Tales of a Drama Queen (15 page)

M
ontecito makes me feel like Lisa Simpson at a runway show. Glamour everywhere, perfect clothing on perfect bodies with perfect hair, and I clomp around cowlike with my Velcro hair and Target clothing. It doesn't matter that I'm wearing Celine over Calvin Klein heels—I am a bovine clumping intruder, and Montecito knows it.

At night, Montecito is in permanent blackout mode. Mansions, estates, chateaux and modest little seventeen-room haciendas are shrouded by foreboding, custom-wrought gates and impenetrable, perfectly-manicured hedges. There are no streetlamps or road signs. It is impossible to arrive in Montecito unless you're intimately familiar with your destination.

It takes me forty-five minutes to find Joshua's house. It's a mansion. I cannot be this lucky. Despite the presence of Joshua's car, I'm sure I have the wrong place. I ring the bell
anyway. At least I can get directions, and possibly I'll meet Oprah, Jeff Bridges or Rob Lowe.

The door opens and, in a glow of honey-colored light, Joshua appears. He's wearing a black ribbed sweater and jeans, and his feet are bare. Even his toes are sexy.

“You look gorgeous,” he says. “Prada?”

“What?” Is
Prada
his standard greeting? Because there's no way this dress can be mistaken for Prada. I almost correct him with a stern “Celine,” but kiss him instead; I had a caller yesterday whose husband thinks she's a nag, and I told her, would you rather be right, or happy? So I figure I should take my own advice.

The kiss is nice, but not hot. He leads me into the house, and I follow, worried about the absence of heat. Does he need time in his cave? Maybe I should have worn something sexier, like Saran Wrap or Jenna's body.

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” he asks.

I am almost too stunned by the immensity of the living room to respond. It must be two thousand square feet. A half-dozen logs are burning in the fireplace, with enough room left to roast a mastodon. Around the hearth, and it's definitely a
hearth,
is a phalanx of couches, a battalion of tables, a regiment of chairs. With, um, assorted other military-metaphors of carpets, lamps, bookshelves, artwork. It's a showroom. I have to restrain myself from looking for price tags.

He asks if I'll have some wine, and I nod, afraid to ruin the moment by speaking. I follow him into an
Architectural Digest
kitchen and perch at one of the stools around the center island. But it's bigger than an island. It's a continent. Joshua pulls the cork from a bottle of Pinot Grigio and pours two glasses.

“To us,” he says.

There is an
us!
He thinks we're an us!

I beam and clink glasses—nothing breaks, nothing sloshes out of my glass. He tells me he's making salmon, and starts
chopping an onion on the butcher block. He is a gorgeous chopper.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“No, thanks. Joshua likes to cook.”

Elle doesn't know what
that's
about. Elle thinks referring to yourself in the third person is bizarre. But if that's the price Elle has to pay for gorgeous man in gorgeous Montecito mansion who cooks salmon and gives Elle envelopes full of cash, Elle will think it is the cutest thing ever.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask. What I mean is, how do you afford this place?

“About a month, now.”

“You rent?”

He laughs, gorgeously. “Not quite.”

“You don't
own
it?”

“Not quite that, either.”

He lives with his parents. His wife owns it. “Well, um…it must cost a fortune,” I say.

“Oh, no. It's free.”

I almost spill my wine. “What? How?”

“The owners are only here a couple months a year, so when they're not using it, I do.”

“Oh! A house-sitter. You really scored.”

He looks up from the cutting board, slightly perplexed. “Yeah, I guess you could call me a house-sitter. Anyway, I wanted to ask your advice.”

“Me?” There is an
us,
and he wants
my
advice! A good thing I do this professionally. “Well, um…have you ever considered adopting a dog from the shelter?”

“No. Anyway, how does the phone gig work?”

“Oh. The phone gig? Um…” I watch him pull fresh salmon steaks from the fridge and put them under the broiler. “It's actually pretty good. I'm really able to help people. Like, two days ago this woman called who hasn't spoken to her mom in a year. And they live in the same house. So I told her—”

“No, I mean—how does it
work?
Is it an 800 number and you take credit cards, or a 900 number and they get charged by the minute?”

“900.” Why doesn't he want to hear my estranged-daughter story?

But then he asks a bunch of questions about behind-the-scenes Psychic Connexion, and it's like we're having a real conversation about my career. I'm quite proud.

“Three ninety-nine a minute,” he laughs. “And they get
you
on the other end?”

