by Dyan Sheldon
“Sit down, sit down.” Ethan takes the seat behind the desk and waves her to the one across from it. “Take a load off your feet.”
Paloma doesn’t sit down. “That’s OK.” She’s not planning to be here that long. “I’m afraid a really bad mistake’s been made, Ethan. Because I’m not supposed to be here. Like I said, I’m supposed to be at this ten-star hotel.” Mistakes like this do happen. Something very similar occurred in an early episode of Angel in the House when two babies were accidentally switched in a hospital because the lights went out for a few minutes. Paloma doesn’t think that the lights went out and caused confusion at Paradise Lodge, but she does think that Jack and Leone thought they’d booked her into an exclusive dude ranch only some underling – probably Jack’s loser secretary with the big nose and the chronic split ends – went to the wrong website and signed her up for Old Ways instead. “So if somebody could just give me a ride back to the airport…”
Ethan Lovejoy leans back in his chair. “Oh there hasn’t been any mistake, Susie. This is sure as shootin’ where you’re supposed to be.” Old Ways, he explains, is a residential rehabilitation centre for problem teenagers. Which seems to be what they think Paloma is, though nobody told her that. Its motto is: Old Morals, New Change. It promises results, and it gives them.
“But I’m not a problem teenager,” protests Paloma. “I’m a TV star.”
Ethan Lovejoy’s smile glides across his face like a hunting owl across the sky. “I think there may be a difference of opinion on that question.”
And whose different opinion would that be? Paloma doesn’t need more than one guess to answer that. She should have known. Like Leone would ever send Paloma away by herself to someplace wonderful. If this really was a celebrity dude ranch Leone would have been in the seat next to her on the plane. And they would definitely have been in First Class.
“This is all my mother’s doing.” Audrey Hepplewhite’s accident must have been as big a blow to Leone as it was to Audrey. Instead of being freed from having to keep an eye on Paloma by the long days of shooting the new season, she was stuck with her for a few more weeks. Which would interfere with Leone’s lunches and her dinners and her I-am-so-great networking. As if Leone actually does anything besides spend Paloma’s money.
“I talked to both your parents, Susie.” This, as it happens, isn’t strictly true. Ethan Lovejoy thinks he did, but in reality he talked to Leone (very briefly) and Jack Silk taking the role of Arthur Minnick (quite a lot). No one likes to burden Arthur with too much information. “We had a very long conversation about you and about Old Ways. It was a decision made by both of them, with my agreement. In the end, they decided that sending you here was the best thing they could do.”
This? This was the best they could do? What, were all the high-security prisons in the world filled up?
“Maybe you all should’ve asked me what I thought,” says Paloma in the flat, tight way that Ethan Lovejoy will soon recognize as the calm before the really bad tornado.
“Let me just ask you something, Susie.” Ethan’s voice is as comforting as a fire on a snowy night. “If your folks had been 100% honest with you, would you have come?”
Does she look stupid?
“But it’s my life! They don’t know what’s best for me. And neither do you. I do!”
“Not necessarily.” Ethan Lovejoy points to a quotation on the wall to his right. This one says: O would some power the gift give us to see ourselves as others see us.
Paloma’s lips squeeze together very tightly as if she’s about to spit out a dart. “And?”
“It means that we’re not always the best judges of what’s good for us and what isn’t.”
“That doesn’t mean somebody else is. You don’t know my mother. She may’ve been all sweet and concerned when you talked to her, but she’d do anything to make me unhappy.”
“I think you’re very wrong about that, Susie.” Ethan shakes his head. The world, his shaking head says, is a world of sorrow and misunderstanding, and the misunderstanding makes everything worse. “Your parents would do anything in their power to make you happy. What they’ve had to do this time is called tough love. And believe you me, it’s a hard thing to have to do, even if it’s the only way. They wrestled with their hearts and asked for guidance before they made this decision. And I give you my word that it saddened them greatly not to level with you, but it would make them so much sadder if you waste this precious life that’s been given to you and don’t grow into the wonderful woman they know you can and want you to be.” He has been holding his palms together but now he opens them as though letting out a secret. “You can’t make an omelette if you don’t break some eggs.”
