Alex had dipped his toe into the edge of the pool and was trying to write my name in script. “C,” he said. “A-S-S. . .” He frowned and looked up at me. “How come you don’t like Cassandra?”
I shrugged. “I never said I didn’t like it,” I clarified. “It’s what my mother tried to call me until my father convinced her it was far too much name for a little girl. And then in seventh grade we did this Greek mythology unit, and my teacher made me look up my name.” I recited the facts to Alex as I had that day in front of the class: Cassandra was the beautiful daughter of King Priam and Hecuba. She was given the power of prophecy by Apollo, but when he fell in love with her and she didn’t return his attentions, he cursed her so that no one would believe what she foresaw, even though it was the truth.
At twelve, I had liked the fact that Cassandra was beautiful enough to make Apollo fall in love with her, but the way she was forced to live out her life had turned me cold. Stripped of her credibility, she’d become a slave, and then was murdered. “After we did that unit,” I said, “I told all the teachers I wanted to be called Cassie, and everyone else just followed.”
Alex lifted me up and twisted me so that we were lying face-to-face.
“Lucky for you, Cassandra,” he murmured, “that you tend to return my attentions.”
His breath settled into the curve of my neck, and I slid my hands under the band of his bathing suit, shaping myself to his heat. Alex gripped the back of my head and pulled me closer, shifting me off balance until we rolled as a tangled unit off the chaise and onto the grass beside the pool.
“Well,” a voice said. “And here I thoughtI’dcome at an inopportune time.”
I pushed away from Alex and brushed the hair out of my face, straightening to see Ophelia, her arm held by John in a death grip. Her hair was a flyaway mess, her shorts had been torn across her bottom, and every few seconds she tugged her shoulder away from John as if she found him completely distasteful.
John looked at me, and then slid his gaze toward Alex. “She told Juarez at the gate that she was a friend of Mrs. Rivers, but she wouldn’t let us call up to the house, so we sent her away. And then she’s picked up on the monitor climbing over the east fence.”
“Speaking of which,” Ophelia said to Alex, “I’ll send you the bill for these shorts.” She turned to me. “And shame on you for not giving me the password of the day.”
“Ophelia,” I said, shaking my head. “Why didn’t you just give your name at the front gate?”
All the fight and bluster drained out of Ophelia, puddling in front of her feet. “I wanted to surprise you,” she said miserably. “If I’d let them call you and tell you I was coming, it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”
I raised my eyebrows. She was the last person I’d have expected to crawl over the fence of the house. For the past week, I’d been trying to get Ophelia to make the tiniest concessions toward accepting my new life. I knew that in some ways, Alex and Ophelia were too much alike to become friends. Their careers moved in similar self-serving circles;
they measured their success by the number of people who recognized them; they both needed me. I knew that deep down Ophelia believed that Alex was taking me away, but I also knew I could change that.
Instead of looking at Alex as a threat, I was determined to make her see him as an asset—as a sort of big brother in the business. I told her this repeatedly over the phone. And of course, I wanted Alex to like Ophelia too. She was my best friend—my only friend, really.
Alex had wrapped a towel around his waist to conceal what we hadn’t been able to finish, but he easily dismissed John and brought a chair over for Ophelia, entertaining her so smoothly I could almost believe he routinely expected to find women falling over his fences. “It’s my fault,” he said easily. “I keep forgetting to give the names of Cassie’s friends to the guard so they won’t be hassled.”
My eyes widened; we had never discussed this. I watched him smile at Ophelia, then watched the last of her edges soften, and I realized that Alex had charm honed to an art. “Oh!” Ophelia drew in her breath, and then opened up a floral-print canvas tote that was discolored and wet at the bottom. She fished out a long red gift bag and handed it to me.
Inside, broken pieces jangled; I peeked to see shards of green glass and to smell the sweet curl of champagne. “It hit the ground before I did when I climbed the fence,” she said apologetically. “It was a housewarming gift.”
I poked a finger through the remains. “Well, thanks,” I said. “But Alex has lived here for a while anyway.”
Ophelia grinned. “It was more to warm the household to the idea ofme,” she said. “I’ve been an asshole. I was hoping we could just start over.” She glanced at Alex, who was sitting next to me on the chaise, absorbing the conversation as it unfolded. “It’s just that when you’ve known Cassie for as long as I have, and she says she’s brought something back from Tanzania, you’d think she means yellow fever, not ahusband.
She’s taken more time ordering a drink at a bar than she did hooking up with you. Although,” she conceded, “when she does get around to making a decision, she has a knack of choosing the very best.”
Alex looked at her for a long moment, one actor assessing the skills of another, and then he slowly nodded his head. “Well,” he said, “shedidpick you as a roommate.”
Ophelia swung her hair over her shoulder and offered a smile. I looked at her, and then back to Alex, and I was reminded of the way I had felt when I first moved to L.A.: that the people here were part of a tremendous movie set, all healthy and tanned and disproportionately beautiful. “Iamsorry about the champagne,” Ophelia said.
“I’m sorry about yourshorts.” I twisted around so that I could better see the jagged rip along the seat.
Ophelia laughed. “Actually,” she said, “they’re yours. You left them behind.” Impulsively she leaned across the foot of space that separated us and threw her arms around my neck. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you, Cass?” she whispered.
I smiled against her cheek. “For Alex, yes. For the shorts, never.”
“YOU KNOW I WOULDN’T DO THIS FOR ANYONE BUT YOU.”
At the sound of Alex’s voice I looked up from the mirror where I was putting on my makeup. He was knotting his tie in preparation for a night out on the town that he hadn’t wanted in the first place. Ophelia had begged to make amends by taking us out to dinner at Nicky Blair’s, which she said she’d pay for if Alex used his clout to make the reservation on short notice. Alex had graciously agreed, but when we were alone in the room I could hear his objections cutting through the tension:We should just have dinner here. Let the novelty of the marriage die down. We can do this some other time.
“It won’t be that bad,” I said lightly. “It’ll be over before you know it.” I put down the mascara wand and walked into the bedroom in my underwear and slip, coming to stand in front of Alex. I unknotted his tie and redid it, straightening the half-Windsor and then smoothing down the tails. I leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” I said.
Alex’s hands ran up and down my arms. “Oh, it won’t be as bad as I’m expecting,” he said. “That’s my trick. If I imagine the absolute worst, I can’t help but be pleasantly surprised.” He walked to my closet and picked out one of the outfits that had magically appeared within days of my arrival in L.A., a slinky red dress like nothing I’d ever owned before. In fact, most of my clothing was like nothing I’d ever owned before. But Alex knew more about these things—where I would be going and what I would need—so I simply deferred to his judgment.
