The Truth about My Success (26 page)

“Jack and Leone were protecting their investment,” says Oona.

“
Dios mío
,” breathes Maria. Nonetheless, Jack Silk has surprised her even more than the Minnicks. She knows how ruthless and controlling he can be when it comes to business, but he’s always been so much more pleasant than Leone. Charming. She touches the MP3 player in the pocket of her apron. Thoughtful. Kind even. She assumed that meant that he’s a nicer person. As if only good people smile. “Whatever will happen to her now?”

“They think she’ll come home.”

Maria doesn’t agree. “And why would she do that? So they can send her back? Or to somewhere else?”

“Well, where can she go?” reasons Oona. It’s not as if she has any friends.

Maria suggests the studio. “To embarrass her mother,” says Maria. “She would like that. She would make a big scene.”

Oona frowns. Thoughtfully. From what she knows of Paloma, embarrassing Leone is exactly what she would do. But that might not be such a good idea. Paloma can’t possibly know it, of course, but things are getting better for both the show and for her. A big scene would embarrass her as much as Lethal Leone. The publicity would all be bad, the sponsors would go into a tailspin of unhappiness, the new energy and enthusiasm around the show would be destroyed, and the grand prize – the interview with Lucinda – would be cancelled faster than you can step on an ant. What was it Jack said? If they go down, she goes with them. Oona believes him. Jack Silk is turning out to be the human equivalent of an iceberg; there’s a lot more of him that you don’t see than that you do – and most of it is dangerous. He’s “fixed things” in the past – who’s to say he couldn’t “fix things” now?

“She’s liable to hurt herself more than anyone else,” says Oona

“But she doesn’t know that. And she will have to do something,” says Maria. “She’s not going to pretend that nothing ever happened.”

“No …” Oona’s attention has started to wander off into a new thought. “No, she’s not going to do that.”

The new thought that occurs to Oona is that the important thing is not to embarrass Leone and Jack Silk, but to teach them a lesson. A lesson they can’t ever forget; a lesson that takes the control away from them and gives it to Oona and Paloma Rose, and makes things better for both of them. But in order to do that, she needs to get to Paloma before Paloma gets to anyone else.

There’s nothing to do but wait.

And possibly pray.

“Calm down, Leone,” says Jack when she finally stops for air. “There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s A-OK.”

Leone would like him to define “A-OK”. “It’s over twenty-four hours, Jack. Surely we should have heard something by now. What if Lovejoy decides to go to the police after all? He can’t keep quiet for ever.”

“He’s not going to the police,” says Jack. “I told him she’s back and we’re keeping her here. I told him she was just homesick and he’s done a terrific job. We’ll tell all our friends to send their delinquent kids to him. He’s not going to say bupkis.”

“That’s great Jack, but that doesn’t change the fact that she isn’t home,” Leone reminds him. “So where the hell can she be? What if—”

He cuts her off before she can launch into another of her macabre scenarios of what’s happened to Paloma. “There is no ‘what if’. I keep telling you, you’re worrying over nothing. Paloma has a very highly developed survival instinct. She knows how to look after number one.” As if bad things only happen to people who are too nice for their own good. “No news is good news,” says Jack. This, of course, isn’t necessarily true. No news is no news; the bad news may just be taking its own sweet time to get to you.

“You really think so?” Oh how she wants to believe him. If Jack Silk were a snake-oil salesman and not a Hollywood agent, Leone would probably buy the biggest bottle he has right now.

“Absolutely. There’s been no activity on the card.” Which means that she hasn’t hired a limo or bought a plane ticket or put herself up in some pricey hotel. “She’s holed up somewhere to make everybody worry about her. It’s just the kind of stunt Paloma would pull. High on drama, low on effort. She may even still be somewhere on the ranch. She’ll come out when she gets tired of pretending she’s in a war movie, hiding from the Gestapo.”

Leone suggests that Paloma has some cash on her. She’s always helping herself to what’s in Leone’s wallet; she should have quite a little nest egg by now. So maybe she took a bus.

Jack laughs. “Yeah. And then she got off at the first big town and took a job cleaning motels.”

