Been There, Married That, page 25
* * *
Pep had fallen asleep on the deep pink velvet “princess bed,” as she dubbed the couch in the living room with thick white marshmallow walls and beamed ceilings. I wondered if the old couch were part of the original house, and if the lady of the house had expired on its cushions; it would be the perfect hammock for a last breath. The pillows were exhausted and smelled sweet with age and old perfume, the wood frame with elegant curlicues worn down by human touch, matching end tables new in the 1930s that had circled through the vagaries of interior design fads. They’d survived and emerged like those women you occasionally see with bold white hair and skin that moves with their expressions.
I was wide awake, engaged with the sun’s quieting light playing tricks on the faded Persian rug that was definitely worth $60,000. How do I know this? Because every time Trevor ordered a rug from his decorator, he would yell, “Sixty thousand? It’s only a fucking rug! An old fucking rug!”
He had a point.
I wrapped Pep in a cashmere throw I’d found in the master and relaxed into that space that held no husband, no father, no sister (currently held in the Van Nuys Women’s Correctional Facility), no one except me and my sleeping child.
Delicious, I thought. This moment feels delicious.
I knew a girl, an old buddy, who’d used food adjectives for friends. She’s luscious. He’s yummy. I wondered what happened to her. As one circle grew, the other receded into a pinpoint.
I heard a faint beeping.
So faint it could only be heard after the sun went down.
It was coming from an upstairs room.
“And the moment’s gone,” I said as I rubbed my hands together, then let them fly.
I hiked up the cramped spiral staircase toward the upstairs rooms, the beeping beckoning and mocking. “There’s no peace,” the beeping said. “What were you thinking?”
I tracked the beeping to an office tucked into the back corner overlooking the yellowing backyard, the pool that was more leaf than water. An enormous personal computer with an oversized screen set on a heavy, stained mahogany desk was plunked in the middle of the room, proclaiming itself the great overseer of beeping sounds. I switched on the light. The sound was coming from inside a drawer at the bottom of the desk.
I opened the drawer. Amid a crunch of papers, old scripts, torn checks, pens, children’s scribbles, there was a small alarm clock, forgotten.
Eight-track tapes.
A bundle of envelopes, bound by a rubber band worn by age and stretched to its limit. The envelopes were yellowed at the edges, frayed by time.
Addressed to Gio.
In a variety of handwriting. Wisps of letters, wide, airy loops, others slashes and angry blots, several dotted with spilled wine.
Love letters.
I should not open them, of course I shouldn’t. I should’ve popped the batteries out of the alarm clock and shoved the letters back right away.
I shouldn’t have opened them. But I did. Why? Because I’m weak. And nosy. And a writer. And a woman. And a human being.
Dear Gio,
I called and called and called.
Is it really over?
Sarah
Dated January 7, 1982. So. I guess it’s over, Sarah?
Gio,
These last few weeks have been magical.
Yours,
Emma G.
I checked the date. Emma G. Emma Gainesville, the English Rose, had starred in one of Gio’s ’80s gangster films. Forever in your debt, huh? I’ll bet.
A pinging sound punctured my infatuation bubble (with its thin veneer of jealousy). Was I jealous? What right would I have to be jealous? Does every woman have that right after one life-changing kiss and a half gallon of home-delivered chicken soup?
I say yes. Agreed?
Chime.
The doorbell. Chime.
It was 11:08 already, my phone exclaimed. Who rings a doorbell at 11:08?
I shoved the love letters back in the drawer and raced down the stairway before Pep was awakened.
* * *
She was outside, still as a lamppost, her inky hair haloed by the hazy streetlight. The Princess of Darkness, appearing custom-wrapped by minions in black cashmere. The dogwood tree swayed in the wind like a woman cradling a baby, and what the hell, I thought. What the hell was Waverly Brown doing here?
