Just like she did with Imogen Curwood.
I need to know everything, and there’s only one way I’m going to get it.
I slide my mobile out of my pocket and look at the missed calls on the screen. Then I hold my finger firmly over the power button, and turn it off.
Looks like I won’t be needing my room in Santa Monica tonight.
You know what actors are?
Liars.
Think about it: they spend their whole lives pretending to be someone they’re not, convincing an audience that what they see is the truth. Hiding behind costumes, wigs, makeup. Changing their voice, stooping, limping, shouting. Lying.
But then, everyone tells lies, don’t they? Big ones, small ones, white ones . . . That dress looks great; I won’t be late; it’s not you, it’s me . . . We lie to protect ourselves, to protect each other, so as not to hurt feelings. We lie without thinking, and we lie for reasons seemingly small and insignificant, when it barely matters if we’re unmasked.
Only sometimes, it does matter.
Sometimes, no one can ever know the truth.
4
The Performance
Holly Brown
KENDALL
Ruby hasn’t left her room all day, not even to eat, and the revue show (which is doubling as an audition) is in less than two hours. I’ve asked to come in; I’ve asked her to come out. She won’t, and she doesn’t want to talk, either. It’s been days since the sleepover but she must still be having flashbacks to Imogen at the bottom of the stairs.
I’m sympathetic, of course. If I’d been there, it would have jarred me, too. But Ruby completely lost it, drawing the kind of attention neither of us needs, and while she tells me she didn’t say anything to the other girls to give us away, her behavior . . . well, I’m sure they dissected it plenty after she left. That’s why I always tell her: Make sure you’re around even if you don’t want to be; don’t give people an opening to talk behind your back. Everyone’s so quick to cast aspersions on other people rather than looking at themselves.
I knock on the door again. This time, I don’t say anything. She knows. We’re going to be late if she doesn’t take a shower and start putting on her makeup. Artful concealment of acne takes time, and hers has been horrible over the past weeks, ever since the music box.
As far as I know, no one—not even Carolyn—is blaming Ruby for it anymore. She wouldn’t have been invited to the sleepover if they did. I wouldn’t have been invited to tea. Carolyn isn’t really the apologizing type, but at least now she’s down on Imogen instead of Ruby. That’s the last I heard, anyway.
I can’t afford to get paranoid, and I can’t let Ruby, either. That’s when impulse takes over. The fact is, the simplest explanation is generally true. In this case, Imogen fell down some stairs because Elise served them alcohol. Elise is always trying to appear perfectly self-confident and immune to other people’s opinions, but she wants to be the cool mom. She’s never asked what any of us think about her liquoring up the girls. In the same way Carolyn isn’t one for apologies, Elise isn’t one to ask permission.
I actually think Elise and I have more in common than she’d ever want to admit. I know what it’s like to put on a false front when, underneath, you’re drowning in insecurity. That was me, pre-cancer. I suspect that Elise brandishes her success, her travel, her open marriage, and her laissez-faire parenting so we’ll all envy her, when meanwhile, she doesn’t ever feel good enough. Early on, I tried to connect with her about it, but she’s not a person who has true connections. Despite this Jess and Ruby situation, Carolyn and I have been real friends before, and someday maybe we will again.
It’s apparent that I’ve been let back into their circle on a provisional basis. There was the tea, but the only text exchange any of them initiated since was when Elise asked about performing arts schools in the States for Sadie, and I had to be honest about how competitive they are because I would hate to see Sadie’s heart broken. Sure, I left out some personal details, but she couldn’t be bothered to respond. Even Bronnie’s texts have been infrequent and perfunctory.
It’s like I’m on probation as a friend, which is depressing since I was the one who worked so hard to form the mums group last year. What they’re telling me is that I have to keep Ruby in line, somehow. Any more missteps from her, and I’m out, too.
The problem is, Ruby’s got an iron will. If she really doesn’t want me to know something, there’s no way I’m going to get it out of her, and if she means to do something, I can’t really stop her. That’s why I feel on edge these days, like the rug can be pulled out from under me at any time. The mums group has meant more to me than to any of the others because they all have their husbands, their families. My world in London is small, and I don’t want it any smaller.
