City of Mirrors (3 page)

I
slowly opened my eyes, then quickly closed them against the morning light seeping in around the edges of the shaded bedroom window. Turning on my side to snuggle in, I felt the grit of sand between my toes and on my calves. The nightmarish sound of Celia's scream came back to me.

Sitting up, I grabbed the phone and called her. Again I got her voicemail. Shit. With my head pounding, I threw on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes. I finally found her house key on the floor where I must've dropped it last night.

I ran along the hard wet sand. Celia's house was a sprawling cottage with bougainvillea and roses clambering along her terrace. I knocked on the French door. No answer. Peering in, I saw her lying on the sofa. She was turned on her side, her back to me, wearing the clothes she'd had on yesterday. She was still.

I banged louder. “Celia, it's Diana. Let me in!”

Without moving, she yelled “Go away! I'll phone you later.”

No woman screams the way Celia had last night without something being very wrong. Taking her key from my pocket, I opened the door.

“Oh hell, Diana, somebody tells you to do something, and you always do the opposite.” With a groan, Celia sat up, keeping her head lowered. Her long raven hair screened her face. Her orange skirt was rumpled, and her black chiffon blouse was ripped at the right shoulder seam. She was holding a bag of frozen organic peas.

Moving closer, I gently pushed her hair back from her face.

“Don't, Diana. Please,” she mumbled.

A large bruise spread purple and yellow-green over her right eye and cheek bone. “What happened to you?” I asked.

Sighing, she lifted her head. Her lower lip was cut, the blood dried and brown.

“I don't want to talk about it.” She pressed the bag of peas to the discolored area.

“I'm taking you to the emergency room.”

“No!”

I sat down next to her. “Who did this to you?”

“Nobody. It was a stupid accident. I …”

“Before you go on you should know that your cell phone rang mine last night and I heard you scream. If you don't tell me who did this, I'm calling the police.”

“You heard me?”

“Yes. Screaming.”

“Oh, God, no.”

“Tell me what happened, Celia.”

“I can't.” Her face was strained, terrified. “It could ruin me and my real estate business.”

“Did Zaitlin do this?”

“He would never do such a thing. And you mustn't tell him.”

“Then who?”

Her violet-colored eyes darted around the room as if someone dangerous was hiding among the pale blue linen-covered chairs, warmly polished chests, and striped silk drapes. The frozen bag of peas dropped from her hand to the floor and she began to cry. I put my arms around her. She leaned her head on my shoulder and sobbed. Calming, she pulled away, and I dug for Kleenex in my pocket and handed it to her.

“Do you remember how you and I met?” Sniffling, she dabbed at her face.

“I was standing in line waiting to see my mother's latest movie, and you cut in front of me.” I picked the bag of peas off the floor and held it to her cheek.

“You didn't say a word. You just let me do it. And I told you that you would never get ahead if you let people cut in front of you. Do you remember what you told me?”

I shook my head.

“You said ‘Maybe I don't want to get ahead.' That moment defined us, don't you think?”

“Maybe I just didn't want to see my mother's movie.” It made my vacation time with Mother easier if I had seen her latest film.

“No, you wanted safety, and I wanted to be like Nora. You gave up acting, something you were very good at, to get married. To not be like your mother. I gave up acting because I was terrible at it.”

Celia and I had been friends since we were sixteen. Back then, she had what I called a “normal” life—living in one home with one mother, one father, and a grandmother they called “big mama.” She and her family had been a stabilizing force in my nomadic youth. Later, she, Zaitlin's wife Gwyn, and I were starlets together.

“I worked hard for all of this, Diana.” Celia gestured at her room.

As if seeing it for the first time, I realized there were no family photos placed on the expensive bamboo side tables. There was nothing personal in the designer down-laden sofas and color-coordinated area rugs. There was no sign of Celia, of the young girl I once knew, or the woman she had become. But what do you display on your shelves if you're a long-time mistress—photos of Zaitlin, his wife, and their son?

