We walk into the vaulted lobby. All the staff recognizes him, welcomes him.
“Mr. Herschel! Mr. Herschel!” they exclaim like they’ve been waiting for him, hoping for him, all this time. He makes small talk, watching me all the while. He is enjoying this. He has me pinned. I look at the Maxfield Parrish reproductions along the wall and wonder what Graham is going to do to me. Whatever he wants.
He gets the presidential suite. Of course he does. We walk through the door and through a circuit of rooms to the master suite. He doesn’t turn on any lights. The walls are golden. He is drinking whisky from the bottle now. He takes off his tie, removes his jacket, unbuttons his vest and climbs onto the bed.
“Darling.” He looks up at me with bedroom eyes. “Tell me, whose teeth are they?”
I look at the glass doors leading onto the balcony. I could run. I could jump. “They’re Demi’s,” I find myself saying. “They belong to Demi Golding.”
This actually shocks him. He coughs. His eyes expand. But he doesn’t run. He doesn’t even move away from me. In fact, he moves closer. To help me, to trap me, to bask in my need. “I thought you were Demi Golding.”
“I’m not.”
He purses his lips, looks up at me through hooded eyes. “Who are you?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
He grabs my hand so tight, I can feel my own pulse. “Come here.” He tugs, then yanks me onto the bed.
I grasp, half-blind with fear, for the whisky bottle. Cheers to my demise.
He crawls closer to me. I can feel him breathing, feel his drugged heart beating, as he watches me with something like . . . appreciation?
“Tell me everything,” he begs me. “I want to know everything.” It takes me a second and several strong swigs to understand what he is saying. “Please! I want to know every dirty detail. From the beginning.”
So I tell him. My whole life, every tragic detail. He listens with rapt attention, like a little boy being told his first fairy tale. I tell him about Demi and Michael. Here he seems not to believe me.
“It’s all right if you did kill her,” he swears, squeezing my hands so the whisky sloshes in the bottle. “It’s all right!” And I feel a rush of gratitude followed by a dart of uncertainty: What kind of man thinks that’s all right? Money forgives everything, but this might be too much. “It’s beautiful,” he insists, kissing my temple. “Everything you did. Everything you had to do. It makes you so goddamn beautiful.” When I’m finished, he extracts the bottle from my fingers, places it on the bedside table. He sets me underneath him, arranges me like a doll, brushes my hair, kisses my forehead. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice is blue and reverent. “Can I make love to you?” He kisses my neck. “Please?”
It feels so good just to be touched. And he is so handsome. And so, so rich. And I need money even more than I need forgiveness.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up alone in the presidential suite, redeemed. I don’t go back to the guesthouse. I don’t want to ever. I don’t even leave when I’m supposed to check out, although it grinds through me: Checkout time is eleven o’clock. Other people can check out. I won’t. I am the fucking president.
I order room service. Strawberries cut into heart shapes. A bottle of Mo?t. God, I can still feel him inside me. I have no past. I am all future.
LYLA
I wake up and have a glass of Mo?t. It’s not a party if you’re not drunk. Graham wasn’t in the living room when I came in, which doesn’t surprise me. He is probably at a private doctor getting his hangover drained from him on an IV. He’ll show up for the party immaculate. He’s going to be so impressed.
I sit with my Mo?t at the edge of the house, looking out through the glass at all of Los Angeles, spread like a dead flower below. My back is to the fountain but I see it in my mind’s eye. I am trying to puzzle through all the things I learned but it’s like the pieces don’t go together.
The front door lock clicks and my housekeeper lets herself in. She starts to clean. The light through the windows makes everything glow white.
“This is embarrassing,” I volunteer. “But I can’t remember your name.”
She stops cleaning. “Astrid.” The star on her neck glints in the light, and I remember where I’ve seen it, where I last saw it. Winking around Elvira’s dead neck.
“I really did adore Elvira.”