9. Bambi
Bambi
Bambi sits alone, tapping the edge of the linen tablecloth, replaying what the photographer told her earlier today.
“Your breasts are sinking,” he had said. Well, not her breasts, actually. It’s her chest, to be specific. He said she was getting that concave look that you see women get, and then called the makeup artist over to see if she could do anything.
When he said it, Bambi smiled and laughed breezily, then posed for another shot, her stomach tense and knotted with frustration and perhaps too many days of living on cucumbers and water.
She was never a runway model, but still, they had asked her to drop ten pounds, and there are consequences … like a sinking chest.
“There’s nothing you can do, aside from getting a boob job or a lift,” the makeup artist told her. “Try not to take it personally, honey.” Bambi shrugged it off. They worked her for another two hours before it was time to wrap and meet Whitney for their lunch date.
While she waits, Bambi orders something light from the menu at the Fern—a spinach salad and an iced tea.
She waves off the waiter, and he looks down her top, probably noticing her chest sinking.
Men notice these things. She’s thinner than most of the women she sees.
Bambi is happy with this fact, but it doesn’t register as happiness within her for some reason.
Most things don’t register as happiness within her for some reason.
It’s a brisk autumn day, but Whitney arrives in a too-short summer dress carrying Buster, her Chihuahua, in her oversized Louis Vuitton. “Oh my God, so sorry,” she says, sitting down, her sunglasses still on. “Doheny was a bitch.” Whitney gives her the once-over and leans in for a double air kiss.
“It’s fine. I already ordered.”
Whitney hangs her bag over the chair and brings Buster onto her lap. His tiny frame shivers as though he’s cold. Whitney signals a waiter and orders an omelet and a Diet Coke.
“So, tell me,” she starts, laying a hand across the table toward Bambi. “How are you? I mean, after that tweet? It’s like, what the fuck? Am I right?”
Bambi nods, her stomach growling. “She’s lying,” Bambi manages. “Jason said the whole thing was choreographed. It’s B.S.”
Whitney tilts her head in mock sympathy. “Bambi, do you really think she would lie about something like that? I mean, why would she?”
“To get exactly what she got. More attention.” She sips her iced tea, bitter, too cold on her teeth. “Jason says it’s good publicity for the film.”
“Well, whatever.” Whitney glances at the waiter with irritation as he places their food in front of them, interrupting her conversation. “I would be pissed, is all I’m saying.”
Bambi stays quiet. After all, this was why she married Jason to begin with. Fame has its necessary sacrifices, doesn’t it?
“You guys are going to Kim and Bruce’s opening, though, right?”
“Yeah. Jason is doing them a big favor, honestly. Just being seen there should give them months of business.”
Whitney laughs, high-pitched and sudden, as though cameras are still following her around the way they did during her blip of reality TV fame. “Have you seen the place? It’s a dive.”
Bambi nods and swallows the small bite of spinach she’s been chewing on.
It’s plainer than she remembers, and of course, all she can smell are the French fries from a neighboring table. She picks at the spinach and finds a few pieces of arugula. Cheap, she thinks and pushes the plate away, ignoring her hunger as she’s taught herself to do.
How is it possible to be lonelier in LA than she was in Manhattan?
In New York, at least there were other models, even if the friendships were surface-level only.
They were all transplants like her that knew what it meant to struggle, to have nothing, and to become a commodity—just a face and a body that could be used to sell clothes, makeup, jewelry, swimwear.
But that was seven years ago, when Bambi was just twenty-two, still young enough to be considered in her prime but experienced enough to know what she was doing in front of the camera.
After moving to LA, she met Whitney at one of the boutiques on Sunset, and Whitney quickly recognized her as Jason’s new girlfriend.
She invited her for a coffee at her house in the Hills.
“Don’t take it personally if it doesn’t work out,” she told her.
“I’m sure you know that Jason Redfern has somewhat of a reputation. ”
“I think we’re different,” Bambi answered. “I’m different.”