Leone laughs too, but hers is a laugh that lacks confidence in itself. “OK, maybe not a bus. But what if someone gave her a ride? What if—”

“Look,” says Jack. “I’m in a public place, and I can’t really have this conversation now. Over the phone. Why don’t you try to relax?”

“Relax?” squawks Leone. “How can I relax? Not only do I have ten million things to do, I have to stand guard. The other one’ll be back from the studio soon. Can you imagine if Paloma does turn up and walks into her double? Somebody has to be ready or god knows what’ll happen.” And obviously, she is that someone. Leone sighs. It’s not easy being called Mom.

“Of course,” says Jack. “Of course you do. But try to chill. We’ll talk in the morning if not before.”

“Don’t worry,” Leone assures him. “If she does show, you’ll be the first person I call.”

Monday comes and Monday goes. Tuesday follows it like a tail. Leone busies herself with making the arrangements for the interview, but although this is the kind of job she loves, a lot of the joy has been taken out of it by the shadow of Paloma that hangs over her. She is skittish as a deer on ice – jumping at every creak and bang, pacing the rooms like a prisoner waiting for a reprieve, even sleeping with her phone on the pillow beside her. When Oona’s in the house, she watches her as if she thinks she might steal the silver, always trying to position herself so that if the landline or the doorbell rings she and not Oona will be the one to answer. The samples of pastries and finger foods from the caterers turn to ashes in her mouth. She might be a billionaire banker hosting a gala charity event, all the while waiting for the police to come and arrest her.

Wednesday comes and starts to go. Leone has been forced from the house to have dinner with Lucinda Chance’s PA to run through the agenda for Sunday. She’s just parked and is undoing her seatbelt when her phone rings. Perhaps because she’s afraid it might be Paloma and also afraid that it might not be, instead of answering it she throws it onto the floor, and then bangs her head on the steering wheel when she goes to retrieve it. It’s Jack Silk.

“We’ve had a breakthrough,” he announces.

Leone’s so surprised she almost drops the phone again. “What?”

“My man’s found something.” Jack laughs. “Turns out you were right. She did take a bus. Two buses. She came into LA on Monday. She was with some old lady.”

Leone thanks God. At least that’s one set of worries out of the way. “So where is she now?”

“Ah,” says Jack. There’s always some small complication. “We’re not really sure about that. He’s checked hotels, motels and hostels, but there was no sign of her. He even had a word with what’s-his-name, that scum-for-brains scriptwriter, but he swears he hasn’t heard from her.”

“So she’s vanished again.”

“No, Leone. She’s not Houdini. She’s here. In the city. We just don’t know where yet.”

“What about this old lady you mentioned? Maybe she went with her.”

“He’s working on it. But it looks like she bought her ticket with cash, too. So it’ll take a little time.”

Leone is, of course, relieved that Paloma is all right – or was as of Monday. What mother wouldn’t be? But one of the problems Leone has always had with being a mother instead of being God, is that a mother can’t know everything or control it. And right now she would like to know where Paloma is and what she’s planning to do.

“It’s Wednesday,” she reminds Jack. “The interview’s on Sunday. I’m just about to go into the restaurant to finalize everything. If Paloma—”

“Just sit tight,” Jack advises. “I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

Leone hasn’t been to church since she was twelve, and isn’t what you’d call a praying kind of person, but she does believe in negotiation. The second she hangs up from Jack she starts negotiating. “Please,” Leone whispers as she gets out of the car. “Just keep her away until Monday. Or at least Sunday night. Don’t let her ruin the interview. That’s all I ask.”

Poor Leone. The time may not be far away when she wishes she’d asked for something more.

Oona collapses into the back of the car with a sigh. It’s been a long day. For a change, Paloma Rose isn’t on her mind. It’s already the middle of the week. If Paloma was going to show up at the studio, surely that would already have happened. No, tonight what Oona’s thinking about is the interview with Lucinda. She’s starting to feel nervous, as anyone would who’s never been interviewed on network television before. And although Oona is used to dealing with people and answering questions, the people she’s used to dealing with aren’t one of the most influential women in the country, and the questions she’s used to answering are along the lines of “Does it come with fries?” and “Do you have soya milk?” What if she makes a fool of herself? What if she stumbles and stutters and shows herself to be a fraud? If she does blow the interview, will Leone try to murder her on air or will she wait till everyone’s left?

