by Michele Hauf
I looked at my watch. “Listen, could we meet somewhere at... Let’s say 11:00, or do you have other plans?”
“11 is great,” she said in her breathless voice. “Where are you staying? I can come and pick you up. It’s a forty-five minute drive to Malibu.”
“I’m staying at a friend’s house right now, on Sunset Boulevard,” I lied, not wanting to appear broke by saying I was at the Economy Inn. “But I could meet you somewhere.”
She named a restaurant. Remembering I’d seen the place nearby, I agreed to wait for her at the corner.
“Okay. See you there at 11. I’ll be in a red Range Rover,” she said.
“And I’ll be in a red dress,” I added before disconnecting.
It wasn’t that I wanted to be conspicuous, but the simple, stretchy, knee-length dress was virtually unwrinkable and fit for almost any occasion. I shimmied into it, dug out ballet flats from my unpacked suitcase, then completed the outfit with my black, casual purse. After I put on some mascara and lip gloss, I twisted my hair into a braid that fell over my right shoulder. All in all, I gave the exact impression I wanted: a career woman who didn’t take any bullshit, but wasn’t completely unbending.
It was 10 when I left for the restaurant, because I wanted to have breakfast before I met Vicki. As soon as I stepped outside I put on my sunglasses. Though traffic was heavy, it was a pleasure walking on the sunny street flanked by lush vegetation. I couldn’t wait for the chance to explore more of the city after I finished my business with Vicki.
At the restaurant, I ordered Eggs Benedict. As I waited, I took out my tablet and started searching for car dealerships in the area. Buying a car was the next thing on my agenda today.
My meal arrived a bit late, so I ate hurriedly, then stepped out into the sun again to wait for Vicki.
At 11 sharp, a red Range Rover pulled up to the sidewalk. The blonde, middle-aged woman who was driving gave me a blinding smile, as I leaned toward the open window.
“Vicki?” I asked.
“Yes. Nice to meet you, Kendra. Hop in!”
“God, I love your car,” I said as I made myself comfortable on the passenger seat. “It’s like a small apartment.”
She laughed gaily. “It gets the job done. I do a lot of work-related traveling, and this is the most reliable car I’ve ever had. I’ve literally climbed mountains of snow in it.”
“It’s really great! I have to buy a car, and I think this might be a good choice,” I said.
As I looked around, I took advantage and studied Vicki discretely. She looked fit, young for her age, dressed in a smart business suit the color of pale leaves. Her practical shoes were the same color, and even the rims of her sunglasses were green.
“I highly recommend it, especially if you’re going to live on the coast. Do you specifically want a home in Malibu?” she asked.
“Not necessarily. I do want a place that is private. I would go so far as to say secluded. I don’t like crowds for long periods.”
She smiled. “I understand that. Los Angeles is a wonderful city, but it can get overly-crowded. I have a small place in Long Beach, where I often escape with my husband. What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all. I’m a writer. This move was kind of an impulsive gesture for me, but I’m very excited to be here. I enjoy this house hunting thing,” I said, not untruthfully.
“Oh, you will love this house, trust me,” she assured me in her most convincing sales-pitch tone. “It’s perfect for a single person, or even a family. It’s completely private and secluded, just as you want. The yard isn’t very big, so you won’t have to tend it all the time. Plus, it has a roomy veranda, where you can put a desk and write to your heart’s content.”
We were now on the Pacific Coast Highway. I took note of the route we were taking, as Vicki told me more about the property. As we drove on, I began to feel butterflies in my stomach. Was this it? Could it be that easy?
“We’re almost there,” Vicki announced a while later.
