Katie was surprised at how awkward dinner was. Henry was nervous and didn’t seem to know what to do. He kept asking her if everything was all right. Their conversation was stilted and strained. Katie figured he was probably so used to meeting women at bars and hooking up, he didn’t know how to handle himself in such a formal situation. But when they got back to his place, an apartment in a complex almost identical to Dave’s, he relaxed.
After they had sex, Katie had to admit it was the best she’d ever had. Henry had it all—Dave’s good looks and Ed’s skills in bed. And because they had been flirting for a couple of months before getting together, the buildup was intense.
The next day, Katie got a text from Dave. “Wen can I cu?” Dave almost never texted Katie and never asked to see her outside of their standing date for Thursday at the bar. Henry must have told him they had gone out the night before, thought Katie. Dave must be stepping up his game.
“Thursday?” she texted back.
“Sooner” was his reply.
And so it went from that day on. Katie started receiving endless texts from Dave and Henry, maneuvering to see her more and more. Surprisingly, they still wanted to meet at Mike’s, knowing full well the other would be there, but they both acted as if nothing had changed. When Dave invited Katie, she was careful not to give too much attention to Henry, and vice versa. But sometimes she forgot which one had invited her, not sure with whom she’d be going home that night. So she’d have to sneak into the bathroom and check her text messages to try to figure out who her date was.
Katie’s one night out a week quickly changed to two, three, sometimes even four. Rob was taking the kids more and more, but she still had to hire Jenny to babysit, shelling out sixty dollars a pop. And she’d often arrive at work the next morning tired and hungover.
One evening, as Katie was getting ready to go out, Frank came into her bedroom and plopped onto the bed.
“You’re going out again?” asked Frank.
“Yes,” said Katie.
“Who’s babysitting?”
“Your father. You’re going to spend the night at his house.”
Frank sighed.
“What, Frank?” said Katie, turning away from the mirror to look at her son.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” she said, turning back to the mirror.
“Who are you going out with?”
“Friends.”
“What friends? Maxine?”
Katie thought for a second about lying to Frank but figured it could come back to haunt her. “No, other friends.”
“You sure are seeing your friends a lot.”
“It’s good to have friends. You have friends.”
“I don’t see them as much as you.”
“You see them every day at school.”
“Whatever.”
Katie finished putting on her makeup and went to sit on the bed with Frank. “Don’t you want me to have friends?”
“Yes. But I also want you to be with us.”
“I’m not with you?”
“Not that much.”
“Really?”
“Kind of.”
“Well, this weekend we’ll do something special, okay? We’ll see a movie and go out for Chinese food. Does that sound good?”
“Yeah,” he said glumly.
“Frank?”
“Yes.”
Katie wondered whether Frank knew more about what she was up to than he let on. He was only seven years old, but kids were different these days. And like his peers, Frank was more adept at technology than Katie. Could he possibly have gone onto her computer and seen something he shouldn’t have? Might he have looked at her text messages behind her back?
The next morning, since she didn’t have to bring the kids to school, Katie got to work half an hour late. When she arrived, she found a pink Post-it note on her desk from her boss, Francine. “See me when you get in,” it said. Katie couldn’t remember ever being summoned into Francine’s office during her two years of working at the bank.
“Hi, Francine,” said Katie, standing meekly at the door.
“Come in, Katie,” said Francine.
“I’m sorry I’m late. But I—”
“No big deal.”
Katie liked Francine, who was always laid-back and understanding. They had even gone out for lunch together a few times and often discussed their kids, who were exactly the same age.
“I can’t imagine this is going to come as a big surprise, Katie, but due to the economic downturn, the bank is having to let some people go.”
At that moment, Katie wanted to get up and go. She knew what the next sentence would be and didn’t want to hear it. “Oh, God,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Katie. Just so you know, we’re having to lay off Janet and Sam too. I’ve already told them.”
“Did I do something wrong, Francine? I know I’ve been late a few times recently. I’ve been kind of under the weather—”
“No, Katie. You’ve been a great employee, but we had to make cuts and … well, let’s just say the decision was not based on job performance.”
Intellectually, Katie knew that the bank was struggling. She also knew that Francine liked her. Even in the past few weeks, with Katie’s questionable work habits, Francine had been as friendly as ever. But Katie couldn’t help but feel like this was happening now because she was being punished—punished for being a bad worker, punished for being a neglectful mother, and, most of all, punished for being a slut.
Chapter Twelve
From the moment her trip began, from the drive to the airport to the plane ride in first class to walking into the Chateau Marmont, Maxine was in heaven. The anticipation of spending an entire week all alone in a beautiful, luxurious hotel a thousand miles from home was beyond thrilling. It left her feeling like a woman reborn. Throughout the day, it was as if she were having an out-of-body experience—watching herself from above. She didn’t recognize this other woman, who appeared to be husbandless and childless and consumed with herself. Before, she probably would have found such a woman selfish and self-centered. Now she embraced her.
