India's Summer (7 page)

“Profound Thoughts?” Adam said, peeking at the cover. “Is that for real?”

“It’s a present from my friend in London. There’s not a lot in it!” She laughed, finally unearthing a pen from the depths of her purse and scribbling down her number.

Tucking it into his pocket, Adam signaled a passing waiter for the check as Loretta hugged Annie goodbye.

“Who was that woman?” India asked while the trio waited under the awning for a valet to bring Adam’s car around.

Annie lowered her voice. “That, my darling, was no woman. I guess you haven’t been to Vegas in a long time. Best drag act in town.”

India’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “You mean…?”

Adam nodded. “Exactly. What happens in Brazil, stays in Brazil.”

Annie fell asleep on the drive home while India gazed out the window, daydreaming. Can you daydream in the dead of night? she wondered as Robert pulled past the Bel Air gates and delivered them to the front door.

“Go straight to bed,” India said, steering Annie out of the car, into the house and toward the stairs. “I’ll take care of the lights and alarm. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, darling. I’m too tired for words,” Annie said, kissing her and walking, slowly, up the stairs.

Just as India was trying to figure out which button to push without setting off the sirens, her phone rang. Racing across the hall to the table, she grabbed it from her purse.

“So I hope I’m not calling too soon,” said the gravelly voice on the other end. “How ’bout I pick you up at ten for breakfast at Urth on Melrose. They make a killer latte.”

“Perfect,” India replied. “Great!”

“Cool. Have a good sleep and see you then,” he said.

“You, too,” she replied, in what she fervently hoped was a sultry tone.

India walked across the lawn as if in a trance. Did I sound too available? she asked herself. Should I have said I was busy? Did I really say “perfect”? Maybe I said “great.” Yes, I definitely said “great” … I should have said “cool”…

Once inside, India brushed her teeth, then, without taking her usual shower, she put on her nightdress and sank into the freshly ironed sheets. What to wear? It would have to be casual, but what was “coffee casual”? She was going to get it right this time, blow him away with her casualness. Her meandering thoughts trailed off into a gentle fog as she snuggled down to sleep.

“Coffee’s made, darling,” Annabelle shouted. “OK, Clooney,” she snapped, grabbing the panting dog by the collar and attaching the leash. “Bloody dog walker didn’t show today. I’ll be about an hour. OK, Clooney. Let’s go.”

India stepped out of the way carefully, remembering Annie had told her the other night that the dog was taking tranquilizers because he’d nipped one of the kids. She’d been stunned to hear they’d hired a professional dog therapist who was taking notes on Clooney’s moods.

The dog’s got a shrink! she’d thought. That gives whole new meaning to the expression “barking mad.”

Blowing on her coffee as she sat at the kitchen desk, India loaded Google onto the wide-screen Mac and typed in “Adam Brooks.”

“Shit!” she muttered, wiping hot coffee off Annie’s glasses case and turning back to the screen.

“Oh my God!” There was a photo of Adam striding out of the ocean like some sea god, toting a surfboard, his six-pack glistening in the sun, his wetsuit clinging to his thighs. Skimming through the info on his career, she read: “Born in 1965, film actor, best known for his portrayal of…” She moved ahead to “Personal Life.”

“Briefly married in 1993 to Chloe Depardu, the French TV presenter… FRENCH TV presenter?” she muttered. “This is bad … really bad.”

Yanking her phone out of her dressing-gown pocket, she speed-dialed Sarah.

“It’s me again. Okay, I’m online and I just found out Adam was married to some basket-carrying, scarf-tying French TV presenter. If she couldn’t hold on to him, what chance have I got?”

“Breathe,” Sarah said calmly. “Breathe.”

“Sarah, nobody loses out to a French woman. It’s just one of those rules.”

“Maybe she left him? Did you think of that?”

“That’s even worse. He’s probably still trying to get over her and listening to some Carla Bruni CD as we speak.”

“Hang on, India. I’m googling. Aha! Scroll down the page. See? It was EIGHT years ago. That’s practically the Paleolithic Age in Hollywood. I bet he doesn’t even remember what she looks like…”

“Oh my God! Check out her boobs,” India muttered. “He’ll remember those for sure. Shit. It’s almost ten o’clock and I’m not even dressed.”

“Go for it, girl.” Sarah laughed as they both clicked off.

