Thanks. “What makes you think that? I’m an excellent cook. In fact, I’m gourmet.” I raise my eyebrow, almost believing myself.
“Not from the smells wafting down from that attic.”
“You’re right!” I say, jumping out of my seat to pace the floor. “But certainly I’m limited by the fact that I don’t have a bloody kitchen. For God’s sake, I don’t even have a stove!” I realize I’ve let my voice rise to the point where I’m yelling. Good, now George can hear me loud and clear. Hopefully.
“What’s your specialty dish?” he asks, curiosity etched in his voice.
Good, he’s hungry. “Duck a l’orange,” I blurt, remembering Denise’s specialty.
“Duck a l’orange? Why, I haven’t had that since I stayed in the Cherbourg Naval Base in France. Wow! That was in nineteen forty eight when…”
George has become animated, and I smile with encouragement, my smile genuine because my plan has worked. And good thing too, I’m down to my last two grand and need to buy time.
Eventually George finishes his ramblings and seems to bask in the afterglow of good memories. As amusing as this is, I clear my throat.
“Well…”—he pauses, appearing to consider his multitude of options, as in continue eating SPAM or quit being a cheap bastard!—“if you cook my dinners seven days a week, I’ll reduce your rent by say, three hundred dollars.”
I shake my head. No way. “Reduce my rent by five hundred dollars and buy me a proper oven, and then we have a deal.”
George starts to protest, when my saving grace, Juliet, enters the front hall.
“In here,” I yell, and Juliet appears, cheeks flushed, and beaming a radiant smile.
George’s mood seems to lift tenfold. He’s obviously smitten with Juliet. She strides across the room and plants a quick kiss on his cheek. He breaks into a wide grin, and I can’t help smiling too. Juliet’s feel-good vibes are contagious. Oh! The iron is hot.
“So, do we have a deal?” I ask with a grin. Please, please!
George looks back to Juliet’s attentive face and turns to me with a firm nod.
Yes! I give a whoop, resisting the urge to kiss George too, and instead grabbing Juliet by the arm. We race upstairs. The first part of the plan worked: save money. Now I just have to figure out a way to make money.
16
“What’s the deal you worked out with George?” Juliet asks as soon as we close the door to the attic. I toss my bag and keys onto a side table and practically dance my way to the “kitchen” area.
“George is giving me a rent reduction of five hundred bucks and a stove!”
Juliet’s mouth drops open and her eyes widen. “Wow! In exchange for what?”
“Hmm? Oh right, I’m supposed to cook him dinner.”
Juliet frowns and tilts her head to the side, her auburn hair flowing down her shoulders. “That’s it? That doesn’t make sense. You cook him a dinner and he reduces your rent. By five hundred bucks??”
“No, not just one dinner. I need to cook him dinner every night.”
“But, honey, you don’t cook.”
“Don’t worry. He eats Mr. Noodles for dinner; I doubt he’ll know the difference.”
“Oh. Well, what happens if you get a job working all day? Then you have to cook dinners for him too? And what if his dinner is too late for his liking?”
“Juliet, please. We can always rearrange things if it doesn’t work. This is to buy me time only until I can bring in some money.”
Juliet nods slowly. I hand her a glass of sauvignon blanc, and we clink our glasses together. “To George,” Juliet says. Thousands of dollars in savings a year is worth a toast to ol’ George, so I go along with it.
“So, what’s this about an audio clip you wanted me to hear?”
I roll my eyes and recount the incredibly dramatic and emotional day. Juliet’s blue eyes sparkle when I tell her about John Childs, acting coach extraordinaire, and widen with apparent concern at my meltdown. Just speaking about it feels surreal; I can’t believe what went down. “Oh! And would you believe I was NAKED?”
Juliet catches her breath. “NO!”
“Oh, yes. It’s an exercise in liberation.”
“Is that even legal?” she asks.
“You tell me. Speaking of which, have you found a job working with seniors?”
Juliet shakes her head.
“Well, that makes two of us. No job. No prospects.”
“Well, you’re busy. When are the kids expected back?”
