Camelot & Vine (2 page)

Back in the terminal I found Mike’s
Aeromexico flight number on the screen. His flight had already
landed. Security didn’t allow me in the terminal or anywhere near
the baggage claim, so I positioned myself where I’d be able to see
him when he came through the Arrivals gate. He'd have to go through
customs, so I figured I had time to wait.

There was a café, but I wasn’t hungry. I
could have grabbed a newspaper, but I've never cared about current
events. So I found a seat (high-heeled Rodeo Drive boots are
beautiful, but not practical for standing around) and daydreamed.
By the time Mike sauntered out of the terminal, I was hoping he’d
have time for an afternoon wrangle in my bed.

Mike strode at the head of the crowd, as
usual, his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, his dark jacket
swinging open, his tie loose. A quiver tickled my chest at how his
faded jeans molded to his shape and his Mexican tan set off his
blond curls. He wore his hair long, in what I imagined was a
gesture of defiance to all things corporate, even though he was
destined to be a network executive. He was handsome enough to be a
movie star but smart enough to know from where the money flowed.
The show he produced (shot in Mexico because production costs were
cheaper there) was a competition between sexy couples to see who
could get pregnant first, with adultery thrown in for spice. I
hadn’t told him I wasn’t crazy about it.

I stood and stepped forward when I saw Mike,
then stopped when his eyes lit on something. I followed their beams
to his wife. Damn. I recognized her because the two had been
photographed together for the tabloids. She wasn’t what I expected.
The photos had made her out to be a pudgy woman with no fashion
sense. In person she was cute, if mousy, with a shy smile. She was
also very young and very pregnant.

I ducked behind a sign for Budget
Rent-A-Car.

At the sight of his wife, Mike’s cheeks went
pink and his eyes brightened. When the two met beside the baggage
carousel he held her—tenderly, so as not to squish her baby bulge.
She threw her arms around him, and her cubic zirconium ring flashed
in the fluorescent light. For a moment I wondered if he’d lied to
me about the ring and it was really a diamond.

Mike kissed his wife in a way he’d never
kissed me, his whole body relieved to be in her arms. His lips
moved. I think he said, “I missed you.” He had told me the marriage
wasn’t working and he was thinking of divorcing her. He hadn’t
bothered to mention the pregnancy, or the exquisite tenderness he
obviously felt for her.

When he opened his eyes and saw me, his
expression soured. I wasn’t happy about the situation either. He
turned away and picked up his suitcase. The lovebirds walked past
me with their arms around each other. I buried my nose in a rental
car brochure.

-----

I’d bought the purse because it was
fashionable and roomy. The phone had to be in there because the
purse was ringing. I finally found the phone at the bottom under a
couple of headshots, amid loose change and old lipsticks. It was
stuck inside my passport, which was still there from my last trip
to Mexico to the set of Mike’s show. I’d had to pretend I was his
assistant. The head of Wardrobe had hated me.

“Hello.”

“She’s in the john. She’s
always
in
the john.” He sighed.

“I guess she would be.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you she was
pregnant because—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He purred. “Hey girl.”

I’d once thought he reserved the “Hey girl”
purr for me. It meant things were going to be all right. I’d fooled
myself into believing he was going to divorce his wife, and that
made it okay for us to be together. But in that moment, “Hey girl”
sounded like what it most likely was, an empty phrase he purred to
all the women he slept with. I figured he used it on whoever he was
sleeping with in Mexico. Probably the head of Wardrobe.

I didn’t answer.

“It was sweet of you to come, but you should
have called.”

Smug bastard. “I didn’t come to see you,
silly. I’m going to—” (a travel poster glowed on the wall and I
went with it) “—London. I’ve got a job.”

“Really?”

I took the surprise in his voice as an
insult. “Yeah. Indie film. The lead.” I was a professional. I made
my living at stretching the truth.

“That’s great. When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks.”

We waited for one of us to say “I’ll call
you,” but neither of us did. At least that part of the conversation
was honest.

I returned the phone to the depths of my
purse.

