Been There, Married That (ARC)

by Gigi Levangie

  “I wouldn’t say no to a River Phoenix tattoo,” Liz said.

  Juliette pushed herself up and glared at me. I think. Sunglasses and Botox. “Trevor Nash, 2005’s hottest bachelor, could’ve had anyone in this town, including me, and he chose you!” she said, wagging her finger. “Never forget that!”

  The Dream State soundtrack scratched in the middle of the Go-Go’s “Vacation All I Ever Wanted” . . .

  “With friends like you, how could I?” I asked.

  “My marriage is hanging on by a string,” Juliette said. “You’re just throwing yours away.”

  “But I throw like a girl, so,” I said, tossing another pit into the green abyss. I waited for the sound of water splashing. Nothing.

  “You have to be proactive. Like me. I’m having my boobs done,” Juliette announced. “When your husband is fucking around, that’s what you do. You get your boobs done. And your vagina.”

  “Labia majora?” Liz asked. “Or the minor, insignificant labia?”

  “My husband is on his way to Port Yacht-Fucking,” I said. “And I’m not getting anything done. Unless you count eyebrows. And my cuticles pushed back. That’s as much physical pain as I’m willing to endure for Trevor.”

  “I can’t believe you won’t fight for him,” Juliette said. “I’m fighting like hell.”

  “By shoving silicone bags into your body and cutting off pieces of your vagina? That’s not fighting; that’s self-mutilation!”

  “I know,” she said, smiling and clapping her hands. “I’m going to look amazing!”

  “We haven’t had sex in so long, I’ve self-mutilated my clit,” Liz said.

  “Maybe Jordan’s just screwing the nanny,” Juliette said. “I could live with that, I guess. Marita’s children are so much better behaved than mine.”

  “If you stopped calling your three-year-old a cunt, maybe she’d be better behaved,” I said.

  “God, she knows I’m joking!” Juliette said. “We sleep together in her crib. We couldn’t be closer.”

  My phone started buzzing. I gazed at it through my wine filter and answered.

  “Hello, New York City,” I said, breathing in the cool evening air, the smell of the trees in the canyon. Trevor’s house was nice. I’d miss it.

  “How’re you holding up?” my publisher growled.

  “How or what?” I said. “I’m no longer holding up my husband’s ego.”

  “I heard,” he said. “Put the brakes on that. Vanity Fair wants to interview you.”

  “Vanity Fair the magazine?” I asked. “Hey, shouldn’t you be asleep?”

  “I never sleep. It’s the book business. If you sleep, you could wake up and it’s all gone. Poof.”

  “What does Vanity Fair want with me?”

  “They want to send a reporter out to follow you around for a couple of days.”

  “My marriage is on the rocks,” I said.

  “So? I haven’t spoken to my wife in years. We don’t need to tell them,” he said. “Their angle is . . . the power Hollywood marriage—screenwriter-slash-novelist married to the big producer. How does it work?”

  “Power marriages run on batteries,” I said. “If you took away everyone’s vibrators, there’d be mass revolution.”

  The girls gasped.

  “You need this article. Times are tough in Bookville. No one’s selling like they used to. No one’s reading like they used to. Have you ever considered hosting a YouTube channel?”

  “Yes! A lifestyle channel,” I said. “‘Agnes’s Spectacular Guide to Failing.’ I’ll invite people who’ve failed miserably—our advertisers will be firearms, funeral homes, and pharmaceuticals.”

  “Are you drunk?” he said. “Because that’s not a bad idea.”

  “I can’t do this interview,” I said. “You want me to lie to a journalist.”

  “He’ll call you first thing in the morning.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Sid Glitch.”

  “Sid Glitch? The man who’s decimated half of Hollywood?” I asked.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said before hanging up.

  Sid Glitch was widely known as Sid Bitch (I know, way too easy), a bespectacled viper who used his laptop like a bomb, strafing Hollywood with shrapnel. Whoever said all publicity is a good thing had never been pricked by Sid Glitch’s poison pen.

