Tainted Love

by Melody Mayer

  When the moment called for it, Lydia could be a brilliant liar. If ever a moment had called for an artful fabrication, this was it. And she had it, almost: Luis was in love with her. He was making up this story because she'd rejected him. Yes, he'd brought her the huge dinner invitation, but she'd done the smart thing by ignoring it.

  Yet there was hard physical evidence: her own T-shirt in her hands. Worse than that was the guilt she felt radiate from her face.

  “I can explain,” she began.

  “Don't try. Just go into the bathroom. When you come out, I won't be here.”

  She tried to protest, but it was hopeless. Five minutes later, he was gone.

  “Serious oral fixation.”

  X's voice pulled her out of her depressed recollections, as the southbound traffic on La Cienega Boulevard inched along. Though it was midmorning, they were stuck in bumper-to-bumper congestion. “I'd cut off my right hand for a stick of gum right now.”

  “I have some!” Martina cried from the backseat, delving into the depths of her new Hello Kitty purse. “I guess chewing gum helps you not to smoke, huh, X?”

  X winced. “Busted. How did you know I smoke?”

  “Oh, I know a lot more than people give me credit for.” Martina handed over a slightly bent foil-wrapped stick of gum and leaned back contentedly on the white leather rear seat. “This is so fun, just the three of us.”

  Since Anya and Kat had taken Jimmy to the golf course to play his very first round—Lydia hoped he would hook one right into Luis's teeth—Martina had been put in Lydia's charge for the day. She was supposed to take her to an orientation meeting at the United States Soccer Federation facility in Carson for some junior camp that Anya wanted her to attend, not that Martina had ever expressed the least interest in the game.

  Martina had moaned so much about the soccer thing that Lydia decided to make the excursion more interesting by giving Martina some new targets for blow dart practice. After a quick consultation with X, who promised to keep their outing a secret, they decided the area around the old oil rigs near the airport would be perfect. Though the wells were still functioning, few went into those hills but the occasional oil roughneck. It would be perfect for long-range shooting.

  They all dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes, since X told her those hills were one of the hottest places in all of L.A. Even Martina had agreed to wear shorts, albeit baggy ones, and a long-sleeved T-shirt, albeit baggier.

  “You know, Lydia, Momma Kat doesn't let anyone drive this car,” Martina sang out from the backseat. “She must really trust you. Where are we going?”

  Lydia didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She felt like the least trustworthy person on the planet. In fact, she felt about as trustworthy as Anya.

  Again she wondered: How did everything get so complicated?

  Though she didn't long for Amazonia, this sort of crap never happened in the jungle. The Amas had a much different view of sexual activity than did twenty-first-century Americans. If a guy wanted to have sex, he did. If a woman wanted to have sex, she did. It was just sex. Yet Lydia knew that if Billy had done to her what she'd done to him, she'd be madder than hell, just as she expected Susan and Kat would be when they learned about the colonel and Anya the Evil. Maybe she should just drive to Billy's place and camp out until he showed up. No, that reeked way too much of what loathsome Luis had just done. Something more creative, then. There had to be a way.

  “Plant hopping, dear one?” X asked, peering at her. “I've never heard Lydia Chandler this quiet.”

  “Fine … Just concentrating on the road.”

  “Nonsense. I can tell when your wheels are turning. From the look on your face, I'm seeing overdrive.”

  For the briefest moment, Lydia contemplated confiding in X. Maybe he'd understand. Maybe he would even be supportive. Most important, since he knew Billy so well, maybe he could help her come up with the plan to win him back.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror. Oh no. While she was thinking and driving, Martina had not only opened the box that contained her blowgun, but also had actually assembled the components. “Hold on. What in tarnation do you think you're doing with that? You know the rules!”

  “Well, you were ignoring me,” Martina retorted defiantly. “You broke the rules first.”

  X twisted around to regard the primitive weapon. “How phallic.”

  “What's ‘phallic'?” Martina asked.

  “It was a kind of Roman column,” X improvised. “That tube reminds me of it.”

  That was so quick and funny that in spite of her current ruminations, Lydia laughed aloud.

