Gracie would stare at this type in the same kind of wonder and awe usually reserved for Michelangelo’s David or Angelina Jolie’s Everything. “Where did this creature come from?” Gracie would think upon running into The Perfect Match at a two-year-old’s birthday party, immediately preceding “Where the hell is the bar?”
Eventually she would be a crushing bore.
Then there was The Earnest Activist. Gracie actually felt a kinship with this type, as The Earnest Activist didn’t give a rat’s ass about appearance, nay, she didn’t know from Vogue, and the only People she knew were the ones fighting the Contras in Central America. She had wrinkles and furrows and an expanding waistband and gray hair sprouting in places that could have been easily waxed, if she so deigned. But she deigned not. She was Warrior Woman, sent here with a rich, cowed husband (and, perhaps, a trust fund) so she could save the rest of us from our SUVs, our cigarettes, our annoying habit of going off-topic if the subject of the Rain Forest popped up.
Kenny didn’t particularly like The Earnest Activist, but Gracie liked them best of all. At least they cared about something besides the weekend numbers. But still, after going to Air Quality meeting after Lead Poisoning meeting after Save the Sea Anemone meeting, she found she could not keep up her anger. Gracie would leave each meeting vowing to write her congressman, hoping to make that phone call that would make a difference, but feeling in her heart that she was ineffectual, a dilettante in the environmental movement. So she wrote checks. A lot of checks.
Eventually, The Earnest Activist would leave her husband. For a female golfer.
GRACIE DROVE UP San Vicente Boulevard toward Brentwood in her Volvo with the now nonworking DVD player and entered a different world. As much as Sunset Boulevard defined the whole of Los Angeles, it was San Vicente which defined the West Side.
Turning up Ocean Avenue, curving onto San Vicente, Gracie would watch in awe as that parade of joggers would commence; it didn’t matter what time of day one would be driving up the boulevard, there was always someone running along the grassy median dividing the street, dotted evenly by vintage coral trees.
The joggers were uniform in their athletic contours; the men’s legs were a jumble of muscles lit up by the combination of sweat and the sun’s rays. The men were older than twenty-five, younger than fifty, and all could have qualified for a Men’s Health magazine cover—a magazine Kenny pored over each month for clues to the perfect six-pack or secret ways to cut carbs from an already carbless diet. Gracie, meanwhile, pored over the cover.
And then there were the women. Why were all of them twenty-five and under with glossy ponytails and light tans, bouncing along with nary a breath taken? There was no sweat, there was no effort, there seemed to be no hurry.
Ah, the glory of youth, Gracie thought. May they all rot in hell.
THE INFANT-FACED attorney was shaking his head and making the kind of clicking sound with his tongue that Gracie could barely tolerate from her own mother when she was alive, much less a round-headed stranger with milk foam gracing his thin upper lip.
“You have a pre-nup?” he whined.
“I told you I have a pre-nup,” Gracie said, “but I think I can convince Kenny to buy back our old house for me and my daughter. It’s all I want.”
“What motivation does he possibly have to buy it for you?” the attorney whined again.
Gracie was happy to not be paying him by the hour. The consultation was free. Perhaps this was a bad sign.
“Our child?” Gracie said.
The man’s face lit up. “A child!” he acknowledged. “Very good. That means child support.”
“All I want is that house.”
“Nonsense. You need child support and spousal support. Only one child?”
“We have one child.”
He looked at her. He seemed sorely disappointed.
“It would have been nice to have two children,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure we have just the one,” Gracie replied, on the edge of impatience.
“Okay,” he said, sighing deeply. “So, you’ve been married ten years.”
“Almost ten years.”
The man paled; he looked like a blanched almond.
“Almost?”
“Yes. We would have been married ten years in April.”
He shook his head, very slowly.Then he closed his eyes, put his face toward the ceiling, and let out a low, soft moan.
“What’s wrong?” Gracie thought it might be heartburn.
“I can’t help you.” He put his hands together, as though praying.
“Why not?”
“You haven’t been married ten years. Ten is the magic number. Ten is when it all begins.”
