India's Summer (22 page)

“Omygod … Adam, this is terrifying.”

Straightening up in the oversize armchair, India uncurled her legs, adjusted the cushion behind her back, and swiveled the computer screen toward him.

Gazing at her over the top of his reading glasses, Adam marked his place in a battered copy of The Brothers Karamazov.

“What is?”

“This Pro-Ana website. The girl’s emaciated and she just purged. It’s gross; gag reflexes, bingeing. I’d no idea. Look. Look at her rib cage. They actually call it a ‘lifestyle choice.’ Some lifestyle.”

“That’s pretty scary.” He shuddered. “Why are you on there, anyway?”

“I just found out Farrah’s daughter’s down to ninety pounds.”

“Angel was talking about the exact same thing yesterday.” Adam nodded.

India squirmed and looked fixedly at the screen. Yesterday?

“She was saying her Pilates classes are full of anorexics killing themselves to break a sweat.”

Well, I hope Angel’s not getting her cardio in on you, India thought, noting down the number of a help line. “Okay. I’m done,” she said, pushing her laptop across the coffee table then coming over to snuggle up next to him on the couch.

Adam leaned forward and poured a cup of Earl Grey. “I admit it, tea tastes better in a teapot.”

“Thought you’d appreciate it; it’s an Emma Bridgewater.” India smiled, stretching out her legs across his lap and cradling her cream china mug. “So what’re you up to tomorrow? I have to leave around eight.”

“You don’t want to hear. That’s the fun bit,” he said nodding at the stack of books at his feet and picking up a schedule. “It all starts this week. No carbs, protein drinks, four hours’ training a day, and that’s not counting the boxing classes.”

“That’s intense,” India said, flicking through the schedule’s pages. “Are they sure it has to be such a strict regimen? I mean, you’re pretty ripped to begin with…”

“Thank you.” He grinned. “But I don’t look like I’ve spent my life hauling bricks up and down the Volga River yet. I don’t mind the weight training, but the diet’s brutal.”

“Well, things could be worse, I suppose. At least you only have to pretend you did it. That was poor Yegor’s real life.”

“True and that wasn’t the worst of it … homeless in London isn’t much fun either.”

“That must be awful; home’s so important. I love your apartment. Actually, in a way it’s a bit like my flat in London. I’ve a ton of books, too, and a baby grand piano. I got to keep our mother’s things, and I’m a hoarder. I love flea markets.”

“My designer was English,” he said, gently massaging her toes. “That’s probably why.”

“Yes, that dresser could have come straight from Heal’s.”

“It did.” He laughed.

Adam had moved his attention away from her feet and his hand was edging up the inside of her thigh.

“I have another little treat for you,” she said, pulling away with an effort. “I think you’ll like it even more than the teapot. Be right back … put on that Shostakovitch CD.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Adam grinned, lifting a log and aiming it at the dwindling fire.

India went into the bedroom and pulled out an ankle-length white gypsy skirt from Annabelle’s LV overnight bag. She smoothed out the creases and draped a large Hermès scarf over it. I shall wear it handkerchief-style as a top. Très avant-garde. She smiled.

She folded her worksheets into the Fendi tote, dashed into the bathroom and slipped on her Agent Provocateur Fifi slip ($550). She snapped the clasp on her suspender, straightened the seam on her black silk stocking, then gently eased her foot into a six-inch patent leather stiletto.

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

Lizzie was not at the house when India arrived. India was disappointed. She was hoping for a quick cup of coffee and a few compliments on her current look. That’s a lot of cars. What time is it? Maybe the clocks went back, she thought, running toward the studio and adjusting the Hermès scarf as she went. Damn. It’s so slippery. I should have pinned it.

Opening the door with one hand and struggling to adjust her top with the other, she stumbled into the room and looked up. There was a deathly silence the minute she appeared. Every face was turned toward her. She froze. Something was terribly wrong. The women from her Wednesday group were there too.

Why is everyone so quiet? Why are they all looking at me like this? What on Earth has happened? she wondered, looking down and realizing with horror that she should have worn an under-skirt. But that was not what this was about, she knew.

