by Thérèse
“What’s New Leaf?” India asked, settling down on one of the walnut Louis XV tapestry armchairs and resting her legs on the matching footstool.
“It’s a rehab facility in Malibu. I think Stan’s lost it, but that’s not why I’m calling.” Lizzie lowered her voice. “Okay, so Joanna just turned seventeen, and she arrived in a three hundred and fifty grand, fully- loaded Maybach, a birthday present from her father. And you want to hear the worst of it?”
“What?”
“She was pissed that she didn’t have a full license and can’t carry passengers yet..”
“You can’t be serious,” India said.
“I am. I tell you, Jack was more excited about getting his goldfish last week. Apparently Diddy bought a Maybach for his son and so Joanna asked for one too.”
“That’s outrageous.”
“Yes, well, I thought you might like to see what you’re dealing with here.”
“Omygod. That’s serious.”
“Yes, well anyway. Look up New Leaf and tell me what you think. Call me later.”
As soon as she clicked off, India went back to her laptop and searched for New Leaf. A couple of weeks sleeping in the wild, somewhere like Uganda, would be a better solution, she thought as she stared openmouthed at the five-star facilities with spas, views of the Pacific, and luxurious private rooms with king-size beds. Lizzie’s right. Stan’s lost all sense of perspective.
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India worked with such laserlike focus over the next few days that she hardly even missed Adam. It felt as if he’d been gone for months already. Accustomed to unreasonable deadlines and burning the midnight oil, she pulled her résumé together. Then she began decoding the jargon. Supernanny had a “program.” That’s what teachers call a “curriculum,” India realized. I need a six-week program. Okay, brainstorm. Week One, Stress Management. Week Two, Boundaries. Week Three, Creativity … and I definitely need some “steps.” Step One… Focus… Step One … Step UP and Take Control! Okay. And Step Two … mmm… Take a Step Back. Sounds like a dance routine, but I kind of like it, she mused. Sinking back in her chair, in a flash of inspiration, she leaned forward again and wrote “Two Easy Exercises Needed.” Which gave her the satisfying acronym “TEEN.” She typed it in bold.
Supernanny also had “tools.” As in “resource materials” – worksheets, templates, and PowerPoint presentations. No problem there, Supergirl, India thought. I’ve changed way more slides than you’ve changed stinky diapers.
She would also need “case studies” for her sample chapters. “Case studies” translated to “progress reports.” Omygod! I’ve done a zillion of those, she thought, although not with adults, so I’m going to need fresh material, and I’d better tape the sessions.
She called Lizzie.
“Hey. Quick question. How do I go about recording my sessions?”
“No problem. I have a 4x Pro. You can download it onto Windows. We have camcorders as well. I wish now I’d had them installed in Sophie’s bedroom.” She laughed. “And just a thought, India: I’ll draw up some disclaimers for you.”
“How do you mean?”
“This is personal stuff. So you’ll need to cover yourself. California’s one of the most litigious places on Earth. You need to own the rights to every story you publish.”
“Thanks, Lizzie. I’d no idea.”
India flicked through Simon Clements’ book. It was crammed with affirmations and inspirational quotes. She’d need some of those too, but that’d have to wait. She’d just had a text from Adam. Her man was back in town.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
India was sitting out by the pool, about to take a bite of her tuna melt sandwich, when she glimpsed the caller ID. Play it cool, don’t be too keen, she thought. He’s the one who scooted off on safari.
Putting down her plate, she took a sip of her lemonade and picked up. “Adam, how are you? How was your trip? How’s Max?”
“I’m tired, really tired, but good.”
“Guess what. I have news – I’m going to be running some workshops in LA starting tomorrow!”
“Fantastic. Fast work. Great. I want to hear all about it … when can I see you?”
India paused. “I’m free this weekend,” she said, too quickly she thought. “Well, Saturday, anyway.”
“So let’s make a plan. Please. I’m going to stay over at this end of town, keep an eye on Max,” Adam said quietly.
