I kissed François on both cheeks, trying not to inhale the scent of his sweet cologne. He pulled back and looked at me.
“Hey. You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure.” I wasn’t actually, because that morning I’d heard from my booker that a client I’d recently worked for had gone bankrupt. They owed me several thousand dollars I knew I’d never see. But when I thought about telling François about it, in my head it just sounded like I was hinting around that I needed money. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he replied, smiling at me and shaking his head.
“What’s wrong?” I asked self-consciously.
“Nothing. Just that I haven’t seen you in nearly a week, and I can’t believe that you’ve grown even more beautiful.”
“Yeah, right.” I turned away to hide my pleasure at his compliment, making a big deal out of scanning the street for his car. “Where did you park?”
“Right here,” he said, gesturing to a shiny red Golf Cabriolet parked at the curb.
“Oh. Brought the casual wheels today, did you?”
“Yes. I noticed you like Volkswagens.” We were standing in front of the passenger door, but he didn’t move to open it.
“Um, yeah,” I said awkwardly, wondering if I should just go for the door handle myself.
“So you like it?”
“Like it? It’s only my dream car. I mean, not that your Rolls isn’t great, but a convertible . . .”
He was holding out a key attached to a Century City VW keychain. I stared at him blankly.
“Good thing,” he said. “Because it’s all yours.”
“What?” I clapped my hand over my mouth in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”
“Why would I kid? I see that you need a new car. Here. Get in, let’s go for a ride.”
My mind was racing. This was an awesome car, no question about it, but I could only imagine the strings that came attached to it. And besides, how would I explain a forty-thousand-dollar car to my back-home boyfriend? No. I had refused a car from a man once, and I would do so again.
“François, seriously,” I began. “There’s just no way I can accept this. It’s so sweet of you, really, but I mean—”
“What? That you don’t want to sleep with me for it?” His face was serious. I giggled nervously, and he broke into a smile. “Only joking. I already told you, I just want to help you. All I ask is you be my friend. Now, let’s go out for lunch—and you’re driving!”
Certainly François knew how to be a gentleman, and the reality was that I enjoyed his company. We ate fantastic meals, went to the movies and Universal Studios, even had drinks at his penthouse apartment a couple of times, and he never made a move on me. I tried to think of ways I could make myself valuable to him to ensure that our current situation continued. I was always at my most witty and upbeat when we were together, and I even offered him dating and fashion advice. I’d never had a male friend before, and I wanted to believe that such a relationship between a man and woman was possible. But my weakness was likely obvious: I desired success. When he asked me about my childhood and family, even though I didn’t supply much detail, he quickly gleaned my escapist desires. And each time we met, he would feed me a tidbit about how crazy Helene was for me. I always took it with a grain of salt, being savvy enough about my own industry to know that if she really loved me that much, she could have called up my agency and booked me at any time. But as much as I wanted to be, I was not immune to the lure of easy success.
One night François and I went out for dinner, and he told me he had a surprise for me. We were at Spago, sitting at one of their best tables after François, on a whim and with a single phone call, had jumped the queue of a one-month waiting list.
“So,” he said. “I have some news for you. But I must tell you, I am hesitant to reveal it.”
“How come?”
He smiled. “I’ve grown accustomed to your company. But I know it is not mine to keep.”
“What do you mean?”
He paused dramatically, sipping from his wineglass. “I heard from Helene this morning. She has a big beauty editorial coming up, and she wants to book you for it. You would fly to Paris next week. She just wanted to see a couple more headshots, which I faxed to her already—the Gorman job you did last month.”
“Are you serious?” Suddenly my disbelief was erased, and it made perfect sense: she had just been waiting for the right job to book me!
“Completely. You deserve this. Only, it means I will miss you when you go.”
“But—you could come and visit me. I mean, you’re from France, after all, so why not?”
He shrugged and waved a hand in the air. “My home is here now.”
“Wow,” I said, staring down at my spaghetti. “I’ll . . . I’ll miss you too.”
Later, when we went back to François’s apartment for a drink, it didn’t even seem unnatural when he leaned across the sofa to kiss me. I realized that I had known all along this was coming, and my efforts at fooling myself into thinking otherwise had been pathetically vain. Did I really believe he had bought me a car and offered to help my career because of my bottomless supply of wit and intelligence? As his hand made its way under my top, I held my breath and told myself it would all be over soon. Just this once. Next week I’ll be on a plane to Paris, and I’ll never have to do this again. I let him take my hand and lead me to his bedroom.
Twenty minutes later, I was quietly throwing up into François’s toilet. My skin reeked of his cologne. I knew I would never be able to erase the memory of his massive body on top of mine. But it was I who was making me ill. Not only had I cheated on my boyfriend, but I had just done the one thing I’d promised myself I never would. And now my ambition was exposed for the shallowest of reasons: a car I could look cool in, and a job I would probably never even get.
When I emerged from the bathroom, François was smoking a cigarette in bed with the TV on. He smiled and patted the mattress beside him.
“Stay with me,” he said.
I lay down, careful to keep our bodies apart, and pretended to be exhausted so I could feign sleep. Just one night. Just tonight, I kept thinking. But sleep would not come.
