“Really?” Mom places her elbows on either side of her half-eaten plate and steeples her hands. “And how was your trip? Anything out of the ordinary happen?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Victoria!” my grandmother blurts out in exasperation. “She’s your daughter, not your patient, so let’s dispense with the leading questions and just cut to the chase already.”
Turning her turbaned head toward me (yes, she’s wearing a gold lamé turban à la Norma Desmond), Viv says, “Your makeup’s worn off, your outfit looks like it was balled up on the floor all night, and you have the wildest sex hair I’ve seen since I went to Magic Mountain and rode Colossus and Ryan O’Neal at the same time. Clearly, there’s a story to be told. You can start with who you did the horizontal hula with and finish with why you’re here stuffing your face when you could be in a luxurious hotel suite enjoying a morningasm.”
My cheeks flame up because I’m embarrassed to be called out like this and I’m mortified to hear my seventy-three year-old grandmother brag about having sex on a roller coaster (not even sure how that’s logistically possible!) and use the word morningasm.
“I’m here to eat and spend some quality time with my family, not discuss my private life,” I say primly before sticking a forkful of herb-flavored potatoes in my mouth.
“I don’t think so. That hair . . .” My mother gestures at me. “ . . . is obviously a cry for help. You wouldn’t have shown up here looking so disheveled if you didn’t want us to notice and invite you to share.”
Dammit! Is she right? Do I want to talk about this? And does my hair really look that bad? I self-consciously try to pat it down, but thanks to a marathon of vigorous, sweaty lovemaking, my always perfectly coiffed tresses have turned into a tangled jumble of curls and it will take time, and a lot of expensive product, to set them right.
“Matthew, is there alcohol in whatever that is?” I wave at an iced pitcher filled with an orange liquid and floating chunks of fruit and mint leaves.
“It’s mango sangria, which is mostly pink Moscato with a little mango nectar and club soda.”
“Fantastic. Fill ‘er up,” I request, lifting my empty crystal goblet in the air, because I’m going to need some liquid courage for this conversation.
He does as instructed and once he’s handed the glass back to me, I say, “Thanks. Now, make yourself scarce.” No way am I going to talk about what went down with Alex and me in front of the help.
Matthew must look over my head at Viv to confirm that this is okay because she nods and makes a shooing motion with her hand and the draped sleeve of her peacock blue flora-and-fauna-patterned jumpsuit billows along with it.
“This must be juicy if you didn’t want to pollute Matthew’s tender ears with it.” Viv leans forward eagerly to hear my confession. “Did you pick up a dark, handsome stranger in the hotel bar who turned out to be hung like a bull and the two of you tore up the hotel room making mad, passionate love, which elicited screams of pleasure so loud your neighbors across the hall called the front desk to lodge a complaint.”
“That sounds like something you’d do, not me,” I retort.
“Maybe,” she says with an enigmatic smile.
My mother pushes her glasses up her nose, which means she’s going into Dr. Hart mode.
“To learn the identity of Vanessa’s lover, we need simply apply Occam’s Razor, which tells us that the simplest answer is the correct one. She went away for the weekend with Ian, ergo he was the man most likely to have been her partner in any sexual activities that took place.”
“You’re both wrong,” I take more than a little bit of pleasure in informing the nosy pair as I stand up and snatch the muffin basket. Unfortunately, when I move aside the napkin covering the basket’s contents, I don’t find any lemon poppy seed inside and have to settle for some kind of savory muffin that appears to have sausage and cheese in it. “Ian had to cancel going to Riverside at the last minute and Alex insisted on accompanying me instead.”
Viv gasps as I plop down in my chair again. “You and Alex are back together?”
Frowning, I say, “No,” and sink my teeth into the muffin, hugging the basket to my chest to catch any crumbs. “I was really pissed about him tagging along,” I explain as I chew, “and it was a battle of wills between us for the first few hours. But once we got to the hotel, which was amazing and super romantic, I started to enjoy Alex’s company and we were having fun doing all of this couple-y stuff together. Last night we talked about our past and he expressed some regret about how things ended between us. One thing led to another and . . .” I trail off, cramming the rest of the muffin in my mouth.
