Hollywood Girls Club (17 page)

“Mom, I’m not even seeing anyone.”

“Well, there is always Steve. I liked Steve,” Mitsy said, and sat.

Mary Anne looked at her mother. “I know, Mother, that you liked Steve. You’ve mentioned that a number of times. Unfortunately, Steve liked a lot of people. Do you want some tea?”

“I can get it, dear.” Mitsy started to stand.

“Stop. Sit. I will get it.”

“Okay, but plain for me. None of the green or ginseng tea. They give me a headache.”

“Sure.” Mary Anne grabbed the kettle off the stove and walked toward the sink.

“Oh, don’t use the tap water, dear. You never know about that. There’s water in the pantry. I signed you up for a delivery service.”

“What?”

“Two years. The third year’s free.”

“Really, Mom, I wish you would’ve checked with me first.”

“Just thinking of your health. Important during your reproductive years. And since you seem to be stretching those as far as they’ll go, very important you look out for environmental toxins. You know, you’re born with all your eggs. They get old, too.”

Count to ten
. Mary Anne walked to the pantry and filled the kettle from her new toxin-free water supply. She’d wanted a water service for months, just hadn’t found the time to call. But that wasn’t the point! The point was- it was Mary Anne’s house, her pantry, her kitchen, and her water service to call or not call. She walked back toward the stove. Mary Anne cared little if a ticket to Minnesota cost ten grand; she’d pay it. Mitsy had to go home.

“I seem to remember when you brought Steve home that one time, he said he wanted children. A large family, I think,” Mitsy remarked.

“Yeah, how many wives did he want? Did he mention that, too?”

“Mary Anne, I don’t see why you’re so upset. It’s not like you were married to him. Forgive and forget. Get on with it.”

Mary Anne couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re kidding, right? We were living together. I came home from work early and he was fucking our neighbor.”

“There is no reason to use coarse language,” Mitsy sniffed.

Mary Anne set the kettle on the stove. How did Mitsy do this to her every time? No matter how old she got, how much therapy she sat through, her mother drove her bonkers.

Mary Anne exhaled and walked to the table. Mitsy rummaged through her purse.

“Mom, I wanted to talk to you about Minnesota.”

“Here it is,” Mitsy said, pulling out a paper, then putting on her glasses. “Now, what is your day like tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Saturday? Well, I’m meant to go to set, but not until five. We have night shoots for the next seven days.”

“Well, that is ideal. My flight leaves at twelve-ten P.M. Can you drop me off, or do I need to call for a car?”

“Your flight?”

“Dear, you didn’t think I was going to stay forever, did you? I do have a life in St. Paul. It might not be as fast and glamorous as movies and celebrities’ but it is mine, and I do like it.”

 “Right. Tomorrow. Of course I can take you to the airport.”

“Now, tonight I made dinner reservations for us.”

“Reservations?”

“Yes, I was in your office. I was measuring for carpet—that hardwood in there feels so cold to me—and I got on your computer and found a restaurant I wanted to try. It’s called Lucques. Have you heard of it?”

“You? You wanted to try Lucques?”

“Well, yes, dear. I’ve been cooped up in this house for almost six weeks now. I would like to go to dinner at least once. And Lydia said—”

“Lydia?”

“Your producer friend. She said Lucques was the best place to see movie stars on the weekend. Now, I called, and they were very rude to me when I tried to get a reservation.”

“At Lucques on a Friday night?”

“Yes. So then I spoke to Kim in Jessica’s office.”

“Kim?”

“Your agent’s assistant. Very nice girl and smart. Did you know she has a joint MBA and law degree from UCLA? Anyway, Kim called Lucques and got us a reservation for eight tonight. The car will pick us up at seven.”

“The car?”

“Well, we can’t drive, can we? I mean, you’ll drink and I’ll drink, so who will drive? The car will take us home. I don’t want you ending up on the cover of some tabloid. That’s just what I need, one of the ladies from my canasta group seeing a picture of you in some trashy magazine in the checkout line. So that’s okay, then. You’ll be ready by seven?”

“Sure,” Mary Anne said, a bit dazed.

“Dear, the kettle is whistling. Really, Mary Anne, I worry about you. Sometimes I don’t know where your head is.”

