by Michele Hauf
Fortunately, the temperature was perfect inside the restaurant. The interior had a rustic feel, with its stone walls, wooden tables and dim lights. The bar was also made of stone, shaped like a half moon. I looked around curiously as we headed toward a corner table, next to a luxurious arrangement of potted plants. I hoped I might spot some celebrities, but there was no one I knew among the people sitting at the nearby tables, surrounded by the delicious aroma of spices and expensive perfumes.
We both ordered pasta, and Danny asked for a bottle of Chianti. I was impressed by the deference with which the waiter treated him, as if he were really important. When we’d entered, several of the people had greeted him discretely—a sign he was well-known around here. As we ate, we talked about the script, the movie, the production process, and Hollywood in general. Then he asked me to tell him more about the house.
“Well, I could bet you’d be horrified at the sight of it now,” I said, blotting my mouth with the napkin. “However, I think it has potential. Besides, it’s the only thing I can afford right now.”
“So why didn’t you buy it?” He took a sip of wine. “I spoke to my friend, the realtor, but he didn’t have anything that matches your requirements in the price range you mentioned.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’ve researched dozens, maybe hundreds of houses, and this one in Malibu is definitely the one. But I think I can get it even cheaper. I’m going to wait another week, then make Vicki an offer.”
His eyebrows arched. “Do you think you can get a considerable discount, just like that?”
I smiled foxily. “It’s not just like that, Danny. The house has been on the market for more than six months. Besides,” I said, lowering my voice, “Vicki told me it belonged to some celebrity, and the family doesn’t want it because it dredges up bad memories. I don’t think they’re selling it for the money.”
“Hmmm... Did she say what celebrity?” he asked, sounding intrigued.
“No. She says it’s confidential. But one day after I buy it, I’m going to take Vicki to dinner, get her drunk and make her talk.”
He laughed, twirling some pasta around his fork. “God, you are something, you know that? You’d do anything to get what you want, wouldn’t you?”
His eyes were suddenly serious, in spite of his joking tone, which made me cautious. I reached for my wine glass, taking it with exaggerated care.
“No, I definitely wouldn’t do anything to get my way. I have very strong principles.”
Danny watched me thoughtfully. “So did thousands of others, before they came here. Hollywood changes people.”
His taunting words echoed in my mind when I unlocked the door to my motel room. I knew he was right, but I also knew myself. Besides, I assumed Danny was talking about those who aspired to be, or had actually become, stars: actors, singers, models, and so on. I knew a huge percentage of those were lost in the world of drugs, booze, porn, and all the addictions of the world, concentrated in one place. I wasn’t naive, I knew things like that happened all the time, but I’d never been exposed to them directly. Of course, in my case, I had nothing to worry about. I hadn’t moved to Los Angeles to become famous. I didn’t want to become famous, just to start over and make a good life for myself.
Sighing, I ditched my shoes, one foot at a time. I wiggled my numb toes as I sat on the bed and started to undo the back zipper of my dress. I was pleasantly tired, but I didn’t skip the shower before bedtime, even though I was tempted. After I finished, I switched my laptop on to quickly check my emails and messages. I startled a bit when I saw an email from Richard with the headline ‘Where are you???’.
So, he hadn’t found out yet. Of course, other than my parents, no one knew where I was, or why. I didn’t even have a best friend back in Chicago. That sad realization made me pause. God, how could anyone not have a best friend? Had I been that career-driven I had completely ignored my social life?
Well, that’s what got me to where I am now.
I deleted the email from Richard without reading it. Now that I was on my way to making a serious mark on the writing industry, I could make as many friends as I wanted. Yes, I would definitely put that on my list.
I nodded in satisfaction, then checked my spam folder. One email, from Sam Pavlovich, the realtor who’d written to me before.
“Jesus,” I groaned “Are you desperate or what?”
I clicked to open the message and read it:
Dear Miss Kensington,
This is Sam with Dream Beach Homes.
