If I tell her the truth, she’ll understand, Lala thought. She knows how much I love Jackson Platt.
Lala got up and went into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. She had to walk very slowly to avoid spilling as she returned to the couch, and even with her constantly focused effort, several large drops plopped over the sides and splatted on the floor because the liquid had been poured to within a whisper of the rim of the glass.
Lala sat down and spilled a fair amount of the wine on her chin as she took the first swig.
What if she’s hurt? Lala thought. She won’t say she’s hurt. But what if she’s hurt? I think I might be hurt if she would rather see a complete stranger, albeit one she has had having sex with on her to-do list for years, rather than see me. I don’t want to hurt my best friend’s feelings. I can’t risk that. I just can’t.
Lala placed the wine glass on the coffee table. Her fingers slowly approached the keyboard. She winced when they made contact with the plastic squares.
“Brenda, I love you,” Lala typed, “and I’m so sorry I’ve been away from civilization since the moment I got up this morning and had to rush out of the house until just this very moment when I got back home, and I would call you right now if it weren’t so late in NYC, damn this damn time difference! Ohh, sweetie, I am heartsick. Absolutely heartsick. I’m not going to be in town on the weekend of the fifteenth. I’m not even going to be in Southern California. I have to go to . . .”
To . . . to . . . to . . . to, Lala thought. Hell in a handbasket?
“. . . to Fresno . . .”
Fresno? Lala thought.
“. . . to help some people who are affiliated with one of the rescue groups here transport a large number of dogs to a no-kill shelter in Phoenix.”
I am loathsome, Lala thought. This is how I use my admirable dedication to the welfare of animals to advance: my own base and nefarious goals. I should be pummeled senseless for being a lying sack of trollop.
“Please, please, please forgive me. Listen, I am going to make this up to you. I’m going to fly you out to Vegas so we can go crazy together in Sin City and catch up over slot machines and buffets. Okay? As soon as possible, okay? I love you. Please forgive me.”
Lala hit “Send” before she could change her mind. She slammed her laptop shut.
“Let’s get drunk,” she told Petunia and Yootza and Chester. “Because that’s the only way Mama’s going to get any sleep tonight. And believe me, you wish you could drink booze, because if you knew how hateful I am being right now, you’d need to get drunk to be willing to sleep here tonight. Trust me, if you knew what I just now did vis-à-vis Auntie Brenda, you would be running down the stairs and howling at Auntie Geraldine’s door begging to be let in so you could live with her.”
_______________
It shouldn’t have taken Lala as long to get dressed as it did.
“This outfit is even more fabulous than the last damn one I created!” Geraldine spat at Lala. “And the one before that and the one before that and the one before that. You are being absolutely ridiculous.”
“I don’t feel pretty!”
“You are pretty! Damn it!”
Lala looked over her shoulder to view herself from the back in the black pants and black shirt Geraldine had chosen for her. A chunky yet elegant necklace of green ceramic pieces sat at just the right place on Lala’s collarbone. All eyes, Lala felt instinctively, would be drawn to her subtly peeking cleavage.
“Black on black,” Geraldine said. “Not always. But sometimes it’s just right. Especially when jewelry gives a fabulous burst of color.”
“It’s true. And I’m thinking that ‘I have to be pretty in order to be valued’ garbage is often reflexive, huh? What, we’re hardwired to search for the symmetrical? To crave the comely? Call Helene. Please. Or ask Monty to please call Helene. Tell her I’m too sick to come to the phone to make my excuses.”
“I swear, I am a blink away from slapping you,” Geraldine whispered with terrifying calm. “Hard.”
“I’m not cool!” Lala wailed. “I can’t go to a party replete with cool people! And why am I torturing myself about that? What, are we hardwired to hanker after hip?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lala thought, or perhaps just imagined, that she was seeing Geraldine wind up to take a resounding swing at her. She instinctively ducked out of the way.
“This is not just me whining and being crazy,” Lala continued. “I am not cool. It’s not that I tried out for cheerleading and didn’t get picked. I couldn’t do a cartwheel.”
