Picture Perfect (23 page)

“Maybe because he loves me?” I countered. “The last thing on earth I would have wanted was a huge wedding on a studio's back lot.”

Ophelia shook her head. “But that's not the way it's done, not in Hollywood. There's something wrong here.” She glanced up at me from beneath lowered lashes, and suddenly I understood just what Ophelia felt was wrong: In the natural order of the movie industry, Alex Rivers should have been matched with a woman who was stunning and ostentatious and larger than life; a woman who would never have agreed to a quiet ceremony; a woman who understood intuitively that a kiss was also a photo opportunity. Alex Rivers should have married someone like Ophelia herself.

I had never had anything Ophelia wanted before. When we went out, she had been the one to turn heads, the one to make people whisper behind their hands. If anything, I had been the foil to her beauty.

But as we waited for Alex and John to bring out the baggage, I could see Ophelia's eyes darting around to the few other cars and limos, hoping to spot someone who recognized a celebrity's chauffeured car and who, by association, was watching her. It was probably the first time she hadn't been the center of attention when she was out with me, and the bottom line was that now, she never
would
be.

I had misread Ophelia's reaction to Alex. She was measuring him up, yes, and the traces of bruises on my neck had thrown her off, but her original objection to him had been his choice of mates. Ophelia didn't intentionally mean to slight me—she hadn't thought that far into it. She just could not understand why someone who had his pick of brightly colored macaws would choose, instead, a simple wren.

My hands clenched at my sides. It seemed my whole world had been reversed. Ophelia, whom I'd considered my best friend, was jealously carping about my marriage. Alex, whom I'd expected to be a shallow, conceited megalomaniac, had protected me, bared his secrets, and stitched himself so neatly into the weave of my heart that letting him go would mean unraveling myself.

As if my thoughts had evoked him, he stepped into the rosy outside light with John, each of them carrying a suitcase. Immediately Alex scanned the limousine island. His eyes reached mine, and the muscles at his shoulders seemed to relax. He had been looking for me.

I kept my eyes on Alex while I answered Ophelia. “This isn't wrong,” I said quietly. “And he's not what you're expecting.” I glanced back at her to gauge her reaction. “We have a lot in common,” I added, but that's all I would say, because I wouldn't break Alex's trust.

“I hope so,” Ophelia said. She stretched out her hand to brush the vanishing spots on my neck that she knew I could not discuss. “Because you've just moved into a whole different world, and he's the only person you know there.”

 

ALEX
'
S HOUSE IN
B
EL
-A
IR SPRAWLED OVER TWELVE GATED ACRES AND
looked exactly like the plantations I'd sketched in my mind when my mother used to tell me about her childhood in the South. It was nearly five in the morning when we arrived, and I stirred from Alex's shoulder as the car made its way down the long gravel driveway, wishing that my mother had seen where I ended up.

It was not the type of house most actors kept in L.A. Modesty had replaced the grandeur of the Golden Age of Hollywood, simply because it bought the celebrities a measure of solitude. But Alex, who had grown up in a trailer park, would want something like this. My throat tightened as I realized that Alex, who so valued his privacy, was willing to trade it all for the opulence he'd missed as a child. I wondered briefly if it worked for him; if cultivating this image for the public erased the memories.

Although it was early, there was a steady hum of activity around the house. A gardener was clipping at a hedge that ran the length of the left side of the house, and a thin stream of smoke arched from one of the small white buildings out back. “What do you think?” Alex said.

I drew in my breath. “It's magnificent,” I said. I had never seen a residence like this in my life; and I realized that I would do everything in my power to keep Alex from seeing the tiny apartment I'd lived in with Ophelia, simply so I wouldn't feel embarrassed.

Alex helped me out of the car. “I'll give you the grand tour later,” he said. “I imagine you'd like nothing better now than a soft mattress.”

I grinned at the very thought of it: Alex and I tangled under the sheets in a bed that was wider than just one of us. I followed him up the marble steps, smiling as John held the door open for us. “Here you go, Mrs. Rivers,” he said, and I blushed.

Alex brushed past John and propelled me up a glorious, winding staircase that could have been a set for
Gone With the Wind
. “I'll introduce you to everyone else later,” he said. “They're dying to meet you.”

What
, I thought,
have they been told
? But before I could say anything, Alex opened the door to an oval sitting room that smelled of fresh wind and lemons. He crossed the room and closed a large bay window, letting lace curtains flutter to rest. “This is the bedroom,” he said.

I looked around. “Don't you have a bed?”

Alex laughed, pointing out a door that I hadn't noticed, blended between the blue and white stripes of the wallpaper. “Through there.”