“Why is that funny?”

“Oh, Elle.” He reaches across the island and cups my cheek in his hand. “You're adorable.”

I press my face against his hand, like a dog begging for treats. I want so much for him to like me.

Over a candlelit dinner, I tell him about the parent company, and the divisions and laws and equipment and all that. He's so attentive and absorbed in me and my life that when he asks if I can get him some paperwork from C. Burke's office, so he can really understand how the business operates, I agree. I guess it is pretty interesting.

Dessert is raspberry tarts he picked up at a bakery in the village. I am afraid of mine; it will inevitably become an unsightly and embarrassing stain on my Celine. So I regale him with work-related stories, and ignore the luscious tart. I mean the pastry.

“Straight Sex is one of the categories?” he says. He feeds me a bite of raspberry tart. “Tell me more.”

I do better. I show him.

 

The king-size bed has real linen sheets. They need ironing, but still, real linen! The good-morning squeak is delightful. A little difficult to truly relax while terrified he'll spot cellulite, but still pretty delightful. Am so blissed out during the drive home, that I almost forget I've moved, and have to cut off a trucker to get to my exit.

It's drizzling rain, and my new house is slightly spooky, with its Victorian turrets in the gray light. I don't even know who else lives here. It's mixed residential/commercial, but I didn't have time yesterday to pry into the question of fellow tenants. Haven't been in the front door yet—used the back all day yesterday, for moving. I'm glad it's morning. The house must appear sinister, at night.

I step inside the front door and a man looms over me. I yelp.

“Elle?” It's Merrick. In the foyer of my building. “What are you doing here?”

“You scared me,” I say.

“That was not my intent.”

“That was not my intent? Who talks like that? You sound like Spock.” There's a plaque on the open door behind Merrick. It reads:
Louis Merrick, Architect
. “You
work
here? You don't work here. You work here?”

He gestures inside. The room is dominated by a large drafting table, beyond which are a couch and two antique Chinese wooden chairs. “Front room's my office. There's a bedroom in back.”

“You live here? You don't
live
here.”

“Would you stop that? I do work here, and I do live here. At least I sleep here. I'm building a house, and I'm running into problems. I'm staying here until I get it sorted out.” He looks fresh and showered and coffeed, and smells of lavender bath gel. I am stale and rumpled, with a raspberry stain on my left tit. My hair is in knots, and I smell of Joshua. “Were you looking for me?” he asks.

“I live here.”

He frowns. “Monty rented you one of the spaces?”

“Why shouldn't he?”

There's a glint of evil amusement in his eyes, but he just says, “No reason. Except no one else has moved in yet. Which one do you have?”

“The studio at the top.” I eye his lair through the doorway. “Mine has a view.” His looks out on the parking lot.

“I know. I did the plans for the renovation.”

“You did?” Feels oddly intimate, living in a place he designed. “That's weird.”

“Thanks. Those are words every architect hopes to hear.” He gives me a once-over, eyeing my disheveled dress and snarled hair. “What happened to your trolley?”

“What do you mean, what happened? It's not like they had to destroy it. Oh, the demolition crew came the next day. A little TNT, and it was okay. I mean, c'mon. It was only a backed-up toilet. Like you've never had a backed-up toilet. I suppose when your toilet backs up, it doesn't stink. No, when you—”

“I mean,” he says, “why did you decide to move here?”

“Oh. I got kicked out.”

“For what?”

“The water bombs, mostly.”

“What? The water what?”

I mumble, “Bombs.”

“The water bombs,” he says in a flat tone, like he can't be hearing me right.

Why won't he let it go? “The water bombs,” I say, loud and clear. “You can't have forgotten the condoms. I told you I had them to peg the juvie next door, didn't I? Well, it got out of hand.”

He shakes his head, unable to comprehend this new disaster. “Do you want some coffee?”

I hesitate. I do want coffee. But I don't want to talk to him. I suppose I can't order it “to go,” though. I follow him into his lair, and he pours two cups—no sugar, lots of half and half. The Chinese chairs look like genuine antiques. The coffee is wonderful. Merrick's wearing a slate-blue T-shirt and jeans. And I think his hair is a slightly different color red. Seriously. It could be the light, but I think it's gone from flaming-carrot to dull cherry. It is, if anything, even worse.

“So, you made water balloons out of all those rubbers?”

I sip my life-giving coffee and nod.

“How'd the ribbed one hold up?”

