Bliss (32 page)

In Leandra's opinion, the girls lacked grace and intelligence. They weren't even that pretty. They did, however, have ridiculously perfect, smooth, and groomed bodies, like hairless Jessica Rabbits.

Cherri, a particularly vapid redhead, bounced over to Leandra in the kitchen, and asked in a baby voice, “Hi, Leah! Do you have whipped cream and chocolate sauce?”

“I don't eat sugar.”

“Oh. I guess we'll have to order some.”

They were addicted to calling Instacart to have random groceries like bananas and zucchini delivered at all hours. It cost a fortune! “Is it really a whipped cream emergency? It can't wait until morning?”

“We need it tonight!” she pouted.

Leandra ignored her, and went in search of Harris. She found him on the couch with Tammy, a short brunette with a tongue piercing. “Hey, babe,” he said. “I was just telling Tammy about the time in high school me and my boy Cam cut school and destroyed my dad's Ferrari. Man, was he pissed!”

“That didn't happen to you, Harris,” said Leandra. “It's the plot of
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
.”

“She's too smart for me,” he said to Tammy. “But seriously, once, in high school, my parents went away for the weekend. I threw this huge party and the house got trashed!”

“I believe it,” said Leandra. “It's also the plot of
Sixteen Candles
, but whatever.” Sometimes Leandra wondered if every point of reference in Harris's childhood was a John Hughes movie. Did he really have a life, or spend his entire adolescence jerking off to the Molly Ringwald panties shot in
The Breakfast Club
? “Can we speak privately?” she asked.

Harris could tell Leandra meant business. So could the brunette, who jiggled out of the room. Leandra took her spot on the sofa. “I can't live like this. I had you to myself in England, and now we're surrounded by all these people.” All these
girls
. “I want them gone.” She wished Harris would act more like he had on their long drive—romantic and worshipful. With her new perspective, his boyishness had been evident on their travels. Pretending to do battle at Hadrian's Wall. Insisting they wear Beatles wigs at the concert in Liverpool and yelling, “Who goes there?” around every corner in Stratford-upon-Avon.

He could still rattle her chandelier. But was that enough?

“The boys are on their way over with the equipment. I've had it with Stirrup Studio. We're shooting the movie right here, at the house, tonight. We're zoned for it. The whole county is zoned. I got the permit, so we're good to go,” he said. “So after tonight, the girls are gone.”

“I don't understand,” she said. “How can you shoot a movie here?”

“We'll do it by the pool, in the cabanas, or right here, on this couch.” He got a text. “They're here. I'm going to help set up. Just chill out for an hour. I'll text you when we're ready to roll.”

This was absurd! Even a web original movie needed storyboards and a scene schedule, right? Establishing shots? B-roll? What about wardrobe and lighting? As far as she knew, they didn't have a final script. She'd asked to read it, and Harris just laughed at her. An entire story, with a beginning, middle, and end, all shot at the pool? At night? It couldn't possibly work. But, then again, she wasn't an artist. He'd made millions with this kind of impromptu problem solving.

She went upstairs to their bedroom, and took a quick shower. Their king-size circular bed with the black satin sheets was neatly made, thanks to the staff of maids who arrived every day at noon to clean up after the “girls and boys,” as Harris called his cast of female and male actors. The “boys” were just as physically immaculate as the “girls,” with neatly hedged body hair and defined musculature. All the actors were complete slobs. Empty bottles and ashtrays all over the place, self-tanning spray smeared on the furniture.

One more night of this zoo, and then they'd be alone. The movable feast would move on. Harris would turn off the Xbox, power off the TV, shut down his computer, and stare at
her
for hours on end. That was all she wanted, to be lavished with gifts, praise, and sexual attention. She could wait a few more hours for that.

She put on the Versace outfit Harris had picked out for her, a black corset dress, with black patent leather super high heels, and went down to see movie magic in the making.

She exited the rear doors of the mansion to the pool. Sure enough, silver umbrellas and lights were set up around the chaise lounges where Leandra had sunbathed that very morning. She felt a rush of excitement. Her house was going to be in a movie! She couldn't see what was going on yet; the umbrellas blocked her view. She walked closer as quietly as she could.

Harris and a dozen other people were watching the scene, including a handful of the girls and boys, and some older men who were Harris's business partners. To be honest, when she thought of her future husband's partners, she envisioned Christian Greys, rainmakers in $10,000 suits. She didn't picture rotund middle-aged doofuses in Hawaiian shirts, sweatpants, and fat cigars.

“Action!” said Harris, just as she got close enough to see what was going on.

On one lounge, bikini'ed Cherri and Tammy rubbed coconut oil on each other's bodies.

Leandra's jaw hit the patio.

She watched in stunned silence as the emotionally deep love triangle plot unfolded. First, Cherri and Tammy did each other. Then Peter did Tammy. Then Peter did Cherri. Then the three did one another. Then Eric the Redwood entered the frame. He and Peter did Cherri while Tammy … Leandra wasn't sure what she was doing.

So it wasn't really a love triangle after all. It was a love erectangle.

Of course, it was only too obvious in hindsight. Why did this always happen to her? Leandra willfully ignored the clues when they were splayed out in front of her, sort of like Cherri's body was right now on the chaise.

The love of her life was a pornographer.

The future father of her children made two-hankie spankies for fapsters.

This was a lot worse than being tucked away and forced to cook in Charlie's Bangkok house, or eating bark while counting backwards from one thousand on Holy Isle with Oliver.

She had to look away when Greta Gagglo joined in. Too many swinging body parts. The moaning intensified. Leandra worried the furniture might break.

