They're Not Your Friends Read online

  Lem’s leg twisted awkwardly in the grass and part of his ginger ale tumbled out, landing right in his crotch. It looked like he had pissed himself.

  “Mr. Brac. Mr. Brac.”

  Lem turned to see a very tall thirty-year-old man with thick eyebrows and box-office-gold good looks smiling at him. If he had been drinking, he’d think he was hallucinating. It was as if he had just landed in the country and was meeting Thomas Bowman for the first time.

  “It’s me. Tommy Bowman.” He hugged Lem.

  Lem held the guy’s shoulders and studied him.

  “Tommy! Tommy! My God, it’s been more than ten years. You look just like your father. Where have you been?”

  “A place called Cody, Wyoming. Not very glamorous, but beautiful, and as far away from this as possible.”

  “You’re a veterinarian? Your father was very proud.”

  “My dad always made fun of me; he said I wasn’t dealing with the real world. But I always felt my clients were much more human than any of his. I mean, look around. You’re probably the only person who kept in touch with him. You were probably his only real friend, but he didn’t even realize it. He bought into all of this.”

  Lem’s voice trembled. “Sadly, we lost touch.” He shook his head. “I wanted to call him desperately. I did. But I always felt uncomfortable. It’s a horribly insignificant excuse.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. You’re the only friend of my dad’s I liked.” Tommy looked around. “My dad said you were always better than the rest of them, but he said you never thought you were good enough.” He loosened his tie and stared out past Lem. He continued, more to himself than Lem. “I know I should have been here more. At first I thought he was just a little absentminded. He’d forget things like car keys and where he left his golf clubs. Mom tried to hide it from us, too. She’d always make excuses. I remember being in the car with him, and he couldn’t figure out how to get home. Mom said it was because of all those years he spent in limos. I knew it was a lie, but it was easier to accept than my responsibility.”

  “Responsibility?”

  “Despite how much I hate it here, I should have moved back.”

  “Ab-sho-lutely,” a voice boomed behind them. It was Marjorie. She put her arms around Tommy and squeezed him tightly. “But I’m just glad my baby boy’s here now. And I’m never going to let him leave.”

  Tommy swallowed hard. “Maybe I’ll just convince Mom to move to Wyoming with me.”

  “That will be the goddamned day. They don’t have salons there. I’d be getting my hair cut by the guy who sheeps shears.” Marjorie let out a tiny laugh that sounded like a finch’s chirp. “Shears sheep.”

  “Mom, you shouldn’t be drinking,” Tommy said.

  “I just had some of The Cure, to help me calm down. Cyndi swears by it.” She squeezed Lem’s hand. “Kids. When did the roles reverse? Anyway, I’m glad you came,” she said. “Poor Thomas. Poor, poor Thomas. He couldn’t tell me he shit his pants, but he could recite every line from Gone With the Wind. If I wanted to pretend we were having a meaningful conversation, I’d actually be Scarlett.” Marjorie shook her head. “I don’t know what happened. The doctors said his brain was gone, but his body was healthy. I thought he’d be with us for years and years to come. And then boom, facedown, right at his desk.”

  Marjorie looked off into the distance and shook her head and turned toward Tommy. “Where’s Shin-di? She should be with us.” She looked at Lem. “You know, when she was eight years old, she announced to Thom and me that she would no longer like to be referred to as Shhhyn-thia, thank you very much. She said, ‘My name is Shin-di. And it’s C-Y-N-D-I. Please make a note of it.’ She even put out a memo and made copies of it for her classmates. Can you imagine? We thought it was just a phase, but she seems very much rooted in that name now. She’s become that name, if you can become a name.”

  Marjorie’s pupils were tiny dots, and her eyes were glazed. Her breath was horrible, as if some kind of rodent had burrowed in and died by her tonsils. Lem figured she was probably on some kind of doctor-prescribed drug designed to cure mourning.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Lem politely whispered. He wondered if Franny were still holding court behind him.

