I hadn’t felt so fat and frumpy since, well, never. I’ve got some skinny friends, but in the town of Beaverdale, I’m average size. There are just as many girls wider than me as narrower. LA? From what I’d seen so far, not-so-much.
My mother had offered to come down with me, paying her own way, but I said I didn’t want to take her away from Kyle. (We both knew the real reason was so she didn’t chaperone my time with Dalton, but she was discreet enough not to call me on my fibs.)
As I made my way through the airport, I was attracting attention. Blame my paranoia, but it seemed like every set of eyes hidden behind sunglasses were trained on me. I’d worn a comfortable outfit for traveling: a red shirtdress with a black belt, over black leggings and a newer pair of Keds. On top, I wore a lightweight denim jacket to protect my pale arms from sun and exuberant air conditioning. What I should have worn was black, from head to toe.
I kept my head down and walked as quickly as I could without breaking a sweat.
As I stepped out of the glass doors, the heat coming off the asphalt walloped me. I dove for a taxi like an action hero dodging into a cave to avoid fireballs.
When I gave the address of Dalton’s house to the driver, he didn’t say a single word. He just pulled the car out of the queue and started driving.
“Is that a good neighborhood?” I asked sweetly. (Okay, I was looking for some sign he was just a tiny bit impressed. Call me shallow, but it was my first time address-dropping a place in the Hollywood Hills, and I was dying to get something in the way of a reaction.)
“Many movie stars,” the driver said, eyeing me warily in the rear view mirror. “You’re not stalking someone, are you?”
I laughed, probably too loud, in the exact manner of a stalker trying to sound casual.
“Just my boyfriend,” I said.
His eyes narrowed, crinkling deeply at the corners. “Does he know he is your boyfriend?”
I crossed my legs and glared out the window, wishing we were in a fancy car, with the glass between us.
“Just teasing,” he called back over his shoulder. “I can tell a stalker right away. You don’t seem like one.”
“I’m not a stalker. If you must know, I’m here for a modeling contract.”
He frowned as he reached over to turn up the volume of music. “Music okay? Light rock?”
“Sure.” I sat back in the seat, my arms crossed.
Business cards. I would have to get some business cards printed up, to give to people who didn’t believe me. What would the cards say?
I ran through some options:
Peaches Monroe, Bookstore Manager, Plus-size Underwear Model, and Fashion Consultant.
Peaches Monroe, Girlfriend of Dalton Deangelo and Veteran Airplane Traveller.
I’m Peaches. My Business is None of Your Fucking Business.
~
We pulled up in front of Dalton’s next-door neighbor’s home, where I was to get a key and a quick tutorial on how to turn off the alarm system.
After the rude taxi driver, Dalton’s neighbor was as pleasant as sweet tea on a hot day. She looked about seventy, and fit, wearing a trim suit that if I had to guess I’d say was Chanel.
“How was the flight?” she asked as she closed the thick wooden door to her house and waved for me to follow her around the side of the house. She had a thick yellow envelope in one hand, which I assumed might be some of Dalton’s mail.
“Bumpier than expected, but the pilot was good, and he didn’t leave anyone up there.”
She turned back to give me a smile, perfect teeth visible between her pale-lipsticked lips.
“I can see why he’s so fond of you,” she said.
She opened a gate and led me through from her backyard into Dalton’s garden. “These two houses were built at the same time, back in nineteen sixty four. The husband, a well-paid but not very famous director, lived on one side, with the children, and his wife lived in the other house, with her lovers. The gate was so the children could slip back and forth easily.”
“Which side was the woman’s?”
The platinum-haired neighbor lady, whose name was Jessica, smirked at me. “Spend the night, and in the morning, you tell me.” She stepped carefully up some stone steps, then waited for me, smiling the way someone does while you’re unwrapping a birthday present they’re particularly proud of.
“Oh!” I said when I got to where she was. We were now above the tree line, and LA lay in one direction, stretching out of sight across the valley. In the other direction, a wall of glass stood like a cliff face, overlooking a shimmering swimming pool. Unlike the hot spring I’d skinny dipped in with Dalton, this pool was clearly man-made, lined with sparkling, teal-blue tiles. The landscaping all around was lush, with leafy palm fronds, blossoming flowers, and at least three spots set up with chairs for comfortable lounging.
Jessica asked, “Do you have gardens like this in Beaverdale?”
“Gardens, yes. Not like this. I mean, I have some geraniums. Red, in terra cotta pots, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, nodding. “Shall we?”
I followed Jessica as she showed me how to use the remote control button to disarm the security and unlock the doors. It wasn’t nearly as complicated as Dalton had made it sound, but I appreciated having Jessica there with me.
As she took me on a tour of the house, I asked her if she was an actress herself.
“I was a continuity girl for many years. They call it a script supervisor these days. It was my job to notice the details.”
“Sounds like a cool job. Noticing things. I try to keep my eyes open, but it’s work.”
“Noticing is a good skill to have. One day I noticed that the producer had stopped wearing his wedding ring. And that is how I came to live next door.”
I grinned, unsure of the appropriate verbal response. That usually doesn’t stop me from saying something, but Jessica was so refined, and so gracious, I didn’t want to offend her.
She turned to look at her house from a small window at the side of the room. “We were the second owners. New kitchen in nineteen ninety-eight, but other than that, it’s all original. Gorgeous spanish tiles everywhere.”
I looked around the room we were standing in, with the polished concrete floor, high ceilings, and giant ceiling fans that looked like airplane propellers.
“I’m guessing this house has been renovated a time or two.”
She lay the yellow envelope on a glass coffee table in front of a white, leather sectional.