“Don’t we all.” Michael sighs. “How about Spago, Claudette?”
“Don’t you know it’s gone too?”
“I’m not speaking of the one on Sunset Boulevard. I mean Spago, Beverly Hills.” He actually smacks his lips.
“But wouldn’t we need a reservation?”
“Not if we drop our lovely names. Fioré still means something to a few people, and I’m sure Wolfgang might appreciate a little blast from the past to give the place some class.”
I can’t help but laugh at Michael’s silly rhyme. “I’ll only agree to go if you call ahead and make sure we can get in. There’s nothing more humiliating that showing up at a place and being told we need a reservation. I just couldn’t bear to be turned away. Not today.”
Michael flips open his cell phone as he stops for a red light, which reminds me that mine, after being locked in the safe with my other valuables, is in need of a charge. Now if only I can find the cord to charge it with. He calls information and waits to be connected. Just like an old pro, he turns on the charm and wit, and I’m not terribly surprised that he actually manages to secure us a table for two thirty.
“You’re amazing,” I tell him.
“And shameless.”
I laugh. “Yes, that bit about possibly meeting up with Tippi Hedren was a bit over the top, don’t you think?”
“I just might give Tippi a call. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did drop in. She dined with us in Hawaii last year, and she was looking marvelously divine.”
“I don’t know how she does it. She must be close to eighty now.”
“No, she’s the same age as I am, Claudette. But I think she could pass for fifty.” He laughs. “Do you suppose today’s seventies are yesterday’s fifties?”
“Thanks to the modern-day marvels of plastic surgery and Botox.” I shake my head, wishing that Tippi would pop into Spago. Perhaps I could ask her for beauty tips. I’d like to know who she goes to when she needs work done.
“Speaking of beauty treatments, let’s see if we can squeeze you in for an emergency haircut.” He flips open his cell phone again.
“Do you really think it’s safe to drive on the freeway and talk on the phone?” I suddenly feel nervous. But I’m too late; he’s already speaking to someone about a hair appointment. I can tell that André isn’t available, but it sounds like Michael is attempting to set me up with someone else.
I’m about to interrupt him, demanding André or no one, when I pull down the visor and examine my image in the mirror. And this is a real mirror, not a blurry piece of stainless steel that makes your reflection so fuzzy you begin to feel as if you’ve had one martini too many. Good grief, how can I possibly show my face in public looking like this?
I flip the visor back up and just shake my head. Honestly, I don’t think I can afford to be too picky in my choice of hairdressers today. I fumble in my purse for lipstick and my compact. No wonder Michael looked so horrified when he picked me up. I am a fright. But my hands aren’t as steady as they used to be, and the jiggling movement of the car on a road that’s in need of repairs is not helping as I attempt to apply an even coat of Majestic Magenta. I finally give up, twisting the sleek silver tube closed and blotting my sloppy looking lips with a tissue.
“That’s perfect,” Michael says to someone on the phone. “Yes, we can make it by eleven thirty. We’re on the road right now, only fifteen minutes away. Thank you, darling. You’re a lifesaver.” He closes his cell phone, then turns to smile at me. “You’re on. Angel had a cancellation.”
“Do you know Angel personally? Is she any good?”
“For starters, Angel is a he. And, yes, he is very good. I’ve been to him myself on occasion.”
“I know I shouldn’t complain. Goodness knows when I’ve let my appearance get this bad.”
“You and me both, Claudette. I’ve put on at least thirty pounds, and everything is starting to sag.” Michael taps the loose skin beneath his chin with the backs of his fingertips. “In fact, I think I’ll see if I might possibly get a facial while you’re with Angel. Flying across the ocean with all that recycled airplane air is murder on the complexion.” He glances at me. “Maybe you’ll have time for one too.”
“Let’s do keep our lunch reservation in mind.”
Soon we’re both comfortably seated and being cared for at the salon. I don’t know how Michael finagled his facial appointment, but I’m impressed with his choice of Angel for me.
“Oh my.” The large African American man gently runs his fingers through my hair. “We have work to do, Mrs. Fioré. How long has it been since you’ve been in?”
