Two
isn’t lovely, isn’t, in fact, much nicer than my shared apartment, but it’s not home.
Despite Jerome’s Frette sheets and huge Jacuzzi bathtub, despite the way the sunlight filters through the sheer curtains onto
the bleached wood floors, I woke up this morning longing for my own little bedroom, for my blue and white sheets, and the
pillow I have had since childhood. I love Jerome’s bathtub, but I wanted the reliable drip drip of my own somewhat crappy
shower.
I craved the worn velvet sofa that Lucy and I curl up on with a bottle of wine and Harvey, a large stuffed Bernese mountain
dog given to Lucy by an ex-boyfriend. Since neither of us is responsible enough for an actual dog, we bought Harvey a collar
from Petco with his name inscribed on a bone-shaped tag, and his own beanbag bed that sits on the floor at the foot of the
sofa. We place him between us when we’re home, making sure we pet him sufficiently. Newcomers to our house find it either
odd or funny. It’s our barometer for whether or not we will let you into our lives—if you get Harvey, you’re in.
This is what I imagined: a bottle (or two) of wine, tequila for Lucy, take-out dumplings, Harvey between us on the sofa and maybe an old movie.
We have just discovered all these great old classics that neither of us knew about—Sleepless in Seattle, Working Girl, Dirty Dancing—and I hoped for a night of binge-watching, but as soon as I enter our small apartment building, I know that’s not going to
happen.
I start to walk up the stairs and hear the pounding of music, the old wooden stairs trembling with the thump of the bass.
Our downstairs neighbor, Keith, must hear my footsteps. He opens the front door holding Cressie, their miniature poodle.
“Going out tonight?” he says, extending Cressie for a cuddle, which of course I give her.
“I’m sorry. I’ll tell Lucy to turn the music down.”
“Absolutely not,” he says. “It makes us feel young, doesn’t it Gus?” he calls out to his husband, who joins him in the doorway.
“What’s that?”
“The music. I was telling Missy we don’t mind the music. As long as it’s off by our bedtime.”
“11:00 p.m.!” I know the drill, relieved that we have such amenable neighbors, who are not only lovely, but Gus is a wonderful
cook. Every now and then we are invited for dinner, which is always delicious. “You young girls don’t know how to look after
yourselves,” Gus will say, spooning some homemade moussaka or perfectly grilled sole with capers and lemon onto our plates,
as we agree wholeheartedly, pleading with them to invite us more often.
Keith and Gus both blow me kisses, waving Cressie’s paw at me as I carry on upstairs. When Lucy’s getting ready to go out,
she blasts one of three playlists, usually a mix of classic seventies funk, with a smattering of modern music that gets her
in the mood.
I love watching Lucy get ready. With the music blaring, a glass of tequila (Casamigos Anejo, on ice, a wedge of lime if we have remembered to buy limes) on the vanity next to her, she manages to start the party as soon as she has applied moisturizer.
I don’t wear makeup, and have never done anything to my hair other than an ill-advised experiment with Sun In when Lucy and
I were sixteen. Her natural dark blond hair turned a beautiful pale blond, as if she had spent the last six months living
on a beach on a tropical island somewhere. My own dark brown hair turned an unsightly shade of orange, which reduced Lucy
to tears of laughter so extreme, she ended up having an accident. I was able to see the funny side of it too. The pair of
us collapsed on the floor of Lucy’s bedroom in hysterical laughter. Lucy then tried to fix it with another home-bleaching
kit, which turned my hair canary yellow. My father saw it the following weekend and drove me straight to the most expensive
hairdresser in Palo Alto, looking over at me every few minutes, shaking his head. “You look like Big Bird,” he said, which
immediately made me feel gargantuan, hulking, clumsy.
Two hours later, my hair was as it had always been—dark brown, with a hint of chestnut, exactly the same as my father’s.
My father claims to hate artifice of any kind. He says he likes women to reveal their natural features, not cover them up
with layers of trickery. Oh what irony that Scarlett, his third wife, is blond (not naturally), with perfect skin and no lines
thanks to a plethora of Botox and Juvéderm. I only know this because I found the small round ice packs in their freezer, the
name of the dermatologist printed on the plastic. I would have left it, but when I told Lucy, she insisted on phoning the
dermatologist office, pretending to be my father’s assistant, for a full breakdown of the procedures Scarlett had had.
Lucy then booked her own Botox appointment, which I found ridiculous.
