Dating Game (10 page)

She drove back to San Francisco in the van on a brilliantly sunny day, and went back to the hotel to pack. She had thought of looking at some houses and apartments, in case she ever decided to move out, but she wasn't in the mood. Having left one of her chicks at Berkeley, she was now anxious to see the other in L.A. She booked a three o'clock flight, arranged for a car to get her to the airport, and asked the hotel to return the van, since they had rented it for her anyway. And at one-thirty she was on her way to the airport. She was due to arrive at LAX just after four o'clock, and had promised to pick Meg up at work. Paris was staying at Meg's apartment that night, which sounded like fun and would be less lonely than a hotel.

And on the flight down she thought of Peter again, the way he had looked, the things he had said. She had gotten through it at least, and managed not to humiliate herself, or embarrass Wim. All things considered, she had done well. She had a lot to talk about with Anne Smythe. And after that, she closed her eyes for a few minutes, and slept until they landed in L.A.

The moment they arrived, she could sense that she was in a bustling metropolis and not a small provincial town like San Francisco, or a bohemian intellectual suburb like Berkeley. The atmosphere in Los Angeles, even at the airport, felt more like New York, with looser clothes and better weather. It was fun just being there. And when she got to the studio, she could see why Meg loved it. Her job was crazed. There were a thousand things going on at once. Actors and actresses with beautiful hair and perfect makeup were scurrying across the set or making frantic demands. Technicians were everywhere, with lighting fixtures in hand or coils of wire draped around their necks. Cameramen were shouting to others to set up scenes that still had to be lit. And a director had just told everyone to call it a day, which left Meg free to leave.

“Wow! Is it like this every day?” Paris asked, fascinated by the action swirling around them. Meg smiled, looking relaxed and poised.

“No.” Meg laughed. “Usually it's busier. Half the actors were off today.”

“I'm impressed.” Her daughter had never looked happier. She looked gorgeous, and just like her mother. They had identical features, the same long blond hair, and these days Paris was even thinner than Meg, which gave her an ever more youthful appearance.

“You two look like sisters!” a lighting technician commented with a grin as he walked by, having just heard Meg call her “Mom.” And Paris smiled. It was an intriguing world, and a lively scene.

And when she saw Meg's apartment, she was pleased. It was a small pretty one-bedroom unit in Malibu, with a view of the beach. It was a lovely place. She had recently moved from a smaller one in Venice Beach, a raise in salary had allowed her to come here, along with a small subsidy her parents sent her every month. They didn't want her living in a dangerous neighborhood, and this was anything but. Paris would have been happy there herself, and seeing it made her think again of living in California, to be close to them.

“Did you look at any houses in San Francisco?” Meg asked her as she poured each of them a glass of iced tea from a pitcher she kept in the fridge, just as her mother did. It was a nice reminder of home for Paris, and comforting as they sat on the small deck, and enjoyed the last of the day's sun.

“I didn't really have time,” Paris said vaguely, but it was more about spirit than time. It had saddened her to say good-bye to Wim, not to mention Peter, and all she wanted to do after that was leave, and see Meg to bolster her mood. She had felt lonely when she arrived, but she was feeling better now.

“How was it with Dad?” Meg asked with a look of concern, pulling her hair out of the ponytail she'd worn all day at work, and letting her long hair fall over her shoulders and down her back. It was even longer than her mother's, and made her look like a little girl to Paris once she let it loose. She was a spectacular-looking girl, every bit as beautiful as the actresses on the set, but she had no interest in that. She was wearing a halter top, flip-flops, and jeans, her uniform for work. “Was he decent?” Meg asked, looking worried. She was sure it had been a strain on her mom, even though when he'd called, Wim had said they'd been fine. But he was only eighteen, and missed the subtleties sometimes.

“It was okay,” Paris said, looking tired, and taking a sip of the iced tea. “He was very nice. It was good for Wim.”

“And for you?”

Paris sighed. She could be honest with Meg. She always was. As much as mother and daughter, they were friends, and had always been. They had had almost none of the strife that comes with the teenage years. Meg had always been reasonable and willing to talk about things, unlike most of her peers. Paris's friends said she didn't know how blessed she was, but she did, even more so now. Meg had been her greatest source of support since Peter left, almost like a mother instead of a child. But she was no longer a child. She was a woman, and Paris respected her opinions.

