Authors: Cathy Yardley
She glanced back through the glass door. Andre was still sitting on the bed, naked, sulking.
“So. What’s the ETD?”
She grinned. “No departure date yet, Taylor…but soon. I feel like it’s coming up soon.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “Fuck. I hate moving.”
“Strange, for someone who does it as often as you do,” Taylor pointed out dryly. “You’re like the Bedouin Dater. Maybe you should try living with somebody you aren’t sleeping with.”
“I
have
lived with people I haven’t slept with.”
“Your family doesn’t count, darling, and that was how many years ago?”
“Touché.” She didn’t think about that, really. “But there was that guy…what was his name? Robbie?”
Taylor laughed. “The other restriction—you need to live with somebody
I
can’t sleep with. Remember?”
She chuckled. “Ooh. Right. God, what a fiasco that was.”
“Maybe you should try a girl next time.”
“What, to sleep with?”
Taylor huffed. “Roommate, silly. Although…”
Martika cut him off. “I don’t think so. Girls don’t like me.” She unleashed a feral grin. “Probably with good reason.”
She heard a rap on the glass, and looked over. It was Andre, obviously unamused. “Are you going to be out there all night?” he mouthed through the glass.
“Maybe,” she mouthed back, then turned back to look out on the road. “Taylor, there’s the warden. We are more than drinks tonight, sweetie, we are
club.
Sunset?”
“Oooh. Let’s be trashy and do martinis at the Viper Room.”
She grinned. “This is why I love you, sweetie. I think I want to full out this time—so add about an hour to my usual grooming regime, ’kay?”
“I’m going to go eat first, anyway, and then say hi to Kit.”
“Okay. So Viper Room, around eleven.” She made a kiss noise. “Byee.”
She clicked the phone off, and opened the door.
“Don’t tell me,” Andre said, his arms folded across his naked
chest. “Now that the other man in your life calls, you’ll be off running?”
“I can’t believe you’re jealous of a gay guy.”
“I’m starting to think they’re the only men you
could
love.”
She smiled at him, cruelly sweet. “I see. So is that why you’re acting so bitchy? So I’ll think you’ve crossed over and fall madly for you?”
“Dammit.” His gorgeously chiseled chin rippled as his jaw tensed. He looked like the model he was.
Okay, give me angry! Angry!
Martika almost laughed at the thought. “Martika, I think I’m in love with you. But I don’t want you to go out with Taylor tonight.”
She gave him a lazy once-over. While ordinarily she’d be applauding his growing a spine, he’d hit a hot button. Taylor was her best friend. Nobody fucked with her friends—or told her who she could and couldn’t see.
“I’m going out tonight, Andre. You can go with me if you want…” She paused. “No. On second thought, you
can’t
go with me. I am going out with my friends to try to ignore the idiocy that’s just transpired here. You can throw a tantrum, or you could do something productive. Sleep. Watch TV. Write an angst-filled sonnet. Frankly, I don’t care.”
She stalked over to the bathroom, started the water running in the shower. She took off her robe and stepped into the stream, adjusting the heat. It felt good. Relaxing.
He followed her in, pulling open the door. She saw him, his handsome face obscured by the steam. “Maybe…maybe you shouldn’t live here anymore,” he said, and took a deep breath. His blue eyes were both angry and pleading. If he’d started crying, she wouldn’t be surprised.
She sighed. “I’ll be out by the end of the week.”
She shut the door.
Standing in the rain, Sarah glanced up at the sign:
Basix Café.
If she were going to start exploring the city, and getting used to it
by herself,
then this was as good a place as any. Granted,
it was two blocks away from her house, but the fact that she was outside the apartment, among strangers, was a step in the right direction.
Of course, she’d tried calling Judith and seeing if she could meet her for dinner, but she’d only gotten the message machine. It had only taken her another half hour to stir up her courage to come here by herself.
The place was crowded, with a patio area that was closed in with clear plastic curtains and those butane heaters that looked like torches. She made her way toward the inner restaurant, feeling self-conscious. She wondered if she’d see anybody famous. This was Hollywood, after all. Okay, West Hollywood, but still…
The “host” looked her over, smiling slightly. “Good evening. How many?”
“Just one.”
“Right.”
Was it just her, or did he give her an appraising once-over? Not the sexual kind, either, the way men might at home. It was more like…something was wrong with her, or something.
