Chapter XXI. Après. #2
“So are y’all loving it here?” Brooke, one of Minnie’s friends, asks.
She’s a Tennessee blond, who looks an awful lot like Minnie, but with bangs and a pointier chin, and like Kennedy, the other blond in attendance (tan, leggy), sitting at the opposite end of the table.
I would not be surprised if they all had the same colorist. Fortunately, Minnie (or someone on Minnie’s staff) had made place cards to keep it all straight.
“My husband is. The kids seem to be. I’m still settling in, I think.”
“Well, LA can be a little daunting. But once you find your people, and you can drive without consulting your GPS, you’ll be fine.”
“You’re lucky you have GPS,” Tracee, the woman to my left, says.
She’s Black, I assume African American, by her slight twang.
She’s got copper skin and Beyoncé highlights and large doe eyes.
Her eyelashes are not her own. “When we got here, I didn’t know where a damn thing was, and I had my Thomas Guide.
I’d have it all splayed out in the G-Wagon, and Danté was like, ‘What are you doing? Just get a driver!’ But, like, come on, now.
I’m not using a driver to go to Ralphs!”
“Ralphs??” Minnie smiles. “You did not shop at Ralphs!”
“I most certainly did. You can’t get fried chicken at Whole Foods.”
“Honey’s Kettle has the best fried chicken. Better than Roscoe’s, in my humble opinion.” Hayden, the brunette to my right, speaks up. Porcelain skin, frozen forehead, three Cartier Love bracelets. “Our chef turned us on to it.”
“Girl, I’m in the Valley. That’s a day trip.”
“Your chef serves you store-bought fried chicken?” Kennedy with the legs raises an eyebrow.
“God, no. She does her own in a gluten-free batter, but she does recommend it for large groups. I mean, in a pinch.”
I catch Jane’s eyes widening across the table.
Slightly amused, a touch bewildered. The LA references, the casual displays of wealth.
The Florentine-inspired tablescape with perfectly placed sprigs of wildflowers.
I am not so ensconced in the bubble as to miss it, but I imagine to Jane, this lunch may as well be the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
The coterie: two former models, an actress, and a PR girl who now play the role of pampered housewives to a studio exec, two producers, and a WME agent.
Although not in that order. Not to mention the token Black friend who was the onetime high school sweetheart, now wife of the Clippers’ point guard.
“Anyway, eventually there was MapQuest,” Tracee resumes, her long nails clicking against her champagne flute, “and then GPS, but in the beginning, it was like, shiiiiit … the Wild West. And we’re from Oklahoma. Do you have kids?”
“I do. A boy and a girl.”
“Two boys. Where are y’all at school?”
“Bancroft.”
“Well done.” Minnie smiles. “They have excellent exmissions.”
“Exmissions?”
“Graduates who go on to the Ivies and Stanford. Like Harvard-Westlake, but less cutthroat. Warmer. But not as hippy-dippy as Windwood. It’s a good middle ground. Solid choice.”
I want to tell her that we are not planning to stay for long, and so exmissions and Ivies didn’t really matter, but before I can do so, Tracee weighs in.
“We’re at Sierra Canyon,” she says, “but we’re athletes. And in Calabasas.”
“Anouk, I saw your new billboard on Sunset,” Kennedy pipes up from her end of the table, a men’s Rolex sliding over her wrist as she swirls her wineglass. “The Louis Vuitton ad. It’s stunning. Is it Juergen?”
“It is.”
“So pretty. You still look like you’re twenty-nine.”
“Ha.” Anouk snorts. “Thank you, but no.”
“But yes. You’re aging so gracefully,” Brooke adds. It’s an odd thing to say. “I was so excited when I heard you were coming today. I’ve always loved your work. God, I remember when you did that fragrance campaign in the nineties, Dea di Varenna. I ran out and bought me some!”
My heart skips at the mention of the name, uncertain where the conversation may turn.
“We had that photo on the wall in our sorority house, and every guy who came through asked about it,” Minnie adds. “Eventually we had to take it down. That was your big break, right?”
Anouk takes a moment, sips her iced tea. “In a way. I suppose.”
My eyes are on the shoreline before us. The random strangers walking by. I cannot bear to look at Anouk. Not when I know precisely how that campaign came to be. What she went through to get it.
Our conversation is interrupted when a couple of servers appear to clear our bowls of gazpacho and replace them with large platters of whole roasted branzino and grilled asparagus.