I glance at my phone. “In an hour or so. My dad has them.” I suddenly realize I’m starving and jump out of my seat in search of grub. My mini bar fridge is pretty drab. A liter of milk, a few apples, and some peanut butter. I grab two apples and wash them while Juliet tells me about some old folks home she toured. I don’t bother responding, and instead let my thoughts drift to what I can do for work. I hand Juliet a plate of sliced apples globbed with peanut butter and grab my own and join her. We crunch away on our apples, a companionable silence hanging in the air.
“What would you want to do if you could do anything?” Juliet asks me, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her hands as though waiting for me to say something juicy.
I frown at her and buy time by shoving an apple in my mouth. “Well,” I say as I chew, “when I was little, I wanted to be a cat when I grew up.”
Juliet bursts into giggles and shakes her head “No, seriously.”
“I am serious. I don’t think I ever wanted to work. And I certainly didn’t when I was living in West Van. It was enough keeping up with the social circles and decorating our house.”
Juliet snaps her head to attention and claps her hands in excitement.
“What’s up?”
“That’s it!” she squeals.
“What?”
“Designing. Decorating. It’s what you do best. It’s your passion.”
I consider this for a moment, but then shrug it off. “It was only my passion because I wanted to live in a beautiful, inspiring environment.”
“Yeah, but don’t you see? Everyone wants that.”
“Yes. And that’s why we have interior designers; but I’m not one.” I let my gaze drop to my hands, wishing so much I had pursued something before. To at least be accomplished at something, besides looking pretty.
“You could go to night school, become a decorator?”
“No, I need something now. I need to make money right away.”
We both flop back in our chairs, lost in thought. Juliet reaches for her phone.
“Well, there are over one million Google results for Vancouver interior designers, so I’m sure there are lots of job prospects.” Juliet raises her eyebrows at me, and together we sigh. We both reach for more apple, then Juliet puts her phone away.
Good thing, I don’t feel like talking about jobs any more than she probably does.
“So, that’s it? You had a naked staring contest with some guy, and now you’re a bona fide actress?”
“No, we also learned audition techniques. Standing on the mark, slating ourselves, reading scripts off-camera—that kind of thing.” I pop my last apple slice into my mouth, and peanut butter glazes my chin. “Oh, also, one of the actresses gave me some pointers about audition notices too. So I’m going to start scouring the acting posts.”
“That’s awesome, good for you!”
“Oh! I didn’t tell you my dad’s engaged to Louisa, and Billy’s in Haiti!”
“OH MY GOD, no way!”
“And so the plot thickens…,” I mutter, as I roll my eyes.
Later, after Juliet has left and the girls are home and finally sleeping, I pour myself another glass of sauvignon blanc and collapse in front of the dormant fireplace. I should have George fix it so I can actually use the damn thing, now that the weather is cooler. Well, use it and not cause a fire, that is.
I reach for my tablet and open my email. I have eight new messages—two personal, and six fr
om companies trying to sell me everything from penis enlargement pills to Nigerian money loans. One of the personal emails is from Louisa, the other from Billy. I tap Billy’s email, eager to know about his progress.
Greetings from Haiti! OMG, I can’t believe I’m actually here Lane. It’s like a dream. My dad is lovely, so warm and charismatic. But life is so hard for him. I met my half siblings and nieces and nephews—it’s so surreal. They’re still recovering from the aftermath of the hurricane. Even years later, they’re living in extreme poverty. I’m going to do everything I can for them.
Gotta run, I’ll be in touch soon. B xo
Hmm. Not sure what to make of that. I briefly consider deleting Louisa’s email, but curiosity gets the better of me.
Dearest Lane,
I’m very sorry you had to learn our news in such an abrupt way. I know this must be monumentally difficult for you. I have such fond memories from all the years we spent together, your mama and me taking you and Billy around town, laughing and playing together. I cherish those times. Lane, to lose my identical twin sister was a blow I could have never imagined and I know I will never, ever get over it. But to lose your own Mom is heart-wrenching, I know. It was never my intention in a million years to be with your father in a romantic way. I felt it was my responsibility to my sister to help and support him as much as I could. Over the years we became closer and gradually our concern for each other and bond for what we’d lost grew into a deep and true love. I love your father dearly and want to care for him and make him happy. Sometimes I envy the bond you still share with Billy; I wish to be a part of it. I know to see me must be unsettling for obvious reasons but please know I do want to see you and be with you whenever I can. I know I could never replace your Mama and I will never try. But I am here for you just the same and hope so much you can learn to accept me.
