by Carmen Reid
In fact, she had got so annoyed about this, that she had shot out of the kitchen and begun to shout at Dave in the middle of the lawn: ‘It’s not just about grass, you know!’ she’d yelled.
Over the din of the lawnmower, he had no idea what she was saying. But he could see that she was upset, so he’d cut the engine in order to listen, though he may have regretted that when the full flow of her furious words hit him face on.
‘What is all this with the freaking grass cutting?’ she’d yelled. ‘There are at least forty-five people, forty-five very important people who are going to be here in just eight days’ time. There is a freak of a lot to do. Grass… grass is just something you stand on. No one cares. No one gives a shit if it’s one inch long or three inches long. It literally makes no difference. But if there isn’t enough booze, or enough food, or anywhere to sit or anywhere to pee then that makes a difference. This is Hollywood! These are Hollywood people. This is Franklyn freaking Gregory. You think he’s going to come somewhere without any freaking chairs? Where am I going to get chairs, and napkins, and enough glasses? How big is the barbeque? Can you make fifteen burgers at a time? Where will I keep fifty bottles of wine and hundreds of bottles of beer cold? These are the important things.’
As Dave stood stock still and silent in the face of this onslaught, River wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was considering that she had a point, maybe he was missing his wife. Perfect, freaking Tess and her multi-talented organisational skills that clearly kept this house and garden together.
‘I suppose you’re used to your wife just sorting everything out,’ she had stormed, ‘well, guess what, buddy? You don’t get to invite twenty-five of your friends over and all you do is cut the grass. Maybe you got away with that crap with your wife – who, believe me, would not have been very impressed – but you do not get away with that crap with me. We are hosting this party, we have to get our shit together, together!’
Two togethers back to back, she couldn’t help noticing, jeez, what terrible sentence structure. Then she tried to turn on her heel, but cork wedges and newly cut lawn do not make for a smooth heel turn. So she did a half-stumble instead and then stomped away.
She had to get back to her desk, back to her script. But now, sitting at her laptop again, her head was blazing. How to concentrate… how to get calm after all this upset?
Finally, in between bursts of scriptwriting, because Phillip was now demanding to see scenes and she had to get something to him – even though she was re-writing everything in line with her rich-old-white-guys idea – River wrote a list, to stop herself from going crazy.
Party priorities:
Booze – beer, wine, orange juice and oranges for sangria, vodka, tonic, limes, Coke
Food – hamburgers and vegan hamburgers for BBQ, burger buns, chopped lettuce, chopped tomatoes, pizzas to go in oven
Chairs – rent
Trestle table – rent
Glasses – rent
Paper plates, bamboo cutlery, paper napkins, bin bags, two big bins and ice to keep booze cool – buy
There. That wasn’t so hard now, was it? She picked up her phone and searched for a place to order the rental items.
It was nearly four hours later when her phone beeped with a text:
* * *
I am mixing contrite cocktails in the kitchen. Would you like one?
* * *
Gimme five. And thank you.
* * *
Is that five minutes or five cocktails?
* * *
Maybe both.
When she’d put her last sentence in place for the day, she went down to the kitchen to see Dave. It sounded as if he may have forgiven her, but she was still prepared to make another one of her most humble apologies.
‘I shouldn’t have said those things,’ she began, as soon as she walked into the room, ‘I was stressing. I’ve never planned a party like this before… a grown-up party. I was rude and I’m sorry.’
Dave reached over and put something cloudy and lime-scented with sprigs of mint into her hand. At first, he’d insisted when he’d moved back into the house that he still cook in the summerhouse to be out of her way. But she’d told him she only spent half an hour in the kitchen anyway, so he’d given in and now he was in the kitchen for at least an hour every evening, making simple meals and, tonight, elaborate cocktails.
‘No, River,’ he began, ‘I should be apologising.’
This took her by surprise.
‘What you said was completely true. I always leave this kind of thing to Tess. In fact, I leave all kinds of things to Tess. Important stuff… boring stuff… admin stuff… she takes care of a lot for us.’
What he didn’t say was that Tess loved being the organisational person. She was so into details and sorting things out when he was not. Like River, he wanted to go with the flow, be spontaneous, muddle through… let things ‘sort themselves out’. But perhaps he’d underestimated the stress involved in being the details person. Perhaps Tess would have appreciated more support.
‘But,’ he said to River now, ‘what do we need to do to get this party on the road?’
‘I’ve ordered chairs and glasses,’ she said, pulling up a seat at the kitchen counter and taking a big slug of the drink. ‘I’m guessing we could drive to the supermarket and buy food and booze and paper plates there…’
‘Absolutely,’ Dave agreed. ‘I’ll clean up some of the big rubber tubs we have in the garage and we’ll fill them with water and ice to keep the booze cold.’
‘Good idea.’
‘And what about loads of fairy lights?’ Dave suggested. ‘Why don’t I buy lots of ropes of them to light the garden with? Logs for the chimenea, of course…’
‘Are you starting to get excited?’ River asked, making eye contact over the kitchen counter.
