Tales of a Drama Queen (22 page)

“It was for my niece,” he says. “She's in beauty school here. She had a test and the girl whose hair she was supposed to dye backed out. She called me at the last minute, frantic for a replacement—and so I went.”

I shake my head. “If you expect me to believe that—”

“I swear to you…”

I look at him in wonder.

“You don't believe me.”

But I do believe him. And I think it is the sweetest, most selfless act I've heard, well, ever. Yet I'm too giddy to let it go. “How old is this alleged niece? You're not old enough to have a niece in beauty school.”

“My sister's twelve years older. My niece just turned eighteen. I wanted her to go to college, but she chose cosmetology school.”

It only made the whole story dearer—that he disapproved of her choice, but supported her anyway.

“It's
true!
” he says.

“Of course it is. I believe you. I couldn't…I couldn't not believe you. You're so utterly…
right.
” The words come out the wrong direction, and stick in the air. They hang between us, heavy with meaning.

“You're right,” he says. “I am right. And you're right. And—”

—and I kiss him.

Nine hours later—after romantic walks on the beach, making passionate love under the stars, sipping lemonade on the front porch loveseat and exchanging heartfelt vows—the front door opens.

“Santa Barbara Municipal Airport,” Neil says scornfully. “You pull into the parking lot, they charge you three bucks. Even if you're only gonna be there—” He looks between me and Merrick. “What are you two doing? Charades? I hate charades.”

Merrick kisses me.

“Oh,” Neil says.

“I'm going to New York, Elle. For five days,” Merrick pulls away. He's gorgeous. “Promise you won't do anything…
anything
…while I'm gone?”

“I promise.”

 

The only
anything
which even tempts me is the job delivering newspapers. I tell them I'll take it. Because though I've been sick with elation and dread about Merrick's impending return from New York, I will not allow myself, even in my most fantastic fantasies, to consider that he'll rescue me.

As I tell Maya during a love-maddened midnight phone call: “I don't want to fuck this up over that kind of ancient baggage.”

“No?” she says. She can't really emote, because she's at work and—for once—has customers. So I pour out my heart, and she replies telegraphically.

“No. If I fuck
this
up, I'm gonna do it with brand-spanking-new baggage!”

“Louis Vuitton?”

“Kate Spade. No—I'm just not going to fuck this up. Because I'm going to be me from the inside out, I'm going to—”

“Please.” Heavy on the scorn.

“I know it's stupid, but it's true. I'm going to make it happen for me, and until I do, he's going to have to take a back seat. He'll understand. Oh, God, what if he doesn't understand? What if he meets some woman in New York and
marries
her?”

“Elle.”

“Don't
Elle
me! It could happen. Nobody knows that better than I do. But if this isn't about being rescued, if he actually
can't
rescue me, where's the line? I mean—do I not take anything from him? Dinner and stuff is okay, right? But I don't
expect
anything from him, maybe that's it. I make my own life work, and where we overlap, we overlap, but I don't leech onto his life and—”

“Kid,” she says.

“Kids? Jesus, Maya. We've hardly even kissed. All he said was I shouldn't do anything until he gets back. He probably meant I shouldn't flood his apartment from my bathtub. Oh, God. What if that
is
what he meant?”

“Was talking to Kid. Billy the.”

“Oh.” And so on.
Ad nauseum
—but it was Maya's
nauseum,
and my delight. He returns in three days!

T
he phone wakes me.

“This is Elle,” I say, disturbingly chipper despite the hour. Because it might be a job. I'm expecting a call or two.

“I want my suit. Today is fucking payback day.”

“Mom!” I exclaim. “Lovely to hear your voice. How's Sedona? The Red Rocks still, uh, rockin'?”

“Today. You don't want to piss me off, bitch.”

Today? Dingle's the last person I want to see today.

“What's that? The yeast infection? Much better. Luckily, I have this seersucker suit I'm using to clean the—”

Click.