“I don't want one night to destroy my life. Please don't make me tell you what happened to me,” she added softly.

“But you've been beaten up, I heard you scream. I can't let that go.”

“I'm really sorry, but is your fear important enough to you that you're willing to ruin my career?”

“I don't think that's the point. I would never do anything to harm your career. And it's not fear, it's concern. We're friends, Celia. You can't carry around what happened to you all by yourself. You need to talk about it.”

“Then promise me you won't tell anyone. Not the police, not Robert, not anyone.”

Staring at her desperate face, I took a deep breath. “I promise, but if it happens again, I'm dragging you to the emergency room.”

“It won't happen again.” She walked over to her French doors and stared out at the steel-gray ocean, hugging herself.

I joined her, watching the morning fog swirl, and waited.

Finally she spoke: “The man who was with me yesterday when we found you in the swimming pool.”

“You mean Mr. Ward? The one who was looking at the house?”

“Yes. He wanted … he wanted to meet me for a drink. He said there were some things he needed to discuss if he made an offer on the house.”

“You thought he wasn't interested in it.”

“I should have listened to my instincts.” She pushed her fingers through her hair. “When I got there …”

“Where?”

“A bar, that's all I'm telling you. We talked about the pros and cons of the house. Then we just began to chat in general. You saw him. He's handsome in that kind of off-kilter way. I enjoyed being with him. I got a little tipsy. Well,
sloshed
might be a better word. He said I was in no condition to drive and he'd take me home. He was parked on a quiet side street.” She let out a weary sigh. “When we got in, he threw me back against the passenger door. His hands all over me. I struggled. That's when he hit me, hard.” Tears rolled down over her bruise again.

“Did he rape you?”

She shook her head. “I somehow reached behind me and got the door open and I fell out onto the sidewalk, screaming. He drove off. Left me there like trash. I made it back to my car. At that point I was sober enough to drive.” She forced a smile, then winced, touching her lip.

“Christ, Celia. I wish you'd report …”

“Diana, you promised. You and I are never going to mention this again.” She held my gaze.

“All right. What are you going to say to Robert when he sees you?”

“I was tipsy and stumbled in my five-inch heels and fell flat on my face. He's always predicted one day I would, so he'll believe it. I need to lie down.”

I stayed while she showered and got into bed. Her hair fanned out like an ink spill on her snowy white pillows. “Thank you for being a good friend, Diana.”

“Get some sleep.” I wondered whether keeping quiet about what had happened was really being a good friend. But Celia was right—in real estate an attempted rape by a client could jeopardize her career and reputation maybe more than his.

“Are you going to the party tonight?” she asked.

I stopped in the doorway and turned. “What party?”

“Robert said they were having some kind of celebration.”

“Oh, God, I forgot. I think it's a birthday party for their son. I don't suppose you're going.”

“Of course not.”

“Why do you stay with him, Celia? It's not like you're kept by him.”

She stared down at the delicate laced edge of the sheet. “I don't want to end up like my parents did. When my father got home from work he would lie on the sofa expecting to be waited on by ‘big mama' and my mother. Both women vying for his attention and arguing over who was in control of the kitchen. God, I hated it.”

I smiled. “I loved your life.”

“I loved your mother's. Robert comes here to see me because he wants to, not because he has to. And if I don't want to see him, I don't. I'm not dependent on anyone. I like my life the way it is.” Then she added, “And I want to keep it.”

“I'll call you later to see how you're doing.”

She closed her eyes, and I left her looking vulnerable tucked among the mass of her pristine bedding.

Walking back home, I noticed Ryan was still splayed on his lounge, snoring with his mouth open. The golden hair on his legs glistened in the sunlight. He must've slept there all night. God, he's going to get sunburned.

“Ryan!” I yelled up from the beach. “Wake up!”

He kicked his feet and turned onto his side.

