Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (33 page)

“Are you kidding? You’re at the beach.
Things are just getting warmed up.”

“I’ll have to ask Emily,” I said doubtfully.
“Hang on.” Then, while shaking my head no, I addressed her: “Steve
wants to know if we want to have dinner with him and his roommate.
They’re in Laguna.”

I am
such
an idiot sometimes. I mean,
of course she saw me shaking my head. But here’s what she said:
“What’s his roommate’s name?”

Which I didn’t have to translate, because
Steve heard. “Tristan Kelly. Tell her he’s a writer.”

This was getting too high school. I parroted
what Steve had said, adding — to both of them now — “I don’t have
anything here to wear.”

I got replies in stereo. “Emily will lend
you something” and “I’ll find you something.” So I was pretty much
outvoted. No one really seemed to care that I was extremely tired
and had had a very hard day. In fact, when I’d hung up, and having
agreed that the two of us would meet Steve and Tristan at a little
restaurant not far from Emily’s place, Emily assured me that
getting out and having a bit of fun was “precisely what I needed”
and that it would “do me the world of good.” Which she and I both
knew translated to: Steve is extremely hot so there’s a good chance
his roommate will be hot and there’s no way you’re screwing up this
perfectly good opportunity.

And, understand this: high school isn’t just
for sixteen-year-olds. At least, not the social aspects. Given the
right associations and the right set of circumstances, any woman —
regardless of age — can turn into the sort of mindless, giggling
party animal she was just post-puberty. I’ve seen my mom get
together with some of her school friends — this more than four
decades after they’d left school. And, man: was that embarrassing.
So with Emily running around blabbing mindlessly about make-up and
what to wear and “I hope he’s cute” pretty soon, tired or not, I
got into the spirit.

Even though Emily’s closet was not nearly as
well stocked as Brian’s appeared to have been, she pulled happy
little sundresses — the kind that look cute but don’t need to be
precisely the right size to work — out of her closet for both of
us. We
were
staying at the beach, we reasoned, we could look
beachy if we wanted. And even though my feet are bigger than
Emily’s, she had one pair of sandals that didn’t look ridiculous on
me and wouldn’t hurt, provided I wasn’t forced to walk too far.

We left Tycho with another can of Em’s cat’s
food, lots more water, instructions not to eat Puss Puss and we
were off.

I’ve always tried to make it a point not to
date men who are prettier than I am. It just keeps things simpler.
With Steve, I knew, I was on the point of throwing that rule
out.

The guys were already at the restaurant when
we got there, and Steve looked exceptionally fine. He was tan and
lean in a faintly ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and
sandals. I’m not someone who undresses men with her eyes, but in
Steve’s case — since I’d actually seen him in that condition, and
quite recently when I thought about it — I made an exception. From
the look in his eyes when he saw me, I thought he might be doing
the same. Our eyes met over a mutual blush, which would be cute if
you weren’t inside it.

I could tell right away that Emily liked
Tristan, which was sort of a fun bonus. We sat at a round table for
four — boy, girl, boy, girl. Tristan and Emily looked like a couple
from the first moment. I wondered what I had set in motion. It
turned out he was a screenwriter working on projects of about the
same magnitude as Emily’s, which is to say no one was throwing
Oscars at either of them quite yet. And they’d worked with some of
the same people, so they had tons in common. He was maybe 33 or 34,
but looked older, so the whole age thing seemed less heinous than
the difference between Steve and me. Anyway, what with the related
lines of work, the people and places in common and the fairly
genuine spark that could probably be seen from the other side of
the room, before very long Steve and I might as well have been
alone because Tristan and Emily sure were.

“I knew this was a good idea,” Steve said,
indicating the two of them with his glass of cabernet shiraz and a
satisfied grin. “In fact, when I met Emily at the Hyatt, I thought
of Triss.”

“He seems nice.”

“Yeah, he’s a good guy. You know, both of us
are kind of past the place in our lives where you have to have a
roommate, but we get along so well we thought we’d keep it going
until there was some reason not to,” he hesitated. Then, “I’ve just
been realizing, I know next to nothing about you. Which, when you
think about it, seems pretty strange.”

“I guess. I don’t know much about you,
either.”

