Hollywood Girls Club (16 page)

“Most women don’t even like sex,” Phil said when she’d pushed him on it.

“Most women don’t work eighty hours a week and pull down three million a year.”

“Jess, that’s so crass.”

“Fine. It relaxes me.”

“Do more yoga,” Phil said.

“You’re actually trying to get out of sex two times a month? Some men would die for a woman with my sex drive,” Jessica said.

“Our drives have always been different.”

“I’ve emasculated you.”

“How? I make more money than you do,” Phil said.

“Then you just don’t want me.”

“That’s not it.”

No therapy, no counseling. Just sex twice a month, her vibrator, and her right hand. She could take a lover, but when? Who had time? Jessica tried to remember the last time she’d been fucked. Really, really fucked, the kind that when you thought about the sex days later, the memory made your toes curl. Of course—it was Mike Fox. With so much practice (he’d put his dick in every pussy in New York and Los Angeles), no wonder he was her best lay.

Eight months after Mike and Jessica’s torrid affair ended, Jess had met Phil. They were at Rage in West Hollywood; Jessica’s very gay hairdresser and his lover were trying to pull her out of her funk. Jessica wasn’t sure how a gay club would make her feel better or improve her chances of meeting a man, but she’d agreed to go. Phil had been there celebrating his roommate Len’s decision to get married to his longtime lover.

That was one of the things that Jess had always been impressed by—what great friends Phil and Len were; best buddies since junior high. Phil was pretty much Len’s only straight friend. They both grew up in Orange County (the most conservative place in all of California) and then attended Stanford. They’d shared a dorm room there, and even after Stanford, Phil and Len had continued to live as roommates. As uptight and prudish as Phil was, Len’s being gay never seemed to bother him.

Currently, Len lived with his “husband” (aka domestic partner Brian) in San Francisco, where Phil and Jess were headed today. They’d spend the night and Jess would fly back to L.A. Monday morning while Phil stayed in San Francisco until the following weekend (as always).

“Time to stop!” Phil yelled out over the wind. Angry gray clouds rolled in from the ocean. “I need to put up the top and do a GPS input. And I bet after all that coffee you need to potty.” He pulled the Z4 into a gas station. “I’m filling the car here. That way I won’t need to do it in the city and we can go straight to Len’s.”

Jess hopped out and headed for the bathroom.

“Jess,” Phil called from the gas pump, “those new Diors make your legs look sexy. They’re adorable on you.”

Jessica looked down. The crocodile-and-leather Dior Mary Janes were a fabulous find; she knew they made her calves look good. Jess smiled. At least her man liked her shoes.

Jessica’s migraine began the minute they pulled into Len’s drive. Eight hours later, the pain started to subside. She glanced at her digital travel clock; it was two A.M., she was wide awake and alone. Phil had offered to sleep in Len’s den on the fold-out couch, since any light or noise made Jess vomit during her migraines. Her last migraine had been only two weeks ago. They usually came months apart, but for the last six months they’d been more frequent. Sometimes twice a week since Tolliver had entered her life. Better have Kim schedule another appointment with the neurologist.

Only three more hours until her alarm would sound—her flight to L.A. took off at seven. But the room and the bed were so big and lonely. She wanted Phil. Jessica slid out from under the goose-down comforter and slipped her feet onto the hardwood floor. She shivered; it was so much colder in San Francisco.

Jessica thought she could find her way to the den, although she’d only visited Len and Brian’s once before. Last March, she flew in to surprise Phil, but it was she who got the big surprise. His residential hotel room was empty. You’d think he would’ve told her the hotel was being remodeled. Brian was gone on business that week, too, but he seemed nice enough the few times she spoke to him over the phone. Jessica walked down the hall toward the stairs.

“Oh yeah,” she heard Len moan. “God, I missed you.” Jessica stopped.
Brian must be home.
She knew she shouldn’t listen, but it was like a car wreck—you couldn’t help it.
Guess Brian will finally introduce himself over pancakes tomorrow.

“Ooooh. Yes, baby. Please spank it.”

Jessica heard a hard smack against what sounded like a very tight ass. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. She should turn around and go straight back to bed. But she wanted to cuddle with Phil.
Shit
. That meant she had to walk by Len and Brian’s room. And the door was only half closed. But she was a grown-up. She would stare at the ground and get by the bedroom door.

