“Thanks,” she said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for this clipper. I haven’t trimmed my nails since we broke up.”
He actually looked at her hands. “I didn’t ask you here just to give you this,” he said, sitting next to her.
“You’re going to kill me?”
“I owe you an apology. I really am sorry how it worked out.”
“Are you begging my forgiveness?” Finally! She’d been waiting for this. In her fantasies, he sniveled and groveled at her feet. In reality, he was a bit detached, like testifying in court. Did the defendant show adequate remorse?
James said, “You can forgive me or not. That’s up to you. I hope you do. I don’t like the idea of someone out there hating me.”
Someone out there? Okay, now it made sense. The impromptu closure session had a purpose—to absolve him of his guilt.
“I accept your apology,” she said. “But I’m not going to forgive you. I love grudges. They’re like golden nuggets I can hold in my hand and rub for good luck. It gives me joy to hate you. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
He smiled (huh?). “I can live with that. I guess there’s a thin line between love and hate. If you hate me, you still love me.”
“So you don’t mind the idea of someone out there loving you?”
“What?”
Jesus, was he always so slow on the uptake? Without sex to distract her, Demi could see James more plainly. “I’m going to go,” she said.
“Okay, yeah, good idea.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We don’t want anything to happen,” he said.
She scoffed. “Nothing is going to happen.”
“Right. Because you’re leaving. Otherwise, it’d be only too easy to just…” He touched her hair, twirling a lock around his finger like he used to. She would have pushed him away, but it felt good, familiar. “I haven’t been with anyone since you left,” he said.
The door was now wide open. Demi had the choice: Leave now with her pride and dignity intact, with memories of self-control to last a lifetime, or take him up on his sad offer of hollow sex, erode her self-esteem, and regret it forever.
How would she choose?
It had been an awfully long time since a man touched her.
His hand moved from her hair to her shoulder, rubbing. When he used to give her massages, she would say, “You knead me. You really knead me.” He knew exactly how to do it, good and hard. If nothing more, she knew exactly what she’d get out of a libidinous encounter—and, more important, what she wouldn’t get. Sex with James would not be a reconciliation. There was no going back to living a lie.
Demi leaned into his hand and closed her eyes. She realized that sensation was enough. She didn’t want any more from him emotionally or romantically. But sexually? She could have him, and then leave without a backward glance.
She made her move, locking lips before he knew what was happening. Their bodies fell on the couch, Demi taking off her clothes and his unhurried, not caring about being seductive. She was wearing old panties and she didn’t care what he thought of them, or her leg stubble. She was amazed that he didn’t seem turned off by it—not that she cared what he thought anyway. Instead of letting him lead, Demi took control. Freed from caring how she looked, Demi could concentrate on her own bliss only. At the finish, she released it all: the doubt, stress, resentment, everything she’d kept corked since the breakup. It was a revelation. All that time, she had thought their sex life was about her pleasure. But now she realized, it had been about feeding his ego.
Demi looked at James, a bit surprised he was there. Her experience was so inwardly focused, she’d nearly forgotten about him. But he looked up at her, enthralled, amazed, a bit afraid.
“Why weren’t you like this when we were together?” he asked, gasping for breath.
“Would you have been faithful?”
He knew not to answer that. She got off him. “Thanks again for the stuff”—a phrase that had new meaning. She dressed quickly, picked up the box, and headed for the door.
* * *
In the trailer, Sophia said, “I didn’t say you were a self-destructive…”
“It was empowering!” said Demi. “If I hadn’t slept with him, I might still care about him. I’m telling you, just FYI, the best way to stop obsessing about your ex is to have sex with him and not care.”
Demi told Sophia the whole story. “The only problem was that I had to bike home with the box balanced on the handle bars,” she said. “I’m lucky I wasn’t arrested again … oh, yeah. So. A few other things happened.”
Sophia didn’t seem to breathe while Demi updated her on recent events—getting fired, the arrest, the verdict. “I know I should have told you, but I had to lay low, and then you got the part and I didn’t want to bring you down. I know it sounds bad, but I’ve got my bike. I’m over James. It sucks working for my dad, but I’m making money. It’s all good.”
