Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story (20 page)

I’m stumped by how casual she is about inviting me to her “get together.” Now that she’s close, I faintly remember her face. I probably fucked her once and not while sober.

I wave and say, “Not tonight.”
 

She pokes her hip out and turns slightly to the side. When chicks do that, they’re looking to hook up. “How about I stop by later, then?”

“Nah, that’s okay,” I say.

She’s still twisting her body in a way that says “I’m yours if you want me.” “Do you remember who I am?”
 

I scratch the back of my neck. There’s no way in hell I’m going to remember her name. “I don’t, sorry.”
 

“Four months ago.” She points at me. “You were sitting right there with your guitar.
 
I was walking by and you invited me up.” It sounds as if she’s trying to jog my memory.

“Was I drinking?”

She frowns as though she’s just been struck by a revelation. “I guess so.”
 

“Let’s go, Fiona,” her friend says. She’s giving me that look girls give when they think you’re being a jerk.

Fiona lifts a hand, telling her to wait. “I came over a couple of times, but you’re never home.”

“No, I haven’t been here a lot.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

That’s the question of the year. I don’t have a girlfriend, but I want one, and not just any girlfriend. I take a step toward the door. There’s nothing about this girl that I’m attracted to. “Listen…” I squint, working hard to remember her name. “Fiona,” I say as though I just scored a field goal. “Have fun tonight. I don’t need or want company.” I wave as I turn away from her. I’ve come to a conclusion—there will be no more banging chicks just because I can.

James made steak, whipped mashed potatoes, and a garden salad for dinner. I’m not hungry, but I eat anyway.
 
I used to be content eating alone but not anymore. After eating, I try to watch
Chinatown
since it’s one of my favorite movies, but it fails to take my mind off the rift I caused between Angelina and me. So I welcome the exhaustion that hits me like a ton of bricks and hike up to the bed that Angelina last slept in. Maybe her scent seeped through the mattress and I’ll still be able to smell her even though the linens have already been changed.
 

I lie down, close my eyes, and remember how good she felt in my arms yesterday. I lotion up, grab my dick, and rub it. I visualize her ass and her tits. My lips and tongue remember her hard nipples and the soft flesh around it. My hand is nothing like her wet pussy, but it will have to do. Her back is arched. Her tits are bouncing. I’m rolling my tongue around her clit, looking up so I can see her suck air and moan. She’s trying to free herself from my eager tongue, but I won’t let her get away. I’m gripping her ass cheeks. She screams my name.
Louder
. “Charlie!” she screams again.

I grunt. Warm liquid drips down my hand. “Shit.” I hop up off the bed and go into the bathroom to wash up. I go back to the bed, and seconds later, I’m out cold.

The room is dark when my eyes open halfway. I drag myself drowsily to the bathroom to take a piss. I fall right back to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I open my eyes again, and it’s daylight but I’m still too tired to do anything about it. The atmosphere is purple when I’m finally able to keep my eyes open. The clock on the nightstand reads 7:15 p.m.
 

My feet slap the hardwood floor as I walk to the living room to retrieve my cell phone off the coffee table. I have twenty-three messages. Most of them are from Pearl. Monroe called twice. She wants me to ping her back. Jack called too. He didn’t know I was “involved” with Angelina and wants to sit down and talk to me about it. I sniff disdainfully and delete his message. I didn’t have a “sit down” with him after he asked Daisy to marry him without even knowing her for a full week. The gall of that guy.

One message is from Maggie, and she’s chewing me out for breaking Monroe’s heart. “She’s not showing it, but she’s hurting, Charlie. What the hell! I thought you liked her. She said you haven’t been on-set for the last two days. Are you on a binge? Call me? Put me out of my worry?” I delete her message too.

I want to shout every curse word ever invented. I’m fucking twenty-eight years old! Granted, I’ve made a very immature mistake, but I can give myself credit for being a cultured, well-traveled, and intellectual man. I don’t need to check in with my goddamn cousin.

