“Totally. You totally pulled it off, Allegra. That’s what was surprising and kind of amazing.”
They were in the middle of riffing about the next step — whether to focus on directors or actors, engaging in that style of spirited, pre-production élan favored by the town’s doers and dreamers — when a striking redhead strode up. They went blank.
“It’s Larissa!”
“Oh my God, hi!” said Allegra.
“How are you?” chimed Jeremy, with a convincing spin of authentic interest perfected by years of glancing industry social encounters with those who could do nothing for him.
“Really good!”
(The rejoinder being L.A. shorthand for making shitloads of money — a socially acceptable substitute for not being famous. Of course, etiquette required both parties to believe the assertion. In the moment, anyway.)
“Wasn’t that party so much fun?” said Jeremy.
“So much fun,” said Larissa, eyes dilating Allegra’s way.
Jeremy’s naughtiness sensors beeped.
“Tuesday Weld,” said Allegra. “Oh. My. God.”
“I love her,” said Larissa. “And those stories. Elvis! Lenny Bruce!”
“What have you been up to?”
“Working, writing, doing yoga …”
“We should all get together again,” said Jeremy, like some lame-o rapscallion.
With a caregiver’s concern, Larissa asked after Dusty. “I was so sorry to hear about her mom.”
“She’s good, and thank you,” said Allegra. “She’s totally doing well.”
“Say hi for me?”
“I will!”
“Well, I need to get back to my friend. I just wanted to come say hello!”
“I’m so glad you did!”
When she left, Jeremy said, “I think she’s really hot. You and Bunny tap that?”
“Are you serious?”
“That was kinda the vibe just now…”
“No way. She’s totally straight.”
“No woman is totally straight. Which means you totally tapped that!”
“Totally didn’t.”
“Well, if you haven’t, you should. I didn’t know you and Bunny were even into that.”
He was fishing now.
“Would you shut the fuck up? And what’s going on with you, romantically? How’s your little boyfriend? Did you get secretly married—”
“Are we deflecting?”
“Come on, Jeremy, don’t be boring. Are you still seeing him?”
“Uh huh.”
“And?”
“I think I might be… in love.”
“Shut the front door.”
“Shut the front door? Who says that anymore?”
“You are so not in love.”
“I bought him a car,” he said sheepishly.
“Oh my God! You are! If you bought him a car then you are.”
“He has… issues. But, oh my God, Leggy, it’s so tender. I just want to take care of him. And he’s brilliant—I mean, so much smarter than me. He reads, like, everything. He discourses on — he knows who Bergson is! And Thomas Bernhard! He fucking plays Gymnopédies on an old Casio! He’s, like, smarter than Josh Cohen! And he’s a total film snob, oh my God, Leg, he’s so much worse than I am! And he’s twenty-three! He’s twenty-three!”
“What’s his name?”
He paused, to mark the closeness of letting her in.
“Tristen.”
“So beautiful,” she said. “I’m so happy for you!”
“And now I have to go. My friend is waiting for me at home.”
She asked who domesticated who, before excusing herself to the downstairs WC while Jeremy took care of the bill. (She knew Larissa would see her go.) She lingered at the sink and washed her hands, pretending to be surprised when the stand-in appeared. The bathroom was empty and they backed into a stall, mouth to mouth.
Larissa was startled by the ferocity of her own desire. The more experienced Allegra hit pause and said, “Maybe we should do this another time.”
“Oh — sorry!” said Larissa, embarrassed. “I just thought it was okay. Was it not okay—?”
“Totally. It’s fine, it’s great.”
“I’m really sorry!”
“Don’t apologize, you’re amazing.” Gusts of heat poured from Larissa’s throat, and all kinds of scent. She was still in the throes. “And I love that you came and found me. But it’s… complicated.”
It felt like she’d been using that word a lot lately.
They left the metal playpen and, side by side, threw cold water on their faces. Larissa couldn’t believe her sudden lie; it erupted from her as if something — someone—had taken possession.
“Dusty’s been coming to yoga. It’s so much fun having her in class.”
“Oh, great!” said Allegra, flustered.
“She’s really advanced — she should be teaching! But I think she feels comfortable there. You know, like a safe haven. Everyone leaves her alone — they’re all too self-obsessed to notice her! I hope she comes back soon. I know she had a big loss but it really helps to lean on your practice. To get grounded and back in your body again.”
“She just needs a moment,” Allegra said automatically.
Larissa had written her number on a card upstairs; she slipped it into Allegra’s hand. Trying to make up for her boldness, she discreetly insisted Allegra “go first,” and return to Jeremy alone. After she left, Larissa loitered in the alcove behind the marble steps, pondering her spontaneous artifice — and the plot, mysterious even to her, that was busy being born.
—
After Reina died, they resumed sleeping in the same bed. No sex, but lots of cuddling — a comfort to them both.
Allegra told her she ran into her camera double. Dusty gave the tiniest of shrugs, as if it wasn’t worth acknowledging. When she said Larissa talked about hoping to see her again at yoga, Dusty scoffed.
“Uhm, not gonna happen.”
“But she said you loved the class.”
“I only went once, honey.”
It peeved Dusty that Larissa even mentioned they had that off-campus moment. Everything about that woman peeved her.
Allegra left it at that but wondered, Why would she lie?
That night she had the dream, but this time the baby was dead. The woman from the support group stood at the foot of the bed and held it in her arms.
She looked down at Allegra and said, “Is this an intervention?”
—
When Jeremy walked in, Tristen was working on his laptop at the kitchen table. It was nice coming home to someone — it felt like family. He kissed the boy’s cheek then let him get on with whatever he was doing. He liked to show that he wasn’t the smothering type.
Jeremy put on the Brahms channel and ran a bath. It was raining; how he loved that. He thought about the support group, comparing and contrasting its high emotion with his apathy. Long ago, the sudden, violent erasure of his family by a drunk (who, of course, was himself unharmed) had inured him to grief. With that event, any presumptive expectations of an orderly, linear life underwent a deep and disorienting transformation. Up until then, the a priori world, even in its supreme, shambolic splendor, had adhered to the inviolable three-act structure — a beginning, middle, and end — whose literal translation, as it happened, became the foundation of his career as a story editor and creative executive. Like a high-ranking cultist, he understood the three acts, becoming their scholar and servant, their trustee and executor, their henchman and trusted lieutenant. He learned much from them. They embodied divine symmetry — the syncopation of life and death. Like God, they saturated all creation, bringing comfort, reason, and solace. They were ancient. They shone like the sun and darkened with the consistency of night. He was a joyous laborer in the garden of the three acts, pruning and tilling the soil, designing pathways, caring for all its living things. And then his loved ones were obliterated and he awakened in a secret garden where nothing grew but the present moment. He was a terrible horticulturist now — how could you water that? — yet he was free.