Sophia shook her head. “It’s not good. It’s awful. DUI? Sex with James? If you said you did it because you were horny, or lonely, or wanted to screw him for screwing you, that I’d believe. But to empower yourself? Here’s an orgasm, James, thanks for the dose of girl power? He’d have to pay a hooker to fuck and leave. You did it for free. What’s next? Having James’s baby to prove you’re over him? And I don’t trust Sarah. She did a nice thing that one day, but she’s got a mean streak. You’re right back under your dad’s thumb. I love him like my own, but Richard is a control freak. You have got to get out of Vancouver, and away from all these people! If the show gets picked up, you’re coming to LA with me. We’ve been talking about living together since we were fourteen years old. This is our chance. You could get a driver’s license, too, and start over with a clean slate.”
Demi had dual citizenship. Her parents had been living in Seattle when they had her. Unlike Sophia, she didn’t need a work visa or any paperwork to move to California. All she had to do was pack up and go—and find the cash to do it.
“If we move in together, are you going to be as blunt as you are right now? Because forget it,” said Demi.
“Did you tell Sarah you slept with James?”
“No.” But she had, and Sarah thought the story was hilarious.
A knock on the trailer door. Sophia opened it. It was the flannel-shirted PA. “Ready on set,” he said, and glared at Demi.
“I’m mad at you,” said Sophia. “And I’m probably going to stay mad for the next hour. But after that, we’re going to talk about this move so I can keep an eye on you.”
She left, and Demi sat for a few minutes thinking about it. She had to admit, it felt pretty sweet to be yelled at by Sophia. Like old times.
* * *
“So what do you think?” Demi asked Catherine that night.
Catherine tried Demi’s stew, just out of the oven. “Too hot,” she said.
“I meant California,” said Demi. “I don’t think I could leave the only place I’ve ever known. Saying adios to my parents and siblings? I’m happy for Sophia, and it’d be fun to have a front-row seat when she becomes a star. But that’s her life. What am I going to do in LA? Mope around an empty apartment while she’s off being fabulous? I could look for a job, but my résumé is as thin as a mint. I’ll get bored and start drinking again, I know it.”
Catherine nodded as Demi explained her rationale. “Why do you think Vancouver is safe and secure for you? I’ve only known you for a couple of months, and you’ve been in quite a lot of trouble. I understand why you’re afraid to let it go. But if you stay, you won’t grow. If I were you, I’d be packing already.”
“And leave all this?” she asked, arms sweeping around the lobby of death.
“The last six people left this apartment feet first.”
“I thought five.”
“I lied so you wouldn’t feel frightened.”
“Because five is so much less scary than six?” asked Demi. She tasted the stew. It was too hot. “Move a
nd grow, I agree with you. I’m not staying in Vancouver forever. It’s just until things settle down.”
“You say that now. And then fifty years will go by.”
“Oh, please.”
“Five years. Ten years. Even one year is too long.”
“Okay, okay. Jesus Christ. You’re going to nag me to death. That’s probably how Miriam bought it. Now shut up and eat the stew.”
“I will miss your food when you leave,” said Catherine.
“I’m not leaving,” muttered Demi.
demi’s beef bourguignon
SERVES 8
ingredients
MARINADE
2 cups red wine
3 lbs lean beef cut into 1-inch cubes
½ tsp celtic sea salt
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
1 tbsp minced fresh thyme leaves
2 bay leaves
1 carrot
2 cloves garlic
2 celery stalks
2 tbsps olive oil
STEW
2 zucchinis
2 white or yellow onions
2 cloves garlic
3 tbsps olive oil
1½ cups pearl onions, parboiled
1½ cups quartered button mushrooms
3–5 tbsps tomato paste (or dr. bo’s tomato alternative)
1 cup beef broth
¼ tsp celtic sea salt
instructions
1. In a bowl, pour the wine over the beef. Add salt, cayenne, thyme, and bay leaves to the bowl. Slice one carrot, two cloves garlic, and celery, and add to the bowl with the wine and beef. Marinate beef in this mixture for at least 2 hours and up to 24 hours. Turn occasionally. Note: Alcohol will burn off during cooking.
