by Dyan Sheldon
Oona gets so lost in her book that she loses track of time, and finally looks up to realize that two hours have passed and she’s thirsty.
Knowing that Leone’s likely to be asleep on the sofa by now, she tiptoes down the stairs so as not to wake her. And stops on the landing when she hears a man’s voice. It could be Arthur, of course – there is, after all, such a thing as a blue moon – but it isn’t. She wouldn’t recognize Arthur’s voice, but she does recognize Jack Silk’s. She strains to hear what they’re saying, not making a sound herself. Jack doesn’t come to the house that often, but it isn’t as unusual as snow in Los Angeles in July, either. It happens. Sometimes. Now and then. When there’s some particular reason why he and Leone can’t meet in town, or he was up here anyway. But Jack Silk is Paloma’s agent, not Leone’s friend. They don’t do social calls. Not at this time of night.
There’s an old saying that adults used to use to warn one another when they were discussing something private and a child moved into their vicinity. This is the old saying: “little pitchers have big ears.” It’s an old saying that neither Jack nor Leone has heard in decades, but they might do well to remember it now.
Oona sits on the stairs to listen. This is where things start to get worse.
Leone was about to turn in for the night when Jack Silk called. He sounded stiff and far away, as if he was up some mountain calling from a pay phone in a bar filled with drunken nomadic warriors who were looking for trouble. His message was cryptic. “I’m coming over,” he said. “Make sure you’re alone. I should be there in half an hour.” Leone said she couldn’t wait.
“Sorry to be so Spy Who Came in from the Cold,” says Jack as he follows her into the living room. “But I couldn’t risk discussing this on the phone. Those damn reporters. You never know who’s hacking or listening in these days.”
“What about a drink?” says Leone. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’ll have a beer if you have one. But you might want something stronger for yourself.”
She gives him a look. “Cut it out, Jack. You’re starting to get me worried.”
“At least that makes me feel less alone,” says Jack.
Leone comes back with a beer for Jack and a martini for herself, and sets the drinks on the coffee table. She sits back on the sofa, waving Jack, who’s still standing, towards one of the armchairs. “So what’s all this cloak and dagger stuff? You hear something about the renewal? They can’t possibly be cancelling. Not now.”
Jack doesn’t sit down. “Where’s Arthur? Is he lurking somewhere in the house or is he out?”
“He’s out,” says Leone. “And Maria’s visiting some squalling child she’s related to. She won’t be home till the morning.”
“Maybe you better tell her not to come back for a day or two. We don’t need her here to complicate things. Tell her you think she needs a break. I can drop off whatever she needs.”
Leone’s smile flickers. “Jack, the interview with Lucinda’s only a week away. I need Maria here. You can’t be serious. There’s a million things to do.”
“I’m as serious as God or the Devil. Where’s the kid?”
“Sound asleep by now, I’d think. We had a busy day.”
Jack rocks back and forth on his heels. “You’re not the only ones.”
In the world of image that is Hollywood, breaking a toe or buying a new handbag can be turned into a major drama – one with the potential for both tragedy and a mini-series – so Jack’s sudden visit hasn’t caused Leone any real alarm. Until now. Now she has one of those oh-no moments that we all get from time to time – the moment you realize you’re going to fall off the ladder, or you’re going to drop that priceless vase, or you’re about to hear some really bad news. “This isn’t about the renewal, is it? Nothing’s gone wrong?”
“Not with that. Everything’s fine. We should have the contract by the end of the week. It’s something else.” Jack pauses, looking as if he’s selecting his words one by one. “Thing is, Leone, she’s gone.”
“Gone?” repeats Leone. “Who’s gone? I told you, she’s—”
“Not her. The other one.” Jack breathes as if he’s been holding his breath. “Against every conceivable odd in the universe, it’s Paloma. Paloma’s gone.”
“Gone?” Leone laughs. Not because she finds this news especially funny, of course, but because she’s very much hoping that it isn’t true. Really, where could Paloma possibly go? “She can’t be gone. You said this place is miles from nowhere. In the middle of the desert. How could she leave? Paloma’d take a cab to cross Hollywood Boulevard if she could.”
“She’s a magician,” says Jack. “Or she sold her soul to the Devil and he got her out. I don’t know how she did it, all I know is she’s gone from the ranch. Vamoosed. Vanished like the dinosaurs. Only without leaving any fossils behind.”
