Authors: Kerry Reichs
S
o.” Eva tapped the steering wheel.
Deborah looked out the window.
Eva felt awkward. Deborah was such a lump of a girl.
She turned the radio up. “Do you like Justin Bieber?” She looked young enough.
The girl shrugged moth-wing shoulders. She was such a thin vessel.
“I got to see him in concert.” “Got” was a strong word. Eva, feeling ancient, had been deafened by the tween “Beliebers,” but she’d signed twelve-year-old sensation Madelynn Jeter. It shocked Eva that most of her clients were born in the 1990s. She peeked sideways. Deborah had been born in the 1990s, and now the baby was having a baby.
“Thought of any baby names?”
Deborah’s gaze swung her way. “Why would I do that?”
Eva could have kicked herself. “Right. I’m sure Wyatt has that covered.”
“Where is Wyatt?”
Eva knew it was irrational to feel stung. “He has a School Board meeting,” she reminded Deborah.
“Oh.”
They passed the rest of the ride in silence. It was a relief to park the car. Deborah had barely checked in when they called her name. They both stood.
“Would you like me to go in with you?” Eva offered.
She was relieved when Deborah shook her head no. She pulled out her iPhone as soon as Deborah disappeared. She’d needed to check her e-mail but hadn’t wanted to seem rude to the girl.
Eva didn’t know what to do about the Daisy situation. It had been over two months since she’d gotten the
Cora
script, but Julian Wales refused to return her calls. She needed to put enough pressure on Wales to get Daisy the part, but not so much that Eva compromised their working relationship. She also had to consider Freya Fosse, Dimple Bledsoe’s agent. She was a force to be reckoned with—though the grapevine suggested Julian wasn’t returning Freya’s calls either.
Eva was reading the last e-mail she’d exchanged with Julian Wales when a text popped up from Sawyer.
So there’s this movie I want to see, and my mom said I couldn’t go by myself.
She smiled. She typed.
I’m sorry, I don’t do porn.
She didn’t wait long for a reply.
The hell you don’t. Last night ruined me forever. You are Mozart where everyone else is like awkward elevator music.
Eva blushed. She had no idea what to reply. Another text popped up.
Oh, sorry. Did I send that to Eva??? Oooops . . .
She typed.
Don’t make me sic Chuck Norris on you. Chuck Norris doesn’t go hunting because hunting has a possibility of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.
Sawyer replied.
Chuck Norris never “gets laid,” rather laid “gets Chuck.”
I’m smitten, thought Eva. Last night had been perfect. He’d cooked for them, and they’d “watched a movie,” though Eva couldn’t tell you what it was about. It had been hard to leave.
“Stay,” Sawyer had begged, arms wrapped around her. They were stretched out on the deep couch, his brown hair falling into sleepy eyes.
“I can’t.” It was tempting.
“I make good eggs.”
She waited for the “fertilized” joke but it didn’t come. He was really offering to make her eggs for breakfast. Her heart cooed.
“I have to go,” she said anyway.
“Eventually, yes. But seeing as you’re completely housebroken, there’s no rush.”
“Now.” She untangled herself. “I have to catch a cab. After midnight cabs evaporate around here.”
He tugged her back. “Be a sporting woman. Give the cabs a head start.”
She bent down to kiss him. “While it turns out deep couches agree with me, I have an early appointment.”
“False. No actor gets up before noon.”
It was too complicated to explain about Wyatt’s baby mama. She also didn’t want any conversation about kids.
“Think how nice it will be to see me again if you’ve had more time to miss me.” She slid her feet into her shoes.
“Friday?”
“Really?” That would be the third time this week.
“Who’s got two thumbs and wants to see you this weekend?” He made fists and pointed at himself. “This guy.”
She couldn’t hide her goofy grin. “Friday, then.”
A ping brought Eva’s attention back to her iPhone. Her anticipation of a flirty text from Sawyer was disappointed.
Cora = Daisy yet???? Had to do karate class for Julian this week. WTF????
Eva was irritated by Daisy’s message. In fact, she was irritated with the whole Daisy situation. It used to be that producers and directors would screen suitable talent and award the role to the best actress. Now, a studio might be looking to cross-promote another picture. A niece might be involved. A director might be swayed by a persuasive agent. A male lead might be five eight. A sex tape could be released. An agent couldn’t rely on talent anymore. As much as Eva resented it, her job was shifting toward marketing, and she had to aggressively pitch for roles. Clients were demanding it, even when the role was a stretch. There used to be loyalty in Hollywood, but not anymore. If an actor didn’t get a part she wanted, she’d change her agent as easily as her hairstyle. If Julian Wales was seriously considering Dimple Bledsoe for the part, Eva had to slide in there like a knife.
