California Summer

by Anita Hughes

  Rosie glanced at the screensaver shot of her and Ben on her phone. They were at a friend’s wedding, clowning around in a photo booth. Their heads were pressed together like Siamese twins: the same green eyes, the same freckles on their cheeks. Rosie grabbed the phone and threw it across the room, flinching as it clattered on the wood.

  “Fuck you,” she said aloud. “I’m going to make a list of things to do.” She found a yellow pad and sat at the desk. “I’m going to plan my life without Ben Ford.”

  She watched a hummingbird peck at the feeder on the porch. Its wings buzzed at lightning speed, its small beak working furiously. Rosie scratched away at the piece of paper, numbering her to-do list like she used to do at the studio: Buy a turkey club sandwich from the guy at the delicatessen. Try Rachel Gold’s peanut butter brittle. Help Estelle in her rose garden. Drive to the beach and watch the sunset. She remembered the detailed lists she used to make. Adam always praised her for keeping so many balls in the air.

  “I’ll ask Peg if I can borrow a dozen eggs and learn to juggle.” Rosie sighed, tearing the sheet of paper and crumpling it in the garbage. “Because Rachel Gold has plenty of customers and the sun is capable of setting without me.”

  Rosie stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tangled and there were deep shadows under her eyes like face paint. “I could become a clown and perform at children’s parties. Ben and Mary Beth will get married and hire me for their daughter’s first birthday. It’ll be held on the Venice boardwalk and I’ll wear a honking nose and a rainbow-colored wig.”

  Rosie walked into the bathroom and slipped off her robe. The floors were creamy white marble and the walls were painted eggshell yellow. There was a glassed-in shower and a white porcelain tub. Rosie filled the bath and poured in a bottle of lavender bubble bath. She waited until the water was steaming hot and climbed in.

  “Mary Beth and her minions will run the movie like a military operation, and I’ll sit in the bath and get wrinkled toes.” Rosie let her tears fall into the bathwater. “Because no one cares what I do; I am completely superfluous.”

  * * *

  Rosie opened her eyes and saw the sun setting over the lawn. She glanced at the crystal clock on the bedside table. She had been asleep for six hours, ever since she crawled out of the bath and into bed. The remains of breakfast sat on the table: two pieces of toast and a half-eaten egg. Her shirt and shorts were tossed on the rug; a yellow towel was draped on the side of the bed.

  She sat up and groaned. She’d never spent the day in the same room as stale breakfast; she’d never let towels and clothes pile up on the floor. She imagined Morris knocking to clear the dishes and leaving silently when there was no answer.

  Rosie got up and opened the window. A soft breeze blew in from the ocean. She heard voices and saw groups of people standing around sipping cocktails. There was a croquet game going on and somebody playing a saxophone, or maybe a clarinet. She heard glasses clinking and one woman proclaim shrilly: “Duck pâté is not the same thing as foie gras. Don’t they teach you anything at culinary school?”

  Rosie rifled through her duffle bag for a pair of pants and a shirt. She was suddenly starving, but she couldn’t face a lawn full of guests talking about polo and liver pâté. She would sneak around the side of the house and find the kitchen. She’d make a stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and run back to the cottage.

  There was a knock on the door as Rosie combed the tangles out of her hair. She threw the towel in the bathroom, and smoothed the comforter on the bed.

  “Come in,” Rosie called, hoping Morris wouldn’t think she was a terrible sloth.

  “Dear, I was afraid you drowned in the bath.” Estelle stood at the door. “We haven’t seen you all day.”

  “I almost did,” Rosie mumbled. “I’ve been asleep for hours.”

  “I’m sure you needed it.” Estelle walked inside. She wore an ivory hostess gown with a thin gold belt. Her hair was teased into big curls and diamond earrings twinkled in her ears. She wore coral-pink lipstick and a dusting of powder that made her cheeks glow.

  “I feel so lazy,” Rosie said. “I’ll take the dishes to the kitchen, and I can put the towels in the laundry if you show me where it is.”

  “Dear.” Estelle put her hand on Rosie’s. “You’re not here to do dishes, you’re here to mend.”

  “I was going to help you in the garden,” Rosie said lamely.

