Chapter 34
Just as Ingrid predicts, the studio is overjoyed to hear the news about Hailey.
Bob calls Ingrid personally to congratulate her on her “commendable” job steering this project.
Charlie hints to her agent that they can’t wait to talk about renewing her deal when the time comes.
Now all Ingrid has to do is land Camila another project before the actress finds out.
But first she has to get a great writer and director worthy of Hailey. The good news is, so far everyone seems to love the quirky backstory of the woman from church. It helped that Maggie’s pages have given her so much material to work with.
Did she feel bad using Maggie’s pages as the new origin story for the movie?
A little. But Ingrid reminds herself that ideas and backstories are swapped all day long in Hollywood.
These little possibilities are just to get the juices flowing in the meetings.
The real story is what the screenwriter will write, which they will come up with once they get hired.
Even if a little spillover happens, well, she did option Maggie’s story, too.
And she’s been working with her on it, actively helping her sharpen those pages.
Who’s to say if it was Ingrid’s notes and suggestions or Maggie’s experience that made the pages sing?
She’s finishing up her last Zoom of the day when Dr. Hayes calls.
“How are your eyes?” he asks. He was shocked to hear that she can read just fine now without reading glasses, which she told him over the weekend. He didn’t know exactly why that would be happening, but promised to run tests with her latest blood work.
“Still seeing everything perfectly,” Ingrid reports. “Did you find out why it’s happening?”
“We ran the tests. Your biomarkers now resemble those of a woman in her early forties,” he reports excitedly.
Ingrid puts a hand over her mouth. “How could that be? It’s only been three transfusions!”
“Like I said, the treatment is different on each person. It could very well be that in women, the antiaging effects are more pronounced. But isn’t that exciting?”
Ingrid tries to do the math in her head. If she’s knocked down ten years in three transfusions, where will she be after seven more? “You don’t think I’m going to end up being a teen—”
“God no. This isn’t Benjamin Button. We’re just talking about your biomarkers, the health of your organs. Speaking of which, I’ve got more good news. You ready?”
Ingrid sucks in a breath.
“Remember that cancer signals test? We ran it again and the number of mutations is down. The treatment’s working!”
Ingrid lets out a yelp. “Thank God!”
She thanks the doctor and is eager to get off to go downstairs to tell Kyle the extraordinary news when Dr. Hayes adds, “One other thing, Ingrid. What are you and Kyle doing for birth control?”
Ingrid bursts out laughing until Dr. Hayes reminds her that he’s not joking.
Since she’s testing in her early forties, she should be careful.
She hangs up with Dr. Hayes. She can’t wait to tell Kyle.
She doesn’t know why she finds the idea of birth control so funny, but she does.
For decades, it was the bane of her existence—always trying to remember when to take the pill or worrying whether or not Kyle pulled out in time.
Now it just seems like a scientific marvel.
Not that they have anything to worry about. Kyle had a vasectomy years ago. He even got a T-shirt for it from his doctor. It was of a sexy blonde looking over at a man, saying, You had me at fixed. Does he still have it? Maybe she should wear it when she tells him the news.
She gets up and goes upstairs to their bedroom in search of the shirt.
She walks into his closet. As she’s rummaging through his bottom drawer, she sees a credit card statement stashed in the back.
That’s weird. It’s from their Citibank card, a card they never use.
She pulls it out and starts examining it.
As her eyes scan all the transactions, Ingrid fights the sinking dread in her gut. Then she sees it.
Dreamgirls, Amsterdam Escort Services—$878. It’s from two years ago. A full year and a half before he cheated with those other girls.
She collapses on the floor, clutching the statement. That fucker! He swore on his life it was only one time. And she believed him. Like an idiot. How many other times have there been?
She gets up and storms down the stairs. Instead of talking to Kyle—she can’t even look at him right now—she grabs her keys.
—
Her hands are still shaking when she arrives at the nail salon. She takes a seat next to two women in their thirties, tells the staff she’ll take a pedicure, and starts pulling up every credit card statement for the last ten years on her phone, studying them like a homicide detective.
As she’s scrolling, she hears one of the women next to her ask, “Your skin looks amazing. What’s your secret?”
The question nearly brings her to tears. One of the reasons she did the transfusions was for him, so she could feel young enough and woman enough for him, and it makes her sick to admit that she ever thought that way for one second.
