The Wife of Reilly (27 page)

When we arrived at Matt’s house in Santa Monica, I had trouble mustering the energy to get out of the car. “How important is this party to you?” I asked him.

“Very.”

“Okay, let’s make an appearance then, but I can’t stay late. I have got to get to sleep early tonight, okay?”

Matt jumped to my side of the car and opened the door for me in a grandiose fashion. “Deal, baby.”

Matt’s house was a dusty blue craftsman-style home three blocks from the beach. There was a wraparound porch with more trees and hanging plants than a rain forest. His oak door had an oval piece of beveled glass with an imprint of a rose at the center. Inside, the home looked like a single man lived there. A heterosexual single man. In the living room was a gorgeous brick fireplace and dark wood mantel that matched the hardwood floors almost perfectly. Unfortunately, Matt used the mantel as a storage area for old mail, magazines and a half-burnt vanilla candle. His couch was covered by a Mexican blanket and sat directly in front of a coffee table of some sort. I could not tell if it was glass or wood since it was entirely covered with paper. Inside Matt’s bedroom was one thing — a queen size bed covered with an exquisite quilt he bought at an antique store. It was too small for the bed, and was frankly way too stunning to be hidden in the bedroom. The brightly colored pentagon pattern would have looked great mounted and hung in the living room. The second bedroom was Matt’s office, which was a desk with a fully equipped neon orange iMac and piles of paper scattered everywhere. There were a few stacks on the floor that grew so high, Matt could have used them as tables. One actually had a coffee mug on it. The kitchen, well, let’s just say it was messy.

“So, this is home,” he said. “What do you think?”

“There is so much you could do with this place,” I said, feigning enthusiasm.

“Could you call it home?”

There are other words that come to mind first.

“I thought you loved New York,” I said.

“I did,” he smiled. “It was a great visit. We may just have to flip a coin in the end. Heads, L.A. Tails, New York.”

* * *

 “You’re going to dig Rick,” Matt said on the drive to his friend’s home in Laurel Canyon. “Let me tell you about him first so you’re not totally blown away because he’s intense. He takes a little getting used to, but once you get used to his energy, he’s the best.”

Matt told me that Rick was one of the producers of
Sour Milk
, but his primary income came from being a “life coach” for celebrities.

“A what?”

“You know, someone who helps you get in good mental condition, make a game plan and run the ball down the field,” Matt explained.

“What ball?” I asked.

Matt laughed. “Keep an open mind, baby. I’m not asking you to make Rick your life coach, just don’t knock it, that’s all. Not in front of him, at least.”

“So people pay him to
coach
them through life?” I asked. Matt nodded. “Do
you
use him as a” —
I can’t believe I have to say these words
— “life coach?”

Matt gave me a look as if I were crazy. “You know I’m not into that kind of shit,” he said.

Thank you, God!

“I’m just telling you so you know what he’s like before you meet him. Rick’s cool. He’s a total bud, but he’s also into this fruity New Age scene too. You just take the rest with the good. Kind of like with you,” Matt winked. “Wait till you hear the name of his company.”

“Okay. I’m waiting.”

“Get off your ass,” Matt commanded.

“Get off my ass?” I asked lifting one butt cheek at a time to see if I was sitting on his tie or something.

Matt laughed hysterically. “Get Off Your Ass! is the name of Rick’s business. Isn’t that wild?”

“He gets clients with a name like
Get Off Your Ass!?
”

“Not only does he get clients, he’s the hottest coach in the entertainment industry. I can’t say who uses Rick, but believe me, they’re names you’ve heard of. Names of people who’ve made serious comebacks.” Matt’s voice urged me to guess.

“Who?” I begged.

“I can’t say, but did you see
Titanic
?”

“Hello? Do I live on Planet Earth?”

“There was someone on the boat who
didn’t
die.”

“Kate Winslet? Your friend tells Kate Winslet to get off her ass?”

“Well, not Kate, but there was another major actress who didn’t go down with the Titanic.”

“Kate? Do you
know
Kate Winslet?!” I asked. “I love her!”

Matt didn’t say anything.

“Matt, do you know Kate Winslet?”

