Other People's Houses(79)
“Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”
“Do you want to go home?”
“Can we call Mommy? I want to tell her you said the F word.” He noticed Charlie on the ground and hesitated. Then he went over, as little children will. “Did you fall over?” He stuck out his hand to help, but Charlie just looked at him for a moment and then lay back down on the grass.
Lucas frowned and turned to his dad, who picked him up and held him close. “Charlie’s fine, Lucas, don’t worry about it. Shall we go call Mom so you can tell on me?” They started to walk away, skirting Charlie where he was on the grass, shamed and silent.
“That was a great party, Daddy,” Lucas’s little voice piped back. “Did you see me eating cake?”
“Yeah, buddy. Was it good?”
“Yeah. Mommy’s going to be so mad with you for swearing.” The little boy giggled, resting his head on his father’s shoulder, his hand gathering up the fabric of his daddy’s T-shirt and holding it tight.
They crossed the road and walked away. Charlie sat up, wiping his mouth and weeping. Anne pulled open the car door and Frances went around to the driver’s side. Iris, Michael, and Sara just stood there. Iris wasn’t feeling so good.
A short man walked up, pushing a large trolley.
“Are either of you Sara?”
Sara nodded.
“I’ve got your bouncy castle,” he said. He made an apologetic face. “I know you wanted Spiderman, but some studio exec threw a fit and got the last one. What you have here is a deluxe.” He stressed the word deluxe. “Elsa’s Frozen Castle.” He paused, aware that this might not fly if this was a boys-only party. “With a giant Olaf thrown in gratis. No charge for the six-foot snowman.”
Iris suddenly leaned forward and threw up on the grass.
There was a short pause, then the bouncy castle guy said, “Fine. No snowman, then.”
Thirty-four.
Frances woke up the next day with an emotional hangover. She closed her eyes and lay in bed for a moment, not ready to face the day. Driving Anne home had turned out to be the last straw. She’d lost patience for the other woman, maybe at the worst moment to do so. But hey, Anne’s husband had just told the neighborhood she was fat and had no sex life and that was, you know, awkward.
Anne was temporarily staying at the Palazzo, an apartment building across the street from the park where the kids played soccer on Saturdays. The Palazzo was in many ways the secret long-stay hotel Angelenos never told tourists about. Some people lived there year-round, sure, but a large part of its business was during pilot season, and in general it served the Industry. Studios owned apartments there and would put up actors and directors when they needed to. People would rent furnished apartments for three or four months while shooting a pilot, or some other short-lived project. The building was also across the street from the Grove, a big outdoor mall, and was painted the kind of ochre normally seen in hotel paintings of the Italian Riviera. It was a color not found in nature, yet somehow it worked.
Anne had basically lost her shit all the way from Iris’s party to the Palazzo. The security guard waved them into the parking lot with not even the slightest flicker at the sounds of distress coming from inside the car, having seen it all several times. Anne’s apartment was a two bedroom on the ground floor, dark and cool and decorated in timeless and faceless style. She’d barely made a mark on it.
When Frances had looked in the fridge hoping to make Anne a cup of tea or something, she found literally nothing. The cupboards were also entirely bare.
“What on earth have you been eating, Anne?” she asked.
Anne had reached the staring portion of her distress, and turned her head toward her friend. “I go across the street when I get hungry.” She’d stopped crying, but her eyelids were puffy and for the first time that Frances could remember, she looked like shit. “Farmer’s Market, you know.”
Frances nodded. “Are you hungry now?”
Anne shook her head. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She went into the bathroom and Frances heard the toilet seat hit the tank, but then there was silence. Frances went and stood at the window, looking out through the manicured greenery. It was quiet out there, the occasional and distant ping of the elevator the only sound to be heard over the ever-present hum of pool pumps. A slender girl in sweatpants and furry boots came out through a door, leading the world’s smallest dog on the world’s thinnest leash. It looked like she’d tied a cotton ball to a piece of dental floss. Frances watched the dog poop a lentil, then sit and snooze while the girl conducted a lengthy operation on her cell phone.
“I’ve got nothing to throw up,” Anne said, returning. “I can’t breathe properly. Do you think I should go to the ER?” She sat on the edge of the overstuffed coral sofa.
Frances turned and looked at her. “You’re having a panic attack, and your blood sugar is zero. Go get something to eat and ask for a paper bag to put it in, then you’ll have something to breathe into.” She turned to go.
Anne said, “Please don’t leave me.”
Frances said, with more than a hint of exasperation in her voice, “Look, Anne, I don’t want to kick you when you’re down, but you need to get it together.”
Anne’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re angry with me.”