*

Mary Anne glanced at the table to her right. There sat Angie and Brad. Across the room Michael and Catherine dined with their agents. Although growing accustomed to being around “stars” (she even had a couple she might call friends), Mary Anne still fought the urge to stare at the celestial bodies descended from the heavens. She sucked on the straw of her third Grey Goose and tonic. The liquor tasted smooth, the alcohol going down easy, dulling the sharp sound of Mitsy’s voice. Mary Anne wanted cabernet next. She needed to keep drinking—there were less than twenty-four hours to go with Mitsy.

“Well. You must have a wooden leg,” Mitsy nursed her first strawberry daiquiri. “You know, dear, a drunk woman isn’t a very attractive woman—at least not to the type of man that wants to have children. You should keep that in mind while you’re out here.”

Where did Mitsy find these rules? Were they in some book handed out to mothers with their firstborn? Did she find them at a store? And why, no matter how old or successful Mary Anne became, did Mitsy insist on sharing the rules?

“Mother, I don’t think I want to get married.”

“Don’t be silly. I still think Steve is the right one for you.”

“Yeah, if I want an open marriage. I’m surprised at you, Mom. I’d think you of all people would believe that monogamy was one of the most important parts of marriage,” Mary Anne said and dug her finger into the ice in her glass, looking for the lime.

“It’s important. But not everything. Besides, since women don’t really enjoy sex and men do, once you’ve had the children, what’s wrong with a man satisfying his needs?”

Mary Anne pulled her eyes away from the lime and stared at Mitsy. “Mom, did you just say that women don’t enjoy sex?”

“Mary Anne,
everyone
knows that. They may pretend but they don’t enjoy it. And an orgasm? What is that? I don’t believe it. I’ve never had one. Your father has, but I haven’t, and look, we have the ideal marriage.”

“You know, I think I need to go to the bathroom.” Mary Anne reached for her purse, then paused. “Wait. Ideal? Are you saying that Dad …”

“What?”

“If your marriage is ideal and you don’t like sex and Dad still has needs, then he …”

“Sleeps with other women? Well, of course he does. I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out.”

Mary Anne felt as if she’d been kicked in the chest. “What?”

“Nancy MacIntosh. His secretary. They’ve been at it for years. I think since I was pregnant with you,
after
the twins. I’m not sure of the exact date. I usually track their anniversary by when he goes out of town for his Caribbean conference. That’s when he takes Nancy on their yearly trip.”

“Wait. This has been going on for over thirty years? And you’re still
married
?”

“Why would I leave? It’s perfect. I have three great children, a house I love, enough money and credit cards to take care of my needs, and I don’t have to do any of the nasty stuff.”

“Okay. This is way too much for me. Do Michael and Michelle know?”

“Michelle does. I don’t think your brother cares. And neither do I.”

Mary Anne looked up as their waitress passed by the table. “May I have another vodka and tonic, please?”

“If I were you, I’d marry that Steve boy. At least he was trying to be helpful. I mean, who wants the mess? The inconvenience? And the smell—”

“Okay, Mom. You
have
to stop. Most women like sex. I love sex. I can’t be with a man who wants to have sex with other women.”

“Well, they
all
want to have sex with other women.”

“That is probably true. But I can’t be with a man who
does
have sex with other women.”

“Suit yourself. But I think it’s ideal. I have to use the ladies’ room. Do you still need to go?”

“No.”

Mary Anne watched her walk away, the Stride Rites beating a steady path to the ladies’ room. She could not believe this conversation.
Thirty years? Her father ,had had a mistress for thirty years?
Mary Anne thought her parents’ marriage was perfect … and so, apparently, did Mitsy. This couldn’t be happening. Wasn’t happening. Their waitress stopped back with the appetizer they’d ordered.

“Your drink is on its way,” she said. “May I get you anything else?”

“A red-eye ticket to Minnesota?”

The waitress gave Mary Anne a befuddled look. “Can’t help you there, but I have crab cakes.” She set the platter in the center of the table.

Mary Anne’s tongue wallowed about her mouth, her ability to articulate her words was always the first to go when she was drunk. Not her ability to think up words or put them together to make a story—those abilities never left. Just her ability to
say
words. Well, and her vision. Mary Anne couldn’t determine if there were three or five crab cakes on the plate. Good thing Mitsy insisted on the car. Mary Anne glanced at her watch; just fifteen hours until Mitsy was safely winging her way back to Minnesota. But why did she want to go back to that marriage? And what else didn’t Mary Anne know?