I grudgingly laugh. “Couldn't tell the difference. Though that may be the one that that stuck to Mr. Petrie's hair.”

“Mr. Petrie?”

“My landlord.”

He chokes. Looks like coffee's about to spurt out his nose.

“Old guy,” I explain. “I'd never met him. I thought he was the little juvie.”

He says, in a strained voice: “How old?”

“Like seventy.” I can't tell if he's amused or horrified, but what do I care? “Spry, though. You shoulda seen him dodge. Until the one that knocked him over, I mean. Then he just flailed, while I bombarded him.”

Merrick has a nice laugh. I know, because I listen to it for maybe three minutes.

“It's not that funny,” I say. “He kicked me out and kept my security deposit.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Yeah, can't say I blame him.”

“And now you have a new place, and are apparently—” He inspects the signs of my ravishment and dissipation “—enjoying yourself.”

I bridle. “What does that mean? Enjoying myself? I am
not
enjoying myself. I'm having a…I had a sleep-over. At Maya's. And forgot a change of clothes. Thanks for the coffee.”

I head for the door, but he's not done with me. “How about work? You find a job?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Consulting.”

“What kind of consulting?”

I stop at his drafting table. It holds sketches of something large and grand. “Just—you know, consulting.”

He flips the sketches closed. “No, I don't know. What exact—”

“Did you ever hire an assistant?” I look around the room. There is not a stray pencil, blueprint, invoice, or phone message out of place. Only the empty coffee cup I've left on the side table. “Because you've really got a mess going here.”

“Yeah. She starts next week.”

“Good,” I say.

“Good,” he says.

We stand there. Looking at each other. I remember kissing him outside the trolley. I like his voice, and I like his eyes. But he has red hair, and I have Joshua. I step back.

He says, “Elle…”

“What?”

“If you want—” he hesitates, and I think changes his mind about what he's going to say “—if you have trouble with the place, upstairs? Talk to me, not Monty. He's already had one hip replaced.”

I scowl and leave. But I put a little swing in my backyard as I walk upstairs, just because. When I glance back, at the first landing, his door is closed. Ah, well. Me and Merrick, alone together. I'll be lucky if he doesn't scold me every time I walk past his office. He's so much like the original Louis—stiff and formal and moralistic. He wouldn't even let me see his sketches, like Louis and his legal briefs.

Not like Joshua. He likes when I get into his briefs.

T
he next morning, after a day spent settling into my new home and ignoring Merrick's presence downstairs, I sneak out. I'm worried he'll corner me for interrogation re: my “consulting.” It is consulting, of course, but he'll insist I'm a fraud, just because I'm not really psychic. Perhaps every man named Louis is the same.

At work, I'm greeted with excellent news. Today, my desk is at a safe distance from Girls with Toys.

“How's the numerology coming?” Darwin asks as I settle in.

“Great,” I say. I picked up a copy of my namesake magazine,
Elle,
which always offers a horoscope-type numerology section. “I'm learning a lot.”

He nods thoughtfully. “You ought to pick up a
Details,
for when you get men.”

“Sports Illustrated,”
I say. “I start asking about their favorite
teams, I'll never get them to shut up. Hmm. That's not a bad idea.”

I am about to expand upon this when Adele appears in a cloud of patchouli. She's in full New Age regalia today: a lavender smock over a violet
Crystallize the Earth
T-shirt, with fuchsia leggings and raspberry wool socks. And, of course, Birkenstocks. “Your technique may be unorthodox, Elle,” Adele says, having caught the end of our conversation. “But there's no denying that you're doing well. It just goes to show.”

She says that a lot. It just goes to show. But she won't tell you what, specifically, it goes to show, unless you ask.

“What, um, does it show?” Darwin asks.

“The path between the crown chakra and the heart chakra detours the mind.” She draws a line from the top of her head to between her breasts. “Though not, of course, the mind
chakra.
”

Darwin and I agree: “Of course not. Heavens, no. It doesn't detour around
that.
”

“Still, I do wish you'd educate yourself, Elle.”

I nod. She's right. I really should. Despite her appalling fashion senselessness, she's good on the phone. Sensitive and thoughtful, sometimes wise. And good with Texans.

I am about to agree—yet again—to do the research, and the meditation, and the workshops and healing circles, etc., when the phone rings.

It's Valentine, the Montecito matron. I greet her enthusiastically, and tell her I was in Montecito just the other day. I manage not to boast about Joshua's gorgeous setup—don't want her feeling inferior.

