He was waiting for that ring to draw me back to my senses, back to him like a lodestone. But with every passing day, I knew with greater certainty that I wasn’t coming back. We both deserved more.
I turned off my phone and steeled myself for the onslaught of Hurricane Claire.
“He’s not here,” announced a weary voice when I tiptoed into my sister’s dark kitchen.
I groped for the wall switch and flooded the room with fluorescent light. “You’re still up?”
“I’m still up.” Claire, wearing a plush black bathrobe over white silk pajamas, blinked and shaded her eyes against the sudden brightness.
“Then why is the whole place pitch black?”
She hunched into her chair. “I turned off the lights for two reasons. One, I kicked Andrew out and I don’t want him cruising by, seeing a light in the window and trying to convince me to let his sorry ass back in. Two, electricity costs money and we don’t have any.”
Central air-conditioning also cost money, and theirs was cranked up full blast (Claire having long ago decreed that she could not be expected to sleep in a room even one degree above 69 Fahrenheit). But right now was not, as Gayle would say, “a teachable moment.” Right now felt a lot more like a “shoot off your mouth, get your larynx torn out” kind of moment.
So I just cut to the chase. “You kicked Andrew out? Why?”
“Because.” She stalked over to the stainless-steel refrigerator, snatched out a carton of blueberry soy yogurt, and retrieved a silver spoon from a drawer, which she then slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. “He’s a lying, manipulative, gutless excuse for a man.”
My eyes widened. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“And have I mentioned that I hate him? Hate him?”
I boosted myself up to sit on the granite-topped island. “But why?”
“Because he lied to me, that’s why.”
“About…”
“Everything! Everything!” She shoveled a heaping spoonful of soy yogurt into her mouth and gagged. “Ugh. I hate this crap, but it’s for the baby. Apparently, I’m supposed to be cramming calcium and folic acid down my throat like there’s no tomorrow.” She sank back down into the chair next to the table. “The bastard. He promised to love me, cherish me, take care of me. And look at me!”
She flung her arms out, a silk-swathed martyr in a state-of-the-art kitchen kept perpetually spotless by servants. “All this? Going, going, gone. The house, the cars, the furniture…we’ll have to sell everything and we’ll still be drowning in debt.”
“You won’t be in debt,” I soothed, watching her devour her yogurt with a voracity that, for Claire, constituted bingeing. “You’ll just have to cut back a little until he gets a new job.”
She nearly spat out the soy in disdain. “Becca, sometimes you are so sheltered that I can’t stand it. Of course we will be in debt. We’ll probably have to file for bankruptcy. We haven’t even made a dent in our mortgage—we owe more on the cars than they’re worth, and the credit cards…just thinking about the credit cards makes my blood run cold.” Her eyes narrowed to serpentine slits. “Don’t you dare tell Mom and Dad about any of this.”
“Oh.” Understanding finally dawned. “So he lied to you about how much debt he had? Before you married him? That’s why you kicked him out.”
“No.” She finished off the yogurt, stomped back to the fridge, and grabbed a big white bakery box. “I kicked him out because he got fired, thus breaking all his vows to take care of me. When we got engaged, he promised me all this—” her sweeping gesture encompassed the house and everything in it “—and he couldn’t even hold on to it for a year. He knows how much I love this house! I picked it out myself, all the colors, all the furniture…”
“But you also love him, right?”
“That has nothing to do with anything!” She dabbed at her eyes with a paper napkin while snarfing down an éclair.
I tried not to stare, but I hadn’t seen her touch processed sugar in at least five years. “But it’s not like he asked to be fired.”
The tears on her cheeks now mingled with smears of Bavarian cream. “I know, but he should have just shut up and let that stupid secretary deal with her own problems. Why did he have to do the right thing? The selfish ass!”
“Um.” I tried to look as meek as possible. “I hate to say it, but—”
“But what? I should have known he would disappoint me as soon as we got married?”
