Oh! You Pretty Things (23 page)

M
y apartment in Hollywood is half the size of Eva's closet. I'm not complaining, I like living in cozy spaces. There's something about lying in my bed at night and being able to see all of my worldly possessions that I find soothing. I have lights wound into the wrought iron of my bedframe, and one of my favorite moments is after I've washed my face and brushed my teeth and I climb into bed, with the glow from the hundreds of tiny white lights illuminating the narrow space that belongs only to me. It's kind of magical.

It's not, however, conducive to having a housewarming party, which is a bummer, because I'm feeling kind of saucy right now, what with Donna safely distanced and my new, glamorous job for Eva.

I'm not a big believer in the notion that
things happen for a reason
, but when Christian, my building manager, tells me he's throwing an impromptu—and very against the rules—karaoke party on the roof on Friday evening, and I'm welcome to bring my friends, it seems like kismet.

“But there's a caveat,” he says. “Everyone who attends
must
sing.”

“Dude, my friends are all actors and addicts. Do you think that's an issue?”

“Rule number two,” he says, fanning his polish-tipped fingers in front of his face like he's about to swoon. “Stop calling me dude. Do I look like a
dude
?”

On the day of the karaoke party, I'm not sure if anyone's coming. Scout's in the midst of wrapping up a West Coast tour for another badly behaved metal band and Megan and JJ are MIA again. Kirk can't make it. I considered inviting Pete and Jayne from the Date Palm, but that seemed too desperate.

One of the best things about attending a party thrown by drag queens is that there are plenty of volunteers to help me with hair and makeup. I end up looking like a cross between Ann Margret and Jackie Onassis, in a fitted black shift dress from H&M, a sweep of cat-eyed, black liquid eyeliner, and an amazing cascade of clipped-in hair extensions that Christian's sometime boyfriend, Bruce, happened to have in his makeup bag. The tar-papered and cyclone-fenced roof has been transformed into an intimate supper club, with a profusion of ratty old Oriental rugs on the ground and a cluster of low tables and worn brown leather seating poufs. There are candles everywhere and an abundance of stemless single white orchids and gardenias floating in squat, clear glasses.

“This is insanity,” I say to Christian, gesturing to the narrow stage at one end of the rooftop, the stacks of sound equipment alongside, the shirtless waiter sporting a tanned six-pack and a silver tray of champagne glasses.

“Welcome to Hollywood, darling,” he says, brushing his rouged lips against my cheek so delicately that I'm certain he hasn't left a mark. He's working a whole Norma Desmond in
Sunset Boulevard
vibe, all arched eyebrows, marcelled hair, and slinky satin gown. “You know Bruce is the events manager for the Hotel Figueroa? He appropriates certain elements when they're not in use.”

“No kidding,” I say. “Good choice in boyfriends.”

“Get a cocktail and pick your song list,” he says, steering me toward the shirtless champagne-giver. “Are your friends coming?”

“I don't know,” I say. “No one told me.”

“Darling,” he says, tilting my chin upward with the backs of his knuckles and regarding me with his smoky, lash-fringed eyes. “You need an upgrade in the friendship arena.”

“Are you and Bruce available? I think you fulfill all my requirements.”

“We have a waiting list.” He hands me a stem of champagne. “But you're welcome to submit an application.”

“Well, at least Kirk sent a note.”

“Who's Kirk? A
boy
?”

“Yeah, I guess. I— His sister's in town, he couldn't make it.”

“He could've brought her.”

“They're from Ohio.”

“Honey,” he says. “Where do you think
I'm
from?”

I give him a look. “Mostly Chanel.”

“Flattery will get you far in the world, my love. Oh!” he says. “Kirk? Kirk with the plant?”

“What plant?”

He leads me to the corner, where a gorgeous hydrangea is blooming out of a terra-cotta planter. A little burlap satchel is propped in the planter, and when I open it, I see crystals of Peruvian blue magic.

“This came for you,” he says.

“Um,” I say, trying to sound offhanded. “Was there a note? Did he come himse—”

Christian gestures toward the rickety wooden door that leads up from the stairwell. “Looks like your dance card might be full after all.”

Megan, JJ, Scout, and Eva are all standing there, looking as dazed as they should, considering they just walked into a rooftop fairyland on the unlikely corner of Formosa and Lexington.

