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Authors: Margo Candela

BOOK: Underneath It All
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35
London
I
wake up with the sun in my eyes. Natasha snores softly in the double bed next to me. I immediately check my cell phone to see if Mrs. Mayor has left me any messages. It’s not even 7:30 but Mrs. Mayor likes to get an early start on making her presence known to the world at large.
Nothing. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or prepare for the inevitable storm. Mrs. Mayor’s “happy phase” usually lasts about three days to a week. And then it’s either a period of frantic activity: 6
AM
workouts, marathon spa treatments, visits to her therapist, mentor, and spiritual guide—or crushing inertia where she “works” from bed and I have to perch myself beside her, speak in soft, soothing tones and pretend I like Crystal Light because that’s all she’ll drink and fat-free Fig Newtons because that’s all she’ll eat.
I pick up the phone and dial the number she left for me. It’s picked up precisely at one-and-a-half rings.
“Hello, London speaking.”
“Pardon me?” I thought I was calling Carmel. I clear my throat. “Is this the Baxter residence?”
“Would this be Jacquelyn?” She doesn’t seem to have an English accent, but she does sound uptight.
“Yes, as a matter of fact it is.” My brain is too fuzzy to be as freaked out as I should be. “I’m looking—”
“Yes, I’m London, Gail’s assistant. Mrs. Baxter. Or, rather, the original Mrs. Baxter. I’m helping out the mayor’s wife while she’s staying here.”
“Hi ... London. I was hoping to speak to Katherine.” I nudge myself up onto my elbow, feeling a bit at a disadvantage wearing my ratty T-shirt and boxer shorts while London is probably wearing a wool suit and real pearls at this hour of the morning.
“Of course, you can leave a message with me and I’ll make sure she gets it.” Clipped, precise and disapproving—exactly what you want in a personal assistant.
“That’s great, but I was hoping to speak to her directly.” I yawn and don’t bother to hide it.
“Is this a
personal
matter?” London perks up.
I guess she’s hoping I’ll ask her to pass on that the doctor said it was just a yeast infection and Mrs. Mayor shouldn’t worry.
“
Yes,
it is, actually.”
“You can have
complete
confidence in my discretion, Jacquelyn.”
Oh, so now we’re discretionary friends, are we?
“I’m
sure
I can.”
Normally I would enjoy a good game of tease the staff, but I have to rouse both Vivian and Natasha so we can start our drive to Los Angeles. Last night Mr. Mayor took me aside and asked me to take Vivian along with me. He seems to think she could use a couple days away from San Francisco.
“I just wanted to check in with Katherine and see how’s she’s doing.”
“Oh. Is that it?” She sounds disappointed that the drama wasn’t a drama at all.
“Thanks for all your help, London. It was an experience.” I hang up and collapse back into bed.
36
Emilio
A
fter that, there is no hope of going back to sleep. I shower and dress quietly so as not to wake Natasha, my head full of all my shortcomings and faults.
I pick at my breakfast in the hotel restaurant and try and keep from letting my chin sink into my chest.
I can start anew. Dr. N was right, after all. I am capable of whatever she said it was I could do and change about me and my life. I think I might need to double up on my appointments again. I don’t know how Dr. N is going to take it. I hope she doesn’t get mad that all the progress she’d thought I made went right down the toilet with my ego in one night. Maybe she’ll see this as a breakthrough of sorts?
I scheduled an appointment for the day after I get back from visiting my family, which serves two purposes: I have a solid excuse as to why I have to leave, and I’ll need to decompress after visiting my family.
I make myself sit up straight. I will allow myself to wallow in misery up until I get to Los Angeles and then after that I will make myself snap out of it. If my family gets a hint that I’m not ecstatically happy with my life, I’ll spend my whole visit warding off their questions and suggestions about how my life went all wrong, starting with my choice of junior-high boyfriends.
“
Señorita
Sanchez.” Emilio slides into the seat opposite mine and signals to the waiter.
“You again.” I’m not in the mood. He laughs. I guess he likes it rough. “What are you doing here? Meeting another friend?”
“I heard this place makes the best waffles in Santa Barbara,” he says as he plucks a strawberry off my plate. “I just had to come try them. The Hilton has good room service, but I’m a sucker for waffles.”
“Waffles at the Four Seasons. Cortez, what would your readers say?”