I do the mental calculation back to my last appointment, before the IRS turned my life upside down. “Nearly three months. I’ve been, uh, in the hospital.”
He makes a sympathetic tsk-tsk. “Well, when I’m done, you’ll be as good as new again.”
A cackling sound that’s meant to be laughter comes out. “Well, if you can make me as good as new, you must be a magician.”
Then Shampoo Girl (I can never remember her name, but I recognize her by her purple hair) puts a black cape on me and escorts me to the shampoo station. There are many things I do not understand about this new generation, but primarily three trouble me. One, why do they dye their hair such unnatural and unbecoming colors? Two, why do they torture themselves by piercing tender places like tongues, navels, and nipples? And three, why do they use their bodies to display graffiti in the form of horrid-looking tattoos?
As Shampoo Girl towels my hair, she notices that my nails are in need of some attention. “I think there’s a manicurist who’s free,” she says. “If you’re interested.”
So it is that, as Angel works his magic on my hair, I get a manicure. And when they are both finished, I must admit that I can see an improvement. My hair, now a pleasant platinum blond, is perfectly styled and looks thicker and healthier than before. My nails are neatly trimmed and painted a nice shell pink. The manicurist, Jewel, I think her name was, also talked me into purchasing a tube of matching shell pink lipstick, which she swears makes me look ten years younger. Naturally, I believe her. Why shouldn’t I?
Angel turns out to be wrong, because I don’t look as good as new. I don’t even look as good as Tippi Hedren, although I might be able to pass as her older sister. But at least no one will have an excuse to refuse to let me into Spago now.
“You look marvelous, darling,” Michael gushes when we meet up again. I’m primping in front of the big mirror by the door, touching up my lipstick, applying a little powder, patting my already perfect hair.
“Thank you, dear.” I smile at him. “So do you.”
He pats a smooth cheek. “I feel much better.” Then, as we go outside into the bright afternoon sunlight, Michael breaks into a chorus of “I Feel Pretty.”
I can’t help myself—I have to laugh. But I’m not laughing as we enter Spago. I feel people glancing up at us, curious as to whether we’re “anyone” or not. And then, satisfied that they don’t recognize either of us, they look away with bored expressions, turning their attention back to their companions, people who are far more interesting than Michael and I.
Everyone here is so much younger, prettier, brighter, livelier. I suddenly feel very ancient, unattractive, sadly faded, and pathetically worn-out. And, despite my minimakeover, I’m painfully aware that I’m just an old woman. A has-been who hasn’t been for decades now.
Oh, some people might still recall my husband’s name, the ones who pay attention to a director’s career. And a few savvy fans might even remember some of Michael’s work in film. He actually won a few minor awards for set design, although nothing that ever equaled his stepfather’s achievements.
But I, Claudette Fioré, am a nobody. My life might as well be over. I don’t even own a home in Beverly Hills anymore. And as we’re seated at a small, insignificant table near the rest rooms, I don’t feel much different than I did when I broke the Tiffany lamp several weeks ago. If
anything, I feel older…more tired…more depressed. And I wonder, What is the point?
“Is something wrong, Claudette?” Michael frowns again.
“You really shouldn’t frown like that. Those worry creases aren’t getting any smaller.”
He touches his forehead. “You’re right. I’m overdue for Botox as it is.” Now he smiles slightly, relaxing his expression. “But tell me, is something wrong?”
I sigh and fold my hands on the table. “Everything is wrong, Michael. I am old. I no longer have a home. I’m not wealthy. What do I have left?”
He reaches over and places a hand on mine. “You’ve been through a lot, darling. You need to put together a plan now. That’s why I’m here. We’ll get your life back on track.”
“Why? What difference does it make? My life is over.”
“Your life is not over, dear. You’ve just hit a hard place. You know what they say: Getting old is not for the faint of heart.”
“It’s not for me either, Michael.”
He holds up his hands. “Consider the alternative.”
“I already have. That’s what landed me in Laurel Hills.” Then, without elaborating, I tell him about my blue pills…the broken lamp.
