by Dyan Sheldon
Jack stands up as she enters the room. “Paloma, my dear, please have a seat.” He gestures to the chair across from his.
Her mother is on the sofa, looking as comfortable as someone waiting for the results of an X-ray and expecting bad news. She doesn’t stand up and greet Paloma warmly, but she smiles in her straight-from-the-fridge way. Paloma doesn’t smile back. Eat gravel, you old witch. Either Arthur wasn’t invited to this meeting, or he has something more important to do.
Jack, instead of attacking her like some people did, is full of sympathy. “I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal.” His voice is like a lullaby. “What a terrible thing to have happen to you. Imagine anyone thinking you – you of all people – would be involved in petty theft with lowlife scum like that. I can’t tell you how shocked I was. The Police Commissioner has already heard about this.”
Paloma directs a laser-sharp glare at her mother, then turns her crumpling face back to him. “It was terrible, Jack. Really terrible.” Her lower lip trembles. “The way they treated me…” She doesn’t so much sit down as collapse into the armchair. “It wasn’t even human.” Several large, perfectly formed tears slide down her cheek. “I didn’t know what to do. I felt so—so awesomely alone. I thought they were going to put me in jail.” A sob lets loose a few more tears. “Nobody even wanted to listen to me.” Her head is bowed, her shoulders shake. “They acted like I was some homeless person or something.”
That would be a homeless person who wasn’t arrested but was asked for her autograph.
This is also a scene that Paloma has played before, but although no stranger to it, Jack Silk says, “Don’t upset yourself, darling, it’s all over now.” He sits down, mindful of the crease in his trousers. “There won’t be anything in the press, and the studio knows nothing about the incident.” His smile is so warm that Paloma, carefully wiping the tears from her eyes, believes he’s actually patted her hand. “And I’ll see what I can do about the YouTube clip. With a little luck, no one will believe that’s really you. So we can all put it behind us and carry on as if the whole dreadful misunderstanding never happened.”
“Thank you,” says Paloma – which might surprise the many people in Los Angeles who think those are two words of which Paloma Rose has never heard. She glances at her mother again. “So is that it? Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No… no… Not quite. I—We—” Jack gestures to Leone. “We have something important we need to discuss. Together.”
Paloma automatically hugs herself. “About me?”
“Not entirely.” Jack leans slightly forward, serious and earnest. But also kind. So very, very kind. “I’m afraid that Audrey’s been in a rather serious automobile accident.”
“Audrey?” Audrey Hepplewhite plays Paloma’s mother in Angel in the House, but it takes Paloma a second to identify her. She never thinks of her as Audrey. She thinks of her as Lard Ass, or, on good days, The Hepple. Though not now, of course. “Oh, Poor Audrey, that’s awful. Is she OK?”
Jack sighs. Heavy is the heart that bears bad news. “The doctors are hopeful that she’ll make a full recovery, but right now she’s in a coma and it’s still pretty touch and go.”
“Oh gosh… Poor Audrey…” Real distress suddenly makes an appearance on Paloma’s face. She isn’t acting any more. As little as she likes Audrey Hepplewhite – she’s almost as much of a control freak as Leone – her character is central to most of the plots. “Then the show—”
“Is going to miss a season,” finishes Jack. He makes an empty-handed, what-can-you-do-against-the-forces-of-Fate gesture.
You may remember that only yesterday Paloma said that she didn’t care if she was replaced as Faith Cross, so you might think this news wouldn’t exactly ruin her week. But you’d be wrong. Yet another classic example of how inconsistent human behaviour can be.
“But can’t they just kill her off?” Though quite a few people consider Paloma to be dimmer than a one-watt bulb, she is more than capable of quick and logical thinking when she needs to be. “Couldn’t she have a car crash in the show?”
“I’m afraid not,” says Jack. “It’s too late to write her out, especially with—” He was about to say “especially with Seth gone”, but thinks better of mentioning Seth Drachman, sensing that that road probably leads directly to hell. “Especially because she’s such a popular character. And, of course, everyone does hope that she’ll recover.”
“Well so do I,” Paloma lies. “But what about me? What am I supposed to do while she’s getting better?”