She discreetly checked her jeans zipper.
Maybe it’s because I’m here by myself,
she thought. She noticed there were at least twosomes at most tables, usually more.
Next time, she told herself, she’d bring a book. If there were a next time.
He took her to a minuscule table in the corner, half obscured by a potted plant. She took a menu and sat. At least from her duck-blind vantage point she got to look around, which was nice. Nobody famous yet, but it was only, what, eight or so? She imagined they’d probably come out later. Somewhat like vampires.
The thing she noticed immediately was that the restaurant was predominantly filled with men…all well dressed, she noticed, in that stylish, edgy way that seemed very “MTV.” You wouldn’t see guys dressed like this in Fairfield. At least, not in a café, for dinner.
She turned her attention to the menu. Her stomach grumbled. The place smelled wonderful, and the desserts…what she could see in the glass case looked so good, she briefly considered having a dinner of chocolate cake with a side order of éclairs. Still, she was running on empty—she needed real food first, or she’d be twitching on the carpeted floor with a sugar rush all night.
“What do you mean, there’s no table for me?” a flamboyant voice pierced the rumble of conversation. All eyes turned to the new arrival. Sarah turned, too, then gaped, momentarily ignoring the menu.
He was one of the biggest men she’d ever seen. He had short hair that was obviously curly in its natural state—it waved over his forehead, obviously calmed by gel of some sort. He had big, dark eyes, broad shoulders, and like everyone else here, it seemed, his clothes were stylish. He was wearing black, shiny cargo pants and an almost metallic looking red shirt. He had two earrings in his right ear, and to her surprise, he had on black nail polish.
“But I’m
starving,
Mitch,” he said, in a melodramatic whine, then winked at the maître d’. “Besides, I’m clubbing with Tika tonight, so I can’t wait two hours for a table!”
The giant glanced around, then suddenly descended on her. “Is anybody sitting with you?”
Goggling, she gathered enough presence of mind to shake her head.
“Great. Then I’ll just have dinner with you. Hi,” he said, pulling up a chair and sprawling down heavily on it. “I’m Taylor.”
She nodded, feeling overwhelmed. “S-Sarah,” she said.
He beamed. “What a delicious voice! Like a Powerpuff girl. I love them. Did you know they were originally called the WhupAss Girls when they were just a student film? But of course, Cartoon Network wouldn’t let them stay that way…but I digress.” He looked at her. “You haven’t ordered yet, have you?”
“Uh…no.” She glanced back down at the menu. “I’ve never eaten here before,” she ventured, “so I hadn’t decided.”
“Never?” He sounded delighted. “Well, then, you’re in for a treat. Start with the corn bisque, then have a pizza…the barbecued chicken and gouda. It’s fantastic.”
Her stomach growled, and she pressed a hand to it, embarrassed. “That sounds great.”
“Obviously!” He looked her over.
What was it with that look?
But he was less disparaging, and smiled. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
You think?
“Well, I am now.” She smiled weakly. “I just moved in. Up the street.”
“Really?” She wondered if he ever sounded disappointed about anything. “That’s great. I live right up the street, myself! Oh, hold on a sec. That’s a friend of mine.” He got up and maneuvered his way across the room, managing to catch the eye of every person in the restaurant. Which, Sarah supposed, was the point. “Michael! It’s been way too long. Why weren’t you at Beer Bust?”
Sarah watched in amazement as he exuberantly hugged the man in question, who was presenting another man to her dinner companion.
Well, it beats eating alone.
The waiter walked over to her. “Made your decision?”
She nodded. “Corn bisque,” she repeated dutifully, “and the barbecued chicken pizza.”
He smiled again, that sort of slick, polite smile.
“Oh, but he’s sitting with me,” she said, as the waiter started to walk away. “He hasn’t ordered yet.”
“He doesn’t have to,” the waiter said, with a little sneer in his voice. “He gets the same thing every time.”
“Oh.” The food here had better be damned good, she thought, because the service definitely leaves something to be desired.
Taylor was back in a matter of minutes. “Great guy, that Michael.”
“He seemed nice.” Sarah didn’t know what else to say.
He grinned at her, then winked. “Next time, I’ll have to introduce you. We’re practically neighbors, after all.” He sighed gustily. “I’ve been going on and on. You look like a little drowned rat, no offense, with not a friend in the world. So what’s your story, little girl?”
