Bliss (23 page)

After walking for miles, they got hungry again, and made the spontaneous decision to take an Uber to Venice for “the best tacos in LA,” as David described them, from James' Beach. But dinner would have to wait. When Sophia got her first look at the powder sand beach, she kicked off her flats, threw them in her bag, and ran all the way from the street entrance to the Pacific Ocean.

“So this is how it's going to be for us?” asked David when he caught up to her. “You run, I chase?”

That was how it usually worked.

They sat down on the sand and watched the whackos and crackos. Sophia loved the diversity and constant stimulation. It was almost sundown, and the surfers were taking their last ride for the day. Moms were packing up umbrellas and portable chairs and rounding up their kids. Groups of friends swigging the last of their beers. Bodybuilders and sun worshippers gathered up their detritus for the night. So much was going on, but the pace was lazy and calm. Sophia felt profoundly at peace on the water's edge. It might very well be her spiritual home, and why California had always tugged so hard on her consciousness. Obviously, she would have found the ocean on her own. But David brought her here, to this spot, and it was so much sweeter to share the moment with a new friend.

Sophia was not going to let this moment, or any moment, pass without making it as perfect as it could possibly be. She smiled at David, and leaned against his warm arm. When he didn't do anything, she rested her head on his shoulder. Green light, dude.

He said, “Can you move your head a second?”

Oh, shit. She lifted it off his shoulder, thinking she'd been shot down (that was
not
how it usually worked). But David then took her head in his hands, and brought her lips to meet his. His lips were soft and sweet, but the angle wasn't the most comfortable. David put his hand on her back, and gently eased her back onto the sand.

Sophia was a little afraid he was going to be soft and gentle all night.

She worried for nothing. David lay down next to her, and pulled her toward him with both arms—stronger than they looked—pressed against her before coming in for another kiss. This time, he was insistent, an explorer, entering her mouth with his tongue, neatly, firmly, in a way that made her go a little crazy.

They touched and tasted as the sun went down, as people walked by and whistled, their mingling bodies nestling into a pocket of cooling sand. When Sophia looked up, the beach was empty. Had they been making out for hours?

“You're a really good kisser,” she breathed while his lips drew a line down her throat and across her collarbone.

“So are you,” he said.

“That's all we're going to do,” she said. “Today.”

“No problem. I could probably do just this for the next ten years,” he said. “Hoping for more, don't get me wrong!”

She wasn't getting anything wrong tonight. The cosmic spheres were all spinning in the right direction.

 

15

so much blood and bleeding with the english

Leandra put on her most vapid, idiotic smile, and asked, “Do they wear polo shirts in matching team colors? Is that why they're called ‘matches'?” She didn't dare do her faux-British accent with Oliver. He praised her for being “different from all the other girls,” and wouldn't have appreciated her mimicking Blinky or Shaggy in the slightest. He liked her to look American, so she had to go return to Oxford Street to shop for a brand-new wardrobe, trading the Charlie-approved trustifarian wifey style for Oliver-preferred blousy bimbo. Also, her eyebrows were back to being twins, so long sisters.

She sat on Oliver's lap in the backseat of the Bentley as they were chauffeured to the Ham Polo Club in Richmond, England, just outside of London. Oliver stabled his ponies there, as did the Duke of Ellington. The duke was expected to helicopter in for a Pimm's Cup before luncheon in the Chukka Club.

Leandra had no idea what was in a Pimm's Cup or what a Chukka was. “Is it a frat boy who pukes on himself?” she asked Oliver.

“You are delightful,” he replied. “Just so bloody charming! The duke is going to eat his bleeding heart out when he gets a look at you.”

So much blood and bleeding with the English.

Oliver was her life now, and she'd made the necessary personality adjustments. As long as she acted the part of a shallow-yet-spiritual Valley Girl, Oliver was enthralled. When she rambled about chakras, auras, meditation, anything she could think of that sounded like Malibu wackadoo shite, it was like Oliver fell under a Harry Potter drooling spell.
Expecto expecterato!
He loved it all. His crowd, he told her, “didn't care about inner growth.” They were too busy designing jewelry, up-Chukka-ing over the sides of yachts, and Gulfstreaming to Majorca whenever the craving for fried anchovies struck. It sounded like heaven to Leandra. But Oliver was a searcher. He had questions about the universe, and thought the answers could be found in between the ears and legs of his American girlfriend. The poor deluded (bloody, bleeding) bastard.

He nibbled Leandra's ear (avoiding the twenty-four-karat gold ankh-shaped earring he'd given her last night), and said, “I have a surprise for you.”

More gold?
“I love surprises!! Yay!! What is it? Tell me! I hate waiting!”

“Now, now, darling. You have to learn to be patient. Before I tell you, let's do it again.”

“Of course, baby.”

“You start.”

“Okay.” She closed her eye and put her hands in prayer position at the heart chakra. “Breathe in,” she said, and inhaled deeply. On the exhale, she sang “Ommmm,” and he joined in. When Oliver got it in his head she was some kind of Zen master (ironic, considering her complete rejection of Buddhism in Thailand), she remembered omming in unison from the one and only yoga class Sophia dragged her to. She introduced him to sharing the vibration of the chant. It did nothing for her, but he went berserk.

Their voices faded, and then Oliver bent her over the backseat and slipped his tackle into her. Leandra bit her lip when they had sex to keep herself from asking “Is it in yet?” and “Are you kidding me with that tiny thing?” As usual, he was finished quickly. When he came, he hit a high note; she believed it was an A flat. She joined in—just like “omm,” except “ahhhh”—which he seemed to believe was evidence of their mutual, shattering orgasms. He fell back on the seat to right his trousers. She straightened herself and applied another coat of lipstick right as the Bentley pulled up to the polo grounds.

