Authors: Thérèse
“It’s okay,” Lizzie reassured her as she waited, then handed her a towel. “ Lie down. Get some rest. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Where the hell is Henry?” Lizzie wondered. “How could Sophie’s brother possibly have slept through this?”
Knocking on his door, she told him what had happened and, miracle of miracles, he was calm. He found Amy’s cell phone, called her parents, and tentatively put his arms around his stepmother.
“Tea?” she asked, moved by the boy’s affectionate gesture, by his youth. “I’ll make us some tea while we wait for the Steins.”
India almost had a heart attack when the fire engine screamed up from behind them and Max pulled his silver Maserati briefly over to the side of the road. Cutting and weaving again through the traffic on Santa Monica toward Sunset, he grinned. “You’re a knockout!” he said. “Adam’s a lucky guy.”
“Thanks.” India beamed, yanking Annabelle’s Stella McCartney minidress down over her thighs.
If I do come to live in LA it’ll be Hollywood, this end of town, she thought, taking in the jumble of cowboy bars and shacks, the tacky sex stores nestling along sleek high-rises. As they swung into the steep incline of the driveway at Chateau Marmont, the soft convertible roof slid closed over their heads and Max braked, sharply.
Someone was banging on the windows. India ducked at the blinding flashes of light and put her hands over her ears as the crowd shouted Max’s name.
“Hey, Max? How was rehab?”
“Is that your date?”
“Is your sister here, Max?”
“Max, Max.”
“Fuck it. I’m sorry, India. I should have warned you. Just stick close to me and it’ll be all right.”
India sat frozen in her seat before scrabbling around the floor in search of her Jimmy Choo clutch and faux fur stole. “Is it always like this?” she asked Max.
“Yeah. But I’m used to it, you know,” he said as they waited in the car for security to help clear a path. “Actually, I just pretend I’m used it to,” he muttered before looking her in the eye. “You ready?”
“Guess so,” she said, adjusting Annabelle’s chandelier earrings, which she was regretting. Two heavyweight bouncers were pulling a guy off their bumper as Max revved the engine, and they edged toward the valet garage.
India clutched Max’s hand. “They’ve really gone for this château thing,” she said with a sigh, trying to negotiate the cobble-stone path in Annie’s vertiginous Louboutins and following him toward a tiny elevator and down a service passage into a crowded room.
“Don’t let go,” he said, heading for an outside deck where the city lights twinkled beneath them. She let go the moment she saw Adam loosen his tie and make a beeline for them from the bar.
“You look gorgeous,” he yelled in her ear before two perfectly toned arms were thrown around his neck and a girl in a midnight blue satin dress snaked her way around the rest of him.
“Angel,” he said, kissing the top of the girl’s head and hugging her tightly. India flinched.
How could anyone be that thin and stay vertical? she wondered, as Adam introduced them.
“This is Angel, my personal trainer,” he said, turning to wave at the bartender. He missed the girl’s steely-eyed glance at India before she flicked her eyelashes and disappeared into the crowd. Max had reappeared at her side, nudging a stunningly handsome man forward. She recognized him but couldn’t for the life of her remember his name.
“Michael, say hello to India,” Max said, before backing up toward the bar.
Omygod Sarah will DIE, India thought. She has his entire BBC miniseries on DVD.
“Lovely to meet you,” Michael said in the softest of Irish brogues. “Let me get you a drink. You look like a girl who likes a vodka martini with an olive. Am I right?”
“Well, actually…” she mumbled, just as Adam inched his way between them, cutting off the possibility of further conversation.
“Sorry, mate, but no. She’s a Sancerre Sauvignon blanc all the way.”
“Ah, Adam,” the Irishman said, “you have excellent taste in women, as well as wine.” And giving India a charming smile, he turned away.
India took a quick glance around the room. It was amazing how these famous faces looked without airbrushing. The tattooed eyebrows and lids, the collagen pumped lips, the overstretched skin. Only Sharon Stone was as glamorous as India had imagined. Standing in a transparent shift that shimmered in the light, her legs really did seem to go on forever. “Honey, as far as I’m concerned, leopard print’s a neutral,” India overheard her say to the woman next to her. But where was Adam?
