Chasing Chaos: A Novel (5 page)

“It
was no problem, Daphne,” Marcellus said. “I will miss our talking.”

“I’ll
miss it too,” she said and gave him a hug.

“Daph,
babe!” called a voice from inside the apartment. It was her former
ex-boyfriend, once-more current boyfriend, Federico. He was inside with some of
his friends helping her move.

“Coming!”
She dashed up the steps into the apartment. She refused to look down, refused
to see the mark on the wood that she knew was there.

Federico
stood with his two buddies by the lifeboat.

“Are
you seriously moving this hideous couch?”

“Yes.”

“
Pero,
es muy feo
,” he said.

“We
see beauty differently,” she said. “Please be careful with it.”

“
Te
amo, mi loca
,” he said.

“I
love you too,” she said, wondering if she was indeed crazy to keep the orange
couch that reminded her so much of Greta, and therefore, of what she’d lost.

While
the boys wrestled with the couch, she entered her bedroom. Everything was
packed except her bed. The mattress was stripped bare. For a moment, she
considered leaving it behind. It had been a gift from someone she wanted to
forget. But Daphne’s thrifty nature wouldn’t let her ditch a perfectly nice
bed.

Daphne
had been so wrong about so many things. And now Greta was gone, living who
knows where, doing who knows what. Daphne just hoped she and Timmy had been
able to work things out.

“Freddy,”
she called out. “Will there be room for my bed on the truck?”

“
Sí,
claro
,” he said from the other room. “I didn’t rent a silly little truck
for my princess.”

She
rolled her eyes. She hated being called a princess, but it was a nickname that
had haunted her since college.

Daphne
had started her new job at Sony shortly after Greta had moved out. The job was
hard, harder than her first LA job had been. At Sony, she worked long hours and
had no flexibility. But she was fine with long hours, with hard work. Plus, she
had goals. She wanted to accomplish them, and for the first time, she felt like
she had a way to do so. She could see the pathways to power.

So
she spent her days sitting in meetings, taking notes, getting coffee, doing
whatever everyone with more power than she had told her to do, and spent her
evenings sitting on the lifeboat in her cramped studio apartment reading
scripts and books that someone else told her to read.

But
she spent her nights working on projects of her own. She took what she’d
learned at her job and applied it to her own stories. She worked on two scripts
in secret. They were her own. She just didn’t know what she would do with them
yet.

Several
months into her Sony job, on a Sunday afternoon in June, she got a phone call
from a number she didn’t recognize. She almost didn’t answer it. Sunday afternoons
were precious writing time for her.

But
she did answer the call, and it made all the difference.

“Daph?”

“Greta?”
Daphne’s voice raised an octave. Surprise, hope, fear, all mingled.

“Yeah.”
Greta paused. “How are you?”

“I’m
OK.” Daphne was nearly breathless. “You?”

“Good.”

A
long pause.

“Where
are you living now?” Greta asked.

“I
moved to the West Side. Near Brentwood.”

“Timmy
and I have a place in Marina Del Rey.”

“That’s
close to work for you,” Daphne said.

“Yeah,
about work,” Greta said. “Do you have time for dinner tonight?”

Daphne
felt her entire body go still, with both hope and a kind of desperation. “I do.
Of course I do, Greta.”

“OK
then. Six o’clock. At Rivet.”

Daphne
spent the next two hours getting ready. She’d completely lost her ability to
focus on writing. She went through her clothes. She tried to understand why
Greta had called her now, out of the blue. She tried to understand why Greta
had chosen Rivet for this reunion, a place that held terrible memories for them
both.

At
the appointed time, Daphne arrived at Rivet. She stood in front of the
restaurant for the first time in months. The place looked the same as it had
the last time she’d been there. The same doormen—bouncers in fine
clothing—stood at the doors. She valeted her car, and even the valet driver
remembered her name.

“
Gracias
,
Cristiano,” she said.

“
De
nada
, Miss Daphne.”

She
trod the walkway toward the double front doors as though in a dream. For a
moment she wondered if this were some sort of set-up, revenge on Greta’s part
for what Daphne had done to her. Was Daphne about to be turned away, humiliated
right here in front of LA’s elite?

