Chapter 35 #2
I look at him, listen to these words that would have made Lisa’s life, her world, probably even have taken her from Pete.
I want to ask Lucas what a Killer Body spokesmodel does all day, what the office hours are, or if one’s whole life is just handed over in return for a generous chunk of change, a poster and a red-enamel pendant.
“You’re insulted,” he says.
“No, not insulted. Sad.”
He puts his arm around me, and I pull away, refusing to give into tears and grief once more.
“You want real life this time?” I say.
“That’s what Bobby W wants. And, okay, I think it’s a good idea, overall.”
“You’ll probably never go for it,” I tell him, “but I know who your next spokesmodel ought to be.”
Tania Marie
Word of the day: Boeotian (bee-O-shuhn): Relating to Boeotia, in ancient Greece, noted for its thick air and the dullness of its people or its citizens. Boorish, dull, lacking culture.
“Real life. That’s what Killer Body is missing.”
Tania Marie sat next to Mr. Warren at the conference table in his office. Someone had brought in a pitcher of Bloody Marys and two glasses. Mr. Warren had used his to down a fistful of supplements, but Tania Marie couldn’t drink, and she wasn’t sure she could talk.
She’d left Jay asleep at her apartment and driven over here as soon as she got the call, and she hoped she looked all right in the clear, honest light that flowed in through the open glass door with the breeze from the ocean.
Better than poor Mr. Warren, at any rate. The tragedy of Julie’s death had deepened his hawkish features, and his dark eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into his head. His voice was as powerful as a young man’s, though.
“Real life,” Mr. Warren boomed again. “Not unattainable glamour. Someone who’s overcome challenging obstacles and taken charge of her destiny. That’s what we need.”
His eyes lit up, and he squeezed her thigh with his caliper fingers, no doubt tallying exactly her percentage of body fat.
“Do you mean—”
She didn’t know how to ask the question, didn’t dare, in case she had misunderstood. She’d be damned before she humiliated herself again, not for Killer Body, not for anyone.
“Yes, my dear.” Mr. Warren’s dark eyes glittered, and she knew that he saw himself as some kind of studly, refined yet still sexy Santa Claus. “We’d like to offer you the position as Killer Body spokesmodel, effective immediately.”
“You want me to be your spokesmodel?”
“Yes, my dear Tania Marie. Real life. That’s what you can share with our Killer Body members.”
She looked down at her thigh, and his fingers on it. “I don’t want to see this body on any damned pendant.”
“Of course not. The world is changing. We must change, as well.” He took the final gulp of his juice, and Tania Marie detected the mean scent of alcohol on his breath.
“No one can take the place of Jules, of course. We’re not trying for that.
We’re trying to do what Lucas calls updating.
As happy as I am that Princess Gabby is getting an opportunity on television, I want someone less refined, a survivor—the same kind of street-smart survivor I am—for the new Killer Body. ”
Tania Marie stared out at the ocean and forced herself to hold back the tears. It was really happening. Really, really, really. But, as much as she wanted it, she couldn’t, wouldn’t go back.
She glanced down once more, pushed her fear out of the way.
“Thank you very much,” she said, as if it were one long word. “I’m honored, I really am. But Bobbo. If we’re going to work together, let’s get it straight right now. Take your F-ing hand off of my leg, okay?”
Rikki
Lucas and I said our goodbyes yesterday, so I’m surprised to see him as I’m lugging my suitcases to the front of the motel. When he shares Tania Marie’s news, I’m glad he’s come, and I tell him so.
“It’s going to be a different Killer Body,” I say.
“Tania Marie’s already calling him Bobbo.” He looks down at the bags. “You need some help with these?”
“Hamilton can do it. He just called from the road. He’ll be here any second.”
“Then I should go.” He pauses. “Sure you don’t want to apply for a job with the Times?”
“I hate Los Angeles, remember?”
“Maybe I could help you like it better.”
“You already have, Lucas. Los Angeles. Santa Barbara. My life. You’ve made me like all of it so much better.”
He starts to say something but, instead, pulls me into a kiss. Arms around his neck, I absorb the heat and power of him. When we break away, I go for a hug.
I hear Hamilton’s Volvo before I see it. My cheeks hot, I break away from the hug, still squeezing Lucas’s arm, feeling the tenseness through his jacket.
“Send me a postcard from Tahiti,” I say.
Hamilton stands outside his blue Volvo. His face looks more florid than usual, probably because it’s in contrast to his wrinkled denim shirt. His paunch protrudes slightly, and I hope Lucas isn’t evaluating him as I am.
“Want me to come back later?” Hamilton asks, not taking a step toward me.
I glance over at Lucas, the swell of muscles under his sport coat, his unmussable hair.
“No,” I say. “I’m ready now.”
Hamilton’s face changes, charged with surprise, mixed with something I can’t read.
“Have a safe trip,” Lucas says. “Be careful, Rikki, will you?”
“I’ll try. You, too.”
He picks up my suitcases and moves toward the car with sure steps that I know must pain him.
“I’ve got those.” Hamilton yanks them from him, puts them in the back seat.
Then it’s all polite conversation and best wishes and no body contact whatsoever.
I watch Lucas drive away in his silver car, and I look at Hamilton, letting him know that we can leave now.
I get into the Volvo, wanting to cry.
The jacaranda trees lining the walk in front of the motel have burst into purple flowers overnight, so dramatic they look as if a designer has placed them there. The interior of the Volvo has been cleaned again. That vanilla scent indigenous to car washes covers the darker smoke smell.
As we drive away, Hamilton takes out a cigarette. “You feel like lunch?”
“Not here.” My voice says what my words can’t.
“Gotcha.”
He pulls onto the freeway, then lowers his window. A burst of air blows into the car. He tosses the cigarette, raises the window.
“What’s that about?” I ask.
“I think I just quit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He looks over for my reaction. “Maybe we’ll stop in Bakersfield. Does that work for you?”
I think ahead, of the Grapevine, of Bakersfield and the scrubby flat land of the San Joaquin Valley that waits for me. My job. The hole Lisa has left. The hole I can feel in my own life. Questions. Answers. The newspaper. Hamilton. The whispered hope of the future.
Real life.
“Works for me,” I say. “And, Den, I’m buying lunch.”