Ha! All insecure men are vaginophobes. The best way to clear a crowded elevator, or taxi, or—

The phone rings again. I pick up, and am about to say
vaginal mucous
when I realize that I'm trying to put my Calamity Jane days behind me. If I did say that, it would
merely guarantee that Merrick, Carlos or a job were on the other end of the line. So I say: “Good morning!” Even if it is the Dingle again, at least I will show him he can't ruin my mood.

But it's not the Dingle. It's a job. They want to hire me. I handle myself with calm and professional élan, and hang up the phone with serene dignity.

Looks like the New Elle is not only a newspaper delivery girl, but also a desk clerk at a residential hotel. Not precisely the level of glamour I had in mind—and two jobs may actually kill me, if the hotel residents don't get there first. But still: I am rescuing myself.

First steps in self-rescue? Long hot shower. Makeup. Outfit. Rub tea-tree oil on Miu Miu and take her for a walk on East Beach. She boxes fairly regularly now, but each time I thrill to see it. She also eyes seabirds with a certain predatory gleam. Soon she will be chasing them, and my life will be complete. Almost.

We return home to clean beach tar from feet and paws, using cottonballs dripping with nail-polish remover, but are distracted by open notebook. Two circles surrounding: $1500 a month.

I can make this work. I take pen in hand for haphazard arithmetic, but am ambushed by dread. Both jobs start next Wednesday. I will hate them. Of course I will. I am sick thinking about it. This is me? Newspaper-girl and desk clerk? I doodle in the notebook, yearning for the oblivion of the Neiman Marcus catalog or, failing that, an anvil dropping on my head, à la Wile E. Coyote. But this is my life we're talking about. My life, and Miu's life. And Merrick? We'll see what happens. I'm not counting any chickens.

The phone rings.

“Eleanor Medina,” he says.

“Carlos, my man.”

“Elle,” he says in his official credit-guy voice. “They're getting serious. They're going to repossess your car.”

“My car! They can't take my car. I use it for work.”

“You got a job?”

“Delivery.”

“Pizza?”

“Medical delivery. Hearts and kidneys and…” I sigh. “Newspapers, actually. And I got another job as a desk clerk. So I'll start my payments again soon and they don't have to— Miu!” I drag the phone across the room. Miu has something unnatural-looking encased in one of her jowls.

“What?” Carlos asks. “Is she okay?”

“She was sticking her snout in—” Oh, no. “In a suit.”

“A suit?”

A seersucker, dry-cleaned, un-bagged suit. “The Dingle's suit…”

I burrow into her wet drooly jowls and unearth a sodden white stick capped with a glutinous red blob.

“Miu!” I scold, “not for you!” She slinks away, furtively licking her chops, and I tell Carlos: “A lollipop. She dug a lollipop from the pocket of this suit.”

“Did you say Dingle?” Carlos buzzes in my ear as I assess the damage to the suit.

It's fairly total. Slime trails of drool, a tarry paw print, and even a layer of dog hair which the furless wonder somehow managed to shed. The lollipop has slimed the pocket and the credit card receipts and nudie matchbox.

There's a knock on the door. “Carlos, I gotta go. Don't let them take my car!”

I hang up. The knocking has stopped. It's Dingle. I know it is. There's no way he didn't hear me talking, either. He's going to break my elbows. He's going to make me dance at Café Lustre to pay for his suit.

I toss the suit in the bathroom and shove Dingle's sticky stuff in my pocket. Will tell him the suit is due back from the dry-cleaner's in an hour.

I open the door, and it's Joshua.

He smiles blindingly. “Elle, I missed you.”

He's still the most gorgeous man I've ever seen, but he's not Merrick. “You sure did,” I say.

He blinks, unsure for a moment, then invites himself in and closes the door. “Hey, great place. Lots of space. Prada?”

“Is there something you wanted, Joshua?”

“To see you smile again.”

I give him a fake smile. “There you go. Next time call first, and I'll be sure not to be home.”

“Elle, I don't know what to say.” He looks crushed. “I'm sorry. How have you been? Found new work?”

“I'm doing private readings.”

