Chapter 30
The driver carried his luggage to the front step of his house on Coldwater Canyon Avenue while Patrick fiddled with his keys, and when he unlocked and threw open the front door, he almost accused the driver of bringing him to the wrong address. That could be the only explanation, Patrick thought as he rolled the suitcases into the hallway of the newly decorated hillside lot, for whatever the hell he was walking into.
He grabbed his phone and pulled up the last email from Asa, the decorator.
Hey P-Man!
Your casa is ready and waiting. I had so much fun with this brief! Your taste is sublime, my guy. I think it’s fair to say I understood the assignment here. This home just SCREAMS “Patrick Lake.” I can’t wait to hear what you think.
A.
Patrick wandered from room to room, feet echoing on the tiled floors, blinking against the light streaming in from the wall-to-ceiling glass that lined the side of the house looking out over the treetops. He recognized things that he had, for certain, requested. The sectional couch, the giant abstract painting in the living room by an artist that he had been assured would only increase in value. If this house did, as Asa promised, scream Patrick Lake, it begged the question: Who the fuck was Patrick Lake?
Los Angeles was a desert, and this house was fitted with technology that enabled him to command any temperature. Still, the whole thing felt cold. Maybe it was the severe lines, the multitude of grays that he had thought chic but seemed lifeless now. Even the furniture looked bare, unfinished. No pummeled old cushions, no throws or blankets, none of the color or texture he’d grown accustomed to in Birmingham.
He couldn’t even say he hated it. He had asked for this. Instead he felt nothing but the awkwardness one always felt when alone in somebody else’s home. Somehow, it even smelled like a hotel.
“I need a shower,” Patrick announced to no one, his voice reverberating around the angular structure. He dragged a suitcase into the bathroom, a vast spartan cube, and scrubbed away the last twenty-four hours under the rain shower. He had just pulled on a T-shirt and sweats when the doorbell rang, echoing ominously throughout the entire building, and he padded barefoot to the front hallway.
“Patrick, hi!” An attractive woman with auburn hair and glasses held out her hand. “I’m Tabby.”
“Tabby?” Patrick shook her hand, more muscle memory than manners. Behind her, what looked like a full camera crew were unloading equipment from the back of a van.
“Tabby Glazer,” she said. Then, seeing his blank look: “From Architectural Digest?”
Right. Shit. Right. They were here to shoot the house. He was supposed to give a video tour of the place. This had been in the books for months, painstakingly timed to coincide with Patrick’s return to the States and the commencement of the promotional campaign for Kismet 2. It had seemed like a perfect idea when he left for England.
Another vehicle rolled onto the driveway, and Simone disembarked before it had even come to a complete stop, trailed by somebody Patrick vaguely recognized, an assistant from the agency.
“Tabby, hi,” she said. “Patrick, welcome back.” She gave his casual attire the briefest of glances, and he could see the equations taking place behind her eyes. He looks scruffy, but maybe that works better. Authentic. Unstaged. He’s at home, he’s relaxed. Let him welcome you inside and get you a beer. He’s America’s boyfriend.
He felt ill.
Once they were all set, half of the crew stayed inside, just out of sight, while Tabby knocked on the front door again and Patrick answered, smiling to the camera.
“Hello, AD,” he said. “I’m Patrick Lake. Welcome to my home!” He held the door open, and the camera followed him into the house, panning down to a pair of Captain Kismet’s boots, which were lined up carefully next to Patrick’s Nikes in the hallway. They had not been there a moment ago, and Patrick once again felt like he had glitched into a different reality, the way a bone might pop out of a socket. He realized that while Simone kept Tabby talking, her assistant had run through the house with a gym bag full of “finishing touches” ready to be spotted by eagle-eyed Easter-egg-hunting fans on YouTube.
In the living room, the coffee table sported a neatly arranged stack of pages, the top sheet of which bore the title Kismet 3.
“Uh-oh, that wasn’t supposed to be there!” Patrick said, mugging stiltedly for the camera. “Pretend you didn’t see that,” he said, winking. “It’s top secret.”