India was scared. It was as if she did not recognize these people anymore. Somehow she was the enemy. Summer was the first to speak. There was a tremor in her voice.

“Why…” She paused, adjusting a couple of her bangles. “Why is it better to call yourself a country, India?” she said, her eyes flashing.

“I’m sorry?”

“Than a season? Like why is my name so ridiculous, IN-DI-A?”

Lizzie stood up. “You need to see something that Sophie sent to Joan last night, India. It’s on YouTube. When you do, I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty understanding what Summer means.”

She spoke in a very measured tone, and India knew with absolute certainty that this was not a surprise party. Adam was not about to spring out from behind a curtain and propose. Her heart started to pound.

Maybe they’ve found out I only taught high school. I can explain. This is a terrible mistake,she thought, scrambling through all the wildest possibilities. But she could not find her voice. Her throat had closed up. Then Lizzie turned her iPad round on the table to face her. She looked terribly sad.

It took India a few seconds to make sense of what she was looking at. A line of small screens came up and then she saw the title: “Double Trouble for Annabelle Butler”

Lizzie enlarged the page and pressed play. India was still having great difficulty taking any of this in properly, and then with a terrible shock she saw herself on the screen and realized she looked a complete wreck. Her eye makeup was smudged,her pajamas looked really old fashioned, and what on Earth was going on with her hair? The camera panned shakily back to Annabelle who, India saw, was looking pretty rough too.

“This is not good,” she said, half out loud.

Then the awful reality of what she was actually watching closed in on her. She heard her English accent, which sounded somehow peculiar.

Do I really sound like that? she wondered. Then she tuned in to what she was saying.

“Simon talks a load of bollocks… I think he’s full of shit… Anyone could come up with some fucking self- help program…,” she spat.

India suddenly felt sick. Her legs went wobbly and she leaned against the side of the table. What? When? What is this?

She stared in absolute horror. She began to shake. She sounded so sour. She looked so mean. It was like watching a horror movie where some evil spirit had taken over her body. Now she remembered. It was the week she arrived, the morning she had the hangover from hell after Annie’s dinner party.

But how?

She was having something approaching an out-of-body experience now, watching with a weird sense of detachment.

Surely she had not been so nasty. Surely she had never been so horrible about such lovely people. She was horrified at her cheap joke at Summer’s expense, at the low punch at Trules. She was mortified. There was no escaping it, she was actually sneer-ing, and then when she thought the worst must be over…

“Adam Brooks … attention span of a gnat like the rest of them…”

This was wrong. She’d never said that, surely? Why would she? When would she? But clearly she had.

She was seriously panicked now, conscious that her face was burning. She desperately ransacked her brain for an explanation. How could this have been taped? Who could possibly have done this and why would anyone want to put it on YouTube? A zillion thoughts were flying round her head. She felt cornered and ashamed. She needed to explain that the whole thing was out of context.

Oh God! Adam will be so hurt. How can I ever explain this to anyone? Who the hell filmed this? How? How could they? We were by ourselves.

The clip finished with Annie looking appalled and angry, crying, “That’s enough!”

With that the screen went black. There was total silence in the room. India was absolutely mortified. Her head was swimming. All eyes were turned on her and still nobody spoke. They were all waiting for an explanation and she had none to give.

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

It was midmorning when Annabelle heard the car screech into the driveway. One look at her sister’s face told her all she needed to know.

“I tried to call you last night to give you a heads-up,” Annabelle said, lifting the milk jug, setting the cafetière down on the table and placing a box of tissues next to it. “I saw it last night. Lizzie called me. I tried to get hold of you for hours. Coffee?”

India shook her head. “No, just Advil please. My phone died. Not that it would have made any difference I suppose,” she said, slumping onto the kitchen chair. Annabelle sat down opposite and held her hand across the table.

“Annie, I don’t know where to begin. I feel terrible. It was the worst moment of my life. On the way back I was thinking how fond I am of Summer and how much I’ve learned about people these last few months. And my workshops aren’t cynical. They’re not just some … what did I say …’fucking self-help program.’”