“Why don’t you come over here?” India replied. “I’ve the whole place to myself. And I could do with your help. I’m writing a book proposal and it turns out I don’t write American. It’s a foreign language – even the punctuation’s different. But sorry. You said you’re tired. How come? Was it a long drive?”
“You’re in that bubble again Indie … I guess you haven’t seen a paper or the TV this morning?”
“No … I can’t work out how to use all the remote controls. Maria must think I’ve had a lobotomy or something. But I’ve never seen so many options and if I grab the wrong one, the drapes fly open.”
“That’s funny,” Adam said. “Well, I could hardly get Max in and out of the courthouse this morning with all the fucking cameras and TV vans. Alanna and Lauren were there… It was a total shit show.”
“Why was he in court? Was it the accident?” India asked, shunting out of the sun and climbing under a canopy.
“Yeah. He was arraigned for DUI. Easy bail. His attorney’s pretty sure he’ll get off with a fine. He’s already been to rehab and nobody died. But he’s not in the clear yet. There’s always the chance the judge’ll get heavy just to prove she’s not starstruck. We stopped off at Kate Mantilini for a burger on the way back.”
“Joss told me they do great mashed potatoes there.”
“They do. I’ll pick some up on my way over Saturday,” Adam said, “but I’d also like to take you out somewhere special. It’s been a while. Let me think. I’ll text you, but how ’bout we aim for seven?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
India put down her phone, stood up, and took a running dive at the pool. “He’s back! Wahoo!” she screamed before perform-ing a magnificent belly flop.
C’est La Vie – Let’s get this party started.
India was checking out the sound system when Lizzie stuck her head in.
“All okay?” she asked her. “I’ve told everyone to park on the road and walk up.”
“This is perfect.” India beamed, looking around the spacious octagonal room with its maplewood floor and long windows. “I love the Zen Garden. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes,” Lizzie sighed. “Pity, I never use it myself. Good luck! And promise to drop by before you leave to let me know how it went.”
“I will. Thanks, Lizzie.”
Adjusting the strap of her Turlington tank top and smooth-ing down her Nuala capri pants, India forced herself to smile before coming out from behind the Shoji screen divider.
“Hello, lovely to see you. It’s Georgia, yes?” she said, usher-ing in a woman who was wearing a deep crimson monogrammed pantsuit and stepping gingerly around a Happy Buddha statue.
“Please sign in. Leave your shoes at the door and help yourself to iced green tea.”
India gestured to a black lacquered table set out with a china urn and Harmony motif teacups, and made a pretense of arranging some leaflets. When she had counted in all but one of the women she was expecting, India waited a few minutes and then directed everyone into a circle on the bamboo rug.
“Welcome,” she said, with what she hoped was a beatific smile. “Please sit down and let’s get to know one another.”
India had rehearsed her opening remarks but was having trouble remembering them with fourteen expectant faces turned to her.
“It’s lovely to see you all here this morning,” she said. “And what a beautiful day. Just look at that California sunshine.” She paused. “Now please join me in taking a deep cleansing breath.”
> A deep sigh echoed in the room.
“Okay. I’d like each of us to take a moment to introduce ourselves to the group. I realize being here might feel awkward at first. So, I’ll make it easy… I’m India, I’m from London, and I’m here to share my experience of working with teens.” She nodded encouragingly to the tall tan woman with the long streaked blonde hair sitting to her right. Dressed in boot-cut workout pants and a tie-dyed tee, she looked barely older than a teenager herself.
“I’m Amber. Hello everyone,” she drawled. “I’m a mother … of two … my son, Harper, is twelve and my daughter, Serenity, is fourteen. They both go to Forest Wood.” She stopped for a split second and tucked her hair behind her ear. “What can I tell you? I’m from LA. I’m a certified masseuse. I specialize in reflexology and aromatherapy, I also love kayaking and surfing, any water sport really. I ride a Harley Twin Cam 88 most weekends… There’s this awesome bike trail in Malibu where I – ”
“Thank you so much, lovely to meet you,” India cut in politely. “So … and … you are…,” she said, gently, to the woman next to Amber.
