He widens his eyes. “Jess, you know me better than that.”
“And Steve gave me a talking-to about my ‘tardiness’ on my first day, which was, in fact, exactly when you told me to be here.”
“Shit,” he says, and furrows his brow. “That’s totally my fault. I got my times mixed up and I was having a moment when Steve called.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “We all have moments.”
He takes a deep breath. “Okay, truth, Jess? I’m barely keeping my head above the waves. My last three pictures were shit. It’s a death knell. And someone’s gonna realize I don’t deserve all this, and—and I just can’t deal, sometimes.”
“Wow,” I say.
“I honestly feel like I’m going to shatter into a million pieces from the time I wake up until the minute I fall asleep.”
“I get it,” I say. “I mean, I think everyone feels that way. You’re only as good as your last trophy, right?” Jesus, what is it with me and the sports metaphors today? “I mean, I think it’s pretty universal.”
He looks at me blankly.
“I realize it’s not a competition,” I add hastily.
“That’s where you’re so wrong,” he says. “Everything in this town is a competition. Every-fucking-thing. It’s exhausting.”
We stand there in silence for a moment. Then I say, “Did she really say ‘insubordinate’?”
His mouth twists into a wry smile. “That was the nicest thing she said.”
“She’s a treat,” I say. “But I guess that’s a good quality in a guard dog.”
This should be the moment in the movie where the music swells and I realize that I’m working for a nice guy who’s maybe just a little neurotic, and who’s maybe just a little plowed under by his shark-skinned entourage. But instead I find myself tabulating pro/con columns at lightning speed in my head. Three failed movies? What happens if there’s a fourth? And, seriously, a composer? I mean, sure, he’s viable in a certain subset in this town, but come on. He’s no Eva Carlton.
“Listen,” Tyler says. “I’ll put a stop to it today, I promise. In fact, fuck the trial period. Let’s call this a done deal.”
“I really like you,” I say, and my voice comes out squeaky and uncertain. “But I don’t think this is the right fit for either of us. You need an alligator. I’m a chameleon, at best. I’ll get eaten alive here.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” he says, putting a soothing hand on my shoulder. Uh-oh. Kryptonite. “Just give it a month.”
Ugh, why can’t he be an asshole right now? It’s so much easier to blow off someone abusive. But I’m having a selfish swirl of need: dinners at the Ivy, location shoots, the whole nine.
“I can’t,” I say. “I have to trust my gut on this one.”
He grinds out his cigarette on the counter, and I think, Here comes the tantrum. But he just stands there in silence, looking crestfallen, and then, right on cue, Zelda wanders into the room, beelining over to me to start licking my bare, flip-flopped foot.
“See?” he says. “Zelda’s the best judge of character I know.”
I think about making a joke about spilled gravy, but instead I dig the Hermès ring with the keys to his cars out of my pocket and set it gently on the marble counter.
“Are you sure?” he says. “I mean, sure sure?”
Deep breath. “Yeah,” I say softly.
“I’ll have Steve cut your final check today,” he says.
God, I hope I’m making the right decision.
God, I hope Eva calls.
God, I hope.
God.
Twenty-six
If you crane your head out the window of my apartment and look west, you can catch a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean between the high-rise condos on Neilson Way. That’s the upside to my building. The downside is that when the elevator is out of service, I’m living in a five-story walkup. The apartments have nine-foot ceilings, so the flights are longer than normal, and tilted at a death-defying angle. I get bruises on my tailbone just thinking about it.
I mash the call button on the elevator and wait with a growing sense of dread as seconds tick by and I don’t hear the creaky sound of old cables. Finally, I shoulder my purse and a bottle of Hendricks from the liquor store next to the Circle Bar, and trudge upstairs.
The phone doesn’t ring while I’m walking upstairs. Nothing from Eva. Nothing from Scout.
On my front door, there’s a scrap of paper taped with a piece of black electrical tape. At first I think it’s an eviction notice, and my heart turns to water. Then I see what it really is, and the water turns to wine. It’s a gift certificate for a box of Teuscher chocolates.
There’s a phone number scrawled on the back, with a little sketch of a daisy. Call me, it reads. kirK.
I’m smiling at the note when I hear a voice inside the apartment. I smile, happy that Megan’s home . . . then my mother’s unmistakably throaty laugh sounds from behind the front door.
My palms and armpits pop an immediate cold sweat. I lean my head against the door to listen more closely. Nothing. I wonder if I’m having a guilt-induced aural hallucination.
I dig my phone from my purse and fire off a text to Megan: ru kiddng me boof? Is donna in the apt? Did you let donna in?
I watch the screen like it’s a countdown timer on a bomb. No answer. I press my ear to the door again, and it flies open. I stumble straight into my mother, who is wrapped in two of Megan’s best bath towels and has some kind of goopy orange potion slathered onto her face.
She’s holding Megan’s phone between her thumb and forefinger and I can’t decide if the moment is more Lucy and Ethel or Fatal Attraction, because there’s the stumbling and the sticky face mask and other comedic elements, but there’s also my sociopathic mother standing half-naked in the foyer and I had no idea she’d even arrived.