“Seriously?” Geraldine asked.
“I still can’t do one. I don’t even get how they’re done. It makes no sense to me at all.”
“Okay, that notwithstanding, let me ask you this. Would Terrence have loved you so much if you weren’t cool?”
“Man, you play dirty,” Lala said, smiling. “I did always feel cool around him. And you know what? I got hit on all the time when I was married.”
“Confidence,” Geraldine said. “Knowing that you’re loved, so you’ve got that who-gives-a-shit attitude whether or not someone else loves me. It’s sexy.”
“Yup.”
“So remember that you’re loved, by quite a few of us who are here and several others who are on the other side. So go to this party tonight not giving a shit if anyone else loves you.”
Lala gave Geraldine a big hug.
Except Jackson Platt, of course, Lala thought. I’m sure Geraldine understands that Jackson Platt falling in love with me is an exception to that lovely advice. Probably don’t need to mention it. It’s understood, I’m sure.
“I love this outfit, I love your patience, and I’m sorry I’m so weird. This has been a rough week, Auntie.”
Geraldine nodded sympathetically without having the specific knowledge of why the week had been especially hard on Lala. Because Lala was too ashamed to tell her aunt that Brenda had a trip to Southern California planned, let alone to mention why Brenda had decided to not join Frank, after all, when he headed west.
Brenda had finally written back to Lala after leaving her hanging for two days. Two days during which Lala had spent nearly every waking minute deciding she was going to just book a reservation and get on a plane and fly to New York to come clean and beg forgiveness from her best friend.
The best spin Lala could put on Brenda’s e-mail in response to hers, when she went over it endlessly with her dogs, was that it was “cordial and understanding, and I can tell she’s really disappointed and maybe even hurt, but I think I might have a hope of making it up to her if I pay for an amazing, week-long bachelorette party for just the two of us in Vegas or maybe Paris when I get engaged to Jackson Platt. Fingers crossed. I can’t think about it right now.”
Geraldine sat Lala down in front of her mirror. It was a classic, old-style vanity, complete with ornate, etched scrollwork around the glass, a cushioned chair, and a whitewashed table with legs that curved out elegantly and ended in swirls at the base. Marie Antoinette, Lala had always imagined, might have felt right at home putting on her makeup there. Lala had had her eye on the whole set-up since she was a kid and had persuaded Geraldine to leave it to her in her will, even though Brenda and also Geraldine’s actual nieces had clamored for it as well.
Geraldine opened her massive makeup case and began by sweeping a concealer stick underneath Lala’s eyes.
“I so admire and am so envious of anyone who can pull off a visual aesthetic,” Lala said. “And you make it look so damn easy.”
“It must be genetic,” Geraldine said. “Your dear mother, God rest, had none either. Her idea of decorating was to put the couch against the wall and call it a day.”
“So true,” Lala said. “And her idea of getting gussied up was lipstick and maybe a little blush. God love her, she still always looked great.”
�
�And so do you,” Geraldine said.
“Have I mentioned lately that you’re the best aunt, adopted or otherwise, that a person could hope for?”
Lala had been facing away from the mirror so Geraldine could put the magic unguents on her face. With a final sweep of powder to seal and protect her artistry, Geraldine turned Lala’s chair back to the looking glass.
Lala leaned forward and stared at herself.
Best aunt ever, Lala thought.
“Omigod, I look good. I swear, I do not know what I would do without you. I feel good. I feel positive. I feel optimistic. I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman. Yeah, hear me roar. Hey, you know what would make tonight perfect?”
“Don’t start that again,” Geraldine said.
“I don’t understand why you and Monty aren’t coming to the party tonight!” Lala wailed.
“Monty said he’s been to a million of these for Helene.”
A million? Lala thought.
“He said he really doesn’t need to go to yet another.”
“A million?” Lala gasped. “How successful is she?”
“Stop that. It’s just a figure of speech.”
_______________
“What the barf?” Lala said.