Climbing the steps to my house, I thought of Ryan, Celia, and me. Ryan got so drunk he passed out on the walkway, a man battered Celia, and I drank a bottle of wine and took sleeping pills. Just another Monday night in Malibu.

W
hen I'm acting in a scene and the director tells me to stop and do nothing, I never question it. While the other actors are chewing the scenery and flapping their arms, a good actor can draw the audience to her by simply not moving. I don't mean doing an imitation of a statue. She has to find something real, a true emotion that shadows her face, revealing why she has chosen to stop. But that's in the movies. In real life, we're all afraid of stopping. Even Celia. Even Ryan. Even me.

Now standing in my kitchen, I downed four Advils. It's always the charming ones, I thought. The men your instinct, your gut, tells you to watch out for, tells you they don't like women. But then the charming ones smile, talk you into their world. Your protective instinct falters, and you let them seduce you until they hurt you. I knew guys like Ward well. My mother had a string of them. Christ, what was Celia thinking?

After drinking two cups of coffee and eating scrambled eggs, I went back to bed and slept for three hours. Then I got up and dressed in good jeans and a tailored white shirt. The last thing I wanted to do today was read lines with Jenny Parson, but I'd be damned if she was going to ruin our movie.

Putting on my makeup, I assessed my face in the bathroom mirror with an objectivity that only an actress can have. When you spend your life staring into a mirror trying to be who you are not, believe me, you know exactly what you look like—not to be confused with knowing who you are. My face was still beautiful, but it was becoming set. Less optimistic. Less adaptable. My blue eyes were no longer beguiling. Now they had a matter-of-fact quality to them. I had put on a little weight, but my body was still firm, tending to voluptuous. And the easy soft sexuality I had once exuded had disappeared. Somewhere.

The phone rang and I hurried to answer it, thinking it might be Celia.

“Is this Ms. Diana Poole? Nora Poole's daughter?”

“Yes.”

“This is the Hotel Bel Air. There has been an unfortunate mix-up. The crematorium sent your mother's ashes to us. It seems nobody picked them up, and the hotel was the only address they had for her.”

God, I'd forgotten. “I'll be there in a half hour.”

“Just ask at the reception desk,” she said, cheerfully helpful.

I hung up, sat down on the edge of the bed, and buried my face in my hands.

T
he smog hadn't yet killed the swans at the Bel Air Hotel. They floated regally down the little stream that ran under the bridge that took you into the lobby. I've always loved the swans. As a girl I would hang out with them while mother had drinks with Jeff, Jake, or Jack. The swans had a feathery elegance and arrogant disdain for the guests. For all of us.

Warm and expensively unassuming, the lobby was a Southern California dream of upper-crust country: teatime and T-shirts. I stopped at the front desk and adjusted my sunglasses.

“I'm here to pick up my mother,” I said to a young shiny woman who looked as if she'd been polished with a can of Pledge.

“I'll call her. What room is she in?”

I took a deep breath, fighting back the now familiar urge to break out in hysterical laughter or hysterical tears. Or both. Controlling myself, I said, “I'm sorry, I'm Diana Poole. You have a … package … for me.”

She suddenly looked stricken. “Oh, yes.” Her voice turned somber and now she spoke in a hushed tone. “They told me to expect you. I'll be right back.”

Disappearing, she soon returned holding a regular brown shipping box. I don't know what I had expected, but it wasn't UPS.

“Our condolences.” She shoved the box toward me. “I so admired her.”

“Do you have some scissors?”

“Of course.” She plucked a pair from a drawer.

As she watched uneasily, I took the edge of one of the blades and sliced across the tape binding the box. I flipped open the lids and there was Mother's urn. The one I had chosen. Her name was engraved on a sterling silver nameplate. I lifted it out of the box; it was heavy and handmade of cherry wood. As the funeral director had explained, “The grain of each wood urn is as individual in character as the life being mourned.” He sold me.