Lies had never bothered me before. I had
dated other men while seeing Mike and without telling him about
them. But I hadn’t married those men or told them I loved them. And
judging from the protuberance his wife sported, Mike had started
telling me the love lie at about the time his wife became pregnant.
I wondered how it could be worth it for what must have been, to
him, plain old extramarital sex.

But I had lied, too, and not just about my
age. While I stood behind the rental car sign and dug in my purse
for my headphones, I came up with the truth: my whole life was a
lie. My job, which wasn’t my job anymore, consisted of pretending
to be someone I wasn’t in order to sell a product I didn’t use to
people who didn’t need it so I could pay for my fake blonde, fake
smile, fake everything. I had dabbled in acting classes but never
worked hard enough to become the artist I didn’t really care to be.
I wasn’t a real actor. I wasn’t even a real person.

So what was I without my spokesperson job
and my married, TV producer boyfriend? Casey Clemens was a name
printed on a headshot. My real name was Cassandra, but there was no
Cassandra in that picture.

The woman from the bathroom tottered by my
rent-a-car sign on her way out the door. She winked, and flashed
her shiny grin. “Bye-bye, Mrs. Gone,” she said.

TWO

In the departure area I stopped at a
drinking fountain to give the acid in my stomach something to
churn. Crowd chatter and intercom drone echoed up and down between
glistening floors and high ceilings, creating a hollow buzz. I
stepped into a line that turned out to be the British Airways
ticket counter.

I hadn’t planned on flying anywhere. I
hadn’t planned on a mid-life crisis, either, but I was gripped by
the urge to run. I was supposed to be in London anyway, shooting my
fabricated film. England had romance and castles, where a runaway
didn’t have to learn another language to hide out and brood. In
England, no one but American tourists would recognize me as a
has-been, and they wouldn’t know that right away.

England also had King Arthur. When I was
small enough to fit in my dad’s lap, he and I would sit together in
his recliner while he read to me from a picture book about King
Arthur and his brave Knights of the Round Table. By the time I
graduated kindergarten I was in love with the king of chivalry. It
probably soured me on real men. No one had ever come close.

Nothing tied me to Los Angeles. Nobody cared
where I went. I could suffer atop the ramparts of a medieval castle
as well as anywhere else. I’d tour every castle England had to
offer. I’d speak to no one but the staff at my hotel, who’d wonder
about the sad but glamorous American woman who tipped so well. I’d
meet a rich and titled Brit who’d fall desperately in love with me.
I’d marry him and live with him at his country estate and never
have to work again.

I stepped out of line. Fantasy would get me
nowhere. I’d stay in L.A., face my problems and swear off handsome
men who lied to get what they wanted.

Not that I hadn’t done the same. Not that
anyone wanted me anymore.

I stepped back into line.

-----

As soon as the plane took off I knew I’d
made a mistake. I dug out my wallet: two ones and a ten. I carried
more credit cards than pieces of legal tender. Fighting panic, I
began to count the change in the depths of my gargantuan purse.

The pilot chattered away over the intercom.
It would take something like nine hours to get to London. Nine
hours of panic in economy class was just plain impractical. I took
a breath and tried to relax. The credit cards would serve. When we
landed I’d turn around and immediately fly home to LA. I’d call my
agent, drum up a few auditions, get some TV work. It would take
time but I knew how to fend for myself. I’d been doing it most of
my life. It was either that or fresh ground pepper.

I asked the flight attendant for magazines
and a scotch—with water—it was going to be a long flight. On the
bright side, I had a few hours to relax, and the seat beside me was
empty. I put on the headphones, leaned back and closed my eyes.

People lost jobs every day, and boyfriends,
even sanity. I was still in possession of one of those things, I
reminded myself, and I refused to lose it. I knew how to take
charge of my life and protect myself. I’d been doing it for a long
time.

“Your drink, ma’am.” I opened my eyes. I
wasn’t supposed to be “ma’am” until my birthday. Still, the English
accent took the edge off it. The flight attendant dropped a couple
of magazines on the empty seat next to me and leaned across with my
scotch poised in her purple-tipped fingers.

