India's Summer (27 page)

She took off her coat and threw it across the couch.

“Thank you. This way.” She smiled as she led him down the hallway into the bedroom. “You can have the full tour later.”

“That looks extremely comfortable,” he said, nodding toward her bed.

“If a little small.” She laughed.

“Where’s the shower? Will we both fit in?” he said, pulling his sweater over his head.

My god those abs, she thought. That workout schedule’s certainly paying off. Omygod. “It’s definitely worth a try,” she answered, yanking off her boots. “I’m sure there are parts of you that could do with a little extra soaping after that long flight.”

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

The morning of her fortieth birthday, India woke early. She turned and looked across the pillow at Adam, who was still asleep. ‘Well this is better than the Cat and Lion.’ She smiled, admiring his five o’clock shadow, the arch of his eyebrow and the strength of his arm across the counterpane. She stuck her head under the sheets and, working her way down, began to kiss his toes. He opened his eyes slowly and then closed them again and rolled onto his back. It was late before they had breakfast at Le Pain Quotidien.

Joss had booked a private dining room at Brown’s for their birthday dinner. It had long been his favorite London hotel. He loved its mahogany bars and timeless ambience, the doormen in livery, the gracious service. “English elegance personified,” he’d called it.

India, wearing a black DVF wrap dress with her hair piled on top of her head and a pair of gold Jimmy Choo slingback pumps, sat down next to Adam. Next to her at the circular table with its pristine white cloth and white china settings was Annie in a blue velvet Armani sheath, a choker of Mikimoto freshwater pearls around her neck. India didn’t take her eyes off the two empty seats opposite them. She watched as Joss steered Sarah into the room and Michael pulled out the chartreuse green chair for her. Sarah sat down in a daze and looked at India. “What the…,” she mouthed, her eyes wide with shock, and then her face lit up with a smile of pure delight.

“You look like a girl who likes a vodka martini with an olive,” Michael said, in a thick Dublin brogue, pulling out the chair next to her.

Now where have I heard that before? India smiled as a waiter came across and poured Montrachet into Joss’s oversize glass. He savored the intense aroma, nodded, and waited until they each had a glass before getting to his feet.

“Happy birthday,” he said. “I have a full speech prepared for after dinner, don’t worry … and you’d better believe it. But for now … happy birthday. Happy birthday, Annie and Indie.”

“Happy birthday, Annie and Indie!” they said in unison, as Joss sat down and gave the signal they were ready to eat. Six waiters came forward and served them beef consommé from silver tureens.

Over the next few days India delighted in showing Adam the city. They went to her favorite wine bars and to see the Clemente exhibition at Tate Modern. They looked down on the Thames from the London Eye while she pointed out the landmarks. One evening they went to the Royal Ballet at Covent Garden, where the performance of Manon moved them both to tears. Afterward they met Joss and Annie at L’Escargot, India’s favorite French restaurant this side of the pond, with its golden Grammy-lined walls. India ate her favorite filet mignon in peppered wine sauce.

Annie and Joss stayed for a full week, and there were no tearful goodbyes this time.

“See you in a few weeks,” India shouted, waving furiously as the Bentley turned the corner of Albermarle Street, “…in New York!” she yelled.

“I’m going to New York in a couple of weeks,” she said to the doorman.

“Lovely, madam.”

“I’m going to meet my publisher,” she said, cranking up the volume while stepping aside to let a woman in a fox fur coat get into the lobby. “That would be my BOOK publisher…”

“Lovely, madam,” he said with a slight bow as he opened the door for her.

Toward the end of the week before Adam started shooting in Ealing and she had to get down to her writing, India drove them out to see the school where she had been teaching for so long.

“This is where I held my
workshops
,” she quipped, stopping the car outside the gates.

Adam took in the vast expanse of derelict land surround-ing the campus and the boarded-up windows with the scrawled graffiti. Some teenagers were pushing each other around the iron railings, and a couple of girls were leaning against a wall swapping cigarettes.

“You’re a heroine, Indie. You know, this is something you should have always been extremely proud of, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do know that now, and if I hadn’t slogged away for so long here, I wouldn’t be writing my book. I have these kids to thank for that. I was ready to move on; I needed something more for myself. I needed change.” She paused for a moment. “But the real heroines are the teachers who stay in places like this and spend their entire lives committed to kids like him,” she said, pointing to a boy with a crew cut, wearing jeans and cheap trainers.

She turned to Adam. “It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it? I sort of grew into the person I was pretending to be. So, in a way, my whole new career wouldn’t have happened without you,” she said thoughtfully, taking one long last look at the bleak building as she started the engine. She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” he answered, leaning across and putting his hand on her knee, letting it slide slowly up the inside of her leg. “Let’s go back to your apartment. I’ve just thought of a way you can show your appreciation all over again.”

India stepped gingerly out of the Town Car and onto a thin layer of black ice in her four-inch patent leather pumps. This was definitely 320 West 66
^th
Street, but where was the entrance to the studio?

