by Melody Mayer
“Publicizing . . . what do you publicize, exactly?” Lydia asked, feeling she should add something.
Evelyn waved airily. “Various . . . groups. Freedom forums. I believe very strongly in personal freedom.”
“Oh, me too,” Alexis agreed, clearly eager to please.
Lydia peered at a large framed poster on the wall. It was all black, with red letters that read: YOUR LIFE. YOUR CHOICE. IT’S THE AMERICAN WAY. Lydia scrutinized lettering at the bottom of the poster so small as to be barely legible: The American Tobacco Association.
Cigarettes? Evelyn Bowers publicized cigarettes?
Alexis checked out the fine print on the poster too, then turned a questioning face to Evelyn.
“Hey, I used to do publicity for Greenpeace,” Evelyn said defensively. “But when my husband left me for that ditzy bitch in Burbank—see what that does for your bank account.”
“Whatever floats your canoe, Evelyn,” Lydia said easily. “Right, Alexis?”
“Uh, smoking really messes up people’s health,” Alexis began, “but all you’re doing is telling people that they have the right to choose to mess up their health, right?”
Evelyn beamed. “We’re going to get along famously, I can tell already.” She turned to Lydia. “I’d like to talk privately with Alexis for a while, if I might.”
Lydia nodded. “I’ll go sit by the pool. Let me know when you’re done.” She retraced her steps to the pool, slipped off her aunt’s Enzo Angiolini leather wedge sandals with rhinestones, and stretched out on a chaise. Fifteen minutes later, a beaming Evelyn strolled outside, arm in arm with Alexis.
“She’s just charming,” Evelyn gushed, patting Alexis’s hand. “She’s going to be perfect for my children. When can she start?”
Lydia gave Alexis a pointed look.
“I actually have a small suitcase in my car,” Alexis responded. “I can start immediately, if necessary.”
“Aren’t you a gem!” Evelyn cried. “This is going to be the best job you ever had.”
Alexis smiled.
“So you both live happily ever after, and I’m just tickled over it,” Lydia intoned. Since Alexis had driven over, she figured she could call X for a ride home. “I’ll just leave you with Alexis for her orientation. All we have left to do is for me to collect—”
Evelyn smoothly took a small envelope out of her pocket, stepped over to Lydia, and handed it to her. “I think you’ll find everything you need in there. I made the check out to Lydia Chandler.”
“Fine,” Lydia said smoothly, pocketing the envelope. Of course, she didn’t exactly have a bank account in which she could deposit the check, or even an easy way to cash it. She didn’t even know how to open a bank account, and she still had to contact her second cousin who was a lawyer in Dallas about drawing up some business documents, release forms, and the like.
Well, Aunt Kat might help her with all this. She’d have to be impressed that Lydia had started her own successful business. Plus, Lydia was certain that once she waved that big ol’ check in front of Kiley and Esme, they’d be in too.
23
“But it’s nine-thirty.” Martina bit her lip anxiously and rechecked her Hello Kitty watch. “I’m supposed to be home for my aerobics lesson.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” The taxicab pulled into a strip mall at the intersection of San Vicente Boulevard and La Cienega. Lydia paid the fare and gave the driver a two-dollar tip.
“Why are we here? Where are we? What are we doing?” Martina demanded as they exited the cab.
“You aren’t exactly a happy camper these days, right, sweet pea?”
Martina shrugged behind her veil of hair.
“You hate aerobics, don’t you?”
Martina nodded, eyes downcast. “That woman who comes to our house to teach me, she’s so mean. She patted my stomach and said, ‘We need to get rid of this.’ ”
Lydia was incensed on her sensitive cousin’s behalf. How dare Betsy Boomer, of Bodies by Betsy fame, say such a thing? Did she have no idea how damaging a remark like that could be? Lydia would have reported it to Anya, but Anya and the trainer were friends. Besides, Anya would not only share the trainer’s opinion, she’d applaud it.
“I hate her too,” Lydia said, smiling. “Okay. You remember I told you I was going to find something more fun for you to do, right?”
Martina nodded cautiously.
“Do you trust me?”
Martina nodded again.