She was squinting at the twisting road and listening to the voice of the French woman she had programmed on the GPS of Geraldine’s car to give her directions.
Lala had originally programmed the GPS to speak in the voice of a French man, but had immediately discovered that the sultry tones reminded her of The One Who Got Away.
“Gérard. Gérard. Pourquoi tu ne m’aimes pas?” Lala plaintively inquired when she pulled over almost immediately after leaving the environs of Manhattan Beach and pounded her index finger on the GPS to change the settings.
The trip to Beverly Hills from Manhattan Beach, with the GPS set to avoid highways, had taken only an hour, and Lala had allotted herself two, in case of emergencies. So she had a full sixty minutes to sit on a bench—one, she felt sure, fate was speaking to her through when it placed the bench in front of a bridal salon on Rodeo Drive—and enjoy a ridiculously overpriced iced tea while she imagined how she wanted to look at her wedding to Jackson Platt.
Off-the-shoulder, Lala thought. That will be most flattering. Tea-length maybe. Jesus, is every damn wedding dress in the world strapless? We’re not all brides in our twenties, thank you very much. I am clearly losing my mind sitting here on a balmy evening thinking about wedding dresses. But so what? I should definitely go for a fabric that drapes rather than clings. Maybe we’ll get married in Paris. I bet those dresses in that store are exorbitant. I’ll go to Kleinfeld’s and get something off their sale rack. Maybe I’ll be on Say Yes to the Dress! That would be wonderful. And I’ll donate the difference in cost to charity. To an organization of my beloved’s choosing. In honor of my beloved. As long as it’s something that helps children or animals. Or advances the causes of the Democratic Party. I wish I’d gotten a muffin to go with my iced tea. Or maybe a scone.
“Allez tout droit. Je répète. Allez tout droit.”
“D’accord, Marianne,” Lala muttered. “Je vous ai comprise.”
Is that the address? Lala thought, peering over the steering wheel. Would you look at that place? It’s a flippin’ chateau. Oh, for the love of God, is that a valet service? I want to go home. To Greenwich Village. Now. Maybe I can drive there. On side streets. Actually, that might be fun. And then I could write a novel about it. Or maybe a short story. Maybe a series of short stories. Why is that valet grinning at me? Do I look weird?
One of several valets standing at the ready in Helene’s majestic circular driveway sprinted over to Lala’s door and opened it for her.
Please don’t call me “ma’am,” Lala silently begged the strapping lad. Please. There’s only so much I can take.
“Good evening. How are you tonight?”
“I’m doing very well, thank you,” Lala said.
Is that a warm smile? Lala thought. A genuine, warm smile that I only just moments ago referred to quite derisively as a grin in my muddy mind? Am I that much of a cynical hag now?
“How are you?” Lala asked the fine, young man.
“Doin’ great,” the young man said.
Lala gave him a big, warm, sincere smile and handed him the car keys.
“Thank you very much,” she said. “I appreciate your help.”
Lala stepped around the car and entered the wide double-doors of Helene’s home. A two-story entryway rolled to the horizon before her. Lala felt almost assaulted by the lively yet subdued colors, the classic yet cozy furnishings, the air of vibrant tranquility.
Shoot me, Lala thought. This is gorgeous. Please tell me she didn’t decorate this place herself.
At a table against a wall to her right, a young woman sat with a series of nametags spread before her in neat, alphabetical rows. The young woman smiled at Lala and gave her a welcoming wave.
That’s it, Lala thought. I am officially over myself. As of right now. I’m done being a grump. There are only so many warm, genuine smiles I can withstand.
“Hi!” Lala said.
“Hello!” the young lady said. “Welcome! May I have your name, please?”
“Lala Pettibone.”
“Great name!” the young lady said. “I noticed it when I was printing the nametags. It sounds so epic!”
“You think?” Lala said. “Thank you! I really appreciate that . . .”
Lala glanced at the young lady’s nametag.
“. . . Brenda! Ohhh, that’s my best friend’s name! What a lovely name!”