“No. I was going to say…” I squeezed my eyes shut as I plunged ahead with what was surely a suicide mission. “It sounds like it might be partly—just a teeny, tiny bit—your fault you guys are in debt. He knew how much you wanted the top-of-the-line car and the top-of-the-line house in the top-of-the-line neighborhood, and he wanted to make you happy…”
Her porcelain complexion progressed from pink to crimson to maroon. “Oh, I see. I see how it is. He’s the helpless victim and I’m the materialistic, conniving wife?”
“No, I’m just trying to—”
“Hey! I’m not through talking!” All those elocution classes had really paid off—her vocal projection and enunciation skills were unparalleled. “There are two people in this marriage. Two.”
“That’s all I’m saying,” I murmured. “It’s supposed to be a team effort. So it’s not fair to put all the blame on him.”
I fled down the dark hallway as she sprang out of her chair, presumably to seize the Japanese chef knives and fillet me.
She chased me into the master bedroom, where she switched on a lamp and continued to screech. “I can’t believe I’m getting a lecture on personal responsibility from you of all people!”
I turned my palms up in surrender. “Know what? You’re right. It’s none of my business. Let’s just drop it.”
But the time for dropping it had come and gone.
“You’re happy to point the finger at everyone else, aren’t you?” She twisted her face into an infantile pout and mocked me with a high-pitched whine. “ ‘Oh, Gayle, stop treating me like a child!’ ‘Oh, Mom, stop putting my bras in the dryer when I’m twenty-five and still living at home and letting you do my laundry!’ ‘Oh, Kevin, stop trying to make me grow up and get my shit together!’ ”
“Claire—”
“Shut it! I don’t want to hear another word out of you, you ungrateful little brat. Get out of my house.”
“Claire—”
“Get out!”
So I did, slamming the front door behind me. By the time I made it down the front steps, she’d turned the master bedroom light off again.
Fine. Good. I didn’t need no stinkin’ guesthouse. I’d just sleep in my car like Lily the bartender.
Except, now that I thought about it, the car was yet another one of Claire’s charitable donations.
So I’d sleep…somewhere else. Where did people go when they got locked out of their own homes in the middle of the night?
I whipped my cell phone out of my purse, dialed 411 for the number of a cab company, and slammed the gates that kept Claire ensconced in her soon-to-be-foreclosed paradise.
I hesitated just a moment before dialing up the one person in L.A. who might take me in.
13
Whoa,” was all Aimee had to say when I arrived at her doorstep thirty minutes later. “You look pissed.”
“I am,” I fumed, mincing into her tiny West Hollywood apartment. (My self-righteous stride had morphed into a high-heel-induced limp during the trek up the four flights of stairs to her apartment.)
“You didn’t have to take a cab. I would’ve come to pick you up.”
“No. The free rides are over, both literally and figuratively,” I said firmly. “I’m going to rent a car tomorrow and hopefully, I’ll be able to find a place of my own in the next few days. In the meantime, I’ll chip in for your rent.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. You can stay here as long as you need, no charge. Us hyphens have to help each other out, you know. I
t’s a tough town.”
“No way. I’m an independent woman. I have to stand on my own two feet.”
She shook a cigarette out of the Marlboro Lights pack. “Shall we put some Chaka Khan on the stereo to celebrate your emancipation? Maybe Donna Summer? Did Gloria Steinem ever do an album?”
“Stop making fun of me.” I collapsed on her blue moleskin-slipcovered sofa. “I’m exhausted, I have no pajamas, and I reek of olive oil and garlic from Rhapsody.”
“You’ll feel better in the morning,” she promised. “Go take a shower. You can borrow my shampoo and some pj’s. And no, I do not accept payment for my Pantene.”
“Thank you so much. This means a lot to me—Claire hates my guts, I don’t know anyone here yet, and I didn’t know who else to call.”
“No problem whatsoever.” She blew a series of perfect smoke rings. “When you make it big and spend all your time hobnobbing with the VIPs, I want you to remember who shared her shampoo with you when you were living on the street.”
