“Off?” I venture. They usually seem happier when they’re not together, and lately they’ve been pretty happy.
I check the mail—some junk, some household bills, a few screeners—and give Moses a healthy scoop of kibble, just in case.
There is a framed photo of patron saint Patti Smith over the mantel in the living room, and an area comprised entirely of sheepskin, fur throws, and pillows that Irina calls “the playpen” to the right of it. Den of iniquity meets cozy, basically. This house just constantly looks like it’s trying to get into your pants.
I love it here. I remember the first time I walked in, I thought:This is what a point of view looks like.
When Irina is in New York, she is usually scheduled socially up to the actual minute, so as long as I remember to make her dinner reservations at Babbo, she doesn’t mind if we take a bit of a breather in her absence. She’ll never call and ask what I’m doing just for the hell of it. If she’s taken care of, and the business is humming, that’s all that matters.
The last plant is a palm in Irina’s closet, which is a room all its own. There are mirrored sliding doors on every wall, and in the center is an island, with a glass top, and drawers on the sides. It’s a masterpiece, the crowning jewel of this home, and not just because of its size, which is enormous, but because of what’s in it. Irina has archives from every decade—incredible seventies sequins, Laura Ashley sundresses from the eighties. There is custom Givenchy and the entire line of Prada’s women’s wear from the year 1992. She has at least fifty black blazers. It’s heaven.
“I love it in here,” Kendra says. She leans against the counter. “You know she once told me I could borrow the tulle skirt for my cousin’s wedding? It didn’t fit, though.”
Irina hasthetulle skirt—the very same one Sarah Jessica Parker a.k.a. Carrie Bradshaw wears in the opening credits ofSex and the City.
“Yes,” I tell Kendra. “You’ve only mentioned it to me fifty times.”
Kendra fingers an Hermès silk neck scarf that’s hung with a dozen others on a little display on top of the island.
“I miss it sometimes,” she says.
“What?”
“Working here. How unexpected it always was.”
“Irina loves you,” I tell Kendra. “She’d probably let you live in this closet if you wanted to.”
Kendra smiles. “Yes,” she says. “But things change, you know? It’s different now than it used to be.”
“With you two?”
Kendra shrugs. “It used to drive me crazy, how she’d call me on the weekends at all hours, but sometimes I miss the drama.”
“I feel like there’s less drama, in general,” I say. The last time Irina got truly worked up it was about a legitimate scheduling conflict on a film shoot—not a celery juice. And it was at 11:00 a.m. on a Wednesday.
I water the palm and then clap my hands together. “I’m starving,” I say. “Let’s eat.”
Half an hour later we’re seated at Art’s Deli on Ventura in the valley. We haven’t been here in ages, at least a year. But during those weeks where Kendra was training me we came all the time. We’d go to work, and then at five or six or seven, whenever we’d finish, we’d drive over the hill and sit in a red booth and order—a Reuben for Kendra, and a BLT with coleslaw for me. They have giant soda glasses—sixty-four ounces—and we’d sit for at least two hours, debriefing on the day, picking at cold fries.
“Ah, memories,” Kendra says, sliding in. We’re handed thick plastic menus, but we don’t even look at them.
“Wait,” Kendra says, once the waitress—Gretchen—leaves.
Gretchen is probably in her mid-forties, with a wide but impatient smile. We recognize her, but she doesn’t recognize us.
“I haven’t even asked you about how it’s going with Jake.”
Reflexively, I feel my face break into a smile.
“That good?”
“We’ve only been out twice,” I say. “There isn’t a lot to tell.”
“Bullshit,” Kendra says. “You don’t get this”—she loops her finger in the air around my face—“stupid.”
I have never told Kendra about the notes. Not because I think she’d think I was crazy—because she would—but because I never tell anyone. For forever, it was my private joke with the universe, my little behind-the-scenes snapshot. I didn’t tell anyone because it felt like it would be breaking a promise. Like exposing this anomaly to air might oxidize it, and then I might never receive another note again. That the spell would be broken.
To date, Hugo is the only one who knows.