“It’s true, but I have a feeling there’s
less to know,” I thought for a second he was talking about my
vastly deeper reserves of experience due to my age. But, of course,
he was not. “After all, you’re the one continually shrouded in
mystery.”

“I guess it must seem that way,” I admitted.
“But, really, it’s only this week that’s made me mysterious.
Honest. And then, in some ways, only as things relate to you.” I
knew that sounded cryptic, but I was tired, the wine was good, the
company sweet. “And I know I promised you the whole story, but not
tonight, OK Steve? As it is, I think I might have a tough time
keeping my face out of my soup.”

“OK. Agreed. Tonight is not for
explanations. Despite our shared history and our present company,
tonight can be our first date. So let’s play first date. Tell me
the things that aren’t mysterious about Madeline Carter.”

And so I did. I told him about growing up in
Seattle and falling in love with the stockmarket and New York and
how I’d finally wound up on the sunny coast. He told me about
coming of age in Idaho and moving to LA at 19 to study at the
Guitar Institute — he’d wanted to be a bass player — and how he’d
wound up at USC studying business instead. “Because of a girl,” he
told me with a straight face and I almost, but not quite, believed
him. “I needed an MBA to impress a girl.”

“Did it work?”

“Naw. Took too long. In the end she left me
for a drummer.”

We had a nice evening. The four of us left
the restaurant at — oh, I don’t know, a million o’clock or so — and
went back to Emily’s place, got Tycho and took him for a walk. The
beach, of course, but he needed to be emptied. And then the guys
walked us home and said a sweet and chaste goodnight. As Steve had
promised, it truly had been like a first date.

After they’d left I was subjected to a full
half hour of “Tristan said this,” and “Tristan did that,” before
Emily finally conceded that the day was sufficiently full and I
could now go peacefully off to slumberland on the sofa.

* * *

It felt as though I had barely gotten to
sleep when a telephone woke me up. I propped myself up on one elbow
in time to see Emily tiptoe into her office, where she didn’t pick
up the phone: I could hear a masculine voice while Emily screened
but still didn’t pick up. She popped her head out after a couple of
minutes, “Madeline, you up?” I nodded, sleepily. “Come here. I
think you should hear this.”

A youthful male voice. “Hey, um, this is
Corby Frye. Stacey at The Curl told me to call you. You can get me
at,” he left a number and I recognized a Malibu exchange, “I’m not
here all the time but the machine will be on.”

Emily and I looked at each other across the
machine. “I know it’s not particularly telling,” she said, “but I
thought you’d want to hear the voice.”

I nodded. “And it’s two o’clock in the
morning. Who leaves messages at that time?”

Emily shrugged, “Surfer dudes, I guess.
A’it?”

“I guess. So now what do I do?”

“You think it’s possible he’s involved?”
Emily looked thoughtful.

“Sure. But it’s possible he’s not, too. But
if she
was
behind it herself, it would make sense she’d have
her boyfriend involved or that he’d at least know where she
was.”

“But I just don’t get it, Madeline. Jennifer
seems like such a nice kid. And we really did have fun at the
movies that time.”

“Yeah, we did. But it’s not about us. It’s
about her dad, I think. And Tasya.”

“One of those classic cries for attention?”
Emily shook her head. “I just don’t buy it, this is pretty
extreme.”

“For you and me, maybe. But in this world,”
I shrugged. “Think about it, your whole life is around making
movies since you were a kid. And sometimes what you want and need
is bumped back or overlooked because of something that is,
essentially, make believe. And then your parents split up and, not
long after, your dad goes to Ibiza to make a movie, and comes back
with a beautiful new wife young enough to be your sister.”

“Ibiza?” Emily echoed.

“Yeah, I know. See, it’s sort of bizarre.
And if all of that is your reality, maybe you do some weird things
for attention.”

“Or,” Emily said thoughtfully, “for
money.”

“Money? They have lots of money.”

Emily shook her head, “No,
he
has
lots of money. She’s a kid. She probably gets an allowance or
something. And remember,” Emily said excitedly, warming to her
theory, “she told us she wants to go to acting school but that
Tyler was against it. Maybe she knew she was getting kicked out of
school and it moved her personal deadline up.”

