crashed a party.
“Who are you wearing?” a reporter asked me (finally!). She shoved a microphone in my face. I could tell she was asking for the sake of asking, because there was no one important around at that moment, but I was thrilled.
“It’s my own,” I said proudly. Declan squeezed me around the waist.
“But who designed it?” the reporter said. She had brassy, blond hair and green eyes that continually swept the place, even as she spoke.
“I did.”
“Oh.” She turned to face me for the first time, then gave my dress a once-over, followed by a nod, as if to say, Not bad. “So you’re like Versace,” she said.
“Well, thank you, but I consider myself more Armani than Versace.”
“Sure,” she said, clearly not understanding the distinction. She looked up at the crowd again, and suddenly her eyes went wide. “Lauren! Hi!” she said.
I glanced over my shoulder to see Lauren Stapleton hovering there. She wore a wrap dress with a splashy Kandinsky print on it and high, high sandals that made her skyscraper presence even more imposing. Her whole sartorial package was perfect—a blend of casual and glamorous.
“Declan,” Lauren said, muscling her way between Dec and me in one fluid movement. “How are you, doll?”
“Fine, Lauren. And you?” Declan said, although I could barely see him. Lauren was towering over me, blocking me from Declan. The cameras flickered wildly as she hugged him. A number of TV cameramen began running. Suddenly, a crowd of reporters and photographers were in front of us, shouting questions.
“Are you two still an item?” one yelled.
“Oh, in some ways, I suppose we’ll always be an item,” Lauren said. She stroked the back of Declan’s hair for an instant, but it was long enough for the photographers to capture it. “This film we made is truly special,” she said, “and it’s going to live in our hearts forever.”
By then, Declan had made his way around Lauren and back to me. I slung a tight arm around his waist, determined not to lose him again.
“Lauren! Declan! Get together for a shot!” one of the photographers called.
Declan leaned toward Lauren but pulled me with him, so that the three of us squashed together. The cameras flashed like crazy. When they were done, Lauren seemed to notice me for the first time.
She gave me an annoyed glance, and without offering her hand said, “I’m Lauren Stapleton.”
“Kyra Felis. We met in Vegas.”
“Oh. Is that right?”
“I was with Bobby Minter.”
“Ah. Bobby. Sure.” She looked from me to Declan and back. “And you two…”
“Kyra�
�s moved to L. A. now,” Declan said, pulling me even closer to him.
“How nice,” Lauren said. “And did I hear you say something about how you’d designed your dress?” She looked down at my hem, then her eyes moved painstakingly slowly up my body.
“That’s right.”
“Yes,” Lauren said, dropping her voice so the reporters couldn’t hear. “I thought it looked homemade.”
She kissed Declan on the mouth before either of us could respond. A flood of flashes went off and when the white disappeared from my eyes, Lauren was gone, too.
“How could you let her do that?” I said to Declan as we took our seats.
“Christ, she’s unhinged,” he said. “I didn’t even see it coming. Sorry, love.”
I stewed over Lauren’s “homemade” comment throughout the entire film. Luckily, I could honestly say that her acting was wooden and one-dimensional. This wasn’t her usual romantic comedy, but a drama about a CIA agent (Lauren) who chases a nuclear device that has fallen into the hands of a terrorist organization. Without the pratfalls and the goofy dialogue that usually filled her movies, Lauren seemed out of her element. Declan, on the other hand, who had a smaller part as her CIA handler, was outstanding. This was the first time I’d seen him in a movie, and to my mind, he was clearly the best actor in the film. You felt the pain of his unrequited love for his agent but his devotion to his country. When his character committed suicide toward the end, I blinked away a tear and squeezed his hand.
After the movie, we went to a party given by Lauren’s manager at his home in the Hollywood Hills. The party was held alongside a monstrous pool, which had a ring of tall silver candelabra surrounding it and a marble, cherub-ridden fountain in the middle. The effect was overdone but eye-catching—two adjectives that often go together in L. A.
I made the rounds with Declan. Later, at such a party, I would have noted precisely who was there, who wasn’t. I would have noticed the producer who was considering Declan for a part and the actor he was up against. I would have wondered why Declan’s manager was talking to that director. But I knew no one at this party, and Declan didn’t even have a manager yet.
The topic of every conversation was how great the film was, how well it was sure to do at the box office. The mood was decidedly self-congratulatory. Whether this was a defense mechanism because the movie wasn’t particularly fabulous, or whether these people truly believed it, I couldn’t tell. I had just slipped away and ordered a dirty martini from the bartender, when I saw Bobby step through the sliding doors onto the patio. He looked handsome in tan linen pants and a black sweater that set off his black curls. He scanned the room, no doubt trying to decide who he should talk to, who he could ignore. When he spotted me, he smiled and headed for the bar.
I ordered another martini, and Bobby and I huddled together.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “I couldn’t make it to the premiere, but I have to pretend I was there.”
“Why?”
“Because I represent the guy who played the Russian general who helped the terrorists.”
“The one with the cleft chin?”
“Right.”
“He looks more Italian than Russian,” I said.
“He is Italian. How was he?”
“Not bad.”
“But not good, either?”
“Definitely not.”
Bobby sighed. “And the movie?”
“Well…” I said, trailing off.
“Did it suck?” Bobby said.
“Pretty much.”
Another sigh. “What about Lauren?”
“Oh, she really sucked,” I said with relish.