“That’s the other thing we want to talk to you about,” says Jack.
And he explains how worried he and her parents are about her. How guilty they feel. How their hearts have been wrenched with anxiety by what happened with the police. She’s been working too hard; they’ve expected too much of her. Recent events have shown them how much Paloma needs a break. Needs a change of scene; a change of people. Needs a rest. Needs to have a good time. She’s a teenager, not a robot. “We haven’t been paying attention,” says Jack. “You work so hard that you have no friends. No real time to relax and be a kid. When do you have any fun?”
This is not a hard question to answer. Paloma never has any fun. She never has a good time. That’s all she wanted, hanging out with Micah and his friends. And what happened? She almost went to jail. How totally, epically unfair is that? Everything Jack says is so true – so exactly how Paloma feels – that her face sags with self-pity. Her mouth wobbles as if it’s made of jelly. “That’s right,” she murmurs. “I don’t ever have a good time. I’m practically a slave.”
Jack Silk might think that he’s never heard of any slave who lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills, but what he says is, “Exactly, darling. We couldn’t agree with you more. We’ve been inexcusably insensitive. We forgot that you’re not a machine, you’re a lovely young woman who needs to enjoy herself. That’s why we think you should take this opportunity to do something for yourself. To have a real vacation. A vacation with peers.”
Paloma frowns. “You mean like on a beach?”
“No, sweetheart.” Jack chuckles. “Not piers like on the sea. Peers like kids your own age and background.”
It sounds just a little too good to be true. “I don’t know…” Paloma’s wondering what the catch is. “What about her?” She looks over at her mother, the seeping, pus-filled blister on the foot of her life.
“This is just for you,” Jack assures her. “Nobody but you. You’ll be completely on your own, free as a bird. Your mom stays here.”
Jack Silk, who, he says, couldn’t care more about Paloma if she were his own flesh and blood, has found a wonderful dude ranch that caters to special teenagers. Girls and boys who can’t just hang out at the mall or go to the school dance like everybody else. It’s completely private. No reporters. No paparazzi. No fans. Just kids like her who need a little space.
Paloma still isn’t sure. Her mother is obviously for this plan, which automatically makes Paloma against it. “I don’t know if I want to go to a ranch.” She squidges up her nose as though she can smell the horses and cattle. “A ranch doesn’t really sound like a whole lot of fun, Jack. Aren’t they dusty and far away from everything?”
Leone jumps in to say that it isn’t as if Paloma’s going to be attacked by an Apache war party, but gets no further than “It’s not like—” before Jack silences her with a look.
“This isn’t that kind of ranch,” says Jack. “It has everything you can imagine or want.” His smile falls on Paloma like a prairie sun. “To tell you the truth, it’s more like a luxury liner than a ranch. You know, sweetheart, one of those massive cruise ships that are the size of a small city? Only, of course, it doesn’t move. And it’s not on water. But some of those boats have to be seen to be believed.”
And he begins to describe not the ranch but the yacht belonging to a billionaire of his acquaintance. Movie theatres. A bowling alley. Gym. Hot tubs. Squash and tennis cour
ts. Pools. Boutique. Salon. Disco hall. Helicopter pad. A yacht Jack may never visit again if his luck doesn’t turn itself around very quickly.
Paloma, still trying to decide how she feels about this vacation, doesn’t realize that Jack is talking about a super-yacht currently docked in Dubai, but thinks he’s describing the dude ranch. Not a horse or cow is mentioned. Now what she smells are gourmet meals and the exotic herbal mixtures used in the spa and the beauty parlour. By the time Jack has finished, Paloma is so excited you’d think she’d been dreaming of this vacation for most of her life.
Until a less happy thought occurs to her.
“But I can’t go somewhere like that.” Paloma glares at her mother. “She cut up all my credit cards.”
“We’re getting you a new one with a high limit,” promises Jack. “It’s already been ordered.”
Paloma flings herself from her chair to give him a hug.
“I swear to god, Jack,” Leone says later as she walks him to his car, “you could sell a pot of boiling water to a lobster.” She laughs. “And get it to jump in.”
