All That Was Happy (8 page)

“
Just deliver everything to your
house?” Virginia said.

“
No--I’ll be at Vito’s Of Beverly Hills
this afternoon,” Beckie said. “Send everything over there--I’m
going to spend the rest of the day in my bathrobe. And why not?
Elvis did.”

“
I understand,” Virginia said. “You’re
a beautiful lady--you’re giving yourself a break. I’ll deliver
everything personally to Vito’s and help you with trying them
on--I’ll give you some variety--you won’t have to be bored with
your clothes any more--I’ll make you something with a lot of
sizzle, something that creates energy all around you--your new
boyfriend will not know what hit him.”

“
I think we understand each other,”
Beckie said. “An hour ago, I was ready to seek reconciliation with
my husband--but he just declared war on me--I’m taking the gloves
off.”

“
We’ll pull out all the stops,”
Virginia said. “Just leave it to me--tonight you’ll be wearing a
lace skirt and embroidered silk top, with some beaded sandals that
will wake everybody up. Tell Vito’s to make sure they pull your
hair back, and no braids or anything like that...I’ll put in some
sexy lipstick, too.”

“
And so the pendulum swings,” Beckie
said, hoisting her flute.

Chapter
13

“
Stop at the little park on Roxbury,”
Beckie said. “Mr. Boopers has some personal business to attend
to.”

The white Stretch, having entered the sacred,
and somewhat pastoral, albeit highly security conscious Beverly
Hills, where such stupendous vehicles cruising past the fabulous
mansions were as common as Gucci bags, their number equaled only by
the number of illegal immigrants who populated the various bus
stops, who waited patiently for buses which ran slow and late, and
who were vigilantly eyeballed on the half-hour by K-9 patrol cars
equipped with savage dogs which never ran late. Beckie eyed
nervously the simple people who dressed poorly and who were on foot
and thus were ranked very low on the desirable persons scale by the
highly wheeled legal citizenry of Los Angeles, who further ranked
these so-called “illegals”--whose country was stolen from them by
lawyers in 1846--on a social-desirability scale with the dead and
dying who lay on the streets of Calcutta, these same Beverly Hills
servants who stood at the bus stops and watched Beckie in her white
limousine cruise past them, these same persons, who, after having
served their daily indenture to the obscenely wealthy masters of
world consciousness, who, having fed their masters and polished
their toilets and bidets and kept their secrets, were then forced
to return to the hostile, crowded warrens of the gang-ridden,
burned-out, older, eastern section of Los Angeles, where they
crammed themselves into roach-infested firetraps and gamely
attempted to serve their families with whatever strength they had
left over. The message of this dichotomy, of beautiful blondes in
white limousines passing bus stops crowded with illegals was
obvious to all--In L.A., poverty sucked big time.

Mr. Boopers, upon the limo stopping at the
park and the door opened to him, and finding some fresh grass and
trees presented to him, concerned himself not with the social scale
or economic status of any biped, legal or otherwise, near or far,
but instead wasted no time in attending to his personal business,
which he cleverly spring boarded into the additional benefit
activity of boosting his own standing on the social scale by
letting every dog who might be passing by, either shortly or even
in the distant future, know he’d been there, and, not only that
he’d been there, but also that he had enjoyed the run of the place
while he was at it, ignoring the leash laws with impunity and
marking as he did a territory quite large for a creature so
tiny.

This business finished, the limo once again
took up its trek, winding its way past the security-walled mansions
and on into the lightly high-rised commercial zone which began The
Strip, passing a bank or two--these towers host to a few dark
foyers where people like Elvis used to be sighted, and who, along
with the likes of people such as Pat Boone, used to conduct their
blue and white suede enterprises--buildings lining Sunset,
buildings host to unspeakably evil financial workings performed on
behalf of the Hollywood movers and shakers--buildings which had to
be passed before the limo finally turned right onto Doheny, heading
south for a block before pulling to the curb in front of the
smartly restored 30’s Tudor day spa sporting the muted but elegant
sign bearing to the viewer that they had indeed arrived at Vito’s
Of Beverly Hills.