  “We have a few friends over. We played tennis and now we’re having cocktails, mostly older couples but quite fun. One of our neighbors was a sitcom writer for years; he keeps us in stitches. Come join us.”

  “I’m not really dressed.” Rosie shook her head.

  “You’re thirty years younger than us, you would look good in a potato sack.” Estelle laughed. “We keep ourselves together with a lot of paint and wired lingerie.”

  “Maybe tomorrow night.” Rosie bit her lip.

  Estelle sat on the corner of the bed, twisting the rings on her fingers. “Everyone gets their heart broken. That’s how you know you have one.”

  “You sound like the Wizard of Oz.” Rosie smiled.

  “When I was twenty-one I was so unlucky in love, I wanted to drink a vial of hemlock.” Estelle looked at Rosie.

  “You and Oscar have been married thirty-five years.” Rosie tried to do the math in her head.

  “It was before I met Oscar. I went back east to college, to Penn,” Estelle continued. “At first I was terribly lonely, then I met a boy from Boston, Theodore Strand. He was from an old Boston family and his father imported whisky. We were perfect for each other! We wanted the same things: a big house, lots of children, a litter of Irish setters.” Estelle paused. Her cheeks were flushed and Rosie thought she looked like a teenager.

  “Theo was going to come home with me the summer after graduation and ask my father for my hand. But he didn’t return to school after Christmas break. His father decided he should transfer to Boston University and go to work in the family business. I took the train to Boston and showed up at his door. I thought I could transfer too, or drop out. Why did I need a degree if we were going to get married?”

  Rosie sat on the bed next to Estelle. She smelled her perfume, a deep floral scent.

  “Theodore’s father answered the door. They were having dinner and Theo was seated next to Primrose Scanlan, his prep school sweetheart. They got engaged over the break and the families were celebrating. I took the train back to Penn, packed my bags, and flew to California. I didn’t leave my room for a month.”

  “But I’m not a girl of twenty-one,” Rosie replied. “Ben and I have been together for ten years. We think alike, we look alike; we even bought each other the same cards on our anniversary. Hollywood separated us. Ben thinks he needs to hitch himself to a big blond producer to get to the top.”

  “I am sorry. Maybe you’re right.” Estelle patted Rosie’s hand. “Men do act without thinking.”

  “That’s the polite way of putting it.” Rosie laughed for the first time in days.

  “Let yourself have a good cry and then have some fun. Play tennis, swim in the pool, roll on the lawn like Angelica and Sam did when they were kids.”

  “I’m cried out.” Rosie sighed. “I should be thinking about a job.”

  “You should be thinking about what you love,” Estelle instructed. “The rest will come. Peg made scrumptious spinach crepes and Morris opened a Kenwood pinot noir.”

  “I didn’t do a very good job of her poached eggs.” Rosie glanced at the plate.

  “I must go.” Estelle got up, adjusting her earrings in the mirror. “Oscar will start singing and everyone will go home. Sometimes he forgets that being able to recognize talent doesn’t mean he has talent. His voice could scare the animals.”

  “How did you and Oscar meet?” Rosie asked.

  “I’ll save that story for a morning in the rose garden.” Estelle opened the door. “You have to meet my tea roses.”

  Rosie
watched Estelle cross the lawn and join her guests. Estelle took a puff of Oscar’s cigar, her earrings glittering like fireflies. She linked arms with a tall brunette and the two women disappeared into the house, like schoolgirls at a birthday party. Oscar passed around a box of cigars, and the men stood in deep discussion, smoke rings spiraling in the air.

  Rosie slipped out the door and crept along the side lawn, following the brick path to the house. Rabbits darted across the grass and she heard the hum of sprinklers switching on in the dark. She was afraid Oscar would spot her and drag her into conversation. She couldn’t smile at these sleek, elegant people without remembering the Hollywood parties she attended with Ben, where they floated along, arm in arm, trying to remember names.

  Rosie ducked into the back of house and found herself in a mudroom. There was a row of rubber boots, and jackets and raincoats dangling from hooks. She opened the heavy wood door and discovered a kitchen that belonged on the set of Downton Abbey. The floor was dark wood, so rutted and worn that in some places it sloped downwards. The ceiling was low and hung with steel pots and pans. There was a long table in the center of the room piled with folded laundry. Rosie expected a maid wearing a ruffled cap and apron to walk in and light the stove with a match.

