This One Is Mine: A Novel (11 page)

“Where’s the sleigh bed now?”

“I sold it for drugs two months later.”

“How much did you get for it?”

“Fuck you.” He sounded hurt.

“Two hundred bucks?”

“Can we change the subject?”

“One hundred?” Violet found a shoulder and pulled over behind a guy selling fruit from a truck.

“Is your husband always going out of town?”

“We’re supposed to go to a spring equinox yoga retreat in Ojai. But I don’t feel like going.”

“So
that’s
when we’re going to fuck.”

“You’re pretty sure of that, aren’t you?”

The fruit guy shuffled over, holding a three-pack of strawberries in one hand and a bag of oranges in the other. Violet waved him off.

“Just stepping up and doing the right thing like you asked,” Teddy said.

“God! You totally don’t get what I meant by that.”

David’s Bentley whizzed by. He seemed to be on the phone himself and didn’t slow down. He probably hadn’t seen Violet. She fumbled for the gearshift and jerked the car into drive. “I’ve got to go,” she said.

“Why? What happened?”

“Don’t you have a Kennedy to dump?” Violet waited for the Flying Spur to disappear up their driveway, then merged onto Mulholland.

“I get it,” Teddy said. “Bye, Violet Parry.”

“Bye, Teddy Reyes.” Violet pushed the warm phone to her cheek. Her whole face ached from smiling so much. She drove through the Aleppo pines, making figure eights with her jaw to counter the cramps forming in her cheeks. If David asked — and she knew he wouldn’t! — she’d say she had pulled over to finish up a phone conversation before she got home. That wasn’t lying.

CHAPTER FOUR

Control It or It Controls You   
   And the Sultans Played Creole

“Y
OU’RE DOING GREAT,”
S
ALLY TOLD
N
ORA
R
OSS, THE THICK-WAISTED WIFE OF
Jordan Ross, head of one of the big talent agencies. Nora was doing some of the most pathetic
grande pliés
Sally had ever witnessed. “
Plié, relevé, plié, relevé
. Now with arms over the head.”

“Ugh!” Nora’s pudgy arms fell to her sides and she flopped breathlessly against the wall. “I am so stressed out. The guest list for tonight’s party keeps
ballooning
.”

An army of Mexicans carrying heat lamps passed by the bay window.

“Next to the pool!” Nora shouted.
“Junto la piscina!”
She turned to Sally. “Is that how you say it?”

“I think so. How about we switch to
demi pliés?”

“I hate you,” said the wealthy butterball. “Can’t I just do those kicky things?”

“Fine.
Dégagé,
with foot flexed. Third position.” Sally set her feet and floated her arms into
grande pose
. “Right foot to the front.
Tendu
and
dégagé
. Heel leads the toe.”

Nora flung her leg forward with all the grace of kicking a cat. “Please tell me these will get rid of my fat ass.”

“You know what I say, Control it or it controls you.” That was Sally’s motto, from a bumper sticker she had on her three-ring binder in high school. “And one way to control your tush is
dégagé
. To the back. Toe leads heel.
Dégagé
.”

The phone rang. Happy to bail, Nora unlatched a cabinet door and answered it.

Since the Rosses’ only child, J.J., had been diagnosed with autism, any object that could conceivably be picked up and hurled by a tantruming child — framed photos, telephone, ceramic bowls — had been secured behind custom-built glass-fronted cabinets. Last year, Sally had shown up to find the glass shattered and all the treasured memories in a million pieces in a heap on the floor. (Nora sent Sally home that day but still paid for the whole hour, which was really classy.) The following week, the glass had been removed and in its place, chicken wire. Behind which were imprisoned the images of Nora and Jordan smiling on the Great Wall, arms around Bill Clinton, huddled with Jack Nicholson at the
Vanity Fair
Oscar party, Nora, happy and pregnant on a yacht off Croatia. Before the diagnosis, before they stopped taking pictures.

