The Comeback

by Ella Berman

  “That one is actually my favorite,” he calls to me, and I smile as if that’s just sealed it. What a salesman.

  “I’ll take a bottle. I also want to buy a gift for my friend—does this come in candle form?”

  “We have something you’ll love even more, let me grab it for you,” he says, running around the other side of the counter and trailing his finger across the candles until he settles on one.

  “You can personalize the message on the label—what would you like it to say?”

  “How about . . . Emilia, Thank you for everything, Love, Grace x,” I say, picturing the candle in the middle of the table in the dining room, or maybe on the mantelpiece behind the toilet in the master bathroom, a surprise for Able every time he takes a piss. I watch out the window while the man rings up my order. Emilia is no longer at the juice truck.

  “Hey, can I film you saying that line for my friend?” the man asks, waving his phone at me. “You know—”

  “I know,” I interrupt him. “But I’m kind of in a rush.”

  After that, the man takes an unholy amount of time mixing my perfume and creating an individual label for both the perfume and the candle, before gift wrapping them both so slowly that I’m convinced he’s actually moving backward at one point.

  I pay quickly and rush out the door. I walk down Abbot Kinney, smiling politely back at anyone who recognizes me or nearly does. One girl says hi to me, thinking I’m a friend of a friend or maybe someone from her yoga class, before realizing her mistake and looking mortified. I say hi back graciously.

  I peer into every store that I imagine Emilia could be in, the eco-friendly jeans store, the Scandinavian jewelry store, even the weed dispensary, but in the end, I find her in the one place I didn’t expect—the spiritual bookstore. She is wearing a cream cashmere sweater and jeans with a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, and is scanning the spines of books about astrology. I touch her on the shoulder lightly, molding my face into an expression of casual surprise when she turns around.

  “What are you doing in here?” Emilia asks accusingly, but then she recovers and pushes her sunglasses up on her head so that I can see her eyes. “Actually, what the fuck am I doing in here?”

  She leans in to kiss me on the cheek, but none of it is quite right.

  “Are you wearing my perfume?” she asks, narrowing her eyes again slightly.

  I sniff at the collar of my vintage T-shirt. “Oh yeah, someone gave me a sample of it. It smells better on you,” I say, hoping she won’t ask to look in the Le Labo bag.

  Emilia smiles politely. “You’re so sweet.”

  “Do you want to go for a coffee? I’ve already had one, but it’s the only high I have left so . . .” I say, trying to make her smile. “Unless I’m about to sit through a two-hour interpretive nativity play, of course.”

  Emilia checks her Cartier watch quickly. I stand like an idiot, waiting for her to respond, and when she eventually looks back at me, it’s like she forgot I was there.

  “I did the audition—for Anatopia? I think it went well,” I say, desperately trying to keep her attention. “It felt amazing.”

  She smiles again. “I’m so pleased for you, Grace. Really, that’s great.”

  I wait for her to say something else, but she has turned to the display of books on moon cycles, picking one up and turning it over in her hand. When she notices me waiting for something, she shrugs apologetically.

  “I’m sorry, this isn’t a great time. I’m getting some last-minute presents and then I have to go to the British store in Santa Monica to get some disgusting culinary invention called Marmite.” She rolls her eyes. “Your people invented it, and Able likes me to make the gravy using it, just like his grandma used to.”

  “Able’s coming back?”

  Emilia looks at me strangely. “Of course he’s coming back. Christmas is three days away.”

  I nod and try to appear as if I knew that, and I’m just having a bad day too. I tuck my hair behind my ears.

  “I actually have some Marmite at mine. I can drop it over if you want?” I say, trying to sound casual.

  Emilia narrows her eyes. “You do?”

  “I do. I haven’t even opened it yet,” I say. “I can drop it over tomorrow?”

  “That would be great. Thanks, Grace,” Emilia says, turning back to the books.

  “Are you . . . is everything okay?” I ask, hating how desperate I sound.

  “Of course it is,” Emilia replies, but her voice is clipped and tight, and she must hear it, too, because her eyes soften a little. “I’m sorry, I’ve just got a lot going on at the moment.”

  “I understand completely,” I say, my voice dipping like my mother’s does when she’s lying, and reminding me that I haven’t called my parents since I’ve been back in LA. “The Marmite is the least I can do, Emilia. I’ll drop it over tomorrow.”

  I walk out of the bookstore with my Le Labo bag swinging by my side, but the smile drops from my face as soon as I’m out the door.

  * * *

  • • •

  I have no place to go other than my depressing rental, so instead I walk down onto the sand with my baseball cap pulled low on my head. All the locals know that you don’t actually swim or sunbathe on Venice Beach because of the weird sewage foam that rolls in with the tide, but there are still hundreds of tourists lying on the sand beneath the cornflower-blue sky and unseasonably blistering sun.

  I pull my phone out of my bag and look down at it. For some reason my encounter with Emilia is making my chest heavy and tight, and I feel lonelier than I have in a long time. What is wrong with me? I think as I scroll through my contacts and call Nathan.