“Yes, baby. Please, oh, yes,” Len moaned.

Fast
. She needed to get past that door and to the stairs. Jessica rushed toward the end of the hall as the noise from Brian and Len’s room escalated in speed and intensity.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. Baby, yes, say my name, yes.”

Only three more steps. God, this hall is long,
Jessica thought as she neared the door.

“Len, oh God. Len, oh God.”

Who?!
Jessica gently pushed the half-open door away from her. “Phil?”

“Jess?” Phil said. A look of horror flashed on his face as he lay slumped over the back of his best friend.

Jessica shook her head.

No wonder he always liked her shoes.

*

Jess drank her coffee while Len poured blueberry pancake batter onto a griddle, a Tiffany-blue apron tied neatly around his waist. So far no Phil.

“He’s horrified,” Len said.

“He should be. I’ll give him five more minutes and then I’ve got to go. I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out.”

“You really are taking this well.” Len set a plate of pancakes in front of her.

“Look, if you were a woman, I might be in handcuffs downtown, but you’re a man. I don’t have the same equipment and never will. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”

“He wanted to. I swear to you, Jess, it didn’t start until after Brian moved out this year. Never once growing up or in college.

I think Phil and I both thought that he was straight. I always had a crush on him and even told him once at Stanford, but he said no way. He just wasn’t interested.”

“Talk about latent homosexuality.”

“I know he loves you. He just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“How about ‘Hi, Jess. By the way, I’m sleeping with Len’?”

“I know it sounds simple.”

Jessica glanced out the kitchen window. “My cab’s out front. I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my flight. Tell him I’ll ship his stuff here. He really doesn’t have much left at my place.” She stood and grabbed her Vuitton overnight bag. “Send pictures. An invite to the wedding. I’ll send a gift.”

“I know he’ll want to talk to you. When everything is a little calmer.”

“I’m pretty calm.” Jessica walked toward the front door. “Len.” She turned to face her gay ex-fiancé’s lover. “Tell Phil this one thing. Tell him thank you. He always used a condom with me. I used to bitch and bitch about it, but he always did. For that, tell him I say thank you.”

“You got it, Jess. Take care of yourself.” Len reached out and hugged her.

“You two are going to be very happy. I know it.” Jessica turned away and walked outside. She waved toward the driver, who bounded up the brownstone steps and grabbed the overnight case. Then she heard the front door open behind her.

“Jess, wait,” Phil said, stepping out onto the small porch.

She wanted to be angry—she really did—but she wasn’t. She wasn’t even disappointed. In fact, surprisingly, the emotion she felt was something akin to relief.

“Phil.” Jessica sighed, “I don’t have much to say… .”

“This was not how I wanted you to find out. I wanted to tell you, planned on telling you, but I just couldn’t find—I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. I mean, I should have known, guessed, I don’t know, something. I hadn’t realized how completely disconnected we’ve become.”

“It’s your work,” Phil said.

“What?” Jessica bristled.

“No, not what caused it, but maybe why you didn’t notice. I mean, Jess, you’re completely consumed.”

“Obviously, I don’t have much else to care about.” Yes, work was important to her, but wasn’t work important to
all
successful people? You couldn’t win without sacrificing something.

“Jess, please, I’m not judging, I am the last person who should judge. You are brilliant at what you do and I know you love it. I just … it’s my fault and I’m sorry. Please know that; please accept my apology.”

Jessica’s face softened. She didn’t hate Phil. She now realized he’d been an easy fit into her complex lifestyle.

“Yes, I accept it,” Jessica said as the cabbie honked the horn. “Listen, I need to go. I told Len I’ll ship your things.” She didn’t know whether she should hug Phil or shake his hand.

Phil grabbed her and pulled her into a bear hug. “Thank you, Jess, for being so understanding. I feel so guilty about what I’ve done.”

“Don’t.” The cab beeped again. Jessica bolted down the steps. “You’ll be very happy, I know it,” Jessica yelled to Phil.

She climbed into the backseat and looked back at the house. She’d be fine without Phil. Losing him didn’t make her sad. No, what saddened Jessica—perhaps even terrified her—was the thought that Phil had been the easy solution to a difficult personal problem. She was drugging herself with her work, using her constant pursuit of success to mask any personal pain.
That problem
, Jessica thought,
is a much more difficult one to solve.

