by Blake Crouch
We reach our surprise destination, and Rex gets out and opens the door for us.
“What are we doing here?” Kara asks.
“I thought it’d be nice to kill an hour or two watching the sunset.”
“And here’s what you asked for,” Rex says, handing me a small cooler.
Rex is a wonderful driver. While we watched the movie, he went out and purchased champagne at my request.
It’s 8:30, and if I squint and measure with my thumb and index finger, the sun is roughly an inch above the horizon of calm blue ocean.
Kara and I walk onto the Santa Monica Pier.
We stroll all the way to the end and only pass three people—a starry-eyed couple, and an old man, fishing.
We have the end of the pier all to ourselves, and we sit down on a bench and watch the sun sink into the sea.
I open the cooler, remove the bottle of champagne and two plastic flutes.
“Look at you,” Kara says as I work out the cork.
It pops off, clears the railing, gone.
To tell you the truth, I’m kind of sad as I pour the champagne. It’s like what I realized that morning in New York. Sometimes, things are so perfect, you know it can’t get any better. The most tragic point of existence isn’t when you’ve bottomed out. It’s when you’ve peaked, when you’ve just crested perfection and can see it beginning to fall away in your rearview mirror.
“To you, Kara.”
“To you, Jim.”
Part of me wants to skip Rich’s party and go home.
“What’s wrong,” Kara asks me.
“I’m very happy right now.”
She giggles.
“That’s a bad thing?”
I take a sip of the champagne. Very spritzy. I look at Kara, her short blond hair pulled behind her ears except for a few wisps which hang down over her eyes. I brush them back for her.
“I don’t see how it could get any better,” I say.
“That’s so sweet.”
She leans forward and kisses me and puts her head on my shoulder.
But I wasn’t trying to be sweet. I understand that she thinks I was implying that being here with her is a surreal experience (and it is) but that’s not what I really meant. I genuinely don’t think this night can get any better, and as such, I’d rather not go to Rich’s party.
I finish my champagne and set the flute down and caress Kara’s shoulder.
“Sure you’re up for this party?” I say. “We could just go back to my place.”
“That’s sweet of you, but I think I can handle it now. Maybe I’ll even let you stray three or four feet away from me this time.” She laughs again and pinches my arm. I laugh, too, but it’s forced.
I am so uneasy.
The sun is halfway into the ocean. Then three quarters. Then only a sliver remains. Then it’s gone.
We sit for awhile in the dark.
Rich’s mansion is on top of this hill that overlooks the sea. We cruise by the house at 10:15, but through the gate, it looks as though only several limos are parked in the huge circular drive.
So Rex drives us up and down the Pacific Coast Highway, and at a quarter past eleven, we re-arrive at the Haneline’s. Now, there’s a line to get through the gate, and we feel confident the party is in full swing.
As Rex pulls into the line of cars dropping off guests at the front door, I count thirty-six limos. When it’s our turn, Rex opens our door, and I help Kara out of the backseat. I can smell the ocean, hear the assault of waves in the darkness below the hill.
Rich and Margot stand by the massive, intricately-carved door (I read somewhere that the front door alone cost half a million dollars) to their 17,000 square-foot home (a reported $29,000,000), beneath the porch light, greeting their guests. Rich looks almost stately in his tuxedo. His wife, Margot, can’t be more than thirty. She’s stunning. Perhaps the first trophy wife I’ve seen in real life.
“Jim!” he smiles when we reach the top of the steps. We embrace, do some good old fashioned back-slapping, and then pull back to look at each other, arms still entwined.
“I am so glad you could make it,” he tells me.
“Can I make a prediction?” I say. “Oscar nom.” I poke his chest. “You were brilliant, Rich. You’ve outdone yourself this time.”
“I appreciate that. And who is this?” he gestures to Kara.
“Rich, meet Kara.”
“Kara,” he takes her hand, “it is such a pleasure to meet you. I’m thrilled you could come. This is Margot.”
Margot smiles and steps forward in a glittering white evening dress. She shakes Kara’s hand, then looks at me. This may sound crazy, but from the way she looks at me, I think we may have something going on.
“Jim,” she extends her hand, and I take it, exactly like Rich took Kara’s, “does he have to make a movie for you to come to our house?”
”Of course not.” I smile. “But it helps.” Winning smile. Laughs all around.
Rich tells us to go on in and he’ll be along shortly.
As Kara and I step through the monstrous front door, I get the feeling that Rich and I used to be very close. I wish I could remember what happened. I should probably tell my doctor about this awful amnesia.
You wouldn’t believe that someone actually lives in this palace. You walk through the front door into this gardened atrium. Whole trees are growing out of the floor, and up above, these skylights let moonlight in.
We pass through the atrium, where guests mingle, sipping drinks by candlelight and moonlight. Staircases curve up on either side and meet at the second floor, where four large oil paintings adorn the wall. They each have their own lighting system, so even though the hallway is dark, they seem to glow.