  “Nathan, hi!” I say enthusiastically.

  “Hi, sweetie. I’ve actually been meaning to call you.”

  “You have?”

  “I think John Hamilton is going to offer you this role. He said your screen test blew them all away.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly, surprised by the validation I still feel at his words. “So when do we sign?”

  “It doesn’t exactly work like that,” Nathan says, sniffing. “He’ll be trying to get you for cheap now, so we’ll have to negotiate. He did seem to like you though. Thinks you’re smart.”

  “Who was it that said women and dogs are the only two instances where too much intelligence is a bad thing?”

  Nathan snorts. “Probably John Hamilton.”

  “So can we meet with him next week? After Christmas?”

  “Yes, I’ll get Dana to email him and arrange it.”

  “Thank you. I’ve got your support with this . . . comeback, right?” I say needily, hating myself.

  “As long as you don’t call it a comeback. Remember, you took one year off, to spend time with your parents.”

  “That’s what I told you.”

  “You didn’t have to miss the goddamned Golden Globes, Grace,” Nathan says, but his voice isn’t nearly as scathing as it was when we were in his office.

  “And there will be at least one topless scene. It might not say it in the script, but you could be topless for the entire one hundred and twenty minutes, if it’s John making those decisions.”

  I swallow. “I’m ready for it all.”

  “You’re a lucky girl, Grace, if you manage to pull this off,” Nathan says, just before we hang up.

  I look down at my phone and flick through my contacts until I reach my sister’s name. Esme has called me three times since I last saw her. My finger hovers over the call button for a moment, but then I just lock the phone instead. I should really check that I don’t have a parking ticket.

  * * *

  • • •

  I think I’m going to drive home to Malibu, but somehow I end up on Grand Boulevard, my body making a series of unsolicited turns that bring me right to the doorste
p of the glass house. I ring the bell and wave into the security camera. Dylan opens the door, and I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I see him standing there in his navy swim shorts and an old Bob Dylan T-shirt. He looks tanned and his hair is ruffled on one side where he must have been lying on it.

  “Have you been sleeping?” I ask, surprised.

  “Swimming,” he says, and he’s not even trying to hide how pleased he is to see me. “Come in.”

  We sit around the kitchen island, and I remember how much I loved this house, even though nothing in it was ever really mine. It’s less showy than Emilia’s, with ivy tumbling down the kitchen cupboards, and colorful books propped up against every surface. It’s the kind of house where you could believe that someone has actually read the books.

  “Did I ever tell you about the pimp and the . . . girl I saw at a launderette downtown years ago?” I ask, before we can start any of the painful small talk that has been our trademark since I’ve been back. I don’t know why the memory came to me, but now that it has, I’m finding it hard to think about anything else.

  “I don’t think so.” Dylan shakes his head.

  “So, it was the second assassin movie, and we were filming this intense scene where I had to shoot and kill my fellow assassin, my former best friend, but I kept doing it wrong. I was getting tired and restless, and after about thirty takes, Able stood up, furious, and ordered the complete closure of the set for the day. I thought he was going to send me back to the hotel alone, but he drove me to downtown LA instead and pulled up outside this depressing strip of stores. I got out of the car and watched this sweaty, shiny-suited man walk into a launderette with a skinny blond girl who had these bruises all over her arms and legs, and lips covered in scabs like mosquito bites. The man was dropping a pile of old clothes off with the launderette owner, I guess to be altered to fit her, and this girl was trying on these dresses that were five sizes too big for her, like sequined ones with big eighties shoulder pads that hung off her. At some point she caught me staring at her, and all of a sudden she came to life, coiling up and spitting at me through the window like a snake,” I say, shaking my head at the memory of the spit trickling down the window, right where I stood. “Afterward, Able took me to this divey diner next door for a milkshake, and he said, ‘The differences between your life and someone like that are less substantial than you think. Never forget how lucky you are to be where you are,’ and for the first time in a while, I really felt it. On set the next day, I stared my former best friend in the face and thought of the girl as I shot her in the forehead. I nailed it in one take, and the crew gave me a standing ovation when I left.”

  I look up, and somehow Dylan is still watching me with interest. I stand up and take a box of water from the fridge because I need a moment to catch my breath more than anything.

  “The thing was, this girl was clearly just fucked, like she knew her entire future was going to be sleeping with disgusting creeps in shitty cars and getting to keep like two dollars from whatever she made, and we just left her there, trying on these dresses, and now I can’t understand why I didn’t do anything to help her. I was just so content for the whole exchange to be about me; I actually remember thinking how lucky I was that I’d been able to witness it, but it should never have been about me at all. It was about her—it was her bad luck that she was there.”

  I look at Dylan and then shrug apologetically. “I don’t really know why I’m telling you this. But, honestly, what the fuck?”