Beckie entered the back steps to find her new
found friend of the night before, Scotia, waiting for her in a
sweet-smelling, converted, brick-floored kitchen filled with
candles and white ironstone pottery stuffed with lemons and limes.
In the center of the antique wooden kitchen table, beside a magnum
of champagne cooling in a silver bucket, was a magnificent
centerpiece of white chrysanthemums.

“
You remembered my favorite flowers,”
Beckie said.

“
I hope you like them,” Scotia
said.

“
So this is where you work,” Beckie
said. “It’s really quite charming. And the air is beautifully
scented--it’s like an English country kitchen.”

“
This is where I make my daily bread,”
Scotia said. “And truthfully--I love it here.”

“
I almost didn’t make it,” Beckie said.
“My husband repossessed my car and left me stranded at the corner
of Wilshire and Barrington in my bathrobe. I was lucky I had my
Platinum Visa with me.”

“
I was wondering if it was you,” Scotia
said. “When I saw the limo, I thought maybe we were going to get
one more shot at Liz Taylor--she was riding in one the day she had
her nail repair emergency. Can I pour you a glass of champagne?
We’re serving a Pierre Jourdan Brut, from South Africa--it’s got
the most bubbles of any champagne we’ve ever tried. Maybe it’ll
help you forget about the loss of your personal coupe for
awhile.”

“
None for now,” Beckie said. “I’ve got
to keep a lid on the booze and maintain a clear head. Just to let
you know, I’m expecting a delivery from Nordy’s sometime while I’m
here--a personal shopper named Virginia is going to give me a hot
new look.”

“
Be careful what you say,” Scotia said.
“If Vito hears you’re looking for something hot, he’ll really do a
number on you.”

“
I’ll just have him do a light trim and
pull it back,” Beckie said.

“
Let me give you a clue,” Scotia said.
“Vito doesn’t do light anything and he never pulls anything back.
Before he’ll even touch your hair, he has to get the vibes just
right. I once saw him throw the Lewinsky woman out of here when she
failed to tune in properly.”

“
What do you mean?” Beckie said. “The
guy just cuts hair spontaneously? Is he some kind of birdbrain or
something?”

“
Not exactly,” Scotia said. “Vito’s no
cowboy--he’s not going to rope you and run. Let’s just say he likes
to work in an atmosphere of spiritual spaciousness--one thing I
will say--you won’t leave here the same as you came in.”

“
She’s right,” a soft, high male voice
behind her said. “I’m no cowboy. I don’t come in with guns blazing.
I prefer flowers to bullets.”

Beckie turned to behold a tight, wiry man in
Reeboks and jeans, a lemon-silk jersey hanging loosely from his
shoulders. His smiling face was crowned with a cap of artfully
tussled, short, bleached curls.

“
Welcome to Vito’s Of Beverly Hills,”
he said, extending his hand. “I’m Vito.”

He shook hands in the European manner,
without force or pressure, allowing her to take the measure of his
fingers, which felt spring-loaded.

“
What a cute little dog,” Vito said,
reaching into the bag and drawing out a struggling Mr. Boopers.
“Scotia, call somebody and have them deliver a taco or something
for him--we don’t want him getting hungry and biting one of the
guests. And put Mr. Fleas in the closet until the doggy goes
home.”

Beckie felt a laugh billow up and she let it
out. “Mr. Fleas?” she said.

“
Our cat,” Vito said. “Pure bluepoint.
He’s a terror. Last week he chewed the ear off a lady’s teacup
poodle. I’m taking no chances with your tiny friend. You’re
laughing. That’s good--it means we’re making progress. Earlier, I
was taking bets with Scotia that I could cheer you up, no matter
what your initial mood.”

“
I’m up and down these days,” Beckie
admitted. “My moods aren’t something a respectable bookie would
take odds on.”

“
We’re going to start you off with a
bath and shampoo,” Vito said. “After that a massage to relax you
before you and I meet in my cutting room and see what kind of fire
we can light under you about going for a new look.”

