Helen of Pasadena Page 23

  Patrick reached for one last handful of nuts. “Aren’t you coming to watch?’

  “I thought I might go back to the cottage to work on the PowerPoint for tomorrow’s lecture.”

  “Please don’t. I like when you’re here.”

  For five more days, anyway. “Sure. Of course.”

  The champagne was flowing and the volume was rising in the usually sedate Tea Room at the Huntington. Sarah White had arranged a post-shoot celebration for cast, crew and special friends, which was a lovely gesture. The party filled the quaint tea house and spilled onto the Rose Garden terrace, lit by white lights and votive candles. Annabeth and Olympia were nowhere in sight, but the rest of the crew seemed particularly joyful, filled with bubbly and cucumber sandwiches, as if they’d never been invited to anything before in their lives. Was that Karen from Library flirting with the key grip? And Coffee Cart Annie exchanging cell numbers with the producers?

  In the middle of it all, Sarah was mingling and laughing loudly. She was clearly a little tipsy. It was a triumphant tipsy, well deserved.

  But I, frankly, was too exhausted to partake. And afraid to have more than one glass of champagne on account of my minimal caloric intake. I needed to have my wits about me to drive home, feed Aiden and help him study for a science test. Then I planned on collapsing. I scanned the crowd for Patrick, hoping to at least say goodbye before I went home to Aiden. I spied him in the corner holding court for the Huntington director and several members of the board. The heavy hitters, of course. I was turning to leave when Candy assaulted me.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “What? What’s wrong?” I worried something had happened to somebody somewhere. It was my job to overreact.

  “Olympia and Annabeth want to announce their relationship to the world. And they want to give me an exclusive. A sit-down interview, personal pictures, the works. This is huge. This will put candysdish on the map.” Candy started to jump up and down like a sorority girl. Then she realized the magnitude of the task—that Olympia might well be putting her career in Candy’s hands—and she froze. “Do you think I can handle it?”

  The slight twinge of guilt I’d felt over setting up Candy with Team Aphrodite was now gone. I was a natural matchmaker. “Yes, of course. They trust you for a reason. You’ve been through press scrutiny and come out the other side. You’re the perfect person. Wow, Candy, this is fantastic. When?”

  “Tomorrow. They want me to come to their hotel room at the Langham with a small crew. I’m going to post it on Friday!” Candy swiped a glass of passing champagne and downed it. “I’ve been waiting for something like this to get me out of the Pasadena gossip ghetto. This is an international story.”

  “Are you ready? Do you need anything?” I asked, not really knowing what skills I had to offer in a digital coming-out interview. But maybe she wanted the fresh flowers from our set?

  “I am ready. The crew is lined up. My intern picked up my shiny gray Blumarine dress at the dry cleaners; that looks so good on camera. And I scheduled an emergency blowout with Mr. Stephen,” Candy cooed. “I just put in an S.O.S. call to my webmaster. We need bandwidth! I don’t want the site to crash when this goes up! Bye, doll!” A quick kiss on the cheek and she was gone.

  “Helen, wait!” Patrick was jogging through the parking lot in an effort to catch up with me. I was just opening my car door. Startled, I dropped a carelessly balanced armload of stuff. Damn. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw you leave the party and I, um, I …”

  “Do you need something?” I asked, more snippily than I intended, bending over to recover my clipboard, some research materials, a water bottle and the Starbucks bag full of mini sandwiches, brownies and cheese puffs I’d swiped from the party for Aiden. Patrick knelt to help me. I felt like a bag lady with my contraband food. Embarrassed, I recovered and softened my tone. “Do you need something for the lecture tomorrow?” I avoided his eyes as I shoved the baked goods back in the bag.

  “No, no. You’ve done enough today. Here,” He handed me a paper napkin full of chocolate chip cookies as he stood. “I just wanted to say thanks. For everything.”

  “These are for Aiden,” I explained, still fixated on my stolen food. “He eats a lot. And he loves mini food.”

  Patrick chuckled. “I’ll go back in and get that entire tray of chicken-salad triangles if you want. I owe you that.”