  Dylan frowns slightly, probably trying to work out what I’m really asking, which is already a nonstarter because I don’t even know.

  “Do you think she’d still be around?” I ask, pulling a face when I remember the bruises on her arms and legs, as if she was already decaying.

  Dylan shrugs because he will never be someone to assume the worst. “I mean, I don’t know. You could try to find her. Or, do you think it’s not actually about her?”

  “If you’re going to tell me that I’m the little girl, I’ll kill you,” I say, and he grins. “I’ve had a compassionate thought about someone else for the first time in five years, so let me have this moment.”

  “That’s bullshit, you’re one of the most compassionate people I know,” Dylan says, shaking his head. “If anything, you just overthink everything to the point of paralysis.”

  “I’m so relieved that we’re talking about me again,” I say, and he laughs.

  “I’m just saying, it’s a good thing you haven’t forgotten about her. I wouldn’t question your own motives too much,” he says. “It’s good to feel strongly about something, so you know what you want to change.”

  “I’ve been spending some time with Esme,” I say then, and Dylan looks surprised. “She’s going through some stuff. I’ve been trying to help her.”

  “She’s a good kid. She’s lucky to have you,” Dylan says, and as he smiles at me, I experience the rare feeling that, for the first time in a long while, things might actually be working out for me.

  “Do you want to get dinner tomorrow night?” I ask him suddenly, and Dylan nods, his eyes creasing slightly.

  “Sure.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I open an email from Laurel with a link to the John Hamilton photos once I’m back in my car. In the photos I am walking out of his house wearing the white jeans and white sweater that Xtina picked out for me, John’s fleshy hand pulling the back of my head toward him as he whispers a secret in my ear. My lips are curved in a hint of a smile, my eyes hidden underneath lemon-yellow Kurt Cobain–style sunglasses. For a moment, I consider going back into the glass house to mention the photos to Dylan, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need to explain myself, because we’ve both been in this business for a while now.

  On my way back to Malibu, I stop by the English shop in Santa Monica to pick up the Marmite, as well as some orange squash and Jammie Dodgers for the twins. While I’m paying at the checkout, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull out my phone, but it’s just Laurel.

  Are you okay? Are you still coming over for Christmas? Lana is almost looking forward to it LOL.

  I click my phone off and put it back in my pocket without replying.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I get home, Emilia is sitting on the steps of my front porch, smoking a cigarette. I tuck the Marmite into the glove compartment before I get out, steeling myself for her to reveal whatever it is she’s been hiding from me.

  “Why do you have binoculars?” Emilia asks, holding up the pair I left lying on the lawn chair in my haste to follow her to Venice.

  “I like to watch the dolphins,” I say calmly. I reach out to take the binoculars from her, but Emilia moves them out of my reach. She holds them up to her eyes and stares out at the ocean, pivoting at the last minute so that she’s looking up at the peach house through them.

  “I’m not stalking you,” I say. “You’re the one who’s always on my porch.”

  The joke hangs between us until, after a long silence, Emilia drops the binoculars back onto the seat. She looks different, her eyes unfocused and oil collecting on either side of her nostrils. This is it, I think. This is when it ends.

  “It turns out Able isn’t going to be home for Christmas,” Emilia says before I can say anything. “All flights out of Salt Lake City have been canceled. The runways aren’t safe.”

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I stay silent.

  “The good news is that there’s no fucking danger of any storm happening here, because it’s the happiest place on earth.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say carefully.

  Emilia stubs her cigarette out on the ground. “And who even knows who he’s with this time?” she asks. I stand very still, keeping my face neutral as Emilia walks to the edge of my porch and leans against it. Her eyes never quite land on my face as she talks. “I never have an
y idea what he’s doing at any given moment and I’m not allowed to ask, because that would break the code.”

  “The code?” I ask, my voice steady.

  “The code that says he can do what he wants because he makes all the money. The code that says I’m not allowed to feel like shit because my life is so fucking great.”

  She shakes her head, looking embarrassed for a moment, and I realize that I rarely hear her swear. I wonder if it’s something she has to make an effort not to do.

  “So I’m stuck by myself with the kids in this soulless, make-believe place where everyone pretends to be happy all the time, just because the sun won’t stop shining long enough for them to realize they’re not,” Emilia says, each word soaked with contempt. “Why can’t it at least rain here?”

  “Tell me about it,” I say as we both watch a pelican dive into the calm water. “It’s like living in Disneyland.”

  Before I can think of what to say next, Emilia turns to me and puts her hands on my shoulders so that she’s looking directly into my eyes. I force myself to maintain eye contact, keeping my face light and open even though her palpable, uncharacteristic neediness is making me uncomfortable.

  “Gracie, would you be able to do something for me?” she asks, and we’re so close that I can see the beads of sweat forming on her upper lip.

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Would you come up to our place on Christmas Eve?” she asks, her tone now softer, almost wheedling, catching me off guard. “It’s just me and the girls, but it would really take some of the pressure off with Able not making it back.”