“Thank you!” Brenda said. “The party is straight through there in the atrium. Have fun tonight!”
“Thank you,” Lala said. Lala walked down the hallway and tried to figure out where to fasten her nametag.
Oh, what the hell, she thought. I’m putting it right next to my tits. This is no time to be reticent. Where’s the bar?
Lala smiled the rest of the way, until she reached the end of the hall and found herself standing at the top of a small staircase leading to the atrium. The glass-enclosed expanse of the room glowed beneath a ceiling of sparkling white lights. Spread below Lala was a sea of people. Lala nervously scanned the group. Her best first assessment was that it was an attractive, successful, moving and shaking crowd.
Shy, Lala thought. I’m feeling it. Here it comes. The Dreaded Shy. Must have an activity. Now.
Lala grabbed the railing of the stairs for dear life and for dear dignity.
If I fall as I descend, Lala thought, I will just stay there. In a heap. Until death overtakes me. Even if it’s years from now. It’s only a few steps, but, sheesh, they have been polished to within an inch of my life.
“Lala!”
Lala looked around to find where Helene’s voice was coming from. She saw her hostess gracefully weaving her way through people to get to her. Helene was wearing a sumptuous red, strapless cocktail dress that just grazed her knees.
Sweet mother of God, Lala thought. She looks fabulous. And together we’re wearing Wesleyan’s colors. I feel dizzy. I want to go home.
Helene gracefully gamboled up the steps and wrapped Lala in a hug.
Oh, God, please don’t let me fall on my ass, Lala silently begged. At any point. Ever. For the rest of my life. You owe me that much. I was widowed in my thirties.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” Helene said.
“You look gorgeous,” Lala said.
“Stop it! You look gorgeous!”
“I love your home. It’s gorgeous. Please tell me you didn’t decorate it yourself.”
“Oh, stop it,” Helene said. “It was no big deal. I had fun doing it.”
Shoot me now, Lala thought.
Helene linked her arm with Lala’s and led her down the stairs.
Whoa! Not so fast, Lala thought. These damn steps are like ice. What, you can’t put a little rubber matting on these damn things?
“We’re wearing WesU colors!” Helene said. “Come on. Let’s go to the bar and get you a drink.”
That is a genius-level idea, Lala thought.
“Listen,” she said. “I’m feeling a big ol’ wave of shyness.”
“Stop it. Everyone’s going to love you.”
“I need a job.”
“What?”
“Let me help tend bar.”
“But . . . but, you’re my guest.”
“Please. Think of me as a border collie. I need to work, or I’ll just run around in circles and whimper and get that crazed look they get as if they’re saying, ‘Want me to herd something? Huh? ‘Cause I’m ready if you do. Right now. Got any sheep? Huh?’ I realize dog imagery is wasted on you. That’s not a criticism.”
“Well, sure, why not?” Helene said. “If you think that would make you enjoy the party more?”
“It definitely would,” Lala said.
Or, at a minimum, she thought, it might keep me from succumbing to this overriding impulse to fashion a cave out of cocktail napkins and hide inside it for all eternity.
_______________
“Cute guy at three o’clock. Very.”
Jackson? Lala thought. Is it Jackson Platt? Where the hell is he?
Lala peered toward where her colleague behind the bar, who was nodding in the direction of a noticeably attractive man at a distance to their right, was indicating.
Damn it, Lala thought. That’s not him. Where the hell is he? But that guy is very cute.
Lala smiled at Ariel and nodded in agreement. Ariel was exactly half Lala’s age. She was tall and sporty, and she was putting herself through the master’s degree program in the Luskin School of Public Affairs at UCLA.
Lala had already established that Ariel was the youngest of four children and the only girl—she had grown up in Sacramento, was an Aries, a dedicated feminist and progressive Democrat, and she was planning to run for the California state senate as the first of her public offices, with an eye toward the governorship of the Golden State and maybe a run for the White House.
Lala Pettibone's Act Two Page 16