‘Haven’t been so excited for years,’ he said with a smile and held her look. Yes… for all sorts of reasons, he hadn’t felt so excited for years – and one of those reasons was this lovely and free-spirited woman who was once again hanging out with him and enjoying his company.
33
LA was opening out to Tess, now that she was less worried about driving away from her Studio City base. She’d taken the dogs out hiking into the hills several times. She’d visited two more major art galleries and she’d made a shopping trip to the famous Rodeo Drive, where she’d been in the mood to splurge on something memorable. She’d wanted to mark her trip, her freedom, her independence with a new watch, maybe, or a pair of posh earrings. But in fact, the delightfully knowledgeable sales assistants in Ralph Lauren and Banana Republic had persuaded her to part with significant amounts of cash on nine pieces of wardrobe hardware that she knew were going to completely change her style. She now owned two new work jackets that fitted like a dream, and were soft, comfortable and not too politician-y, three new cotton-silk mix blouses that she loved everything about, one foxy navy gabardine pencil skirt and the pair of black, slim-cut trousers that you search for your entire working life. And just to tip the shopping over into the extravagance she’d wanted, she’d also bought a pair of higher-than-usual camel-coloured heels and the kind of casual lightweight coat that keeps you warm, and keeps the rain off, but still proclaims: ‘I understand fashion and have a finger on the pulse, but I don’t take it too seriously.’
Back at the apartment, the pool had been filled and she’d already enjoyed her first swim and her first afternoon on the sun lounger she’d installed. But some of the best fun was still to be had in the twice-a-week sessions in Larry’s apartment where he was stretching her, flexing her and making her think about her body and how she moved it in a way she had never done before.
As he’d said, the effect carried on long after class. When she walked down a staircase, when she sat in a chair, when she turned to speak to someone, she brought awareness to what she was doing physically as well as mentally.
He was helping her to relax and trust her body and it really
did help her to relax and trust herself mentally too. She’d been so stiff and so closed off before.
‘English weather, English repression, and office life at a desk,’ Larry had suggested, showing her how to be at ease when she stood: shoulders dropped, arms by her sides not crossed or clasped defensively in front of her. Then got her to stand tall, to breathe, to hold her head lightly and enjoy all these different postures.
And now, after spending lessons on arm movements, lessons on leg stretches, lessons on torso and shoulder bends and turns, he was getting her to put them all together and in a work of clever dance-teacher alchemy, all the small practised moves were forming what he’d had in mind all along – the Argentinian tango.
‘You’re kidding me!’ Tess had exclaimed. ‘Me? Dance the tango? Ha ha ha.’
But Larry took hold of her waist and her right hand and began to swivel her around in some first, simple moves.
‘Now, the important thing is,’ he said, letting go of her and reaching for his phone, ‘we are not going to have you dancing the tango like an English lady who goes to night classes. No… I’ve seen those videos. Horrible,’ he told her. ‘No. Instead, you’re going to watch Lorena Tarantino and her dance partner, Gianpiero Galdi, dance tango and then you will begin to understand what it’s all about. It’s unstructured, with no set steps, so it’s like life, it goes where you take it and where it takes you. This is the dance you did with your gorgeous beau when you were growing up in a strictly Catholic country and your mother and the priest were watching your every move on the dance floor. It’s touch, but don’t touch, move, but don’t move… hold, but let me go. It’s seduction, but also repression. Here, I’ll show you.’
And he called up a video of a beautiful woman in a tight lace dress and impossibly high, strappy sandals facing a handsome man in a dark suit. The first thing Tess noticed was that their eyes were fixed on one another’s faces. And then there was the breathing – the woman was breathing so deeply and so freely that you could see her stomach and chest rise and fall. Then she put her whole arm around the man’s shoulder, so that her elbow was at his ear and their chests were touching, but their hips and legs were free. Then the music began and slowly, she danced around him; she leaned into and out from him. She flicked her leg up and wrapped it around his. Sometimes she would lead and he would follow, sometimes she would go completely loose and he would carry her gently round in a circle, until she began to glide her feet back into the steps. It was totally mesmerising.
‘I’m not going to be able to dance like that,’ she told him immediately.
‘You have too little faith.’
‘But the dragging bit…’
‘That’s easy if you can trust your partner… okay, hold here and here,’ he instructed, ‘and then relax… no, really relax… even though I know that’s hard for you,’ he teased.
Tess tried to do as he instructed and after they’d made four attempts, she leaned into him, leaned against him, felt his hold round her waist and under her arm and after his encouraging: ‘It’s okay, I’ve got you,’ finally felt able to put her whole weight into his arms and then for a few moments, she was that tango woman being gently carried in a circle around her partner.
Give and take… lean in and lean out… lead and be led. The dance was a metaphor, not just for seduction but also for a relationship. In her marriage and in her family, she had been the one who gave, who led, who let everyone lean on her and now she had become all rigid and tense and unable to enjoy being anything else.
