India's Summer (9 page)

Glancing at a young girl sauntering by in a pair of shorts and Ugg boots, India dipped a chunk of lobster into hot pepper sauce. Her heart was racing at the idea of taking Adam up on his offer. But where do I even begin to run workshops for women who wear fur-lined suede boots and shorts in ninety degrees of heat?

She gazed out across the expanse of ocean. Adam was unsettling her. It wasn’t just that he turned her on, it was much more than that; he was breaking down her carefully constructed barriers. She wanted to be in his arms. She wanted her head on his shoulder. She would feel safe there. She realized she’d not felt safe in a long time.

He was back.

“Sorry, India. My agent,” he said, sliding back into his chair. “He keeps sending stuff over for me to look at and setting up meetings. But nothing grabs me… It’s always the same shit, same character.”

Sensing his frustration, India sipped her wine. “Why don’t you tell him you’re tired of it, that you need a change?”

“Don’t I wish,” Adam replied, stabbing at his salad. “You need a lot of leverage in this town to pull off a trick like that, believe me.”

India was flummoxed. “But you’re Adam Brooks.”

Adam nearly choked on his prawn. “Right. Remind me to remind him of that the next time I turn down a script.”

“Well, Annie says that there’s always someone coming up behind you; someone younger I suppose she meant, but isn’t it different for men?”

“In some ways, but again it’s about what scripts get to you. India, you’ve managed to make the whole conversation about me again. How ’bout dessert? Or tea? Are the English still into tea?”

“Yes, but only if it’s made in a teapot,” she said, laughing. “No dessert. I’m fine. This has been a wonderful lunch. And I listen to you because I like to listen to you. Your life interests me.”

“So I guess listening to you will be a pleasure postponed, eh?” He grinned and signaled for the check. “I should definitely get you back. And I swore to Max I’d be there for the start of the Lakers game. Plus I think we’re being tweeted,” he said, gesturing at some girls huddled over their iPhones.

Gloriously at ease after so much sun, talk, good food, and wine, India relaxed into her seat on the ride back. It wasn’t until she felt the automatic click of her seat belt that she woke up.

“Hello, Miss India. You’re home,” Adam said as she sat up, startled, and the entire contents of her purse spilled all over the floor of the car.

“It’s the heat,” she apologized, scrambling for her keys and … Tampax. Omygod! Tampax, she shrieked to herself. And ear-plugs from the flight!

“Get some more rest,” Adam suggested with a grin as he leaned across to open her door. “And I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, great,” she mumbled, then disappeared fast round to the side of the guesthouse, where she stopped and leaned up against the wall. I don’t believe I did that. I am never, repeat, NEVER drinking in the daytime again.

Annabelle was sprawled out on the chintz sofa in the kitchen with her eyes closed when India aimed for the fridge.

“Wow! That was some cup of coffee, darling,” she said with a yawn.

India kicked off her shoes, gave her sister a kiss, and fell onto the sofa next to her.

“How about some nice ice-cold lemonade?” Annie offered, gesturing to the glacier blue ceramic jug in her hand. India was so thirsty, she was ready to lick the beads of icy condensation right off the side of it.

“Absolutely. I’m so dehydrated, I feel like Lawrence of Arabia when he walked into that bar in Cairo.”

“Of course, Peter O’Toole.” Annie laughed “We want two glasses of lemonade – lemonade with ice.”

“Pitch perfect, as ever.” India laughed.

“Go ahead. Drink up,” Annabelle ordered, while touching her sister’s sunburned nose. “And let me get you some aloe vera so you don’t peel.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I was in Malibu.”

“I figured no news must mean good news. From that look on your face, I’d say things are going well?”

India nodded. “Apart from this sunburn… Annie, I feel like I’m dreaming. Do we have plans for tonight?”

Slathering her sister’s arm with aloe, Annie shook her head. “I thought we might order in, watch a movie? I’m awfully tired. Would that disappoint you too much?”

“I’d love it. Listen, why don’t you lot have a quiet night to yourselves? I’ll watch a movie on that huge TV in my room,” India said, slipping into her moccasins.

“Sounds like a plan, good. And don’t forget. We have Fran’s fundraiser tomorrow afternoon. I think you might have a good time. I think you might like these people.”