“I know, I know,” Annabelle soothed.

“It’s only now I realize what a bad space I was in the end of last semester. Everyone here seemed to have it all so easy. All your friends were so pulled together and successful and I was eaten up with resentment and didn’t even know it.”

“Yes,” Annabelle murmured. “I remember.”

“I can’t think what to do. Everyone this morning was so hurt. I couldn’t think of anything to say to put it right. I just ran out of the room. I was such a coward.”

“You were shocked, that’s all,” Annabelle said, standing up and coming round the table to put her arm around her shoulder. India began to sob uncontrollably.

“I love those people,” she choked. “I love Lizzie. She’s been an amazing friend. They all looked so devastated, hurt. Really hurt. Annie, they weren’t even angry; they were wounded. Who taped that, Annie? Why? And who hates me enough to put it on YouTube? I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry … and Adam, what’s he going to think?”

“Adam will be fine,” Annabelle said, stroking India’s hair back from her face.

“How so? I said he was stupid – well, about as much.”

“You’d only just met the guy. It won’t do him any harm to think you weren’t starstruck, and anyway, what about me? I look bloody awful on it.”

“Well, yes, it was bad,” India agreed, managing a very weak smile and blowing her nose loudly on a tissue. “There’s already a pack of photographers out there. I think I’d better warn you,” she said, wiping the mascara out of her eyes and leaving a streak across her blotchy face.

“Yes, well, Joss as ever is handling that,” Annabelle glanced at the wall clock. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere much today. José-Marie can come and do my hair here. I’ll have Tess call him. Why don’t you go and take a shower and get changed. Let’s talk this through and make a plan. Don’t bother charging your phone. Don’t call anyone, either. Come back here and let’s sit and decide what we’re going to do.”

India was glad for the direction. She felt completely washed out and helpless. She stood up dutifully and went toward the door, trudged across the garden and went straight into the bathroom. She turned on the faucets in the shower, took off her clothes and went into the stall, where she let the water torrent down her face for a very long time. She dried off, wrapped a towel around herself, and pulled her computer out of her bag.

To: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: All Gone to Shit

Desperately need to talk to you. Too much for e-mail. Cell’s dead but call the house when you get in from your shift. I’ll be here all day. Please call. I desperately need to talk to you about something that just happened.

Indie xxxoooxxx

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Lizzie had watched the video several times. At one level, she could see that India had a point; there were a ton of people on the self-help bandwagon in California. As a lawyer, she was also trained to look at things with a critical eye. She understood that there was probably more to it than had been caught on camera. But it was India’s tone of voice that was the hardest to forgive. It seemed so out of character. After all the betrayals, the disappointments, of the previous months, Lizzie felt like someone had literally punched her in the stomach. India was a friend. But this woman on YouTube wasn’t the India she knew and loved. This was someone cynical and bitter, a vicious stranger. She cringed at the memory of all the confidences that she had shared so easily with India, how she had opened up to her about everything – from her lack of sex with Stan to her feelings about his kids. She felt foolish, vulnerable, and very alone.

When Joan had called the previous evening, Lizzie had been filling out an application for a part-time position with a legal firm downtown. This was all part of her plan to reclaim her life. Stan and she had decided to try to work things out. Through their on-going sessions with a counselor, they were tentatively discussing the possibility of living together again.

Stan had been staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel since the night of their violent row. Lizzie knew it was killing him to spend the money and was amused when he told her he was bored rigid with the menu. She suspected his motives for agreeing to counseling; he’d probably decided he couldn’t afford to pay two sets of alimony and still bask in prestige and sickening ostentation. She also knew he’d recently lost a wagonload in stocks and property portfolios.

But after a few of India’s workshops and some sessions with her shrink, Lizzie’s resolve had softened, especially when Stan broke down. She’d never seen him cry before and was genuinely moved when he blurted out how he still loved her, how the affair had just been sex. He said he would do anything to save their marriage and the thought of his life without her and the kids was terrifying him.