A Date You Can't Refuse (4 page)

“The FBI? Oh, please,” Fredreeq said. “What would the feds want with Wollie?”

I choked on some cappuccino foam.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Joey said.

“You might be right about this,” Fredreeq said. “The last time she had to keep a secret, she was doing favors for the feds. Look, she's blushing.” She pointed at me. “Tell me you're not doing some fed thing again, Wollie.”

“Does Simon know about this?” Joey asked. “Because if he does, I have to seriously question his judgment.”

Fredreeq nodded. “If he doesn't know about it now, he will soon enough. Look at her. She couldn't fool a parsnip. What are these government people thinking? They may as well recruit from a high school marching band.”

I wanted to weep. Any hope I might pull off this operation, whatever
it was, died on the vine. “Okay, I quit. I haven't even begun and already I know I can't do it. I can't tell you a thing about it, but I can tell you this: I'm going to fail.”

“Damn, Fredreeq,” Joey said. “Way to undermine her confidence.”

“Okay, you're an actress,” Fredreeq said. “Teach her to act her way through it.”

Joey raised her eyebrows. “I don't know if I can take artistic theory and squeeze it into an infomercial.”

“Try,” I said.

“Okay.” Joey pried open a pistachio nut. “If we had time, we'd go with Stanislavsky, who liked working from the inside out, as in ‘how would I feel in Lady Macbeth's shoes?’ and analyzing what Lady Macbeth wants, scene by scene, but that requires rehearsal and it's not what's needed here, is it? Here, you're writing Lady Macbeth's lines as you go, and—”

“Could we use an example other than Lady Macbeth?” I asked.

“Fine. For you, let's work from the outside in. Construct a character, okay? Give her a name. Dress like her, talk like her, act like her and as she sinks into your skin—”

“Like self-tanning moisturizers,” Fredreeq said.

“—you'll find that you're feeling more like her and less like you. The longer you live in her costume, the more comfortable you get. It's more clown school than method acting. Put on a clown costume, you feel like a clown.”

“Like you're possessed,” Fredreeq said.

“For moments,” Joey conceded. “Not all the time. That's called psychosis.”

“Great,” I said. “My life as a horror movie.”

“No, as a graphic novel,” Joey said. “Since you're a graphic artist. Yeah, that's the ticket. You need to create a superheroine, not a clown. A tough cookie.”

I shook my head. “Everyone's into superheroines all of a sudden, but I have no affinity for them. I don't want an adventure. I don't think I can do this, you guys.”

“You
can
do this,” Fredreeq said. “The question is, should you? I vote
no. It's Mercury retrograde, which is no time to sign contracts, and I do not like the sound of this job. Or these Russians. I'm old-school.”

“Fredreeq,” Joey said, “it's not like they'll use her for black ops, or wet work.”

“What's wet work?” Fredreeq asked.

“What's black ops?” I asked.

“Covert operations. Wet work is killing people in a particularly bloody manner. I don't see you doing that. Anyway, whatever this is, given your qualms, you must have a good reason for taking it on.”

I did. And it actually helped having a plan of sorts and two people who knew what I was up to, even though they really didn't. The comfort didn't last. It may have been an ocean breeze wandering a few blocks inland, but I was cold suddenly, and I found myself looking around, feeling as if someone was watching me.

C
alabasas is in the San Fernando Valley just off the 101 freeway. I passed it every week on my way to see my brother in Santa Barbara, but I'd never stopped there. It was, as far as I knew, a place where people lived, shopped, and sent their kids to school. Well-to-do people, for the most part. Unless you were one of them, or knew one of them, there was no reason to be in their neighborhood.

I took the Valley Circle exit, got lost, ended up at the Motion Picture & Television Country House and Hospital, where old movie people go to die, got directions, found Mulholland Highway, and kept driving, checking the roadside addresses, which were few and far between. It was like the Old West here, dusty and dry, brown earth, blue sky. The weather was hot, even for mid-May.

Until I reached Palomino Hills, a gated community. Brown gave way to green, with sprinklers going full blast. A high stone fence flanked a guardhouse. I pulled into the Visitors lane as a sparkling white Lincoln Continental whipped past me in the Residents lane.

What was I doing here? Gated communities made me anxious. If there was a gate or a fence or a velvet rope dividing people into groups, Insiders versus the Great Unwashed Masses, I knew which category I fell into.

