Fat Chance (19 page)

T
he beach is a barren landscape that belongs just to us in the late afternoon. We sit wrapped in a blanket, drinking champagne. Lucky for us he had a bottle stashed in the trunk. There are no cups so we pass the bottle back and forth.

“I never chug-a-lugged champagne.”

“It's the best way to get drunk,” Taylor says.

“Is that what we're trying to do?”

He shrugs. “It helps to break through the reality barrier. French truth serum,” he says, hoisting the bottle. “You start speaking your mind, but it comes out in French so no one can understand what the hell you're saying.”

That strikes me as the funniest thing I've ever heard. I laugh so hard that tears well up in my eyes, and Taylor leans over and licks them away. We're lying under a blanket tent, blotto.

“We can't drive home like this.”

“Let's nap here for a while,” he says groggily. I move closer to him and never see the sun set. When I wake up, not re
ally out of my fog, it's one in the morning and there's a brisk wind. I lay back, listening to the comforting rhythm of the water slapping against the sand. Taylor's curled up in a fetal position, dead asleep. It feels like we're on some lunar landscape away from civilization.

“Taylor,” I whisper. “We have to go. It's late.”

He doesn't move.

“Taylor.” I nudge him.

He opens his eyes and looks at his watch. “I was comatose,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Not used to the fresh air.”

Slowly we get to our feet, dragging the blanket and the empty bottle. In the darkness, we weave toward the parking lot.

“I left it around here, didn't I?” he says, scratching his head. No one has a worse sense of direction than I do. Whenever my instincts tell me to go left, I go the opposite way, and I'm usually right.

“I thought so,” I say. “But it is probably further down.” We walk another few hundred feet or so, afraid to look at each other, and then continue walking. Finally, we're at the end of the lot, with nothing but the ocean on one side and the highway on the other. There isn't a car in sight. We look at each other without saying anything. There's no way to get back.

 

It's one thing to lose your car, and another to lose your identity. Whoever took the car now has the registration, Taylor's wallet, his license, money, credit cards and his phone. The only thing in his pocket is a used tissue and about thirty-five cents in change.

“Just great,” he mutters.

I know better than to say anything when a man is furious. Fortunately, I have my bag with me, with a phone and some money. I hand it to him.

“Call the police,” I say, hoping that we won't have to hike home. Why the hell had I worn high heels?

He shakes his head. “We're both shit-faced, we look like we slept here for a week. It's not the most opportune moment to report a theft. Let me see if my agent's around.”

His agent was in New York. “Shit,” he mutters.

He punches in another number and waits while it rings. “Shit.”

Then another and another.

After the eighth call, something about our situation strikes me as funny. No, hysterical. I start laughing and can't stop.

“I'm glad you think this is so hilarious, sweetheart,” Taylor says. “I have to be at the studio at the fucking crack of dawn.”

“I'm sorry, it's just that this is so surreal. I mean, just stand away from it.” I wave my hand in a wide arc. “Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink. We're literally at sea.” I laugh even harder.

“You lost me,” he says. He picks up the phone again.

I wait while the phone rings and finally hear a soft female voice.

“Nicole, it's Mike… I'm okay, sweetheart, yeah. I know it's two in the morning. Listen, I need a favor.”

 

There are times when you need a handful of cookies for comfort. And other times when the whole bag won't be enough.

Nicole Cervantes was a redheaded, nubile Brazilian sex kitten with breasts as big as Corcovado. Hollywood took a liking to her on sight, and within months she had a three-picture contract with Miramax. Somewhere along the way, hers became one of the phone numbers that Taylor knew by heart.

“She's just a friend,” he says, dismissing the question. The
dreaded
f
word. I take his answer as a conversation stopper, and sit on the roadside, hugging my knees, wondering what kind of car the savior from Ipanema will be driving. The answer flies around a curve coming to a hair-raising screech that creates a cloud of dust. She is behind the wheel of a fire-engine-red Mercedes with white leather upholstery.

“Get in,” she yells, “I can't get out, I'm not dressed.”