Love, Aunt Louisa
Sigh. Not sure what to make of that one either.
Suddenly I feel very weary. I close my email and open my web browser. I scan the news and entertainment headlines, but nothing of interest catches my eye. Without deliberation, I find myself Googling “Vancouver interior designers” and bracing myself for the endless results. Wait… I know many of these designers just from my association with high society. There’s West Coast Design—they re-did Martha King’s estate from top to bottom—and Mark & Jones—they designed Sarah Miller’s theater. I keep scanning the listings while mentally noting the companies I recognize. What would be really overwhelming is to try to find a designer without having a clue of who’s who…
Oh My God! OH MY GOD! YES! I know these companies. I can provide a service! I jump out of my seat with a grin so wide it hurts my face. Yes! This is what I can do. I know these companies, I know design and I know pricing. I can provide a consultancy service playing matchmaker with clients and designers based on the clients’ needs AND the designers’ styles. Oh my God! I wish so much Billy was reachable by phone.
I dash across the attic to Margo’s drawing supplies and grab a stack of fresh paper. I also grab some extra-large sheets and fat markers for brainstorming. Then I splash my wine into the sink in favor of water—I need to think clearly. I’m ecstatic and my mind is working at breakneck speed—I swear I’ve never felt more razor sharp in all my life.
Five days later, after running on little sleep and overflowing adrenaline, I have my business plan in place, a domain reserved, a logo I created online myself, and business cards to boot. Now I have to design a website, and by using one of the templates online, I should have it up in no time. The excitement I feel is palpable. Margo is dancing around the attic singing goofy songs, and Rory, who is now standing, is bouncing along.
“Margo, this is going to be spectacular!” I cry, grabbing her by surprise and swinging her around the room. We both dissolve into peals of giggles, and I set her down on the canopied bed, where she collapses in bliss. I swing Rory into my arms for her turn, and we spin and tango across the floor.
A knock interrupts our celebrations, and I fling open the door to find George’s sour mug staring back at me. “It sounds like a troupe of elephants and laughing hyenas up here, for God’s sake.”
“Is this why you’re disturbing us?” I narrow my eyes and put my hands on my hips.
George just shakes his head, looking exasperated. “Lane, the oven has arrived. Can you move this clutter to make room for the delivery man?” He gestures to the piles of madness scattering the attic, which I admit I hadn’t noticed building up all week.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Margo, help me out.” We clear a path, and a delivery guy nods hello and wheels in a dolly.
“Hiiii!” Margo calls.
“Iiiiii!” Rory echoes.
“Hello, ladies! You ready to do some cooking?” The girls cheer and squeal, and I shush them to be quiet. “Be right back.” The guy grabs his dolly and disappears. I’m wondering if he forgot an attachment, when a massive fridge appears at the door.
“What?!” A fridge? A proper fridge! Now it’s my turn to squeal. I grab Rory and race downstairs, with Margo in full gallop behind.
“George! Wow, a fridge too. That’s fantastic.” I beam at him, and he actually looks pleased with himself.
“So, what’s for dinner?” he asks, rubbing his gnarly hands.
I roll my eyes and turn to head back upstairs. Men! They only think about food. But…what is for dinner? I set Rory down on the hardwood floor and search my cupboards for inspiration. There’s a jar of no-name marinara sauce, so that’ll have to do.
The delivery man connects the fridge and stove and away he goes, with Margo and Rory calling goodbye as though he truly will be missed. I pour a glass of wine, my mind on my website, plop the jar of sauce into a pan and turn the stove knob to high. I grab my notebook and a pen, seat myself at the table, and begin a rough content draft for the website.
“What are you doing?” Margo asks.