It’s nine-thirty. There is still one lobster without a pot in Jack Silk’s scheme, but he isn’t worried. It’s another interesting point of human behaviour that we tend to judge other people by ourselves. Jack Silk loves money. Because he loves money he believes that there is no one who wouldn’t do anything for it. Oona says she can’t leave her father? Father, schmather, is what Jack thinks. People have killed their fathers for less than he’s offered Oona. And he seems to be right.
He has just turned into his own driveway when his phone starts to play the Triumphal March from Aida.
“Hello?” Her voice is like a jab. “It’s Oona. Oona Ginness. I guess you have a deal.”
Jack Silk smiles into the night.
Splash!
Moving in with the Minnicks
Jack Silk is not a man to leave anything to chance, or to anyone else – not even God – and so he has organized everything. With the smoothness of oil flowing over glass, he convinced Abbot Ginness that it is in his best interests, as well as Oona’s, to go along with Jack’s audacious plan. “The world’s a harsh place, where it’s hard to get a break,” said Jack, with his instinct for voicing other people’s feelings. “When we have a chance to help each other, we should take it.” He seemed to look around not just the apartment but the entire complex of El Paraíso and read Abbot’s whole unhappy history without moving his eyes from Abbot’s face. “That’s a great kid, you have, Mr Ginness. She deserves better. Much, much better. You owe her this.”
And what loving father would argue with that? Certainly not Abbot. It isn’t Oona that he doesn’t care about.
“But I’ll worry about her being so far away,” he admitted. “She’s all I have.”
Jack said that there’s nothing to worry about. He bought Abbot a laptop so he can talk to and see Oona every day. “Besides which, I’ll look after her like she’s my own,” promised Jack. “I’ll protect her with my own life. You have my word.” He had his lawyer draw up a contract guaranteeing payment from him and confidentiality from the Ginnesses. “I’m afraid it’s pretty iron-clad,” said Jack as he watched Abbot and Oona sign the agreement. “You know what these legal beagles are like.” He’s arranged for Maria to visit Abbot every two days to keep an eye on things and do anything he needs done, so that, said Jack, Abbot will hardly know that Oona’s gone.
Jack drives Paloma to the airport himself. He even does her the favour of taking her house keys from her so she doesn’t have to worry about losing them the way she often does; she doesn’t need them, he’ll be picking her up when she comes back, of course. Jack Silk stands waving and smiling as Paloma goes through the gate. Bon voyage, sweetheart. Have a great time!
That very same morning, as Paloma’s plane noses into the clouds, Oona leaves El Paraíso for Paradise Lodge in the cab provided by Jack Silk. Abbot followed her around while she packed. Don’t forget your parka. Don’t forget your vitamins. Make sure you drink plenty of water. “I hope these people are good drivers,” Abbot fretted. “I don’t care what fancy cars they have, that’s not going to save you if they drive like kamikazes on a mission.”
Mrs Figueroa, who thinks that Oona is going to visit an aunt in Minneapolis, gave her an elaborately engraved silver locket that once belonged to Mr Figueroa’s mother for good luck. “So you come back safe,” whispered Mrs Figueroa. Abbot, who knows that Oona is only going across town and will talk to him at least twice a day, cried. “You text me as soon as you get there,” he ordered. “So I know you got there all right.” “I love you, Dad,” said Oona. Abbot said he loves her, too.
It’s a reluctant afternoon, muggy and close. The cab carrying Oona and Harriet slowly climbs the canyon, and eventually turns into a lushly tree-lined road. On the plain down below, the light is blurred and the air almost grey, but up here all is vivid and clear. When they finally come to the Minnicks’ driveway there is a splatter of men with cameras standing around or leaning against their cars. “Somebody pretty famous must live here,” says the cabbie. “Not really,” says Oona, “I think they must have the wrong address.”
