Your Perfect Life (11 page)

I’ve gotten less sleep the last few weeks than I ever have—including back when I pulled all-nighters as a production assistant. That level of exhaustion was nothing compared to this. But I could finally feel myself adjusting, no longer waking with crusty eyes and bitterness lodged in my throat. In fact, I’d started to crave the chaos in the morning. I liked taking care of people; it felt surprisingly good considering I hadn’t so much as fetched my own americano in years. I always thought of this as another perk of all my hard work, but now I wondered if it was just another way to avoid actually living my life.

I felt bad for Rachel. I knew she was missing her family so much. But who was I missing from my own life? Destiny? Yes, of course. But I couldn’t think of one other person. I was an only child and my parents had retired to Florida several years ago. I hated to admit I’d been somewhat relieved. My relationship with my mom, Natalie, had been strained since high
school for reasons I didn’t want to get into. She was a creature of habit and called me the first Sunday of every month, but she was usually more interested if Angelina and Brad were really as nice as they appeared than in what was actually going on in my own life. My relationship with my mom had always bothered Rachel. Even though her own parents had moved to Boston three years ago, they were still very close, which was something that I now had firsthand experience with, fielding more phone calls and emails from her in a week than I had ever received from my own mom. Which was fine with me; I’d always considered Rachel my real family. She was the one I had turned to when things went sour with whatever guy I was dating; she was the one I called first when I got the
GossipTV
job.

Did I miss Charlie? Yes, there was a part of me that missed the comfort of seeing him stride into the hair and makeup room each morning in his uniform of plaid shirts and baggy cargo pants, ready to brief me on that day’s script. Or making sure I never got mic’d by Wally, the creepy audio guy who always breathed heavily as he ran his hand up my dress to attach the mic pack. But I couldn’t afford to have that kind of distraction at the studio. I just didn’t have time for emotional attachments, or at least that’s what I’ve told myself. But being here, in this life, makes me wonder if there’s more to life than reporting on other people’s lives. Rachel’s life may be a complete cluster fuck half the time, but at least she has roots. Take away my silk sheets, my fifty-seven-inch TV, my view of the Hollywood Hills, and what did I have?

As I’m packing up the car to meet Rachel, Hilary prances up with her designer jogging stroller. Decked out in a striped jogging bra and matching shorts, she looks like she just stepped out of a Nike catalog, not like she had a baby nine months ago.
“Hey there,” she says, coming to a stop in front of my house. “We missed you at the park a few days ago.”

“You did?” I say blankly as I heave Charlotte’s stroller, which Rachel found on craigslist, into the back of her minivan.

“Our weekly play date?” She looks at me oddly.

“Oh yeah,” I say, hitting my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Sorry.”

“Where were you?” She pushes the point as she glances into the messy van. I walk over and stand in front of the open door to block her view of the dirty diaper and half-filled bottles that I didn’t remove yesterday.

“Where was I?” I repeat. I glance at my reflection in the car window and run my fingers through my hair. “I was at the salon.”

Hilary gives me a once-over. “Oh, yes, the highlights. Nice.”

Nice?
“Thanks,” I answer flatly, ready for her to jog off down the street.

“Which salon did you go to?”

“Anya’s,” I say smugly as I snap Charlotte into her car seat expertly. I’d really come a long way since those first few days. I hadn’t pinched her little chubby leg in the buckle all week.

“Really?” Her eyebrows raise. “And what did John think of that?”

None of your business, lady.

“He was very pleased,” I say with a wicked smile before adding, “Listen, Hil, I need to run, I’m having lunch with Casey.”

“Wow, she made time in her busy schedule for you? Great!”

What was this woman’s problem with me?

“As my oldest and
dearest
friend, she always makes time for me,” I spit out, trying to control my anger and make a mental note to ask Rachel what discussions she was having about me with her mommy friends. Yes, I wasn’t able to come to the
bunko events she invited me to and it’s true I’d missed Audrey’s school play a few months ago, but that didn’t mean I was too busy for her.

Hilary laughs, as if she knows something I don’t. “Okay. I’ll see you later,” she says before taking off down the street.

