They're Not Your Friends Read online

“MIKE? YOU LOOK horrible.”

  She opened the door and let him in. He was so grateful that he hugged her and didn’t let go. A Dalmation and a small ball of fur jumped on his back. He nearly tumbled to the floor. He squeezed her tighter.

  “Mike, what is it?”

  He shut his eyes and breathed her in.

  “Mike, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  What was it about Catherine that made him tell her everything? Joey Green. The Rolodex. Lem Brac. The stories he’d concocted. It all just poured out of him, almost beyond his control. He felt exhausted but strangely refreshed—the way he did when he went to confession as a kid. A blank slate. Cleansed from sin. His penance would be her rejection, so he knew it didn’t matter what he said.

  “I’m just completely inadequate,” he said. “My first girlfriend didn’t even realize it when she lost her virginity.”

  “Just some weird defense mechanism on her part,” she said, smiling. “Maybe no girl’s excited you enough. Maybe you play it safe too often. You need someone completely different. You need to take risks.”

  He studied her for an explanation. He had a bad feeling she wasn’t talking about herself.

  “You sound like my mother,” he said, laughing. “Well, I guess I’ve blown it with you.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “Mike, it’s not that. There’s just too much you don’t know about me—too much you don’t want to know.”

  “You’re perfect.”

  “I’m so far from perfect it’s not funny.” Catherine sighed and closed her eyes. “I started drinking when I was thirteen.”

  “So what? I had my first beer when I was twelve. There’s not much to do in Rochester but drink.”

  Catherine smiled weakly. “By the time I was eighteen, I was doing anything I could get my hands on. Coke. Crack. Heroin. My mom couldn’t handle me at all. My father kicked me out of the house. He and my mom divorced because of me.”

  “Catherine, I don’t—”

  She put her hand out to silence him.

  “I heard him tell my mom that one night. ‘She’s not my daughter.’ He screamed it. Then he left her because of me. He couldn’t stand the sight of his own daughter. Can you imagine living with that? I still see the way he looked at me when I go to sleep at night. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that.”

  She rubbed tears out of her eyes, and Mike hugged her.

  “Shit. I’m sorry, Catherine.”

  Catherine pushed him lightly. She looked hard at him. “Mike, I did anything to get a high. . . Do you have any idea what that means?”

  “Ah. . . I mean, I guess.”

  “No, you don’t. You have no clue.”

  Mike looked away from her glare.

  “It means I did a lot of horrible things. A lot. I don’t even remember most of it, but every now and then, I’ll go somewhere, like a Hollywood party or something, and I’ll see a group of guys staring or laughing or pointing at me. And I know I’ll never escape my past. I don’t know why I stay here. Maybe it’s for moments like those to remind me, because the truth is, I have no idea who I was.”

  Mike nodded his head.

  “Look at you. You’re not good at lying, despite what you think. Lottie was right. I can see it in those eyes of yours. She calls them newly hatched chicken eyes.”

  “Lottie,” Mike snarled. “Why do you care so much about her?”

  “I’m trying to help myself by helping Lottie. Maybe if I can save one person, I’ll be able to forgive myself. I’ll stop seeing that look of disgust in my own father’s eyes.”

  “You have no idea what kind of person she is.”

  The Dalmatian barked. Catherine whistled and it climbed into her lap. “Hey there, boy,” she said, nuzzling and kissing it. “A family decided to get rid of him because their son grew out of his 101 Dalmatians phase. The kid likes Finding Nemo now so they got him an aquarium instead. Maybe you should adopt him.”

  Mike laughed. “I can barely take care of myself.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. You need to take care of someone else to forget about yourself. That’s what I do. This dog is so needy, he’ll consume you.”

  The other dog, a runty poodle, yipped and tugged at Mike’s jeans.

  “That’s Arthur,” Catherine said. “The shelter found him whimpering on the corner of Hollywood and Gower yesterday.”

  Mike eyed the poodle suspiciously. It yipped again.

  “It couldn’t be.”

  “What?”

  Mike leaned over and looked underneath the dog. He nodded his head. “Plastic balls.”

  “What?”