“Adam’s doing the intro,” Max said, as the lights went up, and Fred Stein walked into the room and covered his face with his hands as the crowd went crazy, whistling and stamping their feet.
From up onstage Adam grabbed the microphone and gestured toward his friend. “Happy birthday, Fred. Now come right over and have a seat in front. You’re not the director tonight. For once, I think you’ll agree we clearly have the advantage.”
Fred blinked away tears. “No crying yet,” Adam added, patting his shoulder. “Not until you see Forty Fucking Fabulous Fotos of Fred.”
A screen dropped down from the ceiling and a whoop went up at the photo of a one-year-old Fred in diapers.
“Still full of shit!” someone yelled irreverently, triggering a burst of laughter.
India grabbed a barstool. How wonderful, she said to herself. To be here in this room like this. Not alone or a plus one with Annie, but as a real guest with this wonderful, drop-dead gorgeous man who has just sat down next to me … and is at this very moment squeezing my hand.
A number of Academy Award–winning actors then proceeded to present spoof Oscars to Fred, before a childhood friend popped out from behind a curtain, his wife pulled him onstage, and Barbra Streisand belted out “The Way We Were.”
“Wow!” India shouted as she clapped till her hands hurt. When the reggae band came in and began to set up, Adam, now standing near again, looked at her. The electricity between them was so strong, so palpable, she thought she might fall over.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said huskily, taking her hand and pulling her through the waves of people milling around in front of them. When the elevator doors closed, he kissed her hard, cradling her head in his hands, his tongue searching her mouth. The elevator pinged and she felt the cold of the mirrored wall at her back as she struggled, weak-kneed, to prize herself away as another couple entered the tiny space. Neither she nor Adam said a word on the way to Adam’s West Hollywood apartment. The minute he turned the key in the lock, they stumbled in together and Adam tore off his tie. Unbuttoning his shirt, holding her tightly against his chest, he unzipped her dress. She trembled as he gently kissed her forehead, and unclipped her earrings. Fluttering his lips over her neck and shoulders, he lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
India had been in such a deep, heavy sleep that she didn’t know where she was when the sound of a phone woke her. Rolling over, she saw Adam scrabble around on the bedside table top and turn on the light.
“Who is this?” he said brusquely, as she stretched and gazed up at the ceiling. She looked at the digits on the alarm clock. It was two - thirty. It was the urgency in Adam’s voice that made her suddenly sit up and look at him.
“Of course,” he said, hurriedly. “I’ll be there right away. Give me twenty minutes.”
India touched his arm as he sprang out of bed and rummaged through a drawer. “It’s Max. He’s been in a bad accident. They looked through his wallet and found me listed as the emergency contact.”
“Oh my God! How bad?” India asked, pulling herself to her feet. “I’ll come with you. I mean, if you’d like me to.”
“I would. I’m scared, India,” Adam replied, zipping up his jeans and slipping his head through a tee shirt. “People used to say that Max had nine lives. But those nine lives were over years ago.”
Quickly gathering together the trail of clothing she had strewn across the floor only hours before, India zipped up her dress.
“It may not be as bad as it sounds,” she said, clutching her shoes as they ran down the stairs. Within minutes, the two of them were speeding down Wilshire Boulevard toward the emergency room in Westwood Village, and Adam filled her in on Max’s sad and terrifying history of close calls; the car crashes, the overdoses, the crazy all-nighters, the breakdowns.
“It may have just been an ordinary car crash,” she volunteered. “Maybe it’s not even his fault.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll be a first if it isn’t. Let’s hope.”
India understood some of what Adam must be feeling. The drive was reminding her all too vividly of another call in the night and a dash to a hospital where she had found her mother wired to a labyrinth of monitors. She was remembering the hours at her side, the faint rhythm of her breathing and then the low-pitched hollow noise she hoped never to hear again; a gurgling rattle. India had sat alone, holding her mother’s icy hand for some time before alerting a nurse and calling Annie long distance to break the news.
“Get your head down,” Adam told her, as a horde of paparazzi leapt out with a flurry of flashbulbs. “Fucking assholes.”
Screeching into the hospital gates, he parked and leapt from the car. India raced behind him to a night porter who gave them directions, and they ran down a long corridor to an elevator and into a starkly lit waiting room.