I took the cup and raised it to her.
“Cheers. Might as well bring another.”

Below her perfect, brown bangs the
attendant’s eyebrows went up just a little when she smiled.
“Surely.” She disappeared.

I took a soothing sip, recalling the smell
of straight scotch on my father’s breath. Our Camelot storybook lay
hidden in the drawer of the sleek, white nightstand chosen by the
interior decorator for my Toluca Lake condo. I hadn’t read much
else about the Knights of the Round Table, but I had loved my
little book about the Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot love triangle so
voraciously that its cloth-bound corners were worn like a
well-cuddled teddy bear.

As a historian my dad sought facts, but I
preferred the drama of the legends. There may never have been a
real Arthur, but the legendary one had achieved eternal greatness.
The British had admired him down through the ages. Yet in one way
it didn’t matter how great he was. He never got the love he
deserved from his wife. If a great man loved me like that, I’d
cherish him.

Mike wasn’t a great man. He wasn’t even a
good one. His wife was probably sweet. He’d cheat on her again.
She’d be true to him regardless. Her heart would break, her child
would suffer and people would admire her principles or her
fortitude or something. Such admiration would be no comfort to her
whatsoever.

I swallowed the rest of the scotch. My nose
tingled, a signal of tears on the way.

“Here’s your drink.”

“Thanks.” I pulled down the tray table.

The flight attendant's purple-tipped fingers
placed the plastic cup and airline logo napkin in the indented
spot. “Would you perhaps like something to eat?” Her prim smile
indicated corporate kindness. Still, it was a good idea.

“Okay,” I said. “What’ve you got?”

“There’s vegetable pasta, beef curry, or
lemon chick—”

“Pasta. And can you bring me another
drink?”

She looked away. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” I snapped.

She sniffed and disappeared again.

Mike was a bastard. I should have known that
going in. From now on I would choose differently. Never again would
I date an unavailable man. Never again would I accept second best.
Never again would I
be
second best. And no more lies. Not
from a man, not from anyone. Especially not from myself.

“Excuse me.” A businessman leaned across the
aisle. “Are you reading those magazines?”

“Yes.” I grabbed them, slapped them down on
my tray table and opened the top one to a random page. It turned
out to be a print ad for
Gone!
with an air-brushed picture
of me gazing lovingly at the product bottle. I flipped the page so
fast I tore it. My eyes clouded. The scotch wasn’t working fast
enough.

The attendant reappeared and cleared my
empty cup to make way for the third scotch. She placed a miniscule
bag of airline-logo peanuts on the tray table. “Just in case, while
the meals are being heated.”

“Thanks.”

“And...let me know if there’s anything I can
do.” This time the shy smile was her own, not the one the airlines
paid her for.

Guilty and grateful, I gave a weak nod,
embarrassed that my distress was visible. When she was gone I
tossed the peanuts onto the seat next to mine, locked my tray table
and curled up with my magazines and my drink. The plane cruised
above the flat, green center of America, the part I’d grown up in.
My father was buried there. My mother still lived there, preying on
younger men and fantasizing about a life that would never exist for
her.

Maybe I wouldn’t go back to Hollywood right
away. Maybe I wouldn’t go back at all. Maybe I’d spend a week or
two or more in England. It would be fun to shop in London, and I
could visit the Arthurian sites my father and I had once talked of
exploring together. I’d find a quiet place to stay. I’d relax,
maybe even read a book. Hell, I could walk the moors like a
character out of Brontë. Wear a wide-brimmed hat. Carry a basket.
Pick some heather, whatever the hell that was.

But that was acting. I didn’t want to
pretend anymore.

The tears came. The cocktail napkin was
insufficient. My T-shirt had long sleeves.

I was staring out the window when the meal
service cart rolled down the aisle. I closed my eyes and faked
sleep. The attendant hesitated. I heard her open the tray table
next to mine and place something on it before moving on. I waited
until she’d passed before glancing over. She’d thought to leave a
packet of tissues beside the tray. It was the nicest thing anyone
had ever done for me.