India's Summer (5 page)

“Lizzie and Stan just called and canceled,” she whispered to India. “So I’ve put you between Stephen and Matt. You’ll like them.”

India smiled, hiding her disappointment. Lizzie was the closest Annie had come to a long-standing friendship. She’d been looking forward to a real tête-à-tête; a chance to catch up on all the news. And what about Adam? Her heart fluttered at the prospect of seeing him. I really hope he’s going to be here, she thought, settling into the plush, silk-covered chair and nodding hello to the men on either side of her.

“A toast!” said Joss, raising his glass. “To my favorite sister-in-law, who is here from London. I just want to say how happy I am to have not just one but two incredibly gorgeous women around me. Here’s to India!”

The shouts of “India, India,” reminded her of that moment just before the fire-walk. Delighted, she smiled graciously.

As three movie-star-handsome young waiters in starched white shirts began serving minuscule portions of wild arugula dusted with shaved Parmesan, India made polite conversation with the man on her left. His wife was sitting across from him and kept looking over, which India suspected was cramping his style, because all he talked about were his allergies.

“I can’t even drink vintage wine,” he said, placing his hand over the empty goblet as a waiter tipped the decanter toward it.

“That must be awful for you,” India commiserated, holding up her own glass for more. “I hope they’re not contagious … The allergies, I mean.”

The man looked at her blankly as they struggled through a hideous silence.

“Listen, everyone.” Annie was tapping the side of her glass. “I want to take a brief moment here to introduce you to a friend, a man I’ve admired for years. Simon, where are you?” she said, glancing around the table.

“Here, Annabelle,” a short, bald man piped up from the other end of the table.

“I’m sure you’ve all read Simon’s books, and in case you haven’t bought the new one, which, by the way, is his best ever, I’ve left a pile of signed copies in the hallway.”

India recalled catching sight of Simon on Fox that morning as she was attempting to reset Annie’s treadmill. That was a few seconds before it flung her to the far end of the room.

Simon stood up. “I want to thank Annabelle, Joss, and India for inviting me to share this lovely evening. My travels across this great country of ours over the past few weeks have truly humbled me. The response to my work has been even greater than I hoped for. It is, I believe, a testament to the zeitgeist of the moment.”

India snapped the end off a spear of chilled asparagus and her knife flew under the table. A fresh one appeared as if by magic. She smiled up at the waiter and reluctantly turned her attention back to the monologue.

“As you probably know,” he continued, “I’ve been working in quantum physics, searching for a way in which we might all create our own realities. Unlocking Your Soul’s Meaning marks an important step in that spiritual growth.” He paused, then added: “I do believe that when we suspend our conscious minds, we tune in to a part of ourselves that is sacred.”

And I do believe we might be building up for another sales pitch, India thought, easing off one shoe beneath the table.

A couple of the men were staring at their laps.My God. They couldn’t be texting at a dinner party, could they? India thought.

“This is how we become one with that invisible energy that connects us to our true selves. Anyone who has ever meditated knows this,” Simon continued. “My experience with the Sadai monks in Jaipur confirmed my theories and taught me that we should look at the soul, not just as a metaphor, but as something that plays a pivotal part in our inner self and yet still remains outside of ourselves. They believe that the soul vibrates. We just have to sit still long enough to hear it.”

Speaking of which … India was having a harder and harder time sitting still too. She was also wondering if there would be anything left to actually read in the book by the time Simon finished his pitch. Oh. And yes, the men were definitely texting. Maybe she should run over and get her phone. Sarah would enjoy this.

“I’m currently teaching this type of meditation at my institute. I call it ‘vibrating soul consciousness.’ It’s one of the most popular new courses at my Center for Mind, Body, and Spirit.” He paused for what seemed an interminable amount of time. “And all of you are more than welcome to visit as guests. Thank you.”

Joss looked up abruptly from his lap. “How fascinating, Simon. Thank you for sharing. I saw your great clip from Oprah, too. She seemed pretty impressed when you made that link to the idea of the reptilian brain.”

Simon nodded. “Yes, Oprah’s open to new ideas. I’m working on a pilot with her for the new network.”