“Nine years is a long time,” Gracie said. “Have you ever been married nine years? To a studio executive? It’s like riding a whale!”
“Ten is the Holy Grail, the three-point shot, the Hail Mary. Without Ten (he’d said it as though the word were capitalized) you got bubkes.”
Grace pondered this news for a second. “Can I get my old house for bupkes?”
He just looked at her. All expression had left his face, along with his interest in her divorce case.
“I can’t help you,” he repeated his mantra.
Gracie left, gathering up her things with as much pride as a premenopausal reject could muster.
She wished she hadn’t paid for the man’s coffee.
She took the long way, driving home on windy Sunset Boulevard. There were no sidewalks, and therefore no joggers to mock her in her sedentary state.
SATURDAY MARKED the first weekend since Gracie had been dumped by Kenny. Instead of celebrating with a Divorce Cocktail—a fountain of pink lemonade martinis and enough Xanax to soothe Norman Mailer in his prime—Gracie found herself at Qiana Nabler’s two-year-old daughter’s birthday party. Qiana was married to a producer with the body of a sumo and the personality of a crack addict, infamous for the fact that when he ran a major studio, he bilked the Japanese investors out of hundreds of millions of dollars. Perhaps that explained why he and his new wife—Qiana, an InStyle Blonde, was the third in a long line of tall, blond, buxom Mrs. Nablers—lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills, close enough to the Beverly Hills Hotel to order room service. Gracie had known Qiana when she was just plain Donna, before the personal lifestyle/high colonic guru. Qiana had a daughter, Lala Tuala Bell, who had, unfortunately, inherited all of her father’s looks to go along with her mother’s unfortunate choice of names.
Why Gracie was at the party was a good question. Yes, she had a young daughter; yes, she could be charmed by Qiana’s southern hospitality, despite the ever-present yoga tights; and yes, she had no other good place to go.And though she was on her way to becoming the Starter Wife, she figured it was too soon for everyone in L.A. to have received the fax.
So she found herself at a child’s birthday party with valet parking, champagne cocktails, fake snow, fake psychics, and a real elephant.
Qiana greeted her with the same squeal as she greeted the other two hundred guests. “Namaste, cookie,” she said to Gracie, bowing with her hands clasped in prayer. “I honor your courage!”
Gracie took a half step back, as she always did when greeted by overwhelming insincerity.
“Nama—” She stopped herself. “What’s this about courage?”
“Cookie, I’m so sorry to hear about your little, you know… .” Qiana looked at Jaden and whispered, “Divorce thingie.”
Gracie was surprised, to say the least; it’d been a mere four days. Obviously, pending divorces were headline news in her neck of the woods.
“It’s hit the circuit.” Qiana seemed to have read her mind. “Have a nice time. Kenny should be here lickety-split.”
Jaden looked up at Gracie. “Daddy’s going to be here?”
Gracie watched as Qiana greeted another guest, a studio marketing executive who, Gracie knew, didn’t have any children. In West Los Angeles, children’s birthday parties h
ad become just another excuse to network and climb, children or no children. Gracie wondered why anyone who didn’t have to be subjected to chicken fingers would choose to.
Jaden tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Where’s Daddy? Let’s find Daddy.”
Gracie stood there, sandaled feet screwed into the ground, Jaden’s sweaty hand in hers, pulling her toward the party and away from her nearest escape, her dear, dear Volvo.
Her husband was coming to the party. The question was, Why? Gracie had to but look around to get her answer. Here was Reese Witherspoon bent over a toddler, there was the writer who’d won the Oscar last year, and farther out, Gracie saw the raison d’être, Kenny’s boss, Lou Manahan. Lou was in his early sixties, had the laid-back, easygoing manner of a lifelong surfer, which he was, and dressed like a college student, which he had never been. Lou was famous for being a high school dropout, perhaps the most successful high school dropout on the West Coast. Lou was divorced, a couple, three, four times—it’d been hard to keep up, even for Gracie—and he had good relationships with all of his exes. He’d never had any children until his third (or was it fourth?) wife, who waited until after their divorce to get pregnant by him. As a result, he was often seen at these gatherings with a rambunctious three-year-old boy, Topper. Gracie had always enjoyed Lou’s company; he was one of the few people of power in town who not only knew Gracie by name, without being prompted, but looked her in the eye when they spoke.