Once they stop in front of Paradise Lodge, Oona sits in the cab for a few minutes, Harriet on her lap and her backpack beside her, just looking at her new home. It’s a house from a movie or a magazine. She tightens her hold on Harriet and concentrates on breathing normally. Up until now she’s tried very hard not to think about today. She has kept her thoughts focused on a few weeks from now – when it’s all over and she and Abbot have some money and things finally change for the better. But now, sitting here in the back of the cab, a miniature castle looming in front of her and a posse of paparazzi behind her, all Oona can think of is what happens next. She gives Harriet a hug. So the Minnicks live in a big fancy house and their daughter’s a TV star. So what? They’re still just people. They’re no different from anybody else. Everything’s going to be all right. Harriet’s tail thumps against her arm. It has to be.
“OK, this is it,” the driver says a little more loudly than he did the first two times. “I can’t get the cab no closer than this. She don’t do stairs.”
Oona will have to get out.
“Thanks.” She thrusts a few crumpled bills over the seat.
“Keep it.” He pushes the money away. “It’s all been taken care of.”
Jack Silk thinks of everything.
“Thanks,” she says again, and opens the door. On the flats down below, it smells like a traffic jam; up here, it smells like an expensive perfume counter.
Harriet jumps from the car and Oona follows. But with less enthusiasm.
“You have a nice day, miss!” calls the cabbie.
“You, too.” She stands with her back to the house, watching the cab disappear. What has she done? Not for the first time since she called Jack Silk (and not for the last time, either), Oona wishes that she hadn’t. She should have stayed in the cab and returned home. Contract or no contract, what could they do to her? Sue her? For what? A three-year-old cell phone and a rescue dog?
But Oona, as we know, is a practical person. She did call Jack Silk, and she didn’t stay in the cab.
“Come on, Harriet.” Oona climbs the steps and rings the bell.
The door is opened by a short, dark-haired woman with a dish towel in her hand and the smile of someone waiting to be attacked. She glances from Oona to Harriet to the empty drive behind them “Yes?”
“I’m Oona,” says Oona. “Oona Ginness. Jack Silk sent me.”
“Of course. Of course.” Maria knows about Jack Silk’s scheme – or as much as he felt it was necessary to tell her. If she’d been asked her opinion – which, of course, she wasn’t – she would have said that it, like so much about the Minnicks and the way they live, is ridiculous. Seeing Oona doesn’t make her change her mind. She eyes Harriet in a dubious way. “And that is your little dog?”
“Her name’s Harriet,” says Oona. “Jack Silk said I could
bring her. He said the Minnicks love animals.”
The only animals the Minnicks love are ones you eat.
Maria shrugs. “If Mister Jack says bring her, then of course you bring her.” Now it’s Oona’s backpack that’s receiving the dubious look. “Is that all you have?”
“Uh huh. Jack Silk said not to bring any clothes or anything.” All she packed was underwear, a few old photographs, a comb, a brush, her cat slippers, a toothbrush and a sock doll her mother made for her when she was a baby. “You know, so I can get into being Paloma.”
Maria, who knows what lies in store for Oona in the teen star’s bedroom, might think Jack Silk should have told her to bring a shovel, but all she says is, “Of course. Of course. Come in, come in.” She flutters backwards. “Leave your bag here. Mrs Minnick waits for you.”
Mrs Minnick waits for her in the breakfast nook. Sunlight floods through a wall of windows, making everything shine and the woman at the round table with her jewellery and her tan and her dark blonde hair look as though she’s dusted in gold. A trade paper, an empty coffee cup and a cell phone (gold) are laid out in front of her. Although she’s sitting perfectly still, her eyes on an article about musicals, she gives the impression that she’s chain-smoking cigarettes and tapping her fingers in a restless, impatient way. Oona stops dead in the doorway. She has an urge to run, or at least walk backwards quickly. Leone Minnick often has this effect on people, but in Oona’s case it’s because it never occurred to her that Paloma’s mother might be the woman who was in Ferlinghetti’s with Jack Silk. Lady Make-sure-the-cup’s-clean. The snob with less charm than snot. Apparently Jack Silk doesn’t think of everything, after all. He certainly forgot to mention this.
“You must be Oola!” Leone cries as if she’s never seen Oona before. “I’m Leone Minnick!” As if she might be someone else. “I was so afraid I was going to miss you. I don’t have too much time. Wouldn’t you know that today, of all days, I have a very important lunch?”