She considered what she knew about the other actress. It wasn’t much. Dimple had gotten rave reviews for some independent films a decade ago. There was no reason to dismiss her acting chops merely because she was on television. Eva wasn’t rookie enough to believe that just because she was smart, the other person was stupid. In the current economy, even A-list actors moved fluidly between television and film.
What was striking to Eva was that Julian was courting two actresses from different ends of the spectrum. It wasn’t so much the spread in years. There was a decade between them, maybe, and makeup and lighting could fix that. It was more that Daisy was emerging on the scene as Dimple was fading. Eva wondered what that meant.
Working on it.
She typed back to Daisy.
“Is this seat taken?” A voice asked.
“No, sorry.” Eva pulled her jacket off the chair.
“It’s packed today.” The brunette dropped into the seat.
“They’re giving away free pickles and peanut butter,” Eva said.
The woman gave Eva her full face as she giggled.
Eva was stunned. Sitting next to her was Dimple Bledsoe. She thought she’d conjured her up, until a whiff of delicious perfume persuaded her that there really was a woman sitting next her.
Her second thought was that she understood why Julian Wales was talking to her. She was beautiful, but not in a conventional way. Her face wasn’t perfect, and she had a crooked tooth, but she emanated warmth, richness. She was the kind of person you were drawn to. If she was aging at all, she was doing it damn well.
A third thought took over. The waiting room was filled with fecund women, abdomens rounded from gently to mind-bogglingly. Dimple was as slim as a willow. What was she doing here?
Eva realized she was staring. “Eva.” She held out her hand.
“Dimple.” They shook.
Eva wasn’t worried that Dimple would know who she was. Agents weren’t like the talent they represented. Anonymity was a job qualification, and they moved behind the scenes.
“You’re on
Pulse
, right?” She had to be sure. “I love that show.”
“Yes, I am. I’m glad you like it.”
Eva’s brain was racing. Was Dimple Bledsoe pregnant? That would be a game changer. She held herself back from asking. First, she swore by the cardinal rule that you never,
ever
asked a woman if she was pregnant unless you actually saw the baby emerging. Second, to pry here, in this waiting room, felt like a violation of sacred space. Eva was an interloper among this tribe of childbearers.
Eva couldn’t jump to conclusions. Hope Clinic offered all kinds of women’s care. Dimple could be getting her annual exam, picking up birth control, meeting a doctor friend for lunch, researching a role. She peeked. No ring.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it, though.
“Do you like working in television?” Some questions Eva could ask.
“It’s great, but since DVR you know that at any moment, out there, somewhere, your face is frozen on pause in an unflattering grimace.” She made a goofy face and Eva liked her for it. “Are you in the business?”
“I thought about acting for a quick second.” Eva dodged the question. “But then remembered I don’t have talent.”
“My mother wanted me to be a lawyer. I told her I had to follow my destiny. After I graduated, I called and asked to borrow five hundred dollars. She said ‘Why don’t you act like you’ve got five hundred dollars?’ ”
“Tough love.”
Dimple was distracted, staring over Eva’s shoulder. Eva turned to see a platinum blonde in magenta lipstick chewing gum like a piston engine.
“Is she an actress?” Eva didn’t know the girl, and Eva knew everyone.
“What? No.” Dimple refocused on Eva. “Sorry. It’s the gum chewing. Speaking of mothers . . . I’m incapable. My mom drilled into me that chewing gum in public looked like a cow.” She looked at the girl again. “She was right.” The chewing was particularly enthusiastic.
Eva couldn’t agree more. “Mine called herself the Original Cyn, and said the second sin was allowing yourself to be unkempt in public. That meant chewing gum, going out without makeup, or a stain on your clothes. I can’t run out for cat litter without sparkly earrings.”
“Your mother was the Original Cyn?” Dimple looked surprised. Perhaps she was older than Eva thought. Twenty years ago, Cynthia Lytton had been a socialite of the first order, hostess to the A list, maker of introductions, inspirer of designers, heartbreaker of the heartbreakers. She’d been vibrant and larger than life and could show the Kardashians and Hiltons how things were done downtown. “Her parties were legendary.”
Eva nodded. “I used to serve champagne to Jack Nicholson in a tutu. I mean,
I
wore the tutu, not Jack Nicholson. Dustin Hoffman came to my tenth birthday party dressed as Tootsie and Bo Derek braided my hair.”
“What happened to her?”
She died
, Eva thought.
“She got married and had kids,” Eva said. “Now she’s queen of homework and orthodontists.”