Fortunately, she's not listening. She's too upset, because Rowdy, her Pomeranian, was hit by a cyclist on Coast Village Road, and hasn't recovered the use of one of his back legs.

“That's terrible,” I say. “Poor little Rowdy. I hope you got the biker's license plate.”

“A cyclist, Elle—not a biker,” she says. “That's what they call them. Cyclists. With their egg-shaped helmets and black stretch knickers.”

“A cyclist, of course. And don't tell me—I'm getting a flash—did the accident happen on Coast Village Road?” I don't do that a lot, honest. But every now and then, to keep the caller impressed.

“Why, yes!” she says. “That's exactly where it happened! I'm calling because I want you to tell me, with no sugar-coating, what are his chances for recovery?”

“Well…I'm feeling that the vet told you his chances are not good,” I say. Otherwise, she wouldn't be asking.

“Not good, not good,” she says, clearly overwrought.

She loves this dog. What do I tell her? Get one of those little doggie-carts? I flip hurriedly through
Elle,
but it's no help. I make psychic-on-the-verge noises, and dig through my stack of magazines. Ah! There it is.
Prevention.
They often have articles about pet care.

I open to a column about acupuncture for dogs and cats. Weird. But so are phone psychics. “I'm getting something, Valentine…I'm sensing…it's quite clear…Rowdy would benefit from acupuncture. I can't say if he'd regain
all
the mobility in his leg, but it would at least help with the discomfort.”

“Acupuncture? My vet didn't suggest acupuncture.”

“I'm not surprised. You know how stodgy and thick-calved vets can be.”

“Thick-what?”

“It's untraditional, Valentine. A bold move. I can't be sure, but I think Rowdy has a blockage of the, er, paw chakra, which should be directly connected to the crown chakra, but—” A wad of paper bounces off my forehead. Darwin motions for me to shut up, because Adele will overhear. “—well, best to let the acupuncturist do her job. I think that's the thing for Rowdy, though.”

She thanks me profusely, and promises to call back when Rowdy recovers.

“Nothing in life is guaranteed,” I tell her. “It's all process. It's all flow. Have you run into Oprah yet?”

 

The switchboard tells me I have a request, which means a repeat caller.

“Psychic Connexion,” I say. I'm convinced, by the way, that connexion is pronounced differently than connection. I spend a good deal of time trying to say it right.

“This is Nyla?” the woman says. “I don't know if you remember me…”

“Of course I remember you!” You hung up on me after calling me names. “I'm pleased you called back.”

She apologizes for being rude, and I pretend to be far too highly evolved to worry about such things, though in truth I'm tremendously jealous of her Fendi satchel. “You're the only person I called who wasn't just saying what I wanted to hear.”

I nobly refrain from saying I told you so.

She gives me the story about her remote but wealthy boyfriend again. She just wants someone to talk to, maybe.

“Um…have you ever considered therapy?” I ask. “I mean real therapy?”

“I go twice a week. But I don't want Susan to think I'm all messed up. I tell her my relationship with Peter is great. I'm sort of competitive with her.”

“You lie to your therapist? Nyla—that's a bad idea.”

There's a pause. “She's sort of a year younger than me. And happily married. And a size two.”

“Size
two?
” I say. “Sounds like she needs therapy for anorexia. Lay it on me. You still think he's unfaithful?”

“Oh. Actually, he is. I mean, I know he is.”

“And?”

“And I don't want to leave him. So I don't know what to do.”

“Have you spoken with him about it?”

“I'm afraid to. I'd sort of rather pretend, and stay together, you know?”

“Nyla,” I say.

She cries a little.

“Nyla, let me tell you how I see you spending your days. You sleep too much, maybe twelve hours a day. And you shop the rest of the time—for clothes or food or gorgeous little
things.
”

“Most days. Not twelve hours. Not usually. I do other things. I go to art galleries, sometimes—”

“You shop enough to know which days Bloomies and Nieman Marcus receive new merchandise. In fact, you have regular salesgirl who holds your size for you when new Chloe and Gucci stuff arrives. Her name is what? Cathy… Karen—?”

“It's Carrie,” she says. “How did you know?”

