Chapter 54 1966
In the taxi afterward, my aunt fills me in on the arrangements she’s made.
“You wanted a room with a view of the sea, so your new assistant, Peggy, has booked you a suite at the Casa del Mar in Santa Monica until you find someplace to live. Peggy is Jupiter’s sister.
She’s excellent. She could manage a sobriety party in a bar. ”
I laugh. “You must be well on your way to recovery if you’re making jokes like that.”
“I have an association in my mind now with Bob and alcohol. And Bob and Quaaludes. Reaching for those is like reaching for him.” She shudders, like rehab has cracked the hard shell she hid her heart inside and now she’s starting to feel things properly.
I want to kiss her cheeks, I’m so proud of her. To endure what she went through in that pool house and to now be embarking on her second and maybe better life. I must be wearing my soul in my eyes because she knows what I’m thinking and says, “Absolutely not. You’ll crush my sleeves.”
It reminds me of Calliope and the eyelashes we’d always unglue with our teary hugs. My soul must look sad now because my aunt makes an exasperated sound and squeezes my hand, holding on tight, palm full of love.
“We’re here,” she says, withdrawing her hand and reassuming her regal air. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Maybe we’ll progress to a good-morning peck on the cheek by then,” I say with a grin. I slip out of the car before she can throw something at me.
In my hotel room, I do one thing before I fall into the bed—I call Theo’s agent; it’s the only number I have for anyone connected to Theo.
His agent’s assistant tells me in a sing-song voice—as if she thinks I’m just another groupie—that she has my letter to Theo on her desk. “He’s not in LA right now, Miss Jones. We’ll pass it on when he returns.”
“Do you know when that will be?”
“I can’t give that information out.”
He’s not dead, I remind myself as I hang up. That’s what really matters.
Luckily the jet lag means I sleep soundly, rather than worrying about Theo, waking to find it’s seven in the morning.
Time to check out my new office.
I dress in a black scoop neck T-shirt and a black silk A-line skirt with white polka dots.
It falls to just below my knee, but its demure length is absolutely negated by the slit up the front to almost the top of my thigh.
I cinch a wide belt around my waist, then go down to the front desk and ask for my car to be brought around.
As I wait, I marvel again at what money can do.
Money can hire you an assistant who can buy a car for you and then have that car delivered to the nice hotel she’s booked you into, the one that, as you requested, must have a view over the water.
The valet pulls up in a bright red Alfa Romeo Spider.
Oh yes, Peggy knows her stuff.
I tie the scarf that Nathalie gave me over my hair.
It will stream behind me as I speed around the curves, just like I always pictured.
But the thing that’s different is that I won’t be sitting beside a handsome man who has one hand on the wheel and one hand on my leg.
I’ll be the one driving, and I quite like that.
I settle into the driver’s seat and put into practice the lessons a young Italian gave me in Naples. If you can drive in Naples, you can drive anywhere.
My office is in Malibu. View of the water, again.
Water puts out fire.
When I pull into the parking lot, I see a sign that reads: Aria Jones Productions and Talent Management.
I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so hard in all my life. Because this is my company, and with it I’m going to do my best to stop starlets from drowning.
Peggy is inside, running her hands over her brand-new typewriter the same way I just ran my hands over the rump of my car. “Miss Jones!”
“Call me Aria,” I tell her. “Thanks for the car. I love it. How’s Jupiter?”
“He said to tell you that nobody does pretend driving better than you did.”
I laugh. “Did you tell him you’d bought an Alfa Romeo so I could do real driving?”
“He helped me choose it.”
Oh yes, I can just see Jupiter, the man who taught me to kiss, going with the sister who looks just like him—right down to the dimple in her left cheek—to pick the ballsiest car in the lot.
I beckon Peggy into my office.
She opens a notebook and begins to read out my messages while I take off my scarf and sunglasses and admire the view of the Pacific Ocean.
“Your publishing house called. They’re reprinting again because of the news about…
” She puts her notepad down. “The news about Calliope Burns. They say…” Another pause, thus proving she has a heart rather than a Hollywood publicist’s soul.
“They say even more people will buy the book now that she’s… dead.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” I say flatly. “What else?” I need to move on from Calliope because I’m no longer wearing sunglasses.
“You have back-to-back appointments all day. Your first is with Flitter Reeve.” She checks her watch. “In about twenty minutes.”
So Flitter agreed to come.