When Maxine entered her room she immediately shed her clothes, climbed into bed, and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels. She finally settled on a movie about love and chance encounters, which she figured was the theme of roughly half of all movies in existence. After it was over, she took a hot bath, emptying every perfumed bath product she could find into the tub. When she got out she wrapped herself in the plush hotel bathrobe and relaxed on the settee by the window.
It was getting dark, and she thought she should probably call the gallery to confirm her appointment for tomorrow morning but decided not to. Then she thought she should call Jake and let him know she’d arrived safely—or at least text him.
Yes, before leaving for L.A., Maxine had called Sprint and asked to add texting to her cell-phone service. She realized that if she hoped to compete—whether it be in the world of art or marriage—she would need to have all the necessary tools at her disposal. But at that moment Maxine didn’t want to use even a detached form of communication like texting with Jake.
What about the kids? she wondered. Would they want to hear from her? They were probably happy with their various friends and activities. Better to just leave them be. Instead, she called up room service and ordered a bottle of champagne, a shrimp cocktail, and a cheeseburger. After she was done eating, she climbed back into bed, settled on a rerun of Friends, and fell asleep.
The next morning, Maxine was picked up by a Town Car and brought to the Susan Shackelford Gallery. Riding in the car with a wet bar at her side and a chauffeur in a gray suit and hat in front of her, she wondered how the gallery could afford all this. Weren’t they struggling in the bad economy like everyone else?
When she arrived, Maxine was greeted at the front desk by a slender, boyish young man named Ted.
“You must be Maxine Walters,” he said. “Susan will be
right down. Can I get you something while you’re waiting?”
“No, thanks.” Maxine looked around the gallery and saw her paintings scattered around the room, some leaning against the walls and some already hung. She liked this series, which she called “Farm.” It was full of cartoonish renderings of pastures, cornfields, barns, tractors, cows, and other farm animals. She’d never done anything so completely midwestern, and here she was about to show it for the first time in Los Angeles.
“We’re hoping to get everything hung by tomorrow,” said Ted. “And Susan definitely wants your input.”
“Great.”
“I love your stuff,” said Ted. “It reminds me a lot of Wayne Thiebaud.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” said a woman in a red suit as she walked down a staircase. “Thiebaud is much too … obvious. I think she’s more Diebenkorn. A mixture of the abstract and figurative. Thiebaud completely lacks Ms. Walters’s expressionist bent.”
Maxine couldn’t believe that she had already been compared to two of her favorite artists within thirty seconds of her arrival.
“Hello, Maxine,” said Susan, holding out her hand. “So nice to finally meet you.”
“My pleasure,” said Maxine. “It’s a thrill to be here.”
“I see you’ve met my assistant, Ted. He’ll be attending to all your needs. I hope you’ve found your accommodations adequate?”
“Oh, yes,” said Maxine. Did Susan really think she wouldn’t find the Chateau Marmont adequate? Maxine figured this woman, with her three-thousand-dollar suit and three-hundred-dollar haircut, was probably the type who would find something wrong with the most perfect of places. She wondered where the vaguely European accent was from.
“Good. We like to keep our artists happy.”
“So do you always bring artists in for their openings?”
“As much as we can. Although I should say we tend to favor certain of our artists. I can already tell you’ll be one of those.”
“I hope so,” said Maxine, trying to be modest but not too self-deprecating. She could tell Susan Shackelford liked confidence.
“No question about it,” said Susan. “Ted, how many of Maxine’s works have already been bought?”
“More than half,” said Ted.
“Seriously?” said Maxine.
“I was shocked,” said Susan. “You’ve definitely hit on something, Maxine, and I want to take advantage of it. Your work is bold and different but not too outlandish. Frankly, people can justify the purchase as not only collecting but decorating. I’m afraid in this difficult market, we must consider such things.”
Maxine wasn’t quite sure how she felt about being told her paintings were decorative, and she could tell Ted was a little uncomfortable with the remark.
“I mean, dead pigs floating in formaldehyde are hot in flush times, but we’re in a recession now,” said Susan. “People are looking for lower price points and art that works in their homes.”
“Of course,” said Maxine.
“But I have a feeling that those prices will be going up if we keep selling like this,” said Susan, who offered her first smile. “Ted, I’ve got to jump on a call. Why don’t you and Maxine take a walk through the gallery and show her what we’re thinking in terms of positioning?”
After a few hours of going through Maxine’s paintings and discussing the merits of multiple sequences, Ted suggested they go out for lunch. He took her to a nearby vegetarian restaurant filled with people wearing high-priced designer sweat outfits and sipping on soy lattes and yogurt smoothies.
“I love L.A.,” said Maxine as she dug into her tofu scramble. “Everybody’s so relaxed and healthy.”
“Relaxed?” said Ted. “That’s just part of the façade. They’re all nutso.”
“Where are you from?” asked Maxine.
“Bloomington, Indiana.”
“How’d you end up here?”
“I went to UCLA film school and decided to stay. I didn’t want to be gay in the Midwest.”
“Makes sense. So what happened to filmmaking?”
“I worked as a production assistant for a while, but I hated feeling like I and everyone else in the entire city was in the film business. I guess I wanted to be different.”