  “You didn't even say what a good job I did putting the blowgun together all by myself,” Martina groused.

  “Don't load it until we get there,” Lydia said.

  “Can't you just tell me how much further?”

  Lydia looked at X for guidance; she'd never been in this part of L.A. before.

  He looked out the window to catch the intersection. “Fifteen minutes or so. Maybe twenty-five if the traffic doesn't get any better.”

  The traffic stayed brutal. They'd passed the intersection with Venice Boulevard five minutes before and were just coming up on the traffic light at National when X instructed Lydia to turn west, thinking that maybe they could outflank this unholy mess. She edged into the right lane and halted briefly at the red light before she made the right-on-red turn onto National.

  Just as she did, a bright blue Spyder cut her off so badly that she was blocked nearly against the curb.

  “Jackass!” she bellowed.

  “Ix-nay the anguage-lay,” X warned, cocking his chin toward the backseat and Martina.

  “Well, he is a jackass.”

  “I speak pig latin, you know,” Martina said with self-importance.

  Instead of backing away from his foolish mistake, the driver of the Spyder rolled down the passenger-side window. Great. She had plenty to say to him. Or her. Then Lydia saw who the driver was, and nearly slammed her foot on the gas of the Beemer to shove the Spyder into Orange County with the driver in it.

  She rolled down her own window. “Get your fucking car out of the way! And stop fucking following me!”

  Luis grinned. “¡Hola, mamacita!”

  “You know this guy?” X was incredulous, but Lydia ignored him.

  “Move your car, Luis! Or I will make your life a thing of misery!”

  “How's your ex-boyfriend?” Luis jeered. “Want Luis to kiss it and make it all better?”

  The light changed to green; people in the vehicles stacked up behind them started to honk. But there was nothing Lydia could do. Except …

  “Excuse me. I have to go kill that guy.”

  Lydia started to open the door, but X yanked her arm. “I don't know what went down with Billy, but are you insane? You're in the middle of a traffic jam in a quarter-million-dollar car with a fifth-grade girl in the backseat! Get ahold of yourself. You want to be a statistic?”

  “Hey, I recognize him, he's Jimmy's golf teacher!” Martina cried. “Is he your enemy, Lydia?”

  “He's a loathsome pot of piss, is what he is.”

  “Slide over and let me take the wheel,” X advised. “I'll get us out of here.”

  “I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.”

  Lydia rammed the gearshift into reverse as the vehicles behind her pulled into the center lane to get around the Beemer. The passing drivers honked angrily; several offered Lydia their upraised middle fingers. But at least their departure gave her a little room. That's what she thought, anyway, until Luis edged his Spyder even closer to the BMW, and she was trapped again.

  “You think I'm gonna let you just get away with that shit? I'm not letting you leave, Lydia. I'll follow you!”

  “The man is a maniac!” X yanked out his BlackBerry to call 911, then Martina's voice stopped him.

  “Leave us alone!”

  Lydia whirled around. Her cousin's window was down; she had the blowgun
up to her lips, the plastic tubing reaching far outside the car.

  “Martina, don't even—”

  Too late.

  The dart struck its target dead-on. It struck directly into his right front tire, which was deflating before their eyes with a high-pitched whistle.

  “Try to follow us now, you asshole!” Martina yelled out the window. “Come on, Lydia, go!”

  Lydia managed to back away, and Luis tried to follow, but it was impossible with his flat. As she turned onto National and then sped away, she saw him in the rearview mirror pounding his fist on the hood of his disabled vehicle.

  “You shouldn't have done that, Martina. Remember how I told you that the blowgun wasn't a toy?”

  “He was your enemy,” Martina explained.

  “Rules are still rules, sweet pea. However …” She caught her cousin's gaze in the rearview mirror. “That was a hell of a shot.”

  “Thanks.”

  Martina sat up a little straighter, shoulders back, hair off her face, and beamed.

  Lydia couldn't help herself. Life may have gotten complicated, but she was still damn proud.

  “Whee! More, Esme, more!”

  “Okay. Hold on, both of you!”