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“How very, very political of you, Emilio, you sound like you’re running for office,” I say, but I begin to relax. It feels good not to have to put on an act for anyone. Even though we don’t know each other very well, I don’t see the point of keeping up my façade. He can see right through me.
“You called me Emilio. I was beginning to think you didn’t like me.”
“Whatever would give you that idea,” I say sweetly but laced with what I hope is enough sarcasm to let him know I’m no pushover. “Sometimes I even read your column because it’s informative.”
“That’s good to know. You are a
mujer
full of surprises.” He leans back and rubs his eyes. He looks tired.
“Long night?” I try to defrost. It’s not his fault I’m in a crappy mood.
“Too many meetings. Too many people. You’ll be happy to hear that most of the party looks favorably on your little boss. They all say she is very well versed on the issues of the day.”
“I should hope so. I work hard enough at it,” I say and immediately feel guilty. All the prep work that goes into turning Katherine Bishop into Mrs. Kit Baxter, wife of the mayor of San Francisco, is none of Emilio Cortez’s business.
“You’re wasting your talents, Jacquelyn.” He states this simply and smiles up at the waiter as a plateful of delicious-looking waffles is placed in front of him. “Don’t tell my mother you saw me eating this. She still thinks her
machaca
is my favorite food in the world.”
“Trust me. I’m good at keeping those kinds of secrets.”
37
Vivian
T
he halls are wide and quiet with a few maids’ carts dotted here and there. I can’t help but peek into the open doors of rooms, comparing layouts, furniture quality, and what its occupants have left strewn all over the floor for the nameless maids to pick up.
I get to Vivian’s door. The DO NOT DISTURB sign is still on the knob, right where I left it the night before.
“Vivian, it’s me. Jacqs.” I knock softly and press my ear to the thick door.
“Jacqs?” Vivian croaks. “Save me.”
After a few minutes, Vivian drags herself to the door and opens it. She looks like crap and doesn’t smell much better. She sinks back into bed, wrapped in a bedsheet.
“Have you had any water, lots of water?” I go over and pour her a glass. She takes it in shaky hands. “What did you drink last night?”
“I don’t remember. Why aren’t you hungover?” She takes small sips, pausing to see if any of it will come back up.
“I was afraid that Scooter would ask me about the history of chimichangas and I’d be too drunk to give him a satisfying answer.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” Vivian holds her head and peeks at me with one eye. She moans as the sound ricochets off the walls and back to her head. “Did I get here last night with my wallet and wearing my own underwear?”
“What are friends for?” I ask and hold up her bag and point to her crumpled pair of underpants.
“To keep you from getting shit-faced and calling your husband at 3
AM
and accusing him of screwing other women
and
men?”
“No! You didn’t.” This is not something I’d put past a drunk or sober Vivian, but I feel I need to act shocked for her benefit. No one likes their friends to assume they are capable of truly embarrassing behavior.
“I think I did.” Vivian hangs her head and shuffles toward the bathroom wearing only her earrings from last night.
“Lucky for you I had the front desk put a lock on your phone. You must have given an earful to some poor guy at the front desk.”
“You’re the best, Jacqs. Really.” Vivian stops and gives me a hug.
Peaking out from underneath her bed is a torn condom wrapper.
“I know I am.” I pat her naked back.
38
Natasha
I
turn in our room keys while Vivian takes care of some last-minute Mr. Mayor details. Natasha lurks in the corner wearing huge dark sunglasses, a black scarf (hiding her platinum-blonde hair) and a leopard-print trench coat. It still doesn’t distract from how sad she looks.
She hasn’t been able to reach Jesus for the last few days and fears the worst. So do I, but I want so much for this thing between them to work out that I’ve been psychotically positive about the whole thing. I’m sure I’m wearing thin on Natasha’s nerves, but she knows I mean well.
“Is this your secret-agent look?” I hope to lighten the mood.
“I’m hiding out from Jesus.” She looks around as if he could actually materialize in front of us at the sound of his name.
“You can’t hide from Jesus.” Another lame attempt. She frowns at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come down to LA with me and Vivian? We’re staying at the Beverly Wilshire, courtesy of our favorite soap star. It’ll be fun. Just us gals, no work and all play ... until I have to ditch you guys to go to my parents.”
I know I’m wasting my breath, but I feel bad abandoning Natasha. She shouldn’t have to face this alone. Plus, Vivian already has made it clear I’m on my own with Myles, and I could use the company. His assistant has already called and confirmed early dinner and some vague party I’ll be attending with him. I’ve yet to speak to the man personally, but his assistant sounds lovely.
