Lies and Weddings(79)

“Whole milk is fine, thank you,” Eden said, leaving the kitchen before Sonia might ask her to select sugar options. Down a hallway, a gracious set of arched doors opened out onto a terrace that overlooked formal gardens straight out of a chateau in the South of France. Even though she had grown up amid the splendor of Greshamsbury Hall, there was something to Eden about the way the Farman-Farmihians lived that seemed exponentially more decadent—here in Southern California, the fountains seemed fuller, the peonies seemed plumper, the pool sparkled brighter, and the tennis court blinded with its perfect white lines, just like the white Ginori china sparkling on the breakfast table where Freddy and his sister peered intently over an intricate seating chart.

“No, no, you can’t seat Khaleh at that table. She’ll be opposite from Leila, and you know they haven’t spoken since Paris,”[*2] Daniela said.

“Didn’t that happen before I was born? Those cousins still aren’t speaking?”

“Hell no.”

Freddy looked up and spotted Eden coming out onto the terrace. “Hey, hey, she’s alive!”

“Good morning,” Eden said.

“Did you sleep well?” Daniela asked.

“My god, I didn’t want to leave the bed. That’s the best mattress I’ve ever slept on,” Eden sighed.

Freddy gave his sister a look. “See? See? I told you the mattress was worth it.” Turning back to Eden, he said, “That’s Drake’s mattress.”

Eden looked confused. “Drake, the musician? He slept in my bed?”

“Not your bed, but one just like it. It’s custom-made in Sweden and we waited eight months for it.”

“Call me cheap, but I don’t believe in spending more for a mattress than a Bentley,” Daniela shot back. “Anyway, it’s your house. I’ll be moving out soon.”

Freddy made a sad face.

“Where are you moving?” Eden asked.

“Oh, just nearby. I’m redoing a house in Trousdale, that’s why I’m squatting here at the moment.”

“Oh. Doesn’t your father live here as well?”

Freddy and Daniela laughed at the same time.

“No. My dad’s latest wife doesn’t think this house is up to her standards. She and my dad live in Paris and Monaco these days, where she mixes only with snotty French Persians,” Daniela explained.

“I think being around my mom’s furniture also freaks her out,” Freddy chimed in. Suddenly it all made sense to Eden—this was Freddy’s childhood home, and it remained a shrine to his late mother. Eden stared out at the colonnade of Roman sculptures in the rose garden as the putter of a leaf blower revving up could be heard in the distance.

“Fuck, here they come,” Daniela groaned.

“Who?” Eden asked, puzzled.

“The bane of my existence! Our neighbor’s damn gardeners! Ugh, Tom and Richard promised they weren’t supposed to start until eleven.”

“It is eleven,” Freddy answered.

“I’m going to my dermatologist. I’ll see you at dinner.” Daniela blew Eden a kiss, hightailing it off the terrace.

The housekeeper brought out Eden’s latte, and as she attempted to sip her coffee and relax into her chair on the lovely flagstone terrace, the hum of a single leaf blower soon turned into a roar of raging machines.

“Jesus, how many of them are there?” Eden finally asked.

“WHAAT?” Freddy shouted.

“HOW MANY GARDENERS ARE THERE?” Eden shouted back.

“I DUNNO. PROBABLY A DOZEN. THEY COME BY THE TRUCKLOAD.”

“IT SOUNDS LIKE THE FALL OF SAIGON!”

“YEAH? I’M SO USED TO IT I DON’T EVEN HEAR THEM. IT’S JUST A FACT OF LIFE HERE. EVERYONE’S GOT GARDENERS, EVERYONE HATES LEAVES.”

“CAN WE GO INSIDE?”

“SURE. WHY DON’T YOU GET READY FOR LUNCH? I’M TAKING YOU SOMEPLACE VERY SPECIAL.”

Less than an hour later, Freddy was giving Eden a driving tour of Bel Air and Beverly Hills on their way to lunch. Driving down a street flanked by towering palm trees in his British Racing Green G 63, they turned onto Maple Drive. “This is one of my favorite streets in the Flats,” Freddy said.

“I don’t see any flats,” Eden said as she looked at the gracious houses along the curving, sun-dappled street.

“No, this area of Beverly Hills is called ‘the Flats’ because it’s on flat land, as opposed to where I was just driving you up in the hills. It’s actually the most desirable part, super-high demand. If any of these houses come onto the market, they’re snapped up within hours of the listing going live.”

“Aren’t these houses very expensive?” Eden asked, staring at a gorgeous Spanish Mediterranean house.

“These are actually the cheaper houses in the neighborhood—twelve to fifteen million on average.”

“What a bargain,” Eden laughed.

“Yeah, some people I know have ten of them.”

“Ten…of these houses?” Eden tried to clarify.

“Yeah. They’re the best investment, because historically the values go up eighteen percent a year. So having a house in the Flats is a better return than most stocks or bonds. I know families who just collect them and leave ’em empty. Half of the houses on these streets are empty.”