“Do you like working for Susan?”
“Yeah, she’s great. A little annoying at times but a good person.”
“It was awfully nice of her to bring me out here.”
“She wasn’t trying to be nice. She knows her clients like to meet the artist at the opening. So, really, you’re doing her a favor.”
As Maxine looked up from her plate, she noticed a woman out of the corner of her eye carrying what looked to be a script. In a room full of thin, pretty women, this one was thinner and prettier than all of them. “Oh, my God!” she practically shouted, as if an armed gunman had entered the restaurant.
“What?” asked Ted with alarm.
“That’s …” said Maxine, gesturing with her head over Ted’s shoulder. Ted began to turn around, but Maxine whispered, “Wait! Don’t look!”
“I have to look!” said Ted, carefully turning around as if he was searching for a friend. “Calista Flockhart?”
“Oh, my God!”
“She comes in here all the time,” said Ted, turning back to his lunch.
“That’s so cool!” exclaimed Maxine, still staring at her with wide eyes and a big smile.
“Maxine, I never would have pegged you as a star worshipper.”
“I’m not! I … well, okay, I do have a thing about celebrities.”
“That’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”
“No! Maybe? Listen, I’m confident enough in myself to admit it. But I’m not a worshipper. It’s not like I think they’re better than everyone else. They’re just … different. Like a different species.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m fascinated with them in a sociological way. You know?”
“You want to study them,” said Ted.
“Yes! In their own natural habitat.”
“Well, you’re staying at the right place. Didn’t you see any at the Chateau Marmont?”
“No. I ate both dinner and breakfast in my room, so I haven’t been out much.”
“Don’t worry, you will. Maybe I can even get us into a party this weekend.”
“Really? How?”
“My boyfriend’s an agent. Knows all those people.”
“That would be amazing.”
“You crack me up, Maxine.”
Maxine wondered if she was wrong to let Ted in on her secret, but she liked and trusted him. “Don’t say anything to Susan about this, okay?”
“No worries.”
When Maxine returned to the hotel that evening, she went to the gym, took a long shower, and had a massage in her room. Afterward, as she sat in her robe, still smelling of almond and lavender, she thought about her family back home for the first time all day.
She had texted Jake that morning, letting him know that everything was fine. Then he left two voice messages during the day, but Maxine couldn’t bring herself to call home. She wanted to talk to the kids, wanted to tell Matthew about her chauffeur-driven limo ride, Abby about Susan Shackelford’s expensive red suit, and Suzanne about her almond-scented bubble bath. But as much as she wanted to hear her children’s voices, Maxine didn’t want to hear Jake’s even more. So she texted him again: “Sorry not to call … been busy busy busy. Going out tonight. Hugs and kisses to kids. Will call soon.”
Maxine then turned to the other thing that was occupying her mind: going down to the hotel bar and looking for more celebrities. Seeing Calista Flockhart at lunch was like taking a hit of marijuana. It felt good, and now she wanted more. Not only that, but she wanted the stronger stuff. She wanted movie stars—the bigger the better.
Maxine blew her hair dry and put it in a high ponytail, because someone once told her she looked younger that way. She put on a gold lamé strapless dress that she had
bought ten years ago in Berlin for one of Jake’s medical conferences and a pair of four-inch-high strappy sandals. Then she headed down to the plush red bar, taking a seat that gave her a full view of the room.
She couldn’t remember ever having sat in a bar by herself before but decided she didn’t care what anyone thought. She didn’t bring reading material so she could look busy, didn’t keep her cell phone out for some strategic texting. She just sat and nursed her drink, unafraid to blatantly watch and observe.
Maxine thought back to her earlier sighting, trying to figure out why it thrilled her so much. When she saw the pretty little starlet, she immediately remembered all the details she knew of her life—her marriage to the older Harrison Ford, the adoption of a child, the talk about a possible eating disorder. Maxine realized that she knew more about Calista Flockhart than about anyone else in the restaurant, even the person sitting across from her. The actress seemed more real than everyone else—like a massive dose of hyperreality. All the images Maxine had seen of her, the articles she’d read, the television shows she’d watched, came rushing back, allowing her to form an intense vision of this person she’d never met.
Hollywood was supposedly the land of make-believe, fake and phony, superficial and shallow. But to Maxine it felt so much more real than Kansas City. Back home, the people Maxine saw every day appeared flat. She was rarely given a glimpse into the complexities of people’s lives, except for those of her good friends. Everyone interacted on the most superficial of levels, carefully presenting themselves to others.
Maxine used to log on to her Facebook account and read the news feed, searching for a real glimpse into people’s lives. But everything seemed so labored over—so unreal.
The stars also tried to carefully construct their personas—using Facebook and Twitter and publicists and stylists to ensure they came across in exactly the right way—but they were constantly failing. As much as they tried to control the image, a tabloid or a photographer or a gossipmonger would destroy it all.
After a while, Maxine stopped going to Facebook to observe the constructed lives of her friends and acquaintances and instead spent all of her time trolling for information about the stars.
Point, Click, Love Page 14