“I don’t want to make an omelette,” says Paloma.
“But you do want to have a wonderful life, don’t you? And that’s what your parents want. Only a wonderful life doesn’t come without some sacrifices.”
It doesn’t escape Paloma’s notice that she’s the one making the sacrifices.
“Old Ways isn’t a place of hardship,” says Ethan. “It’s a place of genuine opportunity and genuine change.” He points to another sign on the wall behind him, the one about today being the first day of the rest of your life. “Though, naturally, we do have some ground rules.” And he goes on to explain the basic system that governs life at Old Ways Ranch. If you could call it life. If you could call them rules and not weapons of torture. No phones. No personal computers. No iPods. No communication with the outside world, though parents, of course, are kept informed of their child’s progress.
“You what?” interrupts Paloma. “No communication?” Apparently, outer space isn’t the only place where no one can hear you scream. “Isn’t that illegal?”
Ignoring questions of legality, Ethan Lovejoy says, “We find it makes the transition easier.” Though he doesn’t say for whom. “However, we do encourage families to write weekly postcards. To reassure you that they’re thinking of you.”
Not as much as she’ll be thinking of them.
The list of delights at the ranch continues. Up at six a.m., in your room by nine-thirty, lights go out automatically at eleven. Besides classes and therapy sessions and special activities (both individual and group), everyone is expected to take part in the everyday workings on the ranch – caring for the horses and cattle, cooking, cleaning communal spaces, that kind of thing. Not that life here is all about work. They have fun, too. Hikes. Horse rides. There are board games, cards, dominoes, ping-pong, a pool table and a 55" widescreen TV in the common room. They have a library. They have campfire nights where they all sing songs and tell stories. Camping up in the hills and sleeping under the jewelled night-sky, more beautiful than anything made by Tiffany. Team games. Dances. They even have an annual rodeo, though no bucking broncos or steer wrestling, of course.
Well, now, isn’t that good news! She was a little worried she might be expected to ride a bull.
It takes a few seconds for the state of shock brought on by all the images of trekking up mountains and sleeping on the ground with coyotes slobbering over her to pass, but pass it does. “Are you serious?” Paloma’s laugh comes out more as a screech. “You think I’m going to do any of that crap? What do I look like? A Boy Scout?” There is no sign of the wonderful woman the Minnicks know Paloma can be now. “You have got to be kidding. I mean, you really have got to be kidding.” How can anyone be expected to live without the Internet? Without her phone? How can she be expected to cook? Cook what? And what the hell is she supposed to do with a horse?
In his already too-familiar talking-to-celestial-beings voice, Ethan says, “I wouldn’t joke about something as important as your life, Susie. Life is the most precious thing we have. I’m totally serious.”
“But this is supposed to be my vacation!” wails Paloma. “I’m supposed to be having the time of my life!”
“And that’s exactly what you shall have,” Ethan Lovejoy promises her, so calm and unruffled you wouldn�
��t think Paloma was red with rage and screaming loudly enough to be heard back at the airport. “The time of your life. You’ll never be the same again.”
“No, I mean time of my life like in fun. F-u-n. You better think again if you think I’m staying here. On a freaking farm!” Paloma looks around for something to throw, but Ethan Lovejoy’s office is unadorned and neat as an operating theatre. There isn’t anything on the desk – no lamp, no paperweight, no pictures of his family – not so much as a Post-it note. Paloma isn’t the first teenager who has stood in this office and wanted to throw something. “Because I’d rather have leprosy than stay here for more than five minutes. I’m going home!”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Susie. You’ll be here for at least three months. Possibly longer. Six months. Nine. It all depends on you and your personal growth.” His smile is intended to be encouraging, but that isn’t, of course, how Paloma takes it. To her it is the smile of a sadist enjoying someone else’s pain.