Harris said, “On the face! On the face! Great, Eric. Nice, Greta. Okay, everyone. Cut.”

The crew rushed in to give the actors water and towels. Harris's investment partners put their heads together to discuss the scene and blow smoke at each other. Harris came over to Leandra, and asked, “So? You like? I thought it was too much coconut oil, but our audience loves it when we edit in wet, slapping, sucking sounds.”

She wanted to say, “You let those people sit on my couch,” but instead, she said, “The lighting was good.”

“You really like it?” he asked. His eyes sought her approval, like a child from his mommy.

“Very artistic,” she said. “Taut dramatic tension.”

“You know, babe, you're hotter than any of the girls.”

Leandra kissed his cheek. “Thanks, hon.”

She went back into the house, up to her room, and curled into a fetal ball on the bed (that had probably been used for a fivesome) to examine her feelings. The worst part was realizing that Harris thought she knew what he did all along, and that she approved. He hid nothing from her.

Earlier tonight, Sophia asked the question, for all their frantic movements, do they like what they were moving toward? Well, sometimes you moved frantically to get away from what you didn't like. Leandra was going to move out of this sleaze factory as soon as possible. She let loose one ragged sob, but that was all she could spare.

Think practically
, she admonished herself. In order to get away from Harris and his coconut-oiled minions (meanwhile, why coconut?), she had to line up her next boyfriend. No blinders next time! She wouldn't idealize a scumbag! She was learning. This was good.

Or, as a gritty alternative, she could throw some clothes into a suitcase and go to Sophia and Demi's apartment. She could sleep on their couch, find herself a job, eat Demi's food, drink cheap wine, and date a man her own age who was also in the process of becoming. She could have the typical life of a normal twenty-one-year-old recent college graduate. How bad would it be to leave luxury and laziness behind and work toward making a positive contribution to society? The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. She'd wear jeans from Levi's and get her hair trimmed at Supercuts. There was a comfort to being a commoner. Look at Demi. She was chopping vegetables and cleaning fish for a living. It didn't get lower than that. Perhaps stepping down from the grandstand, figuratively, would be a relief. For a while now, Leandra had been thinking about her next adventure, the next man, where her next filet mignon was coming from. No wonder she couldn't live in the moment.

Leandra vowed to stay in the moment exclusively, starting …
now
.

She also made a mental note to have the maids scrub the pool chaises with bleach.

 

22

shining the knob

Demi and Sophia didn't speak for the entire ride back to their apartment. Sophia just kept that smile on, which Demi knew meant only one thing: She was furious. As well she should be! They'd caused the greatest love of her life to end, and then kept her in the dark about it for years. Demi couldn't count high enough the number of times Sophia had cried and asked, “Why did he do it?”

Well, now she knew.

They got to the apartment. Sophia charged into her room and slammed her door. Demi was prepared to slink off to her room, but Sophia came charging back out.

“How could you do that to me?”

“I'm sorry! I was drunk and Leandra always seems so sure of herself.”

“
What?
Are we talking about the same person? She doesn't have any idea who she is or what she's doing! Come on, Demi! You were her best friend for years.”

Demi was confused. What now? Were they talking about how much she screwed up, or were they talking about Leandra? “About Jesse…”

“Fuck, Jesse! This isn't about him.”

“What is it about?”

“It's about us. Me and you and Leandra. You lied to me, and you let her manipulate you. She screwed up with Jesse. Sounds like that situation got out of control. But she knew what she was doing with you.”

“She bullied me into it.”

“Bullshit! Leandra only messes with people who let her get away with it.”

Demi shook her head. “And you let her get away with it! I know she's funny and she was there for you in Toronto. But she's a user. Those stories about the guys she dumped? That was brutal.”

“You just don't get her at all.”

“Then explain.”

“Leandra is damaged. She's like half a person.”

Demi sighed. “Stacy died eleven years ago.”

“That doesn't matter. She is who she is because of it. Leandra operates on pure survival instinct, like an animal. If she feels threatened, she lashes out. If she feels unsure of herself, she adapts to fit in. You see her as phony and think her stories are self-serving. I hear them all as the desperate acts of a lonely woman.”

Loneliness radiated from Sophia. Unlike Leandra, who didn't know how to connect, Sophia was deliberately disconnecting herself from the people who would make her feel less alone in the world. She'd been avoiding Demi for weeks, barely responding to texts. She flicked David out of her life like a fly on the butter.

“So you're not mad about Jesse,” said Demi.

“Who gives a fuck about Jesse?” screamed Sophia.

“You are mad about Leandra?”

“I feel sorry for her.”

Demi inhaled. That left only one person. “You are mad at me.”

“Living together hasn't worked out the way I thought it would.”

Oh, great. Now Demi was going to have to move? “Fuck you,” she said. “I'm trying as hard as I can to reach you, but you won't talk. Fine! If you don't tell me what's going on, I'm leaving.”

“Fine!”

Demi charged at the front door, opened it, ran through and slammed it. Realizing, at once, that she didn't have her purse, or shoes, or keys. She wouldn't get far. Tentatively, she knocked on the door. Sophia threw it open.

“What?”

“I forgot my shoes.”

Then they started laughing, hysterically, landing on the couch in the living room. It was a huge relief, incredibly, the first belly laugh session they'd had in weeks. When Demi could catch her breath, she said, “We really need to talk.”

Sophia nodded. “Okay.”

“Is someone at the show harassing you?” Since the home test bonanza, Demi assumed there was a man in Sophia's life, but she had no idea who. “It's not David, is it?”