“I’m working on my business. You can join me if you want.”
Margo gives a whoop as she flings herself next to me, basket of markers in tow. I hand her and Rory some paper, and we all lose ourselves in our activities.
I have a loose outline for the website, but am momentarily distracted by the smell of something burning.
The sauce! I dash to the stove and whip the lid off the pot, only to have bubbling tomato sauce splatter all over my hand and arm. OUCH! Bloody thing. I jab the wooden spoon into the pot to stir the sauce but can feel it’s burned and stuck to the bottom of the pan. Oh well. George probably won’t even notice; taste buds diminish with age.
Damn! I forgot noodles! I search the cupboard, but it looks like I’m out. I consider asking George for the noodles from his Mr. Noodles, but can’t be bothered. Toast it is.
“Sorry, Rory, you’ve got to go into your playpen for just a sec,” I say, depositing her into the “cage,” where she hollers in protest. “Margo, stay here. I have to bring George his dinner, I’ll be right back,” I say as I dump sauce into a bowl and grab the piece of dry toast. Must remember to pick up butter.
“I want to come too,” Margo says, jumping up from her drawings.
“No, just watch your sister.”
“NO! I’m coming!”
I shoot Margo a nasty look, which she mirrors back to me. Whatever. I’m not going to fight. “Rory, you’re on your own,” I holler as I head out the door with Margo.
“George!” I call when I arrive downstairs.
“In here. Is something burned?”
Oh great. George is in his living room seated on his ratty chair and stroking that damn cat like he’s Dr. bloody Evil. “Here.” I unceremoniously plunk the bowl down with a thud, the piece of toast sliding halfway into the burned sauce.
George pulls a face and slowly leans forward to inspect. “This is the grand first meal?” he mutters, after a dismal beat. “My mouth has been watering for days! Where’s the duck a l’orange you boasted about?” He shoots me a disgruntled look. “This is what I get? Cann
ed sauce—and without any goddamn pasta? In the navy we called this Shit On a Shingle!”
“If you expected gourmet every night, you’d have to be a fool. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a baby, dammit. And, I’m going to be running a business!”
George snorts, and I choose to ignore him. I catch Margo pinching her nose, a look of exaggerated disgust on her face. “Stop that!” I snap. “You’re having the same dinner, so I wouldn’t make faces.”
“Gross! I miss Denise.”
The thought of Denise makes me think of Micky, and my heart sinks.
I turn on my heel and retreat to the attic and screaming Rory, but not before George calls after me. “Don’t bother discounting your check this month, you little conniver!”
“What’s a civirer?” Margo whispers behind me.
“Don’t ask,” I say, raising my chin. With any luck I won’t need the discount anyway.
17
It’s Wednesday morning and the usual mad dash to get ready for school. Margo is dragging her feet, and I feel more impatient than usual because after school drop off, I have an audition.
That’s right! I emailed a director about a film audition posting, and he invited me to come down. I take careful attention to apply my make-up, though I don’t have leisure time to be meticulous. I’m playing a love interest, so I go heavy on the smoky eye look, then stand back from the mirror to examine the final touches. My eyes look bright with excitement, my skin is glowing, and to my relief, I’m having a very good hair day. I grin at my reflection, wondering why I’ve never done anything like this before. The audition for Budweiser doesn’t count, because this is for a MOVIE!
I corral the girls to the door, and we head out into the Vancouver rain. Well, it can’t all be perfect. By the time I arrive at the audition fifty minutes later, I’m twelve minutes late and soaked to the core. As my boots squeak and water beads down my head, I enter the waiting room for the audition and peer around. It’s a drab, unremarkable space, and there’s a sign taped to the wall directing actors to sit and wait to be called. Three actors are already seated, calmly studying their lines. I push Rory’s stroller right past them in search of a washroom mirror. Down a long corridor and back along another, but I can’t find a bloody bathroom. It turns out I don’t even have a compact on me, so I try my best to fluff my soaking hair and rub under my eyes, in case my makeup ran. Rory is complacent, looking around with mild interest. Fingers crossed she stays calm.
Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Page 14