“Hey now.” She barely looked up.
“How’s it goin’?”
“Okey-dokey.”
“Wanna do yoga with me later?”
“When,” said Allegra flatly.
“After lunch.”
“I think I should probably wait.”
“I thought the doctor said it was fine.”
“He did but I think I should wait.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Allegra grinned and went back to her reading. The actress loitered, then said, “You know that perfume dealio? The Swiss thing? They agreed to meet on Sunday. Wanna come?”
“This Sunday?”
“Uh huh.”
“Maybe. Where are they again?”
“Beverly Hills.”
“Can I see how I feel?”
“Sure! I think we could both learn a lot. Be fun.” Dusty nudged off a clog and dipped her foot in the water. “Positano when I wrap? Il San Pietro? Or maybe get a house for a few weeks?”
“May-be,” said Allegra, playfully drawing out the word. She tried to make it sound like a yes, to take the pressure off.
“Or La Colombe…”
“Oh! I fuckin’ love that hotel.”
“Or—we could just hop in the car and head up the coast.”
“Hippetty-hop on Highway 1.”
“We’ve never stayed in one of those houses at Esalen. They’re right on the cliff — oh! Know what I was thinking we should do? Get a place in the Lake District, for Bloodthrone.”
“That would be awesome.”
“Remember when we went to Wordsworth’s cottage?” said Dusty, cracking herself up at the memory. Her effort was a tiny bit forced — she was trying to build some bridges. “That whole thing about Coleridge having a crush on Wordsworth’s sister? With the wooden teeth?”
“So much fun,” said Allegra. “Oh my God.”
It wasn’t going so bad now. It was pretty much the most they’d spoken since the miscarriage, and Dusty was relieved.
“Or did Wordsworth want to sleep with his own sister? Was that it?”
“I think that was it,” said Allegra. This time her smile was genuine.
Adrenalized by the rapprochement, Dusty stage-peeked at her wife’s pages. “Workin’ on your script?”
“Kind of.”
“I’d love to read it, when you’re ready.”
She’d overplayed her hand and Allegra got moody. Vibing that, Dusty said a hasty “Okay — love you!” then kissed her cheek and left. She refused to beat herself up for her hopeful exuberance, her mothering. That was the gift therapy had given her.
Allegra watched her go. She hated being a bitch but couldn’t help it. She grimaced and said fuck, covering her eyes to suppress the tears.
They still came.
—
It was her habit to arrive late — to escape, or at least divert, attention. (That’s how she went to the movies, taking her seat during trailers.) Across the room, Larissa threw Dusty a so-glad-you-came wink, fetching and funkily assured.
Dusty set her mat down in the space closest to the entrance. Larissa wove among the sweaty, focused women, making small adjustments to poses while offering whispery encouragement. A few of them spotted the celeb but were quick to look away; this was Larchmont and it was no big deal unless you made it one. Larissa played it cool, in no hurry to approach. When she did, making a correction to the special visitor’s Uttanasana, Dusty felt the same frisson she had on set, when Larissa touched her shoulder. The instructor moved on, careful not to overstay the moment.
After class, Dusty said, “Shall we share a cuppa?”
—
They sat in the shady backyard of The Elixir Traveling Tea Company.
The actress was a passionate studier of people. When she became intrigued by someone new, say, a civilian or below-the-liner, she was greedy to learn everything about them. Being famous, others already knew so much about her — not just from the Internet but through years of fishbowl living — and she thought it poor form if she didn’t at least try to congenially rectify the imbalance. The flattered interviewees tended to be shockingly candid; conversations quickly became confessionals. For Dusty, the intimacy was erotic.
Larissa opened up about her divorce.
“He’s a film editor. Work has definitely slowed but he still manages pretty well—fairly. Derek’s a little older than me. Mostly, he gets jobs from directors he’s had long relationships with. But they’re getting older too — a lot are in their seventies now. They were kind of his mentors but really aren’t doing features anymore. And the cable shows and Web stuff — everyone’s so much younger. All the new technology, bla. He’s kinda freaked, but he usually lands on his feet… though he’s had sort of a dry spell. The next time he lands on his feet, he might need a walker!”
Dusty thought it was a funny line — no doubt a staple of the routine.
“Do you have kids?”
“Two. Our son’s twenty-three. He’s kind of on his own planet… or maybe he’s just orbiting. But it’s been so hard on my little girl — the divorce. Rafaela. She’s thirteen. Our little ‘surprise.’”
“What happened? With you and Derek.”
“In October, he texted me that he’s in love with his intern—so cliché.”
“He texted you.”
“He texted me! Oh my God, such a cliché, you know, like a joke, except when it’s happening to you. And she’s a baby! Our son’s age!”
“Wow.”
“Derek’s sixty-one! And I’m really doing okay. But it’s only now that I’m, just, beginning to — it’s been tough. I mean, for a while it was… fuckin’ brutal. And poor Rafaela! She’s in therapy now. Which is a good thing, apart from everything that’s happened, because I’m a total believer, I almost became a therapist — still might! But he’s losing his IATSE insurance and I had to really go after him to get him to pay. For her shrink. It just really hit her hard.”
“I’ll bet.”
“’Cause she’s very much a daddy’s girl and she is so angry, Dusty. I mean, she really gets it and is so pissed, on so many levels. Because we had the whole family and lifestyle thing, right? I mean, we were always living above our means — hey, old L.A. tradition, right? — but… we were a tight-knit little unit, family unit. You know, us against the world and all that. And Derek and I were best friends. At least, I thought we were! And I think that for Rafaela, on some level — all levels! — it just didn’t—doesn’t—compute. (I guess it doesn’t compute for me either.) We used to go away twice a year — Hawaii, Santa Fe, Napa. The whole ring-a-ding-ding deal. We had a pretty good life! Then: enter the intern.”
“Maybe he’ll come back. You know, once it’s out of his system.”
“I don’t think so. I wouldn’t take him back. At this point.”
“Men are weird.”
“Tell me about it! Hey, if I could have gone down your road, I would have.”
It was said offhandedly but the innuendo was there and Dusty let it ride.
“Your daughter’ll be okay.”
“Oh, I know she will. She’s a survivor, like her mom.”
“Children are incredibly resilient. She’s thirteen?”