She slowed down, then took a left turn on a street marked Paradise Cove Road. It was a narrow road, lined with vegetation, where signs with ‘Private Property’ were sprinkled along the way. It looked like I might have famous neighbors. The entire area was heavily forested and wonderfully unspoiled. The irregular terrain was full of slopes, making me wonder how people had managed to sneak here in this corner of nature, and create homes. Nature protected itself permanently through mudslides, rainstorms, earthquakes, the occasional tornados, but that didn’t stop the inhabitants from building and rebuilding their homes here. The unspeakable beauty of living here, between the ocean and mountains, was motivation enough to overcome any obstacles. I understood now why the Malibu community wanted to keep newcomers at bay, and maintain the charm of this picturesque place.
Vicki turned left again, and my heart lurched as the Rover climbed a slightly inclined slope with the grace of a feline.
“Well, this is it,” she said, driving toward a pair of gates, where yet another plaque announced this was private property.
We both climbed out of the car and walked forward. I barely noticed when Vicki unlocked the gates. I stared transfixed at the house peeking from behind a wall of vegetation.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
“It needs some work, it’s true, but the rewards of owning such a property are...”
Vicki droned on as we were walking toward the house, but I wasn’t listening anymore. She had taken my remark as a sign of disdain, when it was quite the opposite.
It wasn’t exactly love at first sight, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d assumed initially. The two-story house was asymmetrical, with a row of steps leading to a spacious veranda on one side. Judging by the positioning of the windows, the rooms seemed evenly spaced. Iron banisters curled prettily to line the two balconies, lending the house the air of an old Italian villa.
Under the peeling paint, I saw the building was made of solid brick. I knew quite a lot about house restoration since I’d helped my parents with theirs, so I realized this one had a good structure. The roof was hidden by branches, but I guessed it would need to be restored or replaced as well. Gorgeous tangles of wisteria heavy with purple flowers zigzagged across the veranda and the balconies’ banisters, crept up the one visible supporting pillar, and almost engulfed one entire wall. I’d never seen anything more exotic in my life, but I kept my poker face on. Vicki needn’t know I actually liked the wild look of the place.
“How long is it since anyone’s been here?” I asked, making sure to add a note of disapproval in my tone.
She actually shuffled her feet. “Well, a few months, I think. The flora tends to develop very quickly in California, because of the perfect climate. As I said, the place needs a bit of work, but once you get it in shape, it will be a wonderful little oasis. If you’re into gardening, this is a perfect place. You can just throw down seeds and they grow into plants. The soil is amazing. Besides, it’s only a few minutes walk to the beach.”
I tilted my head noncommittally. With a notable lack of enthusiasm, I said, “Well, since we’re already here, I might as well take a look inside too. I only hope it won’t collapse on us.”
I knew I was being mean, even bitchy, but it was all for a good cause. In the end, Vicki would make her sale, although not for the price she wanted.
“Of course not,” she assured me. “The house is over fifty years old, but its structure is sound. We have an architect’s report. I’ll show you a copy later.”
I moved cautiously up the few wooden steps, and looked around the large veranda. I could imagine myself there, lying on a luxurious divan straight from the Arabian Nights, a bottle of champagne beside me, a box of chocolates, and dim lanterns in every corner, chasing away the night with their soft, magic light. I had to stifle a moan at this fantasy, which was interrupted rather abruptly when I stumbled over a fallen branch.
“God!” I exclaimed, clutching a hand over my chest.
“This is worse than The Addams Family house.”
The interior looked just as desolate in the low light coming through the small, cracked windows. However, I could see its potential beyond the cobwebs, dust and disrepair. When my parents had bought their house, it had been in a similar state. Forever on a budget, they bought it at a bargain price and did almost all the repairs themselves. And since I loved hard work, I was there every day, helping with everything I could. I learned to work with construction tools, to recognize the problems that came with renovating a house, as well as finding inventive ways to fix them.