  She opened cabinets and drawers and found every kind of condiment. There were racks of spices, bottles of olive oil, jars of pickles, and fresh jams and jellies.

  “Are you looking for something?”

  “I’m sorry.” Rosie blushed. “I shouldn’t have let myself in.”

  “Make yourself at home.” Morris waved his hand. “But you’re missing a feast on the lawn.”

  “I was craving peanut butter,” Rosie admitted, closing the cabinets and standing awkwardly near the sink.

  “Have a seat.” Morris pointed to the table. “I may be British, but I make a better peanut butter sandwich than Carol Brady.”

  “You watched The Brady Bunch?” Rosie smiled.

  “Every kid in Britain watched The Brady Bunch.” Morris pulled a jar of peanut butter from a drawer. “Why do you think I came to America?”

  Rosie sat silently while Morris prepared a peanut butter sandwich. She admired a ceramic vase that held yellow sunflowers and bunches of purple daisies.

  “Mrs. Pullman loves flowers.” Morris put the plate in front of Rosie and sat opposite her. “If you want to tell me why you’re not sipping pinot and eating spinach crepes, I’m a good listener.”

  “Ben and I wanted a kitchen like this,” Rosie said almost to herself. “Where we could curl up by the fire with a good book and a bottle of wine for hours.”

  “I’m guessing Ben is the reason you’re here,” Morris prompted.

  “Angelica is my best friend.” Rosie ate a bite of her sandwich. “She suggested I stay in Montecito with her parents for the summer. The house is beautiful and Estelle is like a fairy godmother.”

  “But you want to turn around and run home to Santa Monica,” Morris finished her sentence.

  “I have nowhere to run.” Rosie sighed. “Ben thinks we need a break. He wants to conquer Hollywood without me.”

  “Then do something you love without him,” Morris said.

  “Estelle told me the story of her first love and her broken heart.” Rosie smiled. “I guess I’m a cliché.”

  “Not a cliché.” Morris shook his head. “We all have a Dear John letter tucked away. Mine was from Neil Friend.”

  “Neil Friend, the singer?” Rosie’s eyes opened wide.

  “He was the lead singer of our band. Before that we were boys in Cambridge, falling in love by the river. Oscar discovered us and launched us in America. He rented the band a house in Hancock Park. We felt so posh, sitting by the pool sipping bubbly. We signed a record contract, starting playing gigs. All of a sudden girls were camped out on the sidewalk, tossing love notes on the lawn.” Morris paused, running his hand through his spiky black hair.

  “One afternoon I came back from the shops and found Neil in bed with Amber Waite. I’ll never forget the sight of his white buttocks poised above her tan flesh. I’d never seen a naked woman up close; I don’t think Neil had either. Amber was the lead singer of one of Oscar’s girl bands. They met at a party.” Morris went to the fridge and got a bottle of milk. He poured two glasses and handed one to Rosie.

  “We had a huge row. Neil said being seen with a hot girl was good for his image. We could still be an item ‘behind the scenes.’ I tried for a while. Our record was on maximum rotation. It was pretty cool shopping at Vons, hearing your song on the radio. But Amber kept popping up at the house, swimming naked in the pool. I couldn’t tell what was real: Neil and me or Neil and Amber. I quit the band. I was going to go home to England, take over my father’s pharmacy. But I realized I’d rather throw myself in the Thames. Oscar let me stay here while I decided what to do.”

  Rosie put down her sandwich, imagining a young, skinny Morris holed up in the guest cottage, crying over his failed love affair with Neil Friend.

  “I slouched around eating Weetabix and watching Ab Fab and decided I wanted to be a butler. I love ironing and shining shoes and keeping a big house shipshape. I thought about getting a position at a country manor in Surrey, but my parents would die of embarrassment. So I became Mr. and Mrs. Pullman’s butler. I’m happy as a kitten with a bowl of warm milk.” Morris sighed. “It still hurts when I hear Neil on the radio. He’s got a huge career as a solo artist.”