“The Tiffany?” he exclaims in horror. “The golden dragonfly design?”
I just nod.
“You were having a bad day.”
The waiter comes, and Michael orders a glass of Pinot Noir for each of us. As the waiter leaves, Michael just shakes his head. “The golden dragonfly lamp…”
“Yes…”
“So sad.”
“I know.”
After lunch, I am bone tired. I almost ask Michael to take me home, and then I remember that I don’t have a home.
“Where shall we go?” he asks as we walk to the car.
“I don’t know…”
“Want to drive by the house? Just for old time’s sake?”
I agree, leaning back into the car seat and closing my eyes as he heads up the hill. I’m not sure that I can even look. I feel a nudge on my elbow. Opening my eyes, I realize that I must’ve dozed off.
“There she blows,” Michael says sadly.
A Realtor’s sign with Sale Pending is planted by the front gates. By Appointment Only is in bold letters. As if anyone would try to see a house in this neighborhood without an appointment. I turn and look away. This hurts too much.
“Sorry, I thought you might want to see it…for closure.”
I nod without speaking.
“I’ve got a room at the Hilton,” he says as he drives away. “Should we see about getting you one there too?”
“Yes,” I say soberly.
By five o’clock, I’m settled into a fairly decent room. Oh, it’s not the Four Seasons, and it’s not the Beverly Wilshire, but considering where I’ve been these past six weeks, I should be grateful to be here. With its king-size bed, smooth percale sheets, private bath, fluffy white linens, flat-screen television, comfortable chair, and a window with a somewhat pleasant view, it’s far better than that horrid place I’ve just escaped from.
Even so, I feel more lost than ever. All I want to do is sleep. I just want to escape, to forget, to get lost in a delicious dream where I am young, beautiful, and wealthy again. Is that so much to ask?
It seems I’ve barely fallen asleep before I’m rudely awakened by the sound of bells. It takes me a while to realize it’s the phone. I haven’t had a phone in my room for weeks. Something I found greatly irksome but now may have to rethink.
“Who is it?” I growl into the receiver.
“So lovely to hear your voice too, darling,” Michael gushes with a sweetly sarcastic edge.
“Sorry,” I grumble as I slowly plant my feet on the rug, getting my bearings. “I was asleep.”
“Asleep? Why, it’s not even seven thirty, Claudette. That seems a bit early to turn in.”
“I was tired.” I carefully stand.
“Well, far be it from me to disturb you. I only wondered if you’d like to join me and some friends downstairs for drinks. I’ve assembled a happy little crowd. Some of my old pals from the studio and anyone else who wants to be merry.”
There was a time I’d leap at an opportunity to meet for drinks. We’d chat late into the night about the good old days, gossiping about the latest scandal and bragging about whatever personal triumphs we could conjure up to impress the group. And after a few drinks, we were all quite impressed—with each other and with ourselves.
I’m actually considering Michael’s invitation as I stretch the phone cord to see in the mirror, curious as to whether I’m fit for a social occasion or not. But my reflection leaves me flat. Just an old lady. A very old lady. And despite my stint in the salon today, my hair is now fanned out on the sides in unbecoming clumps. Bed head. My skin is wrinkled and pale. Even my new lipstick color is disappointing.
“I think I’ll stay in tonight.”
“Are you sure, darling? I know the gang would be delighted to see you.”
I lean forward and peer again. Even my age spots are showing. “No, thank you, Michael. Give them my best.”
“Will you order room service then? You need to have something.”
“Yes,” I promise. “I’ll do that.”
But after I hang up, I simply turn out the light and go back to bed. I don’t unpack my bag, change into pajamas, or even brush my teeth. Why bother?
I wake up early the next morning. It’s still dark out. But I can’t sleep another minute. My bones ache, and my bladder is bursting. Thankfully I’ve never had the incontinence problems so many of my generation suffer. My doctor said this is one of the benefits of never having children.