“I think we’ve met,” she said. “I’m Summer. I did a reading at Annie and Joss’ party… I’m a clairvoyant. I have a daughter. She’s twelve. Her name is Charity.”
“Yes. I do remember,” India said quietly with a smile before inviting the brunette next to her to speak.
“And you are?” she asked.
One after another, the women introduced themselves with the slick professionalism of game-show contestants.
“Some of them stopped just short of giving me their blood type,” India told Sarah the next day.
“Okay, everyone,” India said, jumping to her feet, realizing she had drastically misjudged the time she’d allocated for introductions. “First off, I would like to show you a short piece of film. Before I do, can anyone guess who said this?” She pointed to a white board.
“Sometimes when I look at my children, I say to myself, ‘ _ _ _ _ _ _ _, you should have stayed a virgin.’”
“I think that’s me, India,” shouted Trules, another woman India remembered from Joss and Annabelle’s Memorial Day party.
India laughed. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s Lillian Carter, mother of the thirty-ninth president of the United States.” She added, “Just to let you know there may yet be hope. So now, a short film. This, I think, is inspirational. It’s a program happening in the UK. What you need to know is that all the young people here were convicted of petty crimes. But instead of going to prison, they were sent on a twelve-week intensive dance program for young offenders.”
The screen lit up and the room went silent as the women watched a group of disaffected, monosyllabic teens transform themselves through discipline and teamwork into young men with warmth and connection in their eyes. The clip ended with a dance performance. Immediately after it was over, a woman in a white smock and blue jeans struggled to her feet.
“I’m sorry. I need to share,” she said, choking back tears and twisting the pink diamond rock on her finger. “Last week the LAPD turned up at my house at two o’clock in the morning.” She paused, swallowed hard, then stammered. “They arrested my son for aggravated burglary… I feel so guilty. How come, how come… I didn’t even notice he had a drug problem? How could that happen? We gave him everything.”
There were looks of sympathy exchanged among the women as another mother stood up. “My daughter’s fifteen and has been in rehab for cocaine addiction twice,” she said.
A woman with short black hair dressed in black leather pants and a tank top raised a sculpted arm. “My son Daniel is eighteen. He’s getting good grades. He’s on the soccer team and he’s dating a fifteen-year-old. I’ve found used condoms in his room. Under-age sex here, well, it’s statutory rape if he’s caught.” She hesitated. “I’m worried sick and he won’t talk to me.”
India listened hard as more of the group talked about how helpless they felt living with the strangers their kids had become; the lies, the anger, the fear, the years of coping on their own, and how it was affecting their marriages and their other kids.
“Well, I think we’ve broken the ice here, today,” India said to a ripple of relieved laughter. “This has been pretty intense. But talking is the first real step to changing things. Nobody should have to feel isolated. Today has been about sharing, and you’ve done all the work. Next time we meet, I will have some tools we can use to help us move forward. I’m not a therapist, I’m not a counselor, and it may well be that some of these issues we’ve touched upon need professional guidance. We’ll see. What I hope to give you are some strategies for coping; some tools that will give you support.”
India shouted through the spontaneous applause. “Thank you all for coming. I can assure you that everything you have shared here today is in absolute confidence. Nothing we have recorded will be used without your express permission. Have a good week.”
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Adam clicked open the gate to the guesthouse and walked up the path.
“Hi! I’m not quite ready yet,” India said, opening the door in her ivory satin Victoria’s Secret demibra and negligee with the black velvet side ties.
“I’d say you’re absolutely ready,” he said, closing the door behind him and following her with his eyes as she sashayed toward the bed. Leaning against the wall he began unbuttoning his handmade white twill shirt. “Don’t move,” he said. “Stay right there.”