The truth was, beneath that title page lay a pile of blank paper. A script for the third Kismet movie didn’t even exist yet. It would be a miracle if postproduction on Kismet 2 was done in time for the premiere.
“And this is the kitchen,” he continued, gesturing to the gleaming steel appliances. “Obviously.” He was one of those sham Realtors, doing his best to show a house he had never set foot in.
You can do this, he thought. You might not be able to cry on cue, but if there is one thing you can do, it is sell the hell out of whatever piece of shit you have been given. Just commit.
With renewed conviction, he showed Tabby and the cameramen the admittedly stunning view of the canyon from the living room—“This is where I like to read, meditate, just be,” he lied—and waxed lyrically and falsely about the gigantic painting over the couch, which he now realized, after looking at it for longer than two seconds, he hated.
This was all going a lot better than it could have, and as they climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, Patrick found faith in his own acting skills once again. I convinced the world I’m straight, he thought. I can convince a magazine I like my own house.
In the corner, an expensive-looking guitar sat propped against the wall next to the bed. How the hell had Simone’s assistant snuck that thing in here? And why? Patrick almost cracked up at the thought of himself picking it up to serenade some poor soul who had ended up in his room. Thanks for the sex, now here’s “Hey There Delilah.”
“Care to play something for us?” Tabby asked.
“Sure,” said Patrick, the people pleaser in him speaking out before he could remind himself that he did not, in fact, play the guitar. Simone must have seen the mounting panic in his eyes, holding her phone out in front of her like a pistol.
“I’m so sorry, but something has just come up and Patrick is needed elsewhere,” she said. “I hope you got everything you needed!” she added, guiding Tabby and the videographer out of the room.
“Actually, we didn’t—” said Tabby.
“Fantastic!” Simone exclaimed. “We can’t wait to see how it turns out. Can we, Patrick?”
“Sure can’t,” said Patrick. “Thank you, everybody.” And then he was clapping. Oh god, why was he clapping? Somewhere along the way of promising himself he would never take anyone or anything for granted in this industry, he had become the corniest, most condescending mook in the business.
Tabby, visibly bewildered to realize she and her camera crew had allowed themselves to be herded out onto the driveway, raised a hand as if to ask a question. Simone closed the door on them.
“How are you?” she asked. “We haven’t caught up in a while. Not in the flesh.”
“I’m good. How’s Harper?”
“Infuriating. Messy. I’m obsessed with her.”
Patrick smiled. “Good.”
“What about William?” Simone asked.
“Who? Oh. Will.” Patrick wasn’t sure he had heard anybody use Will’s full name the whole time he had been in Birmingham. But Simone would only know him as a signatory on a piece of paper, swearing on his government name to never tell the world what he meant to Patrick Lake.
“That’s over,” he told Simone. “You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”
Simone simply nodded.
“It’s good that you had some fun,” she said. “While you were away. Because you’ve got a packed summer of press ahead of you.”
“That’s fine. I’m ready to work.”
“Great.” Simone adjusted her necklace and cleared her throat. “Well. I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She turned toward the door and paused. “You should come over for dinner sometime. Harper told me to tell you.”
“I’d like that.”
“All right.” She nodded once more and opened the door. The AD team were gone. Patrick suddenly, desperately didn’t want her to go.
“Simone—”
“Welcome home, Patrick. The place looks great.” She closed the door quietly behind her, and Patrick was left with nobody to talk to but the idea of the man who lived in this house. He strolled back into the lounge, stood in front of the huge painting, and, after a moment’s consideration, clambered up onto the couch and lifted it off the wall, carefully maneuvering it down and placing it in the vast window, facing outward. The tourists and dog-walkers could appreciate it while he figured out what to do with it.
Patrick perched on the edge of the sofa next to the coffee table and the script that didn’t exist until the sky outside had dimmed and he had lost almost all feeling in his lower body. Finally, too tired to go upstairs to bed, he stretched his legs out on the cushions and closed his eyes, telling himself that first thing in the morning he would order a blanket online.