I need to get into the building while I still have some feeling left in my toes, she thought. How can it possibly be colder in New York than it was in Russia?

India stayed rooted to the spot as she scrambled in her purse for a number and called the producer’s cell. A few minutes later a large woman wrapped in a plaid padded jacket and snow boots came rushing out to meet her.

“Hi, Miss Butler. Good to meet you. I’m Tracey. Come this way; they’ve salted the side entrance,” she said looking down at India’s feet. “Lean on me.”

Once mercifully indoors, India was shown through a series of long corridors to a small soundproofed room where a few people were clustered around a coffee table watching a television screen.

“They’ve come with Tony,” Tracey told her. “You can catch the end of the segment.”

“Tony?” India asked.

“Tony Robbins.”

Omygod! If I’d known, I’d have been here hours earlier. India thought.

“He’ll be done in a few minutes, then we’ll take you through to makeup and to meet Mike,” Tracey explained. “Can I take your things? Would you like some water?”

“No thanks,” India said, handing over her coat. “Nothing right now.”

India watched as the studio audience in the next room rose to its feet and the women sitting by her began leaping up and down applauding. India jumped up and down with them clapping hard, too. Then Tracey was back at her side.

“This way,” she said, steering her over cables and past a couple of cameramen who were blocking the way. “We won’t keep you long in makeup, but you don’t want a red nose.”

India felt a rush of adrenaline as a young man in blue jeans attached tiny microphones to her jacket. Then an arm was steadying her toward a set of plastic doors that swung open in front of her, and Tony Robbins strode through. He gave her a huge grin, almost as if he knew the difference he had made to her life; that he had inspired her to take one step; one step onto burning coals to fight through her fears. She paused for a second to let him go by and to imprint the moment. Then she moved forward and waited for Tracey to give her the signal. Seconds before she was ushered on set, she remembered the voice.

“What’s your name?”

“India.”

“Are you ready?”

India took a deep breath, a very deep breath. I can do this. She thought. Focus…Focus.

Then she heard another voice. “She’s a household name. She’s helped millions of overwhelmed parents connect with their teenagers. She’s brought harmony into homes. Please welcome New York Times Bestselling author India Butler.”

Suddenly, as the studio audience rose to its feet, she was hugging Whoopi Goldberg and the other ladies waiting to greet her. There were whoops from the audience who were still cheering as India took her seat next to Barbara Walters.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “Thank you everyone. It is so wonderful to be here.”

THE END….or maybe the beginning…

What a daunting task. So many people have been wonderful and I have a dread of leaving someone out. If you are that person, then I want you to know I still love you and feel really bad about it. Can I buy you a drink? Okay, dinner.

And so in no particular order but somehow vaguely chronological: sincere thanks to Mimi Peak, mentor, coach and friend, for your wisdom and insight and for helping me to find my voice.

All the friends who read and critiqued the early drafts. As a first-time novelist, I was very vulnerable, and without your encouragement simply would not have written the book; Patti Diane Baker, Tony Barton, Donnell and Mahlon Burch, Anne DePree, Nick Egan, Bronya Galef, Lena Gannon, Lani Hall, Joanna Hamilton, Andrea Hanna, Anne Haugen, Susan Jeffers,Geraldine Le-man, Tom Lowe, Bernie McMahon, Avril More, Lynn Pompeii, Ron Pompeii, Christine Ranck, Amy Rappaport, Heidi Roberts, Joel Roberts, John Robinson, Pamela Robinson, Mark Shelmerdine, Michael Rose, Helen Simms, Tom Teicholz.

Ann Dickson, for so much shared for so long and for being the essence of quintessential British style. Jane Arnell for thirty years of creating our own realities together. Beryl Lowe for love, support and excitement for me always. Sheran James, for call way above duty, especially for those focused hours with India on the plane back from Vancouver when the rest of us thought we were going to die. Valorie Armstrong especially for “tea” in the garden with India. Carol King for going above and beyond – a woman of many talents. Bryn Freedman for helping character-build our dream guy and much more. Claudia Barwell and Darina Garland, the London girls, for your enthusiasm and tons of material. Diane McCarter for huge generosity of spirit, making so many introductions and adopting India as if she were family. Sheri Biller for waving a magic wand many times. Jodi Rose for being the world’s best assistant, incredible muse and friend.

Barbara Aronica-Buck for a cover that exquisitely captures the story. Jeff Eamer for a photograph that exquisitely captures me (without airbrushing). Jackie Baron Mc Cue for final copy-editing, (and translating Word into Mac). Emily Votruba for understanding English punctuation. Bryan Rabin for calling me an “artist.”

Brenda Cullerton, a dream editor, whose humor and tireless energy transformed my writing, and Diana Revson for making that introduction. Lou Aronica for giving me this wonderful opportunity. It is a privilege to work with such a consummate professional.

As always, thank you with all my heart to Ken, my soulmate, whose lifetime work guided me to finding my own “Element.” And of course a huge thank you to James and Kate for living with an empty fridge for so long and for cheerleading me every step of the way. I love you more than words can say.