Aftermath of Dreaming (22 page)

The apartment was in an old Spanish-style building from the twenties with huge windows and beautiful tile. It had one large, light-filled room plus an eat-in kitchen, a huge walk-in closet, a decent-sized bathroom, and, the best part, a dressing room that I used as my (tiny) art studio. I had decided to start painting again, wanting to make box-type pieces with objects depicting the juxtaposition of being in two worlds, separate but at once. So the dressing room was messy and full, with a drop cloth covering the hardwood floor and a floodlight clamped onto the door frame so I could work late at night after my restaurant shifts, while I was still wound up from getting customers' gourmand desires while they were under the delusion that sitting in the new hot spot, eating an overly expensive meal, was going to change who they were, or at least fix their unhappiness.

 

One afternoon when I was home after a morning of working for Bill, Andrew called me from his car. He asked what I was doing, and when I answered, “Working on a new piece,” he immediately wanted my address. I
had a split second of thinking his motivation was to see what I was working on, then I realized, probably not. I gave the address to him, using the Academy of Motion Pictures, Arts, and Sciences building as a reference point since it was at the corner of my street and I knew he would know where it was at the very least because of all the premieres he must have attended there through the years, not to mention the two Oscars he had won. My downstairs neighbor had told me what the building was soon after I moved in, as I was cooling down from a run early one evening and watching an impeccably hip phalanx walking past our apartment building. A film premiere, she had explained, at the academy. But Andrew had no response to that information. No “That's funny, I'm there for screenings quite a bit.” Or “I'm glad you landed on a safe block.” Just “I'll be right there.” Which was annoying. Was I not supposed to mention that precious part of his world? We didn't talk about his career regularly, and when we did, he was the one who brought it up, and it took the form of him thinking things through out loud while watching my reaction to see how it sounded, sometimes asking what I thought about a particular point or two, then when he was done, we'd have sex.

Andrew walked into my apartment that afternoon, filling up the space with his tall strong frame, the light from his eyes blinding the room. We had sex on the futon that Bill had given me after assuring me that he had bought it to use as a couch, then changed his mind and never did. I had gotten a down-filled mattress pad to cover it, like gold inlay on a plastic watch, I thought every time I lay down, but it was comfortable, I could sleep, and my checkbook hadn't been wrecked by buying a bed.

At Andrew's house, we had a routine, but that afternoon it was altered, the sex a collage of sensations, some motions moved forward, others following while before they had led, and my apartment was the background. Having him there was like a picture of our relationship enlarged. Easier to see, but some things were blurred while others were cut off, as if unnecessary to the subject's essentiality. The sex was different and familiar, and Andrew became imprinted where my life developed most.

Afterward, Andrew got up to use the bathroom. He walked down the short hall and into the dressing room where I heard him stop, his footsteps muffled slightly by the drop cloth. I could imagine him turning his head to look at my pieces, and I wondered what he thought about them and if he would tell me, as he had with my sculptures all those years ago on his bed at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. A few seconds later I heard more steps, the bathroom door shut, then the faucet turned on. I lay naked on the futon as a soft breeze from the mid-October day blew in through the window, running over my skin the way Andrew's hands just had, and I waited to see if and what he would say about my art and tried not to care if he didn't, but wasn't very successful.

Hopefully, he'd say something. Please, God, say something. I heard water splashing a face, then hands interrupted the spigot's flow. I tried to remember when I had last washed the towels. Two days ago; not great, not horrible. As my grandmother always said, you were clean when you got out of the tub and used them. I thought of his laundry and linens that were whisked away and invisibly replaced. His clothing retained a perfumed cleanliness, the unsullied perfection of being taken care of by many invisible hands. I could smell it on his garments each time I unzipped his jeans, pushed them down, and opened his fly while he stood, sometimes in his kitchen, when our sex started there at the end of a phone call that had been particularly long, or sometimes during one, if it was useless and annoying to him.

Andrew walked back into the room, got onto the futon with me, and put his head on my stomach with his body lying between my legs. As I rubbed his back, he was quiet and so was I as I waited to see if he'd talk about my art. I knew I couldn't casually say, “So what'd you think of what you saw?” My voice would belie the importance behind it and I didn't want him to know that.

“I didn't know if you were going to call me,” Andrew said.

“What?”

“When I first met you at the restaurant in New York. You in that uniform and more beautiful than any woman there, including the one I was with.” He looked me in the eyes, nodding his head. “You know who
I mean—Lily—and she could tell, too. After you brought me the phone, she kept saying ‘You like her, don't you?' over and over all through the rest of our meal. She bitched about you for weeks—you really threatened her.”

