19. Nicola
Nicola
The staff entrance is in the back, where there are a few parking spaces and a couple of closed dumpsters.
I hesitate for a moment, then head inside the back of the restaurant.
As my eyes adjust, I can just make out the storeroom area, the noise and bright lights of the kitchen ahead of me on the left, with the scent of fried food and booze in the air.
Ahead of me, voices and commotion are coming from the main restaurant area.
At the very corner of the bar, a server sets down her tray and strides toward me, removing her apron.
She eyes me and shakes her head. “It’s a shit show in there,” she whispers.
“What is?”
“The whole scene.” She lowers her voice and comes nearer to me. “Jason Redfern just freaked out in front of everyone. The manager fired me and two kitchen staff.”
“What happened?”
She shrugs, not focusing. “I don’t know. It’s not my fault. I mean, how was I supposed to know Jason Redfern had a shellfish allergy?”
She throws her apron into a box of canned tomatoes next to me, then pulls off the tie of her uniform. She starts unbuttoning her black shirt, revealing a white tee shirt beneath it, and tosses that in, too. She straightens herself, sighs, and checks her phone. “Are you working?”
“Yes,” I answer without thinking.
She laughs. “Well, good luck.”
She pushes open the back door and leaves. The pile of her uniform clothes in the box next to me seems to be calling me. My ears prickle. Martha is still close enough to pay attention.
Yes. Do it.
My hands take up the clothes, thick and starchy, and I make my way into the ladies’ room, trying not to be seen.
In the oversized corner stall, I whip off my sweaty clothes and sniff my armpits. Quickly, I dart over to the sink in my underwear and scrub myself down. The door swings open, and high heels clip toward me, so I dart back into the stall and close the door behind me.
Sitting on the toilet seat, I pull my feet up and peek through the gap of the stall’s door at the woman standing near the sink.
A deep, long sigh emanates from her. She opens her purse and takes something out.
She examines her face in the mirror and steps back.
She puckers her lips, checks out her rear end, and then turns, pruning her hair with her fingers, each hand glittering with a perfect manicure and several large diamonds.
Another long sigh escapes her, then a mumble. “Geez, Bruce.”
I freeze, realizing she thinks she’s alone. I still my breathing and listen as the door swings open and more footsteps approach. She straightens further and runs the tap. She washes her hands, even though she didn’t use the restroom.
A new voice, light and colorful like a TV personality, echoes. “Oh my God, is he okay?”
So it is her. Bambi. Bambi Redfern. The model. His wife.
Peeking through the gap, I can see them. The first woman —Bambi—in her all-white, stunning, skin-tight dress. The other woman in a red number with Louboutin high heels.
“He’ll be fine,” Bambi answers, her voice flat.
“Well, thank God. I seriously can’t believe they fucked up the menu that badly.”
“I can,” Bambi answers. “I mean, just look at this place. Love the shoes, by the way.”
“My favorites. But you know what? I wasn’t even going to bother because it’s not exactly the Ritz. Am I right?”
Bambi smiles slightly and nods. “Yeah, it’s disgusting. And you know what Jason’s like with his allergy.”
I angle myself to see more of the woman in red. She’s a blonde with a wide, flat face and small, menacing eyes, made smaller by too much eyeliner and fake eyelashes. She dips forward, jiggles her breasts into position within her bra, and then straightens to look at her cleavage.
“I’m so sorry, babe. This place is totally rank.”
Bambi stills, but her lips form a smirk. “Whitney. Don’t be cruel.”
Whitney—the woman in red—sneers. “What? They always pick the worst locations.”
They both look at each other in the mirror and say simultaneously, as if mimicking, “It’s still Beverly Hills!” and burst out laughing.
“So, what’s happening with your help situation?”
Bambi turns, staring at her. “What do you mean?”
“You know, I thought Lucita wasn’t working out or whatever?”
“Oh,” Bambi replies. “No, she’s fine. But I did something a little crazy.”
Whitney turns to look at Bambi. “What did you do?”
“Promise not to tell anyone?”
“My lips are sealed.”
Bambi hesitates and lowers her voice. “I put up an ad on Craigslist. I just posted it.”
“Oh. Honey. No. You should use my agency. They have really great people.”
Bambi shakes her head and goes back into her purse for lipstick.
She pouts and reapplies. “No.” A smack of her lips together.
A ring finger wiping some off the side. Blotting with a hand towel.
“I would rather no one really know about it. That’s why I made the post anonymous—Beverly Hills Home Assistant.
That’s how I titled it so no one would know. ”
Whitney’s eyes widen. “Oooh. A secret. I love secrets.”
“Well, it’s just that if she’s going to work in the house with me, I don’t really want someone from someone we know. You know?”