“Bow chica wow wow,” Viv imitates porn music, doing a little dance in her seat, and I almost choke on my food.
“S-s-s-top!” I splutter, grabbing my glass and gulping some sangria to wash down the muffin. “It wasn’t like that.”
I mean, yes, sex with Alex was five-alarm hot and if I had to give last night a rating, it would probably be borderline X as in exemplary, explosive, exhibitionistic (we tested the strength of the furniture on the patio sometime around three), experimental, and exhausting, but at no point in the proceedings did he put on a tool belt, tell me he was a plumber, and ask if I wanted him to lay pipe. Shudder.
“Oh, dear.” My mother furrows her brow, which is still untouched by Botox because she says she needs to be able to convey emotion when working with patients. I believe the one she’s currently expressing is concern. “Did you find the encounter unsatisfactory?”
“Quite the contrary, so I don’t have any good anecdotes for your bad sex book. At least none that pertain to Alex.” When she looks disappointed, I throw her a bone, saying, “But there was the actor I dated a few years back who couldn’t takes his eyes off his reflection in the mirror every time we had sex if you want to include him.”
“Fascinating,” she murmurs. “I can do a section in the book on the narcissistic personality and how it translates poorly to the bedroom.” Picking up her phone, she types herself a reminder.
“So you and Alex had this incredible shag, then what? You got up today, said, ‘Nice doing you,’ and hightailed it?” Viv queries.
“Something like that.” As I’m now finished with the sausage muffin, I pull another out of the basket and get a little choked up when I see that it’s blueberry, which makes me think fondly of the naked man I left sleeping in my bed at the hotel this morning. Dropping the reminder of my romantic past back in the basket, I place the handwoven container on the table and push it out of sight.
“You’re being very vague,” my mother observes.
“Am I?” I pick up the small stoneware pitcher in the center of the table that’s filled with maple syrup and proceed to drown my French toast in its contents.
“And you’re answering a question with a question, which is classic deflective behavior.”
“She’s also stress-eating,” Viv says as I chomp down on a huge bite of syrup-soaked French toast topped with crumbled up bacon, frittata, and potato.
“Mo mim rot,” I deny the accusation, but my mouth is too full of food for my words to be distinguishable.
Viv and my mother wait me out while I chew my food very slowly and swallow. “I don’t know why you two are making such a big deal out of this. I had sex with an ex. So what? People do it all the time.”
“It’s not something I recommend,” my mother says, crossing her arms, “as it can reopen old wounds or create unrealistic expectations for one or both parties.”
“If the two of you are still hot for each other all these years later, I don’t understand why you can’t just pick up where you left off,” Viv asserts. “I always did like Alex, and he made you happy.”
“Until he made me miserable,” I remind her. “And I don’t want to go down that road again. Just because we hooked up last night doesn’t mean our fundamental differences have changed. I can’t invest anymore time in a relationship that will never progress beyond datin
g and Alex has shown no interest in anything else. I’m closing in on thirty-two and I need to be thinking about building a life, a home, and a family with someone who’s on the same page as me.”
“That’s a very mature and practical way of looking at things,” my mother remarks.
“Yeah, who are you and what have you done with my starry-eyed, romance-addicted granddaughter?”
“She’s still here,” I assure Viv. “And she still believes. But she’s had to accept that sometimes love isn’t enough. I got closure with Alex last night, which I needed more than I realized. For years, I’ve carried around so much anger, disillusion, and bitterness about things not working out between us . . . it really wasn’t healthy. Now I can move on and let all of those toxic feelings go.”
My mother beams. “I’ve never been more proud! This is a giant step forward in your emotional growth.”
