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Margo never wanted to talk about Owen. Ever since Owen left, taking a decent chunk of Margo’s heart with him, Will suspected her stony demeanor was becoming less of an act and more of a default. Not that he would ever dare say that to her face. He wasn’t stupid.
“He’s not the worst dad in the world,” Margo said, unprompted.
“No,” Will countered. “That particular honor goes to mine.” Margo didn’t argue; she just elbowed him and topped up their glasses.
Chapter 30
The driver carried his luggage to the front step of his house on Coldwater Canyon Avenue while Patrick fiddled with his keys, and when he unlocked and threw open the front door, he almost accused the driver of bringing him to the wrong address. That could be the only explanation, Patrick thought as he rolled the suitcases into the hallway of the newly decorated hillside lot, for whatever the hell he was walking into.
He grabbed his phone and pulled up the last email from Asa, the decorator.
Hey P-Man!
Your casa is ready and waiting. I had so much fun with this brief! Your taste is sublime, my guy. I think it’s fair to say I understood the assignment here. This home just SCREAMS “Patrick Lake.” I can’t wait to hear what you think.
A.
Patrick wandered from room to room, feet echoing on the tiled floors, blinking against the light streaming in from the wall-to-ceiling glass that lined the side of the house looking out over the treetops. He recognized things that he had, for certain, requested. The sectional couch, the giant abstract painting in the living room by an artist that he had been assured would only increase in value. If this house did, as Asa promised, scream Patrick Lake, it begged the question: Who the fuck was Patrick Lake?
Los Angeles was a desert, and this house was fitted with technology that enabled him to command any temperature. Still, the whole thing felt cold. Maybe it was the severe lines, the multitude of grays that he had thought chic but seemed lifeless now. Even the furniture looked bare, unfinished. No pummeled old cushions, no throws or blankets, none of the color or texture he’d grown accustomed to in Birmingham.
He couldn’t even say he hated it. He had asked for this. Instead he felt nothing but the awkwardness one always felt when alone in somebody else’s home. Somehow, it even smelled like a hotel.
“I need a shower,” Patrick announced to no one, his voice reverberating around the angular structure. He dragged a suitcase into the bathroom, a vast spartan cube, and scrubbed away the last twenty-four hours under the rain shower. He had just pulled on a T-shirt and sweats when the doorbell rang, echoing ominously throughout the entire building, and he padded barefoot to the front hallway.
“Patrick, hi!” An attractive woman with auburn hair and glasses held out her hand. “I’m Tabby.”
“Tabby?” Patrick shook her hand, more muscle memory than manners. Behind her, what looked like a full camera crew were unloading equipment from the back of a van.
“Tabby Glazer,” she said. Then, seeing his blank look: “From Architectural Digest?”
Right. Shit. Right. They were here to shoot the house. He was supposed to give a video tour of the place. This had been in the books for months, painstakingly timed to coincide with Patrick’s return to the States and the commencement of the promotional campaign for Kismet 2. It had seemed like a perfect idea when he left for England.
Another vehicle rolled onto the driveway, and Simone disembarked before it had even come to a complete stop, trailed by somebody Patrick vaguely recognized, an assistant from the agency.
“Tabby, hi,” she said. “Patrick, welcome back.” She gave his casual attire the briefest of glances, and he could see the equations taking place behind her eyes. He looks scruffy, but maybe that works better. Authentic. Unstaged. He’s at home, he’s relaxed. Let him welcome you inside and get you a beer. He’s America’s boyfriend.
He felt ill.
Once they were all set, half of the crew stayed inside, just out of sight, while Tabby knocked on the front door again and Patrick answered, smiling to the camera.
“Hello, AD,” he said. “I’m Patrick Lake. Welcome to my home!” He held the door open, and the camera followed him into the house, panning down to a pair of Captain Kismet’s boots, which were lined up carefully next to Patrick’s Nikes in the hallway. They had not been there a moment ago, and Patrick once again felt like he had glitched into a different reality, the way a bone might pop out of a socket. He realized that while Simone kept Tabby talking, her assistant had run through the house with a gym bag full of “finishing touches” ready to be spotted by eagle-eyed Easter-egg-hunting fans on YouTube.
In the living room, the coffee table sported a neatly arranged stack of pages, the top sheet of which bore the title Kismet 3.
“Uh-oh, that wasn’t supposed to be there!” Patrick said, mugging stiltedly for the camera. “Pretend you didn’t see that,” he said, winking. “It’s top secret.”
The truth was, beneath that title page lay a pile of blank paper. A script for the third Kismet movie didn’t even exist yet. It would be a miracle if postproduction on Kismet 2 was done in time for the premiere.
“And this is the kitchen,” he continued, gesturing to the gleaming steel appliances. “Obviously.” He was one of those sham Realtors, doing his best to show a house he had never set foot in.
You can do this, he thought. You might not be able to cry on cue, but if there is one thing you can do, it is sell the hell out of whatever piece of shit you have been given. Just commit.
With renewed conviction, he showed Tabby and the cameramen the admittedly stunning view of the canyon from the living room—“This is where I like to read, meditate, just be,” he lied—and waxed lyrically and falsely about the gigantic painting over the couch, which he now realized, after looking at it for longer than two seconds, he hated.
This was all going a lot better than it could have, and as they climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, Patrick found faith in his own acting skills once again. I convinced the world I’m straight, he thought. I can convince a magazine I like my own house.
In the corner, an expensive-looking guitar sat propped against the wall next to the bed. How the hell had Simone’s assistant snuck that thing in here? And why? Patrick almost cracked up at the thought of himself picking it up to serenade some poor soul who had ended up in his room. Thanks for the sex, now here’s “Hey There Delilah.”