“Hi,” I say.
“Monchichi,” she says, dripping syrup and reproach. “I’ve been texting you.”
The guy from across the hall steps out of his doorway toting a trash bag and stops dead beside me, goggling at my mother in her post-bath splendor. He bears more than a passing resemblance to the Dude in The Big Lebowski.
“Hey, Megan,” he says to me.
“Hi, Rick,” I say without making eye contact or correcting him.
My mother extends a slender hand in his direction. “Hello, Rick. I’m Donna. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Rick is mesmerized by the swell of my mother’s augmented breasts over the top of the knotted towel and I feel like I’m in one of those humiliation dreams where I’m naked at the school assembly.
“Mom,” I say, then stop. I’ve got nothing to say to her.
“You never told me you had such a hot sister,” Rick says to me, but really to Donna.
I roll my eyes so hard that I think I’ve pulled a muscle, but Donna just smiles and murmurs something about him being too kind.
Then the elevator door creaks open and Megan and JJ come spilling into the hallway, loaded down with bags of takeout from Urth Caffe and laughing about god-knows-what and that’s the point where everything fades to black-and-white and I realize it’s because my whole life has turned into a Woody Allen movie.
“Boof,” Megan says, still giggling. “You found your mom.”
“Yeah, thanks for the heads-up.”
“Wait,” Rick says. “Which one is Boof? I’m confused.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, and I shoulder my way past Donna into the apartment and leave everyone standing in the hall.
I click the inadequate lock on my bedroom door and flop onto my unmade bed. My mother is here. In my house. I crack the Hendricks and take a warm, stinging swig. It burns like roses and rubbing alcohol on the way down and I lie there in the muted glow from the streetlights and try to think of what to do next.
&nb
sp; Two seconds later, Megan jimmies my bedroom lock with her ATM card, then regards the tableau of me in my underwear with my laptop and Hendricks between my legs.
“Boof,” she says. “What are you doing?”
I frantically motion for her to come in and shut the door. “What does it look like? I’m hiding.”
She kicks the door shut with her foot and flops onto my bed. “She’s not that bad.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, like I’ve had a sudden and impossible change of heart.
She rolls onto her stomach and looks at me through her tangle of curly hair. “I need to tell you something.”
“Uh-oh.” I regard her suspiciously. “What?”
“JJ wants me to move in with him.”
“Wow.”
There are at least five reasons that this statement guts me. The first two are—Oh my God, don’t leave me and What am I going to do about money?—with a laundry list of the seven deadlies (envy, jealousy, lust in particular) making up the balance.
“That’s awesome!” I say, forcing myself not to chug from the Hendricks bottle. “And . . . fast.”
“I kno-o-ow,” she says, dragging her words out into a groan. “But I’m completely smitten, Boof. I feel like a schoolgirl.”
“He’s amazing,” I say. “You’re great together. He wanted to cook you breakfast.”
“And—don’t freak out—it’s kind of good news that I’m doing it right away, because then your mom can have my room, you know?”
Before I can throw myself around Megan’s waist and cling like a limpet, I hear my mother’s trilling laugh from the living room.
“Oh my God,” I say. “Please tell me you didn’t leave her in there alone with JJ.”
“Jesus, Boof, don’t be a weirdo. What do you think is going to happen?”
“Will you please just get out there and do some damage control?”
Megan laughs. “You’re ridiculous. Okay, I’m going. But tell me you’re happy for me, or—or at least not pissed that I’m leaving. I’m in lo-o-ove.”
I’m the worst friend ever. She’s practically incandescent, she’s so happy, and I’m making her worry about me. “It’s awesome. You and he—I don’t know, you fit. I’m totally happy for you.”
“And you know I’ll take care of the rent for a couple of months if you need it, right?”
“You just enjoy JJ,” I say, tugging a pair of sweats onto one leg and hopping around the room.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, pausing with her hand on the doorknob, and my heart breaks at her genuine concern.
“I’m great, as long as you get out there before my mom starts blowing your boyfriend.”
“Jesus!” Megan says, somewhere between entertained and horrified. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Oh, Boof,” I say to the door after she’s gone. “You have no idea.”
When I finally summon the courage to leave my room, it feels like we’re having a party. Megan and JJ have brought enough food to feed a dozen people: a caprese sandwich with fat, oozing tomatoes and thick slices of fresh mozzarella on a crusty baguette; a farmer’s salad piled with grilled artichokes and spangled with shavings of fresh Parmesan; a Mediterranean platter with the biggest kalamata olives I’ve ever seen. There are containers of soup and an extra bag of breads and a pastry box that I’m sure has an assortment of their amazing pies.
“What the hell?” I say. “How many people are we feeding?”
Megan laughs and pulls a stack of plates from the cupboard above the sink. “We might have stopped at the Farmacy earlier.”
The Farmacy used to be the go-to medical marijuana emporium for young Hollywood. Now it’s just an overpriced tourist trap, but it is right down the street, and I’m sure that JJ’s face gets him special treatment.