“Well, I think it stinks,” Viv grouses, tossing her napkin down on the table. “And I can’t believe Alex was okay with letting you walk away again. Didn’t he learn his lesson the first time? He should have fought for your love, he should have said you light up his world and life would be meaningless without you, he should have taken you in his arms and kissed you until you couldn’t remember your name or why you thought leaving was a good idea.”
That was quite an impassioned speech and I have no idea how to respond to it, so I reach for another piece of bacon.
“How did Alex react when you told him you thought it best to part ways for good?” my mother inquires.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine with it,” I mutter while munching on my bacon, which earns me a gimlet-eyed stare from our resident shrink.
“You just used future tense as if Alex is not yet in possession of the information you’ve shared with your grandmother and me.”
“Did I?” I play innocent and shovel more French toast in my mouth.
“Vanessa Ruth!” my mother exclaims in her sternest tone.
I cringe because I hate my middle name, which sounds like it belongs to a spinster great-aunt who has a creepy doll collection. I’d actually prefer that to the truth—I was named after a German sex therapist who was popular back in the ‘80s and a source of career inspiration for my mother.
“You snuck out this morning without saying anything to him, didn’t you?” Viv reaches out to give my hand an empathetic squeeze, which makes me feel less ganged up on.
“I hate confrontation, and it’s not like Alex doesn’t already know my feelings on the subject. I wanted our relationship to end on a positive note this time, not with harsh words or resentment. I did text him once I was out of the hotel, and I arranged a rental car for him since I was taking his ride.”
“You hit it and quit it with good manners. I raised you right.” Viv leans back in her chair with a self-congratulatory smile.
“Ahem.”
Viv rolls her eyes. “Yes, Victoria, I know you raised Vanessa too, but during her formative years, she was with me the majority of the time, and I’m the one who insisted she write thank you notes whenever she received a gift. So I’m taking credit for this.”
“Would you also like to take credit for Vanessa running away from her romantic problems since that’s a move right out of the Vivian Hart playbook?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Viv says with a regal air, adjusting her turban for good measure.
“You have seven ex-husbands who’d say otherwise.”
“Seven?” My face contorts with confusion. “I thought it was six.” To confirm this number, I start ticking off the names of all my “grandfathers” on my fingers.
“It’s seven. Viv just doesn’t like to acknowledge her five-day marriage to the gigolo she met at a yacht party in Mykonos back in ‘79.” My mother refills her sangria class.
“Because I had the marriage annulled, so it doesn’t count.” Viv glares at her.
“Why did the marriage only last five days?” I wonder.
“Constantine was a thief. He stole my heart . . . along with most of my jewels.”
“INTERPOL caught up with him in Monte Carlo. He’d been bilking wealthy women all over Europe. Viv was just his latest mark.”
“That’s awful. I’m sorry, Viv.”
“It’s all right.” She waves a beringed hand dismissively. “I survived.”
“By popping over to Spain and shacking up with a flamenco guitar player named Rodrigo. As I said, she has a pattern of fleeing from her problems rather than facing them head on and dealing with them.”
Viv purses her lips in irritation. “Perhaps I just prefer not to dwell on things and analyze them to death the way you do, Victoria, which is a crashing bore, by the way.”
“You’re calling my life’s work boring?” My mother’s eyes flash fire. It’s hard to make her angry, but Viv is the one person who knows the right buttons to push.
“Don’t answer that,” I order Viv. “And you need to stand down.” I give my mother a quelling look. “I know you both think your way is the right way, but this is my life and I have to do what I think is best for me even when it’s difficult. And trust me when I tell you that leaving Alex this morning and closing the door on having any kind of a relationship with him was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done because I really do love him.” My voice quavers with emotion as I finish the sentence, and one traitorous tear slips down my cheek. “But . . .” I swipe it away. “I can’t sacrifice what I want to be with him and vice versa. Can you both respect that and support me?”
“Of course, we can, darling.” Viv is quick to rally to my side. “Victoria,” she prompts.