“I have a client who lives down the street,” she said as she strode past me on those eight-foot legs into the foyer, taking a moment to glance at the painting of a Spanish Madonna set above the entry table. “I can’t talk about it, but he’s at WME and he’s in a #MeToo mess. Yes, she’s underage, but only by six weeks. It involved cocaine and maybe a half dozen Xanax. I can’t talk about it.”
I willed myself to blink; I felt as though I must be dreaming.
“Anyway. I saw your car. I was just thinking about you.” She closed her eyes and took a deep, throttling breath. “Agnes, we need to talk.”
* * *
“You know I’m not a negative person,” Waverly lied.
“Actually, everything you’ve said so far has been negative,” I said.
“Things are about to get really bad,” she said, her hands entangled in her long, beaded necklace. “Terrible, in fact.”
“Jesus Christ, Waverly.”
“Also, you owe me for last month,” she said.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “I owe a lot of people. But you know, food.”
“Do you know George Treadwell?” Her eyebrows mashed together. “I do. I can’t talk about it.”
“George Treadwell? I mean, I’ve met him,” I said, thinking about his foray into the kitchen, his brief dip into the Fin show.
“Step carefully. Keep your head low. Postpone any court date.”
“My head low,” I repeated.
“I keep picking up something,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“There’s not a lot in my life that makes sense,” I said. I said pointedly. About her. In this room. Right now.
“I feel like you’re connected to George,” she said. “He’s the key.”
“George. Treadwell. The actor,” I said. “The one who’s acting in Trevor’s movie.”
“For now,” she said. Her eyes darted about the living room before they settled. “Someone died in this room.”
“Great,” I said. “Anything else?”
“This is not your future,” she said, her hand outstretched, her impossible fingers playing a sonata in the still air. “Don’t get too attached.”
“Fuck off, Waverly.”
She flashed a smile, and it was as unnerving as if I’d petted a cobra. “I adore that spunk.”
And she was gone. I gazed over at Pep, who was still sound asleep. Thank God. No sense in both of us having nightmares.
* * *
Years ago, I used to make chicken soup from scratch for Trevor when he was fighting a cold. I used to cook a lot of things for Trevor. That may be the only reason he married me. His mother had fed him frozen dinners, his ex-wife had ordered pizza after he’d come home from a long day at work. Trevor and I had dined out every night, mostly to Italian restaurants because Italian is the only kind of restaurant that exists in Los Angeles. Even if it’s a Chinese restaurant, you’ll find pasta on the menu. In a city where there aren’t a hell of a lot of Italians, where even the waiters at Italian restaurants are Yugoslavian. (It’s got to stop.) Well, I was sick of sticky fifty-dollar pasta disguised by boxed sauce and out-of-season truffles. Angel hair in sheep’s clothing, I said. The linguine clams have no clothes, I’d said to Trevor. He just shrugged and chowed down. He didn’t know any better. How could he? I had to put my al dente where my mouth was. I started cooking for Trevor, and after a while, we stopped going out to dinner. I made him penne with puttanesca sauce and crispy duck and eggplant parmigiana and spicy shredded beef tacos. I made chocolate chip cookies for his pals at CAA and Disney. I made him chicken soup when he was sick. I’m amazed, looking back, at how long it actually took him to marry me.
Maybe my personality is what held him back.
Nah.
Then Pep was born, and Trevor and I thought we’d won the life lottery. We’d figured it out. We were pals and we were lovers. We laughed at the same jokes and relished catching up at the end of the day. We were good company. We talked to each other more than any other couple in our circle. “This is my marriage,” I’d say with blazing confidence. “It’s not going anywhere.” My friends would complain about their husbands, their kids, their pets. (My fair-weather friends, I guess, or, in Hollywood, fair box office friends.)
Meanwhile, Trevor and I would stare into each other’s eyes over margaritas, our hearts swelling with gratitude that, over time, instead of diminishing, our love was growing. We had beaten all odds. This Hollywood marriage would have a happy ending instead of a TMZ ending.