  You’re never alone living in a ten-thousand-square foot “house.” (I know; it’s counterintuitive.) Because staff. Staff is everywhere you want to be; one can’t fart without applause. No one “needs” a huge home. Wood and plaster and concrete monsters are built to impress “above-the-title” neighbors in construction one-upmanship; war with square footage as arsenal. Meanwhile, no one wins. Not you, not your kids, not the environment. Maybe, okay, maybe the gardener wins. What happens six months after you build a monstrosity to depress your friends? Someone you’ve never heard of—a Chinese widget manufacturer, say, or a guy who invented a dating app for dogs, starts construction on a fifty-thousand-square-foot home next door, and you’re back in the fast lane of the self-loathing highway.

  But you, like anyone else with more money than sense, build anyway. Because, like all of us, you have to learn the hard way. Then you hire a team of gardeners, housekeepers, a house manager (unless you want to make your concrete tyrant a full-time job), a chef, a florist, a feng shui master. Every day, there are people coming in and going out, and half the time you have no idea who they are.

  I binge-watched Downton Abbey recently, and I can tell you the tears the sisters cry are real. The housekeepers and gardeners and assistants get to leave to go home. The rest of us are surrounded by invisible trip wires.

  6: Vanity Unfair

  Lunch (along with Aquaphor) was the lifeblood of this town, especially at the frothy Bel Air Hotel. No one really ate—there were too many new diets and new rules—but it wasn’t about the food. Lunch made people feel like they did something, like . . . work. Dinner was my style; dinner took place in dim lighting, after you finished a day of work. And lunch exposed all your weaknesses to sunlight—that zit you forgot to cover, your wine-stained teeth, the truth about your disintegrating marriage.

  I looked presentable enough. Rolled-up jeans and heels, a Frankie & Eileen blouse and scarf. Nothing bad can happen if you wear a scarf; it’s like garlic to vampires. I endured a blow dry by the Romanian lady who scorched all the best tresses in town. She left my scalp with first-degree burns but could predict with Swiss precision accuracy whose Hollywood marriages were circling the marital drain. She had a nose for imperceptible changes in domestic protocol. If a laconic studio chief husband suddenly greeted her at the door with a rare smile, divorce was lurking around the corner. If a Hollywood wife came home from her hairstylist with bangs, she was having an affair. Either way, divorce was the bun in their marital oven.

  “Bangs,” she said. “Always bad sign.” She crossed herself and spit.

  I asked. She didn’t have Xanax, but she knew where to get Mexican Quaaludes.

  The air smelled like white oleander and Chanel suit jackets and red soles fresh out of the box. I spied Sid from across the restaurant, back stiff and chin up, with white tufted hair, like a dowager’s favorite shih tzu. I could see his moleskin from here, out of hibernation, his Montblanc poised to rip moi a new one.

  “I am not getting a divorce,” I said, repeating a mantra. “I am not getting a divorce, I am happily married, maybe a little separated by oceans and perhaps supermodel pussy, perhaps, but still, we’re together, never happier . . .”

  Sid lowered his vintage Ray-Bans and peered at me as I followed the floating Disney princess hostess to his table. Sid had worn all black, even a snug turtleneck, though the day was warm. (Every day was warm, until one afternoon at 2:00 p.m. in mid-November when Southern California suddenly froze.)

  His flipper hand grasped his pen. He appeared not to have a functioning circulatory system. If I were playing Celebrity and had to choose a word to describe Si
d, I would choose tubercular.

  “What size are those jeans?” he asked, pouncing before the impala had a chance to approach the watering hole.

  “Same size as yours,” I said, sizing him up.

  Not so fast, cheetah.

  He smiled, his pallid features lighting up. “So what’s your eating disorder?” He flicked on his tape recorder. Subtle as a knockout punch.

  “Sid, I will eat you under the table.”

  “Oh, I never eat during lunch interviews. It softens me up.” His blue eyes glittered like rhinestones. He looked about as soft as a spike to the forehead.

  The waiter appeared at our table. “Ready to order?”

  “Is Vanity Fair paying?” I asked Sid.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I’ll take one of everything,” I said to the waiter and waggled my eyebrows at Sid.

  * * *

  “Let’s start with a typical day,” Sid said, his eyes flicking toward my french fries. His nose twitched as their aroma reached his nostrils.

  “Eat the fries, Sid,” I said, pushing the fries toward him.

  “I don’t want the fries, Agnes,” he said. “Start from the beginning.”

  I shoved three more fries in my mouth.

