Part 1 (1/2)
City of Mirrors.
Melodie Johnson Howe.
In fond memory of Jeff Corey.
If you want a friend in Hollywood, get a mirror.
-Nora Poole, movie star.
CHAPTER ONE.
Mother never owned a house. If she was living in one for any length of time, it meant she wasn't making a movie. It meant she was out of work. My early life consisted of boarding schools and, depending on where mother was shooting her latest film, rented houses. On my vacations I would join her in these strange impersonal places. Sometimes there was a strange impersonal man living there, too.
When I was fifteen she was stuck with me for Christmas vacation in one of those houses. She pointed to the indoor swimming pool. ”You can swim when it rains!” she beamed.
I would paddle around in the giant pool while the raindrops and the acorns dropping from the oaks pounded the gla.s.s ceiling. In a corner of the room stood a white-flocked tree tilting precariously and s.h.i.+mmering with yuletide decorations. Next to it Brent or Burt or Bart-I never quite got his name-wearing an early version of a Speedo sat in a deck chair, watching me.
On the wet hard floor I offered up my virginity, and he took it with brutal efficiency. After Christmas he got tossed out with the tree, and Mother viewed me as a compet.i.tor from that moment on.
Maybe that's what I had wanted, I thought now, stripping off my clothes and walking down the steps into the water. It was as warm as I remembered. Outside the oak trees spread their branches over the gla.s.s ceiling, dropping their acorns on the roof. Plonk. Plonk. I smiled and began to swim.
Twenty-five years later, I had come back to this place that was never ours, to say good-bye to Mother.
Taking long easy strokes back to the shallow end, I came up for air, blinking chlorine from my eyes.
”Jesus Christ, Diana, you're naked.” Stunned, Celia Dario stood on the deck above me in five-inch heels, calves tight, black chiffon blouse tucked into a short tangerine-colored skirt. Her long raven hair was twisted into a chignon, making her look professional and chic. A man in a black jacket, white dress s.h.i.+rt, and jeans, stood next to her staring at me with deep brown solemn eyes.
Oh, h.e.l.l. I crouched low in the water, trying to cover myself.
”This is my client, Mr. Ward,” she said, trying to regain her equilibrium.
”Sorry, I thought you said he wasn't going to be here for another half hour. That I had time to ...”
”Not to take all your clothes off! Just to look at the house where you lived for fifteen minutes of your life.” Taking a deep breath, she turned to her client. ”I'm sorry ... for all this.” She waved manicured fingernails in my direction; her client still hadn't taken his eyes off me.
He was about six feet tall, firm body but not heavily muscled. His bent nose seemed to have taken a few punches. His dark brown hair, graying at the temples, waved back from his lean face. He had a matter-of-fact self-possession that was beginning to irritate me.
”You could turn your back,” I told him.
”Why? I've seen everything there is to see.” His somber lips slid into a smile. And suddenly he was charming, which was even more irritating.
I pushed my determinedly blond hair back from my face. ”Do you have a towel?” I asked Celia.
”No, I don't have a towel,” she snapped.
”You look familiar,” the man said.
”Which part of me?”
Celia s.h.i.+fted into her best realtor mode. ”This is the actress, Diana Poole,” she continued, sensing an unexpected sale point. ”Her mother, Nora Poole, the famous movie star, just died last week. She rented Bella Casa.” Yes, the house had a name.
”She died here?” he asked.
In most house sales, death is not a selling point. But in Hollywood it's important for homes to have a lurid history of the famous living badly and dying even more badly in their mansions.
”Not exactly in Bella Casa, but ... nearby.” Celia shot me a glance, wanting my help.
”She died in bed in a room at the Bel Air Hotel with a shot gla.s.s in her hand and a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the nightstand.”
”My father died like that.” He paused, rubbing his index finger over the b.u.mp in his nose. ”But not in the Bel Air Hotel. More like Motel Six.”
”I'm getting cold, I'd like to get out of this pool,” I announced.
He turned to Celia. ”Why don't I see the living room again?”
She started to guide him back to the white louver doors that led to the main house, but he stopped her. ”Help your friend. I can wander around on my own.” He tossed me a lopsided smile as he took one last look.
After he left, Celia scooped my bra up off the deck and shook it at me. ”Do you know how hard it is to sell a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion that needs a total remodel in this market?” Her dangling gold earrings swayed erratically.
I climbed out of the pool. ”I'm sorry.” I grabbed my jeans and tried to dry myself off with them.
”Forget it, he's not interested.”
I took my bra from her and put it on. ”How do you know?” I stepped into my panties.
”I can tell.” Her violet-colored eyes darted to the door where Mr. Ward had disappeared. ”He is handsome, though.”
”Almost handsome.” I picked up my jeans.
”Even better. I can tell he liked you.”
”I was stark naked. He's a man. What's not to like? Stop trying to fix me up.” My jeans stuck to me as I wiggled into them. ”Are you okay?” I'd noticed her face was drawn.
”Why?”
”You seem worried. I mean, beyond my taking a swim.”
”I'm fine. Aren't you working today?” She handed me my blouse.
”One o'clock call.” I ran my hand through my wet hair. ”Thank G.o.d, I wear a wig.” I managed to b.u.t.ton myself up.
”Say h.e.l.lo to Robert for me.”