Chapter 16

Mary Anne and the Minnesota Stride Rites

Mary Anne’s mother had to fly back to Minnesota immediately or Mary Anne would kill her. For six weeks Mitsy Meyers had stayed with Mary Anne, and already Mitsy had managed to repaint two rooms, wallpaper a bathroom, clean out Mary Anne’s closet, reseed the front lawn, and make plaid curtains (not Burberry plaid but a garish red-and-yellow Scottish plaid) for the guest room.

After the Koi incident, Lydia had called Mitsy to let her know that Mary Anne was in the hospital. Had Mary Anne been lucid, she would have begged Lydia to hold off ever calling Mitsy about anything other than funeral preparations or an organ transplant.

But Mitsy, being the ever-dutiful Minnesota mommy, had purchased a plane ticket within minutes and landed in L.A. the next day. And upon her arrival, Mitsy, the Methodist and PTA homeroom mother for her children’s second, fourth, sixth, and eighth-grade classrooms, methodically began making Mary Anne’s new Hollywood home into a Minnesota microcosm.

Mary Anne looked around her writing room, as yet untouched by her maniacal mother (but Mary Anne didn’t know for how long she could keep Mitsy at bay). Already Mitsy had moved in on Mary Anne’s bedroom, organizing her walk-in closet and hanging silver-framed pictures of Mary Anne’s niece and two nephews. It wasn’t that Mary Anne wasn’t grateful; she was. But her hand had healed, she didn’t have a concussion, and her mother had worn out her welcome.

Mary Anne wasn’t sure why Mitsy was driving her nuts as they hardly saw each other. Mary Anne left for set most days at seven A.M. (except Sunday and the occasional day she wrote at home), staying sometimes until nine P.M. Mitsy retired early and was always in bed when Mary Anne returned home (having, of course, fixed dinner and left Mary Anne a plate in the microwave). And when they did see each other in the morning, Mitsy always offered to fix Mary Anne breakfast.

Maybe it was the Post-it notes Mitsy left on Mary Anne’s bathroom mirror (letting Mary Anne know who called or simply writing
I love you
, punctuated with a smiley face). Maybe it was Mitsy alphabetizing her canned goods or sorting Mary Anne’s shirts by color and type in her closet (not that Mary Anne didn’t wish that she was more organized). Or maybe, just maybe, it was the guilt that Mary Anne felt required to carry for all these “great” things Mitsy did without being asked.

Mary Anne stood up from her desk. She’d avoided it for days, but it was time to have “the conversation” with her mom. Mary Anne knew where Mitsy was—where she always was—when she wasn’t organizing closets or sewing hems—Mitsy was in the kitchen.

“Mom?” Mary Anne walked into her Spanish-tiled open-air kitchen.

“Down here.”

A pair of soft-soled Stride Rites stuck out from the lower cabinet (which seemed to have swallowed Mitsy’s body whole) next to the stove. Mitsy crawled backward out of the cabinet and sat on her sensible shoes.

“I wanted to clean these out before I painted them and put in new contact paper.”

“Mom, you don’t have to do that. Flora cleans once a week.”

“I know, dear, but that is surface cleaning. This, what I’m doing, is
deep
cleaning. I mean, look at what I found in there.” Mitsy turned the paper towel she was holding so that Mary Anne could have a look. “Mouse turds. Disgusting. After lunch I’m getting some traps. You know, you might want to think about getting yourself a cat. We never had mice because of Mr. Fur.”

“Mom—”

“And I think the hardware store has mouse traps that—”

“Mom.”

“—will fit. Maybe you should go buy one of those Pet Rescue cats. Tabbies are best because—”

“Mother!”

“What, dear? I’m standing right here. There is really no need to raise your voice.”

Mary Anne inhaled. “I’m sorry. Mom, will you sit? I need to talk to you.”

“You know, honey, there really is quite a bit left for me to get done.”

“I know. But it’ll just take a minute.”

Mitsy moved toward the kitchen table. “I’m just doing this for you. Trying to help. I want to turn this big house into a home for you. I mean, God knows you’ll have to sell it eventually, because what man is going to want to live in his wife’s house? I mean, really, when you think about it, maybe you should have waited to buy. I know your accountant said you needed it for your taxes, but still, if you’d waited until you were married or at least engaged, then your hus—”