“Private readings? That's great! I knew a palm reader in Tucson who did that. Made a fortune double-charging credit cards. Nobody complained because they didn't want to admit they'd been to her. Worked it a year before the cops took an interest.”

“Go away,” I say. “I know about the three grand you got from Nordstrom and how you set me up at Super 9. I don't like you.
Josh.
I don't think I ever did.”

He gives an injured-puppy look. “I'm sorry I was out of touch. I've been working. There's actually an opportunity for you, too, love—start-up money for your new business. I was thinking about DRM, how they fired you. You ever consider a suit for wrongful termination? I got a hold of their annual report, and they're minting the stuff. What we need to do is—”

There's a bang on the door. I want Joshua to leave, so I open it.

A hulking form fills the doorway. “Fuckin' bitch,” he says. “Where's my suit?”

My eyes narrow. “Hello, Dingle.”

“Tony?” Joshua says.

“Yo, Joshua.”

These two know each other?

“You haven't been in for a while,” the Dingle says. “Got
a new girl. Blond and blue. Flexible, too. And stacked like Jenna.”

Oh,
Jenna.
They have mutual friends, of course.

“Girl defies gravity,” the Dingle says. “Not like this saggy-tit bitch who ruined my suit.”

“Lay off, Tony. Elle is very special to me.”

“She's special, all right. Rides the little bus.”

I consider hurling abuse at them, but honestly, why bother? Neither of them deserves the effort it takes to invent good invective. “Your suit's not ready, Dingle. The cleaners said five o'clock. If you want—” Behind them, Miu Miu begins dragging the suit toward us from the bathroom. Her stub-tail is wagging furiously. She is clearly trying to contribute. “You have to go!” I tell Josh and Dingle. “
Now!
Goodbye!”

Joshua shrugs and takes a step toward the door, turning to Dingle. “Comp me a lap-dance?”

The Dingle stands unmoving, the human boulder. “If it ain't here by five, I'm gonna…” He spots Miu. “What the fuck is that?”

“That's—that's my
dog,
you mouth-breather. She's a Canadian Hairless.” I step in front of her, and she leans against me. “Purebred. Goodbye.”

“What kind of lame-ass breed is that? I got a golden retriever—now that's a dog. Hey—my fuckin' suit!”

Oh, boy.

He lunges for Miu. I frantically grab him, but he shrugs me off. Miu shows a spurt of speed and scurries toward her corner. Dingle kicks at her, but misses and puts a dent in my wall. I scream and claw at his back. Joshua watches, no doubt wondering who can be most profitably sued. Dingle lumbers toward Miu Miu and she darts away.

She thinks he's playing.

“Your fuckin' dog ate my suit,” he roars, and lunges for a flapping sleeve. She dances out of reach. I watch, stunned. This is as lively as she's been. She's having a grand time. She
teases him with the suit, allows him close enough to grab at it, then squirts away.

“That's not your suit!” I shout, because if he
does
get a hand on her, I don't want to think about what'll happen.

“It fucking is.”

“It's not. It's
not,
” I say, trying to get between them. “It's my…my slipcover!”

He lunges and gets a hand on Miu Miu, and she barely escapes.

“Joshua! Stop him!”

Then everything happens at once:

The phone rings. “Are you going to get that?” Joshua asks.

“You bitch! It's ruined!”

“Ellie?” At the door. A familiar voice, a familiar face. It's Louis. Not Merrick.
Louis.
My Louis. My ex-Louis. My six-years-and-gone Louis.

“You want
me
to get it?” Joshua asks.

“You're gonna fuckin' pay this time—”

“Ellie, what on earth is going on?” Louis asks.

Behind him, holding his hand, is a mousy woman. Dressed in a pale-lavender silk shirt and matching skirt I recognize from the Armani Emporio collection. I'm wearing a white sweater from the Gap. Her shoes are Gucci. Mine are New Balance. But still, she's definitely mousy. She notes my inspection, and smiles tentatively. Her smile transforms her into Julia Roberts.

Ducky.