She
certainly deserved it.

But
no—the tall doors opened for her, and the doormen smiled and kissed her cheek
as though no time had passed, as though her former friends waited inside at
their usual booth.

But
those friends, if they had ever been her friends, would be gone now. Rivet had
new ownership. Daphne had heard that Sandy, a friend of Greta’s, had bought the
place.

That
must be why Greta had asked her here, Daphne figured. Sandy owned Rivet now. So
Greta could come here any time she wanted. Greta belonged here and could come
and bring her friends. And now Daphne was walking in like she, too, belonged.

The
feeling was surreal.

Daphne
approached the host. “I’m here to meet—”

“Greta
Donovan. Yes, of course,” the young man said, and gestured for Daphne to
follow, sneaking glances at her every few steps.

He
led her down the short corridor and out to the covered patio. They passed table
after table until they reached the farthest corner table where Greta sat alone.
The host pulled out Daphne’s chair for her and handed her a menu.

“Thanks,
Stephen,” Greta said to him as Daphne sat.

“Your
description was accurate,” the host replied, gawking at Daphne.

Greta
sighed. “Bye, Stephen.”

Stephen
trotted off, past the tables and into the corridor.

Greta
turned to Daphne with a pained expression. “When I asked him to keep an eye out
for you, I told him you were aberrantly gorgeous and Japanese. He clearly got
stuck on the gorgeous part.”

Daphne
laughed. She laughed because Greta looked like Greta. Because her words were
Greta’s words. Because everything—well, not everything, not their sitting at
Rivet, but they’d get to that—was so completely normal.

“I’m
sorry, Greta,” Daphne said.

“I
know you are.” Greta’s manner was matter-of-fact, as always. “I knew that back
in December.”

A
server arrived. He asked for their drink orders.

“Get
anything you want,” Greta said. “It’s kind of on me.”

Daphne
raised her eyebrows in question.

“I’ll
explain in a minute,” Greta said. “Should we get margaritas?”

“Well,
yeah.”

“Henry?”
The server nodded, seeming pleased that Greta knew his name. “We’d like a
pitcher of margaritas on the rocks please. Two glasses. No salt.”

“Yes,
ma’am. Um. Miss. Ah.” Henry’s face turned red as he stumbled over his words.

Greta
cracked up laughing, but it wasn’t mean laughter. She seemed as uncomfortable
as he was. “Most people call me Miss Donovan, since I seem a little young to be
called ma’am.”

Indeed.
By Daphne’s estimation, Henry was likely older than Greta by a year or two, and
Greta had just turned twenty-three in June.

“What
are we doing here?” Daphne asked. “And if you say ‘having dinner’ I’ll do
something embarrassing.”

“Sandy,
Timmy and I all own Rivet now.”

“What?”
Daphne shrieked.

“Hush,
Daphne. You said you weren’t going to do anything embarrassing.”

Daphne
clapped her hand over her mouth and nodded.

“It’s
a little complicated, but Sandy and Timmy bought Marco out, and then they split
the place between them, and then Timmy, against all reason, insisted on
splitting his portion with me. It’s not like we’re married or anything. And
when Sandy heard about that, he insisted we split three ways equally, which was
even less reasonable, because why would he just give up more of his portion to
me? So here we are. I’m one-third owner of Rivet for no apparent reason.”

“You
own Rivet?” Daphne nearly shrieked again.

“I
own one-third of Rivet. Weren’t you listening?”

“I’m
so happy! We can come here all the time!”

And
then it came crashing back. She and Greta weren’t friends. This was the first
conversation they’d had in six months. Daphne wouldn’t be coming to Rivet all
the time.

Greta
would be.

But
Greta grabbed Daphne’s hand. “Daphne. That’s right. That’s exactly right.”

Daphne
met Greta’s eyes as tears filled her own.

“If
I have to hang out here all the time to keep up appearances then you have to
come with me. It’s only fair,” Greta said.

Daphne
nodded.