The truth is, Gracie always felt a little bit of a good old-fashioned stir when Lou was in the room.
She sucked in her stomach, patting the puffy area above her C-section scar, vowing to get hold of a plastic surgeon the first chance she had (which could be this very party),and made her way over to Lou.
“Gracie.” Lou smiled as he saw her coming. “I’m just thinking about my new book. You’re a writer, you could help me with some of the particulars.” Gracie found herself smiling back, basking in his crow’s-feet. In a town where men were lining up on Rodeo Drive for collagen shots and Botox, Lou was a masculine throwback.
“Once upon a time,” Gracie corrected him. “And that was just children’s books.” Gracie was unaware up until now that Lou had any literary aspirations.
“Well, this isn’t a real book. I’m just standing here, looking out at this thing we’re calling, for the lack of a better word, a ‘party.’ You know, when I was younger, a party involved a trunk full of vodka, a mountain of coke, and girls a coupla decades older than these trinkets.”
“So, what’s the book that’s not a book?” Gracie asked. She noticed she was breathing again; when she’d heard Kenny’s name, she must have stopped. Would paramedics have to follow her around for the next year or so, just in case Kenny Pollock was in the vicinity?
“We’ll call it Hollywood Translations,” Lou said. “It’s like Berlitz. When you get to Hollywood, you’re going to need to learn the language.”
“Example?” Gracie asked. Jaden had finally let go of her hand and had sat in front of a raggedy Elmo, who was busily blowing animal balloons. Gracie recognized him from Jaden’s first birthday party. Elmo had demanded cash for his services rather than the agreed-upon check. Worse, he demanded the cash while maintaining his high-pitched Elmo voice. “Elmo wants cash,” he’d kept repeating. “Elmo’s on crack,” Gracie had told Kenny.
“I’m so excited!” Lou said.
“New project?” Gracie automatically inquired.
“No, no—you know how everyone here always says, ‘I’m so excited!’”
“‘Excited’ is the most overused adjective in L.A., second only to ‘genius,’” Gracie replied.
“Exactly,” Lou said. “So, translation: ‘I have no fucking idea what I’m talking about!’”
“Got it. What about ‘Cute picture!’?”
“Translation: ‘Who’s gonna get canned for this piece of shit?’”
“How about ‘Congratulations on your new production deal’?” Gracie liked this game.
“‘Loser. Couldn’t get a real job, huh?’”
“‘I couldn’t be happier for you,’” Gracie said.
“‘I hate your stinking guts.’” Lou looked up. “‘I think I see your husband’?”
“That’s an easy one,” Gracie said. “‘Your dick is showing.’”
Lou looked at her. “What’d you say?”
Gracie smiled. “You know, ‘Your dick is showing.’”
Lou maintained that quizzical look on his face. “Kenny is here, Gracie,” he said.
Gracie’s face fell; Lou was actually trying to tell her Kenny had entered the party.
“I’m sorry—I thought—” She didn’t go on, thinking better of it. How could she explain?
Lou smiled. “Nah. Makes sense, if you think about it.”
Gracie turned to see her daughter, Jaden, running toward Kenny—and she thought about the fact that she hadn’t really been watching her daughter. She’d been too excited about Lou talking to her. She wondered what that meant.
Probably nothing. Just a man paying attention to her.
“Hey, hey, Lou.” Kenny walked up to them with Jaden in his arms. “I just saw the dailies on Blue Bayou. Fantastic, I’m not kidding.”
Lou looked at Gracie. “Translation?”
“Hey, Gracie,” Kenny said, kissing her on the cheek and interrupting her insult.
“‘Who said this woman could act?’” Gracie replied to Lou.
“I’m sorry?” Kenny said, though he wasn’t.