  He laughed. “I don’t believe it! I know this dog. It’s Root Canal. It’s my neighbor’s.”

  “Your neighbor’s?”

  “I don’t fucking believe it. She loved that dog. She was obsessed with that dog. That dog has these little hand-knit outfits and everything. It had its own little doggie bed. I can’t believe she’d just abandon it. It doesn’t make sense.”

  He petted the dog. “Root Canal?” The poodle jumped on Mike and licked his cheek. “It’s him, all right.”

  “Root Canal? What a horrible name. I was calling him Arthur, after my first boyfriend. He was this really sweet guy, who’s trying to be an actor now, although he has the most horrible lisp. When I saw this little guy, I thought if he could speak, he’d have a lisp.”

  They stroked Root Canal/Arthur. Mike smiled at Catherine. He realized she reminded him of Liz, another custodian of strays. Maybe Catherine was right. Maybe he needed to go against his type. Maybe he was drawn to women like Catherine and Liz because he considered himself a mangy little mutt with nowhere to go.

  “Mike, can I set you up with someone who I think would be good for you?”

  “You’re trying to set me up with a friend?” He tried to sound casual, but the rejection caught in his throat. “I’m horrible on blind dates.”

  “It wouldn’t be a blind date.”

  “How could it not be a. . .” Then it dawned on him. “You’re talking about her again, aren’t you?”

  “She likes you, Mike.”

  “She hates me. You even said that. Besides, you have no idea what she did to me.”

  “Was it before or after you stole her Rolodex?” Catherine asked, grinning. “I said she thinks she hates you, but she doesn’t. She wants to hate you because she knows you’re right for her. I know it sounds crazy and illogical. She thinks her type is some vapid actor who doesn’t give a shit about her. But you guys would be great together. I can feel it.”

  “You and Lem.”

  “The guy you told me about?”

  “Yeah. You sound a lot like him. But I can tell you it would never work. We are not at all alike.”

  Catherine smiled. “Stranger things have happened, Mike Posner.”

  “Is this how you reject all your men? You introduce them to your friends?”

  Friend. A jolt ran through him. Suddenly the rejection didn’t sting so badly. He finally had a friend in Los Angeles. And could it really be true that Lottie Love had a crush on him? How could she after she’d humiliated him in front of the entire staff?

  Nah. It was too crazy. There was no way. Girls like Lottie Love never even glanced at him. Girls like Lottie Love could never accept his flaws.

  Root Canal slathered him with kisses.

  California

  NT A FRND

  CHAPTER 22

  A PERSONAL ASSISTANT WITH ENORMOUS BREASTS OPENED THE door.

  “Hello, it’s Lemuel Brac. I’m here for Ms. Blanchard.”

  “Um, yes. She’ll be right with you.”

  The assistant ushered him into the living room. Lem sat on the couch. A fire blazed as the air-conditioning thrummed. When the assistant left, Lem pulled the vodka from his pocket and swilled. A few drops landed on the white couch. The poker rooted around at his heart again. Lem wondered if he was having a heart attack.

  He always believed Patricia had been a g
ift from Thom to assuage some kind of guilt that he could never really pinpoint. With a look you were under her spell.

  Dear Franny,

  Your press junket is set up for September 14, noon, at the Four Seasons. Eat a hamburger for lunch. Everyone hates salad eaters. Eat the fries, too. All of them. And if you gain any weight, I’ll kiss the extra pounds.

  Yours always,

  Thom

  Lem closed his eyes. Despite the booze and the pain in his chest, everything was suddenly clear. Thom Bowman had never been his friend.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the photograph. The same one he had in his office. It was from the cover story he had written. He recognized the look now. It was one of deceit. Thom and Franny had pulled one over on him. He walked toward it.

  Lisa the Love Witch Reveals All.

  Or at least she gives the illusion.

  The pain seared through him. He wondered if he was dying, right here, underneath Lisa the Love Witch’s gaze. With a spell you were at her command.