  “No, I’m going to swing by the PETA fundraiser on the way home and swipe some tofurkey.” We both laughed. Then the familiarity of the situation quieted us both. There are pregnant pauses and then there are pauses that last the nine months, right through labor and delivery, and continue on to the first birthday. This was one of those pauses: long, intense and slightly painful.

  But this time, I knew what I had to do. “I’ve gotta go. Big day. See you tomorrow, Patrick.” When in doubt, generic platitudes can be enormously helpful. When I’d shut myself in the protective cocoon of my car, I felt safe enough to open my window a touch. “Have a good night.”

  “You, too,” Patrick replied.

  CHAPTER 20

  On the Saturday morning of the Five Schools Benefit, women all over Pasadena were beginning their pre-party beauty regimes, honed by age, experience and budget. Mothers, matrons and mavens were being pruned, waxed and hot rollered to perfection, or at least as close as they could get to their own Personal Perfection Scale. Tonight, they would be counted among the Best and the Brightest, but right now, they were in their most naked state. And no one looks her best—or all that bright—while bleaching her peri-menopausal mustache. Even the regulars at Stephen Stephens Salon, the closest Pasadena comes to an uptown Beverly Hills salon in price, design and attitude.

  Every chair was occupied as I walked in to claim my 10 a.m. appointment. I’d booked my cut, highlight and style almost nine months ago, literally the day the benefit date was confirmed. At the time, I was still on the committee. And I still had a husband. Sitting here now, I couldn’t believe I had so little to do in my life that I’d made a hair appointment nearly a year in advance. But I was glad I had. I knew this would be my last appointment with Sammi. At $300 a visit, she was out of my price range now. I would have cancelled if Annabeth and Olympia hadn’t given me a generous gift certificate (Candy’s suggestion!) as a thank you for all the extra work I’d done for the shoot. I arrived early, determined to enjoy my herbal tea, warm neck towel and lavender-scented smock to the fullest.

  Next time, it would be Supercuts.

  But today, at Stephen Stephens, a salon appointed more sumptuously than most living rooms, almost every face in every chair looked familiar. The place was crawling with Five Schools Benefit committee members. The Cloverfield Mafia—Leila Kennedy, Mary Claire Meyers and Taffy Hart—were foiled and seated under the dryers. They headed up the all-powerful seating committee, using their skills honed as cotillion co-chairs to assign tables for the night, elevating a few to the lower numbered tables and relegating others to a seat near the exit to the restrooms. Their work was apparently not done, as they were pouring over the chart as the dryers raged.

  In Begonia’s chair sat Sonia Michelson, a hippie-chic Redwood mother and daughter of one of the dogs of Three Dog Night. Sonia was in charge of securing a decent dance band. (Last year, the band played nothing but reggae, which confused the small but influential over-65 crowd. This year, a No Funny Music edict went out.) Sonia was having her voluminous strawberry-blond hair straightened into submission. No doubt she would be wearing a Kate Hudson-inspired printed maxi dress and dancing in bare feet by 10 o’clock. And everybody would be charmed because everybody loves a token rich hippie.

  Nancy and Neicy, a sister team almost as glued to the hip as Mikki and Mimi, were seated side by side in the manicure room. They were in charge of the food, a thankless task, as somebody powerful always hated it, usually my mother-in-law. It was a nowin committee, and they were brave to take it on. Nancy and Neicy were raised in one of Pasadena’s first foodie families, if y
ou can call owning a national chain of warehouse grocery stores being “foodie.” I did, but others around town were not as generous when the sisters pleaded for the top spot. (Their stores sell vats of ketchup! Vats! They’re hardly gourmet, one committee member had sniped.)

  The salon buzzed with excitement. As Sammi’s assistant (Rinda? Renda? Randa? Why can I never remember her name?) led me to my chair, I exchanged nods, waves and smiles. Good to see you, Helen. Looking forward to tonight! Tonight’s the night!

  Maybe.

  As I walked past Stephen’s station, I touched him on the elbow. “Candy wanted me to say thank you. Again. And again. Her hair looked so great on camera!”

  “She’s my star!” Stephen exclaimed, as he shellacked Blair Becksley’s up-do with hair spray. “Did you catch her on ET? She was amazing. I think Mary Hart better watch her back!”