  Marjorie brought a drink to her mouth, but the tilted glass missed her lips and the liquid landed with a splat on the grass. She didn’t seem to notice. Tommy grabbed the glass out of her hands and put his arms around her. Tears streamed down Marjorie’s face, and she wiped them with gnarled fingers. Lem couldn’t help but notice the condition of her hands. They were overrun with ropy veins that coiled around her knuckles, which looked like roots about to burst through the age-spotted soil of her hand. Her fingers were nicotine stained, and her nails were thick and corrugated with bright pink polish that had begun to peel, revealing a milky undertone.

  “I’m going to tell Lem who’s here,” Tommy said. “Okay?”

  Marjorie shook her head.

  “You know, that’s part of the reason I had to leave this place. Everyone thinks you can hide things or rewrite the truth and it all goes away. But it doesn’t. It’s no different than lying.”

  “Is that what you tell the cows?” Marjorie hissed.

  Tommy stared hard at his mother. “Mommy, please.”

  Her voice softened. “Okay. Okay.”

  Lem caught another glimpse of Franny as she fluttered down the sloping lawn. She seemed to sense, without looking, that heads were turning toward her with each step. But she stared ahead at the horizon with what Lem imagined was a half smirk on her face. Then she stopped, slid her pink sandals off her pink-toed feet, and casually held them by the straps in her left hand. She tossed her hair back and arched her neck, allowing a shaft of light to caress her. She floated down the remainder of the lawn, her tiny wrists leading the rest of her, while the crowd craned their necks to watch. No matter what, Franny Blanchard would always be a legend. She was stealing Thom Bowman’s only show.

  Lem cleared his throat. “I know Franny’s here. I saw her.”

  “With a spell you’re under her command,” Marjorie angrily spit out. “And weren’t we all, in some way, under her command?”

  Tommy looked hard at Lem. “Not her. Patricia. Your ex-wife.”

  JUST AS TOMMY approached with Lem Brac’s ex-wife, Lottie appeared, thrusting out her breasts. They all stood there silently for a moment until Lottie spoke.

  “Hi. I’m Lottie Love, Chief Party Correspondent for Personality magazine.”

  “Hi, Lottie. I’m Tommy Bowman. Chief vet for the greater municipality of Cody, Wyoming.”

  As Tommy and Lottie flirted, Lem and Patricia faced each other.

  “Hello, Lemuel,” she said.

  “Patty.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. His heart was a grenade in his chest.

  “How are you?” Patricia whispered.

  “Fine. And you?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  She was beautiful. He stared at her and wondered what their life would have been like if he’d forgotten about Franny. Would they be living in the Valley and sending their children off to college? Or would he have messed up in some other way?

  Patricia was divorced and had three children.

  “You know, my husband is smiling somewhere right now. He loved the idea of you two.” Marjorie looked at them and shrugged. “I’m in mourning. I’m allowed to be obnoxious.”

  They talked some more, about jobs, about travel, about the things that didn’t really matter. Occasionally Lottie would eavesdrop, in a very subtle way that impressed Lem. But she was probably shocked to discover that Lem Brac had a life outside of the caricature she imagined him to be: recovering alcoholic limey on a downward spiral.

  Marjorie leaned in. “Patricia, show Lem your gorgeous children.”

  Patricia shook her head and narrowed her eyes at Marjorie. “No. Not today.”

  “Not today? Nonsense.” Marjorie grabbed Patricia’s purse.

  “Marjorie!�
�

  She rummaged through the purse and opened up a wallet. Patricia tried to snatch it as Marjorie shoved it under Lem’s nose.

  “There’s Allen and Simon,” she said. “They call me Auntie Madge.”

  “They’re beautiful, Patricia. You must be very proud.”

  Patricia’s eyes blazed. “Marjorie, please.”

  Marjorie tsked. “They’re adorable. Fifteen and sixteen now. I always wished I had more children. But my two keep me challenged.”

  Marjorie turned to another photo. She looked up at Lem and smiled. “And that’s Cathy. Isn’t she a beauty?”

  Lem nodded. “She’s lovely,” he said without really looking. But Marjorie kept the picture right under his nose. He hated Marjorie for being so cruel. What was she trying to do? Show him how good life could have been if he had followed Thom’s plans? He wanted to scream out, YES, MARJORIE, I BLOODY FUCKED UP MY LIFE. YOU DON’T HAVE TO SHOW ME. I KNOW. I KNOW! I LIVE WITH IT EVERY DAY.