I was wondering if you have found any home you like on our website, DBH.com. I would be happy to show you any house you wish to visit. Would this be a permanent residence or a vacation house? Please let me know how I can help with your home search. If you have any questions at all, please contact me anytime.
With Appreciation,
Sam Pavlovich
I drummed my fingers on the side of the laptop, tongue-in-cheek, wondering if I was able to control myself. Nope, I decided after a few seconds. I wasn’t. I hit ‘Reply’ and wrote:
Hey Sam,
I am not interested in buying any property at the moment. I’m a writer and I’ve accessed your website just for research purposes. Please stop sending me emails, because I am not a prospective customer.
Kendra Kensington
It was probably mean to crush his dreams of shoving a billion dollar house down my throat, but then, it was rude for him to pester me with uninvited emails too. I felt much better after sending the message, and even giggled a bit at my bitchiness. I could just imagine the cuss words when he read it and realized he’d wasted time and hopes for nothing.
And just because I was in a mean mode, I wrote a very pompous announcement on Facebook and Twitter, knowing Richard would see it: ‘I am delighted to announce that my script, ‘The Diary’ will be turned into a movie by MBM Movie World! Warm thanks to my amazing agent, Danny Gonzales, for making my dreams possible. More details to follow.’
I added a heart emoticon for good measure, and made sure my location, Los Angeles, was publicly visible. Then I posted it, along with a photo of the Hollywood sign I’d quickly downloaded from the internet. I promised myself one day soon I would take my own photos of that sign.
Exhaling with satisfaction, I closed the laptop, ate three cookies and crawled into bed. After I turned off the light, I vaguely remembered I had neglected to brush my teeth, but I was asleep before I could return to the bathroom.
I spent the next few days shopping and exploring the city, either on foot or by car. I took the opportunity to jog each morning, enjoying the perfect temperature and the ever green streets. I liked discovering the seemingly endless one-way roads, where villas and mansions reigned, shaded by cascades of well-tended vegetation. I didn’t much care for the signs of ‘Private Property’ and ‘No Trespassing’ I seemed to encounter every few miles, but I couldn’t blame the owners for not wanting strangers in their own private chunks of nature.
I’d always loved plants, so I felt giddy thinking of my future home—I already considered the Malibu house mine—with its wild-looking surroundings and backyard forest. I counted the days until Wednesday, when I planned to call Vicki.
In the afternoons I cruised the shopping centers or sat in open air restaurants, watching the world go by. On Tuesday I drove to Beverly Hills, left the car in the secure parking lot of a nearby bank, and set off to browse all the shops on Rodeo Drive. Two sweaty hours later, I had learned one of L.A.’s golden rules: there were fifty shades of ‘expensive’ around here, the major three being: obscenely expensive, indecently expensive, and you-go-blind-if-you-even-check-out-the-price-tag expensive.
However, I had acquired a few anorexic-looking bags, of items I could barely afford, since they were on a so-called sale. Most of them were panties, bras, and a few pieces of very sexy underwear. Other than sweets, underwear were one of my few weaknesses—especially black, lacy, exquisite undergarments. I’d always thought panties and bras were like or
gasms—a woman could never have too many of them.
Only Richard was aware of this addiction, but I realized now how wasted it had been on him. When we didn’t have sex in total darkness, which was usually the case, he undressed me so quickly he couldn’t possibly see what I was wearing. Come to think of it, I rarely noticed what he was wearing. God, how could I be involved with such a guy for a whole year? And he wasn’t much different from the other few lovers I’d had.
Had I been wrong to be so engrossed in work that I didn’t pay any attention to the other things and people in my life? Was it so terrible I wanted to do more with my life than marry, have kids and expect my husband to take care of us forever? I thought of my mom, how contented and cheerful she always was, and I wondered not for the first time if perhaps I was too ambitious. Had I met a man like Dad, who would make me as happy as Mom was, I might have settled for being a stay-at-home wife and mother. But I’d never come close to living such a love story. Maybe I never would.