A peek under the ancient, hideous linoleum confirmed the floor was hard wood. A professional scraping and some shiny varnish would make it as good as new. The walls were straight and thick, separating large and well segmented rooms. Downstairs, the short hallway led to the living room through a wide arched opening. Another small hallway opened into the spacious kitchen. Adjoining it was a tiny mudroom, which had its own bath. The upper floor sported a couple of bedrooms with matching bathrooms and charming little balconies. Most of the windows were broken, so they would need replacement. In any case, I planned to enlarge them, since they were too stingy to suit me. In fact, I wouldn’t mind an entire glass wall in the living room, overlooking the miniature jungle outside.
All in all, this was something I could work with, and within my budget too. It was a cliché, but the feeling of elation that overwhelmed me was none other than more ‘butterflies in my stomach’. As plans for the house took shape in my mind, I managed to keep a neutral, even discouraging expression, while Vicki watched me with the concentration of a hawk stalking a mouse.
“Well,” I said at last, turning to her. “It’s not what I expected.”
“The place needs a bit of work,” she repeated the gross understatement for the tenth time. “But the client took that into consideration when he set such a low price.”
“It’s not quite low enough from where I’m standing. Anyway, thank you for showing me the house, Vicki. I have a few more places to look at. I’ll be in touch when I decide,” I said unconvincingly.
“Sure.” Her smile was back, but not as bright as before.
As we headed down the stairs, I turned to her. “Who did you say this house belongs to?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential information,” she replied, a bit pompously. Then she lowered her voice. “I can tell you it belonged to a celebrity, but the family doesn’t want it anymore. I gather it holds some painful memories for them. That’s why no one has made any effort to restore it.”
My ears pricked, and so did my curiosity. “A celebrity? Can’t you tell me who? Or at least give me a hint?”
She shook her head firmly. “Afraid not. We do have a confidentiality clause.”
I sighed, moving down the path toward Vicki’s car.
Like any professional salesman, she knew when to end her pitch. On the way back we didn’t talk about the house anymore, but she told me a lot about life in Los Angeles. I asked her about restaurants, shopping centers, museums and tourist attractions, and she was very helpful with her recommendations. When I told her I wanted to buy a car today, she even offered to drive me to a car dealership—an offer I immediately accepted.
An hour later I stood among rows of new, polished cars, admiring their sheen in the strong sunlight. One of the salesmen moved hotly on my heels, praising each car we walked by—especially the most expensive ones—but my mind was already made up. I had fallen in love with Vicki’s Range Rover. The black one I was looking at right now was even more gorgeous. It wasn’t only that I’d always liked big, manly cars, but as Vicki said, it was a practical choice for someone who lived in Malibu and commuted often to L.A.
After I took the Rover for a test drive, accompanied by the salesman, I was perfectly happy with my decision. $40,000 and a few miles worth of paperwork later, I rolled my new car into the busy traffic, the radio blasting, the bass so strong it shook the fillings in my teeth. I was in Heaven!
I was just trying to decide where to go next, absently enjoying the scent of my new leather seats, when my phone started quacking Danny’s silly tune.
“Hello.” I cradled the phone between my cheek and shoulder, as I lowered the volume of the sound system.
“Hi there, beautiful. How are you getting on?”
“Wonderfully! I just bought a car and visited my future home.”
There was a taken aback pause. “Whoa! Really? Fast work,” Danny said, sounding impressed. “Care to explain?”
I told him about the Rover, then about the house. By the time I finished, he was laughing, contaminated with my obvious exuberance.
“You’ll never find parking spots in L.A. for that house on wheels,” he said finally.
“Are you kidding? With this monster I’ll climb over any Maserati if the owner pisses me off.”
He chuckled. “If you say so... Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into, buying that wreck of a house?”
“Absolutely! I helped my parents restore their own wreck of a house, and now it looks like a palace. Besides, I enjoyed it tremendously. I can’t wait to break my back and scrape my knuckles putting that place together. Hard work is therapeutic for me.”
“You’re crazy!” he said, sounding amused. I could almost envision him shuddering and studying his manicured hands. “But why would you need therapy?”
Damn! My mouth had gotten ahead of me again. I didn’t want to tell him about Richard, because I was afraid he would move in on me again. I had to tell him something though, now that I’d blown my top.