“But ten grand,” I shook my head. “Where
would that get you?”

“From her perspective, remember, it would
get you to New York.”

We were both quiet for a couple of beats,
thinking our own thoughts. Finally, I said, “I think I have a
plan.”

Emily said, “Uh-oh.”

“I don’t even think it’s dangerous. Tyler
said he has to make his cash drop tomorrow night at eleven. I want
you to call boyfriend person first thing in the morning and tell
him you want to audition him for a role in a surfer movie you’re
doing.”

“Pre-screen,” Emily said
matter-of-factly.

“Pardon?”

“For commercial roles, the first meeting is
called an audition. For film work it’s a pre-screen.”

I looked at Emily steadily for a moment,
trying to determine if she was kidding or not. She wasn’t.

“Well, actually,” she said thoughtfully,
continuing the thread, “for a pre-screen there has to be sides,” I
was just looking at her. “You know. Sides of dialog. Some kind of
little script, even if it’s short. And we won’t have that.”

I looked at her levelly. “I don’t think it
matters.”

“Well, it should be accurate, you know. What
I tell him should be right.”

“Whatever. Just call him, OK? We’re talking
about a surfing instructor. If you tell him to meet you at a car
wash on Sepulveda he’ll be there, as long as he knows its something
to do with his being in a movie.”

Emily nodded, resigned. But I knew that,
whatever she ended up telling him, it would probably be something
technically correct. “Why me?”

“Well, it won’t make much difference which
of us calls, but you know movie lingo. Like all this pre-screen,
side business for instance. If he asks you something tricky, you’ll
know how to answer it.”

“True. OK, where is this fictional
pre-screen going to take place?”

“Malibu Center Mall. The coffee place
there.”

“Auditions don’t work that way. Or
pre-screens. They never take place in public like that.”

“Do you think he’d want to take the
chance?”

“Good point,” Emily said. “Am I actually
going to audition him for something? Because I can, you know. I’ve
been through that process before.”

“No,” I said thoughtfully, riffing as I went
along, “because you’re not going to go. Neither am I. He’s going to
be stood up. Then when he storms off home in a huff, I’m going to
follow him.”

“And you think that’s where Jennifer will
be?”

“Sure,” I said, with more confidence than I
felt at that moment. “He’s a surfer. I don’t think it’ll be a
sophisticated operation.”

“But then what? Do we just storm in and grab
her.”

“We?”

Emily looked surprised. “Sure. I’m
coming.”

I looked at her, not saying anything.

“Duh! I’m
coming
,” she said
again.

“OK,” I said, finally. “Actually, that could
be good. With two of us we could run in and divert him, while the
other goes in and grabs Jennifer.”

“Do you think we should call the police or
anything?” Emily asked suddenly, as though she’d just thought of
it.

“Oh, probably.”

“But we’re not going to, are we?”

“I don’t think so.”

* * *

When Emily and I finally quit yakking and I
got back to sleep, I dreamed of Paul. Paul Westbrook. A blood red
dream. Not of him chasing me through the wilds of the San
Bernardino Forest, but Paul as I’d last seen him, in college: on
his knees on the bed, his face contorted with cruel laughter.

I woke in the half dark that is the best
that Huntington Beach, at the beach, can provide. The dream didn’t
wake me, but Tycho’s big wet tongue on my face did. He was doing
his Tycho-best to comfort me. I must have cried out.

“S’OK boy. I’m OK. Go back to sleep.” He
snuffled my face closely as though reassuring himself I was, in
fact, all right, then padded back to the position he’d taken up on
a small rug between me and the door. I think he was asleep as soon
as he tucked his nose under his tail. I wasn’t so lucky.

Paul Westbrook. I hadn’t expected to see him
again. Ever. And certainly not in such weird circumstances. Though
I wasn’t totally certain it had been him, in my heart, there was
little doubt. Like when you see a stranger — in a mall or at a
restaurant — and you think: Could that be so and so? You doubt and,
inevitably, it turns out not to be them at all. But when you
do
recognize someone, you might still doubt, but on another
level you’re sure from the first moment. That’s how I felt about
this Paul sighting. I didn’t want it to be, yet I felt that it
was.