The Year Of Living Famously. Laura Caldwell
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I said. “Maybe I won’t go. I don’t need to move.” I was in agony at that moment. I wanted desperately to be with Declan every day, but how could I leave Emmie?
When she heard my words, she pushed herself up and sat straighter. She threw her shoulders back, as if throwing off her earlier words and thoughts.
She lifted her glass. “Kyra,” she said, “you’ve got to follow love if you can find it. I won’t have it any other way. Now, from what I recall, Los Angeles is a cesspool, but if you must live there, it might as well be with an Irishman who loves you. I want you to tell him something, though. If he doesn’t take care of you, if he wounds you in any way, I will find ways to grievously injure him. Agreed?”
It was Emmie’s way. I lifted my glass and touched it to hers.
chapter 8
“We should be landing in about twenty minutes,” the pilot said over the intercom. “That’s about five minutes early.” As if he should get a gold statuette.
I looked out the tiny oval window. Dirt-brown mountains. Arid stretches of sand interrupted by white ribbons of road. Soon there were grids of tiny houses, little blue squares of swimming pools. My new home.
The first few weeks were sparkly and wonderful. The ocean, viewed from Declan’s strip of balcony, was glittery blue, inviting. We spent the first few days in a sweaty, happy haze, unpacking all that I’d shipped from New York. Most of his “furniture” was tossed, and my eclectic mix of old wood pieces settled into place.
“God, it’s loads better now that you’re here,” Declan would say as he stopped and surveyed the living room. I kissed him when he said things like that. It seemed I kissed him all the time.
Once most of my stuff was in, and most of Dec’s in the garbage bin behind his house, the apartment wasn’t bad. It didn’t have the character of my place in New York, but the kitchen was now a sunny place that we’d painted yellow and white, and the living room was a cozy enclave with plump chairs and the low coffee table that had been my parents’. I’d splurged on new linens for the bed, four-hundred-thread-count sheets in a cool Zen green I felt was very L.A.
We fell into a pattern in those days. The late mornings and early afternoons, we spent at Cow’s End Coffee. First, we would read the papers, stopping every few minutes to read an article out loud to one another.
Later, we put away the papers and I worked on my designs, while Declan went over his lines for an audition or an acting class. Often, I raised my gaze from my sketch pad and watched him. His eyes narrowed and focused intently on the page; sometimes his lips moved as he read. I wondered, as I watched him, why he wanted to be an actor. He’d told me how he had fallen in love with acting, but I still puzzled over why anyone would want to spend their life pretending to be someone else. Did this represent a chink in his character? Something deficient? And yet I adored his devotion to his work. I loved how much he wanted to learn, to excel.
Nearly every night those first few weeks, we watched the sunset from the Venice pier, standing next to the Mexican fishermen and the families with strollers, our arms wrapped around each other. In Manhattan, sunset meant that the city turned orange and then navy blue for a few minutes, but here, it lasted forever. The ocean spread out like a vast liquid carpet, and the sun was a mammoth pink globe. Later, we ate somewhere in the neighborhood, laughing with the waiters and the other patrons, anyone who would smile back at us. And how could they not? We glowed.
I tried hard to make L.A. my new hometown. One day, when Declan was at an audition, I went to Fred Segal in Santa Monica. To me this outing smacked of something a true Los Angeleno would do. I knew of Fred Segal, the jeans designer, but I had never heard about his L.A. stores, and my ignorance had been met with abject horror by one woman.
“You’ve never been to Fred Segal?” said Tara, wife of Brandon, one of Declan’s acting friends. A week or so after I moved, Declan had invited the couple for dinner at a restaurant called C&O in Venice so that I could get to know some people. But Tara only wanted to lord over me how much I didn’t know about Los Angeles. She had already giggled maliciously when I said I didn’t have a car and didn’t think I would get one. (In retrospect, I can’t blame her.)
“They’re some kind of shops?” I said.
“Some kind of shops?” Tara sent Brandon a smug look, as if to say, Isn’t she just precious?
“Sweetie,” she said, placing a hand on mine. “Fred Segal is the place to shop. And for good reason. It’s casual, it’s delicious, and you will spend way too much money. Trust me. Just go.”
And so a few days later, after Declan left, I went to Fred Segal, and found that Tara was right. It was very L.A.—a glorified mall—but there was no Gap, no Barnes & Noble, just tiny boutiques filled with gauzy pink slip dresses, silver salad tongs in the shape of tree branches, decadent bath products that smelled like lavender.
Most of the boutiques were individually owned, and I tried to talk to the managers or owners about taking a look at my clothing line. The fact was, I had no such line ready at the time, but I figured I’d lure them in, then figure it out. But all I heard was, “No thanks, we only buy from a few reps.”
Dejected, I wandered the stores. I bought Declan some English shaving cream in a decorative can that set me back fifty dollars and a leather journal for Emmie, then I had lunch in an Italian café. I drank pinot grigio and ate salad with a crowd of people doing exactly the same thing. Except that all those people had lunch partners or spoke constantly into their cell phones.
I called Bobby from mine.
I’d seen him the previous week for drinks at the Sky Bar on a night when Declan had his acting class. There was a huge line stretching from the bar into the Mondrian Hotel lobby, and every beautiful person in line looked as if they were famous or counting on being famous soon. Bobby walked to the front, said hello to the bouncer with an ear-piece, and we sailed right in.
“You know him?” I said to Bobby.
“Not really. He knows I work for William Morris.” As if that said everything. And I soon came to understand that it did. Everyone in L.A. was “in the business” in one form or another, or if not, they were trying to get “in the business” or they had a friend or sister or roommate who was trying to get “in the business.”
“Wow,” I said as we got into the bar. It was open-air, the sky above us black and sparkling with stars. On one side, the lights of Los Angeles burned orange, competing with the stars and winning.
Bobby soon scored a low table surrounded by white plushy couches. We stretched out on them, ordered vodka martinis, just like we always did when we were together, and proceeded to get pleasantly boozy. But we were interrupted on a regular basis.
The first time, it was a short, muscled woman with spiky, cherry-cola hair. “Are you Bobby Minter?” she said.
Bobby nodded, but didn’t change his slouched position, which I thought was rude. I sat up straight and smiled at her, waiting to be introduced.
“I’m Rachel Tagliateri,” she said.
“Nice to meet you,” Bobby said, although he didn’t sound as if it was all that nice.
I started to hold out my hand, but the woman barely looked at me and charged on. “Look,” she said, “I hate to interrupt you, but I was just wondering if I could send you my head shots and some tapes. I’m on a reality show, you know The Rat Race? I’m one of the few people left, right? But I want to bridge from this into acting. That’s where my true passion lies…”
She went on and on until Bobby sat up a little and raised his hand. “Rachel, was it?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not accepting new clients right now.”
Her smile dimmed. “Okay, well, I’ll just send you the head shots anyway, just in case—”