It was shocking to hear that she had noticed me, much less been worried about what effect I might have on him.

“Then all Sunday morning,” Andrew went on. “After I met you the night before at the coat room, I was kicking myself for not getting your phone number. I didn't think you were gonna call me. Thought I'd have to go back to that restaurant for another meal just to talk to you again, which, by the way, was the only reason I went there two weeks in a row was to meet you. I couldn't stop thinking about you that whole time in between.”

“Me, too.”

“I didn't even need to go to the bathroom, remember, after we talked? You were still in the coat-check room, and I went in the men's room and thought,
Fuck, now what do I do?
So I washed my hands, then had to tip the attendant a dollar for handing me a towel.”

It was funny he had remembered the attendant. I had forgotten all about him, a small wiry man who would continually run out of the men's room when no one was in there and stand outside the ladies' room, shouting in to the female attendant to come out and talk to him. Then he'd race back whenever anyone entered the foyer or came down the stairs—shooting in and out of the men's room like a hermit crab from a sand hole.

Andrew wrapped his arms around me, holding me close and kissing me, and I tried to gather in as much of him to last me before I saw him again. It almost made up for him saying nothing about my art.

After Andrew left, as I was working in the dressing room on the new piece, I wondered if he would ever talk to me about my art again—the work he'd seen that afternoon, all of it—the way he had finally spoken to me about his experience when we first met. Maybe I should bring it up, just ask him one day, “So, what did you think of the work you saw at my apartment?” But I didn't think I could do it without caring too
much. Especially after all that had happened with it and me and him. Maybe I wouldn't bring it up. Or maybe I wouldn't have to because he would. Dear God, I hoped so. And I hoped it wouldn't take him years, as it had for him to reveal his feelings about when he first met me. I didn't think I'd be able to wait that long.

Early that November, having lived in
L.A. a couple of months, I figured I'd embrace the culture, which as far as I could tell meant working out and not eating lots of things in complicated variations that changed with each person I met to the point where it seemed that basic vegetarians had more food options than most Angelenos allowed themselves. Not that there isn't real culture in L.A., there are museums and the Music Center and all that, but they are pushed aside somehow, ignored. Culture in L.A. is like the sidewalks there; nice to have, but not used very much.

I decided to try the working-out part of L.A. culture, so one morning I found a bright and airy but intense-looking workout studio in West Hollywood that offered all sorts of classes. I picked salsa dancing because it sounded fun and was starting in ten minutes. I went into the studio, found a spot in the front row, and looking around at the strategically spandex-clad women, realized I was probably the only person there who at no point in life would ever think I might professionally need that skill.
In the row behind me and just to the left was a famous pop star I recognized named Viv. Her career had started off phenomenally huge a few years back with a Top Ten album that garnered her the Grammy award for best new artist, but then it had stalled midair with her second album's release. She was still in the pantheon, but in the unenviable position of having to prove herself once again to the industry and to her fans. A few minutes later, class began in a burst of ecstatic musical sounds, and I tried to follow the steps that the teacher was exuberantly executing, but didn't do very well. Just keeping count to the fast Latin tempo was a problem, but I was having a good time, so I didn't care and besides, I figured I'd get it sooner or later.

I decided to make the salsa class a regular part of my week. Every Tuesday and Thursday at nine
A.M.
there I'd be in the front row so I could follow the teacher's moves, which were still not completely easy.

On the Tuesday of my third salsa class, in the middle of a particularly tricky combo, Viv, who had also been going regularly, suddenly sidled over to me, put her hands on my hips, and said in my ear, “Just focus on the legs, forget the arms and hands until you get the footwork down. Two, three, four. One, two, three…” As she alternated pressure on my hips with her hands, helping me feel the rhythm change and shift, I remembered her dance-filled videos, then she moved to a spot next to me in the front row for the rest of the class. As unusual as her gesture was, it felt perfectly normal, like a big sister California-style.

At the end of class, Viv asked if I wanted to have a juice with her. There was a sundeck with a health food bar in the back of the studio, far away from the traffic sounds of La Cienega and outfitted with lattice screens and potted palms and hanging ferns to obscure the ugly apartment building that abutted it. Dark green wrought-iron tables with chairs that left crisscross marks on my legs were spread throughout to relax at while we replenished what was burned off.

“You looked like my friend,” Viv said, after she downed her shot of wheat grass before settling in with a tall watermelon juice. We were sitting at a table under a heavy Boston fern, its tendrils curling down, reaching toward Viv like the fingers of a fan.