“You have to be mental!” Having nothing to throw, she waves her hands in the air. “Completely, totally and two-hundred-percent out of your microscopically tiny mind!”
“I think it’s time for you to calm down,” says Ethan Lovejoy. “Nothing’s achieved by tantrums.”
Which can be considered a point of disagreement between them.
“You calm down!” screams Paloma, though if Ethan Lovejoy calms down any more he’ll be mistaken for dead. “If I want to have a tantrum, I’ll have a tantrum. You’re not my boss. And you can’t make me stay here. I know my rights. That’s kidnapping. And that’s a crime!”
Ethan Lovejoy leans back in his chair. “I think you’ll find, Susie, that I can make you stay. You are a minor, and I have a signed consent form and agreement from your parents.”
“But I can’t stay here three months!” Paloma kicks the desk. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are. You’re Susan Minnick.” Which is all he does know. The only mentions of TV and star that Ethan Lovejoy has heard have been in connection with Susan’s habit of making up stories about herself, otherwise known as telling lies. Living in a fantasy. Refusing to accept reality. The world of espionage lost a lot when Jack Silk decided to become a Hollywood agent.
“No, I’m Paloma Rose! I’m famous. I’m really, really famous. I’m the star of one of the most popular shows in the history of television.”
“I’m sure you believe that, Susie,” soothes Ethan Lovejoy, “but that kind of thing doesn’t matter to us here. We care about inner worth, not material success.”
“Of course I believe it!” shouts Paloma. “It’s true! And if you don’t drive me back to the airport right now, when I get out of this dump I’m going to tell everybody what you do here. How you kidnap young girls. And hold them prisoner. And molest them. And make them work as slaves.” Kicking and sobbing, the words tumble out, inspired by fury and an episode of last season’s Angel in the House. “And don’t think I won’t, because I will. I’m on Facebook and Twitter you know. I have a website. I have a publicist. And I—” Paloma stops abruptly, not because she has run out of either words or accusations but because she finally realizes that she’s all alone.
Miracles happen every day
Jack Silk said that the first week was going to be the hardest – so much to learn, so much to get used to, so much to remember – which Oona will later realize is one of the rare times he told her the unadulterated truth.
Both the Minnicks are still in bed when Oona comes down for breakfast the next morning.
Leone, however, has left them an itinerary of what she and Maria are supposed to do today to turn the rather ordinary, brown-eyed, dark-haired, five-five-and-a-fraction-or-two Oona into a head-turning, five-foot-six-inch blonde with startling blue eyes.
“We go in my car,” says Maria. “Mrs Minnick says it is less conspicuous.”
This isn’t really true. Maria’s car may be less conspicuous than an elephant would be navigating the traffic of Los Angeles, but it is not less conspicuous than the Cadillac, the Camaro or the Mercedes. In general, however, Hollywood stars do not ride around in ancient, battle-scarred Volkswagens with a plastic image of the Virgin of Guadalupe hanging from the rearview mirror on a chain of plastic beads, and Paloma Rose has never been an exception to that rule. What Leone means by “less conspicuous” is that even if Oona is spotted in Maria’s car no one would believe she was Paloma. Not even the vultures strutting and stretching their wings outside the gate are likely to give the Beetle a second look.
The first thing on Leone’s itinerary is to go shopping: clothes, shoes and accessories.
Oona reads off the list of stores. She’s heard of one or two, but most are so exclusive they might as well be secret societies. “You know these places?” she asks as the little car struggles up a hill.
“Not personally,” says Maria, “but I can find them.”
Leone, however, is on intimate terms with all of these stores, and has phoned ahead to say that her niece is visiting from Arkansas and will be coming in to “pick up a few things”. Maria has been told to park out of sight.