I sit down in my chair, pretending I’d intended to do that, not that I needed to do it for the sake of my legs.
Even though I invited her, I don’t know how it will feel to be in the same room again.
And without Calliope beside us. I don’t even know if Flitter knows that Calliope’s sick—that she’s waiting for death somewhere out there.
Then Peggy claps her hand to her forehead. “I forgot the most important thing!” She pulls out an envelope from the front of her notebook. “This arrived a couple of days ago.”
Peggy watches while I pull out a check for one million dollars.
I throw it onto the desk like it’s a hot potato.
I stare at Peggy. She stares at me.
“Where…? Who…?”
“There was a note with it.” Peggy passes me a typewritten piece of paper. It’s unsigned, impossible to tell who sent it except…
It’s scented. I know that scent as well as my own.
Calliope Burns.
The note reads, To help fund Helen Burns. She deserves a spectacular movie. xx
“Holy shit. Sorry,” I apologize to Peggy. “It’s just—”
Peggy smiles. “I’d be cursing if someone sent me a million bucks. But it looks like there’s something else in there.”
I reach back into the envelope, pull out a folded sheaf of paper and discover that in my hand is the last will and testament of Helen Burns. Miss Devine Rey is named as the executor of the estate.
Miss Aria Jones, my sister, the will reads, is my sole beneficiary.
There’s no time to reach for my sunglasses before my eyes fill up. Especially when I see the penciled note in the corner, Don’t worry, I’ll make sure there’s a proper death certificate when the time comes. xx
Once upon a time I’d wondered who’d be the one to dance with me on the sand and leap with me into the water when the most momentous thing in my life happened. But I’ve always known it would be Calliope.
I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on sending the words thank you out into the air. Then I clear my throat. Exhale.
“It looks like we’re in business,” I say. “With this check, plus what I can contribute from my royalties, I should be able to raise enough from other sources—”
Peggy interrupts. “Are you ready for more?” She hands me another check.
Half a million this time. Clipped to the check is a note: Love, Theo.
“Shit,” I curse again, because now tears are running down my cheeks. “My damn eyelashes.”
Peggy stands. “I’ll get some tissues.”
I stop her. “Can you find out where Theo Winchester is?”
Her eyes bulge. “Is that from Win?” She points to the check.
I nod.
“Man, I’m going to like it here. Yes, I’ll find out where he is. Give me a few days.”
“Aria.”
My head whips up from my zealous inspection of Theo’s note and my mind leaps out of his daydreamed bed.
Flitter.
She’s come.
“Holy cow.” She whistles. “You look good, Aria Jones.” Her voice is as sassy as ever and only a little bit broken.
She looks good too. Blackmail and dealing with the devil haven’t harmed her looks, but I suppose if they did, then half the people in Hollywood would be as ugly as the things they do to stay here.
She’s let the platinum in her hair soften to honey—perhaps the hair and makeup team on her latest movie told her it would suit her better.
Except she doesn’t have a latest movie. Jane Eyre was never made and won’t be now that Bob’s dead.
When I don’t reply, she subsides into the chair opposite, eyes fixed to the desk. “I know you asked me here because you want to tell me to go to hell. Believe me, I’m already there. But I want to explain so that you only hate me half as much as you do now.”
I tell her the truth, wonder if she’ll still recognize the concept. “I don’t hate you. In a weird way, you helped me. Although it might have been nice if it had hurt a little less.”
“Jesus Holy Christ, between you and Calliope, I’ll soon be so forgiven that I might accidentally start going to church.”
I actually laugh. “With a mouth like yours, I don’t think there’s any danger of God letting you in.”
She grins. “It’s good to see you.”
Yes it is. She did something bad. But Flitter isn’t bad.
Not yet.
“You saw Calliope?” I ask, because for Calliope to have forgiven Flitter, there must have been a meeting.
“Yes.” Flitter’s eyes lock with mine and there it is—her soul.
The soul of a woman who’s never spoken about her family.
All I know is that her mother wouldn’t even buy her period supplies.
That Calliope did it for her. Religious was the adjective Calliope used.
But religion doesn’t leave those kinds of scars in a pair of otherwise beautiful eyes.
Fear does. Suffering too. Only a person who’s been scared throughout their entire childhood would look like Flitter does now.
What did he do to you? I’d once asked Theo about his dad. I could ask the same of Flitter about her mom, but I don’t think she’ll tell me.
Then Flitter blinks, hiding her pain beneath the wit and the smile.