I shook off the thoughts that threatened to cloud my good mood. It was too gorgeous a day for such depressing musings. I was only thirty, for Heaven’s sake! I had most of my life ahead, and plenty of time to meet Mr. Perfect. At least I always wore great underwear, so I’d be ready if he cared to make an appearance in my life.
Smiling to myself, I was just heading back to my car, when something caught my attention—a blonde teenage girl was walking out of a tattoo parlor, followed by a trio of girlfriends. They all squealed and exclaimed over the blonde’s left ankle. As I approached I saw a raw, fresh tattoo on her tanned skin. It was a colorful rainbow of stars, beautifully sliding up her ankle toward her calf. I was mesmerized. I’d never been a fan of tattoos, but this purely feminine symbol was truly lovely.
Impulsively, I opened the door to the parlor. I’d never been inside this kind of place before. I expected to see a couple of leather-clad artists tattooed from head to toe, and wearing just as many piercings. To my surprise, I saw a fortyish blonde who looked like a sea nymph, dressed in a long, floating dress, decorated with pink and blue flowers. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. The only tattoo I saw on her as she greeted me was an intricate bracelet curled around her left bicep. I always had the impression tattoos somehow shadowed a woman’s grace and femininity, but this was a vivid example of how wrong I was.
“May I help you?” she asked, as I looked around at the walls covered in art of all kinds, from paintings to hand drawn sketches.
“Um... I just wondered if you have a catalog, or something I can look at for tattoo ideas,” I said awkwardly, still convinced I was wasting both my time and hers.
“Of course.”
She showed me to a small sofa, then took a couple of folders from the coffee table and handed them to me.
“Feel free to browse as long as you want. If you have any questions, just call me. I’m Sonja,” she added with a smile.
“Thanks. “ I took the catalogs and sat, putting my bags next to me. “I have one question first: do you make temporary tattoos too, or only permanent? I mean... I don’t know if something like this would suit me.”
She smiled again. “We do both. A tattoo is a commitment, and although its meanings and purposes have changed during the centuries, these days we have choices. A temporary symbol is like an engagement, a trial before the final step.”
I laughed softly as she walked away to greet another customer. I’d never thought there was so much philosophy about some design scribbled into someone’s flesh. I thought it was a primitive custom, but now I was wondering if I hadn’t been a bit narrow-minded.
After a few pages covered in drawings of skulls, fiery crosses, snakes, dragons and other stuff, I was beginning to reconsider, when I came upon an image that took my breath away. It was the exquisite drawing of a lacy-winged butterfly, made in simple black. The artist had managed to make it look graceful and strong at the same time, and so real I almost expected it to flutter off the page. This was the classiest accessory a woman could have. It was the kind of symbol that would look elegant even on a queen. As I stared at it mesmerized, I recalled the moment I arrived in Los Angeles. I’d felt exactly like a butterfly, fragile, lonely and lost, swallowed by the unknown. But now I knew it didn’t have to be that way. I might be a butterfly, but I was a joyful one, who wanted to breeze through life carried by a gentle wind, through sunny, colorful fields, enjoying each moment. A smile curved my lips as I lifted my eyes in search of Sonja. Perhaps it was another good sign that she was just heading toward me, her dress swaying gently with each step.
“Have you seen anything you like?” she asked.
“Yes. I want this one, here on my right ankle,” I said, touching the bare skin above my sandal strap.
She smiled back, taking the catalog from me. “It suits you. Would you like a temporary tattoo?”
I took a deep breath and stood. “No. This one is a permanent commitment.”
8
I spent Wednesday morning in bed, writing down ideas for a new script on my laptop, and admiring my tattoo. Since I couldn’t see it very well, I kept my compact mirror next to me, checking the reflection of my graceful butterfly every ten minutes or so. I was super excited, especially since I knew it would look even more spectacular once it healed completely.
At 11:00 I called Vicki and asked her if we could have lunch, because I had some more questions about the house. She was solicitude personified. After a short discussion, we decided to meet at the same Italian restaurant where Danny and I had dinner last week.