I turn on the light and inch my way toward the bathroom, holding on to the bureau and then the wall as I go. I don’t know when I have felt so achy before. It’s as if I’ve been run over by a truck. As I sit on the toilet, I contemplate the cause of my pain. I’ve not been troubled with arthritis, but my doctor assured me that was due to my fairly active lifestyle. I played golf weekly, attended t’ai chi and yoga classes somewhat faithfully. I even walked on my treadmill while watching Jay Leno sometimes. But all that came to a screeching halt when the IRS intruded on my life. I suppose that’s when old age truly began to set in. Perhaps there is no stopping it now.
As I flush the toilet and then wash my hands, I wonder how difficult it would be to get a hold of a prescription for Valium again. Or perhaps there’s another way out.
I pace back and forth in my room for about fifteen minutes. And to my surprise and relief, the movement helps some. My joints loosen up a little, and the pain seems to lessen. Maybe I’m stiff and sore from sleeping so long. Twelve hours is a bit extreme.
I open the drapes to let in the first rays of morning sun and then even do some yoga stretches. Not only do I feel better, but I’m hungry. I call room service, ordering up a pot of strong coffee with cream. And then, feeling a bit optimistic and even adventuresome, I proceed to order bacon and eggs, something I’ve avoided for decades. “And throw in some pancakes,” I add, feeling slightly reckless. “And orange juice.”
I return to the bathroom, remove my wrinkled Armani suit, place it in a “to be cleaned” bag, and after protecting my hair with a shower cap, I take a long, hot shower.
I’m thankful for the steamed-up mirror as I emerge from the shower. There is an image I do not care to see. I’ve barely dried off and slipped into the hotel bathrobe when I hear someone knocking on the door.
“Your breakfast, ma’am,” says a nice-looking Hispanic man.
I go to my purse, fumble to find a rather generous tip, then thank him.
“Enjoy.”
“Oh, wait.” I head for the dry cleaning bag. “Can you see that this gets cleaned and returned to me today?”
“Certainly.”
Then I sit down and enjoy my cholesterol-ridden breakfast. Why should I care if I choke my arteries at this stage of the game? I attempt to read the newspaper,
but the headlines bore me. Even the entertainment section bores me. All true creativity exited Hollywood in the late sixties…about the same time Gavin and so many of the other greats retired. It’s a shame. And now it seems that so many films are simply remakes of the oldies. What is wrong with young people these days? Haven’t they fresh or new thoughts in their heads?
I set the paper aside and pour another cup of coffee, which I top off with cream. Then I resettle myself into the club chair by the window. It’s not an unpleasant view—well-maintained pool, greens, palm trees. I suppose I could make myself comfortable living in a place like this. Although I would soon be broke at the price of these rooms. Still, I’m sure some decent retirement homes are in the area.
It’s not even eight yet, but I call my accountant anyway. I can leave Jackie a message insisting that I must see him today. I need to know the state of my financial affairs. I need to make a plan of some sort for my future, no matter how brief. And I don’t know how long Michael will be around to help me sort all this out.
I unpack my bags, hanging things up and setting others aside for dry cleaning, in hopes of undoing some of the damage done by the Laurel Hills “laundry.” Then I lay out a Ralph Lauren suit that makes me look rather authoritative. It’s a summer-weight wool, gray herringbone, dignified with classic lines. I choose a cream-colored silk blouse to go beneath it, along with a paisley silk scarf in shades of blue and gray.
I carefully apply makeup, taking my time to get it just right. Then I fuss with my hair until it finally resembles the style from yesterday. Finally I dress. It’s barely nine thirty. Far too early for Michael to be up after a late night last night. Especially if he’s still on Hawaii time, which I suspect is the case.
So I turn on the television and sit down to watch Regis and Kelly. Regis Philbin is a bit younger than me but still going strong. Although he does get cranky at times, and I must hand it to that pretty Kelly girl. She has the patience of Job and the wit of Johnny Carson—a real class act for someone her age. I can remember when Regis was Joey Bishop’s sidekick back in the sixties. Joey used to pick on poor Regis something terrible. And then one day, Regis walked off the set, right in the midst of a broadcast. He was the talk of the town that week. And here he is still plugging away. I wonder what his secret is.
LimeLight Page 3