  “Let’s see,” I said as I chewed. “Born. Lived. Worked. Wrote. Lived some more. Wrote more. Married. Wrote. Gave birth. Wrote.”

  I was a lifelong creature of habit. Until the moment Trevor declared he wanted to be happy. Now, I felt dangerous. Something had happened to me, something I didn’t quite expect. Anything was possible!

  I smiled, my face relaxing. Dangerous Agnes!

  “Sid, why interview me?” I said. “Matthew McConaughey must be doing something pretty magical right now.”

  “You weren’t my first thought,” he said, dry as a martini. “When my editor mentioned one of the ‘queens of Hollywood,’ I was hoping for Corrigan Lewin’s wife. I hear she’s a former hooker, no?”

  “Her hourly rate was so high he had to marry her,” I said.

  He scribbled in his notebook.

  “Why the hell did I bother getting blow-dried?” I asked, taking a sip of iced tea. “You don’t want to write this, and I don’t want to be write-ed.”

  Sid leaned back and stared at the white beams above us.

  “I’ve just endured the worst breakup of my life,” he said.

  “Someone broke up with you?” I asked. “Shocking.”

  “At this point, all I’m interested in is vitamin D.”

  “Dick.”

  “Sunshine. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in New York,” he said, eyeing my fries again. “So. You’re married to Trevor Nash,” he said, staring at me. “And yet, you seem to have sculpted out your own career, as it were.”

  I wished I hadn’t ordered that bottomless iced tea. I needed to pee now.

  “It’s a survival instinct,” I said. “In case I ever needed to escape.”

  How long could I live on the fight-or-flight response? My adrenaline would run out someday. I’d need more. Can you buy adrenaline on Amazon Prime?

  My phone buzzed as Sid jotted down more notes. What an honor, to have one’s obituary written under the byline of Sid Glitch, Queen of the Takedown.

  Trevor’s smile flashed on my screen.

  “Answer it,” Sid said. “I’d love to talk to Trevor.”

  “He’d love to talk to you!” I dropped the phone on the marble tile, then kicked it away. The buzzing stopped.

  “Call him back; maybe it’s important,” Sid said, staring down his long, thin nose. That nose was good for smelling out weaknesses like a truffle pig. Sid had his nose all up in my fungi. The least fun guy in my fungi.

  I thought, How gay, exactly, is Sid? In LA, sexuality existed on a sliding scale. I clocked Sid at a solid cocksucking eight. Meaning, he’d been in vagina at least once more than birth.

  My phone buzzed again. I’m glad I had rethought changing Trevor’s ringtone to a dirge.

  “Trevor!” I said as I grabbed the phone, mania in my voice. “I’m sitting here with Sid Bi—Glitch.”

  A torrent of sweat, the Nile of nervous perspiration, soaked the back of my shirt.

  “Who?” Trevor yelled.

  “He’s great,” I said. “He’s asking about you, for the article.”

  “What?” Trevor asked. “What article?”

  “Yeah, I’m really pleased,” I said. “We’re talking about writing, and, you know, that carpool life.”

  “Sid Glitch from Vanity Fair?”

  “Silly, I know you’re excited,” I replied as Sid leaned in. “We talked earlier, remember, about how they wanted to do an article . . . about me?”

  It sounded ludicrous, even to my ears.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m having a stroke! Petra, fucking stop rubbing my fucking shoulders!” Trevor gasped. Back to me. “You want me to have a stroke? Graydon hates me!”

  “Did he say Graydon hates him?” Sid asked, raising an eyebrow.

  I shook my head and covered the phone. “He said, ‘Graydon amazes me,’ Sid. So sorry he’s gone! You should get your hearing checked, maybe?”

  I pushed the fries closer to him.

  “Trevor, I’ll see you when you get home,” I said into the phone. “Be safe!” I hung up. Why did I say that? Why?

  “Will you excuse me?” I said to Sid.

  “Safe from what?” I heard him say as I hopped toward the bathroom. I called Trevor from the stall.

  “Waitwaitwait, so it’s like, they’re doing one of those . . . little paragraph thingies, like a sentence,” he said, dialing his crazy down to nine.

  “No, it’s more like, um . . .” I hesitated, anxious to protect his male ego by throwing myself on it, like a live grenade. “It’s a, how do you say . . . a spread?”