“But that’s impossible.” Leone couldn’t sound more certain if Paloma were sitting beside her. Psychologists call what she’s doing “denial”. She wants so much for this not to be happening that she convinces herself that it isn’t. “Paloma waits for someone to open the door for her. She wouldn’t just go by herself. Is there somebody else involved? Some boy? Some man?”
“Not as far as anyone knows. Lovejoy seems pretty sure that she did this all on her lonesome. He’s questioned them all, and no one knows anything about it.”
Leone is still refusing to believe him. “But she couldn’t. I mean, I know she’s always skipping out of here, but we’re not in the middle of nowhere, we’re in Beverly Hills, she can take a cab. She—”
“Watch my lips, Leone.” He points to his lips. “Paloma is gone. We don’t know how – maybe she’s eaten some desert cactus and made herself invisible.” Jack finally sits down. “But she’s definitely not there. Lovejoy called me about an hour ago. Said he couldn’t believe it. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”
At last a situation for which the good doctor doesn’t have a wall sign.
“But I thought he said she was adjusting well. Really well. You said his reports were glowing. I thought he said she’d settled in like a prairie dog in its burrow.”
That is, in fact, exactly what Jack reported Ethan Lovejoy as saying. He was quoting directly.
“Then there must’ve been a flash flood or a rattlesnake or something in that burrow because she’s left it.”
“Are they sure? Maybe she just went for a walk or something.”
“Well if she did she’s walking pretty fast and far – either that or she’s turned herself into a lizard,” says Jack. “Lovejoy thinks that however she got away, she couldn’t have been on foot. They’ve been searching most of the afternoon and they didn’t find her. That’s why he didn’t call me sooner. Figured she’d turn up before too long.” Jack smiles. “Didn’t want to panic the parents needlessly. Very considerate people, these reformers.”
Leone pales beneath her make-up and her tan as another vehicle in the car crash her life has suddenly become hits her. “Have they called the cops? My God, it’ll be—”
“No, and he isn’t going to. Not yet at any rate. They want to have another look in the morning.” Jack Silk and Leone aren’t the only ones who don’t want any publicity. “And anyway I convinced him we can handle it more discreetly. Told him we have connections. And that if this goes public it’ll make your average hurricane look like a spring shower. Said the last thing we want is to bring any disrepute to the ranch.” He smiles again. “Just so he knows we’re very considerate people, too.”
“And he bought that?”
“Of course he bought it. He has the reputation of the ranch to consider. Lovejoy’s not going to want to bring any negative publicity to Old Ways. Not with what they charge. Besides, I said I know our girl. She’s not going to be sleeping under bridges, is she?” Paloma’s idea of sleeping rough would be staying in a hotel without room service. “She’ll be coming home. Just like a pigeon.”
“And then what?” Leon
e isn’t thinking of pigeons, but of chickens coming home to roost. “You think she’s going to be glad to see us, Jack? You think she’s not going to tell the world and its cousins what happened? What we did?”
Jack flicks a piece of lint from the sleeve of his jacket. “She’s not going to tell anybody anything. Which is why I want Maria out of the picture for a couple of days. We don’t need her finding out the truth and going into Dios-mío mode. I need time alone with Paloma to reason with her. Explain that she’d be cutting off her head to spite your face. If she brings us down, she goes down with us. I’ll make very sure of that.”
“But you know how irrational she can be,” says Leone.
“And you know how persuasive I can be.” Jack’s is a victor’s smile. “Besides, we have the mama of all insurance policies, don’t we?”
Leone’s fingers tap on the arm of her chair. “Do we?”
“Yes we do. We have Ms Chance. Once that interview’s been aired, Paloma won’t dare open her mouth. Not if she wants to stay on this planet.”
“OK. I’ll give you that,” concedes Leone. “That’ll keep her mouth shut. But what if she doesn’t come home? What if something happens to her?”
Jack is still smiling as if he can never lose. “And what could happen to her?”
“What could happen to her? Are you serious?” Leone isn’t overburdened with either imagination or empathy, but suddenly she can see very clearly all the things that could happen to Paloma. “I know it’s my fault because I spoil her, but Paloma can barely make herself a piece of toast. How’s she’s going to survive for more than an hour all by herself out in the big cruel world?”