India raced upstairs to Annabelle’s closet. Five minutes later, she heard the roar of a car in the driveway. Pouring herself into a pair of skintight jeans (with some stretch, thank God), she grabbed a sleeveless white shirt and peeked out the window to the driveway, where Adam sat in a gunmetal gray Porsche convertible. Yanking her hair into a clip, she dashed downstairs and scribbled Annie a note. Stopping for a moment in front of the hall mirror, she caught sight of Adam’s full-blown image still on the computer screen. She opened the front door and slowly, ever so slowly, closed it tightly behind her.

“I heard you arrive,” she said, casually. “Thought I’d save you coming in.”

“Hey!” He grinned as she headed for the left side of the car. “Are you planning to drive?”

“Oops,” she muttered, running around to the passenger side. “I’m still not used to how you all drive on the wrong side of the road.”

Bending her knees, she slipped as graciously as possible into the low tilted seat.

“Carmen, okay?” Adam smiled, fiddling with the sound system.

“Perfect,” she said, nodding. “I love Italian music.”

As they drove down Bellagio and onto Sunset, India soaked up the scenery: So many palm trees, she thought. So why no coco-nuts? The thrill of being so near him was giving her palpitations. As Adam turned onto Melrose past a row of antiquarian bookstores and interior design boutiques, she smiled.

“What’s funny?” he asked, pulling into a space beneath the white veranda of Urth Caffé.

“Urth,” she said, pointing to the sign, “I imagined it was spelt ‘e-a-r-t-h.’”

“Ha! ‘Earth,’ right! Never even noticed.” He led her up the stairs, the waitress gazing at him adoringly as she escorted them to a quiet table above a tree-lined side street.

“So,” Adam ventured, before his voice was drowned out by a pack of bikers swinging round the corner revving their engines and India was left trying to read his lips.

“I forgot,” Adam said, apologetically. “It’s Saturday. Let’s get out of here.”

Steering her back down the stairs, he shouted in her ear. “How much time’ve you got?”

“All the time in the world,” she shouted back. “I’m on vacation.”

“Cool,” he said as they backed out of the parking space. “I’ll take the scenic route in that case … Brooks Tours at your service!”

“Thank you, Mr. Brooks.”

“You’re welcome.” He grinned.

“Just look at that sky and that ocean,” India said with a gasp as the car swung down the California Incline. The panorama of crumbling bluffs and endlessly blue ocean almost took her breath away. As they sped along the Pacific Coast Highway she watched the surfers climb up against the white foam of crashing waves before riding them in. She freeze-framed the moment. On the crest of a wave, she thought, contentedly, That’s how I feel right now.

Adam’s voice and a sudden stop brought her back to Earth.

“Okay. Latte good for you?” he said, climbing out of the car at Malibu Creek and heading toward the Marmalade Café. Minutes later, he reappeared with two cardboard trays and a squashy white paper bag. “Careful, it’s hot,” he warned her. “We’re almost there.”

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

India discreetly clutched the side of her seat as Adam accelerated and the car clung to the curve as tightly as wet silk on skin. There was nothing below them but air and ocean.

“The hillside’s still covered since the mudslides,” he said, slowing down as they came out of the curve and hit a straightaway.

“I thought it never rained in California,” India said, desperately combing through her hair with her fingers.

“Yep. It rains,” he said. “It pours, and you don’t want to be on this road when it does,” he added, pointing to a pile of flowers heaped on the roadside. Downshifting as they drove into the Malibu colony, he pulled up sharply into a garage. India followed him up a flight of wooden steps through a tiny, shiny steel kitchen and into a magnificently simple, sun-filled living room, where he yanked open the glass doors and bowed.

“Breakfast will be served momentarily.” he grinned. “Pull up a seat.”

Collapsing onto a huge blue-and-white-striped cushion, India dangled her long legs over the balcony. Far off in the distance, she saw a couple of low-flying helicopters outlined against the mountains, and closer by, some kids in wet suits dragging boogie boards across the sand. She watched them wading out through the shallow edge of the water before throwing themselves onto their stomachs as they reached the waves.

Adam was rolling back his shirt sleeves when he flopped down next to her.

“Is this where you live?” India asked, surprised that her voice had not come out as a high squeak. She sounded quite normal for someone losing power over her limbs; Adam was now undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.