India’s head was spinning. Was it the wine or the conversation? She was having a hard time keeping up. Reptiles? Where did lizards fit into all this?

Joss was now talking to Matt. “I think with the state of the world right now, we really have to decide if we’re going to act on our basest, greediest instincts or not. I mean, I hear it in music all the time. No way we can really deal with this shit if we’re not connected at a deeper level, you know?”

Through a haze of alcohol now, India was failing to see any connections. She felt like a child stuck in the backseat of a car during a long road trip, who keeps asking, “When will we get there? When will we get there?” She’d heard more profound discussions among her twelfth graders. And where was Adam? Did he just decide not to come?

As the chat skittered around various other subjects, India devoted herself to calculating the net worth of the room. Between the guy who’d developed and produced the hottest syndicated show in NBC’s history, and the biggest-grossing movie star of all time ($20 mil for his last picture, she’d read somewhere), she figured the two of them could settle the world debt. A couple of others at the table (including Joss) could take care of malaria, AIDS, and malnutrition. Then, just as she was calculating the cost of the jewelry worn by the woman in the red satin dress, everyone shifted in their chairs and stood up.

India peeked at her watch. Ten o’clock. The party couldn’t possibly be over, could it? In London parties had barely started at ten o’clock. Men didn’t even unbutton their top buttons until at least eleven thirty, and where was the port, the brandy, the cheese? She nipped into the restroom and emerged a mere five minutes later to a room that looked as if it had been evacuated during a bomb scare. There were no dying candles, or crumpled napkins, only Maria smiling wearily.

“You would like these orange blossoms for your room?” she offered, handing India two bouquets in crystal glasses.

“Gracias, Maria.” She smiled.

India cautiously followed the blue lights around the terrace and pool toward her suite, and fell asleep watching one of Adam’s early movies, an indie on the Sundance Channel.

“Will you check in on the girls, sweetheart?” Annabelle said, turning her head to Joss, who was coming up the stairs fast behind her.

“Sure,” he answered, giving her bottom a squeeze as she reached the landing.

“Don’t be too long.” She opened the wide double doors to their master bedroom. Once inside their deliciously carpeted suite, she flung off her shoes and started to unzip her dress. “Damn things,” she muttered, as the fastener to her diamond necklace caught in her hair clip. Struggling awkwardly as she walked into the oasis of her private bathroom, she leaned one arm against the Italian marble washstand and fiddled with the tiny clasp in her magnifying mirror.

Free of them at last, she rubbed the back of her neck with relief and then, with a mounting sense of panic, across her throat–across something that felt like a lump. She pushed up close to the mirror again and swallowed hard. She could see it clearly. “Oh my God,” she whispered, steadying herself on the vanity chair, frozen with shock. A million thoughts were crashing through her brain and one word circled round her head. Tumor … tumor… I have a tumor… Annabelle sat down and put her head in her hands.

Annabelle was already flipping pancakes when India walked into the kitchen, clutching her head.

“It’s the hangover from hell,” she whispered while opening the fridge door and grabbing a carton of orange juice. The girls, Cindy and Bella, were sprawled out on the floor in nightgowns, rolling a ball back and forth to Clooney, their black Lab. The dog was barking.

“Shhh! Kids, can’t you play more quietly? I’m in pain,” India said with a weak smile.

“It’s the heat and dry air,” Annabelle said, forcing several thick slices of bread into the toaster. “LA’s a desert; you need to drink more water.”

“And less red wine?” India said, taking an Advil from her dressing gown pocket. “Is that what you’re implying?”

“Darling, I’m not preaching,” Annabelle replied, placing the plates of pancakes in front of her girls. “Wash your hands, kids,” she said. “So what did you think of Simon?” Annie asked, grabbing a chair next to her sister.

India just raised her eyebrows.

“Over here, Aunt India. Look over here,” Cindy shouted, aiming Annie’s pink iPhone camera at her face.

“Hey, come on kids, give me a break. I’m in my pajamas,” she said, trying desperately not to sound as irritated as she felt. Murderous is more like it, she thought, turning back to Annabelle.

“I think Simon talks a load of bollocks. I think he’s full of shit!”