These thoughts and others are running through her head as the car leaves the lot and pulls into the road, and is almost immediately stuck in traffic. It moves but it moves slowly. A few feet. A yard or two. Half a block.

It’d be faster to walk, thinks Oona, and glances out the window at the people who are walking, leaving the traffic behind. Some tourists with guidebooks, searching for stars. Several men in suits walking briskly and with purpose. A girl moving slowly, lost in her thoughts. It’s not the face of the girl that makes Oona look twice, it’s the way she walks. Oona has studied that walk. She has it down pat.

Without a second thought, Oona opens her door and leans out. “Hey! Hey!” she calls. “Over here!”

Paloma stops as if she’s suddenly been turned to stone. Her eyes meet Oona’s.

There is no surprise in Paloma’s look. No confusion.
She knows
, thinks Oona.
It isn’t a coincidence that she ran away. She found out somehow
.

“Come on,” Oona beckons. “Come on, get in!”

Paloma doesn’t think twice, either.

“How did you find out?” whispers Oona as Paloma sits beside her.

Paloma shuts the door. “I saw you on TV.”

Paloma’s
favourite interviews have always been the ones where she’s asked fun questions like which ten famous people from history you’d invite to a barbecue and what your superpower would be if you could choose one. She usually picks being invisible or able to travel through time as her superpower – things she figures would be really useful. Imagine Leone nagging at her about something and all of a sudden Paloma just disappears or whisks off to have lunch with Marilyn Monroe.

But that was before her first (and hopefully last) overnight bus journey. What a ride. Somewhere between the air conditioning breaking down and the man locking himself in the toilet, Paloma decided that the next time she was asked what her superpower would be she’d say, “To be able to sleep like Mrs Buckminster.” Mrs Buckminster could snore her way through Armageddon. Strapped to a camel balanced on a log on a boiling sea. Nothing disturbed her. The seats were as comfortable as solid rock, but Mrs Buckminster curled up like a kitten on a cushion. When the AC died and the temperature in the bus turned it into a moving sauna, Mrs Buckminster smiled in her dreams. When the windows were opened to let in some air and they all nearly choked with the dust, pollution and baked heat that swamped them, Mrs Buckminster made the sound of a well-tuned engine. Two babies and the old woman in the plastic shower cap cried through most of the night while someone who hadn’t seen the No Alcoholic Beverages sign sang “Dancing Queen” during the short intervals when they were silent, but Mrs Buckminster didn’t hear a thing. A small child threw up in the aisle, and, sound asleep, Mrs Buckminster patted Paloma’s knee.

Mrs Buckminster only wakes as, after what seems to Paloma like several unusually long days, they finally reach LA.

“Goodness me,” says Mrs Buckminster, straightening up in her seat and rubbing her eyes. “I must’ve dozed off.” She peers out the window. “Will you look at that weather!”

It is raining in an unwelcoming, why-don’t-you-go-back-where-you-came-from? way.

Paloma wouldn’t care if it were snowing. She’s so happy to get off the bus that she’s ready to climb out the window and kiss the ground. But the closer they get to the bus station, the clearer it is that this isn’t a part of town where you do anything with the ground except move over it very quickly. No wish-you-were-here postcards of Los Angeles have ever included this neighbourhood. Rundown and dirty, the station looks as if it’s waiting for a violent crime to happen. Again.

“So what are you going to do now?” asks Mrs Buckminster as they clamber off the bus.

Paloma told Mrs Buckminster that she’s staying with a good friend in the city, but since she’d lost her phone and doesn’t know his number and his landline’s unlisted she has to wait for him to get home from work.

Paloma shrugs. She hasn’t thought that far ahead. “I guess I’ll stay here till it’s time to go over to my friend’s place.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no.” Mrs Buckminster shakes her head. “You can’t just sit around the bus station all afternoon in this weather. I won’t allow it. Do you know what kind of people hang around bus stations?”

Paloma glances around, trying not to look at anyone or anything specific. This is the kind of place where you wouldn’t be surprised to see a rat run over your foot or someone peeing against a wall. “Not just people waiting for buses, right?”

“That’s right,” says Mrs Buckminster. Perverts. Criminals. Crazies. Rapists. And unlucky people who have nowhere else to go.