Chapter 32 1964
I’m going on a date with Theo Winchester. Have any other words ever sounded so good?
Theo’s sweet-talked Maisie into checking in on Adele while we’re out—Adele’s been told only that Theo has a meeting and I’m unavailable. Then I’m walking west along Sunset Boulevard, away from the chateau for the first time in my life.
It’s cool outside, but not cold. Not like New York where I’d never have stepped outside on a November evening without my coat and scarf.
I like the weather in LA, like the way the air doesn’t bite you, the way it gentles you unless the Santa Ana winds are having their turn, throwing leaves to the ground like lovers they’ve grown bored of.
I like walking along beside Theo.
Around us, constellations of neon signs sparkle, earrings glitter.
We pass Ciro’s and the Sea Witch, satin evening dresses entering the first, drums beating out of the second.
Young women parade along the Strip, one wearing a fur coat and shorts; another her bikini; a third a dress made of ribbons.
There’s so much happiness, nothing scary or frightening at all.
My shoulders relax. I look up at Theo, the castle turret etched into the sky behind him, the clouds aglow with silver linings. I smile and the smile he gives me in return is something private, meant for closed doors and bedsheets and no sleep at all.
“I was worried you were regretting coming,” he says, leaning down close to my ear.
I smile at him. “You promised me a hot dog.”
“Nothing comes between Aria and her stomach, right?” He touches a hand to my back, guiding me across the street, and I lean right into it.
The hot dog stand is quiet. The guy in charge of mustard beams at Theo and says, “Can I get your autograph, man? ‘Hollywood and Vine’ is one of my favorite tunes.”
Theo takes the proffered pen and scrawls on a napkin. The guy exchanges it for the hot dogs and says, “On the house.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Theo says, before turning to give me my food.
I stare at him.
“What?”
“Does that happen a lot? People recognizing you like that?”
He shrugs. “It’s why I like the Marmont.”
For the first time ever, I wonder what it’s like to be Calliope, someone more famous than Theo. Could she just walk down here and get a hot dog? Could she just wander among the happy faces like I can?
I haven’t checked on her since I sent her the food from Schwab’s.
I should have.
A face in the crowd catches my eye. Was that Phillip? The man who never hears no?
I stand on tiptoe, crane my neck, but can’t see anything. I’m either too short or he was never there. Why would he be lurking here anyway?
I shake my head. Am I seeing things out on Sunset Boulevard, the same way I hear things at the Marmont?
No. I’m in an unfamiliar place. It’s normal to be overwhelmed by both that and the fact that I’m on my first ever date.
I take my hot dog and move to the side. Our faces are backlit by neon pink. Past us sashay beautiful legs and beautiful faces—beautiful girls who’d probably have taken Theo by the hand and run with him to Ciro’s if he’d asked them to spend an evening there.
He’s so very visible. And all I’ve ever wanted is to be invisible.
“Why me?” I blurt, the craziness forcing its way back into my head.
I gesture to another made-in-LA blonde, a girl shaped from the bones of boulevards and golden dreams. “Why me when you could be eating hot dogs with her. Or her.” There goes another one, made of love songs and moonbeams. “Don’t you want to write songs about her? I do, and I don’t even write songs.”
Theo grins at me. “Eat your hot dog.”
“I asked you a question.”
“Of course you did. But just eat your hot dog. Then I’ll answer.”
I open my mouth wide and take a bite. Mustard and relish and chili and ketchup drip down my chin. I close my eyes because, as far as hot dogs go, it might be the best one ever.
“Oh god, that’s good,” I mumble, reaching for the napkins, mopping red sauce off my chin and my hands and then closing my eyes again while I chew. “So good.”
The next time I open my eyes, Theo’s watching me. There’s something strangely shiny about his eyes that makes me pause.
“I could tell you all the nots,” he says.
“All the things you aren’t that make me want to go out and get a hot dog with you.
That you’ve never been interested in my autograph or my bank balance or an introduction to my record company or my agent.
You don’t even know my agent’s name, for Christ’s sake.
You don’t want a song or a toke or a line or a trip.
You look at me, not Win. But mostly, I want to be here with you because of the way you close your eyes when you eat.
Like happiness is just that simple. It isn’t ten thousand people screaming your name while you sing a song you used to love before you had to sing it ten thousand times.