“I
didn’t ask for this responsibility,” Greta continued. “Those two idiots just
gave it to me.”

Daphne
nodded again.

“Stupid
men,” Greta said. “Acting completely against their financial self-interest.”

Daphne
started to giggle.

“What?”
Greta demanded.

“Love
makes us all do stupid things,” Daphne said. “Someday you’ll understand that.”

~~~~

After
that first dinner together, she and Greta decided to meet at Rivet every Sunday
morning, no matter what. Soon, the Sunday brunches were sacred. Daphne didn’t
think Greta getting married would change their Sunday plans. Indeed, if Daphne
suggested such a thing to Greta, Greta would only get annoyed.

Daphne
was almost home from Uptown, the sidewalks dimly lit by the streetlights, the
night air cool. She breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh smell of a sage plant
nearby. She was grateful for the second chance Greta had given her. She hadn’t
deserved it. But she had taken it because Greta was the only thing resembling
family she had. Without Greta, she had no one.

On
Monday morning, Daphne woke early like she always did, before the sound of her
alarm. When she’d worked for others, she’d enjoyed the times she could sleep
in, treasuring the luxury. Now that she worked for herself, each hour belonged
to her. Each hour was a luxury.

She
slept on the mattress that had been an uncomfortable gift many years ago. But
the gift was nearly unrecognizable now. She’d acquired a low, wooden midcentury
bed frame to hold her mattress and box spring. The headboard was a smooth,
solid plane of wood, the grain telling a story with its curves and lines. The
entire thing weighed a ton. Timmy and Greta had helped her move it after she’d
found it at an estate sale, and even with all three of them, getting it inside
her home had been a struggle. It was a good thing she didn’t want to move
again.

Her
comforter was made of a pale blue cotton, a soothing color. Grasping it with
both hands, she threw it from her body. Her alarm sounded at six o’clock, but
she was already on her feet. She let the radio play as she got ready.

After
a quick shower, she shook out her long hair to let it air dry and dressed in
jeans and a thin black cashmere sweater. Then she slipped on her black booties,
grabbed her neurotic bag and headed out on foot toward Uptown Coffee.

Her
walk took her southwest down Montana to San Vicente. Every morning, she passed
her neighbors who also liked the early morning hours. Mrs. Krumholz, who lived
in Daphne’s building, shuffled toward her on the sidewalk with a tiny Yorkshire
Terrier, Guppy. Daphne gave Mrs. Krumholz a quick hug good morning.

“How
are you feeling today?” Daphne asked.

Last
Friday, Daphne had taken Mrs. Krumholz to a doctor’s appointment, the first one
since her former doctor had moved back to the East Coast after getting married.
Daphne had insisted on the check-up when she’d learned that her neighbor hadn’t
seen a doctor in over a year.

“My
hands feel so much better.” Mrs. Krumholz held up hands that rheumatoid
arthritis had twisted into knotted branches. “The new anti-inflammatory drug is
a miracle.”

“You
don’t have to suffer by yourself, Mrs. Krumholz. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I
knew you were a good girl when Guppy didn’t bark at you the first time you
met.”

“Guppy
is a wise creature,” Daphne said. Guppy sniffed Daphne’s feet, perhaps sensing
Sandy’s dogs. At the thought of her explosion at Sandy’s yesterday, Daphne
winced.

“Guppy
is an idiot,” Mrs. Krumholz said. “But she can smell a baddy.”

Daphne
wrapped her arms around Mrs. Krumholz’s frail frame once again. “Remember that
someone here worries about you,” Daphne whispered into her ear.

“I
don’t know why you do,” she said. “But I’ll take it. Now I have to keep walking
before Guppy craps on Mr. Dorsky’s lawn, and he calls the cops.”

Mr.
Dorsky owned the next building over, and he spent an exorbitant amount on
landscaping even by Los Angeles standards. The old woman and her dog made their
slow way back home.

Daphne
didn’t have a blood family any more. She’d abandoned them when they had
abandoned her. But she had worked hard to make a new one. Her neighbors. Greta
and Timmy. Even Sandy. She took care of them.

Once
again thinking of how she’d left things with Sandy, she felt terrible. It was
like remembering a bad dream. She hoped Marlon would show at Rivet that
afternoon.

