“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” said Simon, answering the front door of his Coldwater Canyon house.
Sandy had been surprised to get the early-morning phone call from Simon, who had never once called her at home before. On the phone, he was awkward and cryptic, mumbling something about the Lincoln being disabled and the tow truck driver taking all his cash and how he needed a ride to work. It wasn’t the kind of call you usually got from your boss.
“It was quite a night last night, let me tell you,” said Simon as he ushered Sandy into the house. “First, the Lincoln died—simply died. Not even the power locks would work, let alone the engine. Of course, I’m not a member of the Auto Club. I
used to be, but I wasn’t paying attention and it just lapsed—it’s been so long since I’ve had a car break down. So I called a tow truck, but he would take only cash. Well, he gouged me for eighty dollars just to tow the car to the dealer, and that left me merely enough money to take a cab home. Have you ever taken a cab in this city? It’s thirty dollars to get anywhere, apparently. No wonder no one takes cabs. That took every bit of cash I had—none of these thieves takes credit cards, which is insane. When I awoke this morning, I realized I was a prisoner in my own home. No car. No cash for a cab. I racked my brains to figure out whom I could call. Frankly, my first instinct was to call Tim, but let’s face it—given his hours, I’d just wake him up, and that would be uncomfortable for all concerned. And then I remembered that you lived nearby. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s no problem at all,” said Sandy. “Being without a car is the worst.”
“I must feed the dog. You understand. Feel free to look around.” Simon headed toward the kitchen, and then Sandy heard the whir of an electric can opener and the happy jumps of Simon’s golden retriever.
The entry and living room to the right were tastefully decorated, even if it all seemed a bit impersonal. It wasn’t a house that shouted out, I’m Simon, whatever that might mean. Sandy poked her head through the door on the left, where you’d assume a den or family room might be. There was a large room, totally barren—not a stick of furniture or even a box. She wandered down the hall. Two more rooms—bedrooms? —were equally barren, as if no one lived here at all. At the end of the hall was the master bedroom. Thankfully, like the living room, it had furniture. Nice furniture, like one of those fake rooms you’d find in the furniture section of a department store.
“Have you lived here long?” she asked when Simon returned.
“Oh, yes,” said Simon. “My wife found this house when we first moved out here. I didn’t much like it at the time, but she was so reluctant to move to L.A., I assumed it was a compromise worth making. It didn’t work out. She stayed less than a year—a very unhappy year for both of us, between losing my magazine and her hatred of L.A.—just long enough to decorate the living room and our bedroom. Then she went back to New York. We were going to have a commuter marriage, until we figured things out. Commuter marriages don’t work, by the way. I’ve never heard of one that has. But it was an amicable divorce, I’m happy to say. She’s remarried to an editor at the New York Times and we have very civilized dinners, the three of us, when I’m back east.”
“And you were never inclined to buy a futon or a ficus or something, just to give those other rooms a lived-in look?”
“I’ve been meaning to,” said Simon somewhat mournfully. “But work seems to get in the way.”
“How about a smaller house? Maybe a condo?”
“I’m used to this,” said Simon. “And then there’s the dog to think about. He’s happy here, and I’d like to think that I’m capable of making at least one living thing happy in my personal life.” He let loose with a nervous laugh. “If only dogs could drive, I could have saved you this extra effort.”
“Just think of the decorating ideas I’ve picked up,” joked Sandy. “You’re going to save me a fortune if I ever get a house.”
Tim dragged himself to work late, as usual. It seemed even later to Sandy, who was dying to tell him about her visit to Simon’s. Her head popped over the cubicle wall even before Tim managed to sit down. She rapidly downloaded everything she had seen.
“More than one,” Sandy assured him. “And he’s lived there for years.”
“Do you know what it sounds like?” said Tim. “It sounds like a movie set. Are you sure it had a ceiling and four real walls? Were there spotlights overhead?”
“No, it was just like a real house. Except for furniture.”
“Sort of sad, isn’t it?” said Tim, standing and looking toward Simon’s office. “You’d think by this time in his life, he’d have a real life.”
“He almost does,” said Sandy. “It was just like real life, only a bit less.”
“No wife, no kids, no furniture, no one to take him to work when his car breaks down? That’s more than ‘a bit less.’”
“He had me,” pointed out Sandy. “And even you can’t do much better than that.”