Beyond the atrium, we enter a long family room with fireplaces on either end so tall I could stand up inside them. The kitchen shines beneath inlay lighting—steel appliances, black marble countertops, and a brick oven that puts mine to shame.
We hear the music as we approach French doors leading out onto the veranda. A server opens the door for us, and placing my palm on the small of her back, I lead Kara out into the eye of the party.
When she sees the view, she whispers, “My God.”
The veranda of Rich’s mansion is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It runs the length of the house, and at fifty feet wide, it’s crowded with partygoers, a jazz band, three bars, a life-size bull made out of butter, a chocolate fountain, and several tables of exquisite hors d’oeuvre.
Kara practically drags me over to the stone railing. It comes to our waists, and we lean against it and look straight down seventy-five feet to a rocky beach. The moon has just begun to silver the inky sea, and we stand watching the waves far below, and gazing up and down the Malibu coast, at the lights of other cliff-top mansions.
It’s kind of funny. No one else at the party seems even halfway enchanted with the extraordinary view. I mean, this is one of the most beautiful things Kara and I have ever seen, and no one really cares.
“No one else even sees this,” I whisper.
“What?” The sea breeze stirs her hair.
“This view. They might as well be in some stuffy room. Do you see it?”
“I see it. And I see you.”
I stare into her eyes, dark jewels.
“You want to dance?” I ask her.
“No.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Go home with you.”
“That can be arranged.” We laugh, and touch noses, and kiss.
“I’m going to get a drink,” I tell her. “Can I bring you back something?”
“Glass of white wine would be nice.”
“Okay. You’ll be here?”
“Right here.”
I make my way toward the nearest bar, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I order my specialty and a glass of white for Kara, and while the bartender fixes the drinks, I survey the crowd, not recognizing as many faces as I thought I might. Jan Bollinger
, the actress, is dancing with a tall, Italian man who can’t be more than twenty-two. She’s fifty-five, by the way. She does a little finger-wave to me. I finger-wave back.
“Here you are, sir.” The bartender hands me my drinks.
I try to tip him, but he won’t accept my money.
As I start to walk away, someone grabs my arm, and I nearly drop the glasses.
A youngish man, maybe twenty-five, stares angrily into my eyes. He’s still holding my arm. He wears a black, silk shirt and leather pants, similar to what I might sport when I go clubbing with the commoners.
“There a problem?” I say.
He gets right up into my face, whispers, “Least you can do is mail it back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes. His face is tan, angular.
“I’ll bet. What are you afraid I’ll spill it here? That ain’t going to happen.”
“If you don’t let go of my arm, I’m going to throw you over the fucking cliff.”
He lets go of my arm.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t…I let my temper get away from me.” He fixes his collar, takes a deep breath. Smoothes his hair. “I guess should just be thrilled that the great James Jansen let me suck him off in a prop closet,” he says, a little loud for comfort. “You didn’t have to feign interest in my script, you know.”
Now I step into the young man’s face.
“I don’t know how you got in to this party, but if you ever speak to me again, I’ll have you run out of this town.”
He looks pretty scared when I say this, so I must’ve played it right. I turn and walk toward Kara without looking back, though I can feel his eyes on me, and my heart going like mad.
Chapter 23
Margot and Kara view the Manet ~ Jim’s vodka commits suicide ~ gets pitched by Harvey Wallison ~ feeling pretty shitty
Rich and Margot are talking with Kara when I return with her wine, and she’s telling them all about her studies in the art program at UCLA. She’s very engaging. Rich and Margot talk to interesting people all the time, and I’m telling you, they’re riveted.
“Well, you need to come up and see out Manet,” Margot says.
“You have a Manet?”
“Oh, it’s breathtaking. If you looked up toward the second-floor hallway when you first came in, you’d have seen it. Come on! Let me show you!”
Kara looks at me, glowing, and takes her wine.
“Gentlemen,” Margot says, taking my date by the arm. “Think you can entertain yourselves while we’re gone?”
The ladies head off through the crowd toward the house.
Rich and I lean against the railing and stare out to sea.
A mile out, a yacht cruises off the coast.
“She’s adorable, Jim,” Rich tells me. “Where’d you two meet?”
“At La Casa actually. Night I saw you there.”
“Oh, a new romance.” He sips what appears to be a Perrier.
Somewhere in the crowd behind us, a woman screams: “Oh go to hell!”
“So what’s up with that?” Rich points to the glass in my hand.
“What, this?”
“Yeah, that.”
“It’s just a vodka with—”
“Look, maybe it’s not my place, but…” He doesn’t finish the thought.
“What?”
“You’re going to kill yourself. Let me have that.”
“Are you kidding?”
He takes my glass and throws it over the railing.
Two seconds, and I hear it shatter on the rocks below.
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything.
“How’s the script coming?” he asks.
“It’s coming.”
“Yeah? You going to star?”
“Who else? You?”
“Hey, come next March, I might be the hottest ticket in town.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
Rich finishes off his Perrier. “You want one of these? I’m going to go for another.”
“No thanks.”
Rich adjusts his bowtie and sort of just takes me in.