“Are you stoned right now?” I ask. “I don’t want to harsh your buzz, but can you please explain how my mother is in your bedroom, dressing for what appears to be a dinner party in her honor?”
“It’s not a conspiracy, Boof,” Megan says, slinging an arm around my neck and leaning her head on my shoulder. “She got here forty-five minutes ago and we were on our way to get food, so we thought we’d make it easy for everyone. She’s been driving all day. She needed a shower.”
“Yeah, well, a heads-up would have been nice,” I say. I sound like a pouty child.
“I’m sorry,” Megan says, and she’s not insincere, but her sparkly mirth is completely annoying. “Why don’t you go in and catch up with her? We’ve got this.”
JJ is unloading a paper sack filled with bottles of red wine, and I can’t help but notice that it’s the good stuff, I mean, domestic, but still.
I point at a bottle of Duckhorn Cabernet. “Can I get a glass of that first?”
JJ peels the foil from the bottle and uncorks it expertly. “Just like the old days.”
“You were a waiter?”
JJ nods. “I knew those shifts at Outback Steakhouse would pay off someday.”
Megan laughs and takes a sip from the bottle. “You’re so full of shit. You’ve never worked a day job in your life.”
She’s right, of course. JJ’s been working as an actor since he was nine. In fact, I’m sure Donna’s in the other room trying to figure out how to monetize her proximity to a solid B-list television actor. And probably going through Megan’s lingerie drawer.
She’s kneeling on the settee in front of the dresser, brushing her blond, highlighted hair and regarding herself in the mirror. She’s wearing what appears to be a vintage Pucci caftan, a swirl of ice-cream pinks, with a dangerously plunging neckline.
“Buttercup,” she exclaims, rising and holding her arms out like Jesus welcoming his flock.
“I brought wine,” I say, shielding myself with the bottle before she can envelop me in a bony, silk-clad hug. Seriously, I could slice prosciutto on her collarbone.
“Yes, please,” she says, plucking the glasses from my hand.
“You look great,” I say as I pour.
“You too, muffin,” she says, but her lip curls at my ratty Sex Pistols T-shirt.
I sip my wine, unsure how to handle that blatant lie so early in the conversation. The air between us is warm and sticky, like engine oil.
“I’ve been trying to call you since I hit the Grapevine,” she says, lying again. “It went straight to voice mail. I was so thrilled that Megan and her new paramour were here to receive me.”
“Jesus, Mom, why do you say shit like that? You sound like such a poseur.”
“Says the girl wearing a T-shirt from a band who peaked before she was born,” Donna says with a tilt of her wineglass.
Busted. That’s the irritating thing about Donna: she’s pretty spot-on most of the time.
“Tell me everything about your world, lamb chop,” she says, glancing toward the living room. “You’re certainly keeping good company these days.”
I nudge the door shut with my foot. No one needs to hear this. “I’m not keeping company, Donna. This is my house.”
“Well, of course, sugarplum,” she says. “But JJ Kelly? We’re talking a whole different universe from your composer.” She says composer like she’s saying hobo or garbage man, all blue-collar judgmental.
“Gross, Mom,” I say, and immediately hate my fourteen-year-old’s response. “He’s not my employer, f
or fuck’s sake. He’s my best friend’s new boyfriend.”
“That’s not all he is,” she says, lowering her voice to a throaty growl and sparkling her eyes like she’s flirting with me. “Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. I almost fainted when he opened the door. It was like something out of a dream sequence. Who expects to knock on a door in a place like this to have JJ Kelly open it and take your bag? And he was so friendly. He hugged me!”
Against my will, a small smile rises on my face. “Yeah, he’s pretty great,” I grudgingly admit.
“Do you remember when we saw Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the Pantages?”
I absolutely do. It was a magical afternoon. We ate Milk Duds and Donna poured a little airplane-size bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream into her cappuccino and let me have some.
“Yes,” I say, yawning. “It was like a Bible-study class, starring Donny Osmond.”
“You’re missing the point,” Donna says. “I wanted to teach you how to dream.”
“And here I am, living the dream.”
My sarcasm goes right over Donna’s head, or, more likely, she’s choosing to ignore it. “Well, you’re closer than you’ve been in years, lamb chop. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Life is short, and we don’t always get to see it all the way to the end credits.”
Oh, barf. Now she’s Gandhi in a Pucci dress.
“I mean, if I’ve learned anything from taking care of Emily all these weeks, it’s that you need to carpe the hell out of the diem.”
I’m pretty sure she’s not translating that properly, but there’s no point in correcting her.
“So, how is Emily now?” I say. I ignore Donna’s fabrications about 92 percent of the time, but sometimes I get petty and can’t help tormenting her a little bit.
“She’s fine, I mean, as fine as she can be, considering,” Donna says, suddenly enamored by the armful of gold bangles snaking up her arm.
“What’s wrong with her, again?” I say, all faux concern.
“Stage IV anaplastic astrocytoma,” Donna says, and it rolls off her tongue like she’s performing a walk-on role on Grey’s Anatomy. “Do you know what that is?”