“I’m sure I will, Annie. And I love you. I really do, and once again I’m so sorry for my outburst the other day, and I like Lizzie – a lot.”

“I have some great friends, you know. Not everyone in LA is a phony, no matter what you might think on the other side of the pond. Sleep well. I love you too.”

India fluttered her toes in the pomegranate-oil-scented bath-tub and sighed. Could she really be looking at the possibility of making a major change in her life, of launching workshops? Why had she lied to Adam? What was so embarrassing about being a great teacher? Will I always feel inadequate, that I don’t measure up? she wondered.

Unwrapping the tissue from another bar of her favorite French milled soap, India flinched at the memory of her meltdown in the kitchen. She’d hurt Annie by criticizing her friends and poking fun at Summer. But it was Simon Clements and his vibrating soul who’d really pressed her buttons. He’d triggered something deep in her. She’d resented him holding the room captive and getting the adulation. Why? Was it because she felt she had nothing much to show for her own years of hard slog? Yes, that was it. But whose fault was that? What had held her back from looking for promotion, for reaching for more? What?

Stepping gingerly out of the tub, India was in such a hurry that she didn’t bother to towel herself dry. She’d check out Simon’s website, see for herself what this man, such a hero to people here, had to offer. Skidding across the tiles she grabbed a robe and paced the bedroom a couple of times before sitting down at the Louis XVI secretaire and drumming her fingers on the leather top.

Maybe instead of getting angry, she thought, opening up her laptop, I should do some research, work out how to exploit my own “skill-set” as Tony Robbins calls it. Okay …
www.­simonclements.­com
…

Photographs slid across the screen in a horizontal montage; Simon smiling alongside the President of the United States, shaking hands with the Queen of England, hugging movie stars and sports icons, standing bookended by Playboy bunnies. No question about it. He got around. Sanskrit icons directed her to page after page of product; everything from books, tapes, and video to incense and Himalayan crystals.

Then there it was, flanked by a pair of doves flying across a waterfall to the tinkle of wind chimes and a pan flute: “Vibrating Soul Consciousness and the Law of Attraction.”

“You should write down what you want to happen in the present tense so as to trick your subconscious into believing you already have it. You can manifest anything. Visualize it clearly.”

She bent back the soft blue leather binding of her “Profound Thoughts” notepad and sighed. Okay. It’s worth a try, I suppose; I mean, how else am I going to get on Oprah? Picking up the Mont Blanc fountain pen, she began writing.

“I have Adam Brooks.” No. Scratch that, sounds too possessive. Okay. “I am a workshop leader. I am successful. I live in California.” Replacing the cap on the pen, she shook her head. I’m cracking up. This is insane. If Sarah could see me now she’d go hysterical. Okay. Visualize.

Settling herself flat on the bed, India closed her eyes. She had absolutely no difficulty visualizing Adam, although, curiously, the images that floated past were mostly of him from behind. He did have an exceptionally cute ass.

Okay, focus… I am looking fabulous. I am thirty-six. Scratch that, she thought drowsily. I am almost….

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

Screeching up a side street in her green Prius, Lizzie cursed. “Fucking traffic! Fucking Stan! I’ve had it!” Her “deconstructed” Frank Gehry showplace wasn’t a home. It was some kind of architect’s statement. “Fifteen million and the place looks like it’s falling apart,” she muttered to herself, pulling into the garage. “Just like the family that lives in it.” Her jaw was aching. Peering into the playroom window, she glanced at Teri, the third nanny in as many weeks, who was sitting on a sofa, watching a video with the kids in the playroom.

“Hi, guys!” she shouted with false cheer as she slipped into the kitchen, which despite being the size of an airplane hangar, felt crowded. Nothing. No response. Not from anyone. Sophie was literally inside the gigantic double-door fridge, foraging around for ice cream. The marble counter was covered with crumbs, discarded food wrappers, water glasses, and chips. Cell phones, purses, and clothes lay in heaps all over the floor. Two girls in tiny bikinis whom she’d never even met lounged in front of the TV screen, dipping chips in guacamole and screaming obscenities at America’s Top Model.

On the verge of tears, Lizzie touched Sophie on the shoulder. “Hey, how are you?” she said.