How could we be so lucky?
I loved him.
I loved him until I couldn’t stand him.
20
Quid Pro Stole
On Monday morning, Pep and I headed back home, well rested and well fed. (Thank you, Gio, I mused, wherever you are, blackening your lungs in the company of Frenchwomen coiled like parentheses around your bulky shoulders.) The Riviera’s curved roads, buffered by a hedge army, were empty save for the occasional nanny, head cocked, attached to a cell phone, as she pushed her bundled, silver-plated ward in a Bugaboo stroller. Rounding a turn, I almost ran over the miniature Paramount chief huffing and puffing up the hill, his trainer cooing encouragement. I felt sorry for trainers of the Hollywood power players—adult babysitters, paid to lie to their clients about their cardio capacity, their body-fat-to-muscle ratio, their marriages.
I’d heard the conversations firsthand. “Who’s stronger, me or Ari?” “Who’s a better runner, me or Jeffrey?” “Have you ever seen Harvey work out?”
My personal crapshoot, the security code, still worked. I breathed a sigh of relief as the gates creaked open, and I compressed Waverly’s dire warning from last night into a tight little cube and swallowed. I glanced at Pep, who was staring out the window.
Our future was in the hands of George Treadwell.
“Happy to be home?” I asked as I circled the driveway.
Pep pursed her lips and looked out the window. I pulled into the garage.
“Are you okay?”
“Mom,” she said quietly. “I’ve been thinking…” She looked at me, worried, her eyes moist. “Mom, you have to win. I can’t just live with Dad. I need you.”
I took a deep breath. “Honey, I can’t guarantee.”
“Mom, promise me,” she said. “Mom, you’re my home. I love Dad, but he can’t, you know, handle things. Like, toast…” She looked around, worried. “What if I have my period and you’re not there?”
Oh, my heart.
My door swung open—
“Also, can we have a princess couch?” Pep asked.
“You won’t fucking believe this,” Fin said as she popped her head in the door. “Hi, doll!” She waved at Pep.
“Please don’t say the F word in front of Pep,” I said.
“I don’t fucking mind,” Pep said.
“See?” Fin said.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “You got out already?”
“Prison overcrowding.” Fin shrugged. “No one wants me!”
“I want you,” Pep said.
“And that’s all that matters, Peppers,” Fin said. “Agnes, listen, you won’t fucking believe this.”
“There’s not a lot left that I won’t believe,” I said. “And please stop swearing.”
“Come ’ere.” Fin grabbed my hand, pulling me through the kitchen past the swinging doors and into the living room.
* * *
Well. There it wasn’t.
“Where is the…,” I said, tapping the side of my cheek. “I could’ve sworn there was a…”
The Steinway.
Our piano, our great, big, lonely piano, was gone. All that was left were four small divots in the rug.
“They stole it!” Fin said. “Those Hollywood people stole my piano!”
“My piano,” I said. I walked around the empty space where our Steinway once stood, proud and silent. Mostly silent. But hey, it looked nice, and that’s what mattered.
“I’m the only one who ever played it. Clock’s missing, too,” Fin said, “My Tiffany fucking clock.”
“My Tiffany fucking clock,” I said.
“The fucking clock, too?” Pep shook her head.
“Oh, now it’s your Tiffany clock. I was letting you borrow it,” Fin said. “Who steals something that’s stolen?”
“I thought it wasn’t stolen.”
“I didn’t steal it,” Fin said.
“What the fuck,” Pep said.
“I have to call Peter,” I said.
“I already called the police,” Fin said. “You can’t let criminals get away with this shit.”
* * *
Fin wasn’t bluffing. She’d called the cops on the famous couple, but they weren’t available to come to us; I had to drive back down to the West LA station, where Fin had been hauled off in handcuffs.
The circle of (my) life. Meanwhile.