‘And flick the leg up, and round, as if you’re coming back to life… waking from a daze, excellent!’ Larry told her. But then it was time to do it again and make it better.
It was funny, Tess thought, as he clasped her to his chest and span her round fast enough to make her stomach flip, how he was so professional and so focused on the details that nothing about this hold or these moves was at all flirty or intimate. They were teacher and student, trying to get this difficult thing right by doing it over and over.
After more tricky tango practice, it was time for them to have their jasmine tea break. As she pulled up a chair at the kitchen counter, Tess saw an ominous white envelope with the words ‘Important tax information’ stamped across the front lying there. She had been working on Larry’s tax situation for several afternoons and this was most likely the result of her efforts.
‘I’m not opening that without you beside me,’ he told her.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ she assured him. ‘I think this is going to be fine.’
‘I’m not going to have to pay any extra bills?’
‘Now it’s you that has too little faith.’
She opened the envelope and unfolded the letter; she read what it said and then passed it over to Larry.
‘Is it okay?’ he asked, before looking at it.
‘It’s very okay,’ she said.
As he took in the information that all of the money he thought he’d have to pay in tax was going to be waived because of the new pension payment plan Tess had set up for him, he looked as if he might cry with relief. ‘You made my bill go away! This is incredible.’
‘Well… kind of, the important thing is you have a new pension plan that you’re going to get really focused on putting money into. I’ve tracked your other pensions down too and they’re going to bring some money in when you’re older, but this is the one you’ve got to get serious about now. And the more you put in there, the less tax you’ll pay. But don’t worry, you have me on your case now. I’ll keep you right.’
And right in the middle of the appreciative high five Larry was giving her, Tess’s phone beeped with a message. She expected something from home, but instead it appeared to be from the man who was the very latest addition to her contacts: Professor Nathan.
Would you like to meet me for a beach walk this weekend? Maybe bring those dogs you were talking about. I’d really enjoy talking to you again. Thanks, Nathan (the economics prof with the wrong eyeglasses).
‘Oh, Tess, that surprise on your face. What is it?’ Larry asked.
‘Remember I told you about meeting a professor?’
‘Ah huh…’ Larry had something of a smirk across his face now.
‘He’s asked me to go on a beach walk with him.’
‘Ah huh…’ he said again, still smirking.
‘So that’s nice…’
‘Nice? The handsome, divorced prof dish invites you for a beach date and you think it’s nice?’
‘It’s not a date!’ she protested.
‘It is absolutely a date,’ Larry countered, ‘so how do you feel about that?’
‘It’s not a date!’ Tess repeated. But then why did she feel so… so… flustered?
34
Alex had selected a really very picturesque bench for this phone call. There was grass all around – dotted with litter and the odd dog turd, to be fair – and a pretty tree in the background. He guessed it was a cherry tree but as this was high summer and the blossom had long gone, he wouldn’t want to swear to it.
He was wearing a dark t-shirt, hoping that this would mean any dirt or stains wouldn’t show up so much. But he would hold the phone close up anyway. He’d washed his face and tried to ruffle through his hair so it didn’t look too untidy.
Right… time to stop stalling and just get on with call number one of three; he pressed the relevant button.
‘Dad? Hello, hi, it’s Alex…’
Alex looked at the image on the screen. There was the Ambleside garden, luscious with flowers and the shiny green grass of a summer’s day.
‘Hey Alex! Good grief! This is a surprise – do you need money? Are you on the run?’ his dad joked, presumably in reference to how unusual it was for him to phone. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m good, enjoying the sun. Lovely, isn’t it?’ Alex said, clutching at the conversational touchstone that was the UK weather. ‘Looks like you’re out in the sun too.’
‘Oh yes… yes, plans
in action. I’m having a party along with the American woman who’s over here. So trying to work out where to put the tables and chairs…’ Dave swung his phone around the garden, so that Alex could take in two large tables out on the back lawn and a stack of chairs.
‘Plus, we’re going to light the chimenea.’ Dave swooped the phone over the pot-bellied garden stove with a hearty pile of logs beside it. And now Alex remembered having friends over and sitting out beside the chimenea late, late into the night.
It all seemed so long ago, this lovely, English countryside life he’d once enjoyed, like something that had happened in another lifetime, or to someone else even… like the memory of a long-running mini-series that he’d watched several years ago, that was how detached he felt. From Ambleside, from his home, from his family and certainly from this jovial guy, only three inches tall, smiling and waving at him from his phone screen.
‘How’s work?’ Alex’s dad asked him next.
‘It’s good… I’m enjoying it,’ Alex replied, feeling almost nostalgic for the office. That time too, seemed so far away. All that felt real to Alex was the horrible little room, the grinding sameness of every day, the pain of dragging himself from minute to minute and the decision, which had taken so long to make. But now that it was made, had let a vast and unbearable burden tumble from his shoulders.
‘How’s your leg?’ Alex remembered to ask.
His dad held the phone over his leg. He was wearing a familiar old pair of navy sweatpant shorts and there on his foot, ankle and halfway up his calf was a grey plastic boot.