How many times did I have to ignore my instincts to have them proven correct? Of course, I never did work for French Vogue. Time after time, François postponed his promise with one excuse or another: Helene really wanted me, but she was required to book another girl to return a favour. Helene loved me, but she was a little concerned about my teeth.
“I’m so sorry if my mother couldn’t afford braces,” I once replied defensively to that one. “Weirdly enough, I guess groceries took priority. And I can’t exactly get them straightened now, can I? I might as well just wave goodbye to my career.”
I’d like to say I walked away when I saw the writing on the wall, but I didn’t. The affair lasted half a year. I never lost my feeling of revulsion each time I slept with François. He was my first experience with cheating, but I figured it didn’t really count, because (a) I didn’t enjoy the sex, and (b) I wasn’t planning to marry my back-home boyfriend. The decent thing to do would have been to break up with my boyfriend, but thinking about how he would cry and tell me that he couldn’t stand losing me made me feel like I was actually doing the right thing by staying with him. I started lying to him about where I was in the evening, and then I’d lie awake, eaten away by guilt and worry that I’d forget my own fiction.
One night, after tossing and turning for too long, I picked up the phone and called Mom. We didn’t often speak, and I hadn’t planned on telling her about François, but the moment I heard her voice, I let it all spill.
“So . . . I just feel really guilty. And I don’t know what to do, because I really do like him, but I’m grossed out by . . . you know, the other stuff.”
“You say he bought you a car?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Wish I had that problem. Darling, don’t fret so much. You’re both getting
something out of the deal, right? Just think of it as . . . a fair trade.”
“Fair trade,” I repeated. “Right. Okay.”
I hung up and lay back down on my pillow, trying to feel better. But it was no use. After all, my mother wasn’t exactly known for her sound judgment—not that it seemed to bother her much. Sometimes I thought my life would be so much easier if I could just be a little more like her.
Perhaps François was feeling a little guilty about our relationship too, because after six months passed and no booking from Helene had materialized, he did the next best thing: took me to New York and got me the best agency in the city, a highly selective one known for its top editorial girls—the ones who got the bookings with the best magazines. The owner seemed thrilled to have me and predicted great things for my future. François and I went out for dinner to celebrate, and it was later that night, in bed in our thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suite, that I finally realized I was in over my head. I was discreetly tucking the covers around me to try to separate our bodies when François turned toward me.
“I’ve fallen for you,” he said matter-of-factly, and then he hesitated. His eyes, naked-looking without his blue contacts, gazed deep into mine. “Do you think you could ever love someone like me?” he almost whispered.
“Oh, François . . .” I tried to formulate a kind but noncommittal reply as I looked back at him. How stupid I’d been to never anticipate the possibility of this moment. I knew the answer, of course, but was I ready to lose everything that François represented to me?
“Don’t answer,” he said quickly. “It’s because of Helene, isn’t it? You are disappointed in me. I promised you would work for her, and you haven’t.” He sat up and lit a cigarette. “I have been selfish. She really did want to book you, but I told her you were thinking of quitting the business. That you wanted to get married and have babies. I wanted to keep you for myself. Will you forgive me? First thing when we get back to L.A., I will call her and tell the truth.”
“Oh . . .” I said again, lost for words. “It’s . . . it’s okay. Really, I understand. Can we just . . . can we talk about this tomorrow? I’m really tired.”
“Of course.” He nodded, and I turned onto my side away from him.
My heart was a little broken for him. It was clear to me now that François was lonely, and I was filling a need for him. But I knew I would never be able to complete the circle of emotion needed for an equal and genuine relationship. And if that were true, no matter what my mother said, if I stayed, I was no better than a whore selling my body and company for wealth and success.
The following day, François and I flew back to L.A. and drove to his apartment. “I’ll call Helene in the morning,” he said again before we went to bed, but the smile I returned to him didn’t touch my heart. The nausea I’d felt since the night before hadn’t left me.
I lay staring at the ceiling for a long time, and then I reached out and placed my hand on François’s shoulder. He turned toward me in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I just can’t do this. You deserve more. Someone who can really love you.”
I switched on the lamp, got out of bed and began to dress. François lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the air, saying nothing. I looked at him, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. I turned away.
“I’m sorry,” he said to my back. “Again, I broke my promise to you. We can just be friends, okay? Just go back to being friends.”
I turned around to him and shook my head. “François. I just don’t think that’s going to work. I . . . I’m sorry. Really.”
He nodded and looked away from me again. “Keep the car. I bought it for you.”
I went over to him and hugged him and then walked to the front door. Just before stepping out into the hallway, I placed my car key on his entrance table, and then I left, quietly closing the door behind me.
I’d given in to the lure, broken my promise to myself, and just as I’d anticipated, I was filled with regret. But the thing about regret, I realized, was that each day presented a fresh opportunity to start putting it behind you. As I’d done before François entered my life, I would make things happen on my own—whatever the results.
