Authors: Douglas Kennedy
‘Just a little. It’s an amazing selection of films.’
‘Mr Fleck has everything,’ she said, disappearing into the adjoining dressing room with my bag. I went upstairs to the office area. I unpacked my laptop and plugged it directly into the Internet link. As Meg had promised, this fibre-optic system was just a little faster than a single exhalation of breath. Within a nanosecond, I was online and retrieving my e-mail. Among the messages from Brad Bruce and Alison was the one I was hoping for.
Darling:
It’s crazy here. But I am still holding my own.
Missing you.
S.
I had several immediate thoughts about this e-mail. The first was:
well, at least she did make contact
. The second was:
well, at least she did say she was missing me
. And the third was:
why didn’t she sign it ‘love
’
?
Then the rational side of me kicked in, and I reminded myself once again that she was in a major L.A.-style
sturm und drang
. And in Hollywood, a professional crisis of this ilk was immediately transformed by all involved into something approaching the siege of Stalingrad.
In other words, she was preoccupied.
There was another knock on the door. A woman in her early thirties, with short-cropped black hair and a deep tan, walked in. She was also dressed in the regulation
Saffron Island
tee shirt and shorts. Like Meg, she also looked like one of those clean-limbed, fresh-faced women who probably once did time as a sorority sister at some Big Ten University, and no doubt dated a fullback named Bud.
‘Hey there, Mr Armitage,’ she said. ‘I’m Joan. You settling in okay?’
‘Just fine.’
‘Hear you’ve got a script for us to type up.’
‘That’s right,’ I said, grabbing the screenplay out of my computer bag and heading downstairs to the living room. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the original disk . . . ’
‘No worries about that. We can retype the whole thing.’
‘Won’t that be a lot of work?’
She shrugged. ‘Things have been a little slow here recently. I could use the work.’
‘You’re going to have to decipher my hieroglyphics,’ I said, flipping open to the third page and pointing to my numerous excisions and additions.
‘I’ve seen worse. Anyway, you’re going to be here for a few days, right?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll call you if I get stuck anywhere.’
As she left, Meg came out of the dressing room, carrying two pairs of my trousers.
‘These got a little crushed in your bag, so I’ll get them freshly pressed. Now are you in the mood for a proper dinner or just something light?’
I glanced at my watch. It was nearly nine pm, though my brain was still four hours behind on LA time. ‘Something very light, if it’s no trouble . . . ’
‘Well, Mr Armitage . . . ’
‘David, please.’
‘Mr Fleck likes us to use Mr with his guests. So how about a dozen oysters and a bottle of . . . ’
‘Gewurztraminer. But just a glass.’
‘I’ll get the sommelier to bring a bottle. If you don’t drink it all, no big deal.’
‘There’s a sommelier here?’
‘Every island should have one.’ Another of her little smiles. ‘Back in a bit with your oysters.’
Then she left.
A few minutes later, the sommelier rang. His name was Claude. He said that he was happy to help me choose a
Gewurztraminer – and he had around two dozen in his cellar. I asked him to suggest one. He began an elaborate
goût-par-goût
rundown on his
choix preferés
, informing me that he especially favoured a 1986 Gisselbrecht: ‘un Vin d’Alsace
exceptionnel
,’ with a perfect balance of fruit and acidity.
‘You know I just want a glass,’ I said.
‘We will still send up the bottle.’
As soon as I was off the phone, I went online, found a website for vintage wines and typed:
Gisselbrecht Gewurztraminer
1986
.
A photograph of the wine in question appeared on my laptop screen, along with a detailed description, informing me that among
premier cru
Gewurztraminers, this was top of the pops. And I could order a bottle for a mere $275 ‘at a
special discount price
’.
As I was beginning to discover, life on Fleck’s Caribbean retreat was played according to a
money-no-object
set of rules.