“Honey, I’m about as likely to have a good time as I am to vote Republican in the next election,” Natasha sighs. “Just drop my butt at the airport.”
“Airport? I thought you were taking the train back up to San Francisco—to have time to, um, think?” This is what she tearfully told me last night, at least.
“I love him so much!” She begins to cry. Now I see why she’s wearing the glasses. I scoot into her bulk and drape my arms around her.
“What do you want to do?”
“Nothing. I had the locks changed before I left. It’s over.”
“Dang. Just like that?” I expected this to be drawn out a couple more months, if not until the end of the year.
“He cheated on me! He lies to me. He steals from me!” She pauses to take a breath to continue.
“I get the picture,” I say before she can get started again.
“I’m going on a long vacation, to visit some friends in New York. I’m leaving tonight.”
“Tonight?” What about Mrs. Mayor?
“Here is my key.” She hands me her key chain, a pair of tiny, fuzzy pink dice. “Will you water my plants until I get back?”
“If you could just wait a few days, I can leave my parents’ house early ...”
“Don’t use me as an excuse to avoid your family. I’ll be fine, honey. I have your number and my little pills.” She begins to weep again. “I love you, Jacqs.”
“I love you, Natasha.” We stand there holding each other, ignoring everyone. I smile lamely up at her, realizing how truly useless I am. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too, honey.
C’est la vie
or whatever it is you Latins say.”
“That’s exactly what we say. Or, as Doris Day used to sing, ‘Kay Sir Ah, Sir Ah ...’ ”
It wasn’t until I saw the song title scroll up on one of those commercials for record compilations that I realized all these years poor Doris had been singing in Spanish.
Natasha drops her head onto my shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me; I’m in a sensitive state.”
“I know you are, honey.” I pat her back and feel my eyes well up with tears and once again find myself taking Jesus’s name in vain.
39
Myles
“
I
’m working on a project right now that you should be interested in.”
Myles and I (or is it me and Myles?) are sitting at a patio table at The Ivy. Yeah, that Ivy. Two tables away I can see the back of Teri Hatcher’s head. I’m almost certain I took a pee in the stall next to Brittany Murphy a few minutes ago.
“It’s Hispanic,” he adds for clarification.
“I’m an expert on all things
Hispanic
.” I’ve quickly realized I have to hit Myles over the head with sarcasm to get him to register anything I say.
“Asians had their day with the martial arts stuff, but now the forecast is all about Hispanics. Hispanics are hot right now.” Myles is tanned, faux tanned, his intense blue eyes never stop moving. “Looks like Keanu is in the house. Keanu, dude! Call me.”
I shrug, but my heart revs up. Bina is going to die when I tell her. I’ve lost count as to how many times he’s interrupted himself or me to point out someone or another.
“Yeah, anyway, Hispanics are hot. All of them.”
Myles fiddles with his phone. I made the mistake of asking him about it and for the entire car ride over he bitched about how awful it was, but it was the “cool” phone to have.
“I’m so relieved.” I can’t help but feel this is part of the reason he’s taken me under his wing and has volunteered to be my guide to West LA. Not that I’d ever tell him, but it
is
a hell of a lot different from Northeast LA.
“It’s about this guy who travels to the Amazon. He’s a doctor, trying to get away from his past in the big city. He’s on a quest, or some shit like that, and he winds up living with a tribe. He helps them fight off the ranchers who want to burn down the tribes’ land for grazing land. Colin Farrell is hot for it, but I’m thinking we’ll go American. Christian Bale is hot right now.”
“He’s English. And Colin Farrell is Irish.”
“Close enough. These people live like it’s the turn of the century.”
“Really.” I’m not sure if he’s talking about tribes in the Amazon or Colin Farrell/Christian Bale. “Which century?”
“Anyway, this project, it’s really opened my eyes to how the rest of the world lives,” Myles says and looks like he enjoys saying at every opportunity. I can imagine it’s got him laid a bunch of times. Myles shuffles his cell phone and PDA as if they were playing cards. “The way they live is unreal.”
“I bet.” Unreal to a man who just moved into a 5,000 square foot home in the Hollywood Hills because he wants to “scale down.”