My mother nods. “You have such a tender heart; I understand your need to protect it.”
“Thanks.” I sniff, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of me. I’ve experienced such a wide range of emotions over the last twelve hours: anger, lust, love, elation, fear, sadness, resignation. Articulating some of that to the two people who care for me the most rather than continuing to internalize them— Yikes! I’m using my mother’s therapy-speak now. I need to get out of here.
“I’m going to head home,” I say, standing up. “I’ve got a lot to do to get ready for the party tonight.” Starting with a nap since I am seriously sleep-deprived and I can’t be a lively and charming date for the birthday boy if my eyelids are drooping.
“You still want my team to do your hair and makeup, right? If so, you need to be back here by three with your dress.”
“Three, got it. See you then. Bye, Mom.”
I’m a few steps away from the table when my mother asks, “What time is Ian sending the car for us?”
Swinging back around, I repeat, “Us? What do you mean us? I thought I told you to decline your invite to Ian’s birthday party.”
She holds her hands up in the air in a surrender pose. “I tried. Honestly, I did. But Nicola Ellingsworth is a hard woman to say no to. I sent my regrets, explaining that Garrett would be in Switzerland for a conference and I’m under the gun to finish the first draft of my book, but she called me a few days ago to insist that I come. She was quite adamant about it and I didn’t want to offend her, so I finally relented.”
I groan with feeling and pluck a glazed sour cream donut off a plate I somehow missed before. Breaking the cakey creation in half, I shake it at her when I say, “You have to promise me that you’ll leave Dr. Hart at home and not do any deep dives into anyone’s psyche at this party.” I jam the donut into my mouth.
“What if someone wants my advice or asks for help? I’m often approached in social settin—”
“Mmuh muh.” I shake my head violently from side to side while making a throat-slitting gesture. “Moo rar moff ne rock.”
“I’m afraid I don’t speak donut. Did you understand that?” my mother asks Viv.
“She said, you’re off the clock at the party, meaning keep all of that shrink-y stuff to yourself. Don’t worry, Vanessa, I’ll stick close to this one all night and make s
ure she doesn’t say anything untoward.”
“And I’ll keep an eye on her . . .” My mother jerks a thumb at Viv. “. . . so that she doesn’t flirt with Ian’s father or start telling people how many Oscar winners she’s slept with.”
Viv lifts her chin haughtily. “It is an interesting factoid since I hold the record—”
I can’t listen to any more of this, so I take two more donuts and make a hasty retreat.
CHAPTER 40
I don’t know what’s more uncomfortable: these strappy, silver sandals that have a four-inch, crystal-embellished stiletto heel or the Spanx I had to borrow from Viv and squeeze myself into because I was feeling so bloated from overindulging at brunch. I couldn’t even join my mother and grandmother in having a glass of champagne on the forty-five-minute car ride down here to the Long Beach Harbor for fear that I might burst the seams of this foundation garment and explode right out of my slinky dress.
Viv had the right idea wearing a Naeem Khan gown. The coral color is gorgeous with her porcelain skin and fiery hair and all of the gold embroidery is super dramatic. Best of all, it hugs her bustline, then drapes down to the floor, a silhouette that can hide a multitude of sins. She’ll be able to dance, and eat, and float around the party all night without difficulty. And Mom’s got on her Alexander McQueen tuxedo dress that skims her slim figure in the most flattering way and flows down into a pool of black crepe at her feet. She could eat an entire rack of prime rib tonight and no one would be able to tell. Meanwhile, I keep having to remind myself to suck it in!
“Ian, Ian, Ian,” I repeat his name so that I’ll remember why I’m here, putting myself through this torture when I’d rather be home, sprawled out on my couch in yoga pants and a baggy T-shirt, catching up on eps of This Is Us, which would give me an excuse to bawl my eyes out.
“What’s that, dear?” Viv asks as we step aboard the Queen Mary.
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