  Then something struck him. Cathy was beautiful. But there was something so familiar. He struggled to place it. Was she an actress? Was her father a famous actor? Those eyes. There was something about those eyes.

  And the voice in Lem’s head was like a punch.

  MIKE WANDERED OUT of the funeral festivities. It had seemed ridiculous to him, all these people pretending to be upset as if they were on some sort of cattle call for mourners. “More tears, people,” he could hear a director bray. “Come on, I need despair. I don’t see enough sorrow!”

  Mike threw his blazer into the backseat of the car, pulled off his tie, and rolled up the sleeves on his powder blue oxford shirt. The beach was only a few blocks down from the Bowmans’; he just followed the smell of the ocean. When he moved to Los Angeles, Mike envisioned spending weekends at the beach, but he never seemed to have the time. He’d been to the ocean maybe twice. As some Hollywood publicist had once predicted, he’d seen more of the Pacific in movies.

  It was another beautiful day, and the sun’s rays spilled across the water, flashing and glinting like diamonds against the inky blue surface. Mike shaded his eyes and squinted out at the Pacific. A breeze slapped at his clothes. Mike wiped sweat off his face with a sleeve, gazing at the surfers dressed as sleek sea lions who bobbed in the water, waiting to ride the crest of a perfect wave. Mike wondered why he didn’t take advantage of being out here and learn to surf.

  But when he thought about it, Mike couldn’t even imagine himself as a surfer. He couldn’t even body surf without the waves vacuuming him up and sweeping the bottom of the ocean with his ass. Mike felt overwhelmed with sadness. What the hell could he really do well?

  Pretend. Pretend nothing was wrong.

  As his eyes moved from the surfers to the shore, they landed right on Lottie Love. There she was, sitting up on a bright red towel and rubbing Fred Segal suntan lotion on her arms. Her fingers glided along her biceps, then moved to her legs and eventually her exposed, taut abs. After she had massaged her stomach, she tilted her head back and ran her red-tipped fingers along her throat. Lottie eased facedown onto her towel while her fingers bent backward to untie her acid green bikini top. She slid it off, exposing her naked back. Mike sighed.

  He removed his loafers and socks and trekked along the sand, watching children laugh as their sand castles were swallowed by the ocean. Without thinking about it, he wandered right to where Lottie was sprawled out. He stood over her, staring at her tanned back marred only by a small tattoo on her left shoulder blade. Mike bent over to get a closer look. It was a red heart with LOVE written in bloated letters underneath.

  With her rippled back and a bubble ass stuffed into a tiny bikini, Lottie had a great body, a body that was meant for the beach. Mike imagined that she had emerged from the ocean’s foam rather than from the loins of a plumber. He closed his eyes and the smells of coconut oil, citrus, and palm trees bombarded his nose. This was California, he knew. Right here. He imagined his hands slathering coconut oil on her back, her thighs, her chest. With his eyes closed and the smells and sounds of California rushing through his veins, he felt as if he were a child, imagining this place and wondering if his prayers would ever be answered.

  California

  HOLE LYF

  CHAPTER 9

  THE FACT THAT BERNICE BANKS PICKED THE MOST GORGEOUS Man in the Universe for Personality drove Lottie Love berserk. Bernie was old, and she dressed in prissy suits with pleated skirts that fell way below her elephant knees. She was so out of touch that when the magazine ran a photo of Bernie next to some celebrity in its publisher’s letter, the art department would concoct a trim, computer-generated body, digitally paint on a stylish outfit, and stick Bernie’s head on top. They even airbrushed out a spare chin, Lottie had heard. Bernie reminded Lottie of a biology teacher who sat in front of the class explaining sex in a manner that implied all her firsthand knowledge had been gleaned from a textbook. The penis is inserted into the vagina. . .

  Unlike Bernie, Lottie had her finger on the pulse of Hollywood. She was young, hip, and vibrant. Her hot pink Rolodex was filled with more contacts than anyone else at the magazine. She knew who the Next Big Thing was. And chances were, she’d dated him. Maybe even slept with him. She’d impress Bernice with her knowledge of the Industry, make her realize how invaluable she was to Personality! And before long, she’d be earning three times her salary and probably have a new title, like Associate Bureau Chief and Party Editor. Lottie could hear the conversation:

  “Shame on you for paying her this pauper’s salary, Vince. Give the girl a raise immediately. We don’t want to lose her.”