Just keep looking at the ocean… she told herself, you’ll be fine.

“Yeah,” Adam said, “How lucky can you get, right? Wish I could be here more often, that’s all.”

India was grateful that he seemed to be oblivious to the somewhat unhinged state of his guest. Adam took a bite of blueberry muffin and sipped his latte. Following his lead, India did the same. She could see the edge of a sleigh bed in a bedroom off to her right.

“Do you surf?” she asked, swallowing hard. He was very close to her now.

“Used to jet ski,” he replied, gazing out at the sea. “Surfing’s a young man’s game. How ’bout you?”

“Ah yes! Those summer nights…” she said, hoping this implied fire pits and toasting marshmallows with tanned pubescent boys. “The Internet,” she said, laughing, “I surf the Internet.”

“And what do you do when you’re not surfing the Internet? Max asked you that at Joss’ party. But you never really answered.”

Flattered that he’d remembered, but flustered, India groped for words.

“Well, it’s sort of hard to explain, really,” she started as he leaned forward and looked at her with eyes that were bluer than the already incredibly blue sky. “I help people develop their confidence and understand what they can do to change their lives.”

Adam propped himself up on his elbows and stretched out his legs. “Like a life coach, you mean?”

“Not exactly. More like a facilitator. I use these techniques I learned from Stanislavski.” Where did that come from? she wondered. “Do you know his work?”

“Not as well as I should, but I’ve taken a few American method classes. What kind of techniques do you use?”

“Ah … good question,” she said. “Stanislavski took some of the disciplines of yoga and applied them to training actors. He was light-years ahead of his time, you know, mixing psychology with yoga. I’ve adapted them for non-actors … that’s all.”

“Sorry. What do you mean?”

I have no idea what I mean, India thought. But Adam’s interest, his curiosity, felt as stimulating as a dip in the North Sea. Brushing some crumbs off her lap, she took a deep breath.

“Well, take tai chi, for example. It’s an Eastern tradition, right?” (Shit, I think it might be a drink…) But people in the West have adopted it too. It works. Maybe not in exactly the same way as in the East, but it’s effective nonetheless.”

“Do you teach yoga?”

“No. I rely on the drama techniques I learned at university.”

Adam nodded. “And do people really manage to shift their thinking? Make changes?”

“Some of them do,” she said, standing up and stretching in what she hoped was a very centered, limber move reflecting years of posture training.

“How many people do you usually workshop?” Adam asked, rising, she noticed, in a single fluid motion from his own sitting position on the cushion.

“I workshop thirty at a time. Any more than that and I lose my focus.”

(I workshop? I WHAT? God, I’ve come over all American. I just used a noun as a verb. Any second now I’ll be saying things like “clusterfuck” and “whatever.”)

Keeping her shoulders back and her toes out and wishing she wasn’t quite so self-conscious, she strolled inside toward the fireplace.

“And what about you? Did you always want to act? Even as a kid?”

“It was an accident. That’s the truth. I just stumbled into it. I know people expect you to say it was a long, hard struggle, years of waiting tables and endless auditions. But it wasn’t. Not for me.”

“And is this your family?” India asked, holding up a framed photograph.

“Yes. That’s my dad. He’s a playwright. And my mom, she was an artist, a wonderful painter.”

“Was?” India asked quietly.

“Mm … yes. She died a couple of years ago. That’s one of her paintings above the mantel there,” he added, pointing to a hauntingly beautiful watercolor above the fireplace.

“Reminds me of a Rodin,” India replied, gently. “Le Jardin des Supplices. The figure has the same auburn hair.”

“It was a self-portrait. Mom was extremely talented.” He smiled. “I was her only pride and joy.”

“You were an only child?”

“Yeah. But I wasn’t lonely. Our house was always lively, full of artists and actors. I used to think it was normal to sit in all night on conversations about Edward Albee or Salinger or Brecht.”

India tried to block out thoughts of her own childhood; the door slamming the night their father left, Annie’s suitcase in the hall soon after, promises to be back at the weekends, weekends that never happened, weeks that turned into months. How she had put her own plans on hold, unable to wrench herself away from her mother. Thinking back now, she felt that same knot in her stomach and tightness in her throat.

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, putting down the photograph. “To have all those interesting people around you growing up, all that encouragement.”