“Okay, then, come with me.” Lydia wrapped a protective arm around Martina’s shoulders and led her down a few doors to one of the strip mall’s storefronts, thinking how lucky she was that Jimmy had a tennis lesson on the home court and Anya was working out this morning with her protégée, Oksana, at the Beverly Hills Hotel tennis center. Three whole hours with Martina to do what she wanted. That should be a good start.
The storefront windows were obscured by billowy jewel-toned curtains. The door was painted black save for a small sign: FATIMA’S.
The night before, Lydia had been giving herself a facial with MTV on in the background. A show called Made caught her eye. The idea of the show was that kids could get the coaches, teachers, whatever they needed to reinvent themselves. In the first segment, a girl who was dreadful at sports wanted to become a cheerleader. While being a cheerleader struck Lydia as a particularly insipid waste of time, she was impressed by the girl’s transformation. In the second segment, a klutzy girl wanted to be good enough to audition for her school’s dance team. Made brought in a dance coach named Fatima who had her own belly dance studio in West Hollywood. When Lydia saw Fatima, very round and nurturing, she’d turned the sound up and watched, transfixed. Bugs worked for Jimmy. Why not belly dance for Martina?
She’d found the information on Fatima’s studio, which was near the Beverly Center, and called, explaining the particular challenges her fourth-grade niece was facing. Fatima had been very encouraging. And now . . . here they were. Lydia hadn’t said a word about it beforehand, not wanting to give Martina time to think it over and then scuttle away to her room.
Martina stopped dead in her tracks. “Fatima?”
Lydia nodded. “You’ll see.”
“No! I can read. It’s Fat-something.”
Poor baby. She had the self-esteem of a maggot.
“It’s a woman’s name, sweetie,” Lydia assured her. “I swear.”
“It’s not a fat camp?”
“Promise.”
Martina reluctantly allowed Lydia to lead her inside. The room was plain, with a wooden plank floor, a ballet barre, and a wall of mirrors. Middle Eastern music played through the sound system and the air smelled of pungent incense. Fatima herself, clad in purple harem pants and an ornately jeweled purple bra, was dancing in the center. She looked to be in her midforties, and far from beautiful in the Hollywood sense. Her dark hair fell in waves nearly to her waist. She wore black eyeliner drawn upward at the outer edge, and matte red lipstick. Her nose was noble, her expression serene. She had bells on her fingers that rang as her hands dipped and swirled around her body. A ring of women and teen girls seated on floor cushions—maybe a dozen—clapped as Fatima danced.
All the color drained from Martina’s face. She turned to bolt.
“You don’t have to do anything, I swear,” Lydia whispered. “I want you to look at the girls in this class. Just look. That’s all.”
Martina allowed Lydia to pivot her back toward the group. Lydia saw it register with Martina that she was not the fattest person in the room. Some of the girls were thinner, but a few were much larger. One woman had to weigh at least three hundred pounds.
When the music ended, the group applauded Fatima heartily. She took a graceful bow, then hurried over to Martina and Lydia. “You are Lydia?”
Lydia nodded. “And this is Martina.”
Fatima took Martina’s hand. “Welcome.”
Martina’s cheeks went crimson as the studio owner placed a forefinger gently u
nder her chin to lift it. “Such a beauty you are.”
Martina shook her head.
“Oh yes, I never lie,” Fatima insisted. With one arm around Martina’s shoulders, she turned to the group. “Everyone, this is Martina. She is ten years old.”
They all called out variations on welcome.
“You have beautiful skin,” said a blond-haired girl with braces.
“Your face is so sweet,” said a woman with cornrows in her hair.
“You will grow into your beauty like a flower,” the very overweight woman decreed.
“I can already see that you’ll be graceful,” offered an Indian girl with a red dot between her eyebrows.
Martina looked bewildered.
“We greet our guests by saying positive things about them,” Fatima explained.
“That’s nice,” Martina whispered, almost smiling.
Good God. This actually might work.
“Please, come join us,” Fatima said, urging Martina forward. “You don’t have to dance. No one has to do anything here unless they wish to. There are no judgments. When you choose to join in, you just pick a skirt that is beautiful to you.” She pointed to a costume rack that held dozens of brightly colored, flimsy skirts that tied at the waist. Lydia noticed how all the women and girls wore similar skirts over their jeans.