“She’ll be fine,” says Jack. “She’ll be back home tomorrow. A couple of days tops. Besides, the minute she uses her credit card we’ll know where she is. I already have a man on the job. One of the best in the business. There’s nothing to worry about.”
But where there’s guilt, worry is rarely far behind.
“What if there is? What if she isn’t fine?” Leone suddenly feels the way people who watch everything they own burn to the ground or get washed out to sea feel: totally alone on the day Hope died. “Anything could happen to her!” Rape. Murder. Kidnapping. Imprisonment. Disfigurement. An accident that leaves her paralyzed for the rest of her life. “Absolutely anything! I’ve tried so hard to protect her. What haven’t I done for her?” And if any of those things happened it would lead to questions. And answers. “My God, everything we’ve worked for—”
“Leone,” says Jack. “Why don’t you stop channelling Edgar Allan Poe and get yourself another drink?”
“You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously,” snaps Leone. “This could change everything. If they find out what we’ve done—”
“Nobody’s going to find out anything.”
“Really? And how can you be so sure? What if someone finds her wandering in the desert, hallucinating, dehydrated and half-starved? Don’t you think people might want to know how she got there?”
“Leone, you’re getting carried away. She’s not in the Sahara, for God’s sake. I’m sure there must be a road.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Jack assures her. “We just have to keep our heads. We’ve invested way too much in her to let this go belly up now. That was the whole idea, wasn’t it? To protect our investment?”
“I know, but—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything.”
“And if she doesn’t come back?” Leone’s voice cracks. “How are you going to handle that?”
“Leone, she’s going to show up eventually.” If not of her own volition, then with the help of the ex-LAPD detective he’s hired. “It may take a little while,” admits Jack, “but this guy could find a grain of sand on the ocean floor.”
“You mean dead or alive, don’t you?” asks Leone.
“God forbid. But if some terrible tragedy did befall Paloma, it wouldn’t be our fault. We did it for her own good, Leone. We were trying to help her.” No one has ever accused Jack Silk of being either impractical or sentimental – and with good reason. “Given the way she was headed, the odds are that, if we hadn’t stepped in, sooner rather than later some terrible tragedy would’ve befallen her anyway.” Overdose. Drowning in the bathtub. Booze. Preventable accident. Abusive boyfriend. Plane crash. Suicide. “Everybody dies,” Jack reminds her.
“You should’ve been a minister, you’re such a comfort,” snaps Leone.
Jack shrugs. “I’m only stating a fact. And besides, if the worse-case scenario happens and Paloma doesn’t come back we don’t have to worry because she’s already here.”
“I can’t believe you can be so callous.” Leone’s voice is not so much cracked as shattered. “We are talking about my only child here, remember.”
Jack nods. And your only meal ticket.
Don’t listen if you don’t want to hear. This is not an old saying, but it probably should be. Oona thinks so. While Leone’s showing Jack out, Oona goes back to her room as quickly as someone who feels as if she’s been run over can. She almost can’t believe what she heard. And here she was feeling almost kindly towards Leone. And Jack Silk! She knows he’s an agent – a wheeler-dealer – but, unlike Leone, he always seemed pretty OK. Not a mensch, maybe, but definitely human. She locks her door with a groan. But of course Jack Silk is human. All too human, really. Greedy, manipulative and two-faced as a coin. And Leone – plotting against her own child like that. She certainly does have hidden depths – but these aren’t the kind Oona meant.
She throws herself on the bed, trying to sort out what she heard and take it all in. So Paloma Rose isn’t in some luxury hotel, being pampered and waited on and having a deserved holiday from all the stress and demands of her celebrity life, she’s on some kind of ranch. Dead in the centre of nowhere, apparently. Old Ways. That’s what they said. Old Ways. Making it sound rustic if not actually primitive. And what’s a girl like Paloma doing in a place like that? Learning to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together? Baking bread with her own fair hands? Making soap? Whatever they do there, you can bet it’s not your typical celebrity vacation.
