Picture Perfect (16 page)

I know that this experience with Jack cannot last. It won’t last. But I force myself not to dwell on it and instead focus my thoughts on the wonder of the wintry setting around me. Another experience that is fleeting. As soon as a few cars pour into the park, a few dogs lift their legs over a snow bank, and some die hard tourists tread street gunk into the meadows, the white wonderland will fade into a grey and yellow sludge that native New Yorkers will bemoan as they pray for the arrival of spring.

And suddenly, I can’t wait to get back to Los Angeles. Back to reality. Where I can finally put an end to Alan and Jennifer’s plot to wreck my career and get on with my life. Because as nice as it is snuggled under Jack’s arms, I can’t hide here forever.  

***

My flight back to Los Angeles was rocky and turbulent. Not only were we flying through some dense storms, but my head was swirling with potential arguments and rebuttals that are sure to arise once I confront Alan. Truthfully, I never planned for this. I never even consulted a divorce lawyer. I simply couldn’t believe Alan would go through with it. And as I pull up to our Malibu home and find an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway, I feel like an idiot of the highest rank. A ruby red Mini Cooper with a bumper sticker that reads,
Too Cute For You
, reeks of Beverly Hills snobbery. Jennifer. Who else would be here after midnight on a Saturday? 

I pull up alongside the Chihuahua of a vehicle and kill my ignition. I’d barely driven the car since getting it back from the mechanic on Tuesday, but feeling the engine rev beneath the force of my foot on the drive from LAX to Malibu was nearly as satisfying as what I imagine kicking Jennifer’s ass all over Timeless Television will be.

I smile to myself as I step out of my BMW and peer into Jennifer’s über cute death trap. The near-non-existent back seat is filled with magazines, shoes, CDs, gym clothes, and protein bar wrappers. No wonder the girl couldn’t manage a film set for two days. She can’t even keep her car organized.    

I grip my key in my hand, entertaining the idea of scraping it alongside the Cooper’s shiny metal exterior. But I think better of it. Knowing Jennifer, she’d file a police report and Alan would just use it against me in our divorce. Besides, I don’t need to stoop to vandalism to get even with Jennifer. By Monday morning, I’ll have her job and whatever remains of her dignity after the colossal failure she proved to be on set.

In fact, I remember early on in my career Rebecca giving me a little advice regarding adversaries. “Given enough rope, they’ll hang themselves,” she said after one of my colleagues bogarted a script I wanted to produce. She was right. In the end, the producer lost control of the reigns, and I was sent in to clean up the mess. I had never felt more vindicated than when he had to come begging for assistance. Until now, of course.

I enter the house quietly. It is dimly lit, and I can only hear the sound of Cole Porter softly emanating from the Bose speaker system that Alan installed in every single room of the house three years ago. Even the laundry room. As if he ever spent any time in there. I slip out of my shoes so as not to make my presence known and slowly close the door behind me with a gentle click. I pull my iPhone out of my purse to have at the ready should I find Alan and Jennifer
in flagrante
. Snapping off a few pics of that would surely kill any chance of him using my affair with Jack against me in the divorce.

I tip toe through the living room, sidestepping a pair of black patent kitten heel pumps. I make my way around the dining room table. As I approach the kitchen, I see the refrigerator door is open and a pair of pedicured feet are visible beneath it. I raise my iPhone and hit the button for the camera. As the door swings closed, I capture the image of a bikini-clad strawberry blonde holding a large piece of chocolate cake and wearing a shocked look upon her face.

“Ms. Tate!”

“Sally!”

“What are you doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?”

Chapter 12

“This is so embarrassing,” Sally says, placing the plate of chocolate cake on the kitchen island and licking frosting from her thumb.

“Are you here with Alan?” I demand, wondering just what in the hell my supposedly loyal new assistant is doing in a barely-there bikini in the middle of my kitchen on a Saturday night.

“Absolutely not,” she says.

“What exactly is going on here?”

“You weren’t supposed to come back until tomorrow night. I booked your return flight myself.” She grabs a cover-up from the back of a barstool beneath the island and wraps it around herself.

“I am capable of making my own travel arrangements.” I fold my arms across my chest and drum my fingers along my biceps. “Answer my question.”