I'm torn about who to greet first, so I go with a lamely generic “Hey, you guys,” the significance of which is not lost on Megan, who shoots me double finger guns and says, “Hey, guy,” in a tone that calls me out on my shit without being too embarrassing.

I teeter across the uneven carpets in my stiletto heels and dispense hugs, starting with Megan, then working my way through Scout, Eva, and finally JJ, who is resplendent in a tight white T-shirt and perfectly faded Levi's.

“An RSVP would have been nice,” I say.

“Boof, we suck,” Megan says. “I've been meaning to call you for days.”

“Dude, you knew I was working,” Scout says.

Eva turns her full-wattage smile on Megan. “We met at Scout's birthday,” she says, extending her hand. “I'm Eva.”

“Huge fan,” Megan says, taking Eva's hand and shaking it firmly. “And you remember JJ.”

Watching actresses collide in the real world is like an episode of
Wild Kingdom,
all invisible pheromones and subtle posturing. It's interesting that Megan doesn't claim ownership of JJ, like,
my boyfriend, JJ.
It's a smart maneuver, because . . . well, we've already covered the whole desperation thing. So unattractive.

JJ's got one of those smooth actor faces that doesn't betray emotion except when there's a paycheck involved, and he's blandly polite as we chat. It doesn't take two minutes before we're sucked into the party. This is a rooftop full of drag queens and they came to sing some serious karaoke. They are not here to fuck around.

Sure, there's a momentary hush when they realize that my guests are JJ, Eva, and Megan—plus Scout, who—let's be honest—is kind of always working a drag-queen vibe. But once we get past the starstruckery, everyone settles into burning down the house, drag queen karaoke-style.

About an hour in, we're all so committed to the karaoke process that Megan and JJ have decamped to my apartment downstairs to rehearse the John Travolta/Olivia Newton John duet from
Grease
and Eva has wandered off to someone's apartment to check out a short brown wig she wants to borrow for her Patsy Cline number.

Fortunately, I'm already working my Ann Margret vibe, so all I have to do is let my natural tone-deaf instincts take over on “Bye, Bye Birdie” and I'm a hit.

I'm watching the next singer when a slender arm slips around my waist.

“I've missed you,” Megan says, resting her head on my shoulder and plucking my lit cigarette from my fingers.

“It's your fault,” I tell her. “What does JJ have that I don't?”

We look across the roof to where JJ is unself-consciously flirting with a pair of drag queens. What does JJ have that I don't? Other than beauty, fame, talent, and Megan?

“A penis,” she says.

“Now those,” Bruce says, passing, “are a dime a dozen.”

Megan shrugs. “He's right.”

“Really?” I say. “Because I've got a whole ashtray full of loose change downstairs and not a penis in sight.”

“Personal choice, Boof. You've got plenty of dimes, that's for sure.”

“I miss you,” I say, which is an odd segue, but Megan gets it. One of my favorite things about Megan is that I never have to explain myself.

We scrunch together on a pouf and Megan tells me about her life with JJ, throwing in a little shade because I haven't visited. I tell her about my life with Eva, and how I've been avoiding my mother even more comprehensively than usual. I confess that I'm ignoring her texts, deleting her messages unheard. Megan just nods and listens, and when I'm done talking I feel cleansed, like I've been to confession. I've forgotten how that feels, talking to a friend who knows all your shit and doesn't care.

“I missed you, too,” Megan says, and I immediately feel my eyes well up.

“You're wearing entirely too much mascara to get weepy,” she warns me.

We watch Scout sing “Love Me Tender,” to tepid applause—wrong room—then retreat sulkily to the corner, smoking her cloves. I give Megan a look, and she shoos me away, so I cross the rooftop and flop down on a pouf beside Scout.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “You seem kind of over it.”

“I'm just wiped,” she says. “Those little metal kids wore me out.”

“We're so old.”

“No shit,” she says, and we hand her clove back and forth a few times. “This is beautiful, Jess. You outdid yourself.”

“Dude, I didn't lift a finger. This is all my neighbors.”

“Don't broadcast that. Just bask in it.”

“Thanks. I think I have a Red Bull or a Monster in the fridge. You want?”

“More than anything,” she says.

I kick off my shoes and trot barefoot down the stairs to my dark apartment. The bathroom door is shut, with a sliver of light coming out from underneath it. I hear a groan and the rush of water in the sink, and suppress a shiver of disgust. Is a stranger pooping in my tiny bathroom?