“Gracias, Lupe, Esmeralda.” Minnie smiles before turning her attention to Hayden. “Not a gluten in sight.”
While we feast on lunch, the discussion shifts to Hollywood gossip.
The end of Ben and Jen: “He is a tall, brooding, sexy, talented mess. And she is the sweetest thing. Godspeed to them both.” The odd coupling of Leonardo and Rihanna: “Did not see that coming.” And summer vacation plans: “Everyone’s doing Dubrovnik now. ”
At some point, a poised Asian woman in a double-breasted white jacket appears on the terrace.
Minnie introduces her as her chef, Nim, who was born in Thailand, raised in the Bay Area, and studied at Le Cordon Bleu.
We toast and sing her praises. And then just as quietly, Nim slips back into the wings.
“We’re sailing from Split to Dubrovnik. We’ve never done the Adriatic, and we thought it would be a nice change.
I mean, we used to love Amalfi, but it’s just gotten so crowded,” Minnie declares, stabbing at an asparagus spear.
“We’re going in August after the kids are done with camp in Maine.
It’s going to be god-awful hot. And then Scott’s meeting up with a couple of college buddies in Ibiza.
To see some DJ or whatever. And I’ll take the kids up to my mom’s in Sun Valley for the last ten days.
I swear, summer gets shorter every year. ”
“We’re going on safari. Danté wants the boys to experience Africa.”
“I adore Africa,” Minnie says. “Adore.”
“Oh my God, they will love it!” Brooke gushes. “We did Tanzania two years ago and it was life-changing. Where are y’all going?”
“South Africa.” Tracee smiles. “Our agent’s handling all the details.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad y’all are working with someone. Or I’d give you Kara’s number. Because trying to do it all yourself is just … oof.” Brooke circles both hands in the air, as if she doesn’t have the words to express such complexity.
I have never been on a safari, let alone planned one, so I refrain from comment. But I find it amusing that we have once again returned to the elephant in the room.
“Have you and Frederick solidified your plans yet?” Minnie says, turning to Anouk, on her left.
“Pffft.” Anouk makes the French noise for exasperated. “Frederick is so last-minute. I’m lucky if I have forty-eight hours to pack a bag. Plus, I have to visit schools back east with Sacha.”
“Come meet us in Croatia!” she exclaims, squeezing Anouk’s forearm.
“Did you guys make it to Coachella this year?” Kennedy asks, donning a pair of Céline sunglasses.
“God, no. I think I’m officially too old for Coachella.” Minnie rolls her eyes.
“Hannah says Evan’s daughters are huge Drake fans, so he had them take the plane. She was not happy about it. Says those girls are so spoiled, and she knows Evan’s ex put them up to it. But you know, stepmom, so she can only say so much.” Kennedy swills from her wineglass.
“That’s gross,” Minnie says. “I mean, it’s a three-hour drive, send them in an Uber or something, for God’s sake.”
“That’s what I said. I told Jason and he was gobsmacked. All these people just taking their jets everywhere, completely unaware of their carbon footprint.”
The table is silent for a second. Awkwardly so.
“I mean,” Kennedy continues, “we fly private, too, but at least we’re aware of it.”
Jane locks eyes with me and I turn my attention away from her to keep from laughing, and that is when I see it. Minnie’s hand, with its massive canary diamond, still resting on Anouk’s arm, and her manicured pinky, ever so imperceptibly moving back and forth over Anouk’s latte skin.
Time seems to slow down while I attempt to make sense of what I am seeing.
The voices around me gradually muted by the roar of the ocean.
A seagull squawking above. Christofle scraping across Ginori 1735 Oriente Italiano china.
The pop of yet another champagne cork. Someone laughing.
Elements zooming in and fading out as if in rack focus.
I realize then that I am still staring at Minnie’s hand, and I wonder if anyone has caught on to it.
The conversation turns to interior décor and the recent renovation of the first floor, and it sounds like bottled noise to me, distorted by the waves and the thrumming in my head.
I find something neutral to focus on and land on the platter of mostly eaten fish.
Four branzino profiles gazing listless. Their bodies flayed and severed.
I excuse myself, seeking directions to the powder room.
“Down the corridor and to the right.” Minnie gesticulates, lifting her hand from Anouk’s arm to do so.
“Anyway,” she continues, as I step away. “Their work was flawless. Divine. I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but this house is now one of my closest friends.”
For a good two minutes I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, attempting to analyze what I’d seen, and my response to it, or lack thereof. Had Anouk slept with her? Was she still? Were there others? Should it matter?