Aftermath of Dreaming(75)

“Good for you,” Viv said. “You deserve to have someone who’s here when you want him.”

Then she started going on about all the cute guys at the parties she went to with Craig, and how I could go with them from now on and meet someone else. I was thrilled she had bought the lie so easily. All that worrying for nothing. But then her topic swerved.

“You know, my best friend, Stephanie, is seeing Andrew Madden, though he still f*cks tons of other women on the side,” Viv said, looking at me intently. “You’re so smart for what you did. I wish she would dump him.” She put down her juice and started playing with the wrapper of the straw she had used. “You know, it’s funny, but I was thinking the other day about what you said, about your Andy, and in a way, he sounded so much like Andrew Madden.”

I nearly choked on my watermelon juice and suddenly wished seeds were in it, so I would have had that excuse. I had given no identifying clues, other than the immense stupidity of shortening his name, though maybe the longing affection in my voice was a clue, as if the encountering of Andrew in that specific sex/love way induced a melody that all reports of him were sung in and Viv had recognized the Andrew tune.

“That is funny. But the Andy I was seeing is nothing like him, from what I hear.” Which I knew was true. Andrew with Stephanie was as separate from him with me as alloy to gold.

“Well, that’s good,” Viv said, looking hard into my eyes. “Because Andrew Madden is the biggest womanizing dirtbag son of a bitch that there is.” She paused for a moment, as if considering whether to vilify him further. “But you’re too smart to get hooked up with someone like him.” Her eyes were on mine, watching my reaction. “I would just love to give Stephanie proof of how badly he treats her so she can dump his ass already. I feel sorry for anyone who is stupid enough to get involved with him, but he just pulls them in. You wouldn’t believe the number of women he f*cks.”

The best I could do was nod noncommittally. Thank God, Viv had to meet her publicist, so she jumped up, kissed me on the cheek, and told me she’d call me that night.

I walked to my truck on La Cienega in a daze. Okay, she definitely somehow had suspected. Fuck. I just hoped she believed that bullshit about my not seeing Andy anymore. But she had no proof that she could go to Stephanie with, so I just needed to let it all blow over. Go to those parties with her and meet other men and pretend that I wanted to date them.

Or maybe I should stop being friends with Viv. It did seem kind of dangerous, and I really didn’t want to hear any more stuff like that about Andrew. But it would seem weird to suddenly cut the friendship off, and she had already looked suspicious enough. Besides, I liked Viv. And really, I hadn’t said anything that was proof positive about Andrew; she’d probably just forget about it.

But why did Viv hate Andrew so much? Her face had contorted into such intense, ugly vehemence when she talked about him—it was weird. Maybe she had wanted to be his girlfriend and was pissed off that Stephanie got him first. Viv had sounded like she hated Andrew because he didn’t want to be with her. And I didn’t know what to think about the “He still f*cks tons of women on the side” remark. There couldn’t be tons. He and I had been together two or three times a week since I started seeing him and he still had to see Stephanie, so how much time could be left, not to mention his being in postproduction on his film. Probably enough for a few f*cks here and there, and okay, I had always known there were other women—Christ, I had met Suzy in New York after all—but they had never bothered me before because I wasn’t having sex with Andrew and no one else was in his life the way I was. And all those other women he f*cked didn’t mean anything to him, so I had never cared about them, but suddenly I did. Okay, I knew he didn’t take other women’s calls the way he took mine—well, Stephanie’s probably, but he had to with her—and with Andrew, phone access was everything. So my status with him was safe. I just had to keep it that way. And pray that after his film opened, he got rid of Stephanie.





22




Suzanne has insisted on coming by to try on her veil. There was no way I could stop her, she was like Sherman through Atlanta, to make a dreadful comparison, when she called me from her car, saying that she was in my neighborhood so was just going to drop by. I haven’t seen her in a little over a week, since her bridal shower, when she told me she wanted a fitting, and I know she thinks the veil is finished, which it really should be, so I am madly gluing seed pearls and tiny gems on it while hoping some bridal magic will occur that will transform it into incredibly lovely and finished before she gets here. But I’m not counting on it.

“Good God, I always forget how far east you are,” Suzanne says, panting mildly when I open my front door, as if the air over here away from the beach is thinner somehow.

“It’s not that far, Suzanne,” I say, leaning in for a hug. Instead she brushes an unfelt kiss on my cheek as she walks inside. “Some people even live farther east than me. Imagine.”

But Suzanne’s mind has moved on to other things. Like her veil. Which is placed neatly on the iron dressmaker’s stand in front of the wide living room windows, its backdrop a view of the large tree outside, all pearly green and fluttery leaves in the small April wind. The tree suddenly feels more like family than my sister does.

“Here it is. Finally.” Suzanne practically lunges for the soft, white confection, snatches it up, and without the aid of a mirror or an attendant, expertly puts it on her head, arranging it perfectly. I wonder when she learned to do that or if it is a skill that all brides receive along with the engagement ring, a whole host of abilities that see them through this life-changing phase. Suzanne twirls around, looking for a mirror, and upon seeing none, dashes out of the room and down the hall to my office. Her activity is a blur of nuptial beauty. Even with her business suit on, the second the veil touched her head, she became a bride, so lovely and complete, as if the unnatural state was her not being one. I suddenly want to cry. Maybe that spontaneous reaction I should have had upon seeing myself in the veil was saving itself for when the real bride showed up—as if it knew the whole time that it wasn’t meant for me.