Nora hung up and locked the phone back in the cabinet. “Can we just do abs and call it a day?” She kicked open the mat Sally had brought and sprawled out on it. “Jordan put the arm on all his big stars to show up. And word got out, so everybody, I mean
everybody,
wants to come.” She rolled on her side and curled up. “That’s what happens when you’re only charging five hundred bucks a plate. Live and learn, am I right?”

“Let’s try for twenty leg darts,” said Sally.

“I hate those.” Nora yelled out, “Zdenka!”

Sally braced herself for the entrance of the young Czech nanny, who clearly outranked her in the Ross household.

“Yes?” asked Zdenka in her hard accent. She nursed a bottle of exotic water. Anytime Nora outgrew a piece of clothing, it ended up on Zdenka. Today she sported a Dolce & Gabbana silk shirt, True Religion jeans, and Hogan shoes. Sally would have looked totally hot in that shirt, belted over leggings with her new Hermès belt. But did Sally ever get a crack at any of Nora’s discards? No.

“The gals are coming to put together the goody bags in the dining room,” Nora said. “Don’t let J.J. anywhere near that, please.”

“Of course,” answered the nanny, and left.

Nora raised a leg in the air, an indication that she wished to be stretched out. Sally complied. Her student groaned with pleasure, then asked, “So. What’s the latest on your beau?”

Sally had hoped Nora wouldn’t ask. It had been two weeks since Sally had seen the ring. Still, Jeremy hadn’t proposed. Sally was completely flummoxed. “We’re doing fine,” she said.

“I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

“If he proposes, he proposes. If he doesn’t, I’m fine with that, too.” This was what Sally had started to tell those who asked.

Nora yanked her leg free. “What do you mean? Two weeks ago you raved about what a good fit you two were.”

“I know. But I think I’m looking for someone more . . . emotionally available.”

“Please!” Nora crossed one leg over the other. Sally pushed the stuffed sausages into Nora’s chest. “Men don’t care about how you feel. That’s what girlfriends are for. If you’re waiting around for a guy who will share his feelings, you’d better pack Proust, because you’re going to be waiting a mighty long time.”

“I like that,” Sally said.

“You don’t have to like it or dislike it. You just have to accept it. Jordan and I have a great marriage. But does he ever have a clue what I’m
feeling?
Never! That doesn’t mean he’s a bad husband.”

“And you’re a great wife.”

“Well, thank you. I try to be. Sure, in the early days, we were screwing three times a day and making spectacles of ourselves in public and it was all very dramatic. But time passes. He has his career. I have my causes. We have a special-needs kid. We’re partners who love each other.”

Partners who love each other
. Sally’s thoughts quickened. It was as if she and Jeremy had fast-forwarded past the fireworks phase straight to the partner phase. And if she wanted to talk about feelings, she had friends for that.
Feelings
. They suddenly seemed so trivial in the context of a whole
life
together. “Can you finish off with ten basic crunches?” She really wanted to help Nora with that waist.

“Fine,” moaned Nora. “But only ten.”

Sally lay on the hardwood floor and led Nora in some crunches. “One, two, three —” The overhead lights flashed. Sally squeezed her eyes shut, then squinted. J.J. stood in the doorway, flipping the switch and staring expressionless into the bulbs. On the outside, J.J. was a beautiful eight year old with long blond curls. There was no way of knowing how damaged and creepy he was on the inside. Sally closed her eyes. The hot rays burned through her eyelids and into her retina, on-off-on-off-on-off. She shielded her eyes and shot a look at J.J., but he was transfixed by the repetition.

“Could someone get him to stop that?!” Sally cried. “My God! Stop it! Where’s his nanny —”

Zdenka stared down at her. “I’m right here.”

Sally quickly turned to Nora. “I’m sorry. . . .” For all of Nora’s complaining, she
did
pay cash and worked out in the middle of the day when the dance studio was closed. And Nora never once put up a fight about paying for canceled sessions. Sally couldn’t afford to lose Nora, one of her bread-and-butter clients. “I apologize.” Sally’s voice trembled. “My eyes are just really sensitive.”