“
I was telling Scotia I’d really just
like a trim.”

“
Hair styles are like cars,” Vito said.
“You can drive a truck or you can drive a Maseratti--it’s up to
you. But I won’t send you out of here in a truck--if that’s your
choice, you’ll have to get that from the hair criminals at the
mall.”

Beckie swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m
sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to offend--the truth is, I don’t
know who or what I am anymore. I’m going through a divorce and I
just started dating someone new, and tomorrow I’m meeting with my
husband’s lawyers--the truth is, I don’t really feel up to any of
this. If I had my way, I’d just go home and sleep.”

“
You’re crossing paths with a little
bad luck,” Vito said. “But the right cut can give you the
edge.”

“
I wish it were that simple,” Beckie
said.

“
Sometimes it is,” Vito
said.

“
You sound like an optimist,” Beckie
said.

“
You’re depressed,” Vito said. “Now is
the time to ask yourself--is there another way of seeing things?
I’m no cockeyed optimist, but here in my salon, I can tell you that
we can move you from where you are now, which is living in one
dimension, into another world entirely--and it all starts with the
way we decide to cut your hair. Now, we’re going to get you into
your bath, and we’re going to get some tacos for your dog, and
we’re going to make everything all right, okay?”

Beckie nodded. As she followed Scotia towards
the bath, she realized how miserable and worried she must have
appeared to Vito, how lonely and depressed she must have seemed.
He’d read her perfectly, was probably an expert on communicating
with rich women such as herself who had too much time on their
hands and too many problems to solve. She’d have walked out, but
she lacked the courage, and there was one thing they’d forgotten to
mention, and by that omission had thus secured her loyalty and
allegiance.

Neither Scotia or Vito had remarked on the
fact that she’d showed up in her bathrobe.

Chapter
14

“
Every woman on the verge of
discovering her true self is a diamond in the rough,” Scotia said.
“Or in your case, we might say she’s a white chrysanthemum about to
bloom.”

“
But who am I?” Beckie said. “What does
that mean, exactly?”

“
If you think of life as money,” Scotia
said, “Finding out who you are means being able to spend your life
the way you want to, instead of the way somebody else wants you to.
Look around you--how many people do you see living their lives the
way they really want to? Are you?”

Beckie, inside the tub room, submerged deep
in the whirling suds of Vito’s marble bath, and feeling herself
relaxing fully for the first time in the past 48 hours, found
herself surprisingly open to Scotia’s philosophical ramblings,
enjoying a sense of sisterhood with the girl who, as she talked,
massaged Beckie’s long blonde hair with a rich shampoo, the
strawberry scent of which mingled nicely with the heady nose
ambrosia of aromatic soaps and lit vanilla candles upon her
olfactory palette, the experience as a whole promoting a feeling of
security which allowed her to explore some of the raw edges of
recent events without incurring further pain. The tub room had a
peace to it.

“
The guy I met last night,” Beckie
said. “His name was Huntington--he’d been a big time Wall Streeter,
but he abandoned it to buy a nightclub near the beach--if you ask
me, he’s doing what he wants to do.”

“
That’s not it,” Scotia said. “It’s not
a matter of what you’re doing, it’s a matter of how you’re doing
it--if Huntington were truly free, it wouldn’t matter to him if he
stayed on Wall Street or worked in a bar--he’s not free yet, if
such a thing still matters.”

“
You’re saying as long as I want my
broken marriage to be healed, I’ll never be free,” Beckie
said.

“
I’m saying,” Scotia said, “as long as
it matters to you one way or the other, you’ll never be free--it
shouldn’t matter whether it’s repaired or let go.”

“
I’m not there yet,” Beckie said. “I
may never be. I have made some progress, though. I’m no longer
suicidal. I learned that much about myself.”

“
That’s a beautiful discovery,” Scotia
said. “Sometimes, I think it’s kind of nice what we discover about
ourselves when life is shaky.”

“
I discovered I’m not suicidal,” Beckie
said. “But I am homicidal--I’m going to kill my husband for taking
my car.”