Charlotte starts to cry in her car seat. “Yes, I know, Charlotte. I think she’s a bitch, too.”

Pulling up to Fig & Olive, I can see Rachel waiting for us outside. Or rather, she’s signing autographs for a few tourists walking down La Cienega. I feel a pang in my stomach as I watch the fans’ faces light up with joy as she chats them up, even patiently posing for multiple pictures. Still not used to seeing a version of myself, I wonder when I let my hair get so blond, going from the golden hue I’d always coveted to a harsh white. My mantra has always been you can never be too blond or too skinny. Now, as I watch my emaciated arms wrap themselves around a couple and their son, I wonder if I may have taken that mantra a bit too far. Rachel looks over and sees us, breaking away and opening the van door, pulling Charlotte out of her car seat easily. Charlotte squeals in delight. That baby can definitely see straight through us to our souls.

We’re escorted to one of the best tables in the restaurant and I follow the way people watch Rachel, or the way they watch Casey Lee, walk in. They’re fixated on her, some even whispering to each other. How odd to literally sit back and see the way others see you. Rachel’s turned into a pro, striding confidently in her sky-high Manolo Blahniks and blowing a kiss to Randy Jackson across the room, clearly enjoying every minute. I guess stepping into my life was easier than I thought.

She’s so caught up in hobnobbing that she doesn’t notice my highlights until she finally sits down. “What did you do to my
hair?” she asks accusingly as she leans over and tugs at a strand.

“Ow!” I cry and the couple next to us looks over. “What does it look like I did?” I whisper. “I gave it an update.”

“An update?” she snorts. “Don’t you need to consult me when you change
my
hair? I guess now’s the time to tell you I’m chopping off all of yours tomorrow,” she says with a fake laugh.

“Calm down,” I say quickly. “All I meant is that you always complain that you never have time to get your hair done, so I went and did it for you.”

“Okay,” she says, backing down. “But just out of curiosity, when did you find time to go to the salon? How long were you there? Three, four hours? Because you also got my eyebrows done, and if I know you the way I think I do, you waxed something else too.”

I smile. “Well, you said I could call Jan,” I say sheepishly. I’ve always been a sucker for a good Brazilian wax.

“In an emergency!” she says loudly, and the man and woman turn toward us again and I see a look of recognition pass over their faces as they take in Rachel. I give her a pointed look that says,
Cool it
.

“In my mind, it was an emergency. You
needed
these highlights.” I shake my head around like the woman from the L’Oréal commercial.

“Whatever,” she says, but I can tell by her relaxed tone that she’s forgiven me already. “What did John think?”

“W-what?” I stammer as I pick up the menu and hold it up to avoid her eyes.

She leans over and pulls the menu down. “What did John say? Did he even notice?”

“The wax?”

“No! The highlights!”

“Oh, of course.” I choose my words carefully. “He said it looked nice.”

“Really?” she asks, looking hurt that he complimented me. Even though he thought he was actually complimenting her. In college, I was always uncomfortable when John said something nice about how I looked in front of Rachel, even though his intentions were always seemingly innocent. The air in the room always got thick for a brief moment, me breaking the tension with some self-deprecating comment.

The waiter walks up to take our order. When he leaves, I’m about to bring up what happened with Sophie when Rachel starts talking about Charlie. How Charlie is so nice, so sweet, and so helpful. So great at his job. Why had I never mentioned him again?

“There was nothing to say,” I say firmly, even though there was so much to say, too much. But I had been afraid to confide in Rachel. At the time, it just seemed easier not to talk about it.

“Destiny told me everything.” She holds my gaze. “You can stop bullshitting me now.”

I break eye contact and start playing with the napkin in my lap. Charlotte drops her sippy cup and we both reach over to grab it at the same time. Rachel gets it first and hands it back to her with a wide smile. Charlotte giggles and claps, dropping it once more.

“I don’t know what Destiny told you, but it was nothing.”

“Nothing? Really? I can’t even get the nicest guy at my work to sit with me at the craft service table for five minutes.”

“My work,” I say quietly.

“What?” she says as she reaches over and hands Charlotte some crackers.