“I don’t think it quite hits the nail on the head,” Lou said to Gracie. “It’s more direct. Try this: ‘The dailies are great’ equals ‘Get me a director’s list, because we’ve got to fire this hack immediately.’”
“Agreed, but then you are the master,” Gracie said. She was enjoying their secret language for the moment.
Kenny stood there, his smirky grin frozen, unable to move before he understood the game Gracie and Lou were playing. “I’m just the ghostwriter,” she said.
“It’s nothing,” Lou finally said to Kenny. “We’re just having a little fun in the sun. I’m sure the dailies are terrific.”
“They are,” he said. Gracie detected a rise in Kenny’s temperature. He tugged at his shirt, which was sticking to his chest. “Can you hold her a sec?” he said, handing Jaden off to Gracie. And then he turned and was gone, heading for the nearest A-lister.
Lou and Gracie stood there for a moment in silence, watching Kenny go after Reese Witherspoon with the speed and trajectory of a heat-seeking ass-kisser.
“He’ll learn,” Lou said to Gracie, as though answering a question she hadn’t dared ask.
“We’re getting a divorce,” Gracie replied.
“About time,” he said.
“I don’t want it,” Gracie said. “He does.”
“Of course,” Lou said, looking at Gracie. “You’re not going to get him on the cover of Us Magazine.”
Gracie looked away, ashamed. She knew what Lou said was true; for Kenny, press was everything, and that’s the one thing his wife couldn’t acquire for him: press. Gracie could put together a dinner party, she could write the thank-you notes, send the flowers, remind him of important birthdays, and buy the gifts. And wonder of wonders, she could carry on a conversation. But she could not get him on the cover of Us.
Lou placed his roughened hand on her shoulder. “Who’m I going to talk to at these things?” he said.
Gracie looked back at him without turning her shoulder. She didn’t want him to remove that hand. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Am I dying or something?”
“You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see what happens. You’ll come to a couple more of these parties, people will invite you, they’ll want to keep the doors open for a while in case you’re not really getting divorced and then they’ll figure out the truth, that you’re not getting back together, and then the invites will dwindle and pretty soon I’ll be at another one of these overblown picnics and I’ll be talking
to myself.”
“That’s my future?” Gracie asked. “As The Former Wife Of?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, to celebrate or grieve. She didn’t know whether he was being helpful or cruel. Or both.
“Count on it,” he said.
Gracie didn’t know what to say. She watched the party, the people, the servers, the animal balloons, the boob jobs and tank tops and collagened lips.
“Lucky girl,” Lou said.
“Me?” Gracie said. “I’m about to be excommunicated.”
“You’re getting out,” he replied. “I never have.”
She looked at him.
“You’re free,” he said.
LOU MANAHAN regretted being honest with Gracie. What was there to gain by him telling her that her life in Hollywood was over? Finished. Done.
He drove into the flats of Beverly Hills, where he’d recently purchased a home for him and his kid.The kid who was asleep in the backseat. Pacifier stuck in his mouth. These were Lou’s favorite times. Just him and the kid. No radio, no cell phone, no noise, nothing.
He hadn’t been trying to hurt Gracie. The words had just popped out of his mouth like bombs landing on a soft target. The look on her face. But didn’t she know? he thought. Didn’t she know that her stock had dropped to less than the daytime hostess at The Ivy? Hadn’t she seen what happened to other wives? Wives who traded on their husbands’ names until the day he walked out with a secretary/actress/nanny? Lou was nothing if not honest, which in L.A. was about as rare a bird as sincerity. He looked into his rearview mirror, looked at the little head that was lolling to the side of his child seat.
Lou made a note to call Gracie. He’d take her out to dinner. He’d make it all better for her.
LATER THAT DAY, Gracie put Jaden down for a nap, then drove into Beverly Hills, listening to two women talk about food on NPR and wondering when exactly she had stopped listening to music on the radio. She switched stations for a few moments, then turned the thing off altogether when she realized she’d been listening to what was considered an “oldies” station, the one that played all the hits of the eighties.
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