“That doesn’t sound appealing.” Dimple laughed, looking at all the future homework monitors around the room. Eva’s Spidey sense tingled. Was Dimple going to reveal something?
Instead Dimple said, “I guess it’s hard for women to have a career and children.”
“Doesn’t that make the real enemy children?”
Dimple shrugged. “Your kids can’t write you out. In my line of work, women have a shelf life, and around my age you begin to feel the footprint in your butt.”
Eva was uncomfortably aware that her own spiked Ferragamo was about to find the small of Dimple’s back.
“Why do we let them do that?” Eva asked out of the other side of her face.
“Good question,” Dimple said. “The men get to play heroes, run government, and sit on the Supreme Court until they’re ninety. Women expire at forty-five.”
“It’s a good thing we do just as much in half the time,” Eva said.
“If they cast the movie of my life right now, they’d pick an actress half my age. I’d be the kooky aunt or the Queen of England.”
“The Queen of England has an enviable collection of hats.”
“Better to hide the wrinkles. Maybe your mom had it right. You finish your first life in your forties, leaving before waning, then you have a whole other one, something completely different.”
Eva couldn’t agree with that, but Dimple didn’t know what she was talking about. Or maybe Dimple was talking about herself. Was she leaving
Pulse
for
Cora
? Or leaving
Pulse
to raise kids in the Valley?
Before she could ask more, a voice called, “Ms. Bledsoe?”
“That’s me,” said Dimple. “Nice to meet you, Eva.” She gathered her things and followed the technician’s pink scrubs through a doorway different from the one through which Deborah had passed.
As she watched her go, Eva knew three things. One, she liked Dimple Bledsoe.
Two, she had been through that doorway once, and had met that technician, a woman named Cindy. That doorway led to the technical rooms, and Cindy was not a doctor, she was an ultrasound specialist. As far as Eva knew, the only reason to get a sonogram was because you were pregnant, or trying to become pregnant.
The third thing was that Eva now had personal information about another person that she was not entitled to know. Information that could benefit Eva directly. And she had no idea what to do with it.
I
checked my watch as I left Hope Clinic. I had time for either Vinyasa yoga class or a massage. A woman waddled past me to her car, surely pregnant with nine thousand babies. Her leg descended from knee to sneaker like a mast, completely lacking in ankle. I decided on the yoga.
I arrived uncharacteristically early and settled my mat back left, close but not too close to the wall so my flank was not exposed to crowding. I settled into a resting lotus and breathed. My brain was a jumble.
“Well, look at that.” The ultrasound technician had pointed at something indistinguishable on the monitor. It was grey modern art. She could actually see something in it.
“What?” Some alarm.
“You have a follicle ready to drop right now. There on your right.”
“I do?”
“Yep.” She removed the wand and pulled her gloves off with a snap. “Everything looks great. You’re the picture of reproductive health.”
And with that she’d dumped the whole dilemma in my lap. There was no impediment to having a baby other than what was going on in my headspace. I breathed deeply trying to stop my racing thoughts.
The class filled up slowly, mats quietly unfurled, students inhaling, thumbs to index fingers. The instructor, tensile and tan, like quality leather, fiddled with an iPod until soundscapes filled the studio.
“Welcome,” she said. “
Namaste
.”
“
Namaste
,” we repeated.
“I’m glad to see you all today.” She folded herself like a sailing knot. “I’d like to start with pranayama, or breathing. As we breathe, set your intention and dedicate your practice.”
Her voice was hypnotic, and I inhaled deeply, letting the air fill my lungs and enervate my body, focusing on posture. Everyone was breathing and coming to self when the banging door shredded the tranquility. I tried to remain meditative, but the latecomer was like a newlywed’s car, clattering cans in her wake. She slapped her mat next to mine, then clacked to kick off heels and drop a purse the size of an overnight bag. She settled cross-legged with a huff, and I looked into the face of Daisy Carmichael.
“Oh!” I said.
“You!” she said. Several people craned to look.
“Me,” I agreed, wondering why I was the “you
,”
not Daisy.
“What are you doing here?”
That seemed rather obvious. “Vinyasa.”
“Right.” We stared at each other. She looked amazing, an expensive leotard revealing not an ounce of fat, hair perfectly tumbling from its clasp. I was wearing my ex-boyfriend’s Coast Guard T-shirt and leggings from Target.
“Are you still going after
Cora
? I swear Julian spends every free minute torturing me with bizarre auditions. But he hasn’t mentioned you.” She had huge eyes.
“The role hasn’t been cast yet,” I whispered, uncomfortable disturbing the class. And uncomfortable that I hadn’t seen Julian since our ride. Apparently Daisy had.