“Adam Brooks. You called me. My friend, Max Cohen? He’s here?” he asked the night orderly.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll tell Dr. Lee you’re here. Take a seat,” she added, gesturing to a line of plastic chairs that India noticed were attached to each other. Why would you do that? she wondered. Who would want to steal them?
They sat in silence watching the swing doors flapping open and closed as gurneys were pushed through.
“Mr. Brooks?”
Adam let go of India’s hand and stood as a woman in a white coat approached them.
“Dr. Lee,” she said quickly. “How’re you?”
“Good thanks. How’re you?” Adam answered.
This American formality struck India as weird. You could be lying in a pool of blood, all your relatives massacred and this would still be the ritual greeting? She knew she was on edge. At times of crisis the voice in her head always seemed to throw up the most inappropriate one-liners. Please let Max be okay. Please…
“What’s happened? Is he okay? Can I see him?” Adam said in a rush.
“Your friend’s been very lucky.” The doctor smiled reassuringly. “We’re pretty sure he just had a mild concussion, although we can’t rule out internal bleeding completely. We’ll need to do a scan and a toxicology report. We haven’t been able to contact anyone in his family yet. Can you help us with that?”
“Sure,” Adam answered. “I’ll call his mother. How’d it happen?”
“I’m afraid I’m not able to tell you,” she said. “There was a traffic accident. The LAPD were on the scene fast. They’ll file a full report. Please excuse me.”
India touched Adam’s arm reassuringly. “He’s going to be fine. He is,” she whispered as a nursing assistant led them to a tiny side room.
“You can use your phone in here,” the nurse said.
Adam began thumbing his BlackBerry, scrolling down the numbers.
“We’re in for a long night,” India said. “I’ll see if I can find some coffee.”
She was back ten minutes later with two Cokes.
“It seemed a safer bet,” she said, handing him the icy can. “Any news yet?”
“His mother, Alanna, is on her way. She’s a drama queen at the best of times, pretty unhinged. She’ll probably put in a call to US Weekly before she leaves the house,” he said. “I would guess Max’s sister Lauren will come too. They’re doing a reality show about their so-called ‘relationship.’ The two of them are like this scary doppelgänger thing.”
“You really care about Max don’t you? I’m so sorry. I feel so helpless,” India said.
Adam squeezed her hand.
“Yes, I love him. We go back a long way. India, I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”
“I’m glad I’m here, Adam,” she said. “I understand.”
“Where’s my son? I want to see my son NOW! Did nobody hear me? Where’s my son?”
The middle-aged woman tottering on her pink stilettos toward the admissions desk was wearing an inappropriately low-cut sheer blouse and skintight white leggings and reminded India of a blow-up sex doll. Trailing behind was a girl in a sweatshirt and pajama bottoms stabbing at her phone.
“Alanna?” India looked at Adam.
“How did you guess?” He nodded.
“I’m sorry. Could you please keep your voice down?” the receptionist whispered, covering her mouthpiece with her hand, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
“Do you know who I am?” Max’s mother yelled.
Putting down the receiver the woman glared at Alanna over the top of her glasses.
“No ma’am, but I sure as hell think you’re going to tell me.”
“Max Cohen. Where is he?” Alanna demanded.
India had some sympathy for Alanna’s hysteria, but was fascinated that Alanna’s botoxed face wasn’t conveying any of the emotions she was obviously feeling. That’s a lot of work, India thought. Her mouth looks like somebody punched it. Which might be the case any second now if she doesn’t shut up.
Adam got to his feet and walked over to her.
“Alanna, he’s going to be okay,” he said. “They’re running some tests. He’s in the radiology department right now. The doctors will let us know when there’s more news. Let’s wait in here,” he said, guiding her with his arm into the privacy of their little waiting room. Max’s sister looked up for a moment and shrugged.
“Whatever,” she said, following them.
I suppose, India thought, playing your life out for the cameras is bound to distort your understanding of what’s actually real and what’s not.
“Hello, I’m India,” she said, giving Alanna a sympathetic smile. “Annabelle Butler’s sister.”
Ignoring her, Alanna turned to Adam. “What’s going on? You said there was an accident? What kind of an accident? Like a car accident or what? Were you with him? Was he drinking? Was he stoned?”