2. Remove meat and pat it dry using paper towels.
3. Strain marinade, reserving the liquid.
4. Heat 2 or 3 tablespoons olive oil in heavy skillet. Brown the meat quickly on all sides. Remove meat and add to a two-quart baking dish.
5. Deglaze skillet with 2 cups reserved marinade and add to baking dish.
6. Chop zucchinis (I like these to be small pieces but still identifiable), 2 onions, and 2 cloves of garlic. Heat 2 tbsps olive oil in skillet and sauté zucchini, onions, and garlic until lightly browned (about 5 minutes).
7. Cover and cook at 375 degrees for 2 hours.
8. Thirty minutes before the 2 hours are up, heat the remaining tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet, and sauté the pearl onions, mushrooms, tomato paste, and beef broth for about 7 minutes. Remove the beef from the oven carefully, add the pearl onions and mushrooms to the baking dish. Continue to bake for 30 more minutes.
Boil some new potatoes and serve on the side for a healthy, hearty, and waist-friendly meal … voilà!
14
i run, you chase
“How’s Bangkok?” asked Sophia, smiling at the image of Leandra, now a platinum blonde, on her phone.
“Darling! I’m in London now,” said Leandra.
“Sounds like you’ve been there since birth.”
“It’s quite amazing how quickly you pick up the accent.”
“How long has it been?”
“Two weeks, luv.”
“That is fast,” said Sophia. Should she tell her how fake the accent sounded? And spoil her fun? Not that it would, she thought. If she liked doing it, more power to her.
“Can you see my new town house?” Leandra turned her phone around to show Sophia. “My new friend Ollie Bracknell is letting me stay in his flat. He’s an earl, darling! A royal. He’s got gobs of money, a Bentley, a castle. His family owns a plane. We might fly to Ibiza this weekend.”
She’d said wee-kend, emphasis on the second syllable, just like the stars of the BBC reality show Made in Chelsea. In Toronto, they used to binge-watch episodes on YouTube and imitate the accents. From the look of it, Leandra had managed to wriggle her way into that world. Sophia gawked and made appropriate gushing noises as Leandra took her on a FaceTime tour of her new gilded digs, the marble lobby and regal staircase, the oil portraits on the walls and “important” furniture.
“What happened to Charlie?” asked Sophia.
“It wasn’t a healthy relationship. I didn’t tell you, but he used to make me crawl around on all fours.”
“Did he really?” Sophia had her doubts. Leandra tended to exaggerate every tiny thing. Sophia found it hysterical. If Leandra said he made her crawl on all fours, it probably meant he asked her to pour the tea.
“I know, right? Very degrading and not good for my self-esteem. But Ollie loves me for who I am. And he’s obsessed with me.”
“And who are you, as far as he’s concerned?”
“Why, darling, I’m myself! We met at a club, and have been inseparable ever since. It’s like one of those romance novels, truly. How to Seduce an Earl, or whatever.”
“How did you seduce him?” asked Sophia. She took a sip of her morning smoothie. The question might have sounded judgey, but she didn’t mean it to be. She was curious. Leandra had more tricks than a circus clown.
“I sucked his dick like I was mad at it,” said Leandra.
Sophia spit green drink halfway across the pool patio. “I hope you didn’t put him in the hospital!”
“Oh, no. He’s perfectly safe. Just needed a nap after,” said Leandra. “We’re madly in love and I feel content and fulfilled for the first time in my entire life.”