~~~~

Daphne
entered Uptown Coffee at six-thirty, right when they unlocked the doors. No one
was surprised to see her. Not the barista, Rebekah, nor the owner, Tony. His
last name was Upton—the coffee shop’s name was a bit of a pun. Few knew that
tidbit though.

“Good
morning, Miss Daphne,” Tony said to her. He worked the register most mornings,
before heading to the back to prepare more baked goods. “Americano, as usual?”

“Yes
please.”

“Got
it,” Rebekah said from down the line at the espresso machine.

“I
believe you are nearing the end on these two scripts, are you not?” Tony asked
her.

“That’s
right. It’s April. Just about time to start round two.”

Tony
kept up with Daphne’s work. She wrote six scripts a year, two every four
months. To many in her line of work, that seemed an ungodly pace. To her, it
was plenty slow. Indeed, the pace was so slow it allowed her time to revise
each script with her agent multiple times. She had time to ensure every single
script she wrote sold for something, even if only fifteen thousand dollars.
That was the least her agent would accept for work with Daphne’s name on it.

Most
of her scripts went for far more.

Two
years ago, one of her scripts almost went all the way—the film itself was
nominated for multiple Academy Awards. Not for best original screenplay though.
But Daphne knew how the nominations worked. She was aware she had stepped on
more than a few industry toes.

But
enough people knew she’d written that script. Tony Upton knew. Hanging on the
wall behind the register were autographed headshots of celebrities whom Tony
admired. Daphne’s was up there, just over his left shoulder.

That’s
why Tony never cared if she camped out at a table in his café all day. He loved
her work. He thought she classed up the place. She was part of the Uptown Coffee
family. If anyone else tried to open a laptop, he’d fuss at them. But not at
Daphne or at anyone who came in with her. He even kept an extension cord for
her behind the counter.