“Being married to an asshole, apparently,” she mutters. One of the women reaches over and hands her a tissue. Ingrid takes it and blows.
“It happens to the best of us,” the woman says. “At least you look stunning.”
Her friend nods. “You know what you should do? Go to Erewhon, stand in line for a smoothie, drop your keys. Just watch how many hot guys come over and pick them up. Better yet, do it in front of your asshole husband.”
Ingrid looks up from the statements. Her throat suddenly feels parched. Maybe a smoothie would be better than a pedicure. “Actually, I changed my mind,” she tells the staff. She throws down a twenty, thanks the women, and goes to her car.
—
The sights and sounds of so many good-looking young people all gathered in a grocery store is jarring.
Apparently the bar scene has been replaced by the probiotic/coconut kefir scene.
She wriggles her wedding ring off her finger and puts it in her purse, then picks up a package of strawberries, pretending that’s what she’s there for.
Jesus, it’s expensive. No wonder she and Kyle don’t shop here.
Ingrid puts the strawberries back and gets in the smoothie line, her eyes still glued to her phone as she continues looking through statements.
So far nothing else looks suspicious. But who knows what other credit cards he might have?
Can she ever trust him again? She puts a hand over her stomach, nauseous.
Maybe a smoothie is not a good idea. But when she gets to the front of the line, she puts in her order anyway.
As she moves over to the waiting section, she looks around.
The men are cute, but, like, Connor cute.
Way too young. What would Connor think if he saw his mom standing in Erewhon, dropping her keys and hoping some strange man picks them up?
And for what? Just to prove that she is, in fact, still desirable?
She knows that. She knows she doesn’t deserve this.
She should just leave. Instead, she jams her hand into her purse, grabs her keys, and drops them.
They land with a thud on the floor.
She takes a step back, rolling her eyes and kicking herself for listening to those ladies. This is just going to be another disappointment. But to her shock, a tall guy with a head of beachy blond curls, who appears to be in his late twenties, comes rushing over.
Her cheeks turn pink as he picks them off the floor and hands them to her.
“Thank you,” she says, quickly putting her keys back into her purse. He smiles back at her, his adorable dimples deepening.
OK, now you know. You did your little social experiment.
Now you can leave. But she doesn’t want to leave.
She wants to know what his name is. Who is this beautiful stranger?
She figures him to be a local. Definitely a surfer.
She notes he’s carrying a binder. Maybe he’s a student getting his PhD at UCLA?
A surfer getting an anthropology degree, perhaps?
He points at the board. “Which one did you get?”
“What?” she asks, stumped. It takes her a second to realize he’s asking her what smoothie. “Oh! The strawberry glaze one.”
“The Hailey Bieber Skin Glaze?” he asks. “Heard that one’s good. Never tried it.”
“Never tried it, either.”
He leans over. “Not that you need it.”
She realizes he’s flirting with her. “Who says I’m getting it for my skin? I could just be into sea moss.”
Surfer/Anthropology Guy laughs. A beautiful cackle. A few people look at them.
“A girl who likes sea moss,” he says, his eyes dancing. “Now I’m intrigued.” She smiles back. He called her a girl. Interesting. He holds out a hand. “Alec.”
“Ingrid.” She shakes his hand.
His hand is warm, his grip strong. He hangs on to her hand for a second longer than he needs to. The ladies in the nail salon were right; this is better than a pedicure.
“What do you do, Ingrid?”
She tenses. The last thing she wants is to tell him who she is. She wants to forget. To escape. To linger in this nice alternate reality. “I’m in real estate,” she lies.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?” he says, delighted. She prays he’s not going to start dropping names of real estate brokers she doesn’t know. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Then you must love beautiful homes.”
“I do.” She nods.
The Erewhon people call out Alec’s name. He goes and gets his smoothie, then walks back over to her, taking a sip. “You should come and check out my house, then. I’m hosting a little house party later in Malibu. We can hang! Maybe talk more about…sea moss?”
She looks at him in surprise. “You want me to hang? With you?”
As he reaches for her phone and puts in his number, she thinks, This is crazy.
She should tell him she’s married and leave now.
But as he leans over and gives her a hug, she clings to his ripped torso.
Kyle did this to them, not her. This is what he wanted, or he wouldn’t have done it over and over again.
It’s time she prioritizes her own happiness, too.
She smiles and tells Alec she’ll try and stop by later.
What’s one hour?