In the kitchen, I grab the lone blue Red Bull can for Scout and a bottle of red wine, then rummage in the drawer for a corkscrew. When I head out of the kitchen, I meet Eva and JJ in the hall, their gorgeous actor faces luminescent in the gloom, like some kind of modern day Vermeer.

“Jesus,” I say. I mean, how can people
look
like that?

They don't understand, or at least pretend not to. “Do you have a lime?” Eva asks.

“I need a lime,” JJ says.

“In the basket on the counter,” I tell them.

“Ooh,” Eva says, looking at the wine bottle in my hand. “Is it too late to get a glass of that?”

She plants a kiss on my cheek, and I notice she's completely lipstick-less; it's just her bare, reddened lips skimming my foundation-slicked skin. Figures that when I'm finally fully made up, she makes going bare look even better.

“You throw the greatest parties,” she says, snagging the bottle and heading for the stairs.

JJ grabs a lime from the kitchen and gives me a thousand-watt actor smile. “You do,” he says. “And you look amazing.”

“I owe it all to my fairy godqueens.”

“They're artists,” he says, “but they're working on a damn fine canvas.”

The rest of the evening passes in a glittery swirl. Scout even rallies after her energy drink and does a campy rendition of “Amazing Grace” that brings down the house. But there's something scratching at the back of my consciousness. I run my mind over Kirk's gift and Eva's bare mouth, JJ's slightly forced flattery and Christian's amazement that Eva Carlton was at his party.

I don't know.

It was a pretty great night.

T
he next day I wake up feeling like I got hit by one of those open-air tour buses, the kind that ferry tourists around the hills, hoping for a glimpse of Nicolas Cage taking out the trash without his hairpiece on. Whatever. It was totally worth it.

Luckily for me, Eva has a late call time and I don't need to be at her house until noon. I'm lying in bed, idly staring at my new hydrangea and wondering how long it will take me to kill it, when an e-mail dings on my phone. It's a delivery notification from UPS, and my response is Pavlovian. The slightest glimpse of a boxy brown truck makes me fantasize about surprise packages from secret admirers, and this e-mail injects the fantasy straight into my heart. And that's even before I see that the delivery originated at Sur La Table.

There's only one problem. It seems the package was successfully delivered to my
old
apartment.

As I'm showering, I weigh the attraction of Sur La Table against a drive across town and my ongoing need to avoid Donna. If the package had come from Amazon, forget it. Even Pottery Barn would be iffy. But who am I kidding, it's Sur La Table.

When I get to Main Street, I spend a few minutes zigzagging up and down the nearby streets to see if Donna's car is around. It's a total crapshoot. Parking in this neighborhood is so bad that she could be parked a mile away and I'd never find it. I don't see anything, though, so I park by the Coffee Bean and slink into the building like a cat burglar. I mean, if cat burglars had keys.

There's no package waiting under the row of metal mailboxes. Shit. Donna must have signed for it. My guess is that she's probably back in bed, though, and the lure of an unexpected gift is a powerful draw, so I pile into the elevator and tiptoe down the wide, creaky planks of what used to be my own hallway.

I slide my key into the lock in perfect silence before realizing that it's unlocked. I creep inside, and the scent of her perfume assails me, but I don't hear anything. I edge into the kitchen and there's the package.

It's big and square, and I immediately forget my stealth mission. I pull a knife from the block and slice the flap open. It's a Sous Vide Supreme and a note from Tyler:
Thanks for all the help, Jessie. You're a lifesaver. Still hoping you'll come back and cook for me someday . . .

I'm smiling at the note—especially “lifesaver,” which is maybe inadvertently sweet—when Donna hears me.

“Jess, is that you?” she says, a note of alarm creeping into her usually modulated voice.

I have a brief flight-or-fight moment, but fuck it. I came all this way.

“It's me,” I say, stepping into the living room, which still surprises me with its beautiful rug and its velvet ottoman, to which Donna has now added a chocolate-brown linen-slipcovered sofa. Through what used to be Megan's open bedroom door, I can see her reclining on her perfectly made bed, an open MacBook Air on her lap.

“Jesus, did you win the lottery?” I gesture around at the new purchases.

Donna pushes her tortoiseshell glasses into her hair and opens her arms to beckon me into a hug. “Not exactly, lamb chop,” she says with a weary sigh. “And I'm not the one who got a present.”

I raise the package in my arms to show why I can't come in and hug her. “From my old boss.”