“These places haven’t been touched, ruined, really, by technology. No roads, nothing. Just the fucking jungle as far as you can see. People live in, like, these shacks and shit. You have to get your water from rivers and fight off mosquitoes the size of pigeons. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. It’s like a whole other world out there.”
“Good thing I can look forward to the movie.”
“Exactly.” Myles straightens up and looks attentive. “Maybe we’ll make the première a benefit or some shit like that. To raise awareness that places like these need to be preserved.”
“I’m sure the folks there in the Amazon would really appreciate it.” Who needs things like roads and clean water when a Hollywood genius appreciates the harsh beauty of the Amazon? Instead of saying this I take a sip of my jasmine-infused ice tea.
“Maybe I should approach Russell ... you know, Russell Crowe. He could use some good publicity.” Myles furiously pecks out a memo on his Blackberry.
“He’s Australian, but same difference. So are you going to show these lucky folks your movie once it’s done?” I’ve picked up Myles’s habit of scanning the crowd. And I’m not disappointed as Teri Hatcher catches my eye. I smile and look quickly away.
“Which folks?” Myles doesn’t look up.
“The people who Russell or Christian or Colin are going to save from extinction?” Tonight I’ll dream of the Amazon, complete with Myles in a loincloth aiming a poisoned dart at my heart.
“They don’t do English. And even if we subtitled it, they couldn’t read it.” He puts down his Blackberry and then picks up his cell phone. He has to keep at least one electronic thing in his hand to feel grounded.
“Plus, even if they could
do English,
they wouldn’t have electricity to see it.” I sit back and wait for Myles not to be shocked.
“Exactly.” Myles lights up a cigarette. A woman at the table next to us throws him a dirty look. “They’re herbal, lady. Someone should really do something about that. Everyone should have access to a decent movie theater.”
“I’ll get right on it.” I snort.
“We can’t shoot it in the real Amazon, too fucking expensive. We’re thinking Mexico.” Myles does another crowd scan.
“Same difference.” I push my plate away from me and wait for Myles’s inevitable answer.
“Exactly!”
 
A few hours later, after cooling my heels in Myles’s sleek office penthouse and gazing at his impressive collection of modern art and accepting endless cups of tea from one of his three assistants, we arrive at the party. Myles fastens a yellow hospital-type band around my left wrist, but instead of my name and insurance info it has a series of black stars on it. He doesn’t bother to take one from the hostess for himself. Then he puts a hand on the small of my back to steer me through the crowd of people. I find myself feeling insecure about how I look just because everyone seems to be checking me out and I can’t help checking myself out to see where I stand. It’s a vicious cycle. I miss San Francisco.
“Do I look OK?” I cringe as I hear myself asking Myles for his approval.
“You look fucking hot.” In Myles-speak that’s very good.
“Thanks.” Sincerely. This is like the first day of seventh grade in so many ways. Everyone is wearing the right jeans, the right shoes and has their hair tousled just so. No wonder Vivian refused to come. “So, what’s the deal with this party?”
“I’ll introduce you to people, you don’t say any more than you have to and along the way I’ll set you up with some crazy free shit.” Myles waves and nods at people but doesn’t stop to talk to them.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Just follow my lead ... Roth, hey Roth! Mike Roth is head of development at Sony, make nice.” For once he doesn’t ignore the shocked looked on my face. “Please.”
“Myles, you fuck. Why aren’t you returning my calls?”
Mike Roth, heavyset guy in a designer suit and ponytail, so wrong on so many levels. Even though this place is air-conditioned to the point of being frosty, he has a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip and a case of Orbit gum under his arm.
“I was going to ask you the same thing. This is Jacquelyn Sanchez.” Myles proudly presents me.
“Hi, nice to meet you.” I look over to Myles to make sure I haven’t said more than I should.
“You an actress?” Mike checks me out, not unlike the women around here do. I guess it’s a bad habit that crosses the gender line. Maybe it’s not considered rude to stare? What do I know? “Myles has a thing for actresses.”
“No.” I’ve faked my fair share of orgasms but I don’t think that counts as acting. “I’m definitely not an actress.”
“Too bad. Latinas are hot right now.” Mike Roth may be a condescending jerk, but at least he has enough sense to use the preferred terminology.
“Thank you.” Myles and I answer at the same time.
Once again I feel Myles’s firm hand on my back steering me toward another Hollywood type as he calls over his shoulder, “Roth, we’ll do breakfast next week, talk about getting a package together.”