“This is Lisa,” Louis says. “Lisa, Ellie.”

Fuck it. “This is the Dingle,” I say. “He's a bouncer at a strip club. And Joshua here's a grifter. This is Louis. We lived together for six fucking years, then he married this—” I'm going to call her a serious name, but she's got this doe-eyed mousy thing happening “—woman while on a business trip.”

“No fuckin' shit?” the Dingle says. “I want my goddamn suit.” He lurches for Miu. She races away.

I pretend it's not happening.

“Good to meet you,” Joshua says, also pretending. And to Lisa's feet: “Gucci?”

“Your phone is ringing, Ellie,” Louis says.

“If you don't want to end up in the hospital again,” I begin, then realize I don't care. I'm not mad. I'm not angry at Louis anymore. There's nothing. He seems like a nice guy, a stranger. “What are you doing here?”

“We're in L.A. We came up for the day—mostly for my stamps.”

“Fuckin' dog!” the Dingle bellows.

“Elle. Sweetheart. I won't take more of your time,” Joshua tells me. “I just need your signature—for that DRM thing, then I'll be out of your hair.”

“Your
stamps?
” I say to Louis. “
Your
stamps?” This nice guy, this stranger, could easily piss me off.

“Bitch! Call your hairless fucking dog—”

“I'm really getting tired of that word, Dingle.”

“Hey,” Neil says from the door. “I heard arguing. You having a party?”

Oh, here we go. This is all I need—Neil in a manic rage.

“Please don't use language in front of my wife.” Louis is stern and lawyerly toward Dingle. Of course,
I'm
the one being called a bitch.

“Hope you don't have any clients coming,” Joshua tells me.

“Bitch has clients?”

“Language? Don't use
language?
” This is Neil. “Who talks like that? You want me to get the phone, Elle?”

Woorf. Roorf.
Miu's barking! She's never barked before.

“For psychic readings. It's good money, mostly cash.” Joshua holds out his papers. “Now if you'll sign here…”

“Elle's residence, Neil speaking. Carlos? What? No, I can barely hear you, it's crazy here.”

Carlos. Of course it's Carlos calling back. Who else would it be?

“You know how I feel about my stamp collection, Elle.”

The Julia Roberts smile again, this time apologetic. “I told him we shouldn't come, but you know how he gets. This is clearly a bad time, Lou.”

“Fuckin' psychic
this,
bitch.” The Dingle shows me his meaty middle finger.

“Carlos Neruda?” Neil asks. “Like the poet? Did you see that movie—
Il Postino?
I liked that movie.”

I glance, shaken, at Neil. He actually
likes
something?

Then: “My stamps!” Louis spots Miu's stamp-decorated bowls and stares in shock and dejection. “My stamps!”

I stand fatalistically in the eye of the storm. There is nothing to be done. What will be will be. I wipe sticky lollipop from my fingers with the Dingle's credit card receipts and stare dully at the matchbox and receipts. I wish
I
had Jenna's tits. Hell, I wish I had the Dingle's credit. Each receipt is from a different card, purchases from Stan Storkin Jewelry, Sharper Image, Autos-Online, Goleta Car Stereo, Ameson Kennels, CompUSA, Good Vibrations… Shit. I can't even get a
single
card, and the Dingle's a major card holder.

“—a windfall from DRM, for wrongful termination, all you have to do is sign this complaint I drew up—” Joshua presses a pen into my hand.

“
Desperado?
Another great movie,” Neil says to Carlos. “Have you seen
13th Warrior?
It was poorly reviewed and not well received at the box office, but I quite liked it.”

“My stamps, my stamps,” Louis moans mournfully. “They're ruined. I never thought you were spiteful…”

Something nags at me about Dingle's receipts.
Car Stereo? Good Vibrations? Ameson Kennels?
I can't quite put my finger on it…

“—only need your autograph, right here…”

“Louis, forget your stamps,” Lisa says. “You owe Elle an apology—and not just for dropping in like this.”

“—bitch dog, I'll rip your throat out—”