“Really?” Donna says. “The composer? I was just reading about him the other day. Did you know he went to the Yale School of Music and Juilliard?”

No, because my middle-aged mother Googles better than I do. “Of course,” I say.

“Very fancy. Speaking of which, I have a housewarming gift for you too.” She taps on her keyboard. “And I'd love to meet Eva. She sounds delightful. Did you know she had a guest appearance on
Roseanne
when she was a kid?”

“Jesus, Mom, are you reading her IMDb page?”

“Maybe,” Donna says. “Wow, that tattoo is unfortunate. What does it mean?”

“It's Sanskrit.”

Donna rolls her eyes. “Not even close, sugarplum. But okay, let's say it
is
Sanskrit. What does it mean?”

“I've got to run. I'll call you later.”

“I'm going to download one of your Eva's films.”

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I retreat into the kitchen and open the fridge to see if there's a bottle of water I can snag. There's just a pitcher of murky green tea, a few bottles of Trader Joe's Chardonnay, and a drawer full of wilting produce from the farmers' market.

“Do you need something?” Donna says from the other room.

“I'm good,” I say, filling a glass from the faucet. “Thirsty.”

“Should I open some wine?” she says.

“I have to run.” I set the glass in the sink without taking a sip, and notice a Mickey Fine bag on the countertop, the stapled, white paper torn open at the top.

Mickey Fine is the twenty-first-century version of Schwab's Drugstore. It's packed with pricey lotions and potions and it has a café in the back with an overly solicitous waitress who is a pro at talking you into side dishes and desserts. It's also one of the only pharmacies in Los Angeles that still delivers. It's totally a rich person's store.

I shoot a glance in Donna's direction—she's wrapped up in some tabloid detail of Eva's life and completely ignoring me—and peer surreptitiously into the bag. There's a Mason Pearson hairbrush, a box of Roger & Gallet Bois D'Orange soaps, and a white bottle of OxyContin with a yellow label.

Jesus Christ, she's so old-school and predictable. When I was a kid, she dabbled with Quaaludes and other prescription drugs. She never tried to hide it from me.

“I'm having a
Valley of the Dolls
day,” she'd say.

I haven't thought about it much, at least not recently, but I guess I figured that she was done with that stuff sometime in the '90s, like most people. When am I going to get it through my head that Donna is not most people?

“I have to jet,” I say, and I beeline for the door with my package before I do something stupid like try to have a conversation about her recreational drug use. It's so not my business. Or my problem.

I don't even bother with the elevator; I just stumble down the staircase, almost going ass over attitude on a slick spot on the third-floor landing. It doesn't help that I'm carrying a thirty-pound kitchen appliance in a box I can barely wrap my arms around.

Over the next forty-eight hours, I get about twenty texts from my mother. Her agenda couldn't be clearer if she projected it from a klieg light like Commissioner Gordon summoning Batman.

The highlights:

Really want to bring you your housewarming gift.

Just noticed. Much in common between Eva and me.

Big news. SO EXCITING. I have an interview to teach at the Larry Moss Acting Studio in Santa Monica. Fingers crossed!

She's clearly done her homework. Eva's been studying with Larry Moss for years, ever since Milton Katselas croaked and the Beverly Hills Playhouse lost its top-tier ranking.

Think I met Eva's mother once. Small world. We should all get together, the 4 of us.

Lamb chop, why aren't you answering me?

I left a little something on your doorstep. Your sweet landlord (lady?) offered to bring it in so it wouldn't get sun parched. Please let me know you've received it.

There's a nosegay of yellow dahlias propped up against my front door when I get home after that last text. The frightening thing is that I've never given her my new address. I swear, my mother should get residuals every time
Single White Female
plays on cable.

I knock on Christian's door to see if he can provide any insight. He answers wearing a spangled caftan with his limp, newly bleach-blond hair rolled in orange-juice cans.

“Oh, dear,” he says, waving his freshly manicured nails. “I met Mommie Dearest today. She asked if she could come in to arrange them, but I told her I didn't have the authority.”

“You're sweet,” I say. “I'm sure you're minimizing the crazy.”

He places a pearl-nailed hand on my forearm. “We all have
mothers
.”

“Thank you,” I say, plucking a lemon leaf from the bouquet, the only greenery I think he'd allow, and tucking it behind his ear. “You are my savior.”

“We look out for our own here, darling.”

Which almost makes me cry.