I would have considered Linda Rowan a flawless beauty like Rene, if not for the ring through her nose, the ring through her eyebrow, and the ring through her lower lip. The stud in her tongue is something particularly irritating since it clicks against the back of her teeth whenever she speaks. It’s hard to tell how old she is. Anywhere between twenty and thirty. The eyes look a lot older, but her face is fresh and young.
I focus on the large pansy tattooed on her wrist, as she reaches to pour herself a hefty glass of whiskey.
“Well, fuck! Don’t just sit there staring at me. Say something.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
Linda laughs a husky laugh that tells me she laughs often. “I like you, little house cat. I’m never wrong about these things. And I like you.”
I’m really getting irritated at being called the “little house cat” and I’m about to say something when Len Rowan decides to join us. He is a tall, swaggering, and good-humored Britisher. I’d recognize Alan’s bass player anywhere. He is not good looking, but he has an interesting face. Very English features framed by a mane of wavy reddish-blond hair.
“Len, meet the house cat,” Linda announces. “I can’t give you her name because she won’t tell me. This one is a clam. House kitty, this in my husband, Len Rowan.”
Len sinks too close to me on the chaise after grabbing a full bottle of Jack Daniels. He’s reclined on one side of me, Linda in front, so I feel surrounded.
“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? All fresh and cute like he plucked you from an Iowa corn field. Where do you imagine he picked up this one, Linda?”
Linda sighs and shakes her head. “She’s too good for him. I can tell that at a glance. And I like her, so stop messing with her Len and stop staring at her tits.”
Len leans over to kiss his wife. “I only have eyes for you, love. And so long as you like her, that’s all that matters.”
“So, where is Ugly?”
Ugly? Does she mean Alan? “I don’t know,” I say cautiously.
The Rowans laugh.
“We’re all family here,” Linda says.
“You’re not exactly catching us at our best,” says Len humorously.
“Ya think, Len?” Linda shakes her head. She leans forward into me, chin in hands, eyes sharply on me. “Cruella has a way of bringing out the worst in me. I’ve been trying to call Manny since he touched down in New York. Cruella has been running interference and we worry about him. OK?”
“Haven’t had sight or sound from him in nearly six months,” Len explains. “The only things we hear are from Arnie Arnowitz. How’s a guy supposed to react to finding out his best friend is breaking up the act via a phone call from the accountant? Not even the fucking manager. The fucking accountant. After all that’s gone on, it was time to find out what the hell is going on directly from the source.”
“We got tired of being shut out, so we barged in,” explains Linda, reaching for another cigarette. “Len and Manny are like this.” She crosses her fingers. “Like brothers, and who the fuck tells their brother to kiss off via the accountant.”
I try to keep any reaction from surfacing. The phone call in the car from the airport: I knew before they knew that Alan was quitting.
Linda smiles. “So how long have you been with Manny?”
“I’m only visiting New York.”
That brings a sparkle to Linda’s eyes. “Interesting. We’ve had no contact with him since December so we’d very much appreciate a no bullshit, no carefully spun answer. We’re not the fucking press. We’re family. How is he?”
That question is far from simple, multifaceted, and serious. Linda is worried. Very, very worried. I can feel it underneath everything else.
“I don’t know. I don’t know Alan well enough to know for sure.”
Len spits out a full mouth of JD across the chaise. “You call him Alan?”
“Jesus Christ, Len, it’s nothing to split a gut about. It’s probably part of that Rehab getting to the true, honest self shit. You know how they love to fuck with your mind in Rehab. Pull it together, who gives a fuck what the little house cat calls him. It’s probably therapy.”
I’m ready to be done with this. I stand up and quickly secure my sarong.
“Don’t run off, little kitty,” Linda says mockingly. “We’re not done with you.”
Every muscle in my body tenses and I wonder where the flash of anger so unlike me came from. “Well, I’m done with you,” I say pointedly.
Linda rolls her eyes. “Not a smart move, little kitty. Not if you plan to stick around. I’m the last person you should make an enemy of.”
I meet her stare for stare. “No, Linda. I’m the last person you should make an enemy of. So back off.”
Girl stare. Serious girl stare.
Len spits out his drink again and then falls laughing on the chaise.
“Oh lighten up, lighten up, love. She got you good there, Linda. We don’t need a cat fight. Not today.”
Linda relents. “You don’t have to run off.”
I lift my chin. “I’m not running.”
“Then sit down dammit. It’s going to be explosive enough when Manny returns without you being pissed off at us.”
What the heck does that mean? Is she warning me that things are going to get worse from here? It’s already awful.
Linda takes a steadying breath. “I’m sorry, and I’d be more than happy to call you something other than little house cat, but you’re the one who won’t tell us your name.”
Good point. I sit back down. “Chrissie,” I say stiffly.
Linda smiles, and when she really smiles it’s quite spectacular. “There now, we are friends. I want you to stay here with me. Keep me from doing something stupid. This is not going to go at all well.”
Holy crap, what does that mean?
“So, where are you from, Chrissie? Where did Manny find you?”
I look at Len. “California.”
Linda crinkles her nose. “You didn’t meet in Rehab did you? You don’t look the type.”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Linda shakes her head in exasperation. “You know, you don’t have to be so cautious about everything. We’re just making idle chitchat until it’s time for the fireworks to go off.”
“So, what do you do in California,” Len asks.
“I go to school and I play the cello.”
The minute I say it I realize how lame that sounds. When do you outgrow these moments of embarrassing conversational awkwardness?
Len starts to rummage around the remains of my buffet table Jeannette unexpectedly set up for me while I was inside putting on my swim-suit.
“Aha.” Linda takes a plate of fruit from Len. “She’s a smart one, Len. All college posh and cello. Maybe the Rehab shit is good. Maybe this one will keep him straight. I like her.”
I know she means it as a compliment, but for some reason each time Linda announces I like her it’s like nails on a chalkboard. It is incredibly irritating, the self-importance she gives her own opinions.
Len Rowan’s eyes sharpen on me. “So, you’re the reason he bought the cello.”
How do they know about the cello?
Linda and Len lock stares.
“That means they’ve been together since January,” Linda announces with an air of discovery.
“I just met him last week,” I say emphatically, though I don’t know why I feel an urgent need to clarify that.
“Oh, don’t play coy with us,” Linda chides shrewdly. “Quite a retirement fund. Better than the jewelry. I knew you were a smart one. Jewelry always loses its value. But the cello. That was smart. And we know exactly when he bought the cello. Like I could ever forget that day. Remember, Len?”
Len gives her a sympathetic, heavy nod.
“I cried into my magazines for nearly a week,” Linda continues gravely. “It is a sad day when the only confirmation you get that your dearest friend is alive and well, since no one will tell you whether he is or where he is, is when he buys a cello for 1.7 million at auction at Christie’s. The Times in January. That was the first time we knew for sure he was OK.”