Bliss (22 page)

“And leave all this?” she asked, arms sweeping around the lobby of death.

“The last six people left this apartment feet first.”

“I thought five.”

“I lied so you wouldn't feel frightened.”

“Because five is so much less scary than six?” asked Demi. She tasted the stew. It was too hot. “Move and grow, I agree with you. I'm not staying in Vancouver forever. It's just until things settle down.”

“You say that now. And then fifty years will go by.”

“Oh, please.”

“Five years. Ten years. Even one year is too long.”

“Okay, okay. Jesus Christ. You're going to nag me to death. That's probably how Miriam bought it. Now shut up and eat the stew.”

“I will miss your food when you leave,” said Catherine.

“I'm not leaving,” muttered Demi.

 

demi's beef bourguignon

SERVES 8

ingredients

MARINADE

2 cups red wine

3 lbs lean beef cut into 1-inch cubes

½ tsp celtic sea salt

¼ tsp cayenne pepper

1 tbsp minced fresh thyme leaves

2 bay leaves

1 carrot

2 cloves garlic

2 celery stalks

2 tbsps olive oil

STEW

2 zucchinis

2 white or yellow onions

2 cloves garlic

3 tbsps olive oil

1½ cups pearl onions, parboiled

1½ cups quartered button mushrooms

3–5 tbsps tomato paste (or dr. bo's tomato alternative)

1 cup beef broth

¼ tsp celtic sea salt

instructions

1. In a bowl, pour the wine over the beef. Add salt, cayenne, thyme, and bay leaves to the bowl. Slice one carrot, two cloves garlic, and celery, and add to the bowl with the wine and beef. Marinate beef in this mixture for at least 2 hours and up to 24 hours. Turn occasionally.
Note: Alcohol will burn off during cooking.

2. Remove meat and pat it dry using paper towels.

3. Strain marinade, reserving the liquid.

4. Heat 2 or 3 tablespoons olive oil in heavy skillet. Brown the meat quickly on all sides. Remove meat and add to a two-quart baking dish.

5. Deglaze skillet with 2 cups reserved marinade and add to baking dish.

6. Chop zucchinis (I like these to be small pieces but still identifiable), 2 onions, and 2 cloves of garlic. Heat 2 tbsps olive oil in skillet and sauté zucchini, onions, and garlic until lightly browned (about 5 minutes).

7. Cover and cook at 375 degrees for 2 hours.

8. Thirty minutes before the 2 hours are up, heat the remaining tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet, and sauté the pearl onions, mushrooms, tomato paste, and beef broth for about 7 minutes. Remove the beef from the oven carefully, add the pearl onions and mushrooms to the baking dish. Continue to bake for 30 more minutes.

Boil some new potatoes and serve on the side for a healthy, hearty, and waist-friendly meal … voilà!

 

14

i run, you chase

“How's Bangkok?” asked Sophia, smiling at the image of Leandra, now a platinum blonde, on her phone.

“Darling! I'm in London now,” said Leandra.

“Sounds like you've been there since birth.”

“It's quite amazing how quickly you pick up the accent.”

“How long has it been?”

“Two weeks, luv.”

“That is fast,” said Sophia. Should she tell her how fake the accent sounded?
And spoil her fun? Not that it would
, she thought. If she liked doing it, more power to her.

“Can you see my new town house?” Leandra turned her phone around to show Sophia. “My new friend Ollie Bracknell is letting me stay in his flat. He's an earl, darling! A royal. He's got gobs of money, a Bentley, a castle. His family owns a plane. We might fly to Ibiza this weekend.”

She'd said wee-
kend
, emphasis on the second syllable, just like the stars of the BBC reality show
Made in Chelsea
. In Toronto, they used to binge-watch episodes on YouTube and imitate the accents. From the look of it, Leandra had managed to wriggle her way into that world. Sophia gawked and made appropriate gushing noises as Leandra took her on a FaceTime tour of her new gilded digs, the marble lobby and regal staircase, the oil portraits on the walls and “important” furniture.

“What happened to Charlie?” asked Sophia.

“It wasn't a healthy relationship. I didn't tell you, but he used to make me crawl around on all fours.”

“Did he really?” Sophia had her doubts. Leandra tended to exaggerate every tiny thing. Sophia found it hysterical. If Leandra said he made her crawl on all fours, it probably meant he asked her to pour the tea.