  Timing her push perfectly, Esme was able to put her right hand in the small of Weston's back and her left hand in the small of Easton's. With some gentle pressure, she helped the laws of physics, and both girls swung skyward on the magnificent custom-designed teak playground-style swing set that now occupied the grass near the tennis court. With three swings, a slide, a tree house, a whirly-round, and a jungle gym, it was as elaborate as the one at the country club, only on a smaller scale.

  “Whee!” Easton pumped her legs, trying to go higher. “Fun!”

  It was midafternoon of the same day. Esme was alone with the kids, since Diane had brought Tarshea to Fred Segal's clothing store. If Tarshea was going to be working for her, she needed a presentable wardrobe. Esme didn't mind, really, since Tarshea would take over for her at five. That was good, since Lydia had summoned her and Kiley to dinner at Taste, the Italian place on Melrose Avenue.

  “One day, you will be a wonderful mother, Esme.”

  She heard the voice behind her—the voice she'd recognize anywhere. It was her own wonderful mother, Estella Castaneda. When she turned and waved, she saw that her mom was dressed in the black maid's uniform that the Goldhagens required. Though they worked for the Goldhagens too, Esme's parents rarely crossed paths with her during the day. This was a treat.

  Especially, she thought, because I have a treat for her.

  “Mama!” she exclaimed, embracing her warmly. “It's so good to see you.”

  “It's a quiet day up at the house. I thought I would see how you were with the girls.”

  Esme gave the twins each another push. “Can you stay for a minute?”

  Her mother nodded, so Esme stopped the swings and suggested that the girls have a contest to see who could be the first to go up and down the slide twenty times. After they hugged Mrs. Castaneda, they miraculously agreed, as long as Esme would count them off. An uno-dos-tres later, they were clambering over each other, laughing as they tussled to see who would be the first to get to the top of the slide.

  “Like I said,” Estella observed. She and Esme stood side by side, watching the girls play. “You will be a wonderful mother. No rush, though.”

  Esme dug into the pocket of her jeans. “Speaking of wonderful. I have something for my wonderful mother.”

  “What could you possibly have for me?”

  “Just this.” She pressed a wad of bills into her mother's right hand. They were all hundreds. Eleven of them.

  “Esme? What is this?” Estella stared at her open hand. “Where did you get this? Tell me that Junior's boys didn't—”

  “Oh no, it's completely legal. I just did some tattoos for some friends of Jonathan. That's all. They paid me well.”

  “How much did they pay you?”

  Esme explained how she'd made more money in one night of tattooing than in one week at the Goldhagens'.

  Estella's eyes narrowed. “So much money for a tattoo? I can't believe it.”

  “Neither can I. And other friends are calling me now.”

  Señora Castaneda looked closely at her daughter. “You are a smart girl. Do not do a dumb thing.”

  “How can making money be dumb, Mama? I'll give it to you and Papa. You've given me so much.”

  “I heard about how Diane hired that girl from Jamaica as another nanny. She will live with you, too. You are thinking maybe you should quit this place, go back to the Echo, and do tattoos full-time. ¿ Verdad?”

  Esme didn't lie to her mother. “ Verdad. Yes. I thought that.”

  Now her mother smiled. “Good. That shows you are smart. You will show you are smarter by staying at this job and going to that good high school. Your father has no education. I have no education. Our daughter will have education. What happens if one day you wake up and your hands do not work, like your Tía Consuela up in Fresno? What would you do then?”

  Consuela was Esme's favorite aunt. A seamstress for many years, she'd been stricken by arthritis at the age of thirty-five, and was now on disability.

  “That won't happen to me,” Esme said as she watched Weston go feet-first down the slide.

  “That is what your aunt told me, too. I am not saying no tattoos. Do them. Save the money for college. If you do not trust yourself to save it, give it to me and Papa and we will save it for you.”

  “But you have so little!” Esme protested. “I really wanted you to spend what I give you on yourselves.”

  Estella shook her head sadly. “Maybe when you are a mother, you will understand, hija mía. Watching you save money for college is spending it on ourselves.”

  She unfolded the hundred-dollar bills in her hand, smoothed them out, and then gave them back to Esme. “You know what to do with this?”

