Leaving Unknown (28 page)

Drowsy now, I consumed him with my eyes, blinking heavily, hating the relentless clock that was going to take him
away. Wondering what he was dreaming. I should remember to tell him…tell him…tell him what? It had seemed so important. I fought to remember, sleep tugging me away…oh yes…

“I love you.” I sighed, and closed my eyes.

The whisper was so low it could have been part of a dream, a warm breath fluttering my cheek, a butterfly kiss.

“I’ll never regret this night. It will be the treasure I keep in a safe place to take out on dark days and bask in the glow of how beautiful you are and that I was with you. It’s beyond belief. You’re a miracle.”

Write it down
, my sluggish mind urged,
write it down so I don’t forget, come daylight
. But nothing came out of my sleep-weighted mouth.

“Sleep, perchance to dream. The room is yours until two.” Gentle pressure. Kiss on my temple. Absence. The click of a door.

And with that he was gone, and the savory dream turned to gray mist and the confusion of feeling lost.

I
awoke to a boxing match between disorientation and cottonmouth. Disorientation had an early advantage as I blinked at generic beige walls and absorbed a bed too comfortable to be Laura-Lola’s futon. I simultaneously registered a mass-produced print of Native-American bowls so banal it screamed hotel “art,” and the fact I was naked. Shock flooded my system along with the memory that last night I’d slept with another woman’s boyfriend. The nausea of horrifying recollection trounced both cottonmouth and disorientation.

I leaped for the bathroom, and reached the toilet just in time to heave into the bowl. After expelling the colorful contents of my stomach, I rested my splitting head against the cool porcelain. The wine from last night was exacting its penance. As were my sins.

I’d slept with Noah. He was Beth’s boyfriend and I’d practically torn his clothes off. We’d made love not once but three times through the night. I’d been ravenous, fighting sleep and reaching for him again and again, storing his touch, feel, and taste as if facing a long drought. Fleetingly, I rose on a magic-carpet memory of our tangled limbs and whispered words, but quickly fell back to the cold tiles with a bump. It hadn’t been love. It’d been sex, and I’d acted like a cheap whore.

I began to cry, a naked hungover tramp sitting alone on some hotel bathroom floor. The nausea of my own bad character was worse than chemo. Noah hadn’t behaved above reproof, but I was worse, keeping him at the bar and feeding him drinks long after he had intended to go to bed, attacking him when he’d only given me a kiss. He was the wrong “wrong person” for me. I couldn’t fix the ways I wasn’t perfect, but I could avoid what made me imperfect in ways I couldn’t live with.

I pulled myself up by the bowl and wiped my cheeks. Enough was enough. I’d been waiting for Los Angeles to fix itself for me, and that hadn’t happened. It was time to get off my ass. Things were going to be different, starting today.

Right after my walk of shame through the Loews hotel lobby, that was. I dragged on last night’s clothes, and was heading for the door, when I saw the $20 bill on the dresser, under a note that said,

I froze in shock. I’d never felt like more of a whore. Tears started again and I was pulling out my phone to call my sister, when another wave of nausea hit. I raced to the bathroom, stumbling as I reached to brace myself on the toilet. The porcelain knocked my phone into the toilet, and I only had a moment to watch it sink to the bottom before I threw up on top of it.

I didn’t spend a lot of time contemplating the contents of my stomach floating over my cell phone once I was upright again. It’d been a cheap phone to start with, and would never survive this. For once I didn’t curse my bad luck. This punishment was deserved. I lowered the lid, and turned to go, pausing only to take the $20 and crumple the note. I was going to need a new cell phone after all. So Noah could call and explain why he left me money after cheating on his girlfriend.

When I got back to Venice, Laura was sitting on the sofa listlessly flipping channels. I tried to gauge her mood. I’d bet my whole twenty dollars on Not Good.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.” She didn’t look up, but she pulled herself off half the couch to make room for me.

“Aspirin first.”

“It’s here.” She waved at a handy bottle on the coffee table. I sat. I took the aspirin dry.

“Don’t you want water?”

“I’ve got mad skills swallowing pills.”

“Oh right.”

“So how was last night?”

She looked about to break into tears. “I’m a complete idiot.”

“Oh, hey! Lau—
Lola
, no.”

She gave a snotty burble of a laugh. “You can call me Laura.” The laugh caught and her lip started to tremble. “But really, I think I’m not very smart.”