“I said, it’s my work, not yours. That Charlie is my coworker,
my bad decision. My baggage to deal with, not yours.” My words come out sounding harsh and I instantly regret them. I know we’re both doing the best we can in this crazy situation. I look over at the server and make eye contact, praying he’ll come take our drink order. I need a glass of pinot grigio to continue this conversation.

“Oh, but giving me a hairless vajayjay and butthole is your decision to make for me?” she says and we both explode in a fit of laughter.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” I say, reaching across the table and putting my hand on hers. “It’s just the Charlie thing . . . it’s hard for me. Can we not bring it up again?” I plead.

“Fine, but you know you can talk to me about anything. I’m here for you if you need me,” she says.

“I know, but I just need you to let it go. And to stop being buddy-buddy with him at work, okay?”

“Yes, if that’s what you want,” she says as she points her perfectly manicured finger at me. “You know, you don’t have to be afraid of nice guys, Casey.”

“Not allowed to bring it up, remember? Plus, if we can’t figure out how to get back into our own bodies, it’s not going to matter.” I frown. “What are we going to do to get our lives back?”

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot,” Rachel says. “And I have an idea.”

“What? Tell me!”

She pulls her phone out of the latest Chanel handbag and types something. “I just texted you an address. Meet me there tomorrow at 10 a.m.”

CHAPTER 14

rachel

Casey pulls up in my dirty minivan and I give a short wave. She still doesn’t know why she’s here. I walk over to the car and run my hand over the ding on the bumper, remembering the accident I got into six months ago. Sleep deprived and jittery from too many cups of coffee, I rear-ended a Porsche at the corner of Robertson and Alden while craning my neck to catch a glimpse of Kim Kardashian at the valet stand in front of The Ivy. Thankfully, I was going less than ten miles an hour and the most damage done was to my ego as Kim and her entourage giggled as the owner of the Porsche berated me while I stood there apologizing while Charlotte screamed from the backseat, the impact jolting her from her nap.

Today, Casey jumps out of the van, glances at the offending ding, and laughs. After the accident I’d called her, sputtering and bawling, unable to take a breath to tell her what had happened until she said she was going to run out of the studio and come find me if I didn’t spit it out, thinking something terrible
had happened to John or the kids. When I finally calmed down enough to tell her, she was silent.

“What?” I’d asked. “Is it so horrible that you’re speechless?” And that’s when I heard her laughing. A deep laugh, so hard that I imagined tears running down her face like mine. I started laughing too. The hilarity of it all; “me” smashing into a ninety-thousand-dollar car with my eight-year-old minivan on one of the most famous boulevards in the country as Kim Kardashian looked on. That was part of the glue that always kept our friendship strong—we always reminded each other to laugh at ourselves.

“Don’t,” I warn her before she brings it up.

“Didn’t say a word.” She breezes past me and looks up at the sign from the sidewalk. “Why are we at a wellness center? And who is Jordan?”

I hold up my hand. “Hear me out—”

Casey cuts me off. “Did you bring me to a psychic?”

“I did,” I say unapologetically. “We don’t have a lot of options here, Casey.”

I pull my sweater around me, trying to block the wind that seems to have kicked up in the last few minutes. “She comes highly recommended.”

She looks from me to the well-dressed woman waving us inside. The chime she has over her doorway sways in the wind and I can’t help but think it’s some sort of sign. “Please,” I plead.

“Fine,” she says as she shakes her head and begins walking toward the door.

• • •

“So, I need one of you to cut this deck. Doesn’t matter who.”

I look at the woman named Jordan, who informed us that she was in fact a spiritual counselor, not a psychic, or one of
those bottom-feeding carnival fortune-tellers.
There’s a huge difference, she’d said, and laughed
. And I’d liked her instantly. Although, as I take in her designer shoes and form-fitting dress, I think that she doesn’t look at all like a psychic or spiritual counselor or whatever she says she is.

I also notice a huge rock on her left hand, which is wrapped around a deck of tarot cards. She’s staring at me so intently that I avert my eyes, feeling as if she’d just read my mind.

“I just got engaged,” she says.

“Wow, you are really good,” I say. “How did you know I was wondering about that?”