I sat forward again in the desk chair and punched out a fast e-mail to Sally:
Darling:
Greetings from the nouveau riche land of Oz. This place is both wonderful and absurd. It’s the high-rent version of ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’. I have to admit it: the guy’s got taste . . . but after just a half-hour here, I’m already thinking: there’s something deeply skewed about having everything you want. Of course, just to let us know who’s got the ultimate upper hand in life, Fleck is not
in situ
just at the moment. Instead, he’s playing Hemingway and chasing some big white fish somewhere, leaving yours truly to cool his heels here. I don’t know whether to be affronted,
or to simply consider this the ultimate freebie. For the moment, I’ve decided to adopt the second mindset, and do useful, hyperactive things like work on my tan and catch up on my sleep. I only wish I was catching up on my sleep in bed next to you. I can be reached directly at 0704.555.8660. Please call when you manage to find a moment’s break in the chariot race. Knowing you, I’m certain you’ve worked out a strategy that will see you through this little crisis. You’re smarter than smart, after all.
I love you. And I wish you were here.
David.
I sent the e-mail. Then I picked up the phone and called my daughter in Sausalito. My ex-wife answered the phone. She was as friendly as usual.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said tonelessly.
‘That’s right, it’s me. And how are you?’
‘What does that matter?’
‘Look Lucy, I don’t blame you for still being pissed with me . . . but isn’t there a statute of limitations for this kind of thing?’
‘No. And I don’t like being palsy with assholes.’
‘Fine, fine, have it your way. The conversation’s closed. May I speak to my daughter, please?’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because it’s Wednesday evening – and if you were a responsible parent, you would remember that, on Wednesday evening, your daughter has ballet class.’
‘I
am
a responsible parent.’
‘I am not even going to go there.’
‘Fine by me. Now I’m going to give you a number where I’m staying in the Caribbean . . . ’
‘My, my, how well you treat that Princeton slut . . . ’
My hand tightened around the phone.
‘I’m not going to dignify that reprehensible comment with an answer. But if you want to know the truth . . . ’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Then just take the number and ask Caitlin to call me back.’
‘Why does she need to call you when you’re seeing her the day after tomorrow.’
My anxiety level – already high, courtesy of this warm, cordial conversation – jumped a notch or two.
‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘I’m not due a visit until two weeks from Friday.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me you fucking forgot . . . ’
‘Forgot what?’
‘Forgot that,
as agreed between us
, you’d be taking Caitlin this weekend because I’m going away to a conference . . . ’
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. She was right. And this was not going to be pretty.
‘Hang on . . . when did we discuss this? Six, eight weeks ago?’
‘Don’t try to play that “
it was so long ago
” amnesia card with me.’
‘But it’s the truth.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘What can I say – except a major
mea maxima culpa
.’
‘Not accepted. Anyway, a deal’s a deal – so you’ve got to be back here in thirty-six hours.’
‘Sorry, but that’s not possible.’
‘David – you are coming back,
as agreed
.’
‘I wish I could, but . . . ’
‘Don’t fuck with me here . . . ’
‘I am about five thousand miles from you. I have business to do here. I cannot leave.’
‘If you don’t do this . . . ’
‘I’m sure you can fly your sister down from Portland. Or hire a nanny for the weekend. And yes, I will pick up the tab.’
‘You really are the most selfish pig in history.’
‘You are entitled to your opinion, Lucy. Now here’s my number out here . . . ’
‘We don’t want your number. Because I doubt if Caitlin will want to speak with you.’
‘That’s for her to decide.’
‘You killed her sense of security the day you walked out. And, I promise you, she’ll end up hating you for it.’
I said nothing, as the phone was shaking in my hand. Finally Lucy spoke again.
‘I’m really going to get you back for this.’
And she hung up.
I put down the phone. I put my head in my hands. I felt an appalling wave of guilt.
But I still wasn’t going to rush back across the continent, just so Lucy could attend a conference for a day and a half. Yes, the matter had slipped my mind. But Jesus, it was nearly two months since she’d mentioned it. And it wasn’t as if I had ever missed any of my designated weekends with Caitlin. On the contrary, she’d been asking to spend more time with Sally and myself in LA. So much for her
I doubt
she’ll want to speak with you
crap. Lucy’s sense of grievance knew no frontiers. As far as she was concerned, I was Mr Bad Guy – and though I might have acted selfishly by deciding to end the marriage, she would never confront her own structural weaknesses which helped push our marriage over the edge (or, at least, that’s what I was told by the therapist I saw during the divorce).