“Let’s practice our sun salutations.” The instructor’s voice held rebuke, which almost never happened with yoga instructors. Daisy was unperturbed.
“Isn’t
Cora
a bit of a reach for you?”
“That’s quite rude.” Whispering diluted my censure.
“Movies are different from TV,” she persisted.
“You learned that from one?” was my un-yogic reply.
“One this decade.” She bit back.
“Ladies, please.” The reprimand was open this time. Daisy shut up, and we launched into a whole new level of competition.
“Let’s go into tree pose. When you feel muscle exhaustion, release into a sun salutation.”
We assumed the standing pose. Within moments, my thighs were burning. Two women to my left swanned through sun salutation. Daisy was as steady as a rock. After another minute, four more people dropped. Sweat was pouring down my face. Daisy was unaffected. Before long, we were the only two in tree pose. I was on the point of expiring but refused to budge.
I could have kissed the instructor on the mouth when she said, “All right, ladies, go ahead and move through your sun salutation.”
And so it went. Bird of paradise. Revolved half-moon pose. One-legged pigeon. I began to loathe the phrase “For those who want more of a challenge . . .”
Daisy’s posing was perfect. I was going to need an orthopedist to correct the damage I was doing. Ten lifetimes passed before my eyes as I held contorted poses, but I went toe-to-toe with Daisy.
We were doing compass, a complicated twist with one leg straight in the air, when a memory penetrated my pain.
You’ve got a follicle ready to drop right now.
I had a mental image of a little teardrop with a face, clinging desperately to the lip of my ovary, dangling over a long, barren drop. Felix the follicle, hanging on for dear life as I twisted and wrenched my body.
I eased my twist. Daisy snorted. I loathed her.
“Let’s move on to inversions.”
I panicked. What would inversions do to little Felix? Daisy uncurled into a flawless forearm stand. Shit. I settled for a shoulder stand. Hang on, little guy.
The class would never end. Daisy made it look effortless and I was in agony.
Finally, it was almost over. Most students were resting but I was locked in the downward dog of my life, refusing my trembling arms any mercy next to Daisy’s textbook silhouette, when I saw her bag move a few inches. Was that really the new and unobtainable Birkin? And had it just repositioned itself?
I nearly cried with relief when the instructor said, “Child’s pose.
Everyone
.”
I wilted into the resting pose trying not to pant audibly. I was hallucinating.
After too short an interval, the instructor said, “Come to a seated position. Before savasana, let’s review our intention and keep our minds clear.”
My mind was the opposite of clear. How the hell did Daisy get an $11,000 handbag that Eva Longoria couldn’t get her hands on?
As if knowing I was thinking about it, the bag moved again. And yipped.
“Shut it, Charlie!” Daisy snapped.
I blinked. There was a dog zipped up in the duffle? I opened my mouth, then closed it. What would I say?
Daisy caught my look. “It’s not like you can leave them in the car. Some busybody will call the cops.”
“
Savasana,
” the instructor scolded.
“I’m out.” Daisy stood. “Can’t waste time lying around. I’m meeting Julian.” She threw me a tight smile. “It’s been a treat.” She gathered her mat, bag (which gave a muffled yip), and about seven other things too many for exercise class before clattering out, strident against the meditation period.
I didn’t believe she was meeting Julian, but it didn’t ease my anxiety. She was incredibly beautiful. If she could act, I was in trouble. I detested her.
Freya would’ve admired my welling intense need to beat Daisy. Forget Felix, clinging to life, I’d get this part. His would be a short and tragic existence, but there’d be another.
I stopped by Whole Foods after class to grab dinner. I headed for the prepared foods section, which I dubbed the Salad-and-So-What’s-Your-Name bar. Singles filled plastic tubs with prepared savories and checked out fellow grazers over the sneeze guard. I came to a dead stop. Daisy Carmichael’s back was to me as she scooped lettuce into a container. Seriously? Satisfaction that she wasn’t meeting Julian was overpowered by irritation. I checked out the contents of her tub. Four leaves of romaine and a radish. Of course. As she moved down the buffet, I detected a slight limp. Ha.
I’d go to Noma and get sushi. I froze, though, watching Daisy. I was struck by a memory of myself at her age, doing exactly the same thing. Had I really been getting Whole Foods takeout for ten years?
Seized with panic, I though of Felix the follicle. Did I want to be here in ten more? I hurried from the store. I’d go to my mother’s for dinner.
It might have been aching muscles, it might have been unconscious, but I moved carefully even in my haste, trying not to jiggle too much.