“Thank you.” I walked out of the hotel and waited for the valet to bring my car around. I strapped Mother into the passenger seat, then tipped the valet who discreetly pretended not to notice what I'd done. Mother and I sailed down Stone Canyon Road together for the last time.

I worked my way though the heavy traffic to Jenny Parson's condominium complex just down from the Four Seasons Hotel on Beverly Drive. I drove around the block twice before finding a place to park the Jag. I attempted to lock the car, but like the air conditioning, nothing was working. I contemplated putting the urn in my trunk but I somehow couldn't do it. So I carried Mother with me.

Inside the lobby, a doorman outfitted in a maroon-colored jacket decorated with brass buttons, gold braid, and looking like a banana-republic general peered out from the thick double glass doors as I approached. He opened them for me. The white marble lobby was upscale and austere. Black leather chrome benches were precisely placed near exotic potted palms.

“I'm here to see Jenny Parson. My name is Diana Poole,” I informed him.

He looked at some papers on a clipboard. “Take the elevator up to 302, she's expecting you.”

Good, I thought, she had left my name. Maybe she actually wanted to be an actress.

Reaching the third floor, the elevator door opened, and the lingering smell of cooking hit me. No matter how expensive the condominium, there is always an odor of food in the hallway strong enough to turn you into an anorexic.

Jenny's door was at the end. I pressed the doorbell and waited. I tried the bell again—I could hear it ringing inside her condo. When there was still no answer, I knocked loudly.

Finally I gave up and went back down to the lobby. The doorman raised his sparse eyebrows when he saw me.

“I guess Jenny went out. Have you seen her?” I asked.

“No. But she can take the elevator down to the underground garage without going through the lobby.”

“If you mean Jenny Parson, her car's here,” announced a woman, eyes surgically stretched and tilted toward the heavens. Holding a quivering Chihuahua outfitted in a pink turtleneck sweater, she unlocked one of the brass mailboxes that lined the wall near the concierge's desk. “I just drove in and saw it. Brand-new Audi.” She peered in the box. It was empty. The dog licked her ear.

“If her car is here then she should answer the door,” I said.

The doorman shrugged.

“Well, thank you again.” I started toward the entrance, then stopped. Maybe it was holding my mother's ashes that brought out my unexpected maternal feelings for Jenny Parson. I turned around and asked, “What time did she leave my name?”

The doorman rechecked his list. “Six
p.m.
yesterday.”

That was soon after I'd talked to her. So I had made some kind of impact. Jenny wasn't capricious; if anything she was very direct. But she was struggling. Still, she had told me she was going clubbing last night. Maybe she'd had too much to drink and was sleeping it off, or she stayed overnight with a friend—or a boyfriend. Go home, Diana, I told myself. Instead I eyed the doorman. He sucked in his stomach and eyed me back. He was an immovable object. Improvise, Diana.

Glancing down at the urn, I said, “This is her mother's ashes. Jenny's expecting me to bring them to her.”

“You can leave them at the desk,” he said.

“How would you like to pick up your mother's ashes in a lobby as if she was some package dropped off by UPS?”

“I … I …” He knew he was trapped.

The woman with the dog gaped at him as if he had just maligned her own mother. Even the Chihuahua raised a disgusted lip showing a tiny fang.

“I hope you wouldn't treat my mother that way,” she said to him.

He flushed.

“Please,” I said quickly. “I'll just leave them in her living room with a little note.”

“All right,” he relented. “But I can't let you go in there alone. I'll take you.”

We rode up in the elevator, ignoring one another.

He unlocked the door to 302 and stepped in first. “Ms. Parson?”

I slipped past and walked into the living room. “Jenny? It's Diana.”

Her corner condo was meagerly furnished, giving the impression comfort didn't matter much to her. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out to the hills above Sunset and down across the vast gray sprawl that was the city.

“Jenny?” I walked down a hall into a bedroom.

“I think you should just leave the ashes … urn … .” The doorman was close on my heels.