Salesgirls always have
K
or
C
names. “That's not all I know, Nyla. I know that when you get home with your new Prada, or Calvin Klein, or Roberto Cavalli…you think you'll be happy, but you're not. You immediately try it on in front of the mirror in your closet, or your bathroom—you know the one, the only mirror you can trust to give you an accurate reading, not like the skinny mirrors at the store. Twice a week you decide you like something, and you remove the tags and hang it in the closet with all the other stuff you once decided you really like, but you've never worn because you didn't have the right occasion. But most days, you find what you bought makes you look bloated, or squat, or crooked, or flat, or puffy, and you fold it back into the bag and leave it on the closet floor, hoping one day you'll have enough energy to return it.”

“I've never told anyone—”

“How many bags are in the bottom of your closet, Nyla?”

“I don't know. A few?” Her voice breaks. “Six?”

“More than six.”

“A dozen?”

“Are you happy, Nyla?”

She sniffles. “No.”

“I wasn't eith— I'm not happy knowing you're unhappy. There are two things you can do right now. One is forget about it, keep doing what you're doing and stay unhappy. The other is to try something new, something radical.”

“Stop shopping?”

I laugh. “That's
way
too drastic, don't you think?”

“Oh, thank God!”

“I'm going to give you an assignment. When we hang up, you sit down with a pad of paper and think of five jobs you'd like to have. Don't worry about how much money you'd make, just write down five things you'd like to do, and we'll go over your list tomorrow. And keep them reasonable—apparently careers like architects and veterinarians require a lot of education.”

“But I'm not good at anything.”

“You're not the only one—uh, I mean a lot people aren't good at anything, and they do it anyway, and they feel better than they ever had before.”

“Five jobs?”

“Five jobs.”

“I'll do it,” she says. “I'll call tomorrow. And, Elle…thanks.”

 

By the end of the day, I'm exhausted. I zone through the freeway traffic, my mind still at the office. I like the silly calls. I like the chatty calls and I like the good calls. I even like the crisis calls, giving the hotline numbers to people who need them, and feeling like I'm really helping. I like Darwin and Adele. And I like C. Burke, though I've never met him.

This afternoon, I slipped into his office to get the info Joshua wants. It's not important stuff, just things like the carrier we use, equipment leasing, purchase orders, scripts, manuals. C. Burke's office is a glorified cubicle, but it has a door. I closed it behind me, terrified I'd get caught and lose my job. Still, if I don't take the stuff I might lose Joshua. But be
fore I could rifle through drawers, I heard someone pause outside. I panicked, certain I'd be fired, humiliated and impoverished. But they walked past. I waited until they were gone, opened the door and fled. Empty-handed.

I pull into the lot next to Merrick's Volvo. My Beemer, even with the square taillights, looks worse than usual squatting next to his silver, late-model Volvo. But you know what? I don't care. I like being a psychic—even if it's a fake one. I like my apartment—even if Merrick designed it. I like my boyfriend—even if I'd never actually call Joshua that within his hearing, for fear he'd deny it.

I've paid Monty his $600—virtually on time!—and still have a couple hundred left. The apartment is truly mine, although I'm blowing through Chanel No. 5 like it's water. I spritz some every time I pass Merrick's door so he doesn't think I smell like sewage.

My little list is not looking so stupid anymore. I have crossed off apartment, car and job. Man I've scored through in pencil.

The phone's ringing when I unlock my front door. I happily answer—ready to talk to anyone.

“Eleanor Medina.”

Anyone other than Carlos. Shit.

“Thought you could get rid of me by moving, did you?”

“No, Carlos, I wouldn't do that. I just—the trolley was awful, so I moved. And I've been meaning to call you, but I've been busy.”

“The new place costs more, or less?”

“The same,” I lie. “Basically the same. And guess what? I got a job.”

“I need a check, Elle.”

“I sent one! You didn't get it?”

“Twelve dollars?”

“It's a start. It's the New Elle. I know it's not much, but that's because I don't have much. And now that I have a job, I'll be able to send more.”

“Don't mess with me, Elle.”

“I won't. Promise.”

“Where are you working? I've got it listed here you have no previous employment, and—”

“That is so not true. I was a, um, character reenactment technician, in a historical, um…”

“I don't even want to know. What are you doing now?”

I tell him the story, and we're friends again. He does demand the phone number for Superior, but he's laughing as I tell him.

“A phone psychic,” he says again, disbelief clear in his voice.

“I'm very good at it.”

“Can you tell what I'm thinking now?” Thank God, the Latin seduction is back in his voice.

I giggle out a “no.”

“I'm thinking you better send five hundred bucks, Elle, or I'm gonna have to garnishee your wages.”

¡Ay caramba!