said, “After the meeting.”
Meeting. It sounded like a Hollywood deal. I knew it was going to be bad. Just how bad I couldn’t have known.
She chose a sidewalk café in Beverly Hills, just off Rodeo Drive no less. Why here? Probably many reasons. It was public, so I couldn’t make a spectacle of myself. It was social, to soften the blow she was no doubt going to deliver. And it was Beverly Hills. Paula’s new stomping ground, after her meteoric rise to stardom.
Feeling out of place, I parked my Accord in a lot next to a Bentley and a Mercedes and walked to the place.
Paula was already there.
Sitting outside, she had sunglasses on and wore a red and gold scarf around her neck that complemented perfectly her coat and blouse. She looked like a catalog model, only better because she breathed.
What hit me then, like a doctor telling me I had only three months to live, was this thought: She is out of your league now. She has left you behind.
“Mark.” Paula waved her hand at me like I was a waiter. I entered through the black, iron gate that separated the pedestrians from the diners. As I did I saw Goldie Hawn at a table, yakking it up with another woman. Beverly Hills indeed.
There was a lily in a vase on the table where Paula sat. Aren’t those what the cartoons always have on dead people?
Paula did not smile as I sat in the other chair, also made of iron.
“You look good,” Paula said. It was a lie. I didn’t look anything like good.
“You look great.” That was not a lie.
She did not remove her sunglasses. “It’s good to be back. It was a tough shoot.”
“But worth it, I guess, huh?”
“The dailies were spectacular. Tony is such a—” She let her voice trail off in a self-conscious Doppler effect.
“Yeah,” I said. “He sure is.”
A waiter younger than myself, and twice as good looking, presented his million-dollar teeth to us and asked if he could bring us a drink. I almost ordered a double shot of tequila, but in keeping with the atmosphere made it a San Pellegrino. Paula ordered chai tea.
“I don’t think I’ll be eating anything,” I said. “But you go ahead.”
“No, I don’t think so either.”
“Your stomach bothering you too?”
“This isn’t easy for me.”
“Why should it be?” I let more acid drip from my words than I’d intended.
Paula took a deep breath. “I thought it might be a little easier than this. I didn’t intend this to happen.”
As if that made everything okay. “Well, it did. So what are you going to do now?”
“I think we have to start talking about divorce.”
“You think?
“Mark, please, I’m trying to be very even about this.”
“So that’s it? The decision’s been made?”
Paula nodded slowly.
“Don’t I get a say in this?” I said.
“I wish it hadn’t happened the way it did.”
There’s a famous scene in the old James Cagney movie The Public Enemy, where his girlfriend wishes something. Cagney looks at her the way only he can and says, “I wish you was a wishin’ well. Then I could tie a bucket to ya and sink ya.”
Then he pushes a half a grapefruit in her face.
That scene came to me in a flash, and I knew I could have played the Cagney role to the max right then.
The waiter returned with our drinks and asked if we would like to hear about the specials.
“No,” I said.
I didn’t like doing that to a fellow waiter, but there it was. He took the hint and said he’d check back with us in a few minutes.
“I don’t want a divorce,” I said. “I want you to get over this thing with Troncatti and come home to Maddie and me. I don’t like what you did and I want to have ten minutes alone with Troncatti. But I’m willing to forget the whole thing.”
Could I ever forget it?
“I’ve already made the decision,” Paula said.
“I’m trying to talk you out of it.”
“Don’t try.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” My voice was loud enough to make the couple at the next table glare at me.
“Because it will just make it harder.”
“I
Meeting. It sounded like a Hollywood deal. I knew it was going to be bad. Just how bad I couldn’t have known.
She chose a sidewalk café in Beverly Hills, just off Rodeo Drive no less. Why here? Probably many reasons. It was public, so I couldn’t make a spectacle of myself. It was social, to soften the blow she was no doubt going to deliver. And it was Beverly Hills. Paula’s new stomping ground, after her meteoric rise to stardom.
Feeling out of place, I parked my Accord in a lot next to a Bentley and a Mercedes and walked to the place.
Paula was already there.
Sitting outside, she had sunglasses on and wore a red and gold scarf around her neck that complemented perfectly her coat and blouse. She looked like a catalog model, only better because she breathed.
What hit me then, like a doctor telling me I had only three months to live, was this thought: She is out of your league now. She has left you behind.
“Mark.” Paula waved her hand at me like I was a waiter. I entered through the black, iron gate that separated the pedestrians from the diners. As I did I saw Goldie Hawn at a table, yakking it up with another woman. Beverly Hills indeed.
There was a lily in a vase on the table where Paula sat. Aren’t those what the cartoons always have on dead people?
Paula did not smile as I sat in the other chair, also made of iron.
“You look good,” Paula said. It was a lie. I didn’t look anything like good.
“You look great.” That was not a lie.
She did not remove her sunglasses. “It’s good to be back. It was a tough shoot.”
“But worth it, I guess, huh?”
“The dailies were spectacular. Tony is such a—” She let her voice trail off in a self-conscious Doppler effect.
“Yeah,” I said. “He sure is.”
A waiter younger than myself, and twice as good looking, presented his million-dollar teeth to us and asked if he could bring us a drink. I almost ordered a double shot of tequila, but in keeping with the atmosphere made it a San Pellegrino. Paula ordered chai tea.
“I don’t think I’ll be eating anything,” I said. “But you go ahead.”
“No, I don’t think so either.”
“Your stomach bothering you too?”
“This isn’t easy for me.”
“Why should it be?” I let more acid drip from my words than I’d intended.
Paula took a deep breath. “I thought it might be a little easier than this. I didn’t intend this to happen.”
As if that made everything okay. “Well, it did. So what are you going to do now?”
“I think we have to start talking about divorce.”
“You think?
“Mark, please, I’m trying to be very even about this.”
“So that’s it? The decision’s been made?”
Paula nodded slowly.
“Don’t I get a say in this?” I said.
“I wish it hadn’t happened the way it did.”
There’s a famous scene in the old James Cagney movie The Public Enemy, where his girlfriend wishes something. Cagney looks at her the way only he can and says, “I wish you was a wishin’ well. Then I could tie a bucket to ya and sink ya.”
Then he pushes a half a grapefruit in her face.
That scene came to me in a flash, and I knew I could have played the Cagney role to the max right then.
The waiter returned with our drinks and asked if we would like to hear about the specials.
“No,” I said.
I didn’t like doing that to a fellow waiter, but there it was. He took the hint and said he’d check back with us in a few minutes.
“I don’t want a divorce,” I said. “I want you to get over this thing with Troncatti and come home to Maddie and me. I don’t like what you did and I want to have ten minutes alone with Troncatti. But I’m willing to forget the whole thing.”
Could I ever forget it?
“I’ve already made the decision,” Paula said.
“I’m trying to talk you out of it.”
“Don’t try.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” My voice was loud enough to make the couple at the next table glare at me.
“Because it will just make it harder.”
“I
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