“Oh, God.” She climbs onto the barstool and leans her elbows on the countertop, dropping her head in her hands. “You’re going to fire me for this.”

“Probably. But I’d still like to know exactly why you’ve committed this trespass before I levy punishment.”

Sally snares the edge of the cake plate with one index finger and drags it across the counter until it is front and center before her. Reaching back over the island for the knife block situated a good four feet from me, she retrieves a knife far too large for the simple task of cutting a cake, and I wonder for a second if she means to use it on
me
.  

“Sally,” I say firmly, as if scolding a four-year-old child.

“Cake?”

“You haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”

She slides the knife into the chocolate treat, her steady hand guiding the blade slowly and somewhat eerily as she shears it right down the center with the precision of a heart surgeon. 

“Sally!” I bark at her.

She jumps, dropping the knife on the countertop with a clatter. “What?”

“Leave the fucking cake alone and answer me.”

“The cake is for you, too.”

“I don’t care about the damn cake. I want to know what the hell you’re doing here.”

“I’m house sitting.” She hops off the barstool and pads across the kitchen to the cupboards and retrieves two dessert plates.

“House sitting? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Alan and Jennifer went to Santa Barbara for the weekend.” She grabs two forks from the silverware drawer next to the sink and returns to her seat at the island.

“So? What the hell does that have to do with you staying here?”

“My roommate’s boyfriend is visiting from Oregon State, and I mentioned it to Jennifer, and she told Alan, and he suggested I stay here to look after the place while they’re gone.”

“What? Sally, that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Alan leaves this place empty all the time.”

“Cake?” Sally offers, sliding a freshly cut half in front of me and sticking a fork into the center of it.

I sigh, grabbing the utensil and shoving a large helping into my mouth. I barely chew it, swallowing it down in one big gulp.

“Milk?”

I nod, and Sally prances over to the fridge, fills two glasses, returns to her seat and passes over one of the beverages. “I just thought I’d take advantage of a weekend getaway in Malibu. I didn’t think I was doing any harm.”

I take a swig of the milk. “And I’m sure you didn’t think that Alan was using you. Trying to ingratiate himself to you so that you wouldn’t spill the news of his affair with Jennifer.”

“Oh, of course, I knew that. But I have no intention of lying for him.”

I cock an eyebrow at her.

“Really, Ms. Tate. I would never betray your trust. I just couldn’t stand the thought of listening to my roommate and her boyfriend going at it all night long in the next room. And this place,” she sweeps her hand over the island, as if she were a spokesmodel selling kitchen makeovers, “this place is practically paradise. I couldn’t resist.” 

I take another bite of the cake, its chocolate-y velvetiness doing wonders for my mood. Ever since childhood, chocolate was my go-to drug whenever I was stressed. And growing up in a family of nomads who moved every year (usually skipping out on the rent and unpaid utility bills) meant I was
always
stressed. But with a diet-obsessed mother in the house, my candy, fudge and cake fixes were usually far and few between, which made for desperate binges whenever I could get my hands on anything derived from the prized cocoa bean.

Eventually, I started settling for anything sweet. Even spoonfuls of honey from the jar, and, if I was lucky, an old Pop Tart hidden in the back of the cupboard that my father would erroneously purchase on a rare trip to the grocery store. At school, I’d trade my apple for a pudding cup, or do other kids’ homework for payment in Hershey bars and Ding Dongs.

As a result of my stress-driven sweet tooth, I’d ballooned to a size fourteen by the time I was twelve years old. My mother couldn’t understand my weight gain since she allowed no sugary foods in her house, and started restricting my diet even further. She managed to whittle me down to what, in her opinion, was a reasonable size within a few months. But my chocolate obsession never really faded. Over twenty years later, I can still be completely blindsided by a slice of Devil’s food cake or a steaming cup of cocoa. And until I either consume the tempting treat or throw it in the garbage, I can concentrate on absolutely nothing else.

And just like when I was twelve years old, I’ve managed to devour the entire piece of cake Sally cut for me without even remembering it.

I regard my empty plate, bewildered. How could I have eaten the whole thing without even noticing? I smash the last of the crumbs left on my dish with my fork and carefully lift the tender morsels to my mouth. I savor the pillow-y soft, lusciously sweet remnants before swallowing, rolling the rich texture around my tongue and finally allowing it to gently slide down my throat. I finish the milk in several large gulps, and when I set the empty glass on the counter, I realize that Sally is staring at me, her cake-laden fork frozen in mid-air.