I’m not only thinking of myself; I’m thinking of Ruby. I imagine that she’s on thin ice with the girls. She’s been vindicated where the music box is concerned, but that doesn’t mean they fully trust her (and I don’t imagine that her histrionics and leaving the sleepover early helped with that). I’m not sure I trust her right now either.
Since the music box, it seems like I’m always banging on her closed door—if not literally, then figuratively. In California, we were so close. She left things out, sometimes even big things, but all teenagers do, right? When we talked, I had some influence. Or at least, I had some warning. I knew when things were likely to explode.
Ruby’s saved me before, and now I have to save her. That’s all there is to it. I have to save her from herself.
Our two-bedroom flat is small, just a thousand square feet, which might not be small by London standards but our house in Pacific Palisades was five times that. It still is. Greg’s been living there alone for the past year. He’s visited us in London twice during that time and showed no interest at all in meeting Ruby’s friends or mine. Best to leave it all behind, and focus on our fresh start.
The other night, when I picked Ruby up in a taxi (I hate driving in London so much I never got a car), tears were streaming down her face. She threw herself in my arms like she was a little girl again, and all she would say is, ‘Someone knows.’
Deep down, I’m afraid, too. But I don’t want to give in to that. Imogen fell down the stairs, that’s all. The girl is strange, all the mums have agreed on that.
I sit down in the living room on the aquamarine couch, determined not to pace. I can’t let Ruby’s mood infect me. Have to stay positive.
I decorated for maximum serenity, pale rose and lilac now that I don’t have to accommodate Greg and bookshelves full of Thich Nhat Hanh and Deepak Chopra and my collection of O magazines, along with the latest nonfiction on self-compassion, assertiveness, and parenting. The last book I read said that teenagers have the acceleration system of a Porsche and the brakes of a 1952 Chevy. Basically, it’s amazing that any of them ever get out of adolescence alive, but I hope that means that Ruby’s difficulties with self-control are developmental, that she can outgrow all this.
We’re going to be late. I just need to barge in, that’s all. Take charge, in a loving manner.
I stride over to her door, knocking forcefully. ‘Ruby, you should probably get in the shower.’ There’s no answer, though she must have heard me. I repeat myself, louder.
‘No.’ Her voice is muffled, so it’s hard to pick up the emotion attached.
‘You don’t want to miss the revue.’
‘Wrong.’ It’s not the acoustics, I realize. It’s that her voice is devoid of expression, like she’s retreated into herself. Given up.
I take a deep breath. ‘Open the door, please, honey. We have a little time to talk. Maybe I can help.’
‘You can’t.’
There it is, that resignation. No one likes to hear their child hopeless, but with Ruby, it feels especially dangerous. I try to turn the knob, but it’s locked. That’s new, I think. Or maybe I just haven’t tried before. ‘Let me in, okay?’
Silence.
‘Let me in,’ I say, more of a command, with love behind it. Tough love, that’s what it was called when I was growing up, though my parents didn’t have to get tough much. I was too eager to please. Sure, I’d lie to them, but only because I wanted their approval, and sometimes that meant abandoning the truth.
Ruby’s different. She’ll let me think badly of her; it’s other people who matter to her. But the books say that’s because she feels safe with me. She knows she’s not going to lose my love. It’s a privilege when your kids shit all over you. It means you have a strong bond.
Parenting books can be so contradictory, though. Sometimes you’re left standing in the hall with no idea what to say or do next. Should I insist she get ready this instant? Insist she talk to me? Let her make her own decision, miss the revue, and deal with the consequences?
I know Ruby. The consequence might be too much for her to handle. She hates to be left out more than anything, and if she doesn’t go to the revue she doesn’t get to sing, which is part of the audition process, and then she won’t be cast in the show.
If she doesn’t go tonight, she’ll regret it. I know that for certain.