  “Be My Friend is one of my favorite albums,” Rosie admitted.

  “Neil’s been engaged to women a couple of times.” Morris shrugged. “But he still wears his pants pretty tight.”

  “I’ve been in the Hollywood goldfish bowl for eight years.” Rosie picked at her sandwich. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “They’re both engineers at Kennedy Space Center. I don’t think I’m trained to build a rocket,” she said and laughed.

  “You could go back to school or set up your own production company?” he suggested.

  “I had enough school. I’ve studied every film from Charlie Chaplin to Chris Columbus,” she winced. “I couldn’t open another company; we’re Rosie and Ben, like peanut butter and jelly.”

  “I prefer peanut butter with bananas,” Morris said mildly.

  “Yuck.” Rosie frowned. She threw the rest of her sandwich in the garbage. “I guess I’m not ready to give up on Ben and Rosie. Is that stupid?”

  “Being stupid is part of life.” Morris put his glass in the dishwasher. “You can always join me for an Ab Fab marathon.”

  “I might take you up on that.” Rosie smiled and moved to the door.

  * * *

  Rosie walked slowly back to the cottage. The party had moved to the tennis court. Two couples played doubles under the lights. The other guests mingled on the sidelines, cradling glasses of wine. What would it be like to own a house with grounds so large you couldn’t see the road? There would be closets full of tennis whites, and she would spend her afternoons perfecting her serves. Ben would come home from the studio and they’d play a hard match, then retreat to the terrace to drink martinis and eat prawn cocktails.

  What if Ben was right? Maybe she was holding him back. Ben could be the most brilliant director since Coppola; Rosie was just someone wearing a suit who wrote lists and checked off boxes.

  An idea bubbled in her head, and she strode to the cottage. She would call Ben and tell him she didn’t want to produce anymore. He could work with Mary Beth Chase or any other hotshot producer; she’d stay home and be the perfect hostess wife. She imagined decorating their Bel-Air mansion, enrolling in a Cordon Bleu cooking course, learning floral arranging and feng shui. She’d make friends with the wives of the studio heads and get her hair done at Salon by Maxime on Rodeo Drive.

  Rosie slipped into the cottage and grabbed her phone. She’d call Ben right now, before she lost her nerve. She could forgive him for cheating. It wouldn’t happen again, because
they’d live the way Ben wanted: in a mansion with three cars in the driveway and a personal trainer who jogged with him after work.

  Ben’s phone rang five times and went to voicemail. Rosie paced the room, hugging the phone to her chest. She picked up the house phone and dialed Ben’s number again, willing him to answer.

  “This is Ben, who’s this?”

  “It’s me, Rosie. I’m calling from Angelica’s parents’ house,” she answered, as if she left on a short trip and was calling to tell him she arrived safely.

  “Rosie,” Ben said pleasantly. “How are you?”

  “I’m great.” Rosie started pacing again. “I have a fantastic idea.”

  “I’m in a meeting, can I call you back?” he urged.

  “It’s Sunday night,” Rosie said flatly.

  “I’m at Pizza Joe’s with a few of the writers. We’re tweaking tomorrow’s scenes.”

  “It’s really important.” Rosie tried to keep her voice light and cheerful. She knew how much Ben loved sitting with writers, massaging the script until it sang.

  “I want to talk but you know what Sunday writing sessions are like. This is really important,” he said pleasantly. “We’re doing a major rewrite of the scene at the stables.”

  “You’re right, I am holding you back,” Rosie blurted out. “You should work with Mary Beth or anyone great. I’ll stay home and manage our social life. We’ll get a house in Beverly Hills or Bel-Air. We could rent for a year until we find something we love.”

  “Rosie, please,” Ben begged. “They’re waiting for me.”

  “We’ll be the Hollywood power couple,” Rosie surged on. “We’ll lease you a Porsche or a Mercedes, we’ll host dinners and pool parties.”

  “I promise I’ll listen to you but they’re making motions for me to get off the phone,” he cut in. “Can we schedule a time to talk?”

  “Please, Ben.” Rosie tried to keep her voice steady. Her eyes glistened and she squeezed the phone. “I forgive you. I know how much you want to make it big and I do too. We could be really happy.”