“I don’t know what it is, Jim, but you seem different somehow.”
My stomach comes up my throat.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the girl, but you seem more grounded. At peace even.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?”
Kara doesn’t come back for awhile, so I meander through the crowd, back toward the jazz band at the other end of the veranda. I bump into a few people who know me along the way, and one of them, an agent, goes on and on about how she read a New York Times rave review for some off-off-Broadway thing I did, and how she had no idea I had stage chops.
It’s easier than you might think talking to someone you don’t remember. Because if you let them, most people will talk exclusively about themselves. Honestly, they don’t really want to know how you’re doing. And if they do ask, it’s merely out of courtesy, and they won’t be listening to your answer. They’ll be nodding their head, smiling at you, and wondering, Do I have something in my teeth? I wonder if John’s here. Oh, there’s Mary! I need another drink.
Practically everyone asks about the screenplay Brad Morton and I are writing. Some people seem to have read portions of it. I’m telling you, there’s a buzz. Everyone asks me where Brad is, like I’m supposed to be keeping tabs on him or something. I hate that. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Brad. I really don’t.
The jazz band is smoking. Especially the drummer. He’s one cool cat as they say. The only thing that moves are his arms. The rest of his body is perfectly still, and he just stares out at the ocean while he plays these blistering fills, like he could give a shit who he’s playing for.
When I glance through the crowd again, I see Harvey Wallison making his way toward me. We haven’t made eye contact, and since he doesn’t know I’ve seen him, I walk through the French doors, into Rich’s house, moving quickly through the kitchen, a ridiculous dining room, with a table that could seat forty guests, and finally arriving at the atrium. There’s a chair beside this gurgling fountain, so I sit down and cross my legs and wait, praying Harvey doesn’t see me.
Shortly thereafter, he comes around the corner from the dining room and stops, looking over the candlelit atrium and the half dozen people who occupy its chairs and sofas. I’m hoping he won’t recognize me in the lowlight of the candles, but when he looks in my direction, he smiles and starts toward me.
He sits down in the empty chair across from mine, takes out a handkerchief, pats down his forehead.
“I hate these things,” he says. “Wear me the fuck out.”
He sips from his glass of Scotch and sets it on the wrought iron table betwixt us.
“Good to see you out again, Jim.”
“Good to be out.”
“Yeah? You feeling well?”
“I think so. Some people tell me I seem different.” He nods, touching his index finger to the corner of his eye. I think Harvey might be one of those rare listeners. “I feel different,” I say.
“Well, you’re sort of just getting back into the swing of things.”
“Yeah.”
“And I think it’s terrific that you are, Jim. You’re a helluva brave soul, and a lot of people are rooting for you.”
I pat Harvey on the knee.
Harvey sips his Scotch and removes his glasses.
“I don’t know what your timetable is for picking your next project. I’ll tell you, Guy Watson and Tyler Law are hounding me for this part. I’ve had both of them over to read with Lauren and it was good. I’m not going to say it wasn’t. But it wasn’t what it could be.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks me hard in the eyes. “Jim, I’ve only worked with you on one film, but I know when something’s perfect for you, and buddy, this is it. A role like this comes along once, maybe twice
in a man’s career.”
He leans in closer. I can smell the single malt on his breath.
“I know I’m coming on strong here, Jim, and believe me, I don’t want you to do this if you aren’t ready, or if you don’t want it. But if any part of you is interested, I would urge you to come up to my place for a read. I won’t lie to you. I want you at least partly for selfish reasons. I think you’d make this film the best thing I’ve ever done. I think you’d make it a classic. But as much as I want these things for me, I want them also for you.”
He finishes his Scotch, and I’m wondering if I’m already supposed to know the premise.
I take a chance.
“So what’s it about, Harvey? I apologize, you may have already told me.”
Harvey gets up and stands in front of me.
I am very uncomfortable.
I keep waiting for him to ask me something I don’t know.
“You’re a car salesman in the Midwest. A family man. You have a wife and daughter. You come home early from work one day to surprise your wife and find her in bed with your next door neighbor, Michael. You sit outside the door and listen to them making wild, flagrant love.”
He takes a breath and half-grins at me like, Are you hooked yet?
And I guess I am. It’s a fairly intriguing premise.
“That night, about two in the morning, you sneak over to your neighbor’s house and murder him and bury him in his backyard. His wife and children are visiting family in another state.
“The next hour and forty-five minutes chronicles Michael’s body being discovered your wife’s growing suspicion that you murdered him, and your own deteriorating mental state brought on by an ocean of guilt. It’s called Next Door.”
He’s smiling. I am, too.
I say, “Wow.”
“Yeah?”
“Harvey, I want to see this movie.”
“See it? Star in the motherfucker!”
I take a deep breath. I think the only way Harvey’s going to leave me alone is if I agree to do a reading.
“All right. I’ll read with Lauren.” I don’t even know which Lauren he’s talking about.
“Really?” I don’t think he expected me to agree.
“Well, you hooked me.”
Harvey kneels down and hugs my legs. It’s sort of embarrassing.