“I will,” I promised.
“And then I want you to get her cast in a major motion picture.”
“I’ll try.”
“And give her a whole wardrobe for free.”
“Every season?”
“Every season.” She picked up a stack of head shots from the coffee table and started stapling copies of her résumé to the back of each one. “Now keep your fingers crossed—I have a big audition tomorrow morning. I’m trying out for the role of a sexy young lawyer at a male-dominated firm. They want someone ‘demure but aggressive,’ whatever the hell that means.”
“You’ll do great.”
“I even touched up my roots.” She pointed to her hairline. “To prove that I’m a perfect leading lady. I, Aimee Chenard, am more than the slutty best friend. I even bought a boring black blazer to wear to the audition.”
“Which you will be returning to the store as soon as you shake the casting agent’s hand?” I guessed.
“Of course. I may be leading lady material, but I ain’t made of money. Now get to bed, chica. You’ve got a red carpet outfit to whip up in the morning.”
The next day, I headed back to Claire’s house when I knew she’d be at her pre-natal yoga class, convinced her housekeeper to buzz me past the gate, and crammed all my sewing gear into my newly rented Pontiac like I was looting a Jo-Ann fabric store. Humiliating, yes, but a vastly more appealing option than round two of the Davis Sister Screamfest. I then spent forty-eight sleepless hours sewing, hostessing, and checking voice mail after I dropped off the corset with Fiona’s assistant. But my message box remained stubbornly empty. And when I finally broke down and tried to get in touch with the stylist, I was frostily informed that she was “on the other line,” which Aimee translated to “call here again and we’ll have you shot.”
“You just have to wait it out; she’ll get back to you,” Aimee assured me. “But not until she’s damn good and ready.”
“But what do you think it all means? Do you think Rachelle is going to wear the corset to the premiere this weekend or not?”
“Who knows? We’ll just have to get the Sunday paper and find out for ourselves.”
“Oh God, she hates my work,” I moaned. “She must hate it or she would’ve called me back. I knew I should have gone with maroon instead of cerise silk!”
“You must chill. Everything is probably fine. Not returning phone calls is an art form out here. You think my agent’s heard back about that lawyer girl audition? The one that I spent days prepping for, both physically and mentally? The one that could jump-start my acting career and prove that I haven’t spent my entire adult life pursuing a dream that’s never going to come true? No. It’s a form of psychological torture.”
“But even her receptionist was mean. That can’t be a good sign.”
“Are you kidding? The receptionists are the worst of all. Rumor has it they train them in Chinese prison camps.”
I didn’t hear from Claire, either, though I did get a call from Kevin (no message). By the time the weekend rolled around, I was little more than a bundle of frayed, twitching synapses.
“Ooh, here we go! Open it, open it, open it!” Aimee hopped up and down in her wife beater, plaid boxer shorts, and fluffy blue bunny slippers, splashing her cup of coffee all over the sidewalk.
“Hang on, I have to pay.” I thrust a five-dollar bill at the newsstand clerk, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped the bulky newspaper.
“Okay! Okay, okay, let’s look!”
I grabbed her elbow and sat down on the curb before the vendor had a chance to give me my change. Everyone who was anyone in West Hollywood was still sleeping it off at this ungodly hour on a Sunday morning, so we basically had the street to ourselves.
She plopped down next to me. “The suspense is killing me! Let’s see.”
I pawed through the sections, coating my thumb in ink. “All right. Faces and Places.”
“It’s in color and everything!”
“All the better for my portfolio, right?”
“I thought you didn’t have a portfolio?”
“I will after today.”
“Did they cover the premiere? What did she wear?”
An open-topped Jeep sped by, and as the pounding bass of Tupac Shakur pulsed through me, I saw it.
The full-color photo of Rachelle Robinson, absolutely gorgeous in my red corset and a tight black satin skirt.
“Holy shit!” Aimee squealed.