  Bernie, who was based in New York but seemed to spend most of her time in sunny L.A., sat at the head of the conference table with Vince on one side and Peg, the perky deputy bureau chief, on the other. Next to Peg was Ben Walsh, one of the five—or six, Lottie had lost count—associate bureau chiefs and a celebrity autobiography writer. When she had started, Lem had told Lottie that Ben was the only person qualified to write someone else’s autobiography because he had no discernible personality of his own. Lottie thought he had one, but it seemed to be one enormous mean streak. The only time he talked was to criticize some reporter’s work. “That guy’s a hack,” he’d sneer. If he was in a chatty mood, he’d pull you aside and bad-mouth everyone on staff. When Lottie first started, she had felt almost privileged to be taken into his confidence. Then she learned that he was calling her a starfucker behind her back.

  No one could figure out how someone so vile could somehow charm a celebrity. In his latest as-told-to book, this one on the Olson twins, he devoted an entire chapter to their first period. Lottie couldn’t believe how detailed it was—from them doubling over with cramps to practicing with tampons to their sophisticated views on becoming women. And Ben wrote about it all in the voice of the twins. She couldn’t imagine anyone talking to Ben about anything, let alone being on the rag. He admitted that he “occasionally massaged quotes because celebrities were so inarticulate.” Rumor was he did more than that—he invented his quotes—but the Olson twins liked his prose so much, they didn’t complain.

  Next to Vince and Ben were the rest of the associate bureau chiefs, followed by Mike Posner and the senior staffers. In Lottie’s first days she had plopped herself in any old chair during a meeting. When Vince had arrived (ten minutes late, to make his entrance), he had glared at Lottie. Later she learned the seating arrangement was based on a meritocracy. Her seat was all the way at the other end, next to Melissa, Vince’s assistant.

  Bernie went around the room, learning names of new employees and making small talk with the veterans. Lottie knew it would be another ten minutes before Bernie lumbered down to Lottie’s end of the table. Lottie took the time to admire her new outfit. A tan linen pantsuit from Calvin Klein and octagonal-shaped Armani eyeglasses, even though her vision was twenty-twenty. Very professional, very Cyndi Bowman. Maybe buttoning up a bit would force Bernie and Vince to take her seriously. Lottie was ready to show the
m all that she was a force to be reckoned with. Just last night she had proved it at her weekly I’m-a-Lush meeting.

  “HELLO, I’M LOTTIE Love, and, well, as most of you know, I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hi, Lottie!”

  “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about drinking? I see a bottle of vodka and I can feel the sensation of the booze going down my throat. I imagine it and sometimes, I swear, I lit-rully start to feel buzzed. It’s like a phantom buzz. But it’s never good enough, and soon I need the real thing. My whole body just craves it. It’s this horrible ache in every fiber of my being.”

  She searched for him. He was in the third row, right behind crazy Joe. When she first attended meetings, Joe had been newly married and clean and sober for three years. He gave pep talks at the conclusion of the meetings and was a sponsor for at least ten people. He’d always say that if he could do it, anyone could. “I’m living proof you can do anything,” he’d say with an enormous smile. Then he went on some weird health kick, and soon afterward his addictions came hurtling back. Now he was a wreck. His wife had left him. He’d lost his job. He sat there twitching and shaking. He was proof that you couldn’t really do anything. Lottie quickly looked away from him and back to Chris. He nodded his head in what she imagined was a mix of understanding and sympathy for her.

  After the meeting, she searched for Chris. She watched as he yelled after Joe. Joe had been almost out the door, but he stopped. Chris walked toward him, his outstretched hand holding a wad of cash. With a dramatic sweep, he handed Joe the money and shook his hand. Lottie felt a lump in her throat. Poor Joe. Couldn’t Chris have been just a little discreet? Couldn’t he have waited until Joe was out the door? Do actors always have to be performing?

  But the lump melted as soon as Chris approached her. Just as she knew he eventually would.