“Hey.” I scooted over and put my arm around her. “You are
plenty smart.” Technically, “plenty smart” merely required your brain to remember to tell your lungs to breathe, so it wasn’t a whopping lie. “Besides, smart, schmart. You want to be a wiseass like that Clark guy? You have a heart of gold, sister, and don’t you forget it.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder. “You think so?”

“I know so, bozo. Look at how you’ve taken care of me.”

“Taken care of you?” She scoffed. “You’re the last person in the world that needs taking care of. You’re not afraid of anything. You came all the way out here by yourself. In about a minute you’ll have it all figured out and be way more successful than I’ll ever be.” From where her head rested on my shoulder, she couldn’t see my fly-catching mouth. “Besides”—she was sniffling again—“I was awful to you last night.”

“No…”

“Yes, I was. Can you believe I thought I was going to hook up with Perez Hilton?” Her tone rose to a wail. I was about to say that I would never have guessed Marion was gay, when she cried, “He had a
million
girls with him. He didn’t even
look
at me. How could I think I’d be able to compete with Nicole and Paris? I’m so stupid.” I shut my mouth. I patted her while she sniffled. “The worst was this crazy photographer following me around and recording everything! It was so humiliating!” I had to fight my smile, but not that hard. As silly as I might think Laura was, who was I to judge? We all made bad choices when it came to confused hearts. I owned the crown today.

“Where’s that badge attitude?” I coaxed. “We’re not supposed to be perfect. We’re just supposed to figure out what we can’t fix and learn to live with those flaws the best way we can.”

“Okay,” Laura said, like an obedient student. Maybe I’d get Marion to explain it better. “So where’d you stay last night? I’m really sorry I kicked you out.”

I opened my mouth to make a dismissive joke and turn the
conversation back to her. Then I paused. And changed my mind.

“You won’t believe it,” I said, and began to tell her the story.

A week later, Judd sifted the photos spread on the desk before him. I’d spent most of the week revising my resume to reflect event photography, darkroom skills, and artistic sales out of the internationally recognized Red Gallery of Arizona. I’d also selected my favorite eight by tens to create a portfolio for Judd.

“I’m impressed.” He looked at me. “We all were. A little too impressed. I’m not sure you’ll find the work we do…uh…artistically stimulating.”

“There’s an art to paying rent,” I said. “Remember the girl in the Pocahontas fringe halter chasing Perez Hilton at Lisa Kline’s party? I’m dependent on her charity, and the water stain on the ceiling above her futon is about to be permanently ingrained on my inner cortex. I believe that constitutes medical brain damage.”

“You’re hired.”

I exhaled in relief. This had been my last shot. Even Taco Loco didn’t want me.

“Now I can replace the cell phone I dropped in the toilet.”

“I wondered about your, er, complicated messaging system.” Judd raised an eyebrow.

I snorted. It’d been a nightmare since I’d lost my phone. I had no money for a new one, and too much pride to accept familial charity. Until I could afford a replacement, I was dependent on Laura to field messages and let me use her phone to return calls. It was my penance. Not that it mattered. Despite making very sure that Tuesday had Laura’s number and strict instructions to disseminate it “to
everyone
” so they could reach me, especially Noah “
in case he had questions about the store
,” he hadn’t called. It hurt.

“You know,” Judd recalled my attention to my pictures, “these really are good. You should think about how to market them.”

“You think so?” I joined him behind the desk.

Judd extracted a shot of Barney stretched out asleep on the hood of his rusty antique Ford. “I wouldn’t mind having one of these.”

“There are dirty words in two languages going on in that picture,” I warned. “You just can’t see them.”

“I won’t tell my mother.”

“I’ll bring a copy tomorrow.” I hesitated. “Can I ask what makes you like it? You don’t even know that guy.”

He considered. “I like seeing people without artifice. All of these.” He gestured. “You catch real people with their guard down. This one here”—he pointed to a print—“she’s standing still, holding a cup of coffee, but it looks like she’s dancing, right down to her fingers and toes. It makes me want to know more about her. And you. The artist obviously cares about her.”

“She’s the best.” I agreed. I couldn’t wait to call Tuesday. “So, you really like them?”

“I expect many people will. The nature shots are strong too. You should sell your work.”

“Here?” I asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not.” He grimaced. “Your missions for Woot Prints, should you choose to accept them, you won’t find so engaging. It’s mostly charity events where no one remembers the charity and a single swag bag would feed East Timor for a month—exclusive private parties that exist merely to be crashed by those higher on the Hollywood food chain—who never do—and promotional launches that attempt to convince meaningless twits that their indistinguishable product is indispensable.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Occasionally there’s a seasonal special, and you get every twat in Hollywood
at some pumpkin patch with a fake oh-you-caught-me-in-my-adorable-private-moment shit-eating grin.”