I barely noticed her frown lines, which, once they had been pointed out, served only to add character to her face.
I tried to talk her out of it, staggered at someone injecting themselves with Botox at the age of twenty-nine, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
She pointed out that I am not the person to opine on beauty treatments.
It’s true, I have never been able to apply makeup. My mother bought me Dermablend once, to help me cover up the scar on my
lip from when I fell off my bike.
I was twelve. Lucy and I had ridden to the top of a hill and were racing down. The bicycles belonged to Lucy’s brothers and
were too big for us. We weren’t supposed to touch them, which of course made them irresistible. Lucy was riding Caden’s bike
which was black, and Noah’s was blue. We had raced the hill six times with nothing going wrong, but on the seventh, my wheel
hit a pothole, and the next thing I knew I was flying over the handlebars and landing on my face, breaking my nose and splitting
my lip.
Eleven stitches were needed to put my lip back together again. I was left with an angry red vertical scar that I hated. Until
my father came to pick me up, taking my chin in his hands and examining my face from every angle.
“Lucky,” he said, moving his face closer to get a good look at my scar. “Scars are cool.”
I never felt embarrassed after that. The scar turned white, and I showed it off proudly. When my mother bought me Dermablend,
I tried it once to show her how well it worked, and never used it again.
My father prefers the natural look and I don’t know whether I am makeup free for him, or for myself. But I am fascinated by
watching Lucy apply makeup, how she transforms herself for work. During the day she will wear sweats and sneakers, her hair
gathered up on the top of her head in a messy bun, but at night, when she is promoting and hosting events, she becomes another
person entirely.
Herein lies the problem. When Lucy is getting ready to go out, her enthusiasm is so infectious that despite my best intentions, despite my need for sleep, for quiet, for lying in bed with a great book, I can’t say no to her.
Everything associated with Lucy is fun. It always has been. Fueled by alcohol, sometimes drugs (weed, cocaine on occasion,
but mostly pills), and almost always a bevy of hip and beautiful people, an evening with Lucy is entirely unpredictable.
The music engulfs me as I walk into the apartment, dropping my purse just inside the hallway and kicking off my sneakers.
“Missy?” yells Lucy from the bathroom.
“I’ll be there in a minute. I’m getting wine. Want a drink?”
“I’m good,” she yells back, as I open the fridge, pour myself a glass of rosé, and take it into the bathroom where I perch,
as always, on the bathtub, still fascinated by Lucy’s process after all these years.
She is made-up, a shimmering gold moisturizer making her skin look luminous, like that of a fallen angel. Her hair has been
flat ironed into soft, beachy waves, and she is just applying a natural gloss, pouting at herself in the mirror as she does
so.
“What have you done to your lips?” Her pout is even bigger than usual.
“Nothing,” she says, before scowling. “God, I can’t get anything past you. I had the tiniest, tiniest bit of filler. Tell
me it’s not a trout pout.”
“It’s not a trout pout, but why? You’re beautiful. You don’t need to do anything.”
“I just wanted to try it. Don’t be so judgy.”
“I’m not judgy. I’m just saying I don’t understand it.”
“So. How do I look?” She slips off the bathrobe, revealing a sequin slip dress in green, her endless legs in high heels.
“You look stunning. What’s the event tonight?”
Lucy is an event planner who is currently in high demand for every hip and happening party in the area.
“I told you,” she says. “It’s the launch of Virtuoso Vodka, remember? It’s at the most amazing home in the hills. Pool party.
Lots of shots. I know I told you.”
“Right.” I nod, even though I don’t remember.
“You’ll come, won’t you?”
I start to frown, formulate my excuses, my need for an early night.
“Oh please. You’ve been at Jerome’s for two nights. I haven’t seen you in ages. We’ll have a great time.”
“We won’t have a great time. You’ll be working. I’ll be lucky if I see you all night.”
Lucy pouts with her new, enhanced lips. “But I’ll know you’re there, and you always have fun. And I need the support.”
A song comes on that she loves, and she stands and grabs my hand, gyrating in front of me until I start laughing, and then
we are both dancing in the bathroom, and she and I both know I’m going to the party.
It happens every time.
Lucy and I are amongst the first to arrive. We head up the gravel driveway, winding around corners flanked with topiary yews
until we pull in front of a low-slung glass house, not quite as big, nor as stunning as my father’s house, which is also set
high up in the Cupertino Hills, but it’s close.