Bobby took a sip of martini and glanced at me over the wide rim. “Do I detect a catfight?”
“No, I just think she’s a bitch.”
“Of course she is.”
Bobby and I went on gossiping like that for the next ten minutes. I’ve read books that say gossip is destructive and dangerous. I don’t doubt this is true, but there’s no denying the pleasure of a good, mean chat with a friend. When Declan found us, we were on our second martinis and laughing about Bobby’s Italian client whose next role was as a Polish prince turned deli owner.
Declan and Bobby shook hands. “Can I steal her for a second?” Declan said.
“Sure,” Bobby said. “I’ve got to make the rounds.”
When Bobby was gone, Declan led me by the hand down the length of the pool and through a small opening in the tall hedges that surrounded the property. The foliage back there was thick and untamed.
“Where are we going?” I said. “My shoes can’t handle this.” I was trying hard to lift the hem of my gown and walk on tiptoe so my heels wouldn’t sink into the earth.
“Just a little farther,” Declan said.
I held tight to his hand, ducking under low-hanging trees and stepping over rocks. We climbed upward through a rough-cut path.
When Declan stopped, I straightened and looked around. “Oh, my gosh.”
We were standing at what must have been one of the highest points in Los Angeles, the sparkly orange lights of the city below.
“Now don’t say anything,” Declan said, “or I won’t be able to finish.”
And then he was on one knee in the dirt, fishing a velvety nugget of a box from his pocket.
The fresh air swirled around me at that moment. The lights of the city sparkled brighter.
“What are you—” I started to say.
“Please, love,” Declan said. “I have to get this out.”
He opened the black velvet box, and I gasped. Inside was a small, round diamond set high above a platinum band that was studded with tinier diamonds. It was exactly like the one my mother had worn, the one that had been buried with her, the one I used to study in photos and wish I’d had.
“How did you…?” I said.
“Emmie helped me. Now, let me talk.”
Declan held the box higher and looked up at me. “Kyra. My mother always says you can’t plan love. Jesus knows, that’s true of she and my da.” He shook his head. “What I’m trying to say is that I never even prayed for someone like you, because I didn’t think you existed. But if I could have written a script for myself, it would have starred a woman just like yourself—someone smart and sweet and heartbreakingly gorgeous; someone who eats peanuts and pickles for breakfast and likes to put on a dress to go to the shops…”
I laughed.
“I would have scripted someone,” he continued, “who would put up with a daft eejit like me.” He paused, looked down. He took a deep breath. “We haven’t known each other for years, Kyra Felis, but I know I want to spend every second, of every minute, of the rest of my years with you. Will you marry me?”
The air swirled again. I felt my hair caress my neck. I blinked and gazed at Declan, at that perfect ring. Time seemed to swoop away, as if years had passed, but then I was back again, here with Declan still on his knee.
“Love?” he said.
“Of course I’ll marry you!”
He put the ring on my trembling finger, and then I tackled him with a hug.
After we’d brushed the dirt off ourselves and hugged again for what seemed like thirty minutes, we made our way back to the party. I could barely believe what had just happened. I kept slipping on the path, because I couldn’t stop looking at my ring.
When we reached the hedges and ducked under them to the pool, the party was even more crowded. Declan’s agent, Max, hurried up to us.
Max was a diminutive, blond-haired, bearded man, who seemed to burn calories just by moving at such a fast pace. He wasn’t one of the well-known agents in town, but from what I could tell, he honestly liked Declan and worked his butt off to find him parts.
“So, so?” he said, smiling.
Declan nodded.
“Yeah?” Max said. “Congrats, you two!” He embraced me and turned to the crowd. “I have an announcement!” he yelled, tapping his wineglass with a spoon.
I looked at Declan and opened my eyes wide. He had barely just put the ring on my finger and already we were making announcements?
Declan whispered in my ear, “Sorry, but I needed his help to find that spot up there. Let Max have his moment, then we’ll get out of here.” He put his arm around my shoulders.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Max shouted, still clinking his glass. “Your attention!”
Soon, everyone was facing us, the sounds of the party dying away.
“Listen up,” Max said. “Declan McKenna, who played the part of Frank in tonight’s wonderful film, has done something even more wonderful. He has just asked his girlfriend, Kyra, to marry him!” Max gestured to us with a swoop of his arm. “Let’s give them our congrats!”
The room burst into applause, and I felt a warmth I hadn’t known since the sun left the city a few weeks before.
chapter 11
The next day, the sun really did come out. Maybe my mood had willed the clouds away. Suddenly, I had so much to do—a wedding to plan, a dress to design—and every day I awoke with a sense of purpose.
We didn’t want to wait long to have the wedding, we decided. All we wanted was a small, simple affair with a few key friends and family. It would have to be somewhere in California, because Manhattan would be entirely too expensive.
Margaux screamed when I called her and said that of course she’d come out whenever I wanted her there. “God, you move fast,” she said.
“I know, I know, but don’t give me crap. I’m one hundred percent about Declan.”
“Nope. No crap. Just don’t make me wear a teal taffeta gown.”
“You got it. So what’s the news from there? I miss Manhattan.”
“Ugh, don’t. It’s dirty and it’s loud, and well…I do have some news of my own.”
“What? What?” I said excitedly. I missed my talks with Margaux. “You didn’t sleep with the massage therapist, did you?”
The Year of Living Famously Page 7