“I'm visiting Donatella Milos,” I said to the uniformed guard once he'd given a brisk wave to the Lincoln Continental. His expression, when he turned back to me, was studied neutrality. He was large and pasty-complected, and I glimpsed a holstered gun. It wasn't the kind of thing I had ever noticed in my life before Simon, but now I looked for things like that. Guns. Short haircuts. Serious demeanors. The guard asked my name, checked his clipboard, made a phone call, gave me directions, and raised the gate. I drove through.

I passed a picturesque bridge that traversed a small creek and streets with whimsical names and more walls made of stone—an architectural theme, apparently—and even a wishing well. The houses looked like they'd all been built in the same year by the same architect with the same materials. All were large.

I came to a street called Tumbleweed Circle, consisting of four color-coordinated mini-mansions. I drove to the far left one and parked.

I hadn't seen any humans in Palomino Hills, except for the guard. Nor had I seen any palominos. Somewhere in the canyons, a dog barked. I walked up the pathway to the front door. A gecko scurried over my sandal, making me jump. And squeak. I collected myself and rang the bell.

A thought came and went: I hadn't told anyone where I was going. No one in my life knew I was here.

The door opened and a lovely face smiled at me. “You're Wollie, yes? I'm Parashie.”

Parashie was an adolescent with the poise of a flight attendant, and she had an accent, slight but charming. I followed her across a foyer to a winding staircase. We walked side by side up the stairs, our footsteps muffled by Persian rugs. We could have added another six people and still walked side by side. The house was done in Mediterranean style, all gem tones and mahogany, and so air-conditioned I could almost see my breath. I shivered. Parashie had bare arms and legs and wore a sporty little outfit paired with pink hiking boots, but showed no signs of being cold. She chatted about the Dodgers as we walked.

Upstairs, we traveled down a long hallway toward an open door.

“Donatella?” Parashie called, pausing at the threshold. “I've brought Wollie.”

“In the closet!” a voice called in response.

We walked through a spacious bedroom to a bathroom featuring a sunken square tub and a shower the size of a freight elevator. Then we entered the closet.

The closet of Donatella Milos was nearly as big as my studio apartment at the Oakwood Gardens. It had textured taupe wallpaper, recessed lighting, more Persian carpets, and an antique desk. A soprano aria issued forth from speakers suspended from the ceiling. Donatella sat at the desk, focused on a computer screen.

“One moment …” She was dressed in purple velour pants and a velvet tunic. With a click of her fingernails, the computer screen went black, and she turned. “Wollie! My love, it is you at last.” She stood and planted kisses on both cheeks. “You have met Parashie?”

“Yes, I—”

“Good. Good. Parashie, bring in the clothes. And send Grusha with refreshments.” Donatella indicated a tufted ottoman, which I perched upon, feeling like Little Miss Muffet. She returned to her high-backed chair, and I found myself looking up at her, an acolyte awaiting instruction.

“So.” She filled a water goblet from a crystal carafe and took a sip. “We begin. Yuri sends you first to me, as I am the stylist. It all begins with visual presentation, yes?”

“What begins with visual presentation?”

“Life. I am the genius of the dress, the suit, the hair, the walk, the shoes, naturally the shoes, the visage—you have a dermatologist or surgeon that you work with?”

“Uh, no.”

“I bring you to mine.”

My hand found its way to my face. “What? What do I need a dermatologist or surgeon for?”

Donatella reached out and touched my fingers. “Do not clog the pores, please. Perhaps Botox. There is no time for anything else, to be realistic.”

Thank God. And if there were time? A nose job? Chin reconstruction? The only kind of cosmetic surgery that appealed to me was a
breast reduction, but I doubted that's what Donatella had in mind. Simon wouldn't be wild about it either.

“You have circles.” She frowned. “Under the eyes. How much water do you drink?”

I shrugged. “It varies. On a hot day I'd say about—”

She held up a hand. “Already I do not like this answer. You must hydrate with consciousness. I do not ask you to carry a bottle; water bottles as accessory bore me. I am not from California.”

“I had guessed that.”

“But five liters each day minimum. On this I am insistent.”

“Five liters.” I was vague on what that was in terms of ounces or quarts, but it sounded like a lot. “Does iced tea count?”