It isn’t the first time a dining companion of mine has marveled at my ability to demolish a dessert within mere seconds. In college, I discovered that if I logged seven hours of cardio a week, I could continue to indulge my sweet tooth without having it appear on my hips. But still, it wasn’t exactly cool to be stuffing your face with Little Debbie’s cellophane-wrapped delights whenever the urge hit. So, I got really good at woofing down those taboo treats with the speed of a competitive eater lest anyone should see me binging and think I had some sort of eating disorder.

Once I graduated and started working in the entertainment industry, I found myself surrounded by food. At meetings, on film sets, at parties and awards banquets. Wherever I happened to be, a tray of canapés and truffles wasn’t far. And, occasionally, I would stun a co-worker by practically swallowing a mini-quiche whole or surprise a date by consuming an entire plate of hors d’oeuvres while he turned his head to say hello to another party guest. So, finding Sally gaping at me is, although embarrassing, nothing new.   

“I am a stress-eater,” I say with the same sort of nonchalance I’d have telling her my astrological sign. 

“I see,” she says carefully. “There’s ice cream, too. Actually the fridge is completely stocked.”

“It always is on the weekends. The housekeeper does the shopping on Friday mornings and makes sure to buy our favorite foods. She even leaves prepared meals for us to heat up,” I say as if I still reap the benefits of Gloria’s caretaking. “I really miss her.”

Sally tilts her head sympathetically. “So…yes to the ice cream?”

I nod, thinking to myself that this relationship of ours could either work out really well, or it’ll be the reason I develop coronary disease. I have enough trouble controlling my food obsessions on my own. Throw an enabler into the mix, and I’m a gonner.

Sally dishes up two bowls of gourmet
stracciatella
gelato—one of my favorites, loaded with chocolate bits—tops them both with whipped cream and returns to the island. I start in slowly, taking my time to actually enjoy the flavors and textures, allowing my mind to drift to a place of serenity and clarity. My version of meditation.  And by the time I finish the last spoonful, I know what to do next.

“When are Alan and Jennifer returning tomorrow?” I ask.

“One or two, I think. I promised them I’d be out of here by noon.” 

I lift a mischievous eyebrow at her. “But
I
didn’t.”

***

I spent the night tossing and turning on the pull-out sofa in the den. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in the bed I used to share with Alan, and Sally was bunking in the guest bedroom. But being in the den also gave me an opportunity to snoop through Alan’s desk. Unfortunately, I only came up with a few meal receipts and a ticket stub from an Eagles concert. Perhaps they were evidence of his affair with Jennifer, but without corroboration, they themselves would prove nothing. What I really needed was his laptop in order to access his email. Surely, he and Jennifer exchanged incriminatingly salacious words at some point. But the computer was nowhere to be found. He’d either left it at work, or took it with him to Santa Barbara.

The element of surprise is about the only weapon in my arsenal at this point. Other than the pre-nup that Alan seems perfectly content to forget. I have Sally as a witness, of course, but her testimony could be refuted. So, when noon arrived, Sally packed up her little car and headed back to her tiny apartment in the San Fernando Valley, and I lay in wait.

Waiting, however, leads to little good.

Since my stalwart assistant left, I’ve been wandering through the house trying to remember what it was like to live here with Alan. The media room where we used to watch old black and white movies, the master bath where we’d soaked in the spa tub and sipped champagne, the outdoor lounge where we’d watched the sunset as we snuggled on the chaise lounge built for two. That life seems like a century ago. And it surprises me how much I miss it. 

I see now that Alan’s ego just couldn’t handle a wife who was more successful than he was, but I still can’t fully grasp how his love for me could have turned into such hostility and animosity simply because that little twit Jennifer came into his life. Well, I guess the acrimony developed when I wouldn’t acquiesce and sign his bogus divorce papers. But it was such a one-eighty from where we’d started that I can’t even determine how we got here. At what point did Alan decide he would rather destroy my career and my reputation than honor the agreement we made before we married? It’s one thing to fall out of love, but quite another to all-out
hate
your spouse.