  Yes, the Olympia/Annabeth story had broken and, as predicted, it created a global firestorm and unprecedented traffic for candysdish.com. Candy herself was booked on every talk show from Entertainment Tonight to Larry King to talk about her interview. She’d assumed the role of unofficial spokesperson for the couple, with their blessing. Now that the news was out, Olympia and Annabeth intended to keep a low profile for several months. Once the initial frenzy dissipated, they would speak to Oprah, right before the debut of The Dirty Archaeologist in September.

  “That’s good media planning,” Candy had observed, as she called me from the back of a town car on Friday to bail on our Korean Day Spa trip. There was no way she could squeeze it in between Ryan Seacrest and Billy Bush. “I can learn a lot from Olympia. She understands the concept of having your moment.”

  No doubt about it—Candy would extend her moment for as long as she could.

  I arrived at Sammi’s station and plopped myself down in the chair. The one reason I loved going to Sammi was that she was not a talker. She was a listener. If I wanted to blab, she would engage. But if I wanted to enjoy back issues of Cosmopolitan and Martha Stewart Living, she would quietly go about her work, a comfortable silence between us. Today, I wanted silence. I needed focus, not advice.

  Plus, I was a little heavy-hearted, knowing I was going to have to break up with her. I didn’t think I could tell her today. I was thinking a nice note and a small gift next week would suffice. Easier and cleaner. And I couldn’t cry today, because Tina told me not to get my eyes puffy for any reason.

  “Sammi!” I greeted her with a hug.

  “Helen, I’ve been thinking about you.” Today her hair was deep purple with blond highlights. And yet she was wearing a chic all-black jumpsuit and neutral makeup. She dove into my scalp, examining my root situation. I hadn’t been to see her since the day of the funeral. I was long past the days of covering up my need for reinforcement with a headband. Sammi didn’t blink an eye. “Same color?”

  I nodded. Why not? One last time.

  Then Sammi snapped at Rinda/Randa/Renda to mix up a gold 27 with a blond 449 for lowlights, a conconction called Pasadena Blond at most salons. It was a color I shared with dozens of my closest friends. “So … how are you?”

  How am I? That was one of those questions I didn’t feel like answering today. So I gave my new standard answer. “I’ll tell you a year from now. Right now, I don’t know.” I thought that had just the right touch of self-awareness mixed with exhaustion and grief. I got it out of a book. To me it signaled: Please don’t ask. I don’t want to go into all the awful details.

  Sammi got it. “Okay. Just relax then. You deserve it. More tea?”

  Yes, please. I did deserve it. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes and went over the events of the last few days. It had been an unbelievably exhausting week. As if the shoot and the revelation that Patrick was leaving hadn’t been enough, I’d followed it up yesterday with the Scholar’s Lecture. Patrick presented his research to an enthusiastic audience packed with familiar faces. I provided visual support and some minimal stage directions. Though the professional stakes weren’t as high as the they were for his TV interview, the personal stakes were enormous.

  Patrick’s connection to the benefit, the local press from the TV shoot and the good word-of-mouth reviews from the Word-Write talk at Millington had piqued the curiosity of the afternoon- lecture set. This crowd had changed their watercolor classes and private Pilates sessions to see what all the fuss was about. Patrick had rebounded from his TV nerves to inform and charm the standing-room-only audience, which included most of the women currently at the salon and, of course, my mother-in-law and her cohorts. The presentation had been a huge hit with just enough of the salacious material from The Dirty Archaeologist interview to get the ladies twittering.

  The biggest surprise of yesterday? Seeing Cissy Montague, she of the “forever house” and the moved pool, on cookie-and lemonade-detail. My old turf. In her twin set and pearls, she manned the refreshment table with an excited, nervous energy. I gave her arm a squeeze when I greeted her, full of goodwill. “It’s so nice to see you, Cissy. Everything looks great. You did a wonderful job!”

  “I hope we have enough. This is my first time volunteering. I had no idea these lectures got so packed. I figured it would be a dozen ladies and some tourists. But look, everybody’s here!” She was right; the crowd was a who’s who.