  California

  BRKN SP L

  CHAPTER 23

  AMBER OPENED THE FRONT DOOR TO FRANNY’S HOUSE AND STARED at Lottie. They exchanged estrogen salutes—Lottie could feel Amber’s eyes grazing over her black spikey Jimmy Choos, her pencil skirt, and her white cotton button-down with the extralong cuffs and the third button opened right at her cleavage. Amber paused there.

  “Dr. Gene?” Amber asked.

  “Don’t think so. These are all mammary glands, thank you very much.”

  She thrust her breasts out as she glided past Amber toward the living room.

  “Excuse me, does Franny know you’re coming?”

  “She’s my client.”

  As she walked through the foyer, something caught her eye. A hot pink Rolodex. Maybe it’s a bizarre coincidence, she thought for an instant. She narrowed her eyes and recognized her penmanship. The i’s dotted with fat little hearts. She grabbed it.

  “Hey!” Amber rushed up and pulled at it.

  “That couldn’t be more mine,” Lottie said, tugging at it. “How did you—”

  “Give it back to me.”

  Lottie cackled. “Oh my Ga-aad, you are so doing Mike Posner.”

  “I am not!”

  “I couldn’t need to know more. Is he like completely horrible in bed? Or is he one of those guys who looks like he’d be a disaster but couldn’t be more amazing?”

  “Sounds like you wanna know a little too bad,” Amber said. “Actually, he’s ammma-zing. Enormous. Immense.”

  Lottie contemplated this. “Really? I so don’t believe you. . . Really?”

  “OH MY GOD,” Franny screamed from another room.

  Lottie shut her eyes and shook her head. Was her dad here again?

  “PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW!”

  Amber and Lottie turned toward each other. Put what down? A gun? A knife?

  “HELP! HELP!”

  The voice was frantic and scared.

  Lottie and Amber raced into the living room.

  LEM BRAC LOOKED almost calm as he held the enormous framed photograph above his head. He teetered forward. He teetered backward.

  “Oh God, it’s the original,” Franny gasped. “It was a gift from the photographer. He destroyed the negative so no one else could have it.”

  Lem struggled to balance it.

  Lottie had never seen Lem like this. At work, he’d been reserved. Quietly observing as everyone around him kissed ass, lied, pretended to be something they weren’t. She remembered when she started and he took her out to lunch. He told her about celebrity. It was all a lie. An illusion. She hadn’t believed him. She’d thought he was a dried-up old raisin of a man with nothing left to offer. And now this? He looked like Atlas holding the world on his shoulders.

  “They’re not your friends.”

  No one but Lottie could have understood him. The words were mashed and slurred together. It sounded like “Tearnuffends. Tearnuffends.”

  “STOP IT! STOP IT!” Franny screeched.

  Lem wobbled backward. For an instant, he steadied himself. He stood perfectly still with the frame resting above him. Then his knees buckled. The frame pitched forward and he tottered with it. As Lem tried desperately to balance himself, the gigantic picture crashed to the tiled floor. Lem fell on top of it.

  Franny covered her mouth and shrieked. Then Amber covered her mouth and shrieked.

  “Do something,” Franny screamed at her assistant. Amber raced toward the frame as if she could somehow fix everything. She stared down at it.

  “DO SOMETHING!”

  Lem lay on top of the broken mess, his arms stretched out above his head. He was so still that Lottie wondered if he was dead. That frame looked like it weighed a few hundred pounds. How had someone like Lem managed to hoist it up in the first place?

  Amber stared down at Lem and the frame.

  “DO SOMETHING!”

  Lottie walked toward them. She knelt over Lem and gently shook him.

  “Lem? Lem?”

  Lem opened his eyes and looked at her as if trying to place who she was, and where he was. Then he slowly stood up. He dusted shards of glass off his clothes, his arms. He clutched his heart with a hand. She noticed there was blood on his shirt. One of his palms was bleeding. Lottie pulled a piece of glass out of his hand.

  Franny barreled toward Lem and Lottie, pushing them aside. Then she and Amber lifted the frame, raising it surprisingly quickly. Baffled, Lottie grabbed a corner. The frame was hollow. Millions of shards of glass covered the floor. Franny moaned like an animal bleeding out.