My excitement crested in a pure, thrilling fusion of hope and pride and teary disbelief…
…And then I read the tiny caption under the photo: “High-stepping starlet Rachelle Robinson dazzles in couture of her own making. ‘I’ve always been interested in design,’ the statuesque stunner tells us. ‘In fact, I’m starting my own fashion line. This corset, for instance…[is] just a little something I whipped up between takes on the set of Body Language. Creativity is my passion—design comes naturally to me. I’ve been blessed with the gift to innovate beauty.’ ”
“I’ve never heard anyone swear like that,” Aimee marveled once we were back in her apartment. “Did you used to be in the navy or something?”
I collapsed on the carpet and stared at the ceiling. “I cannot believe this.”
“You know what always helps me after I have a crappy audition? French toast. There’s this place down the street called The Griddle…” She took another look at my face and changed tactics. “Or you may just want to start drinking heavily. I’ve got vodka in the freezer and V8 in the fridge. Bloody Marys, anyone?”
“ ‘I’ve been blessed with the gift to innovate beauty?’ What a crock!”
“It’s just some inane little sound bite her publicist fed her. Don’t let it get to you.”
“That’s not what’s getting to me!” I rolled my head to the side so I could address her directly. “What’s getting to me is that she’s taking credit for my design! Before I even got an official job offer!”
“Maybe it’s just a misprint? Maybe?”
“ ‘Just a little something I whipped up between takes on the set’? ‘Design comes easily to me’?” I could feel the vein in my forehead pulsing. “How nice that she picks it up effortlessly via osmosis while everyone else has to spend years toiling over a sewing machine!”
“And you’re positive Fiona never mentioned any of this to you?”
“She hasn’t even returned my calls!” I pounded a fist on the floor. “But I know where she works and she will be hearing from me first thing tomorrow morning.”
“If it makes you feel any better, my agent called yesterday. I didn’t get the demure but agresssive lawyer girl part.”
“That makes me feel worse.”
“Me, too.” She sighed and joined me on the threadbare beige carpet. “Obscurity totally sucks.”
“You can say that again.”
“So what do you want to do with the rest of the day?”
I groaned. “I have to go clean o
ut the rest of my stuff from Claire’s guesthouse. I can only wear the same three outfits so many times. Which means I’m facing another histrionic rant about what a sheltered little halfwit I am. Not to mention ungrateful.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to reconsider a twelve-hour bender?”
“Ask me again when I get back.”
“I saw the paper today.” This was how Claire, clad in rumpled yoga pants and one of Andrew’s threadbare USC T-shirts, greeted me at her front door.
I avoided eye contact. “I’m here for my clothes. Don’t want my ghetto rags cluttering up your rarefied guesthouse.”
“I saw the picture of Rachelle Robinson at the Body Language premiere.” She stepped aside, ushering me into the high-ceilinged foyer. Her feet were bare, her hair unwashed, her manicure chipped. “And I read how she quote-unquote ‘whipped it up’ herself. I know how you must feel.”
“Can I please just go get my things?”
“You must feel the same way you did when I decided not to wear the wedding gown you made for me. Except ten times worse.”
I inhaled deeply. “Well, now that you mention it, that is kind of how I feel.”
“You were robbed. And Rachelle Robinson is a self-important hag on loan from the bowels of hell.” She tugged a thread at the hem of her T-shirt. “And I’m sorry about throwing you out of the house. I don’t really want you to move out. It’s possible I was a little overwrought last night.”
I nearly fell over dead. The Claire Davis apology, much like the Loch Ness Monster or the Yeti, was mythical in its scarcity and elusiveness.
“It’s okay,” I mumbled. “You’ve had a lot to deal with this week.”
“I know, but according to Gayle, that’s no excuse. She called me this morning and read me the riot act about ‘letting other people into my marriage.’ Apparently, I’m supposed to keep all conflict between me and Andrew private and sacred.”
“Where is Andrew, by the way? Did you finally break down and call him after you talked to Gayle?”
Fashionably Late Page 10