“To be honest, it was hard. He looks like he always did. I see him, and part of me thinks we're still married, and technically we are. It's so weird, and so hard to understand that he's not part of my life anymore. It was probably hard for him too. But this is what he wants. He made that clear again. I don't know what happened. I wish I did. I wish I knew where I went wrong, where I failed, what I did or didn't do. …I must have done something. You don't just wake up one day and leave. Or maybe you do. I don't know….I don't think I'll ever understand it. Or get over it,” she said sadly, as the sun glinted on her golden hair.

“You were a good sport to let him go to Berkeley with you.” Meg admired her a lot, and especially the dignity with which she was facing the divorce. Paris felt she had no other choice. She didn't hate him, even now. And she knew she had to survive it, whatever it took. For the moment, it was taking every ounce of courage she had.

“It was right for him to be there. It made Wim really happy.” And then she told Meg about the college scene at Berkeley, his roommates, his dorm. “He looked so cute when I left. I hated to go. I'm going to hate it even more when I go back to Greenwich. I'm starting some volunteer work in September.”

“I still think your shrink is right, and you should move out.”

“Maybe,” Paris said thoughtfully, but she didn't sound convinced. “So what about you? What's the new boyfriend like? Is he cute?” Meg laughed in answer.

“I think he is. Maybe you won't. He's kind of a free spirit. He was born in a commune in San Francisco, and he grew up in Hawaii. We get along pretty well. He's coming over later, after dinner. I told him I wanted some time alone with you first.” Meg loved spending time with her mother, and she knew she wouldn't be in town for long.

“What's his name? I don't think you told me.” So much had happened lately, they hadn't talked about the new boyfriend much, and Meg smiled.

“Peace.”

“Peace?” Paris looked startled, and Meg laughed.

“Yeah. I know. Actually, it suits him. Peace Jones. It's a great name for an actor. No one ever forgets it. He wants to do martial arts movies, but he's still stuck in horror films for now. He's got a great look. His mother is Eurasian, and his father was black. He is the most incredible mix of exotic-looking people. He looks sort of Mexican, with big sloping eyes.”

“He sounds interesting,” Paris said, trying to keep an open mind. But even at its most open, her mind was not prepared for Peace Jones when he arrived. He was everything Meg had said, and less. He was exotically beautiful, with a spectacular physique that showed to perfection in a tank top he was wearing and skin-tight jeans. He rode in on a motorcycle you could hear for miles, and he wore Harley-Davidson boots that left black marks all across Meg's beige carpet, which she seemed not to notice or mind. She was enthralled by him. And by the time he'd been there for half an hour, Paris was panicked. He talked freely about all the drugs he had done as a teenager in Hawaii, half of which Paris had never heard of, and he was oblivious to Meg's attempts to change the subject. But he said he had given them all up when he got serious about martial arts. He was a black belt in karate, and said he spent four hours a day, if not five, working out. And in response to Paris's motherly inquiries, he looked blank when she asked where he'd gone to college. He said he took physics regularly to keep his system pure, and was on a macrobiotic diet. He was a complete health nut, which was a relief at least, since he had given up drugs and alcohol as a result. But the only subject he seemed to be interested in talking about was his body. And he talked in rhapsodic terms to Paris about her daughter, which was at least something. He was crazy about her. And even Paris could sense that the physical attraction between them was powerful. It was as though all the life had been sucked out of the room when he kissed Meg passionately, and then left them. And Meg laughed when she came back into the room and looked at her mother, whose silence spoke volumes.

“Now, Mom, don't panic.”

“Give me one reason not to,” Paris said, looking sheepish. She and Meg were too close to hide anything from each other.

“I'm not going to marry him, for one thing. We're just having a good time with each other.”

“What do you talk about? Other than his herbal enemas and his workout program?” Meg nearly collapsed in hysterics at her mother's expression. “Although, I'll admit, it's certainly a fascinating topic. For God's sake, Meg… who is he?”