Martina allowed Fatima to usher her over to the group, where a pretty, extremely curvaceous black girl urged Martina to sit next to her. “My name is Tonya,” the girl told Martina, loud enough for Lydia to hear. “That’s my mom.” She pointed to the three-hundred-pound white woman.
“I have two moms,” Martina replied solemnly.
Fatima got the group’s attention and explained a basic belly dance move, swiveling the hips as if playing with one of the round hoops that the Amas loved to swirl on themselves. When the group got up to try the move, Martina shyly asked Lydia if she could help her pick a skirt from the rack of belly dance costumes. They agreed on a pale pink one, which Lydia tied around Martina’s waist. Five minutes later, Martina was pivoting her hips and laughing hysterically with her new friend, Tonya.
The forty-five minutes of the class sped by. When Fatima announced the end of the class, Martina groaned along with everyone else. Lydia sidled over to Martina to help her out of her skirt. “Fun?”
Martina nodded happily. “Everyone here is really nice, don’t you think?”
Tonya scurried over. “Martina, do you think you can come to my birthday party next week? It’s at my house in Westwood.”
Martina’s face lit up. She turned to Lydia. “Can I?”
“Of course, sweet pea,” Lydia assured her.
After Lydia scribbled down the information, she and Martina departed, with Martina yammering nonstop about her new friend Tonya and what she would get Tonya for her birthday. Lydia’s original plan had been to call a cab immediately and return to Kat and Anya’s house, but the girl was in such a good mood that Lydia suggested they stop at Jerry’s Deli, across from the Beverly Center, for a snack. She didn’t have to ask twice.
It was a ten-minute walk to the famous deli, and Lydia realized that between the walk and the class, this was probably more exercise than her niece had done in a year. The hostess seated them on the patio parallel to Beverly Boulevard. Lydia called for a cab to pick them up in thirty minutes, then people-watched as they waited for a waitress to take their orders. Meanwhile, Martina buried herself in the enormous Jerry’s menu.
“Do they have soy shakes without sugar?” Martina asked.
Lydia made a face. “That’s not a snack. A snack is something that actually tastes good.” She pointed to the long line of luscious baked goods and ice cream confections on the menu. “Pick something from there.”
The waitress appeared—an older woman with a big smile and a gruff manner. Lydia ordered an extrathick chocolate milk shake. Martina said she wanted to order one too, with extra whipped cream and nuts. But her lactose intolerance . . .
“I’ve given you lots of stuff with milk in it, sweetie,” Lydia confided. “You never got sick once.”
“And the calories . . .”
The waitress made a face. “Sco f at calories. Ha-ha-ha!”
Martina laughed as the waitress went back inside the restaurant. “I’m so glad you came to live with us, Lydia,” she said softly.
“Me too,” Lydia agreed. She felt great. Helping her little cousin to feel better about herself was fun, she decided. Maybe she had some of her parents’ do-gooder genes after all.
“This is the best day of my life!” Martina announced, just as a silver Porsche skidded to a stop at the curbside, right by where she and Lydia were sitting. A familiar athletic female form, dressed in gym shorts, a T-shirt, and a Russia Davis Cup team jacket, came pounding out of the driver’s side. Anya.
“Is going to be worst day of your life!” Anya thundered. “What is going on?”
Lydia saw Martina’s face turn green, which was her signal to turn on the charm. “Anya!” she said brightly. “Imagine running into you here.”
“Do not—do not make to ignore question,” Anya sputtered, her Russian accent as thick as Lydia had ever heard it. “What is going on?”
“We’re just . . . having a healthy snack,” Lydia chirped.
Anya pointed at her daughter. “You are supposed to be at aerobics lesson.”
“We . . . decided to go for a power walk instead,” Lydia improvised. “Since it’s such a beautiful day.”
“To West Hollywood from Beverly Hills? Where is Jimmy?”
“Tennis lesson,” Lydia said meekly.
“You left child alone?” Anya shrieked.