Another knock at the door. I shouted, ‘Come in.’ Meg arrived, wheeling in an elegant stainless steel cart. I came downstairs. My dozen oysters were accompanied by a basket of brown bread, and a small green salad. The bottle of Gewurztraminer was in a clear plexiglas cooler.
‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘How’bout I set it up on the balcony? You can catch the last of the sunset.’
‘Sounds fine to me.’
She opened the French doors off the living room. I found myself staring at a blood orange sun turning liquid and trickling slowly into the darkened waters of the Caribbean Sea.
I slumped into a chair on the balcony and tried to block out the jumble of emotions I was feeling in the wake of that vitriol-charged phone call with Lucy. I must have been radiating stress, because as soon as she finished setting up the table, Meg said, ‘You look like you could use a drink.’
‘How right you are.’
As she uncorked the wine, I asked, ‘What’s Mr Barra been getting up to?’
‘He’s been on the phone non-stop. And he’s been shouting all the time.’
‘Please tell him I’ve gone to bed early tonight,’ I said, thinking that I really couldn’t take another dose of Bobby today.
‘You’ve got it.’
She uncorked the wine. She poured a tiny amount into the long fluted glass.
‘Off you go,’ she said cheerfully.
I lifted the glass. I did all the standard operating stuff: swirling the wine, giving it a good sniff, and then letting just the smallest drop touch my tongue. Immediately I felt something close to a high-class electrical charge. It tasted so damn good.
‘That really works,’ I said.
But it should, at $275 a bottle
.
‘Glad to hear it,’ she said, filling the glass. ‘Anything else I can get you?’
‘Nothing at all . . . but thanks for everything.’
‘Hey, it’s all part of the service. Just pick up the phone anytime you need anything.’
‘You’re spoiling me.’
‘That’s the idea.’
I raised my glass. I looked out at the waning sun’s final meltdown. I took a deep breath and caught that frangipani-and-eucyalptus aroma that announces life in the tropics. I sipped the absurdly expensive, absurdly wonderful wine. And I said, ‘You know, I really do think I could get used to all this.’
I SLEPT LIKE
the dead and woke with that curious elation which accompanies nine comatose hours of rest. Propping myself up against the pillows, I realized just how piano-wire taut I had been ever since my breakthrough and its resulting cataclysms. Success is supposed to simplify your life. Inevitably, it complicates it further – and perhaps we need the complications, the intrigues, the fresh strivings for even greater success. Once we’ve achieved what we’ve always wanted, we suddenly discover a new need, a new sense of
something lacking.
And so we travail on, in search of this new accomplishment, this new change-of-life, in the hope that, this time, the sense of contentment will be permanent . . . even if it means upending everything else we’ve built up over the years.
But then, when you’ve reached this new plateau of achievement you find yourself wondering: can you sustain all this now? Might it slip away from you? Or – worse yet – might you tire of it all, and discover that what you had in the past was actually what you wanted all along?
I snapped out of my melancholic reverie, reminding myself that – in the words of that well-known Hollywood insider, Marcus Aurelius – change is nature’s delight. And most guys I know (especially writers) would sell their mothers to be in my position right now. Particularly when I was able to press a button to raise a blind, behind which lay the azure blue of a Caribbean morning. Or when I could lift the phone and have anything I wanted sent to my room.
And then there was the pleasant discovery that Bobby Barra had suddenly left town in a hurry.
I found out this little piece of information when I finally forced myself out of bed to use the bathroom, and noticed an envelope pushed under my door. I opened it and discovered the following scrawled note:
Asshole:
I was going to ring you last night, but Meg said you’d already gone to bed with your teddy bear. Anyway, five minutes after we arrived yesterday word came from Wall Street that the chairman of some new armaments outfit due to IPO next week had just been indicted by the Fed for everything from embezzlement and fraud to sodomizing a dachshund. Anyway, as luck would have it, my associates and I have around $30 million riding on this IPO, which means that I have to hightail it to New York right away and play fireman before the entire fucking deal goes up in smoke.