I bit my lip.

“Sorry,” he said. “If you do this too long, ‘twat’ becomes a staple of your vocabulary.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “That word is Oliver’s divine truth. So what do I actually do?”

“Every gig is swarming with the B-and-lower list. You’re there to catch their good side. I try to catch them with chewed-up food in their mouths. But I’ll warn you, twits and twats would wrestle Mother Teresa to the ground to make sure she is out of the photographer’s sightline so they can be snapped on their good side.”

“Mother Teresa would definitely lose. Hard to nail the defensive moves when you’re dead.”

“’Corpse of Nobel Saint Sustains Red Carpet Tumble In Religious Habit Accessorized By Rope Belt, Cloth Headscarf, and Jewelry by Pontius Pilate.’ Death is a potentially smart career move if it snags you the cover of
Us Weekly
.”

“That’s macabre.”

“Remember James Dean?”

“Gotcha.”

“You’ll learn to understand these strange creatures. They’re emotional black holes that can never be filled, ravening beasts soothed only by the whirring of the paparazzi shutter. You don’t have to worry about feeding them, because they never eat.”

“Sounds fun.” I wouldn’t let myself get depressed.

“Consider it a challenge especially suited to your talents. If you can catch one of these creatures showing genuine self without artifice, the way
your
subjects do, that’ll be a masterpiece.”

I recalled Laura in wrinkled sweats, ponytail, and no makeup, on the couch after my night with Noah, laughing at
American Idol
. It was the prettiest I’d seen her look.

I brightened. This would be fun. “What’s my first assignment?”

We considered Judd’s booking schedule to see what made the most sense. As excellent timing would have it, my own schedule was wide open. We decided that I would shadow Judd for a few events, learn the dance steps, then start solo with some small gigs.

“Fantastic. See you Wednesday!”

“Just out of curiosity”—Judd stopped me as I gathered my things. He tapped a print—“Who’s this?”

Stab of pain. The picture caught Noah, chin resting on his hands as he stared at his computer. “No one,” I said.

“Right.” Judd didn’t buy it. “See you Wednesday.”

It was the truth. Noah didn’t exist for me anymore. I knew my limits—I’d learned from Rondelé-brand garlic-and-herb spread that I lacked them. When that succulent cheese spread was in the house, I’d dive in and get dirty with it, swallowing all it had to offer. What permitted me a modicum of restraint was that Rondelé didn’t have my phone number. I always initiated our late-night booty calls.

Noah
did
have my number, or Laura’s, at any rate. And he hadn’t used it, making it very clear what he thought of me—or rather, that he didn’t. No apology, no begging me not to tell anyone, no explanation of the $20, or even an invitation to engage in more illicit bad acts. Nothing. So that was it. I had too much pride to call him. I’d understood when people had bailed on me when I got cancer—I didn’t agree, but I was smart enough to blame the cancer, not myself. With Noah, it was a case of the simplest explanation being true. He hadn’t called because he didn’t feel like it. End of story.

When I walked into Do You Tattoo, Marion didn’t even look up from the
Semper Fi
he was inking on a Marine.

“Go ahead,” he grunted.

I headed for the phone.

“Aloha,” came the lyrical greeting.

“Tuesday!”

“Ay-yi, Maeve! Oh, I miss you!”

“Me too. I got a job!”

“That’s great! Pizza Hut or Jack in the Box?”

“Hardy-har-har. It’s a photography job. I’m paparazzi now!” As soon as I said it, I worried that it didn’t convey properly. “I mean, I’m an event photographer. There’ll be celebrities, of course, but it will be about the events themselves. The challenge will be catching people unawares, you know, food in their mouths…” I trailed off. What Judd had made sound artistic, I made sound like the creepy over-hugging uncle. The blood of Princess Diana was making the phone slick in my hands. “It’s hard to explain,” I concluded lamely. “You kind of have to know LA.” Out, out damned spot.

“Well Uncle Frank’s disappointed you’re not in food services, but I’m happy for you. Well, sort of happy. I kind of hoped you’d come back. Noah refuses to hire anyone…”

“Tuesday.” I cut her off. She was under strict instructions. If Noah didn’t care to talk to me himself, I didn’t want to hear about him.