“I didn’t know it rained in L.A.,” she said in her defense, “or I would have brought an umbrella.”
He grinned at her. “So you don’t know L.A. Where are you from?”
“Fairfield.”
His brows raised. She wondered briefly if he had them plucked—they looked like perfect arches. “Fairfield? Where is that? Out in the valley?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s up by Sacramento, sort of. Well, closer to…well, it’s in Northern California,” she said, realizing if he thought it were in “the valley” he didn’t know the area at all.
“Oh, Northern Cal,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Well, that explains the clothes, at least. So you just moved down today? Are you…no, you’re not an actress.”
“How do you know?”
“Not a high enough bitch factor, to be perfectly honest. I mean, you
could
be an actress, but I doubt you’re a very successful one…of course, L.A. is full of those, too. Besides, you look like you have too much money.”
She didn’t know if she should be insulted by Taylor’s reasoning or not, so she chose not to be. The corn bisque had arrived, and she sampled it, sighing deeply.
“Told you,” Taylor said smugly.
“It’s
wonderful,
” she said, trying her best not to gobble it down. She didn’t want to know what Taylor would say about deplorable table manners.
Taylor looked at her, his head tilted to one side. “You know,” he said, taking a spoonful of his own bisque and tasting it, “I’ve decided to like you.”
She smiled, the aches from moving momentarily forgotten. “Thanks. That’s nice.”
“And of course, you’re going to like me, so there it is,” he said, and she laughed…she couldn’t help it. He motioned for the waiter to come over. “I like her,” he said expansively. The waiter simply smiled, much more friendly and simpering, Sarah noted. “We’re going to need some wine.”
Sarah stopped him, alarmed. “Oh, no, really, I couldn’t…”
He stared her into silence. “Nonsense. You’re getting a Tayler welcome to L.A. Get me a bottle of that Ravenwood cab, would you? Thanks,” he said, dismissing the waiter, who just nodded and turned silently.
“Now then,” Taylor said, all but rubbing his hands together. “Being such good friends and all, you need to tell me your whole life, beginning to end. Leave out no detail. I want to know everything.”
The master bathroom in Judith and David’s house had two sinks: his and hers. It was a sign of how well David was doing. He’d be making partner any day now. His side of the sink reflected that: an organized display of toiletries, from his silver toothbrush holder and razor holder (no disposables for David), to the little silver mug that he lathered his shaving cream in, right down to the way he folded the towel that hung on his own towel rack, for his own use. He kept the toothpaste and other tackier items hidden in the drawer, even if the toothpaste was Rembrandt and not something cheap like Colgate.
Judith’s side was almost clinical looking. There was a complete line of Dr. Hauschka skin care, sitting companionably with its almost generic labels of white with a thin band of orange. Cleansing milk, cleansing cream, toner, moisturizer—daily and Rose Cream, for problem areas. Her toothbrush was sitting in a ceramic cup, a creamy white. The toothbrush itself was orange.
She went through the ritual: brush, wash, tone, moisturize. Search for wrinkles, even at twenty-five, even with her moisture-plump Asian skin that people at work continually proclaimed an
envious miracle. Remove hair band. Brush lustrous black hair, fifteen measured strokes. Throw clothes in hamper, put on cotton nightgown. Climb into California King bed, on the right hand side, by the wall. David liked sleeping on the side by the door. She rolled and picked up the book she’d left on his nightstand.
The Oz Principle.
Something for work. She wanted to get a leg up on it—the next few weeks would be busy. Her Filofax was pretty full.
She barely registered the noises of David going through his ritual: long span in the bathroom, evacuating that night’s dinner (in this case, Ahi tuna appetizer and braised lamb chops from Chinois) with a book in the bathroom before brushing his teeth and surveying the wrinkle situation, a larger possibility considering he was thirty-two. She felt rather than heard him checking his hairline for signs of losing ground—a tiny buzz of apprehension before the shrug of denial. He wouldn’t stoop to doing a full nightly regimen including moisturizer, but she’d walked in on him trying some of the Dr. Hauschka. Judith planned on picking up some more bottles in preparation for the eventuality. She felt sure he’d keep his hidden in the other drawer, or in the medicine cabinet.