  He was breathing, but I could tell his soul had died. “What, you mean, like a page . . .”

  “Or three . . . maybe five, depending.”

  He swallowed hard. I imagined his Adam’s apple bobbing in his long, lean neck. I hoped Pep would have that neck someday (without the apple). Pep had the Murphy neck—less like a swan’s and more like a toad’s. It’s fine.

  “Trevor?” He seemed to have dropped off.

  “I can’t . . . well, that’s, um.” He sighed. “Talk to Jennifer.” Jennifer was his VP at the company. His consigliere. Brought home a six-figure income and knew where all the bodies were buried—and had probably buried a few. “She’ll tell you what to say and what not to say.”

  “I prefer to go in cold,” I said.

  “Are you crazy? Have you not heard of Mark Canton?”

  “Who?”

  “Exactly!” he said, on the verge of hysteria. “Hey, Idiot Number Three, get Jennifer on the line—now!”

  “I don’t need Jennifer to tell me what I do in my daily life,” I said. “I’m well versed in my routine.” I held the phone away from my head as expletives flowed like a spittle waterfall. “Trevor, why did you call me?”

  “This ocean is bullshit!”

  “The Mediterranean?” I asked.

  “You made me go here! This is your fault!”

  “What?”

  “I was unhappy because of you, so I left and now I’m unhappy again,” Trevor said.

  “Trevor, you are on a yacht in the middle of the ocean with rich, beautiful people—except for the one,” I said. “If you’re going to blow up our marriage, fucking enjoy it.”

  “I can’t . . .” He paused.

  “You can’t what?”

  “You know,” he said quietly.

  “No, I don’t,” I said. Sid was probably going to send the hostess in to look for me. I’d just tell him I’m bulimic. Too common?

  “I can’t . . .” Trevor lowered his voice. “My dick isn’t working.”

  “Oh!” I said, shocked at this new turn of events. I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. I did a little tap dance. The Trevor I know could get it up in gale-force winds. Maleficio. A curse!
Why, Gabi, you little minx . . .

  “It’s your fault!” Trevor said. “I’m stressed out!”

  “Maybe it’s Petra’s fault.”

  “I’m not fucking Petra,” he said.

  “You’re not fucking anyone, apparently.”

  “You can’t do this interview,” he said as I heard the restroom door swing open and the tippy tap of expensive heels. “Don’t you see? This is all about me. This is all about getting back at me for leaving the party early!” I thought back to that Vanity Fair party. South African theme, green, red, and black tablecloths. A wiry African band playing tin instruments. In my mind’s eye, I saw Monica Lewinsky dancing with Shiloh Pitt. Or was it Maddox? We’d left at 12:48 a.m.; we’d stayed seven hours.

  “I’m wearing him down,” I said. “Get to know me before you hate me, right?”

  “Trust me,” he said, “I know!”

  “I hope you get dick scurvy!” I hissed, then hung up and pushed open the stall door into a #daytimedrinker, a straw-haired beaver three deep in gin and tonics, dripping in gold.

  “And how is Trevor?” She burped.

  “Under the weather,” I said. Only Trevor could make a yacht trip on the Mediterranean into an ordeal. Now that, I thought, is a talent.

  “Sorry about your divorce,” she said. Never believe an apology within a ten-square mile radius of Paramount.

  “Sorry about your veneers,” I said, wiping my hands and tossing the towel in the fancy basket under the sink.

  Dr. Izzy’s office called just as we were heading to my childhood home. Sid wanted to see the touchstones of my youth. I could show him my first sexual harassment corner (I was maybe nine), the house that had all the gypsies, the apartment with the five-foot bong centerpiece in the living room, the duplex with the Armenian kid who ran over his own grandfather with his brand-new Camaro.

  “Can you come now?” Izzy’s receptionist was asking. I glanced at Sid, chewing his ragged fingernails like a wild and anemic animal. “We had a last-minute cancellation.”

  “Change of plans,” I said, whipping the car around and swiping sweat off my forehead. Hot flashes felt like a roller coaster diving through a pool of salt water. Not to get too sexy. (Let’s not mention the chin hair I found in the bathroom mirror. I don’t want to mention the chin hair. Why would I mention chin hair?)