“That was just a figure of speech. I... had an unpleasant breakup from Richard, the man I was seeing. I mentioned him to you, I think. Anyway, it really doesn’t matter. We were only just...”
“Shag buddies?” he supplied.
I laughed. “Less than that. We weren’t even buddies, and the... shagging was just routine.”
“Well, I can’t honestly say I’m sorry the relationship is over. The guy sounds like a boring asshole.”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“That explains it,” he said, sending me into fits of giggles. “Listen, let’s have dinner tonight. I have some news for you.”
“Really? Good or bad?”
“Excellent.” Before I could ask any more questions, he added, “I’ll pick you up at 8, okay?”
“Okay. Meet you in the motel parking lot.”
7
I was wearing the same red dress and matching high-heeled shoes when I climbed into Danny’s sleek black Mercedes at 8 sharp. He looked me up and down, raising one elegant eyebrow.
“Wow! You look like a Hollywood vision,” he said, starting the car, his eyes still on me. “All you need is the red carpet.”
“Thanks. I could say the same about you.”
He looked fabulous indeed, dressed in a black silk shirt and black slacks, which emphasized his Latino features. It couldn’t understand why I wasn’t truly attracted by such a blatantly sexy man. Who said every woman should fall into the arms of every drop-dead-gorgeous guy she meets? This was like the myth about women dreaming of huge penises, when in fact most of us dread having a too-well-hung man. But try getting that in a guy’s head.
Back to love and sex, now that I was thinking, I’d never experienced the all-consuming lust—not to mention love—that I described so vividly in my writing. Perhaps I’d watched too many fairytale movies and had too many expectations, which didn’t exist in real life.
“Speaking of Hollywood,” Danny said, jarring me out of my musings. “This morning I talked to the director Marie Bell has chosen for your movie.”
“Really?” I snapped to attention. “Who is he? What’s he like?”
“Mark Santini. I believe you might’ve heard of him. He’s a new-generation director, a bit eccentric, but he got rave reviews from the critics for the few movies he’s done so far. Everyone says he’s going to be the next Quentin Tarantino.”
“I thought
Tarantino made action movies.”
“So does Santini.”
“So how come he wanted to make The Diary?” I asked intrigued, watching the myriad headlights speeding up and down the avenues.
“Because people want romance and thrill, baby.” Danny lifted one hand off the wheel in a careless gesture. “No matter how simple the plot, they want love stories. It’s all in the chemistry between the actors, the settings, the soundtrack. Look at Pretty Woman. There’s nothing special or original about the love story between a prostitute and a billionaire, except that every woman dreams of such a cheesy happy ending,” he added cynically. “That’s how that BDSM author became a gazillionaire too.”
“Don’t get me started on that,” I said, scoffing. “I don’t know which is worse, the book or the movie.”
His eyes twinkled with humor. “Not into BDSM?”
“I doubt most people are,” I said, then looked at him quickly, half afraid I could have offended him. “I mean... everyone has their own tastes, right?”
“Right,” he drawled, still looking amused.
I wondered if he was a BDSM fan. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he were. I had to learn to keep my mouth shut, especially now that I was going to rub elbows with celebrities. What I considered fucked up and sick could be—probably was—a lifestyle choice for many people. It was not only rude, but threatening to my career to speak my mind so openly.
Danny pulled into the Sunset Plaza parking lot, then found a spot among the rows of cars. He opened the door for me, taking my hand to help me out of the car. I didn’t really need help, but I didn’t want to mock his gentlemanly gesture.
As we walked along the sidewalk and its green hedge to an Italian restaurant, I discretely slipped my hand out of his, pretending to fiddle with my hair, which was flying in the strong breeze. The night air was fragrant and didn’t seem as polluted as I first thought when I’d arrived in L.A. It was also chilly, making me sorry I hadn’t brought a jacket.