Where was Tamara when I needed her? Taylor offers me the front seat, but I shake my head and climb into the back.

“Only for you,” Nicole says, flinging her orange Hermès Kelly bag from the front seat over into the back, barely missing my thigh as it barrels to the floor.

“I was about to go to sleep,” she says, reaching over to pull Taylor toward her by the back of his neck. She brushes his lips.

“Mmmm,” she says, licking her lips.

A moment later, she flicks on the ignition.

“Thanks for saving us,” Taylor says, patting her shoulder. “My car disappeared.” He turns back and introduces me.

Nicole nods perfunctorily without fully turning her head.

“Your place?”

“Thanks,” he says, nodding hastily.

I cross my legs and stare out the window. Did this man know any normal woman, except for me? His life was a fucking Victoria's Secret runway show. I'm furious at myself for being mad. Why was it that these bimbos always brought out the worst in me? Ten years of therapy vitiated, without a trace. I was back in junior high school, watching the cheerleaders as I hid myself in the last row of the gym.

On the hill, Taylor jumps out and punches in the code. I glance at Nicole through the space between the seats. Is it my imagination or has the terry bathrobe inched down her shoulder? I catch a glimpse of a small heart-shaped tattoo,
and then follow the drape of the robe and notice that it's not doing a great job of covering her thighs. God, I hate this. I turn back to the landscape. Taylor is rambling on about who was cast in his new movie, and something about that is funny to Nicole, who offers a rich throaty laugh. I keep my finger pressed on the button to lower the window as far as it'll go.

In front of the house, I climb out first. Taylor lingers a moment, turning to Nicole. “I really appreciate this. I owe you,” he says.

God, just slip her a twenty.

“I'll remember that,” Nicole says, fucking him with her eyes.

I head toward the house. I better get used to it.

 

Should I call the office? It was overdue. I lift the receiver and hold it against my chest, staring off. Slowly, as though I'm coddling a Fabergé egg, I put it back in the cradle. What was there to say?

I heard Taylor leave for the studio after what seemed to be fifteen minutes, not a night's sleep, and when I get up hours later, I walk around the house trying to acclimate myself again to where I'm now…staying? Living? I peer into room after room, trying to imagine that it's mine. But that entails envisioning the accompanying lifestyle, and my imagination doesn't stretch that far. I dream about a second bedroom or maybe a third. New countertops. A suede couch. No sane person imagines relocating to San Simeon.

I walk into the kitchen and yank open the heavy door. I stand bathed in the heavy blast of frigid air, and pick through the fruit bin until I find a firm apple. Should I take it upon myself to clean out all the now-aged gourmet treats, or was that something to jot down on the maid's to-do list? I slam the door and walk upstairs to the desk where I left the lap
top. I start making calls, but when the secretaries of sources ask for my number, I'm evasive.

There was the gym, and no excuse to not work out, so I spend New York's lunch hour exercising. When it's L.A. time for lunch, I start a column and make a note to check a few facts before sending it in. Now what? No office buddies to chat with. No Bloomingdale's a cab ride away to buy mood-lifting cosmetics. So I do what everyone in L.A. does. Taylor's castoff Lexus is parked in the Siberia section of his garage, and the keys, conveniently, are in the ignition.

The traffic on the Los Angeles Freeway is gridlocked due to a collision that seems to be a quarter of a mile ahead. Three or four cars have crashed into each other and there are flashing lights and the sirens of approaching police. If only I had the company of a book on tape. I check the glove compartment, but it's empty, except for a half-empty bottle of Poland Springs and a pair of sunglasses.

I think back to my conversation with Tex, just after Taylor first called. The freeway, the freeway, what an oxymoron. Was this what I had to face every time I had to go somewhere? After ten minutes of immobility, with cars lined up all around, I'm growing more and more aware that I have to find a bathroom, and that any minute now the achy sensation I'm feeling below my waist could mean my period. Suddenly it feels as though a vise is tightening around my neck.