It was the largest bed I had ever seen, stepped onto a miniature platform and pillowed by a big down comforter. I sat on the edge of it, testing, and then I opened up the bag I'd been carrying since we first left Kenya and took out the things I always carried with me on planes: my toothbrush, my toiletry kit, another T-shirt. Wrapped inside the T-shirt was the bottle of snow Alex had brought me in Tanzania, something I didn't want to risk being broken in the baggage compartment. I set it on the maple dresser beside Alex's brush and a tall pile of photocopied screenplays.

Alex wrapped his arms around me from behind and pulled my shirt over my head. “Welcome home,” he said.

I turned in his embrace. “Thanks.” I let him unzip my linen trousers and pull off my shoes, tuck me under the covers. I pressed my arms down into the forgiving comforter, waiting for Alex to come to bed.

He turned and started out the door to the sitting room, and I bolted upright. “Where are you going?” I said, my voice jumping at the ends in panic.

Alex smiled. “I don't think I can go back to sleep,” he said. “I'm just going to get some work done downstairs. I'll be here when you get up.”

I thought of how I wanted him to stay with me, to make this unfamiliar room a comfortable place. I ran my hands below the sheets to the spot where he should have been. I imagined the late-morning sun in Kenya, and the way we could remain in bed for hours there without the real world creeping through the thin crack beneath the door. But what was I supposed to say to Alex?
I'm afraid of being alone in this house. I don't know anyone here. I need to see you by my side, so that I understand where I fit in
. Or the deeper truth:
I don't recognize myself. I don't even recognize you.

The door shut quietly behind Alex, leaving me lost. I told myself to stop acting like a fool, and I fixed my gaze on the jar of snow on the dresser, the only thing in this house so far that I could say was mine. The sun spilled through the French doors of the bedroom like a spreading fire, an accusation.
So,
I thought,
this is how it begins.

“F
INLAND
.”

“Denmark.”

Alex skimmed his fingers over my ribs. “You already used Denmark.”

I caught his hands and pressed them against me. “Dominican Republic, then.”

Alex shook his head. “I already said that. You might as well admit it, you've lost. There are only two countries beginning with D.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is that true?” I asked. We had been playing Geography on a lazy Thursday afternoon, and just for the challenge, we had limited ourselves to naming countries. “Prove it.”

Alex laughed. “Gladly. But you get the map.”

I pretended to move, but Alex kept his arm around me, indicating he wasn't about to let me go. He was lying on a hunter-green striped chaise, and I was between his legs, propped against his chest. I stared at the sun as it brightened the edges of a cloud it was hiding behind. “Do you memorize atlases in your spare time?” I teased, already knowing the answer: Alex had learned geography as a child, self-taught, by speaking the exotic names of places he'd rather have been.

Alex kissed the top of my head, and as if the events were connected, the sun stepped out from its shade. “I'm a man of rare talents and sensibilities,” he said dryly, and I wondered if he knew how true that really was.

You see, in spite of what I've already told you about our arrival in L.A., all my misgivings about Alex had faded. In the week we'd been home, he hadn't gone back to work right away, leaving me to fend for myself. Instead, we had skinny-dipped in the pool, played tag in the lush boxwood hedge maze, and danced barefoot, without music, on the veranda outside the bedroom. After dinner, Alex dismissed the staff and he made love to me in a different room each night: on the mahogany desk in the library, the Persian rug in the parlor, the white wicker rocker on the screened-in back porch.
This way
, he said,
you won't be able to go anywhere without thinking of me.
In return, I took him to UCLA, to my office, and showed him my work-in-progress at the lab, a reconstructed Australopithecene femur. I introduced him to Archibald Custer, and Alex indicated he might be inclined to give the department a sizable donation if they
upgraded
their tenured teaching faculty. This suggestion—which we hadn't discussed—made me uncomfortable. I was offered an associate professorship and a fine pick of January courses, which I never would have accepted if Alex hadn't asked me to, as a favor.
You've changed my life
, he'd said.
Let me change yours.

Alex spent so much time at my side—introducing me to his agent, his employees, his friends—that at one point I asked if I was going to have to support us. Not that that was a real problem. Ophelia had been right—Alex made between four and six million dollars per film, and most of the money was rolled into his own production company, Pontchartrain Productions, for tax purposes. He paid himself a salary, but there was so much left over that even the third of his income that was spread out to various charities topped seven figures every year.

I was rich. Back in Tanzania, Alex had refused my offer of a prenuptial agreement, saying that he meant this marriage to be for life. I now owned half of a ranch in Colorado; half of a Monet, a Kandinsky, and two van Goghs; half of a hand-carved cherry dining room set that seated thirty and cost more than my undergraduate education. But even the most beautiful furniture in the world couldn't keep me from missing my old red leather wing chair, the first piece I'd bought in California; or from picturing the Salvation Army bureau Ophelia had bought me for Christmas one year, and then painted with peace symbols and daisy chains. My old furniture was worth nothing, did not fit in this house; but when the Goodwill trucks came to pick it up, I cried.