“It’s a small town. Everyone pretty much knows everyone in the industry. I wouldn’t say we were best friends or anything. Why so goofy over Kate, anyway?”

“I don’t know, I just think she’s brilliant. Why so goofy over Rick?” I laughed, now oddly drawn into this drill sergeant who commands top dollar from celebrities simply by telling them to get off their ass. “He just tells these people to get off their ass?”

“Well, there’s a bit more to it,” Matt told me. “Rick has systems and technologies that he tailors to the specific needs of each client. But his core philosophy is that people need to get up off their asses and grab life’s opportunities instead of doing what most people do, which is to sit back on their butts and wait for life to hand them a free ride. People make a lot of excuses for not going for what they really want out of life. Rick just calls them on their bullshit, shows them how they’re using excuses to stand in their way and helps them break out of their comfort zone.”

“I thought you weren’t into that kind of shit,” I teased. “You sound like his infomercial or something.”

“I’m not,” he defended. “I just have a lot of respect for the guy and what he’s trying to do, that’s all.”

“But you’re not into it, right?”

“Right.”

* * *

When we pulled into the driveway of Rick’s house, I was duly impressed with its plantation-style grandeur. We had to announce ourselves at an iron gate, get buzzed in, then drive at least thirty yards into the driveway, where the parking lot looked like a Mercedes show room. I may not know about classic muscle cars, but I can certainly spot a Mercedes. I could tell that, once inside, the Georgian mansion would be Californized with high ceilings and large windows that extended to heaven. The red door was almost absurdly tall. I’d never seen a twenty-foot door, but Matt said it made the statement that people who pass through the doors of Rick Osbourne are people of stature. On the brass doorknocker, the words “Opportunity Knocks” were engraved. On the doormat was a picture of a perfectly round female butt with a red circle and slash around it.

Suddenly I felt a great deal of pressure to impress Rick as someone who did not sit on her ass. This man was important to Matt, therefore it was critical that he liked me. I decided I would head straight for the coffee, down two cups for a quick buzz, then show Rick how completely and utterly off my ass I was.

Chapter 25

The inside of Rick’s home looked just as I imagined it would. The entryway had a cloudy gray marble floor and a wide horseshoe-style staircase with two separate sets of steps descending from the second floor. The crystal chandelier was just smaller than my kitchen and sparkled so much that I imagined a team of maids dusted it every day. The great room was carpeted in spotless white, and the walls alternated between textured white paint, light wood and glass. The ceilings were so high that a UFO could’ve landed in this room and one might mistake it for one of Rick’s coasters.

The combination of traditional and modern opulence was interesting, but the absence of chairs or couches was downright weird. Instead, Rick provided his guests with leaning posts that were contoured to fit the human form. At first, I thought they were modern sculptures until I saw one of the guests rest his body into one. Some were flat and had remote control so people could adjust their angle. Others were so swerved, a person could feel almost halfway seated.

Rick’s guests were the who’s who of celebrity “support,” as Rick called them. A euphemism for servants. Claire was Bruce Willis’ dog groomer. Maya was Julia Roberts’s chef. Several were masseuses for the Hollywood A-List. And Quad did feng shui for the rich and famous. Not a recognizable face in sight.

“I want you to meet Rick,” Matt said, leading me over to the bar. There was no question who the host of this party was. Rick positioned himself at the bar and oscillated like a fan as he spoke so everyone could hear him. Rick had leathery tan skin and white hair which he tied back in a ponytail. His eyes were so black I could not see where the pupils began. He wore a red satin loose-fitting blouse that was tied at the bottom, and psychedelic seventies pants.

“You didn’t tell me Rick is gay,” I said to Matt.

“He’s not.”

“Come on, Matt. What straight guy dresses like that?!”

“Rick does,” Matt assured. “He’s married. Look, there’s his wife Kyara.” He pointed to a thirtysomething Barbie doll who was running her fingers through her blond hair as she spoke to a guy who gives Brad Pitt colonics.

“His wife?” I asked.

“His wife.”

Get off your denial, Rick!

“You must be Prudence,” Rick said before hugging me as though we’d known each other our whole lives. “I have heard so many wonderful things about you from Matt, and I can see he didn’t exaggerate when he told me how beautiful you are.”

Oh he’s good.