Anxieties and shit are running through me. Something has to change. I sit on the sofa shaking my leg nervously as I look out over the beach. The movie is something I have to decrease my involvement in. I’ve mostly stuck with it to avoid giving Jack and Maggie the privilege of saying “I told you so.” And so—I make an on-the-spot decision, going with my gut. But first, I listen to all the messages, hoping Angelina is missing me just as much as I miss her.
 

There are seven more messages. There’s one from Hayden, a friend of mine, who asked if I want to join a pick-up game at the courts on Venice. There’s one from that chick Fiona. She wanted to know if I changed my mind. Shit, I can’t believe I gave her my number. There’s one from Scott, a buddy of mine who lives in San Francisco. He’s in town. His band had a gig last night and his bass player caught the stomach flu. “Ping me back if you can strap-up.” Shit. I hate that I missed that. There are three from people I don’t know but who are affiliated with the production. I should never have allowed Pearl to put my name on that goddamn call sheet. The callers want to know if I’ll be on set and if so they’ll reserve parking for me. I move on to the last message.
 

“Hey, music man, this is Jacques.” I stop shaking my leg. “I’m working on a project, and I wonder if you’re free to join us. I could use someone like you on this.”

“Yes!” I shout. I jump high off the ground. Did my ship just come in? The call is almost as satisfying as having Angelina in my bed ready to fuck. I don’t know what to do with myself. I go from the refrigerator to the cabinets and then back to the refrigerator as though I’m stuck in a pinball machine. I’m hungry as hell, but first I must separate myself from the “making” process of filmmaking.
 

I make that phone call.

“Hey, Pearl,” I say.

“You’re ready to get back to work? We’ve changed some shooting locations, and I need you to sign off on…”

“You do it,” I say.

“Sign off?”

“That’s right.”

“All right then. I also need you to allocate towards the deliverables budget. I thought we could talk about pulling from...”

“You do it. You do everything because from this point forward I’m just an investor. I’m trusting you to see my investment all the way to the finish line.”

I can feel the elation in her pause. “Are you sure?”

“Very.” And just like that, I’m finally free.

Chapter 14

Man-Eaters

Jacques Blanchard was glad to hear I was onboard. He asked me to go to an address in Hancock Park, an affluent suburb in the center of the city. I drive down a street lined with palm trees and classic Tudor and Victorian houses. I park in front of one of those homes and ring the doorbell. About a minute goes by before Jacques opens the door.
 

“You made it,” he says.

“Wouldn’t miss it!” I kick myself for sounding overenthusiastic. Jacques Blanchard is the kind of guy who makes you feel it if you don’t appear as cool as he always seems to be.

“That’s what I like to hear. Take your shoes off.”
 

I do as I’m told and follow him inside, under arched columns and through a step-down living room. The furniture is red and leather. The floor is marble. Portraits of musicians hang on the walls. There are ivory statues, Mediterranean rugs, and black onyx tables. This place doesn’t feel like a home.
 

“Do you live here?” I ask Jacques.
 

“No. This is where I work. We’re downstairs in the basement.”
 

“Are we starting?” a girl asks as she sashays down the spiral staircase as though she’s the lady of the manor. She’s about five-foot-one with killer curves, raven hair, and creamy skin. Her short, tight dress looks like something a girl would wear to bed, and she’s studying me intensely.

“Yes, darling, in the studio,” Jacques says.

She flashes me a smile as she sweeps past us.

“That’s Mita Capelli,” Jacques says after briefly admiring her physique. “She’s a cellist.”

“Ah.” I nod.

“Some of the musicians who come in from out of town lodge here. There’s a room for you if you want it. I know you live in L.A., but it can be better to sleep here instead of getting in the car and driving home.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, reflecting back on how Mita just looked at me. She’s the aggressive type. Jacques is Angelina’s father. I’m in the doghouse. I plan to stay as far away from Mita as possible, and that means sleeping in my bed in Malibu.

“The studio is this way.” Jacques thumbs over his shoulder. “The kitchen is around there, bathrooms are everywhere. There are six of them in the house and two in the basement. There’s a swimming pool and hot tub out back. Feel free to use them whenever you can because we’re going to be working our asses off. Day and night. But it’s going to be better than pussy.”

I flash back to ramming Angelina the last time we were together. What could be better than that? “From your lips,” I say.
 