“This is just a big misunderstanding,” Peter, “Westside’s Realtor to the Stars™” said as we conferred under the backyard oak tree that had more legal protections than an actual human being. Peter’s voice was shaky, and he neglected to slip off his mirrored Ray-Bans, so I was talking to my reflection. And my reflection was telling me I was old. This divorce was turning me into a shar-pei.
I thought about the shar-pei down the street that was on antidepressants. Maybe like recognizes like and I could borrow some off him.
“You knew this was going to happen,” Fin said. Her arms were planted against her chest, staring him down as she occasionally took a drag off her cigarette and blew smoke rings at his Ray-Bans; it was all very mise-en-scène.
Peter cleared his throat, shrinking under her gaze. “Are those prison tattoos?” he squeaked.
“Only the ones burned in with cigarettes,” Fin said.
“Look, it’s just a misunderstanding, girls.”
“Girls? Girls! They misunderstood my fucking clock all the way out of this house,” Fin said.
“Listen, Peter, Weasel and America’s Sweetheart can’t steal a whole piano,” I said. “Even though they’re famous. And rich. And powerful. Stealing is illegal, even for them!” Pause. “It is, right?” I asked.
“Oh, they didn’t think of it as stealing,” he said. “They’d be horrified if you thought that. They just wanted to see how your living room looked with more space! Hey, good news—they’re this close to making an offer.” He pinched his finger to his thumb.
“I’m this close to making a police report,” I said, mirroring his gesture.
“And I’m this close to calling that donkey-faced Harvey Levin,” Fin said. “Let’s TMZ this shit—today!”
“No, no! They’ll bring it all back,” Peter said, waving his manicured hands. “By the end of the week. I promise.”
“What do you mean by all?” I asked.
He froze.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’m on it.”
A couple of days later, I walked in on Caster, Gabriela, and Lola in the laundry room, tittering over cups of instant coffee that they’d nuked in an old microwave.
“Why do you keep using this thing?” I asked about the microwave, its door off its hinge. “The coffee machine is mucho mejor.”
They started whispering, their heads in a tight circle. I would just have to wait.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s wrong? I mean, now.”
“Missus Aggie,” Gabriela said, first out of the chute, first to talk. “Tenemos una problema.”
* * *
The Triplets hovered around me like hummingbirds darting in and out as I rummaged through the empty linen closet that should be called something else now. Random hand towel closet? Dust-collecting closet?
“They took my sheets and towels?” I asked. “All of them?”
“I wasn’t here, Missus Aggie,” Gabriela said. “Lola, tell her.”
Lola rolled off a barrage of soft yet urgent notes. I nodded, my fist holding up my chin.
“So what did she just say?” I asked Caster and Gabriela.
“They took everything,” Caster said. “Mr. Wolfman, he very handsome, pero you can’t let this happen, missus. You can’t let people jus’ steal from you. What you going to do about it?”
“You didn’t tell Fin, did you?” I asked. Fin had threatened to go to their house with a truck and pick up the piano herself.
They shook their heads slowly, beautiful exotic birds watching a tennis match. I headed to the bathroom where I could rearrange my collection of facial creams, and I left a message for Peter.
“Peter, they stole my sheets and towels!” I said. “What kind of monsters do you work for?”
He returned my call immediately.
“They were going to include them in the offer.”
I tossed an old Noxzema in the trash.
“Peter, you’ve been working for these people too long.”
Eye cream from 2003. Trash.
“Sorry, of course, okay. I’ll get them back—or I can pay you for them?”
I didn’t have much money.
Vitamin C serum that hurt like a thousand wasp stings. Trash.
I didn’t have any money.
“How much are we talking?” I asked.
* * *
Fin drove to Peter’s office and picked up a check for twelve grand. Those sheets I was sleeping on, Pratesi, those cost six figures. Sheets. Pillowcases. Six figures. You read that right. Are they worth it? Hells yeah. Those sheets is noice. But I’d still rather sleep with cold, hard cash.