“No. Water. With gas, if you must, but no sweeteners, no caffeine. No and no.”

“Gas maybe, sweeteners no.” I nodded. That didn't seem too much to ask.

A woman entered the closet. She was shaped like a dumpling, attired in what could only be called a housedress. Where did one shop for housedresses in this day and age? And why hadn't Donatella worked on this woman's visual presentation? The woman set her tray on an antique end table and held up two bottles. “Gas?” she asked. “Or no gas?”

“Gas,” I said. Live a little.

She poured water from a Pellegrino bottle into a goblet that matched Donatella's. “Lime or no lime?” she asked.

“Lime,” I said.

She set the goblet on the tray and painstakingly peeled a lime, breathing audibly. Her hands were rough and calloused. I bet she didn't use rubber gloves while scrubbing.

Donatella, meanwhile, had returned to her computer, her fingers clicking away at eighty words per minute, minimum.
“Grusha, abbiamo minestrone?”

“Yes.”

“Va bene.”

Grusha looked toward me. “Is she staying?”

“For lunch? Of course. She is on the team now.” Donatella turned to
me. “Wollie, this is Grusha. Tell her your food preferences and allergies, so we do not poison you.”

“Hello, Grusha,” I said. “I'm easy. No allergies, and I eat pretty much anything. Except beets. And I don't like sauerkraut. Or anything pickled. Oh, and liver. Not crazy about sausage either, for that matter. I had an unpleasant sausage experience once. I saw someone make it.”

Grusha shook her head, perhaps not wanting such intimate bio graphical details on a first meeting. Or maybe beets and liver and sauerkraut were staple items for her, boiling away in a pot at this very moment. After a small “hmmph,” she left.

I remembered that I was here in an information-gathering capacity. “Donatella,” I said. “Yuri wasn't specific about my duties as part of the, uh, team. I'm curious to know—”

“Yuri will do orientation, but in the nutshell, you are accountable for whereabouts.”

“Whose?”

“The male clients. I, the stylist, am accountable for the look. Everyone's look, even Yuri. Some are harder to work with than others. Some are stubborn. You will not be stubborn.” She pressed a button on a wall-mounted keypad. “Parashie. We haven't all day.”

Parashie's disembodied voice responded. “I only can find the wool pants and the Rykiel and Ungaro jackets.”

“Yes? What is the problem?”

“You mean you want those?”

“Yes, of course. What else?”

“But they're Chai's.”

“Yes. Bring them, please.”

“So,” I said, “can you expand on the idea of ‘whereabouts’?”

“Stand, please, and walk in circles for me.”

I walked and Donatella talked. “Many trainees,” she said, “come from countries with no infrastructure, so our freeways present a challenge. We haven't time for driving lessons. Those that do drive present a different challenge.”

“The Miss Lemon factor?”

“Precisely. When Miss Lemon first sued us, Yuri created the position
of social coach, to teach the proper dating rituals of the United States and to eliminate the need for the trainees to drive. Also, the insurance agent now insists upon it.”

“Okay, but I'm not quite clear—what does dating have to do with driving?”

“Nothing. Nevertheless, your job is to date them and also to drive them.”

“Where?”

“Wherever they wish to go. But we keep them very busy. You may stop walking, thank you.” She turned to her computer and typed.

“How's my walk?” I said.

“We will work on it.” She glanced at me, squinted, then turned and typed some more. “Tall, small head, big feet, and large breasts. Nice ears.”

“Thank you.” No one had ever complimented my ears.

“With you, the challenge is the breasts. With breasts, sexy is easy. Here, we project class. That, not so easy.”

“That sounds good,” I said. “Class.”

“It will be done, but it will not be cheap. And Yuri needs you up to speed tomorrow.”

“What's tomorrow?”

“DOA. Day of arrival. The first of the trainees arrive at LAX. The last ones come in the following day. Instantly, we begin the training. This is an intensive course, for you as well, so you must stay hydrated. Kimberly will work with you, so you will be in good shape, which is also important. Not as important as Americans believe, but some exercise is okay.”

“I'm expected to … exercise?” I said.

Donatella nodded. “Kimberly is the finest personal trainer in L.A.”

“Wow. That's like saying someone's the finest chef in Paris.”

“Los Angeles
magazine put her in the ‘Best of L.A.’ issue five years in a row.”