I follow Jacques down another spiraling stairway. He points out two empty bedrooms down the hall then opens a soundproof glass door and leads me into a state-of-the-art music studio that spans the length and width of the entire house.
 

Bolts of enthusiasm are running through me. When I spoke to Jacques yesterday, he asked if I wanted to work with him on scoring a new animated film. I’ve never been part of the process, and I’m caught off guard by the sight of a full orchestra warming up in the pit. I’m talking violins, French horns, cellos, trumpets, trombones, the bass section, drums, oboes, and flutes. About five engineers are working the boards in the control room. They’re the kind of guys who look as though they never get any sun because they’re always putting in long hours in dungeons like the one we’re in.

“Do you read music?” Jacques asks.
 

“Yeah.” I can barely concentrate on him.

“Today we’re recording the orchestra sequences. They’re all trained technical junkies, which is why I want you to keep your ears open. You’re a pro at perfecting melodies.”

“Hey, Ludlow,” Jacques calls. I recognize the guy who’s leaning over a girl working on a computer.

Damn. I’m blinking, thinking I’m hearing things. Did Jacques Blanchard say I was good at perfecting melodies?

Ludlow walks over and then holds his hand out for me to shake. “Are you Peter’s replacement?”

“Yes, he is,” Jacques replies. He points at me. “Charlie Lord.” He points at Ludlow. “The director, Ludlow Dean. And I would’ve hired Charlie in the first goddamn place. He’s going to work with us on perfecting the quality, slicing it, and putting it back together again.” Jacques snickers as if he just had a thought, but he’s not sharing it.

I know exactly who Ludlow Dean is. I’ve seen him on TV giving interviews before. He’s a director of animated films, and he’s put out some outstanding shit.

“You’re that good?” Ludlow asks me, grinning.

“He’s that good,” Jacques says.
 

Moments later, Jacques calls the orchestra into position. I’m on bass. The cellist girl faces in my direction and she’s looking.
 
I notice her at the start, but once we get going it’s easy to ignore her. The hours dwindle. Jacques composes with precision. He’s building the soundtrack one increment at a time. The harmony and notes constantly change. We create ambient sounds and what Jacques calls the cues, which are songs timed to begin and end at certain scenes in the film. Jacques calls the day to a close at midnight. I see what Jacques means about sleeping in the house. I decide to claim one of the rooms in the basement. Six hours of sleep later, we return to the studio not fully rested.

I get the hang of things by the end of the week. It’s been six days since my last shower, so I bite the bullet and drive home, freshen up, pack a bag, and head back. This simple chore takes two hours in L.A. even on the weekend. During the next three days, I mostly watch and learn as Jacques and Ludlow sharpen the sound effects and lay them down to film.
 

The days run into each other. I’ve been awake more than I’ve been asleep. It’s the orchestra’s last day, and Jacques has just wrapped with them. They celebrate by hitting the swimming pool before hitting the road.

Ludlow tells the rest of us to be back in the studio in six hours. I go out back to join the party. Everyone is in or around the pool. This isn’t a far-out Hollywood-type party. It’s merely a bunch of exhausted people finally taking some time to swim, waddle in the water, catch some rays, and over-indulge themselves at the open bar.

I close my eyes and stretch out on a lounge chair to catch some rays. It’s about eighty-five degrees today. Perfect. Almost. I hadn’t had time to miss Angelina until now. It would be nice to be sitting here with her. The lounge chair beside me squeezes. I couldn’t have gotten that lucky. I turn, and it’s the raven-haired cellist, Mita. She smiles back as she rubs sunscreen on her arms.

“Is this your first gig?” she asks.

“Yes, it is,” I say and close my eyes again. The trick is not to engage her.
 

“I ask because I haven’t seen you around before, but you’re really good,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“We’ve never formerly introduced ourselves. I’m Mita.”

I look at her with one eye open. “I already figured that out.”
 

She chuckles and then lifts one leg on the chair and rubs suntan lotion all the way from her ankle up to her crotch. I wouldn’t think anything of it if she weren’t massaging herself suggestively.

“I’ve been looking for you after we wrap. Are you sleeping in the house?” she asks.