I’d considered this meeting all night, not sure how best to convince her to sell me the house for a lower price. Unfortunately for me, Vicki was a professional negotiator. But I did have an ace up my sleeve: she didn’t know I was willing to pay full price if she didn’t relent. I wanted that house. I’d already made plans for it, for the furniture and kitchen appliances, the bedroom wallpaper, the living room floor. I’d even made lists with the necessary repairs. I simply had to have it.
I applied my makeup carefully using black eyeliner, mascara and pale pink lipstick. Then I stepped into one of the few dresses I’d bought from Melrose—a soft pink in pinup style, with a narrow waist and full skirt that reached my knees. I slipped my feet into flat black sandals, and couldn’t help admiring my butterfly once more. It looked gorgeous, just above the sandal strap. I only needed to work on my tan, because my skin was too pale compared to the Californian babes and surfers who populated the streets.
I found a parking spot and left my Rover in the shade, then decided to sit outside, since the restaurant also had open-air tables under large, green umbrellas. It seemed everything was green around here. As I sat back in my chair with the lemonade I ordered, a smile lingered on my face.
Vicki arrived at 1:00 sharp, dressed in a pale blue suit this time, accessorized with a bulky Louis Vuitton bag. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a bun, and she wore sunglasses, which were essential in the Los Angeles sun. I waved at her, waiting as she walked quickly toward the table, her high heels clicking on the pavement.
“Hi! I’m glad you could make it,” I said, signaling the waiter to bring us the menus.
“I always make time for potential clients,” she replied, flashing her whiter-than-white smile as she sat in the chair opposite me. “I understand you have some questions about the house in Malibu?”
I paused, then took off my sunglasses and planted my forearms on the table, all business.
“Actually, I’m ready to make an offer on the house.”
I could tell she was stunned when I told her my price offer, and I congratulated myself for the bold bluff.
“Well, I’m not sure the owners will agree to your offer,” she said hesitantly after she recovered. “We’re talking about a 10 percent price reduction.”
“Vicki, let’s talk frankly. The house has been on the market for almost a year. It’s a wreck. It would cost nearly as much as the property itself to restore it.” This was a gross exaggeration and we b
oth knew it, but we had to dance the dance. “I bet you’ve reduced the price at least twice so far, and it hasn’t sold.”
I had her attention, so I pressed my advantage. “I think the house has potential, so I’m willing to buy it, but this is really the best offer I can make.”
When the waiter brought us our menus, we both took the time to regroup, browsing through the food options. After a few minutes, Vicki was the one to break the silence.
“I can’t promise you anything, but I will talk to the owner and get back to you.”
“Great,” I said indifferently, my eyes still on the menu. “As I mentioned, I haven’t visited all the houses on my list, so I’m in no hurry. Have you decided what to eat? I think I’ll have a pizza with lots of cheese and pepperoni. I’m starving!”
I had no idea if she’d fallen for my BS or not, but once again the ball was in her corner. I changed the subject, making it obvious this sale wasn’t nearly as important to me as it was to her.
“I forgot to tell you,” I said after we both ordered pizza. “I bought a Rover just like yours, but mine is black.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup. I have to thank you for giving me the idea.”
She beamed at me. “Glad to help. So, do you like driving it? Some women aren’t fans of big cars.”
“I love it,” I said between sips of cold, delicious lemonade. “I’ve always liked manly cars. Danny, my agent, says I’ll have trouble with parking, but...”
My phone started quacking Danny’s familiar tune. As I answered, I saw Vicki trying to hide a smile. I had to admit, the tune was ridiculous, and it must sound even more so to people who heard it for the first time. Maybe I should change it.
“Hi,” I said to Danny.
“Hi, Kendra. How’s it going?”
“Perfect. I’m just having lunch, and then I plan to do a little tour of museums and art galleries—as much as I can see in one day. Any recommendations?”