Ilana."
"Are you crazy? I don't have a type. But I do know that I don't do decadent, and I don't do debauched."
The elevator let them out in a marble-floored foyer manned by a bored security guard. Outside, the July evening was tinted orange. It was nearly nine and still twilight. Glass doors swooshed open, and Ilana strode outside, high heels tapping out a staccato beat on the cement.
Linda had no trouble keeping up. Ilana wouldn't have kept an assistant who did. Besides, Linda didn't walk; she bounced along, as full of fire as her short, spiky orange hair. Ilana needed Linda. The woman was indispensable during the chaotic days of filming and the post-production that followed. But now that Ilana was sifting through possible projects, so far unable to decide on any, Linda would retreat on vacation to her Torrance condo and her three schnauzers until Ilana called her back to duty.
"Don't tell me you don't know the type of man who attracts you."
"Available is nice. Not being possessive helps, too."
Linda sighed.
"Don't shake your head at my social life."
"I'm not shaking my head. Did you see me shaking my head? I'm only stating the facts. Available isn't a type."
Ilana fluffed out her hair. "It works for me."
"Because you've never stayed with Mr. Right-Now long enough to figure out if he's Mr. Right."
"Explain to me why when a man says he's a confirmed bachelor, no one minds, but when a woman says the same thing, everyone has a problem with it."
"I'm not talking about any woman— I'm talking about you, Ilana. I don't see you alone for the rest of your life, and I don't think you do, either."
"That's right. I don't." She gave Linda a sideways smile. "I have a social life. I attract men."
"You attract them. But you never let them get close."
Ilana's chest tightened strangely. Maybe she did crave closeness. But she wasn't sure it was worth the risk. Monogamy, commitment— it all might work for women like Linda, but Ilana had seen the flip side of the coin, the hurt her mother had suffered when she found out how long her first husband, Ilana's father Jock, had been cheating on her.
From a young age, Ilana had suspected that "Daddy was seeing other ladies." With a child's hyper-awareness, she could smell the faint perfume when he'd open his suitcase after returning home from his trips as an airline pilot, could tell that he'd been with a stranger, things her mother never seemed to notice. That innocence— or blindness— had angered Ilana.
She'd directed that fury at her mother, for not seeing, for letting herself love Jock despite what he was doing behind her back. If he was with other women, it meant he was bored with his family, tired of them. Assigning that blame had made Ilana a sullen teenager with her mother, and a needy girl with her father, showering him with love and attention so that he wouldn't leave. Her brother Ian had reacted the opposite way, becoming the perfect, devoted son. Only in the last few years of college had Ilana grown closer to her mother. But the deep-down kernel of anger, of resentment, of fear, had never really gone away. "Giving someone that much opportunity to hurt you is crazy."
"I think if you ever opened up, Ilana, let a man inside that stubborn, smart-assed head of yours, you might be surprised and like it."
Ilana groaned. "I know there are decent men out there. I know many relationships truly work. But I like my life the way it is. If I didn't like it, I would have changed it. I'm in charge. I'm in control. That's more than I can say about most of the married women I know. If a guy loves you, he loves you. He doesn't have to give you a wedding ring to prove it."
"Bullcrap, Ilana. If a man really loves you, he'll want you to be his. He won't want to share you with other men."
Ilana let out a heavy sigh. She'd had enough psychoanalysis for the day. Probing her mind was like peeking under the bed when you didn't want to find dust bunnies. All it did was remind you that you
"Are you crazy? I don't have a type. But I do know that I don't do decadent, and I don't do debauched."
The elevator let them out in a marble-floored foyer manned by a bored security guard. Outside, the July evening was tinted orange. It was nearly nine and still twilight. Glass doors swooshed open, and Ilana strode outside, high heels tapping out a staccato beat on the cement.
Linda had no trouble keeping up. Ilana wouldn't have kept an assistant who did. Besides, Linda didn't walk; she bounced along, as full of fire as her short, spiky orange hair. Ilana needed Linda. The woman was indispensable during the chaotic days of filming and the post-production that followed. But now that Ilana was sifting through possible projects, so far unable to decide on any, Linda would retreat on vacation to her Torrance condo and her three schnauzers until Ilana called her back to duty.
"Don't tell me you don't know the type of man who attracts you."
"Available is nice. Not being possessive helps, too."
Linda sighed.
"Don't shake your head at my social life."
"I'm not shaking my head. Did you see me shaking my head? I'm only stating the facts. Available isn't a type."
Ilana fluffed out her hair. "It works for me."
"Because you've never stayed with Mr. Right-Now long enough to figure out if he's Mr. Right."
"Explain to me why when a man says he's a confirmed bachelor, no one minds, but when a woman says the same thing, everyone has a problem with it."
"I'm not talking about any woman— I'm talking about you, Ilana. I don't see you alone for the rest of your life, and I don't think you do, either."
"That's right. I don't." She gave Linda a sideways smile. "I have a social life. I attract men."
"You attract them. But you never let them get close."
Ilana's chest tightened strangely. Maybe she did crave closeness. But she wasn't sure it was worth the risk. Monogamy, commitment— it all might work for women like Linda, but Ilana had seen the flip side of the coin, the hurt her mother had suffered when she found out how long her first husband, Ilana's father Jock, had been cheating on her.
From a young age, Ilana had suspected that "Daddy was seeing other ladies." With a child's hyper-awareness, she could smell the faint perfume when he'd open his suitcase after returning home from his trips as an airline pilot, could tell that he'd been with a stranger, things her mother never seemed to notice. That innocence— or blindness— had angered Ilana.
She'd directed that fury at her mother, for not seeing, for letting herself love Jock despite what he was doing behind her back. If he was with other women, it meant he was bored with his family, tired of them. Assigning that blame had made Ilana a sullen teenager with her mother, and a needy girl with her father, showering him with love and attention so that he wouldn't leave. Her brother Ian had reacted the opposite way, becoming the perfect, devoted son. Only in the last few years of college had Ilana grown closer to her mother. But the deep-down kernel of anger, of resentment, of fear, had never really gone away. "Giving someone that much opportunity to hurt you is crazy."
"I think if you ever opened up, Ilana, let a man inside that stubborn, smart-assed head of yours, you might be surprised and like it."
Ilana groaned. "I know there are decent men out there. I know many relationships truly work. But I like my life the way it is. If I didn't like it, I would have changed it. I'm in charge. I'm in control. That's more than I can say about most of the married women I know. If a guy loves you, he loves you. He doesn't have to give you a wedding ring to prove it."
"Bullcrap, Ilana. If a man really loves you, he'll want you to be his. He won't want to share you with other men."
Ilana let out a heavy sigh. She'd had enough psychoanalysis for the day. Probing her mind was like peeking under the bed when you didn't want to find dust bunnies. All it did was remind you that you
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