“He’s hardly alone,” Lydia pointed out. “I mean, Alfre is there, and the maids, and, um . . . the tennis coach. And he’s home. Where he lives. Not in some public park.”
“I’m sorry, Momma Anya,” Martina whimpered.
Anya pointed at her daughter. “You are in very big hot water.”
There were tears in Martina’s eyes. Lydia felt terrible. “Please don’t blame her,” Lydia pleaded. “This is my fault, not hers. I won’t deviate from your schedule anymore. I promise.”
“Your promises are not worth toilet paper!” Anya thundered. “You are big liar.”
Lydia tapped a finger against her lips. “Now, see, I think that’s a little harsh—”
“Is not harsh enough. Maybe you think I am stupid!” Anya reached into her bag and plucked out a yellow legal pad. “You are not only big liar, you are big thief. I keep running list since you come.”
She thrust the pad at Lydia, who had no choice but to take it.
ITEMS MISSING SINCE LYDIA COME
Jimmy Choo stiletto sandals, baby blue python
Frost French Jeans, distressed denim
Marc Jacobs pumps, black
Vintage Gucci minishift, psychedelic print
Hourisan Manolo Blahnik sandals, silver gray
Delfina bikini, burnt orange
Trina Turk beaded raffia bag, bamboo handles
Langercroft Irish linen bathing suit cover-up, white
Emanuel Ungaro silk tunic, gold
Marc Jacobs cropped cotton jacket, beige
Hot Kiss shorts with unfinished hems, white
Lydia’s first reaction was relief. Anya had missed at least half the clothing items she’d borrowed, including the pale blue Chloé sequined T-shirt with the strawberry juice stain from her picnic with Billy. She’d meant to send it to the dry cleaner’s, but now remembered that it was still wadded up in the bottom of her closet.
Her second reaction was surprise. Nothing about Secrets of the Kama Sutra, which meant two things—that the book definitely belonged to Kat, and that Anya didn’t know anything about it. All this left the question, of course, of why Kat would have a book secreted away that revealed the ins and outs of glorious—and strictly heterosexual—sex.
Her third reaction was indignation. Who kept a secret running list like this? She’d replaced mo
st of the items right back where she’d found them, in her aunt’s closet. Maybe not in the exact spot, but she was family, after all.
“It’s called borrowing.” Lydia defended herself, head held high as she handed the pad of paper back to Anya. “I returned everything.”
Anya looked smug. “You are liar.”
“Well, almost everything,” Lydia amended. “What am I supposed to do, run around Beverly Hills in a loincloth?”
“Your aunt returns from New York day after tomorrow; she will stay home for few days, we will deal with you then.”
Deal with? As in: send back to Amazonia? No. Her aunt Kat wouldn’t do that to her on her partner’s say-so. Would she?
Just then, the waitress returned. “Two extrathick chocolate shakes with extra whipped cream and nuts,” she announced, setting them down and taking off again.
Lydia thought Anya was going to burst a blood vessel when she saw the thick, luscious milk shakes.
“They’re both for me,” Lydia explained blithely. “One for now, one for later. Martina’s only drinking water. I swear it.”
Anya’s only response was a glare that could reignite the Cold War. “Come,” she finally told her daughter. “We go home. Lydia, you squeeze in car or not. I not care.”
For once, Lydia had no quick answer. She left the milk shakes on the table, tossed down a few dollars, and meekly followed Martina to the Porsche.
24
“Thanks for the ride, X,” Kiley said. The chauffeur had driven Kiley, Esme, and Lydia to Rodeo Drive in the Beemer. He’d just returned from driving Anya and the kids to a Nike company picnic in Studio City; Anya had an endorsement deal with them. It had seemed to Lydia that Anya’s hostility toward her oozed from her pores all the way home from Jerry’s.
Lydia considered calling Aunt Kat; she had the cell number. But first she had to figure out a way to play the situation that would work to her own advantage, and she didn’t quite have that down yet. Most of all Lydia wished she could pick up the phone and talk to her mother. Weirdly enough, she actually liked her mother and respected her opinion. But there was no phone service in the little village where her parents lived, only a ham radio that ran off a generator.