Chapter 14
2008
Vancouver
A few days into 2008, I was at the swimming pool with Avery when my cell phone rang. I had no intention of answering—I was changing him back into his clothes, and he was on the verge of a meltdown because I was having trouble getting his shirt on over his damp skin. I glanced down at my phone. New York, NY, it said under the number, and my stomach did a little flip. Could it possibly be?
“Avery,” I said quickly. “Be really good for Mommy, and sit here quietly for a few minutes, and then we’ll go for an ice cream cone. Okay?” He nodded through his tears, and I took a deep breath and picked up.
“Ms. Person?” a male voice said.
“Yes?” My throat clicked closed nervously.
“It’s Arnold Lassiter at Lassiter Literary Agency.”
Yes! “Oh. Hello!”
“Hello there. I’ve just finished reading your memoir, and I have to tell you that I’m completely blown away by it.”
“Wow. Really?” My voice was high and squeaky.
“Yes. It’s an incredible story. I’d love to work with you on this. Are you still seeking representation?”
“Um, well . . . yes! I mean . . . I was hoping to work with you.”
“Well then, I couldn’t be more pleased,” Arnold replied. “What do you say I email you the contract this afternoon, and we’ll be on our way?”
“That would be fantastic!” I replied, too eager as always. “I’ll read it over and get back to you. Until tomorrow, then?”
“Yes. Until tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone and literally jumped for joy. Avery giggled and copied me, and I grabbed him up in a giant hug. This was it—I had an agent! Guthrie the astrologer had been dead wrong! It was only a matter of time now before I got a publishing deal, and best of all, I could leave James without my future being a huge and terrifying unknown.
James hadn’t offered to attend Mom’s memorial with me, and I hadn’t asked him. A week after I signed on to have my book represented by Arnold Lassiter, I stood in Sam’s living room preparing to read a poem I’d written for my mother. Her death had forced Sam and me to communicate during the past couple of weeks. Over the phone, we’d stiffly discussed food and flowers and guest lists. He’d wanted it held at their home. We agreed that I would plan it, and he would pay for it. At the end of our last conversation, he told me that Grandma Jeanne was staying at his house; would I like to sleep in the guest room? I didn’t want to, but I also couldn’t afford a hotel. It was convenient. I’d be with my grandmother. Yes, I replied, wishing I had the nerve or the pride to say no. Thank you.
Walking into Sam’s house, I’d felt like I was stepping back into my past. A few roommates from the house Mom and I had lived in when I was a teenager were there, as was Aunt Jan. For me, the saddest sight of the day was Grandma Jeanne. She had four children, and each of them had carved a painful path through her life. I realized I might be the only person in the room who understood that my grandmother’s grief wasn’t just for her lost daughter; it was for all her family. The Persons were over. Some of them may still have been alive, but they, along with their admirable but questionable ideals, were all but finished. It felt like the official end of my history.
I stood at the front of the living room and read:
“In my dreams we hold hands again
And run through the meadows of my youth
Abundant with wildflowers
Jutting grey mountains rising from the west
Streams gurgling around our feet as we splash
And fall, tumbling and laughing, under a cloudless sky
For so very long it was just the two of us
I felt your wings spread around me, warm like an angel’s soft embrace
You were a wildflower yourself
Rolling over the landscape and smiling into the breeze
“What I will miss the most
Are the moments that can now never be
The careless Sundays I thought we would spend on the sofa
The light in your eyes as you watch your grandson hike his first mountain
And fly him around by his ankles like the spinning wheels of time,
Time that I thought we would have forever
‘I love you, Grandma Michelle,’ says my son
‘Please won’t you do it just one more time
Sprinkle your fairy dust on me and kiss me good night.’”
Smile, nod, hug, nod, hug, smile. As soon as I could politely manage it, I escaped to the basement guest room. Footsteps crossed the floor above my head, and I hoped upon hope that Sam wouldn’t come downstairs. As grateful as I was for his recent kindness, I still wanted to crawl out of my own skin at the discomfort of staying in his home.
I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, arms spread at my sides. I thought about my still-faceless agent, who was poised to release the story of the Persons into the world any day. I had now lost most of my family without ever really understanding them, and my mother’s death had left me with questions that would never be answered—questions about my family’s mental health, especially Mom’s. Her traits were far less defined than those of her three siblings. Why hadn’t my mother been able to help with my most basic homework? Why did she forget my boyfriends’ names after she’d met them twenty times but remember details from her short time with my father like they’d happened yesterday? And why was she always so inappropriate?
Everyone thinks their mother is weird, my high school friends used to reassure me, but I looked at theirs and I looked at mine, and I saw a truth I could never clearly explain to them: there was something off about my mother. She’d escaped her siblings’ schizophrenia and bipolar disorder and extreme mental challenge, but she still acted brain-damaged half the time. Perhaps it had been too much to ask, that writing would bring it all into focus for me. I’d seen my book as a life raft that would rescue me from my financial hole and, at the same time, bring me understanding about my family. Though I still believed it would, I also had to admit that it wasn’t the most logical or direct way to address my issues. In that way, I had to recognize that I was a true Person, with dramatic ideas and solutions to problems that I only admitted were mistakes after it was too late.
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