“Thank you, Rick. Matt speaks so highly of you. Your home is beautiful,” I said.

“My life is beautiful, Prudence. Do you know why?”

Um, you’ve gotten off your ass?

“Tell me, Rick.”

“I’ve got a great deal of money,” he said.

I burst into laughter. “That’s funny. Really, though, why is your life so beautiful?”

Rick’s smile melted like a burning candle filmed at high speed. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to getting to know you better this weekend. Before the night is over, make sure Kyara shows you some of her snowsuits.”

Snowsuits? Shit, that’s right. I agreed to go skiing this weekend. Just what I need from my West Coast winter get-away — snow.

Matt was talking to someone else when he motioned for me to come over to them. “Penny, I want you to meet my fiancée, Prudence Malone,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Penny. All we need is Eleanor Rigby and we could be a Beatles album,” I said.

Thankfully, she laughed. Penny had a flawless face with professionally smudged eyeliner and perfectly accented cheekbones. She had short auburn hair and striking green eyes. As Vilma the bitch noticed about me, Penny also was not a naturally beautiful woman, but she made the most of her appearance through her hip wardrobe, stylish hair and rigorous exercise. I suspected there might be a dead guy beneath the surface of her lips too, but couldn’t be sure. And it’s certainly not the sort of thing you ask someone you just met.

“Penny is a makeup artist,” Matt said.

“For celebrities, I assume?”

“Who else?” Penny shrugged. “Hey listen, Prudence. Do you want to do some coke? I hate doing lines alone.” It wasn’t my first choice of activities, but sleep was not an option and I didn’t want to seem aloof with Matt’s friends.

Kyara caught us walking up the staircase and immediately asked Penny if she could join us. “Hey, are you Prudence?” she asked me. “I’m supposed to lend you some of my ski shit for this weekend. I’ll show you my closet.”

It had been at least ten years since I’d snorted cocaine, but as soon as Penny began breaking up the little white rocks on the mirror lying flat on Kyara’s vanity table, it all came back to me. My heart began to race just at the sight of the powder being lined up for us. “Prudence,” said Penny, handing me a silver straw. “You’re the guest.”

As I snorted the maiden line, I tasted the familiar tang of Ajax cleanser in the back of my throat. I felt as fresh as a new deck of cards being snapped and shuffled by a dealer at Vegas. I was wide awake, cleanly reborn and ready to bond with my new sisters.

Next it was Kyara’s turn. Then Penny’s.

“Penny, this is some good blow. Let’s do another, then I gotta show Prudence my ski shit.”

Before we moved to the closet, we did another line of cocaine. Then another. Then a few more before we got into a heart-to-heart about how we met the loves of our lives. Kyara met Rick in rehab two years ago, obviously an unsuccessful endeavor. “No, it did work,” she corrected. “I was in for booze.” The irony of this statement being delivered through a numbed mouth escaped the stringy blond. “On the first day I saw him sitting there in group, talking about all the shit he went through, and I thought in my head, Jesus, this guy is so real. We spent every second together, and I moved in the day we got sprung. I didn’t even know he lived like a fucking king or anything. It was just all about him and the shit he wanted to do with his life. All this was a bonus,” Kyara gestured to her surroundings. “It was like fate brought us together.”

Penny’s boyfriend was an accountant, which I found somewhat disappointing. I pictured her living with a drug lord, hosting orgies and jamming with rock stars in her private recording studio.

I told them about how I ran into Matt at the stadium before I realized that I hadn’t yet shared the whole story with him. As far as Matt knew, I just happened to be on the same concession stand as him. “You mean you just sensed him there in the stadium?” Penny asked.

I nodded.

“That is so creepy romantic,” she said before lowering her head for another line.

“Can I do your makeup for the wedding?” she asked.

“Of course. But it’s going to be in New York,” I told her.

“Really? Matt said it was going to be here.”

Kyara lifted her head from the mirror and shook her head like a dog fresh out of the bath. “I just want to say that I am so happy Matt met you. The trash he used to date before,” she said, pointing her finger toward the back of her throat. “Lynna the aerobics instructor,” she said, holding her hands out to indicate big boobs. “Pia the Snap-On Tools model and Michelle, who was a propelling guide.”