An hour later, they were in the car. Adam called the restaurant as they zoomed along Sunset Boulevard. “Adam Brooks. I had an earlier booking … for two … yes ... delayed; we’re on our way. Thanks.” Adam pulled out his earpiece and swerved to let a biker pass. “They’ve kept the table. Hungry?”
“Yes,” India nodded contentedly and rested her hand on his thigh. “I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”
“Me too.” He grinned. “You’ll love this place. It’s got a real New York vibe and the food’s amazing. The guy who owns it is about a hundred and eighty but as you English say he’s ‘as fit as a fiddle.’”
“Oh no, Adam. Paparazzi!” India said, pointing to a cluster of guys with cameras who were standing calmly under a line of coral trees by the entrance.
“Yes, but they’re tame here. They have an injunction; nothing without permission within a hundred yards of the restaurant. Just smile and say nothing and they’ll leave us alone.”
Soon they were ensconced in a black leather corner booth.
“So, tell me about the workshops,” Adam said.
India was distracted by Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi, heads together in the booth next to them. Maybe my nom de plume should have a “de” in it, she thought. India de Butler? No. Maybe not. “This is delicious. What is it?” she asked, swirling her glass and sipping the amber wine.
“Gavi,” Adam said, touching his glass to hers. “Finest Italian Cortese grape. Salute.”
India took another sip and then filled him in on Lizzie hosting the evening and Larry Hertz pitching her book.
“Adam, I’ve only been here a few weeks. I can’t believe all that has happened in such a short space of time.”
“Well, I can’t take all the credit, but I did tell you your workshops would fly here, didn’t I? I mean what is it they call it? Modeling, that’s it. You take something successful and reproduce it somewhere else? I’m amazed you’re so surprised. I mean, clearly at your level it was always going to happen.”
“I suppose…” India hesitated.
“The book sounds like a brilliant idea. It’ll sell internationally. You’ve already got your English market established and here the celebrity factor will give it leverage.” He looked up at the waiter. “Indie, do you know what you want?”
“You pick,” she said. “It all looks delicious.”
Adam snapped the menu shut. “Okay, then we’ll have the porcini mushroom and truffle risotto, the grilled barramundi, and two green salads to start.”
“
Grazie mille,” the dark-haired waiter said with a slight bow.
“So you said you were having translation issues,” he said.
“Yes. Well, first off there’s spelling… There’s a distinct absence of vowels … specifically u, like in flavor, color, neighbor, and then other words are spelt differently, like ‘theater’ or ‘realize,’ and you don’t use double l’s. It’s not just that, though; it seems you’re all rather fond of short paragraphs, commas, and colons, and you use words and expressions that I’d never dream of using.”
“How so? I think you have a pretty extensive vocabulary, and you certainly don’t hold back in the bedroom.”
“Well … okay.” She laughed. “I’ll admit there are some universals there!” Sitting up straighter, she looked at him. “Okay, I’ll give you a great example – I have to say ‘period’ instead of ‘full stop’ and you know what a period is in English right?”
“Not personally, I can assure you,” he said. “But I hear what you’re saying. It’s the languaging that’s different.”
India burst out laughing. “There you go … you ‘hear what I’m saying.’ That is NOT English. And there is no such a word as ‘languaging.’ You can’t make ‘language’ into a gerund.” India leaned back as the salad plate was put in front of her. “Joking aside, I’m getting really frustrated with it. I’m used to flinging words on a page and having them stay there, and don’t get me started on nouns … we take the lift, you take the elevator.”
“I tend to take the stairs.”
“Very funny, but I’m not just talking about ‘you say tomayto I say tomahto.’ It’s not pronunciation I’m struggling with – it’s nouns, verbs, sentence construction, vernacular terms. This’d be easier to write in French.”
“You speak French?”
“Un petit peu…kind of…” India said, glancing down and slicing into a leaf of endive.
“Est-ce que tu veux un autre verre?” Adam asked, gesturing to her empty glass.