“Just a nice guy I met. He's sweet to me. We talk about the film industry. He's wholesome, he's not into drugs, or an alcoholic in training, like most of the guys I met when I got here. You don't know what dating's like, Mom. There are a lot of weirdos out there, and a lot of losers.”

“It's not very reassuring, if he is what qualifies as a nonweirdo. Although he was polite, and he seems to be nice to you. Meg, can you imagine your father's face if he met him?”

“Don't even think about it. We haven't been going out for that long, and we probably won't for much longer. I need to get out more, and his diet keeps him pretty limited. He hates clubs and bars and restaurants. He goes to bed at eight-thirty.”

“That's not much fun,” Paris admitted. Meeting Peace Jones had been a whole new experience for her, and made her worry about what Meg was doing. But the fact that he didn't drink or do drugs was at least something, though in Paris's eyes, not enough.

“He's very religious too. He's a Buddhist.” Meg was lobbying for him to her mother.

“Because of his mother?”

“No, she's Jewish. She converted when she married some guy she met in New York. Because of his karate.”

“I'm not ready for this, Meg. If this is what it's like out here, I'm staying in Greenwich.”

“San Francisco is a lot more conservative. Besides, everyone's gay there.” Meg was teasing her, but it was certainly a large portion of the population, and famous for it. The girls Meg knew who lived there complained constantly that all they met were gay guys who were better looking than they were.

“That's comforting. And you want me to move there? At least I'll find a decent hairdresser, if I ever decide to cut my hair and get it done,” Paris said, and Meg wagged a finger at her.

“Shame on you, Mom. My hairdresser is straight. Gay guys run the world. I think you'd like San Francisco,” she said seriously. “You could live in Marin County, which is like Greenwich, with good weather.”

“I don't know, sweetheart. I have friends in Connecticut. I've been there forever.” It seemed too frightening to just uproot herself and move three thousand miles away because Peter had left her, although it was tempting to be closer to her children. But California seemed like a whole different culture, and even at her age, she felt too old to adjust to it. It was perfect for Meg, but didn't seem like the right move to her mother.

“How often do you see those friends now?” Meg challenged her.

“Not very often,” she confessed. “Okay. Never. At the moment. But when things settle down, and I get used to this, I'll go out again. I just haven't felt like it,” she said honestly.

“Are any of them single?” Meg cross-examined.

Paris thought for a moment. “I guess not. The single ones, if their wives die, or they get divorced, move to the city. It's a pretty married community, at least among the people we know.”

“Exactly. How do you expect to start your life over, among a lot of married people you've known forever? Who are you going to date, Mom?” It was a valid question, but Paris didn't want to hear it.

“I'm not. Besides, I'm still married.”

“For three more months. And then what? You can't stay alone forever.” Meg was firm, and Paris avoided her gaze.

“Yes, I can,” Paris said stubbornly. “If what's waiting for me out there is an older generation of Peace Joneses, I think I'd rather just stay single and forget it. I haven't dated since I was twenty, and I'm not going to start now, at my age. It would depress me profoundly.”

“You can't give up on life at forty-six, Mom. That's crazy.” But so was being single after twenty-four years of marriage. It was all crazy. And if sanity was going out with a grown-up version of Peace Jones, Paris would rather have been burned at the stake in the parking lot of a shopping mall, and said so to her daughter.

“Stop using him as an excuse. He's unusual, and you know it. There are plenty of grown-up respectable men out there who've gotten divorced or lost their wives, and would love to find a new relationship. They're as lonely as you are.”

Paris was heartbroken as much as lonely, that was the real problem. She hadn't gotten over Peter, and didn't expect to in this lifetime. “At least think about it. For the future. And think about moving to California. I'd love it,” Meg said warmly.

“So would I, sweetheart.” Paris was touched by her daughter's concern and enthusiasm. “But I can always fly out more often. I'd love to see more of you.” Meg was planning to come home for Thanksgiving, but they had no plans to see each other sooner, which was going to be hard for Paris. “Maybe I can fly out once a month for a weekend.” She had nothing else to do now, but the truth was that Meg was busy on weekends. She had her own life. And eventually, Paris would need one too, she just wasn't ready to deal with it yet.