It’s just a really good hot dog on a December night when you’re sober enough to know you’ll remember every detail—your ketchup smile, and the way the pink light is making your eyes so green they should name an entire forest after you, and how you still think you don’t deserve to be on a date with an idiot like me.
I’m pretty sure that even though I’ve never kissed you, have barely even held your hand, I love you, Aria Jones. ”
I drop the hot dog. Theo catches it just in time. Then he says, “Can I kiss you?”
I laugh. This is so ridiculous and romantic that I’m expecting the clapper board to fall and for me to realize I’ve stepped onto a movie set. But when I blink, Theo is still there, wanting me.
“Win! Look, it’s Win!” The squeal is at the pitch of toddlers and accidents. A group of beautiful girls forms a circle around Theo.
There are five of them. They hug him and dance around with ease and grace—with hunger too, as if this man has something they want.
Is it his autograph? Yes, at first. But once his name is tucked into their purses, the hunger’s still there.
It’s not sated by an effusive chorus sung with heads tipped back and voices so loud that they draw in more girls, the pack answering the call of the wild.
My eyes meet Theo’s. His face is grim, and suddenly I know why he needed vodka and why Calliope needs sex and Flitter needs attention.
There was a moment, so exquisite, of genuine admiration from the man at the hot dog stand.
But these girls have pictures of Win on the walls of their rooms. They’ve waited in airports and outside hotels; they’ve lined up in the predawn hours to get tickets to his performance on a CBS variety show.
Now they’re bored by that—the ordinary beauty of full moons and blue nights isn’t enough.
They want a hot red Mars pinned to an aching sky.
Their love has teeth.
One girl aims for Theo’s lips and he only just manages to turn his head away in time. He grabs my hand and mutters, “Let’s go.”
We hurry back the way we came.
I’ve never wanted a drink more in my life. I bet he does too.
When we reach the sidewalk outside the Marmont, the words burst out of him.
“It used to be okay,” he says. “People would come to the gigs, maybe throw a few things onto the stage. But now so many of them come because they literally want to fuck your name. Like having Theo Winchester’s dick inside them is the meaning of life, the one true orgasm.
It messes with your head, knowing that you could point to any one of those girls in the crowd and they’d be at the stage door after the show.
My drummer used to joke that it was easier for me to get laid than it was for me to go and buy a pint of milk.
But it isn’t funny. So I drank because then I didn’t have to think about how screwed up it all is. ”
If there’s one thing I do not want to think about ever, it’s how many girls have been in Theo Winchester’s bed. But this moment isn’t about me, so I swallow down the jealousy, reach up a hesitant hand, and stroke his cheek. “It’s okay.”
We stand—my hand on his cheek, his head bowed toward mine—until the foot traffic starts to gripe at having to go around us. Then we move inside.
I understand why he’s run here. Last night, after what he told me about his dad, I thought maybe he’d run into this life of temptation just so he could prove to his dead father that he’s a better man—he might want, but he won’t ever succumb, not even if he’s living in the Garden of Eden.
But no. He’s run here because the Marmont is a safe haven for those who are so visible they’re like the giant forty-foot showgirl.
We don’t speak in the elevator. Isaiah takes one look at our faces and concentrates on watching the dial. When we’re safe inside the penthouse, I ask Theo the same question I’d once asked Calliope. “Why do you do it?”
“Because once upon a time, standing on a stage and singing a song that you loved and that everyone else loved made you feel like a king. So you keep chasing that feeling forever after. And when you can’t find it on a stage anymore, you search for it in a bottle, in a toke, or in the line of a song.
” He tosses his keys on the counter, braces his forearms against it and says, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that stuff out there. ”
“Well, I’m sure there are plenty of women who’d vote for you as the one true orgasm but…” I lose the ability to sustain the joke halfway through.
He covers his face with his hands. “I was hoping I didn’t say that out loud.”
I want to laugh. This conversation is ludicrous.
But I’m also very human and I can’t help saying, “Right now I’m feeling a lot like I’m bound to be a disappointment.
And I know you’ll say I won’t be, and I’ll have to try to find a way to believe you, but I don’t think I can kiss you tonight without feeling like I’m trying to prove something. ”