I have to get out of this, but how? I can't just change my mind and make a U-turn. Absentmindedly, I turn on the radio. The sports reporter is giving the scores of college football games nationwide. One after another. Were they covering every damn game? Who cared if Delaware's Blue Hens lost? I change the station—hating the damn digital dial—looking for music, calming music, but there is only rock, then country twanging about a lost love and the
heartache. I switch it off and try to pay attention to the road. Nothing to get excited about, this is only temporary, the cars would be moving soon, but my heart isn't buying it. What if it took hours? Could you airlift cars to get them out of the way?

All of a sudden I'm feeling these electronic pings in the middle of my chest that are like misguided bleeps on a heart monitor. I've never had this before. Is it PMS? Cardiac arrest? I see myself lying in an intensive care unit with only a black screen at my side; on it, a white electronic line is making scribbles that defy a predictable pattern. Wild needle lines. Next to that machine would be another that looks like the bowl of a Cuisinart with an air pump inside it, and a black screen with a pulsating needle that scribbled the kind of cardiac graffiti that would summon the entire staff if they needed to jump-start my ailing heart.

Take it easy, take it easy. This is probably what everybody out here goes through. It's the workday version of their tension headache. So why is a film of sweat soaking my blouse? Even my armpits are stinging, as though the deodorant is acid, eating into my pores. Did I even remember to put it on this morning? I can't remember now. I grope for some tissues in my purse and start mopping my forehead with a shredded, disintegrating wad, lint floating in the air like anthrax spores. Why didn't I buy the nice neat pack of Kleenex? Why do I always end up with a wad? Is it my imagination or am I short of breath?

A wave of panic sweeps over me. Was this a heart attack, or just fear? The odds were against it being a heart attack, but why not? Things happened. Eighteen-year-old conditioned athletes keeled over inexplicably, even junior high school kids who were never sick in their lives. Heart
valve problems, preexisting conditions, who knew what else? I start talking to myself as though I'm a small child. Do I look crazy to people in the next lane? Who cares, anyway, they probably think that I'm just on the phone. “You're fine, you're just fine,” I say out loud. “Just a little scared, that's all. It will pass. You're fifteen minutes from Taylor's house, as soon as you're there you'll be fine. It has just been a tense week. It's the Xanax, the lack of the sleep, the tension…. You can handle it, it will be over soon. You'll have dinner with Taylor, wine, and everything will be fine.”

But then the questions. What would happen to me now? My throat tightens. What would my life be like here? Was this it? What kind of life would it be? And what about my mother? She was so far away. Who would take care of her? That tremor, oh God, what if she was developing Parkinson's disease? It never occurred to me before. At a time like this, I leave New York and fly across the country? How selfish. What if she had to be moved to a home? And some of those places were so awful. The neglect. My heart starts to pound harder. To calm myself, I try to take deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Relaxing breath. Does that nonsense do any good anyway?

When traffic finally starts to move, I get off at the next exit and at the first turn, I swerve the car to the curb. A sign says Dead End.

I reach frantically into my purse for my phone, throwing aside mints, a tampon, a compact. I dial Tamara, then start over. I forgot to punch in the area code. The battery is low. Did I even pack the charger? I must be losing my mind. Why the hell hadn't I at least charged the phone overnight? I dial again.

“Maggie O'Leary's office.”

At the sound of Tamara's voice, I try to speak, but all the tension rises up into my throat. Tears well up in my eyes, and the only sound that comes out is an odd cry, like the croak of some wounded creature. Then it turns into a sob.

“Maggie? MAGGIE? IS THAT YOU?”

Somehow, I get the word
yes
out.

“WHAT IS IT? WHAT IS IT, BABE? TAKE IT EASY, TAKE IT EASY.”

“I— I—” More crying.

“Maggie, TAKE A DEEP BREATH. CALM DOWN. YOU'RE OKAY. I'M HERE WITH YOU… Maggie? I don't know if it's the connection or you that's breakin' up.”

I catch my breath. “I'm okay, really.” Deep breath. “I think I was just having a meltdown.”

“Maggie, get on the next plane and come home. I never understood what the hell you left this place for anyway. Go directly to the airport and just wait for the next plane out. There's gotta be fifty a day. Just book the first one and—”