‘Whatever you’re feeling in this moment,’ I say, ‘it’s not worth missing out on your chance to be in the musical. You’ve got a real shot at being the lead.’
Nothing.
‘I’m just saying that this isn’t forever. It’s a blip—’
Ruby yanks the door open. I’m startled by her appearance. Her eyes are slits, as if she’s been crying all day, and my pep talk has obviously enraged her, because she’s yelling. ‘Here lies Ruby Donovan! Is that a blip, Mom? Does that sound like a fucking blip to you? Bel’s mother didn’t think so!’ Her chest is heaving.
‘What are you talking about?’ She hasn’t screamed and cursed at me like this since . . . And Bronnie’s involved somehow?
‘It was written on the bench, Mom.’
‘You’re saying someone wrote “Here lies Ruby Donovan,” like on a tombstone?’
‘I told you.’ She sounds triumphantly hysterical. ‘I told you someone knows. They know about our lies, and they want me dead.’
‘No, it could mean something else.’ But I can’t think of another solitary thing.
Imogen at the bottom of the stairs, and now this.
Before I can formulate a proper response, Ruby’s slammed the door in my face. I don’t blame her. This is partially—mostly?—my fault.
It’s a little after three a.m. in California. Well, Greg can catch up on his beauty sleep some other time.
I try his cell first. Then it’s the home phone, which never rings, but when it does, it’s from the nightstand on what used to be my side of the bed. Impossible for him to sleep through.
In all the time we’ve been in London, I’ve never called him in the middle of the night, but I still brace myself for his irritation. He often thinks I’m making too much of the drama between the girls, that I’m getting too involved. ‘You and your “mums,” ’ he once said, with a disdain worthy of Elise. But when he picks up, he sounds flustered instead. ‘Kendall? What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Get the laptop,’ I say. ‘We should at least look into each other’s faces for this.’
‘Okay.’ He’s so pliant. I should call him in the middle of the night more often.
When his bleary-eyed, handsome, wrinkleless (i.e. Botoxed) face appears on my screen, he’s visibly nervous. ‘Kendall,’ he says, his voice suffused with a syrupy love that I haven’t heard in I don’t know how long. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘You, too,’ I say quickly. ‘Do you know why I’m calling?’ I have the sudden thought that his unusual anxiety is because Ruby’s already told him, that they’re now the ones with a secret and I’m losing control completely.
‘No, I have no idea.’ But he’s not entirely convincing.
‘Do you know about the bench?’ I demand.
‘Bench?’ His confusion, however, is persuasive, and his relief is obvious.
‘Someone wrote “Here lies Ruby Donovan” on a bench. It’s obviously a threat.’
‘Or a prank.’
When I don’t bite, I can see his wheels turning. He’s trying to find the right thing to say, calculating how to best placate and soothe me. Maybe that’s what all husbands would do in this situation, but it bothers me. It’s just so immediate. Doesn’t he have any actual concern for his daughter? Is he so conditioned to assume that I’m being irrational?
For the past year, I’ve been a single parent. I’ve kept him abreast of what’s happening, but he hasn’t been asked to do anything. He and Ruby have their weekly chats, and he and I text most days and talk once a week, on average, and that’s it. That’s all the effort he has to put into this family.
But he’d say that’s my doing. He never wanted us to leave.
Greg’s not a bad man. By LA standards, he’s actually pretty good. It’s just that my standards have changed.
‘She doesn’t want to go to the revue tonight. She’s too upset.’ Maybe I should just let her stay home where she’ll be safe. But that’s like giving in to whoever wrote it, letting them win, and Ruby loses out on what she cares about most. Besides, no one can get to her when she’s surrounded by people.
‘Tell her she has no choice. It’s for her own good.’
Doesn’t he know Ruby at all? Ruby always has choices. ‘The door is locked.’
‘Get a screwdriver and take it off the hinges if you have to. This is why you’re in London, right? So she can take advantage of every opportunity. Tell her that if she’s not going to do what she needs to do, then she doesn’t need to be there.’