Oona stares up at the canopy above her, thinking of all the times Leone has talked about what a good time Paloma is having. Remembering all the phone calls, texts and emails she’s claimed to have received from her beloved daughter. All lies. And everything Oona’s been told about poor, dear Paloma and how concerned everyone is about her has been a lie, too. They don’t care about her, just about how famous she is and how much money she makes.
Oona closes her eyes. We don’t have to worry because she’s already here … our investment… We don’t have to worry because she’s already here … our investment… The words play over and over in her head like a bad song that she can’t shake loose. If only she’d stayed in her room. If only, having left her room, she’d either marched down the stairs banging a drum, or had acted like the person she used to be – a person who doesn’t eavesdrop on other people’s private conversations – and turned right around and gone back. Why couldn’t she mind her own business? Except, of course, that this is her own business. She’s part of it. If it weren’t for her it could never have happened. She signed the contract. She’s as guilty as anyone. She might as well have done a deal with the Devil. Oona sighs. Maybe she has.
There’s never a paparazzo around when you really need one
Paloma’s mad at everyone. She’s mad at God for having her born to the Minnicks. She’s mad at her father for being so useless and probably not even knowing that she’s not at home. She’s mad at Jack Silk for letting Leone trick him into helping her. She’s mad at Ethan Lovejoy for believing Leone’s lies. She’s mad at Ms McGraw for trying to make her feel sorry for Leone. But most of all, of course, she’s mad at her mother. The jealous, controlling old witch. Leone’s main purpose in life has always been to ruin Paloma’s, but this time she’s outdone herself. If she were an actor instead of the Darth Vade
r of motherhood, she’d be up for an Oscar.
Last winter the littlest thing – a broken nail, the wrong lunch order – would set off Paloma into a major tantrum. If something as horrible as this had happened, Paloma Rose would have torn through her world like a swarm of tornadoes, levelling everything in their path. She would have yelled and screamed and thrown things until even the birds in the trees and the worms in the ground begged for mercy. There wouldn’t have been a person who came within ten miles of her who wouldn’t have known how upset she was, and each of them – in one way or another – would be made to pay for her unhappiness.
But it isn’t last winter. Paloma acts as if nothing has happened, shouting at no one. Instead, for the next two days she spends as much time as she can by herself. Thinking. Brooding. Paloma’s new approach to disaster is partly down to the fact that she knows that no one at the ranch is going to dance to the tune of her bad mood; and partly because she is now a girl who can ride a horse and milk a cow and make a pretty good marinara sauce. And when Albie Delgado set himself on fire on the Fourth of July, it was Paloma who had the presence of mind to push him into the horse trough. Last winter she wanted people to take care of her. Now she can take care of herself.
Only Tallulah seems to notice how withdrawn Paloma is. “What’s up with you?” she keeps asking. Paloma says there’s nothing up with her. Tallulah says, “Don’t give me that garbage, Suze. You haven’t mentioned the dance since Thursday. And when we’re together you’re like a million light years away.” Paloma says she has stuff on her mind besides the dance. “Like what?” Tallulah persists. Nothing, just stuff. “Maybe you should talk to Ethan or the McNugget if something’s bothering you,” says Tallulah. “And maybe you should mind your own business,” says Paloma.
So she’s also mad at Tallulah for not leaving her alone.
Paloma has learned a lot more at Old Ways than how to use a broom, but the one thing she hasn’t quite mastered yet is Ethan Lovejoy’s philosophy of forgiveness and understanding. Paloma wants revenge. Ms McGraw says Leone is finding ageing difficult and frightening? Well, Paloma’s going to make her wish she’d never been born. Better than that. She’s going to fire her. Her and Arthur. Leone’s supposed to be her personal manager and Arthur’s supposed to be her business manager but what do they do, really? Suck Paloma dry, that’s what they do. They’re barnacles on the ship of her talent and fame. All they do is take take take. She’s almost seventeen, which is almost eighteen; she can manage herself and her money. She can’t wait to see Leone’s face when she tells her she’ll have to look for another job! She’ll take a picture: The Day My Monster Mother Joined the Unemployed. She’ll put it on her website and on Facebook. Maybe she’ll even make a video of Leone running out of the house in tears and put it on YouTube. She’ll tell all her followers on Twitter. The whole world will laugh itself dizzy over Leone Minnick’s shame and humiliation. Paloma’s going to make her really glad she’s old and doesn’t have that long to live.