  “Don’t worry. These women don’t actually eat, at least not in public. Most of the cookies will go back to the staff lounge. And you can water down the lemonade if you start to run out. The kitchen makes it really strong.” She nodded gratefully. “You’ll enjoy the Huntington. It’s inspiring.”

  She straightened out the cocktail-size napkins for the tenth time. “I hope so. I just felt like, you know, like I needed to get out of the house. Do something different, something for me.” Her big diamond flashed in the sunlight, and once again, her good heart shone through.

  “Maybe someday you’ll end up going back to school, getting your doctorate! You never know!”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” she asked, clearly astounded at the thought of handling more homework than McMurphy, her seventh grader, brought home.

  “Not yet anyway. I’m only a research assistant.” Just then Patrick waved me over. Sarah White stood at his side. She certainly wasn’t going to let a first-timer like Cissy introduce a Distinguished Scholar like Patrick. Sarah was going to milk this intro for all it was worth. “I’m being called. See you Saturday night, Cissy.”

  After the lecture, Mitsy insisted on meeting Dr. O’Neill, as she kept calling him, and then acted as if she was granting him an audience. It was quite a performance. I think even Patrick was intimidated. She brought the encounter to an abrupt end, fishing a big buckle of keys out of her Chanel bag, “Best of luck with your work, Dr. O’Neill. Keep us informed.”

  Keep us informed? Who did she think she was—Queen Elizabeth? The CIA?

  Sammi’s voice interrupted my reverie. While I’d been reviewing my week, she’d been foiling like a fiend. I was ready for the dryer, then the cut and style. Sammi asked an obvious question, one for which I had no answer. “What are you wearing tonight?”

  I snapped back to attention. “I don’t know. My friend Tina picked it out. It’s vintage and I haven’t seen it. She told me to tell you to think, um, ‘windswept, flowing and sexy’—those were her words.” Obviously, because windswept, flowing and sexy were not words I associated with myself.

  “Windswept, flowing and sexy? Got it. I’m going to need more hair. Excuse me.” And Sammi went into the back to find more hair, while I closed my eyes.

  As I was leaving Stephen Stephens Salon for the last time, I ran smack into Jennifer Barham, Melanie’s second-in-command and the woman who’d stepped into my spot on the committee. She made a miraculous catch, as her Blackberry headed toward the ground after impact with my shoulder. What a dive!

  “Oh my God! If that broke, I’d be a dead woman.” Jennifer whimpered, the stress of the upcoming event evident in her body language. And her yoga pants looked as if they
were going to fall down around her knees. Silver lining! Stress combats Mommy Bleacher Butt! “This thing just doesn’t stop beeping!”

  I was so glad I was not her. “It will all be over tomorrow. Then you can go back to your regularly scheduled life! I hear you’re doing a great job. Even in this economy, you really brought in some big names to buy tables.”

  “Well, you left me great notes and great contacts. And getting the travel and hotel for the big live auction item—that was huge. Once I got that, I felt like I could breathe again.”

  Actually, it didn’t look like Jennifer had taken a breath since February, but I didn’t say that. “What big live auction item?”

  “Dr. O’Neill’s dig. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No.” No, he hadn’t. Was he auctioning off some relics?

  “He donated a fantastic archaeological experience! Two weeks working alongside his team in Troy this summer. Like a real archaeologist. Except with deluxe accommodations arranged, of course. Plus, he agreed to lead private side trips to some of the best sites in Greece on the weekends. Santorini and some other place related to Troy…”

  “Mycenae.” Of course he would want to take them there. It was Schliemann’s other big discovery, home to Agamemnon, who led the Greeks into battle at Troy. “It’s the other piece of the historical puzzle of the Trojan war.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, it was a major coup. I had to get all the travel and hotel donated, and I never could have done it without your great contacts at Marriott and British Airways. Huge, Helen, huge!” Jennifer’s Blackberry buzzed again, but she ignored it. “It’s an unbelievable trip for two. Top-of-the-line everything, with a stopover in London to see some statues at the British Museum. Melanie thinks it will go for some crazy amount of money. Like Hollywood money, not Pasadena money. After seeing all those women at the lecture yesterday hanging on Dr. O’Neill’s every word, I think she’s right. I wouldn’t put it past Melanie to buy it herself!”