Yet I loved being with Alex so much that for the first time in years I wasn't looking forward to the upcoming term at UCLA; I saw it instead as something that was going to take me away from him. Still, this kind of life took a little getting used to. I had come to expect the reverent whisper of Elizabeth, the maid, as I walked down the hall to find Alex in the morning; I had become accustomed to writing down that I needed avocados and Neutrogena soap from the market and just leaving the list with Alex's secretary. When a hack reporter snuck onto the grounds and I opened the bathroom curtains to find a camera lens staring back at me, I didn't even scream. I calmly told Alex, as if it were something I faced daily, and watched while he called the police.

But we didn't go out. Alex said it was for my own good, that we should let the novelty of the marriage die down a little before facing the public again. He told me, smiling, that he wanted me all to himself. But the more time I spent in my gilded cage, the more I thought of Ophelia's words at the airport. And I knew that no matter how much of a fairy tale I was living now, I wouldn't really be happy until I could build a bridge from the life I had lived in Westwood to this new one in Bel-Air.

Alex had dipped his toe into the edge of the pool and was trying to write my name in script. “C,” he said. “A-S-S…” He frowned and looked up at me. “How come you don't like Cassandra?”

I shrugged. “I never said I didn't like it,” I clarified. “It's what my mother tried to call me until my father convinced her it was far too much name for a little girl. And then in seventh grade we did this Greek mythology unit, and my teacher made me look up my name.” I recited the facts to Alex as I had that day in front of the class: Cassandra was the beautiful daughter of King Priam and Hecuba. She was given the power of prophecy by Apollo, but when he fell in love with her and she didn't return his attentions, he cursed her so that no one would believe what she foresaw, even though it was the truth.

At twelve, I had liked the fact that Cassandra was beautiful enough to make Apollo fall in love with her, but the way she was forced to live out her life had turned me cold. Stripped of her credibility, she'd become a slave, and then was murdered. “After we did that unit,” I said, “I told all the teachers I wanted to be called Cassie, and everyone else just followed.”

Alex lifted me up and twisted me so that we were lying face-to-face. “Lucky for you, Cassandra,” he murmured, “that you tend to return my attentions.”

His breath settled into the curve of my neck, and I slid my hands under the band of his bathing suit, shaping myself to his heat. Alex gripped the back of my head and pulled me closer, shifting me off balance until we rolled as a tangled unit off the chaise and onto the grass beside the pool.

“Well,” a voice said. “And here I thought
I'd
come at an inopportune time.”

I pushed away from Alex and brushed the hair out of my face, straightening to see Ophelia, her arm held by John in a death grip. Her hair was a flyaway mess, her shorts had been torn across her bottom, and every few seconds she tugged her shoulder away from John as if she found him completely distasteful.

John looked at me, and then slid his gaze toward Alex. “She told Juarez at the gate that she was a friend of Mrs. Rivers, but she wouldn't let us call up to the house, so we sent her away. And then she's picked up on the monitor climbing over the east fence.”

“Speaking of which,” Ophelia said to Alex, “I'll send you the bill for these shorts.” She turned to me. “And shame on you for not giving me the password of the day.”

“Ophelia,” I said, shaking my head. “Why didn't you just give your name at the front gate?”

All the fight and bluster drained out of Ophelia, puddling in front of her feet. “I wanted to surprise you,” she said miserably. “If I'd let them call you and tell you I was coming, it wouldn't have been a surprise.”

I raised my eyebrows. She was the last person I'd have expected to crawl over the fence of the house. For the past week, I'd been trying to get Ophelia to make the tiniest concessions toward accepting my new life. I knew that in some ways, Alex and Ophelia were too much alike to become friends. Their careers moved in similar self-serving circles; they measured their success by the number of people who recognized them; they both needed me. I knew that deep down Ophelia believed that Alex was taking me away, but I also knew I could change that. Instead of looking at Alex as a threat, I was determined to make her see him as an asset—as a sort of big brother in the business. I told her this repeatedly over the phone. And of course, I wanted Alex to like Ophelia too. She was my best friend—my only friend, really.

Alex had wrapped a towel around his waist to conceal what we hadn't been able to finish, but he easily dismissed John and brought a chair over for Ophelia, entertaining her so smoothly I could almost believe he routinely expected to find women falling over his fences. “It's my fault,” he said easily. “I keep forgetting to give the names of Cassie's friends to the guard so they won't be hassled.”