“And you say that to me with complete sincerity—with a fake British accent.” Sophia was beginning to wonder if Leandra should be the actor. Demi called her a phony, and she was. Sophia could see through the mask because she understood why it was there in the first place. After Stacy got cancer at nine, Leandra acted like nothing happened. During the course of Stacy’s treatments, Leandra pretended that nothing was wrong. After she died, Leandra refused to talk about it. It probably wasn’t the healthiest way to grieve, but Sophia wasn’t in the position to judge. She hadn’t lost a sister. One night, in high school, Sophia drunkenly brought it up, and promised Leandra that she would be her friend forever. Leandra replied, “You don’t know that.” Sophia had done her best to uphold her promise. Even though Demi and Leandra had their issues, Sophia knew that Demi would have Leandra’s back, too.
“Where are you?” asked Leandra.
“I’m in LA. This is my new building.” She turned the phone around to show Leandra the white stucco two-story, U-shaped complex called Rosewood Mews in West Hollywood. It reminded Sophia of Melrose Place. She found it thanks to one of her Hipsters costars, Paula Rosa, a twenty-five-year-old originally from Chicago, already a veteran of three TV series. She had lived here when she first arrived in LA, and still had friends in the complex. The third costar, nineteen-year-old Cassie Lambert, came from a Hollywood family and was still living at home in Brentwood.
Sophia signed the lease electronically, sight unseen, and was relieved that the building, with a swimming pool, was exactly like the photos. The rent for the two-bedroom was a lot: $3,000 a month, but split two ways with Demi, she could swing it. If the show got picked up, she’d decorate it nicely with real—“important”?—furniture. (If the show tanked, she had no idea what she’d do.) The other residents were all Hollywood wannabe actors and models like herself. As she sat by the pool, she watched one stunning specimen after another walk in and out of their apartments, waving and smiling, as was the California way.
“You got my email about the change of address, right?” Sophia asked Leandra, just checking. She’d been rushing around, under a logistical ton of bricks, and hadn’t had a minute to double-check that her mass email didn’t wind up in spam folders.
“Yes, and the announcement about your show! A million congrats! I can’t wait to see it. Do you think it’ll be available in London?”
“No clue. I’m not a hundred percent convinced it’ll be available here.”
“I’ve got to run, luv. Ollie wants to take me shopping in Mayfair. Cheers!”
Sophia waved good-bye, but Leandra was
already gone. She sent a quick text to Demi: “Get your ass out here now, bitch!” Then she settled back on her plastic slatted lounge and closed her eyes. Moving hadn’t been as awful as she thought—she had so few possessions worth keeping—but it had been a schlep. She deserved a day in the sun.
“Hey,” said a male voice. “You’re the new girl?”
She opened her eyes. Standing across the pool from her—a respectful distance, which she appreciated—the guy was around her age, aviator sunglasses, short hair, a ratty T-shirt, and a pair of worn jeans that telegraphed slacker, but then again, in LA, anyone could be a billionaire.
“You live here?” she asked.
He said, “I’m David, one-C.”
Okay, not a billionaire. “Sophia,” she said, but stopped short of giving her apartment number. He looked harmless, but you can’t be too careful.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I just thought you should know: Don’t go in the pool. It’s not safe.”
Really? So much for her Melrose Place fantasies of a dozen hotties frolicking in the pool while plotting to steal each other’s boyfriends and babies. “It looks all right.”
“It’s like a giant petri dish of body fluids.”
“Gross!”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I don’t go in there.”
Sophia took a photo of the pool. David bombed into the frame. He was determined to keep the conversation going, fine. Sophia should get to know her neighbors. It was only polite.
“So, are you an actor?” she asked.
“God, no. I’m a writer.”
A writer? Sophia’s character on Hipsters was a writer. She could pick his brain. His body was worth a closer look, too, actually. For a guy who sat in front of a computer for work, he had nice legs, a slim waist. The ass remained to be seen. Was he successful, or did he have a dozen screenplays in a drawer? And how to ask without being a bitch?
“Any luck?”
“I’m on staff at Sex & Murder: LA.”
“Wow! That’s impressive. Do you actually see the seedy underbelly of LA or just make it all up?”
“Where are you from?” he asked. “I can’t place your accent.”
Bliss Page 16