Whitney stares at her, totally blank. “Not really. Isn’t it, like, important to trust the help?”
“I will trust her.”
Whitney laughs a little. Her face takes on a mocking expression. “Bambs. Is this really a good idea? I mean, I can hook you up with someone …”
“No, but thanks. I really want someone different. Someone who hasn’t worked in other houses.”
“Seriously? You can’t just go with any random person off the street. They could be a murderer or something!”
Bambi shakes her head. “Look, it’s just a gut feeling. I need someone who isn’t going to be all over Jason, trying to talk to him, get autographs or selfies with him.”
“Yeah, like a professional.”
“Like, a stranger. Someone not from here. Someone who doesn’t even know who he is and doesn’t care.”
Whitney pats her on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”
After they leave, my heart races for a good two minutes as I try to keep Martha at bay. There’s a deep thudding in my temple, low and persistent.
When I close my eyes, I can see the brightness of the car approaching—a white specter just in my peripheral.
Then Emmy’s scream, the impact of body to vehicle, the gut-wrenching terror of moving through the air, being thrown from the hood right onto the asphalt, where I turned to see Ben, his hand bent unnaturally.
Leg twisted inward. His face tilted away from me, blood pooling beneath his body.
Martha is needling inside me, picking at the threads of the entire conversation, pulling words out.
The wife is a nervous wreck. She knows what he did.
“How can I be sure? I mean, it’s the same car, but is it actually him?” I whisper alone in the stall.
Of course it is. Get closer, and you’ll see.
I pull back my hair into a ponytail and shove my stinky clothes far down into the trash can.
When I exit the stall, I pass myself in the mirror and stand for a moment, noticing the stark contrast between Bambi and me.
I don’t have her polish, her beauty, her presence.
I’m smaller and can clearly see my unkempt figure, the washed-out look of my skin, the lopsided, broken appearance of my body.
It’s as though I’m a fragment of a person, all knotted up and twisted from what I used to be.
Don’t you worry, Martha intones inside me. You’ve got me. We can fix this.
Outside at the bar, a short, balding man thrusts a tray full of pre-poured champagne into my hands. “Serve these, then come back and get the tapas. Everything is just settling down after the incident,” he whispers.
“The incident?”
He makes a face at me, annoyed or repulsed—I can’t tell. “Mr. Redfern had a reaction to the shellfish. Only serve what I give you, understand?”
“Right.” I force a nod, trying to look efficient.
He rolls his eyes. “Let’s go. Hurry up.”
The dining room is jammed with people, bodies shoulder to shoulder, loud voices overtalking each other.
The crowd is difficult to get through, tight cliques and elbows pushing me like I’m not even there.
Bambi and Jason are easy enough to spot in the center of the room, surrounded by a throng of well-dressed men and women.
I recognize him right away from the hotel, looking as if nothing much has happened.
I scoot around the periphery, careful to avoid his eyes, blending in with the crowd.
He, of course, is the one doing the talking while everyone listens.
Bambi is next to him. Nearing the table, I approach, forcing a smile.
Martha is pinching, pushing, driving me with every step.
She wants a closer look at them both. How can I blame her?
Only … I don’t know what I’m supposed to see.
Then, as I approach, a woman to his right turns, takes a glass from my tray without asking, unbalancing it from my hands.
I try to steady it, but Martha has other plans.
The tray drops. Champagne and glass spill to the floor, a fantastic crash of glass and liquid over my feet.
People stop and stare at me. Smirking glances.
Snickers. They turn away, disinterested, and I feel my body sinking to the floor.
My hands sweep up the mess with the cloth of my tray, but my mind is elsewhere.
That’s it. Right here, Martha whispers. Follow my gaze.
There’s a sharp object in my hand. Blood oozing, oozing. That perfect, unmatched color. A sting and a prick. I pluck the glass from my palm and hold it to the light, blood dripping down my wrist.
Forget about that. Look up.
She tilts my chin, a forceful but not uncomfortable nudge.
I twitch a little and glance up at Redfern and his wife, still chattering.
The angle is so familiar, being down on the ground like this.
In the light, I notice his shoes. Black and shiny, almost oversized, slightly raised heel.
Like a flash in the back of my brain, I see him stepping from the white Rolls-Royce, first one foot, then the other.
It’s him.
I know this already, I tell her.
With the large piece of glass in my fingers, my obscure reflection in its curve, I see myself and her there all at once. She gazes back at me, happily.
That’s right, it’s him. And what are you going to do about it?
Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. I feel her confirm what must be done.
“Nothing. We can’t do anything!” I tell her under my breath, careful not to let anyone hear our conversation. “This has to stop—do you hear me?”
Oh, sweet Nicola. You don’t know me at all, do you?