The queen-size bed was made. A giant flat screen TV dominated a dresser. Her closet door had been left open displaying an array of designer clothes. I peered into a beautifully appointed bathroom—the towels were neatly folded on brass bars.

If I were a young girl who had been out clubbing the night before, there would be clothes strewn on the floor and a bed messed up. Some signs of a life in disarray—the way my apartment had looked when I was her age. Maybe she hadn't come home last night. On the other hand, her car was in the garage. But a friend or a boyfriend could have picked her up here. The plain truth was that Jenny was a no-show. What a waste—and what was going to happen to the movie?

The doorman cleared his throat, trying to hurry me along. “I'll tell Ms. Parson you were here.”

Back in the living room, I asked, “Is there any other place she could be in the building? Maybe the laundry room?”

He crossed to the kitchen and opened a door, proudly displaying a washer and dryer. “Not many condos have the space for these appliances. All of ours do.”

I felt a warm wind ruffle the back of my hair. Turning, I saw a small window off the dining area had been opened. At the same time, I could hear the sound of a large engine. I looked out the window and down to an alley that ran alongside the building. A truck from the sanitation department was emptying large blue bins.

“They're late again,” the doorman announced.

I turned to him. “Thanks for your help.”

“Aren't you going to leave her mother's ashes?” He gestured at the urn in my arms, then frowned. “Her father didn't say anything about her mother being ill. He's very protective of his daughter.” Suspicious, he stabbed an accusing finger at the urn. “That nameplate says ‘Nora Poole.'”

But I was looking out the window again. I realized I had just seen a flash of silver as one of the dumpsters was being loaded onto the truck. There was something about it …

The doorman was still talking. “I didn't know Nora Poole was Jenny's mother.” He was trying to reason it out. “Wait, I know you. You're Diana Poole. What's going on here?”

Ignoring him, I stared at the shiny object that now jutted out from a large black garbage bag. The blade of a knife? I felt a chill. It was the high heel of a shoe. Silver, like Mercury's wing, like Jenny's beautiful high heels I had admired yesterday in her trailer.

“Stop!” I screamed down at the two men. “Stop!”

They continued working since they couldn't hear me over the grinding noise of the truck's motor. The doorman had taken a step back and was gaping at me.

“Come here,” I ordered. “Keep shouting at them to stop. Jenny's in there!”

His face blanched. “What you talking about?”

“Her shoe!” I hurried past him. “And call 911!”

Clutching the urn, I ran down the hallway and kept slamming the elevator's down button until it arrived. Bolting through the lobby and out the front doors, I flew down the sidewalk to the alley. I rushed at the garbage truck with its two operators, yelling at the top of my lungs. The bin was on the lift, tilting dangerously into the maw of the truck.

“There's someone in there.” I pointed to the garbage bag on top as it rolled to the edge. “A woman is in there!”

One of the men pointed to his ear protectors, meaning he couldn't hear me.

Stepping forward, I yanked one of them away from his ear. “Stop it!” I yelled.

He glowered at me but pushed down on a lever. The bin froze in midair. I leaned over, gasping for breath.

“
Que paso
?” He took off his ear protectors.

I pointed up to the bin. “Shoe. Check the bag,
por favor
.”

“You lose shoe?”

“Yes. A shoe!” Please, God, let it be just a shoe.

Commanding his partner in Spanish, the bin slowly descended to the ground. Then he got up on the lift. “This bag?” He pointed.

I nodded. My heart pounded.

Shaking his head, he pulled himself up into the bin and ripped open the bag. His mouth fell open and he lurched backward crossing himself, saying a prayer in Spanish. The doorman loped down the alley, epaulets flapping, waving his cell in the air. “I called 911. The police are coming.”

As he scrambled down, I stood on my toes trying to see into the bin. I glimpsed blood-matted auburn hair and one green milky eye looking directly at me. I wish I hadn't.

Staggering back, I slumped against the building's white marble wall. It felt warm on my back from the sun. I slid down it into a sitting position and leaned my forehead against my mother's urn.