  Maybe she was: a shard of glass had sliced through Lisa the Love Witch’s forehead.

  Lottie covered her face to squelch a laugh. Lisa the Love Witch Reveals All—with a hole in her forehead. Franny continued to howl. When Lottie looked up, Lem was walking out the front door just as her father burst through. She was so surprised to see him, she didn’t notice when the Rolodex slipped out of her hand and fell with a bang to the floor. She was oblivious to her hard-earned business cards fluttering about the terra-cotta.

  “Hank,” Franny sighed. “Oh, Hank.” Her father walked over to Franny. He held her for a moment, then looked down at the frame, and tugged at the shard in Lisa’s forehead. Franny yelped as if she’d felt the pain. He pulled out the glass and hugged her again.

  “Franny. It’s okay. It’s okay.” He stroked her hair.

  Lottie had never seen her father so tender, and a wave of envy coursed through her. She mouthed the word “Dad.” She didn’t say it aloud because she knew her father most likely never mentioned he had a daughter. He probably wanted Franny to think he was too young to have a daughter as old as Lottie. So why blow it for him? Hank Love wasn’t a bad person, just someone who lived his life enveloped in shit and piss and service entrances. If it weren’t for Lottie, he might have been an actor.

  Besides, she needed to help someone who’d been more like a dad to her for an hour than Hank Love had been her whole life.

  We’ll Make Your Pipes Sing! When Lottie walked outside, her father’s gigantic face stared down at her. A twinkle in his eyes. His bleached white shirt. His crooked nose reconfigured to perfection, just like Lottie’s.

  “SHE’S TOO YOUNG,” Dr. Bernstein had said when her mother took her in for a rhinoplasty consultation. “Her cartilage isn’t completely developed. Wait a few more years and then make a decision.”

  “WHY?” her mother had shrieked. “I know exactly where that nose is headed. And nothing good can come of it. Let’s nip it in the bud.”

  “But it’s so early.”

  “If you don’t want my business, say so. There are plenty of other doctors who’ll do it.”

  The doctor studied Lottie. He touched her nose. She felt like a puppy being petted for the first time. She wanted to hug him.

  Then he said, “Okay, Mrs. Love. I’ll take care of it for you.”

  HER VW WAS boxed in by her dad’s van. He never thought of anything
but his own libido. It was probably why her mother had despised Lottie’s nose so much. It reminded her of all Hank Love’s failings—in his career, his marriage, fatherhood. Lottie saw the keys on the front seat. She got behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition, and peeled down the street toward Lem.

  She moved a leash and a dog collar from the passenger seat. Since when did her dad have a dog? She read the name on the tag.

  Root Canal.

  California

  12STPR

  CHAPTER 24

  LOTTIE STOOD AT THE PODIUM. HER HEART POUNDED. HER HANDS shook. Everyone loved her stories. She knew what they were thinking: Would she tell the one about the time she smashed her car into Mann’s Chinese Theater just as Sean Connery strode down the red carpet? Or when she threw up in Cher’s pia colada at Spago? They smiled at her, clasping their hands together. They wiggled toward the edge of their seats.

  Lottie Love cleared her throat. She exhaled. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Hey, everyone.”

  “Hey, Lottie!”

  “As you guys know, my name’s Lottie Love.” She smiled too hard and gulped air. “What you guys don’t know is that. . . is that. . .” Her heart caught in her throat. “Is that. . . well, I’mnotanalcoholic.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at her audience. She exhaled for what seemed like the first time in hours—a whole day’s worth of oxygen. There was silence. A horrible, interminable silence.

  Then they grinned. Lottie relaxed. There were some giggles. The room burst into applause.

  The applause died down. Lottie wondered if she should walk back to her seat. They wiggled toward the edge of their seats again. They rested their chins in their hands. They smiled. Lottie’s heart beat furiously. She realized they were waiting for more. They were expecting a punch line.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I couldn’t be less of an alcoholic.”

  “Exactly,” someone said. “That means you are one.”

  “Huh?”

  “I thought your name was Lottie—not Cleopatra, the queen of da Nile,” someone yelled from the back.