“Good,” Sophie said between spoonfuls of ice cream, and without turning round.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Lizzie said pointedly.

“Sure,” Sophie mumbled. “That’s Amy and that’s Julie.”

“Right, very helpful, thanks,” Lizzie replied.

Sophie signaled her friends and turned to leave the room.

“Ah sorry, but would you mind picking up a few things while you’re at it?” Lizzie said, pointing to the heap of clothing strewn on the floor.

Sophie kicked a few articles of clothing around in front of her before leaning over to pick up a couple of items.

“See ya,” she said, heading toward the stairs and tossing her bleached blonde hair over her shoulder.

Lizzie inhaled deeply. There was something so wrong about this picture. It was her house, and yet she felt powerless in it. Where were the boundaries? How could you demand respect? Where would you start to connect with another female who clearly looked on you as the enemy?

After swallowing two Advils, she decided to ignore the rude-ness and focus on what kept her sane: her charity work. She and Fran had scheduled a major fundraiser the next day for the African Children’s Choir. Turning off the TV, she picked up the phone. Most of her wealthy friends were delighted to write off big chunks of cash for her causes and, as Stan was one of the most powerful entertainment lawyers in town, they had no problem wooing A-list talent to their galas and house events. The last lunch, featuring Rihanna, had made it into a two-page spread in Vanity Fair.

The Advil hadn’t made a dent in her headache. She put down the phone. Just the thought of being social, of meeting and greeting people and smiling next to Stan, made her nauseous. “So much pretending,” she fumed. “Putting up this façade of being such a happy family. I can’t bear it!”

She’d spent years working with families who practically killed themselves to give their kids a chance to go to college, while Stan’s kid, Henry, the arrogant, swaggering little prig, would probably just sail into Harvard. No way her own kids were going to live in this absurdly privileged, isolated world of private jets and vacation villas in Mustique and Anguilla, a world where standing in line at Starbucks was as close as they ever came to hardship.

Sophie was another kind of nightmare. The erratic moods and the belligerence … Lizzie tried not to monitor her too much – her hands were full with the twins. But honestly, did the girl do anything other than take fucking photos of herself with her iPhone, puckering and pouting half naked, and post them all over the planet on Facebook?

Lizzie dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom. After a quick shower, she changed into a pair of pink velvet Juicy sweatpants, pulled her knees up to her chest on top of the empty Kyoto platform California king-size bed, and sobbed herself to sleep.

Annabelle valet parked the Mercedes station wagon and she and India walked through an old stone porch, into a pillared marble entrance hall, and out onto the grounds of Fran’s residence.

“Valet parking.” India laughed. “Try tossing your keys at someone in London and you’d never see your car again.”

“True.” Annie smiled.

“Omygod, it’s bigger than Kensington Palace,” India exclaimed, taking in the tall clipped hedges framing a pathway across miles of manicured green lawn. “It’s like the Tuileries in Paris,” she added, awestruck at the view of the arc of water from a fountain spraying across the infinity pool.

“I feel like I’m in some kind of BBC minidrama,” she whispered to Annie. “I should be carrying a King Charles spaniel or something.”

“You look great,” Annie whispered.

“Yes, well, when you told me it was an afternoon fundraiser I was thinking more along the lines of those school bake sales at St. Mary’s, not this,” she said, nodding toward a girl in a black satin gown playing the harp. India was regretting the white cotton summer skirt and Liberty print blouse she had chosen so carefully.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting a crystal glass of champagne from a waitress who bore an uncanny resemblance to Penélope Cruz.

India followed Annie through the milling guests, past velvet covered auction tables and valuable paintings, silk embroidered cushions and cashmere throws. As she reached the jasmine-covered arbor, where Lizzie and some friends were clustered around a chintz sofa, she took a long sip of the deliciously fizzy drink.

“WOW! India, you look great!” Lizzie enthused, kissing her on both cheeks. You remember Stan? The hypocritical two-timing bastard I married? she said to herself.

“Nice to see you, India. It’s been too long,” Stan said without intonation. “And this is the extraordinary Florence,” he added, putting his arm, protectively, around the tiny, elderly woman next to him. She was so slight and bony, so frail in her two-piece Chanel suit and quilted bag that India thought she might blow away.