Oona buys her clothes in discount chains or thrift stores. Neither she nor Maria has ever been in a designer’s shop or high-end boutique before, and there are a few minutes while they hover outside the first one on Leone’s list when it looks as though they never will. And then the door opens and a woman who looks like a movie star playing a diplomat’s wife opens the door and says, “Ms Ginness? Maria? Please come right in.”
Oona has never had another person pay so much attention to her body and what she puts on it before. Heads shake, lips purse and eyes narrow. She is scrutinized, measured and advised. Does she want something for morning, afternoon or evening? Does she want something elegant or casual; for work or for leisure; to socialize with associates or socialize with friends? It seems that these aren’t clothes that she’s trying on but personal statements. “What is it you want to say?” the salespeople ask her. “What do you want to project?”
By the time they move on to shoes, Oona feels as if she hasn’t been shopping but interviewing for an important scholarship that she’s guaranteed not to get.
“It is much easier to be poor,” says Maria.
Buying shoes that Paloma would wear but in the slightly smaller size that fits Oona is only marginally less stressful and demanding.
The shoe shops are more like first-class airport lounges – places Oona has only seen in movies – than the stores where Oona buys her shoes. No aisles of shelves arranged by size. No tables of bargains. No tissue paper or box lids scattered over the floors like autumn leaves on a country lane.
She has also never worn heels before. Aware of the need to balance herself for the first time since she learned to walk, Oona staggers across the tasteful carpets (no linoleum here, either), steady as a giraffe on a pitching ship, watched by Maria who is ready to catch her.
Oona was right to worry about walking in high heels. She only manages not to fall or crash into a wall by taking small steps slowly enough to make it feel as if time has stopped. “What happens if you need to run away from somebody who’s trying to mug you?” she whispers to Maria.
“You take them off,” Maria whispers back. “Then you can run.”
The prices, however, could make a goldfish run on stilts. “Five hundred dollars? Five hundred dollars for a pair of shoes?”
“Wait’ll you see what the bags cost,” says Maria.
The next stop is the optician’s, to pick up the lenses tinted the same colour as Paloma’s, a clear and delicate blue not unlike the waters of the Gulf of Mexico eight or so hundred years ago. Wearing contacts is another new experience. They make Oona cry.
“I think my eyes may be permanently damaged,” she says as she dabs at the tears with Maria’s handkerchief.
“You’ll get used to them,” comforts Maria. “Most people do.”
Oona sighs. “Only because you can get used to any
thing.”
Which she can only hope includes the Minnicks.
Their last port of call is the beautician’s – another first for Oona. Her mom always cut her hair, and when illness put a stop to that Oona started cutting it herself. Paloma, needless to say, has her hair done in an exclusive salon by a sought-after stylist who charges two-hundred dollars for a trim. But going anywhere like that is, of course, out of the question. It was left to Maria to choose somewhere not part of the Hollywood scene, a task at which she’s definitely succeeded.
Unlike everywhere else they’ve been, the beauty parlour is the kind of place that no celebrity would put so much as a toe in unless her car broke down in a hurricane and it was the only building for fifty miles that hadn’t nailed its doors shut. The women who work here wear pink smocks and (for reasons that will never be explained) bedroom slippers, and aren’t stylists but hairdressers. It’s called, appropriately enough, Angel’s Hair, and decorated with Day of the Dead images. Rancheras play in the background and an enormous black cat sleeps beside an elaborately sequined if faded black sombrero in the window. At least they like animals. Angel is the proprietor, Angelina Velas, a large and vivid woman as quick as machine-gun fire. “I feel like an explorer who’s discovered a new continent,” she says, assessing Oona with a professional eye. “Lucky for you I love a challenge,” and shows her to a chair.
Oona has her hair washed. She has it cut. She has the colour taken out of it like bark being stripped from a tree. She has a different colour put in. She has the strands twisted into gentle waves. It’s like some kind of medieval torture. She’s sure her scalp must be bleeding.
“I know they are very good,” Maria assures her. “My nephew’s girlfriend and her sister come here all the time.”