“Zdenka, take him to the park or something, will you?” Nora said, unfazed by Sally’s freak-out.

Sally flopped into a forward bend, fully aware she had just dodged a bullet. The Jeremy situation was beginning to affect her work.
Control it or it controls you
. It was time to apply her motto to Jeremy.

H
OW
do you look when you’re interested? Violet tried to remember, as she and David drove up Beverly Glen, Dot a bubbly passenger in her car seat.

“. . . Capitol is trying to get us to rerecord two of the tracks,” David was saying. “So contractually, I can shop the record. I’ve got Columbia frothing at the mouth.”

“Sultans of Swing” came on the radio. Violet loved this song. She was about to turn onto Mulholland, and music sounded better on Mulholland. She started to reach for the volume, but David was still talking; such an act on Violet’s part ran the risk of igniting a conflagration.

“The question is,” he said, “do we stay with Capitol and force them to release the tracks? Or would that make them lose enthusiasm for the single?”

A question. He had just asked her a question. Thank God it was still buffered in her short-term memory. Violet rewound it in her head and replied, “Is one of the tracks in question the first single?” Violet felt good about her reply; it was quick and informed, the reply of someone who cared.

“Yes. They gave me a list of producers. George Drakoulias was at the top.”

“We love George,” Violet said.

“Maybe I’ll give him a call.”

“Want dat. Want dat.” Dot had spotted Violet’s cell phone in the cup holder. Violet slipped it back to Dot, her gaze never deserting her husband.

“But all this — Hanging with Yoko, the record label, the catalogues — it’s all starting to look like a fucking hobby compared to what the gold stocks are doing. You know what I say. Gold, it’s the king of money. When it starts to run, it’s going to be scary.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Violet said.

“Be happy for us. It’s ours.” David kicked at something on the floor. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” she said, “when I subscribed to
Cook’s Illustrated,
without realizing it, I signed up for some cookbook-of-the-month thing. And most of the recipes involve meat, so I can’t use them.”

“Have you gotten off the list, at least?”

“I tried, but it’s such a pain. So I thought I’d just give them to LadyGo.”

David picked up a cookbook and leafed through it. “She can’t understand this.”

“I know, but there was a monster line at the post office when I went to return them. I’m sure LadyGo knows somebody who wants them.”

David stared at her, jaw hanging. “That’s your solution? For every month for the rest of my life, I’m going to pay, what” — he looked for a price on the book — “thirty-nine bucks for a cookbook that you’re giving to someone who doesn’t speak English, in hopes that she’ll find someone who wants it? Come on, Violet.”

“I’m sorry.” She should have known this would happen. She should never have left these books in her car.

“It’s not about the money,” he said. “It’s just — how are we living, here?”

“You’re right. I’ll get off the list and return the books on Monday.”

David wasn’t happy, but at least he had stopped talking. Just in time for Violet’s favorite part of the song.

And a crowd of young boys, they’re fooling around in the corner

Drunk and dressed in their best brown baggies and their platform soles

They don’t give a damn about any trumpet playing band

It ain’t what they call rock and roll. . . .

Violet held her breath to better hear her favorite line, the one that never failed to slay her:

And the Sultans played Creole.

Violet’s eyes welled up.

“Get that cell phone out of Dot’s hand!” It was David, talking again. “She could get brain cancer.”

“It’s not on.” Violet turned and held out her hand for Dot. “Mommy needs that back, sweetie.”

“That’s not the point. I don’t want her in the habit — Shit — Violet, are you crying? What’s going on?”

“I just really love this song.”

“ ‘The Sultans of Swing’?” David frowned and his head jerked back slightly, as if he was jolted by that fact. “Really?”

“Have you ever listened to the words?”

“No.”

“It’s about these working stiffs who play in a band every Friday night. And when they’re onstage, nobody appreciates them. But they don’t care. Because for those few hours, they’re . . . free.”

David looked alarmed. “Maybe you can go see Dire Straits next time they’re in town. Or, you know what, Mutt Lange is friends with Mark Knopfler. We can all go to dinner next time we’re in London.”