  “In the bank, Mama. In the bank.”

  “Exactly.” Estella hugged her daughter tight. “That is why you are such a smart girl. And why Papa and I are so very proud of you.”

  “Now that Kiley has arrived, let me announce that I have convened this meeting of the nanny brigade for a very special reason,” Lydia intoned gravely.

  Just like Esme, Kiley had been summoned to Taste, the überhip restaurant just east of La Cienega on Melrose. She found her friends nursing iced cappuccinos at one of the square wooden tables on the small outdoor patio that faced the street. Though it was only six o'clock, the patio was already crowded with an eclectic mix of chic Eurotrash, grungy musician types, and talent agents in their designer suits meeting clients for dinner.

  “Which is?” Esme asked. She dipped a forefinger into the cinnamon-scented whipped cream that topped her drink and touched it to her tongue. “By the way, Kiley, we ordered. Pizzettas, which are small pizzas. Good?”

  “Good. So why the emergency meal? I had to promise the colonel overtime tonight.”

  “Simple,” Lydia explained. “At approximately ten p.m. Pacific time last night, my life sunk to the sixth rung of hell.”

  Kiley raised her eyebrows. “And yet under this horrific duress you still managed to put on three coats of mascara, lip gloss, and perhaps the shortest skirt I've ever seen.” There was a basket of homemade bread on the table, and she took one of the crusty rolls. It was absolutely delicious, redolent of butter and spices she couldn't place.

  Lydia smoothed the tiny Stella McCartney flounce of citron silk she'd worn with Jimmy Choo silver-feathered sandals.

  “Lydia's first law of life: When you feel your worst, it is important to look your best,” she decreed as a buff guy in sweat-pants and a muscle shirt jogged by on Melrose. He stopped, flashed an appreciative smile over his shoulder, then continued on his way.

  Oh my God. When Kiley was out with Lydia, it was Lydia who got the looks. Or sultry Esme, who was wearing tight black Bebe capris and an even tighter black sleeveless T-shirt. But unless
Kiley's eyes were playing tricks, the hot jogger had looked right at her.

  Esme's brow knit together. “Do you know him?”

  “Never saw him before in my life,” Kiley admitted.

  Huh. She was wearing a white embroidered off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that Platinum had bestowed upon her, along with tan jeans. Her hair was freshly washed, and for once she was wearing it down; it fell in graceful burnished waves over her shoulders. Around her neck was a silver chain from which dangled two charms—a silver porpoise and a gold hot-air balloon. She wrapped her fingers around the charms and grinned without realizing it.

  “New jewelry?” Esme asked as their waiter—an Italian guy with the build of a soccer player and curly black hair—put some extra pizza toppings on their table: small plates of diced garlic, fresh grated parmesan cheese, and minced red onion.

  “Yep. From Tom.”

  Lydia narrowed her eyes at Kiley. “That's why you look so happy. It went well last night.”

  “More than that.” Kiley quickly relayed the story of the balloon ride and how good she'd felt up there. “When we came down to earth, he gave me this necklace.”

  “Subtle symbolism,” Lydia cracked.

  “Nope. Good guy,” Esme said softly. “Food's on me, Kiley, by the way. I'm flush.”

  “Yeah,” Lydia chimed in. “Esme's now a tattoo entrepreneur. Hey … maybe we should start a tattoo business.”

  “No!” Kiley and Esme declared simultaneously.

  “Hey, how come you didn't bring Tarshea with you?” Kiley asked Esme. She took another of the spiced rolls, worried for a moment about the carb and calorie count, and then bit into it anyway.

  “She's working.”

  “She got the gig with Ann Marie?”

  Esme nodded darkly. “Oh, she got it all right. But she didn't take it. Why? Diane made her a better offer. Guys, I now have a co-nanny.”

  The Italian waiter brought two pizzettas and placed them on the riser-stand. Only eight inches across, one was covered in cremini mushrooms, goat cheese, mozzarella, and slow-roasted tomatoes. The other featured an array of mouth-watering vegetables and parmesan cheese. Both smelled delicious. “Enjoy, ladies. The others will come soon. Can I bring anything else?”