“I did? Who?”

“No, not someone in particular. When you walked into class that first time, my publicist was with me, and a friend of mine had said she might join us, so we were both looking out for her, but my publicist had never seen her before, so she pointed at you thinking you were my friend, and I said, ‘No, that's not her.' Then she said, ‘She looks like someone who'd be a friend of yours.' Isn't that funny?” Viv made it sound like we had just discovered our grandmothers were first cousins. We stayed for an hour, talking about her music, my art, life in L.A., and before we parted, we traded phone numbers.

Driving home, I was enveloped in the feeling of finding a friend. New school shoes is how it felt. Shiny and pretty with one or two uncomfortable spots maybe, but those would get broken in, as they took me on adventures of many kinds.

 

A couple of nights later, I arrived at Andrew's house early one evening, and the front door was opened by a slight man with sandy brown hair. Before I could wonder who he was, the man put his hand out and said, “Hello, Yvette, I'm Patrick, I believe we met on the phone.” He was as polite and solicitous leading me back to Andrew's office as he had been so many years ago when he arranged for a doctor to come to my apartment, then wired money to me. It was like meeting family, someone I already had a connection to. Andrew got up from his desk when he saw us come in, walked over to kiss me, then handed Patrick a small piece of paper, saying, “These two calls I will take.” Then wrapping his arm around me, he said, “C'mon, honey.” And we went to his bedroom.

 

Driving down the hill a few hours later, I realized that I was on a very short list of people whose calls were always put through to Andrew no matter when and no matter what he was doing, and calls constantly came in at Andrew's, like jets lining up at Kennedy with operator-woman and Patrick running traffic control. He always came to the phone for me, and
had since the beginning way back in New York. If he was in the middle of a meeting, he'd say, “Where are you?” then, “How are you?” and after hearing that I was okay, he'd tell me he'd call me back. It was the epitome of safety, his attention and concern and time every day. It was like having a million dollars that somehow fit into a back pocket of a garment that I wore daily. Him. Andrew currency. Not that I'd spend it in public. Without him ever saying it, I knew that our relationship was a secret.

Rarely, he'd be unreachable, like when he was at a postproduction studio where he was completing his latest film,
Valiant Hour,
but Patrick would always tell me, or Andrew would himself. Like he would before seeing Stephanie; he'd say he'd be out that night, and I knew what that meant without asking him.

Andrew was seeing Stephanie, a two-time Academy Award–nominated actress who had landed the role of his love interest in
Valiant Hour,
which all the gossip columnists agreed might finally grant her the coveted ultimate award from the industry. Not to mention the award of being on Andrew's arm at every public event and in between his sheets. She was his girlfriend, or that was the word Andrew used when he spoke about her to me.

I had known that Andrew and Stephanie were together long before he said anything about it, thanks to the media chronicling the relationship assiduously from its beginning a year before. When I first read about it I still lived in New York, and I had thought she didn't seem his type. Stephanie was tall and coldly blond and Nordic, like some Viking taking over the land. Then when I moved to L.A. and started seeing Andrew regularly, I really didn't believe in their relationship. The emotional validity of it. I had a feeling Andrew was with her because she was perfect for his film. He generally got involved with his leading women, as if the films he picked to do were some sort of obligatory matchmaking service. And it was impossible for me to believe that Stephanie really cared about him. She looked like a woman who, if she ever pulled herself away from the mirror long enough, would eat her young, so I figured she was just using Andrew to get the trophy that really mattered to her, while she was one on his arm. And he on hers.

A few months before Stephanie had started seeing Andrew, she came into the restaurant I worked at in Greenwich Village. She was in New York promoting a film, the film she had done that must have gotten Andrew's attention and put her on his radar screen as the next girl for him. She had heard about the great little French bistro in the Village that everyone was raving about and had to come in for a meal. But not just any meal. Stephanie was macrobiotic at that point, though God knows what fad she's moved onto since, so the chef was instructed to cook special macro dishes for her that she could eat while her dinner companions chowed down on the regular fare of pâté and cassoulet and tripe and French fries. I guess Stephanie was under the delusion that the chef would be honored to cook for her and us to serve her, but all of us waiters drew straws, with the loser having to take her table, and the chef grumbled and complained the whole time he cooked the brown rice and steamed the sad vegetables and made the soggy beans. He would have been honored if she had eaten a meal he wanted to cook, otherwise, we all wished she had gone to one of those health restaurants in the East Village, but clearly they weren't fabulous enough.