“Mary Anne, guess who I found!” Mitsy called.

Mary Anne spit the ice cube back into her drink and glanced up at her mother. Her fingers tingled and her heart pitter-pattered fast in her chest. Not only did she see extra crab cakes, she also saw—

“Steve! You remember Steve,” Mitsy said, as though she’d just found Mary Anne’s long-lost second-grade teacher from St. Paul. “He just happened to be here, and I asked him to join us.”

“Steve,” Mary Anne whispered, as waves of fear and nausea swept through her body.

“You don’t mind, do you? I told him you wouldn’t.”

And there he was. Steve. Stepping behind Mitsy to pull out her chair at the table, smiling that sheepish grin. The grin that had convinced Mary Anne to let him move into her apartment, the grin that had made her fall in love with him, that grin that broke her heart.

“Hi, Mary Anne.”

“You just happened to see Steve. Mother, where did you
just happen
to see Steve? How did you find him? What is he—” Mary Anne looked up at her ex-lover. “What are you
doing
here?” She must have yelled the last part, because the diners to her left glanced over at her.

“Mary Anne,” Mitsy hissed. “Lower your voice.”

“Maybe I should go.” The grin was gone and Steve stood beside Mitsy’s chair looking uncomfortable.

“No! Sit, sit,” Mitsy said and pulled Steve into the chair next to her. “Mary Anne, I found him over by the restrooms. I told him that we were just two single gals out for a good time and that he should join us.” Mitsy smiled brightly.

“You found him?”

“Mrs. Meyers, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Nonsense, you stay right there. Order a drink and have a crab cake.” Mitsy placed her napkin in her lap as if to emphasize that the decision had been made. “You two must have a lot of catching up to do. When was the last time you saw each other?”

Mary Anne looked across the table at her philandering ex-boyfriend. He had his head bowed, staring at his fork.

“Well?” Mitsy interrupted the awkward silence that only Mitsy didn’t realize was awkward.

“The last time, Mother? Well, I believe the last time I saw Steve was when his bare ass was pumping up and down while he fucked our redheaded neighbor, Viève. That was the last time I saw you, wasn’t it, Steve?”

“Mrs. Meyers, I can’t, I knew when you called—”

“You called?!” Mary Anne screeched.

“Now, Mary Anne, please lower your voice. Yes, I called. But only after Steve wrote me all those letters.”

“You sent my mother letters?” Mary Anne hissed.

“You wouldn’t answer my calls.”

“To Minnesota? You sent my mother letters in Minnesota?”

“And he called several times, too. Right, Steve?” Mitsy said, smiling. “Mary Anne, this breakup was all silliness on your part. Steve was just feeling a bit trapped, now, weren’t you, Steve?”

Mary Anne couldn’t believe this. Perhaps she’d had one Grey Goose too many. Maybe she’d passed out. “Is the bed spinning?” she muttered.

“Bed?” Mitsy asked.

“Yes, trapped. You were always pressuring me for a ring and a baby and a house,” Steve said.

“So you had sex with our neighbor?”

“Viève was very understanding.”

“Understanding of what? Your cock?”

“Mary Anne, please do not use that type of language,” Mitsy scolded. “Steve is here to reconcile, reconnect, and restart your relationship.”

What kind of sick reality show was this?
Betrayed first by the man she loved and then a second time by the woman who bore her.

“I’m out,” Mary Anne said, standing and reaching for her purse. “You,” she said, pointing at Steve, “are a gelatinous pile of dog shit some wretched mutt crapped out. And you,” she said, looking at Mitsy, her tone softening to almost a whisper, “have just broken my heart. Because you, Mom, are supposed to be on my team. You are supposed to want what is best for me, not easy for you. And if you think that a two-timing techno geek is all I can get, then I can’t imagine what you must really think of me.”

Mary Anne threw her credit card on the table and jammed her clutch under her arm. “Enjoy dinner; it’s on me. You two can catch up in person. Mom, I’ll send the car back for you.” Mary Anne turned and walked to the front door, looking at the floor so no one at Lucques would see her cry.

Chapter 17

Celeste Solange and Her Chloe Python Leather Bag