Now Bambi sits twirling her wedding ring, watching the carats glimmer and wondering if it’s still true.
“How’s Lucita working out?”
“She’s great,” Bambi replies and takes a long sip of tea. “She does everything I ask—well, everything that Jason asks, honestly.”
Whitney frowns. “Oh, don’t worry. They’re all like that. It’s a cultural thing. They listen to men more.”
“Seriously? Is that true?” In New York, Bambi could never afford help, and besides, her apartment was so small and minimal that she could clean it herself in about an hour.
“Uh-huh. Look, she’s as good as gold—you just have to keep on top of her and tell her what you want.” Whitney leans in. “Sometimes they get lazy, you know?”
“I don’t get that vibe,” Bambi says, using the expression she learned after moving to LA. “She’s always busy, but it’s more that I can’t really trust her to do things for me, you know?”
Whitney just stares at her. “What kind of things?”
“I don’t know. Like if there was an errand or something I needed. I just know she’d tell Jason every little thing I want her to do for me. She doesn’t get it.”
Whitney blinks. “Get what?”
“Get that she works for us both. Not just for him. It’s like she assumes that she answers to him, like Jason is the boss, and I just happen to live there. I don’t know, maybe I’m not making any sense.”
“Is she rude to you?”
“No, no, of course not. It’s more like Jason is in charge. I don’t have any authority.”
“Well, take some!” Whitney answers, suddenly indignant.
“I mean, he’s not even home right now, is he?
” She funnels a small bite of omelet into her mouth and covers her mouth to chew and speak at the same time.
Her oversized, yellow diamond wedding ring catches Bambi’s eye, twice the size of her own.
A surge of deep envy comes over her. Whitney is what they call a Hollywood golden child, the daughter of an A-list actor and a property mogul, which means that Whitney has never had to work a day in her life.
“He comes home tonight before he leaves for the shoot in Europe.”
“Are you going, too?”
Bambi shakes her head. “He doesn’t like it when I’m with him on set. Says it makes it harder for him to stay in character.”
“Yeah,” Whitney says. “My mom used to say that, too.” She finishes half of her omelet and pushes her plate away. Bambi picks at her salad, feeling hungry but unable to eat.
“It’s like he has this whole other life I don’t see,” she admits quietly. “And I only have him.”
Whitney paws her arm distractedly while looking at her phone. “Aww, honey,” she coos. “Of course. He’s an actor.”
After they finish lunch, they grab the check, then leave out the back, where Whitney waves to the restaurant manager.
Outside, Bambi fishes in her purse for lip gloss as a glint of sunlight reflecting off something catches her eye.
She looks up and spots several paparazzi dressed all in black, snapping her picture from a distance under the shade of a small tree across the parking lot.
Whitney takes her hand. “I’ll call my driver. ”
They wait a few moments outside, aware that they are being photographed. Soon, the brazen paparazzi begin to approach.
“Seriously?” Bambi asks. “What are they looking for?”
“Relax,” Whitney instructs her. “You don’t want a bad shot of you on the cover of Hello Hollywood.”
A moment later, Whitney’s driver pulls up in her four-door black Bentley with tinted windows, and the two of them get in the back seat. Whitney rolls down her window and gives the finger to the paparazzi as they approach.
“Stop! What are you doing?” Bambi tries to swat her hand down.
Whitney giggles again as though cameras are watching. “Oh, chill out. I’m just having a little fun.”
“The last thing I need is more bad headlines,” Bambi says when the window rolls up again. “Not right now.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Whitney admits. “I guess they’re after you because of the tweet.”
Bambi’s gut sinks. “It’s not a big deal.”
Whitney pats her leg as they pull onto Robertson and head toward the Valet. “Honey, this is LA. Everything is a big deal.”
As she gets home, she calls Jason. His phone rings out, and she gets a text.
On set. Call you later.
His standard message reply. It’s just after 4 p.m. What could Jason be doing right at this very moment?
Normally, work would keep her just as busy, but lately, things have died down a little, as though the entire industry has caught on to the fact that she’ll be thirty soon.