My eyes widened; we had never discussed this. I watched him smile at Ophelia, then watched the last of her edges soften, and I realized that Alex had charm honed to an art. “Oh!” Ophelia drew in her breath, and then opened up a floral-print canvas tote that was discolored and wet at the bottom. She fished out a long red gift bag and handed it to me. Inside, broken pieces jangled; I peeked to see shards of green glass and to smell the sweet curl of champagne. “It hit the ground before I did when I climbed the fence,” she said apologetically. “It was a housewarming gift.”

I poked a finger through the remains. “Well, thanks,” I said. “But Alex has lived here for a while anyway.”

Ophelia grinned. “It was more to warm the household to the idea of
me
,” she said. “I've been an asshole. I was hoping we could just start over.” She glanced at Alex, who was sitting next to me on the chaise, absorbing the conversation as it unfolded. “It's just that when you've known Cassie for as long as I have, and she says she's brought something back from Tanzania, you'd think she means yellow fever, not a
husband
. She's taken more time ordering a drink at a bar than she did hooking up with you. Although,” she conceded, “when she does get around to making a decision, she has a knack of choosing the very best.”

Alex looked at her for a long moment, one actor assessing the skills of another, and then he slowly nodded his head. “Well,” he said, “she
did
pick you as a roommate.”

Ophelia swung her hair over her shoulder and offered a smile. I looked at her, and then back to Alex, and I was reminded of the way I had felt when I first moved to L.A.: that the people here were part of a tremendous movie set, all healthy and tanned and disproportionately beautiful. “I
am
sorry about the champagne,” Ophelia said.

“I'm sorry about your
shorts
.” I twisted around so that I could better see the jagged rip along the seat.

Ophelia laughed. “Actually,” she said, “they're yours. You left them behind.” Impulsively she leaned across the foot of space that separated us and threw her arms around my neck. “You'll forgive me, won't you, Cass?” she whispered.

I smiled against her cheek. “For Alex, yes. For the shorts, never.”

 

“Y
OU KNOW
I
WOULDN
'
T DO THIS FOR ANYONE BUT YOU
.”

At the sound of Alex's voice I looked up from the mirror where I was putting on my makeup. He was knotting his tie in preparation for a night out on the town that he hadn't wanted in the first place. Ophelia had begged to make amends by taking us out to dinner at Nicky Blair's, which she said she'd pay for if Alex used his clout to make the reservation on short notice. Alex had graciously agreed, but when we were alone in the room I could hear his objections cutting through the tension:
We should just have dinner here. Let the novelty of the marriage die down. We can do this some other time.

“It won't be that bad,” I said lightly. “It'll be over before you know it.” I put down the mascara wand and walked into the bedroom in my underwear and slip, coming to stand in front of Alex. I unknotted his tie and redid it, straightening the half-Windsor and then smoothing down the tails. I leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” I said.

Alex's hands ran up and down my arms. “Oh, it won't be as bad as I'm expecting,” he said. “That's my trick. If I imagine the absolute worst, I can't help but be pleasantly surprised.” He walked to my closet and picked out one of the outfits that had magically appeared within days of my arrival in L.A., a slinky red dress like nothing I'd ever owned before. In fact, most of my clothing was like nothing I'd ever owned before. But Alex knew more about these things—where I would be going and what I would need—so I simply deferred to his judgment.

“It's a Thursday night,” he rationalized, watching me step into the dress and then coming around to zip the back for me. “So no one from the industry will be around. There aren't any premieres going on, and the reporters should be calling it a day.” He spun me around by my shoulders and smiled down at me. “All in all, if we're lucky, it'll be dead tonight.”

I almost said what sprang to mind:
Ophelia will be so upset
. She was down the hall in a guest suite, borrowing one of my new dresses and a pair of shoes. When Alex had made the reservation at Nicky Blair's, a swank celebrity hangout, Ophelia couldn't sit still in her chair. It was nice to see her thinking of Alex as an ally instead of an enemy, but I wondered if she'd been swayed to apologize because she really missed me, or because she'd recognized the connections Alex could offer her.

I shook the thought away. Of course she'd come for me; she didn't even
know
Alex yet. And we'd had a terrific afternoon. I'd shown her around the house, laughing at her comments about bathtubs big enough to hold a cast party and whether or not Elizabeth sold Alex's dirty sheets to the die-hard fans clustered at the gate. A little after four we had raided the refrigerator and carried a bag of chocolate chips and some leftover sesame chicken into the maze, where we'd lain on our backs and let the sun slanting through the hedge speckle our stomachs and our thighs. And just like when I had lived in Westwood, we talked about sex—except this time, I wasn't the one simply listening.