“I didn’t quite hear that,” Annie said, testily. “Would you mind repeating it?”

“Look, you’d think intelligent people would be too smart to believe all that crap about vibrating souls. Anyone could invent some fucking self-help program. And haven’t you all had enough of self-help out here? Especially when it doesn’t help anyone – you’re all still seeing shrinks. And don’t tell me you’re interested in third-world issues – your idea of hardship is flying first class commercial, and I can’t remember the last time you had to do that. I feel like I’ve had a forty-eight-hour immersion in bullshit. No wonder you all need Prozac.”

India was hitting her stride when Clooney trotted over and began licking her feet. She pushed him away forcibly and glared at Cindy, then turned back again to Annabelle.

“And the talk about past lives – that was the best. Past wives, more like it. What was his name? Adam Brooks? He … and why didn’t you invite him, by the way? You knew I was interested in him even though he’s probably got the attention span of a gnat like the rest of them. At least he’s cute. I tried to talk to a few people last night, like a proper conversation, like somebody please get my joke, somebody drop the veneer, somebody – anybody – ask a question and then listen to the answer for two seconds. It’s like everyone’s got ADHD. I can’t be that frigging boring (don’t answer that)! Matt even waved his hand in front of my face to shut me up, when Kenny Goldman joined in, in defense of Ben Stiller, across the table.”

Busying herself near the sink, Annabelle stood ramrod straight. “Don’t hold back, please…”

India was on a roll. “Trules was in some kind of stupid trance like she was meeting Gandhi. And who the hell calls herself Summer? What does she sell when it’s winter?”

“That’s enough!” Annabelle snapped. “I don’t want to hear another word about Summer or Trules. They’re my friends. As for the rest of your lecture, yes, it’s California. La-la Land. But we know real when we see it. Simon and his vibrating soul have a PhD in psychology and a medical degree as well. He’s on Oprah regularly.”

“Precisely. I rest my case!” India snapped back.

The two sisters just stared at each other.

“Over here, Aunt India! Smile!” Bella shouted again through a mouthful of toast.

India stuck her tongue at the phone as Annabelle whipped away the plates. “You’re in this kitchen to eat your breakfast, girls, not shoot photographs. Don’t you know how tired Mommy is of people taking photos? And you, India… What is your problem, exactly? We make you feel at home in our house. We throw dinners to entertain you. We work bloody hard to get everything we have. Maybe I should give you the name of a good plastic surgeon. So he could operate on that enormous chip on your shoulder.”

Suddenly aware of the fact that her two daughters were gazing at the both of them with their mouths open, Annabelle lowered her voice. “To be continued,” she said, turning on her heel and leaving the room.

India felt utterly deflated. She’d been tactless, graceless. Maybe it was jet lag; that eight-hour time difference finally hitting her. Maybe it was culture shock or PMS. Maybe she was just a jealous bitch.

Attempting to distract the girls from the scene they’d just witnessed, India chatted to them about their plans to join their father at the marina, and then quietly left the room to shower.

When Annabelle reappeared, India was pretending to skim through a magazine, curled up on a chaise on the kitchen patio.

“More coffee, darling?” her sister shouted.

“Yes, please!” India replied, relieved that the tension between them had eased. Listening to the sound of the coffee grinder as Annabelle made a fresh pot, India debated about whether to share her real feelings with her sister. If only she could slip into my skin, the way she does with all those characters on-screen, she thought, maybe she’d understand. There was no excuse for such a cruel outburst and certainly not in front of the children. But Annabelle knew nothing about how demoralizing teaching had become; the endless paperwork, all the testing-standard forms and how difficult it was; to be nearly forty and still unattached, to live from hand to mouth on a salary that made even the idea of buying a pair of Louboutins laughable…

Her thoughts were interrupted by a quick kiss on her forehead as her sister passed her a mug of coffee. “The house will be empty in a minute and we’ll have it all to ourselves. You can’t imagine what luxury this is for me, sitting in my own garden. I haven’t even been in the pool once this whole year.”

“That’s somehow so wrong,” India replied, blowing on the hot coffee. “It’s right outside your kitchen door. I’d be in there every single day. You’re so lucky.”