“I know, right? Very degrading and not good for my self-esteem. But Ollie loves me for who I am. And he's obsessed with me.”

“And who are you, as far as he's concerned?”

“Why, darling, I'm myself! We met at a club, and have been inseparable ever since. It's like one of those romance novels, truly.
How to Seduce an Earl,
or whatever.”

“How did you seduce him?” asked Sophia. She took a sip of her morning smoothie. The question might have sounded judgey, but she didn't mean it to be. She was curious. Leandra had more tricks than a circus clown.

“I sucked his dick like I was mad at it,” said Leandra.

Sophia spit green drink halfway across the pool patio. “I hope you didn't put him in the hospital!”

“Oh, no. He's perfectly safe. Just needed a nap after,” said Leandra. “We're madly in love and I feel content and fulfilled for the first time in my entire life.”

“And you say that to me with complete sincerity—with a fake British accent.” Sophia was beginning to wonder if Leandra should be the actor. Demi called her a phony, and she was. Sophia could see through the mask because she understood why it was there in the first place. After Stacy got cancer at nine, Leandra acted like nothing happened. During the course of Stacy's treatments, Leandra pretended that nothing was wrong. After she died, Leandra refused to talk about it. It probably wasn't the healthiest way to grieve, but Sophia wasn't in the position to judge. She hadn't lost a sister. One night, in high school, Sophia drunkenly brought it up, and promised Leandra that she would be her friend forever. Leandra replied, “You don't know that.” Sophia had done her best to uphold her promise. Even though Demi and Leandra had their issues, Sophia knew that Demi would have Leandra's back, too.

“Where are you?” asked Leandra.

“I'm in LA. This is my new building.” She turned the phone around to show Leandra the white stucco two-story, U-shaped complex called Rosewood Mews in West Hollywood. It reminded Sophia of
Melrose Place
. She found it thanks to one of her
Hipsters
costars, Paula Rosa, a twenty-five-year-old originally from Chicago, already a veteran of three TV series. She had lived here when she first arrived in LA, and still had friends in the complex. The third costar, nineteen-year-old Cassie Lambert, came from a Hollywood family and was still living at home in Brentwood.

Sophia signed the lease electronically, sight unseen, and was relieved that the building, with a swimming pool, was exactly like the photos. The rent for the two-bedroom was a lot: $3,000 a month, but split two ways with Demi, she could swing it. If the show got picked up, she'd decorate it nicely with real—“important”?—furniture. (If the show tanked, she had no idea what she'd do.) The other residents were all Hollywood wannabe actors and models like herself. As she sat by the pool, she watched one stunning specimen after another walk in and out of their apartments, waving and smiling, as was the California way.

“You got my email about the change of address, right?” Sophia asked Leandra, just checking. She'd been rushing around, under a logistical ton of bricks, and hadn't had a minute to double-check that her mass email didn't wind up in spam folders.

“Yes, and the announcement about your show! A million congrats! I can't wait to see it. Do you think it'll be available in London?”

“No clue. I'm not a hundred percent convinced it'll be available here.”

“I've got to run, luv. Ollie wants to take me shopping in Mayfair. Cheers!”

Sophia waved good-bye, but Leandra was already gone. She sent a quick text to Demi: “Get your ass out here now, bitch!” Then she settled back on her plastic slatted lounge and closed her eyes. Moving hadn't been as awful as she thought—she had so few possessions worth keeping—but it had been a schlep. She deserved a day in the sun.

“Hey,” said a male voice. “You're the new girl?”

She opened her eyes. Standing across the pool from her—a respectful distance, which she appreciated—the guy was around her age, aviator sunglasses, short hair, a ratty T-shirt, and a pair of worn jeans that telegraphed slacker, but then again, in LA, anyone could be a billionaire.

“You live here?” she asked.

He said, “I'm David, one-C.”

Okay, not a billionaire. “Sophia,” she said, but stopped short of giving her apartment number. He looked harmless, but you can't be too careful.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I just thought you should know: Don't go in the pool. It's not safe.”

Really? So much for her
Melrose Place
fantasies of a dozen hotties frolicking in the pool while plotting to steal each other's boyfriends and babies. “It looks all right.”