Lying in bed later that night, knowing that Andrew was in bed with Stephanie—he'd told me he had to meet her at some party—I had a wonderful daydream that Stephanie suddenly decided to quit her career and leave Andrew, but I knew that would never happen. And Andrew wouldn't break up with her before their movie came out because that would be bad for box office, so I'd have to wait until after the opening in the spring to see what he'd do, like make another movie with her, or dump her and find someone new. Like me. A part of me hoped
Valiant Hour
would be a big success for him, but another part hoped it wouldn't, but only because of Stephanie, so he'd never see her again and I could move in. Literally.

 

One morning after salsa class, Viv and I were on the sundeck at our usual table drinking watermelon juice and talking about our weekends. It was late November, but the morning was still warm as if the heat of
the summer had saved itself to emerge one final time before withdrawing for the year. I had been jumpy all morning, and had hoped the class would exhaust it out of me, but it hadn't. I needed to talk about Andrew. After seeing him regularly for almost three months and still not telling anyone, I felt about to burst. The impressions of his body on my skin, the daily and multiple phone calls, the withdrawal I went through in between seeing him, all of it was commanding my head nonstop. I needed to get it out to someone. I considered calling Carrie in New York, but we had started drifting apart once I began SVA and was buried in schoolwork. Then when I moved in with Tim, our regular communication ended, so talking to her after so much time wasn't an option. And I needed someone local, a friend, which Viv was, and she was right in front of me, drinking her juice, going on and on about her boyfriend, so for me not to say anything about Andrew felt like being at lunch with her and not eating a meal. Starving, just looking in. I wanted to talk, but in a controlled kind of way, so that Viv would forget all about it afterward, only remembering if I talked about it again. There was no way she could know it was Andrew, so I decided to conceal his identity, and began telling Viv about this guy I was seeing, Andy—a nickname Andrew was never called. I said he went out of town sometimes—my way of talking about not seeing him when he was with Stephanie—and I'd miss him so much, but we talked on the phone all the time and about the sex we had and…

It felt good to get it out, and Viv was an attentive listener. She made noises that encouraged me to talk and nodded at other parts; she was completely understanding, even saying things that were dead-on about Andrew, as if we had been speaking about him the whole time I'd known him.

The phone was ringing when I got home. It was Andrew wondering where I'd been, he had come by my apartment, but I wasn't in. I was so happy to have finally been able to talk about him to Viv, even in a veiled way, that I told Andrew about the salsa classes and my friendship with her, though not about the conversation she and I had just had.

“Viv, the pop singer?” Andrew said in a tone I had never heard before.

“Yeah, her.” I immediately felt uneasy though I couldn't figure out what could be wrong.

“Viv.” Andrew's voice pounced on the word. “Who released a couple of albums, but now is in free fall?”

“Yes, her. What's the big deal?”

“She's Stephanie's best friend.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. You didn't tell her anything about us, did you?”

“Oh, God, no. I wouldn't do that.” My mind was scrambling, trying to remember everything I had said to Viv.

“Good, because otherwise we're fucked. Stephanie is pretty vindictive. I can handle her, but I wouldn't want her wrath on your head.”

I was quiet for a moment while that horrible thought sank in. “Jesus, how fucking small is this town?”

Which made Andrew laugh, as if I were starting to understand something he had learned before I was born. And actually, I realized, he had.

“As long as you didn't say anything to Viv—who, by the way, has one of the biggest mouths in Hollywood, so don't tell her anything you don't want broadcast on the street—we'll be fine. Call me later,” he said, then his voice moved down a few places inside me until it reached exactly where he wanted it to be. “You need to fuck me tonight.”

“I sure do.”

I hung up the phone thrilled that I was going to see Andrew soon, but flipped out about Stephanie and Viv. Fuck. How could I have been so stupid as to use the name Andy? Daddy had always said that the way people get caught in lies is that they can't remember what they said, so right before I told Viv about Andrew, I thought I'd use a name close to his so I wouldn't get tripped up. But fuck, Stephanie and Viv were best friends. Jesus, I wished I had known that. And how weird was it that of all the people I made friends with, or who had made friends with me, she's removed from Andrew one degree. Though maybe everyone is in
L.A. I prayed Viv wouldn't say anything to Stephanie, though really what could she say? But if Viv had figured it out, and told Stephanie, who then got all over Andrew about it, he would be pissed off and would stop seeing me, and…Fuck. I would just have to tell Viv the next time we talked that Andy and I had broken up and pray to God that she forgets everything I'd said.