A tinge of frustration rises within her.
In her business, turning thirty means your career is over, whereas for Jason, it means you are just getting started.
With every shoot, she creeps closer toward obsolescence, while Jason just keeps rising.
Bambi parks in the driveway behind the gate and makes her way inside.
In the laundry room, she quickly switches over the laundry and checks the sheets.
The small, light brown stain is still there, a stubborn reminder.
She throws the lot in the dryer and sets it to the highest setting.
“Where the fuck is Lucita?” she says and slams the dryer door.
Bambi heads inside and collects a few packages waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer—two large boxes from Christian Dior, a small one from Prada, and a gourmet food basket for her and Jason from the trendy market that just opened up in Beverly Hills.
She photographs herself opening the designer boxes and trying on some of the items—a silk scarf, a clutch, a pair of Dior earrings, a bangle, and Prada flats in black leather.
Bambi sighs and kicks off the shoes after taking a quick snapshot.
She posts a few photos on social media, tagging the brands and thanking them.
The front door opens. Lucita shuffles into the foyer, humming softly to herself.
“Hola, Miss Bambi. You go out today?”
“Yeah, I went to lunch. Look what I got.” Bambi twirls and shows off a few of the items.
“Very nice,” says Lucita, admiring her. “You look pretty, Miss Bambi.” Her round face falls. “How about I make some dinner? Something to eat?”
“I ate today. I told you I had lunch.”
“But it’s six o’clock. You don’t want dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Please, Miss Bambi, let me cook for you. Just something light, how you like it. A little salad?”
“I said I’m not hungry, Lucita.”
Bambi goes to her bedroom and checks her phone again. Jason should be finishing up the shoot and coming home tonight. He would arrive tired, have a drink, and do his nightly laps in the pool.
Downstairs, Lucita hums while she cleans and changes the towels in the guest bathrooms. Bambi hears her removing the washed linens from the dryer and muttering, “Ay, Dios mío,” probably because of that stain. But really, she should be used to seeing them by now.
Outside, the streets are quiet. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.
Is she the only person on the planet without one?
Why does everyone seem to have a dog in Beverly Hills except her?
Maybe tomorrow she should go buy a little fucking Chihuahua or something.
But lately, the thought of caring for another living thing fills her with indefinable terror.
Bambi pops an Ambien and lies on the bed, the house still and quiet now.
She spreads her arms out wide on the bed, letting the drug work.
It’s a nice way to feel, like you’re falling, falling, falling into a pit, never to crawl out again.
It’s gotten easier lately, reaching for the Ambien, the compulsion to take it stronger than ever.
She inhales the scent of the night air and the perfume of Jasmine on the breeze. A car drives past. Her eyelids lift for a split second. Jason?
Stop thinking about him, she tells herself. Just relax. He’ll be home when he’s home.
Bambi glances at the small golden-framed picture of them when they first moved to LA.
As she closes her eyes, she can still see him, dancing under the flashing, colorful lights, the dimly lit bar behind him, everyone watching them.
She can still feel her body in that dress, the way the fabric hugged her, her cleavage perky, her lips matte red with a new shade gifted by YSL.
In moments, he was buying her a drink, his hand on her small waist, lips against her ear, talking loudly over the thudding music, the prickle of his stubble on her earlobe.
Her chest burned with the shots, and when he got close again, his unshaven cheek was against hers—harsh, warm, and a little cutting.
When he kissed her, he held her tight and slid his hand down over her left thigh.
Normally, she would have stopped that sort of thing, but not this time. She never said no to him.
Outside, the headlights pass, and Bambi sits up to look for him.
Sure enough, his car turns into the driveway.
Beyond him, something skitters in the shadows.
More paparazzi trying to get a closer look, perhaps.
She shudders. Maybe she should call security, or maybe the police.
Glancing back, though, she follows the shadow darting back from the curb until it disappears, moving with a strange, uneven gait.
Then the Ambien pulls her downward, where the thought disappears along with the passing light.