“It's like a giant petri dish of body fluids.”

“Gross!”

“Yeah, I know. That's why I don't go in there.”

Sophia took a photo of the pool. David bombed into the frame. He was determined to keep the conversation going, fine. Sophia should get to know her neighbors. It was only polite.

“So, are you an actor?” she asked.

“God, no. I'm a writer.”

A writer? Sophia's character on
Hipsters
was a writer. She could pick his brain. His body was worth a closer look, too, actually. For a guy who sat in front of a computer for work, he had nice legs, a slim waist. The ass remained to be seen. Was he successful, or did he have a dozen screenplays in a drawer? And how to ask without being a bitch?

“Any luck?”

“I'm on staff at
Sex & Murder: LA
.”

“Wow! That's impressive. Do you actually see the seedy underbelly of LA or just make it all up?”

“Where are you from?” he asked. “I can't place your accent.”

“Canada,” she said. “It's my second day in LA.”

“Really? Second day, and you haven't been asked to pose nude yet? That might be a record. Unless you have…”

She laughed. He wasn't the most handsome guy in the world, but he had a hamsterish charm. “Are you from LA?”

“I was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, but I've been out here for five years. I'll never feel like a native, but I know West Hollywood pretty well. I could show you around WeHo if you want.”

“WeHo?”

“Only too appropriate, given the population of starving actors, writers, musicians, comics, and models who live here and would do
anything
for a gig.”

She laughed out loud, which gave David the go ahead to walk around to her side of the pool. She tuned into her internal alarm system. Code red? Orange? She wasn't getting a whiff of weird. He seemed like a normal, friendly person who wanted to get in her bikini, as opposed to an aggressive asshole who wanted to get in her bikini. Also, he passed her ass test. Just bubbly enough.

He sat on the lounge next to hers. “Nice day. Again. All this constant sunshine makes me miss New York.”

“The show I'm in is set in Brooklyn,” she said.

“Is it called
Girls
, or
2 Broke Girls,
or
One Artisanal Cheese Monger Who Is Also a Girl
?”

“It's called
Hipsters
.”

“Oh, god, I'm sorry,” he said. “Hipsters fall in love, drink coffee, and murder each other?”

“Yes to the love and coffee. Remains to be scene about the murder.”

“Mark my words, by episode three, the writers will throw in a murder. The brick-oven pizza case, or the ukulele caper.”

“I hope my character survives,” said Sophia, “or I'll have to go back to VaCa.”

“VaCa. No, don't tell me. Let me guess. Vancouver, Canada. VaCa went from really sexy to so
not
in like five seconds.”

Sophia said, “Okay.”

“Okay what?” He looked scared.

“You can give me a tour of the neighborhood.”

“Great! But you might want to put on some clothes first. Just a suggestion. If Lady Gaga can rock a bikini on the Sunset Strip, you definitely can, but you might not want to.”

Sophia gathered up her stuff. “Give me five minutes.”

*   *   *

Six minutes later …

Sophia emerged from her apartment in a red Alice + Olivia dress, Tory Burch sandals, and a big Balenciaga bag (all items bought on sale after stalking them for months; just because she was financially challenged didn't mean she couldn't look good), and found David right where she left him. “I don't have a car,” she said. “We'll have to take yours.”

“I don't have a car either,” he said. “I never learned how to drive—no one did where I grew up. The kids with licenses were total losers.”

“What then? Uber?”

“We walk,” he said. “WeHo is the only neighborhood in LA that you can walk around in, like a real tourist. I'm going to show you all the sights.”

For the next few hours, David was the ideal guide. He took her to the Grove, where they walked around the mall through throngs of tourists and stopped for short ribs at the homey restaurant Jones, with red-and-white-checked tablecloths and beer in mason jars. Then David made her trek up to the Sunset Strip, where they passed Chateau Marmont. A photo of that legendary hotel had been on Sophia's vision board since inception, and here she was, taking a dozen more photos of it in person. (Manifesting worked!) They headed west down the Strip, and ended up at the Sunset Towner for a cold crisp Moscow Mule on the private patio, flowers and interesting and attractive people everywhere she looked. She was
here
, on Sunset Boulevard, hanging out with a funny, sexy guy. Sophia paused for a second to snap a photo of David and take it all in.