If Leandra had a shred of self-consciousness, she might be worried about the driver. Oliver didn't give “his man” a second's thought. So she didn't either, even though there was only a thin panel of glass separating their compartment from his.

Leandra put on a wide-brimmed hat for the polo match. It was the one classic English concession Oliver allowed her, and only because her Malibu Barbie hair spilled out in waves underneath it. Oliver escorted her through the clubhouse to the fields, along a white picket fence and into the grandstand to the VIP box at the top of a small tower. Oliver introduced her around. He kept one arm around her waist, kissing her, licking her neck, rubbing her backside. It was the opposite of Charlie, who kept her at arm's length in public.

Before long, the Duke of Ellington's helicopter touched down, and he jogged with his entourage to the grandstand. His arrival was met with much fanfare. The crowd whistled and applauded as he climbed up to the grandstand and then, leaning over the bunted railing, he waved at them, queen style (all in the wrist). The goodwill business done, the duke addressed the VIP group.

“Who's this?” he asked when his watery blue eyes landed on Leandra. “Your new friend, Grayson?”

“Allow me to introduce Leandra Hunting, my spiritual advisor,” said Oliver.

The duke, only about twenty-five years old, whiter than the picket fence and just as stiff, said, “Indeed. I'm always pleased to meet a woman who goes deep.”

On cue, Leandra said, “I love to go deep!” inspiring Oliver to kiss her full on the mouth, knocking her hat off.

At certain moments, pretending to be a blithering idiot bothered her, like an itch she couldn't scratch. But the discomfort faded in the bright sunshine as she looked down from her perch at the plebes in the grandstand below. She felt smug, superior, and all melty inside with condescension.

Oliver excused himself to go suit up for the match. He was playing today, for her entertainment. She settled into her seat next to the duke, beaming with self-importance. A server in a tux and white gloves brought around drinks. A Pimm's Cup turned out to be fruit juice with gin. Then a trumpet blared, the PA system crackled to life, and the players trotted out onto the field, only four riders per team. They
were
wearing matching polo shirts.

“Grayson rides with Equus, in red, on Fergus, his chestnut stallion,” said the duke helpfully.

An earl was fine. A duke would be better
, Leandra couldn't help thinking. “Do you ride … horses?” she asked, and put a hand on his knee.

“Oh, no, darling. That was very clumsy,” he said. “It won't work on me, I'm afraid. Unlike my dear friend Grayson, I'm not susceptible to obvious, common women.”

He said it loud enough for a few others to overhear. Leandra turned bright red under her spray tan. “I'm not…”

He leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “But you are. You grew up in some suburb, with a patch of lawn and a one-car garage, correct? A special night out was to an Italian restaurant for spaghetti and meatballs. There are millions of girls exactly like you all over the world. But there is only one Earl of Grayson. He's so smitten that he's fallen for your act. But I see you. And do keep your hands to yourself.”

He leaned back, and said loudly, “What a fine afternoon!”

The conversation in the box turned to the weather. Leandra sat completely still, struggling for breath. She didn't move or speak for the rest of the match, but was all too aware of the primping antics of the duke as he drank Pimm's and sent barbs around the grandstand at his mates. They laughed at his insults. Maybe they were obliged by societal contract. That was the English way, a throwback from the feudal past, to worship another human being like a god because of an accident of birth. Everyone knew the duke was an entitled prick who got off on humiliating friends and strangers alike, but they just sat there and took it.

Leandra was devastated by his private remarks to her. Except for the one-car garage part (the Huntings' garage fit
two
), he nailed her background to a T. Sophia would comfort her by saying, “Fuck him. My parents are good people. They've dealt with a lot of heartache and come out of it in one piece. I've got nothing to be ashamed of.” But he'd dug his blade right into Leandra's soft spot. Her deepest fear was that she was ordinary, nothing special. It was her life goal
not
to be common. She intended to be one in a million, and to be loved like she was one in a million.

The polo match wasn't much of a distraction. The horses thundered up and down the field. The players swung their mallets. The ball got thwacked. The game was like soccer, she supposed, but she couldn't keep track of what was happening. At one point, a rider fell off his horse and was nearly trampled. Everyone gasped, except for Leandra. She was just too gutted to react. The match ended and the riders cantered around the field like a parade. The duke stood up, waved at the crowd again, and left the VIP box with his entourage. Once the duke was safely gone, Leandra could breathe again. She waited for Oliver in the box, ignoring the other people who remained to finish off the tea sandwiches.

He arrived soon after, still in his togs. He kissed her passionately, flushed from sport. “Did you enjoy that?” he asked.

“Yes, very exciting.”

“Are you ready for your surprise?”

Oh, yeah. She forgot about that. Her spirits rose slightly. “Yes, of course.”

Eyes twinkling, he said, “We're taking the duke's helicopter on a short ride … to Scotland!!”

“Is the duke coming?”

“No, no, he's on his way to the House of Lords,” said Oliver.

In that case, Leandra could show some enthusiasm. “Yay! Yippee! A helicopter ride! Hooray!!” and so on.

“All finished with your drink? Wonderful. Grimly packed a bag for you. It's in the chopper. We're ready to go.”

Grimly, the valet, had pawed through her panties? “How does he know what to pack?”

“It's just a few things. You won't need much where we're going.”

“Your family seat in Loch Lorrain?” Paintings of Castle Grayson lined the London town house walls, along with centuries-old portraits of the previous eighteen earls in Oliver's line.

“You'll find out,” he said, grinning. “It's another surprise.”