An hour later my yellow wristband (and Myles) has scored me two iPods, a Nokia cell phone I don’t need or want, two Armani clutches, a $200 gift certificate for La Prairie skin care products, enough gum to keep Mrs. Mayor chewing for the rest of the decade and the promise of a free dress at some Montana Ave. boutique, along with other assorted goodies Myles had some waiter schlep out to his Mercedes. All the while he’s kept up the chatter so I know who’s in, who’s on the way out, who’s phony, a drunk, gay or all three, and who’ll slit my throat in a second if they think it could get them a meeting with him. After he imparts these nuggets he greets them like old friends, insults them and we move on to the next person.
I’m starting to like Myles and I know it’s a bad, bad thing. This place is filled up with so much empty, I’m starting to feel faint and grossed out. People can’t actually live this way, can they? This is not the Los Angeles I grew up in, even though we’re less than twenty miles from where my parents still live.
“I need to sit down, Myles. My head is spinning.”
“Let’s grab a table. I need to text my assistant.” Myles waves off yet another person hoping for a second of his time to pitch something or someone.
“It’s pretty late. Won’t she be asleep?” I ask as he pulls out a pink Lucite chair for me to sit on. I hate when Mrs. Mayor calls me late at night or early in the morning just to remind me of something that could have clearly waited.
“She’s right over there at the bar.” Myles jerks his head in that direction but doesn’t look up, even though his assistant (wearing a tiny pleated skirt and tube top) waves at us. I smile and wave back.
“Of course.” I notice he hasn’t bothered to score her a yellow band. She has a blue one, which most of the people here do. “Listen, about all this stuff ... I really can’t accept any of it.”
“If you don’t take it someone else will.” Myles shrugs philosophically. “So why shouldn’t you have it?”
“There are a million reasons.” I struggle to think of one that will mean something to Myles.
“Don’t give yourself a headache. This is the way things are done around here, Jacquelyn. Katie furnished her condo for free by letting
InTouch
magazine do a spread.” He tucks away his Blackberry and takes a swig of his low-sodium seltzer water.
“Really?” Mrs. Mayor always goes on and on about how she’s had to work for every single thing she’s ever gotten in her life. “So it’s not, um, wrong to take four pairs of shoes just because the person behind the table offers them to me?”
“Steve Madden is lucky to have a chance for his shoes to be on your feet.” Myles pats my arm kindly. I think he actually means it.
“I guess ... What about the free dress from that boutique? There is no way that’s OK.” I don’t need a dress, even a free one from some ultrachic boutique I’ve read about in Mrs. Mayor’s
Vogue
,
Harper’s Bazaar
and
Elle
magazines. Before I started working for her I was more of a
Marie Claire
type of gal, where I got my fashion tips and my outrage over women’s lives in developing countries in the same issue.
“So they think you’re going to wear it to a première.” Myles hails a waiter by waving his empty glass in the air. “Let them think what they want and you get the dress. Everyone is happy.”
“They only think I’m going to wear it to a première because you told them I would be!” That has to be a sin, to let people think they’re going to get free publicity at a big Hollywood event when there is no hope because Myles hasn’t invited me to any première.
“Don’t sweat it. They’ll never know. They think you’re the next Eva Longoria, who was the next Jennifer Lopez. But Jessica Alba and Eva Mendes are the next Eva Longoria, you heard it here first.” Myles looks tired for the first time tonight. “Hispanics are hot right now. Live it up, baby, next month it might be Albanians.”
“I can’t compete with Albanians.”
“I’m going to call it a night. I have a 4
AM
call into Australia tomorrow to suck Russell’s cock over a satellite to get him to read this script.” Myles must be able to sense impending neediness.
“OK.” There is a catch in my voice.
“Listen, just go down there, get a dress and go out for a nice dinner.” Myles looks at me intensely, not leaving any room for anything but honesty.
“Why are you being this way to me? You don’t even know me. I just work for Katherine. She’s my boss.” I want to add that I’m no one special, but I know it would just piss Myles off. I would be insulting his judgment on who is and isn’t worthy of his time.
“I like you, Jacquelyn. I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want to make you a star. And I know you don’t want anything from me either. In this town, that’s a rare quality.” Myles summarizes our six-hour friendship with a casual flick of his French cuffs. “Look me up when you’re in LA next time. We’ll do it again.”
“Promise?”

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