‘You mean threaten to take her back to LA?’ The parenting books say that you should never threaten a punishment that’s too painful for you to follow through on. I don’t want to go back. I can’t.
‘Maybe London isn’t working out. And then there’s you and me and the distance . . .’ We never talk about it directly, what the distance is doing to us. Seeing my reaction, he backs away, to a safer subject: ‘All this teen drama, and then how you and your friends get involved. I don’t think it helps to keep hashing it out. It makes it all seem more important than it is. It makes it real.’
What Ruby said comes back and slaps me in the face: Bel’s mother didn’t think it was a blip. Bronnie was there, but she never told me what happened. She might have assumed Ruby did, but a true friend would ask how Ruby was bearing up, and how I was. I feel a surge of anger. I’d thought we were the closest of all the mums; I’d thought she was a good person, but perhaps in this group, there are no good people.
‘I’m sorry,’ Greg says. ‘I can tell you think I’m overstepping. That’s why usually I don’t say much.’ I hadn’t realized that was why; I’d thought it was because our dramas weren’t nearly as interesting to him as the ones he produced. ‘But I’m not there, so what can I do, really?’
He can be so passive-aggressive. He thought that my whisking Ruby away to London was no good for her and he’s not above occasionally sticking a knife in and giving it a little twist.
If I confided just how afraid I actually am, Greg would probably remind me that this is all about teen-girl dramatics, and just look at social media, so many threats, such rare follow-through. And if he said that like a supportive husband who loves me, it might have the desired effect. I’d feel like I had someone to hold me up. A good marriage is scaffolding, or so the books say.
Did we ever have that? It’s hard to say. When the cancer hit me, I hate to even admit this, I cried the most about losing my hair, my look. I needed Greg to tell me that what made me special and beautiful had nothing to do with my hair. But all he’d done was the equivalent of patting me on the back and saying, ‘There, there.’
That’s when my heart began to harden toward him. He took me to all my medical appointments and whenever the doctors or nurses were around, he was attentive as could be. He asked all the right questions. He held my hand. But
when they left, he dropped it. He checked out and excused himself to make work calls, or if he stayed in the room, he’d scroll around on his phone. He was doing just enough to keep up appearances. And how did I know that? Because I’d lived my entire life that way. It was why we’d gravitated toward one another, and now we can be summed up in four words: I’ve changed; he hasn’t. Or two words: Irreconcilable differences.
I know he loves me, to an extent. I know he didn’t want me to die. I also know that it would be easy enough for him to replace me with a younger model—literally, a model who’s younger.
I took time off from my job in real estate to focus on my health, and that’s when I became addicted to self-help books. There was this whole world of personal reflection and responsibility, an industry full of it, and I’d never even known about it before. I’d never known me.
Once I was in remission, I realized I didn’t want to go back to the person I’d been, the one who’d been a natural at tapping into other people’s insecurities and activating their desire to buy the house at the very top of their price range, rather than the one they could actually see themselves living in. So I quit. But what do I do next?
It has to be right, because a part of me still can’t help caring what other people think. Old habits really do die hard; even cancer can only put them into a coma for a little while, and then they wake up.
It’s like how none of the other mums know that I’m dissatisfied with Greg. I want them to believe I have a husband wonderful enough to put me up in a flat in London so Ruby can go to the most prestigious performing arts academy. I let them think that being here is only about Ruby, and while it is, primarily, it’s also a reinvention for me, an escape.
Our house in Pacific Palisades was so well appointed and so well kept that it could have been photographed at any time, and I actually used to have architecture and design magazines fanned out on the coffee table, waiting for guests. Here in the London flat, we live in a deliberately different manner. I force myself to toss my jacket over the back of a chair; I don’t put every dish immediately in the dishwasher; I let laundry pile up sometimes, just because. It’s like training. I’m trying to show Ruby we can live for ourselves and not for company. Ruby wants to be on the stage but the flat shouldn’t look staged. Honestly, though, the few times a mum has come by, I’ve scrubbed the place down and had to fight the urge to fan out magazines.
The Understudy Page 10