“Here
you go,” Rebekah said, setting Daphne’s mug on the counter. Daphne handed Tony
a credit card to start a tab, then carried her drink to her table. She pulled
her laptop from her bag and set to work.

~~~~

Around
nine o’clock, at his usual time, Dan showed up. Seeing his face, Daphne felt an
immense sense of relief. Even after their harsh words last night, she hadn’t
lost her friend or her writing partner. In many ways, he was another member of
her makeshift family, if only because she’d known him so long.

He
dropped down into the seat across from her, breathless. “I almost got killed
walking over here!” he said. “A blond breeder backed her land yacht right up
onto the sidewalk.”

“Really?
Onto the sidewalk?” Daphne quirked an eyebrow.

“Nearly.
You know how big the bumpers are on those things. It’s amazing she didn’t take
my leg off.”

“It’s
amazing.”

Daphne
was accustomed to Dan’s exaggeration and crass language. Often, he was funny.
But sometimes, he was just offensive.

Dan
was good with words. He knew their power. He knew how to choose words with
care. If he wanted to say something virulently sexist, or racist, or otherwise,
then he was doing it on purpose. Sure he’d claim it was a joke. But jokes have
power too.

Tony
Upton himself brought Dan’s cappuccino to the table, shaking Dan’s hand in
greeting. “How was your weekend?” Tony asked.

“I’ve
had better,” Dan said.

Daphne
looked up from her laptop screen, suspicious.

“What
happened?” Tony crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for the story.

“I
got some unexpected bad news. Turns out someone I thought was reliable was doing
bad things behind my back.”

Tony
shook his head. “I know the feeling. I had to fire someone recently for giving
out free drinks to all of his friends. One or two, sure, but twenty a day?”

“You
can’t count on anyone it seems.” Dan shook his head sympathetically.

Daphne
rolled her eyes.

Tony
headed back to the bar, and she glared at Dan.

“What?”
He shrugged.

“I
thought we were cool.”

“Come
on, Daph. I was just joking around.”

“Dial
back the asshole, OK?”

“I’m
sorry, babe,” Dan said. “I’m still messed up about last night. I lashed out.”

She
nodded, accepting his reasoning. She could take a little lashing out if it made
him feel better about the bomb she’d dropped on him.

Years
ago, Dan had done all he could to help her escape the studios. Sure, he’d
wanted to get her into bed, but they’d also been friends. And for years now
they’d been both friends and lovers. She knew what was in his heart. He was a
forty-three-year-old man with both flaws and good intentions.

Dan
got out his notebook and a pen. Dan wrote everything by hand and then paid a
typist to transcribe his work. Daphne wasn’t sure if he even knew how to type.
He’d never sent her an email, and he didn’t own a cell phone, although in a
pinch he borrowed hers. He didn’t like electronics and claimed they gave him
headaches.

She’d
confronted him about the cell phone thing once, when they’d been trying to meet
up for a movie in Westwood. She’d arrived first, but the showing had been sold
out. She hadn’t known what to do—buy seats for the next showing? Skip the movie
and wait for another night? She’d bought the late-showing tickets, hoping she’d
done the right thing, and then waited for him to arrive.

He
strolled up ten minutes late.

“It’s
a good thing it was sold out,” she said, annoyed at his tardiness.

“It’s
sold out?”

“I
bought tickets for the next showing. We have an hour to kill.”

“Great
plan!” he boomed, as though the later showing had been his plan all along.

“I
didn’t know what to do. It would have been nice to be able to call you.”

“Nonsense!
It all worked out perfectly.”

“For
you, Dan. Not for me. I didn’t know if I wasted thirty dollars on tickets.”

“You
didn’t waste a dime!”

“But
I didn’t know that,” she said, her voice finally tightening with anger.

“Calm
down, babe.”

“Get
a cell phone.”

“You
know I can’t use a cell phone.”

“You
can use it to send text messages. Then you won’t have to put the phone near
your big head.”

Dan
considered her idea for a moment. “I don’t think that will work. Just having it
on my person makes me feel off.”

She
gave up then, handing him his ticket. She looped her arm through his, and they
strolled down the street, and she never mentioned a cell phone to him again.

She
accepted his foibles because that’s what you did for people you cared about.
Love was easy. Charity was hard.

~~~~

Dan
observed Daphne. She was staring at her laptop screen, but her eyes and her
fingers were still. She wasn’t reading her typed words, and she wasn’t adding
to them. She was contemplating something, and whatever it was, it wasn’t making
her happy.

He
refused to believe he was never going to be able to fuck this woman again.
Daphne was amazing in bed. She was amazing to look at. She was by far the most
gorgeous woman he’d ever dated, and he’d lived in LA for over twenty years so
that was saying something.

When
he thought of her sleeping with another man, he wanted to break the table in
half. She’d called him a caveman, and she’d been right. Daphne was right about
a lot of things. She’d always been able to see right through him. He hated and
loved that about her. Mostly he loved it. He could truly be himself around her
because there was no point in faking it.

What
a relief that was.

He
tapped his pen on his notebook, a test. Usually, his tapping drove her nuts.
Right now, she didn’t seem to notice, though. He wanted her to notice, to snap
at him, to tell him to stop the infernal racket. Infernal. She always used such
crazy words.

Late
at night he liked to read
The New Yorker
. While they’d been together
she’d usually lie right there next to him. (And usually naked. God, that body.)
Every time he came across a word he didn’t know, or a word he did know that he
figured no ordinary person would know, he’d run it by her.

“Daphne,”
he said to her one night. She was sitting next to him in her bed, the blue comforter
tucked up over her bare breasts, reading a novel she’d been hired to adapt into
a screenplay.

She’d
gotten money upfront for that job. Good money.

“Hmm?”

“What’s
a lepidopterist?”

“A
butterfly collector.” She never even looked up from her book.

“There’s
no way you know that!” He was incredulous. “You must have read this article.”

She
set down her book and looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“This
article on Nabokov. You read it. That’s how you know that word.”

“Everyone
knows Nabokov collected butterflies.”

“Everyone
does not know that. Nor do they know that the scientific term for butterfly
collector is lepidopterist.”