“Aarsi.”
“I’m Manny. Don’t ever call me Mr. Manzone again or you’re fired. I’m Manny.”
That makes her unbend a little. “OK. Manny. You should find everything as you require in your room. They give detailed instructions on everything, but if I’ve somehow missed something you need, let me know. I want to make sure you have everything you need.”
She gazes at me steadily as if to give me a chance to assign my own interpretation to that. So the pretty UCLA graduate student is mercenary enough to make the offer and yet not shrewd enough to read that the offer is unwelcomed.
I wonder what the hell she thinks she’ll accomplish with that. If nothing else it is a bad move to fuck her employer if she wants to keep her job.
I stare at her wondering if I’ve misread the whole thing. She looks like a nice girl. It would be a pleasant thing to be wrong about this. I’m so tired of being disappointed by people and disappointed in myself.
“Don’t worry about me, Aarsi. You’ll find that I’m pretty easy to work for.”
I run for an hour feeling every ache inside my body left by this past year. It is January, slightly overcast, only fifty-five degrees on a Monday or the beach would have been more crowded and the run shorter. It feels good to be out in the open surrounded by practically no one so I run as long as I can until I know it is wise not to push it further.
I pause on the patio to stretch my muscles. I’m loose, relaxed and ready for a shower by the time I go in.
I enter the house, rubbing my face with a towel the girl had left on a deck chair, and find Aarsi stacking her belongings by the front door.
I frown. “You are not taking everything, are you? I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I didn’t intend for you to move out.”
Aarsi shrugs. “It’s no problem. I don’t know what I’ll need since I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Your lunch is almost ready.”
I toss the towel onto a chair. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you how long I’ll be here, but I don’t know.”
“It’s no problem. Really.” She tries to shove books into an overstuffed woven rope bag. She can’t get them all in. Frustrated, she sinks to the floor and stares at them. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you prefer to stay in this house alone? It’s a big house. I could stay out of your way no problem.”
“I’m sure you could.”
She springs to her feet and goes into the kitchen. “I’ll start your steak now. Medium, right?”
“Right.”
I head down the hall to my bedroom, shed my clothes, and toss them into the hamper before I go into my bathroom.
There are fresh towels laid out, soap and shampoo on the shelf in the shower. I turn to see a robe hanging on the hook beside the door.
Everything always without my asking. So many people work for me who do nothing but see that I have everything I want without asking for it. I don’t even know most of their names. It makes me feel completely detached from the human race.
When I enter the kitchen I find my lunch on the table and the girl busy washing the pans. Christ, she won’t even look at me. I watch her for a while as I eat.
“It’s not you. That’s not why I’m asking you to leave.”
She looks over her shoulder, startled. “Did I say something? It’s your house. You can do what you want.”
“I just want to be alone right now.”
“I’m sure it’s very hard for you to find time alone.”
“No, actually it’s not. I’m usually alone.”
“Really? How strange. I sort of thought you’d be surrounded by people all the time.”
“Only when I’m touring. When I’m not on the road I sort of bounce off the walls and try to figure out what to do with myself. It makes me generally unpleasant. Most people can’t tolerate me until two, three months off the road.”
She laughs. “You don’t seem unpleasant at all.”
I take a bite of my steak. “Did you see where I left my phone?”
She dries her hands on a towel, goes from the kitchen and returns with my phone. “You left it on the front entry hall table with your keys.”
My iPhone voice mail is filled to the point where it can take no more messages, even though I deleted all my messages yesterday without listening to them.
But it’s full again with the standard array of crud: assorted news outlets—probably wanting to interview me about Shyla—Len, Linda, Brian again, attorneys, friends, and the casual female friends I sleep with. I delete them all and toss the phone on the table.
I stand up. “I’m going out for a while.”
“I’ll be gone by the time you return.”
“Listen, it’s not you.”
“You already said that.”
I look at her mountain of junk in the hallway. Seeing her stuff stacked by the front door makes me feel like an asshole. Worse, it reminds me of the day Chrissie moved out, that I watched her leave and did nothing to try to stop her. It makes staring at the girl’s boxes an unpleasant thing.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” she says. “I thought I could get it into the car before you came back from your run.”
I shift my gaze from Aarsi’s things. “You don’t need to move out. But you need to stay out of my way, keep the house running and be otherwise invisible.”
Aarsi’s smile this time is beaming. “I can do that.”
“I may not be back until tomorrow.”
She nods.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“And you’ve been working for me for what, about five years?”
Dimples in her cheeks this time with her smile. “You pay very well.”
“Well, Aarsi, it’s good to know I’ve done someone some good.”
“You’ve done lots of people lots of good. I don’t just mean your music. All the charity. You are a very generous man.”
“Charity is tax deductible. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”
“I don’t believe that at all.”
“Well, you should. We are all creatures of self-interest. Some of us just hide it better. What kind of music do you listen to?”
“I’m into world music. But I like your music. My boyfriend is deployed in Afghanistan. He plays you in the Humvee when he’s on patrol. Your early stuff. All the stuff from the eighties.”
“Ah, the music from when I was young and angry.”
“You’re still young.”
She flashes me a smile that is flirty and pert.
Damn her.
“We’ll get along fine if you stay out of my way. There are only two reasons I ever fire a housekeeper: climbing into my bed or talking to the press. I don’t fuck young women who work for me.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “I’ll remember that.”
“See that you do.”
Her entire face is now deep crimson. I wasn’t positive before the blush that her flirty tone had been an invitation to fuck her. It’s good that I dealt with that upfront.
I take from the collection of cars in my garage the Mercedes with its darkly tinted windows. I notice the UCLA parking decal hanging from the rearview and I realize that this is the car Aarsi has been using for her private use.
I almost climb out, but instead decide to toss the decal on the windshield of the Porsche parked beside it. I just want to get past the fucking tabloids at the end of the drive without incident. That the girl has been using this car and the windows are too dark to see in will hopefully help facilitate a quiet escape. If I’m lucky the press won’t follow me.
Damn Shyla and her drama.
Chapter 7
I’m trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Highway 1 for an hour. It’s after 4 p.m., even though I’ve only gone twenty miles, before I catch my first glimpse of Pacific Palisades, Chrissie’s new home since Jesse’s death. She sold the Santa Barbara house four months ago. Linda Rowan gave me that news and elaborated on it no further.