I slowly opened my eyes, then quickly closed them against the morning light seeping in around the edges of the shaded bedroom window. Turning on my side to snuggle in, I felt the grit of sand between my toes and on my calves. The nightmarish sound of Celia’s scream came back to me.
Sitting up, I grabbed the phone and called her. Again I got her voicemail. Shit. With my head pounding, I threw on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes. I finally found her house key on the floor where I must’ve dropped it last night.
I ran along the hard wet sand. Celia’s house was a sprawling cottage with bougainvillea and roses clambering along her terrace. I knocked on the French door. No answer. Peering in, I saw her lying on the sofa. She was turned on her side, her back to me, wearing the clothes she’d had on yesterday. She was still.
I banged louder. “Celia, it’s Diana. Let me in!”
Without moving, she yelled “Go away! I’ll phone you later.”
No woman screams the way Celia had last night without something being very wrong. Taking her key from my pocket, I opened the door.
“Oh hell, Diana, somebody tells you to do something, and you always do the opposite.” With a groan, Celia sat up, keeping her head lowered. Her long raven hair screened her face. Her orange skirt was rumpled, and her black chiffon blouse was ripped at the right shoulder seam. She was holding a bag of frozen organic peas.
Moving closer, I gently pushed her hair back from her face.
“Don’t, Diana. Please,” she mumbled.
A large bruise spread purple and yellow-green over her right eye and cheek bone. “What happened to you?” I asked.
Sighing, she lifted her head. Her lower lip was cut, the blood dried and brown.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She pressed the bag of peas to the discolored area.
“I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
“No!”
I sat down next to her. “Who did this to you?”
“Nobody. It was a stupid accident. I …”
“Before you go on you should know that your cell phone rang mine last night and I heard you scream. If you don’t tell me who did this, I’m calling the police.”
“You heard me?”
“Yes. Screaming.”
“Oh, God, no.”
“Tell me what happened, Celia.”
“I can’t.” Her face was strained, terrified. “It could ruin me and my real estate business.”
“Did Zaitlin do this?”
“He would never do such a thing. And you mustn’t tell him.”
“Then who?”
Her violet-colored eyes darted around the room as if someone dangerous was hiding among the pale blue linen-covered chairs, warmly polished chests, and striped silk drapes. The frozen bag of peas dropped from her hand to the floor and she began to cry. I put my arms around her. She leaned her head on my shoulder and sobbed. Calming, she pulled away, and I dug for Kleenex in my pocket and handed it to her.
“Do you remember how you and I met?” Sniffling, she dabbed at her face.
“I was standing in line waiting to see my mother’s latest movie, and you cut in front of me.” I picked the bag of peas off the floor and held it to her cheek.
“You didn’t say a word. You just let me do it. And I told you that you would never get ahead if you let people cut in front of you. Do you remember what you told me?”
I shook my head.
“You said ‘Maybe I don’t want to get ahead.’ That moment defined us, don’t you think?”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to see my mother’s movie.” It made my vacation time with Mother easier if I had seen her latest film.
“No, you wanted safety, and I wanted to be like Nora. You gave up acting, something you were very good at, to get married. To not be like your mother. I gave up acting because I was terrible at it.”
Celia and I had been friends since we were sixteen. Back then, she had what I called a “normal” life—living in one home with one mother, one father, and a grandmother they called “big mama.” She and her family had been a stabilizing force in my nomadic youth. Later, she, Zaitlin’s wife Gwyn, and I were starlets together.
“I worked hard for all of this, Diana.” Celia gestured at her room.
As if seeing it for the first time, I realized there were no family photos placed on the expensive bamboo side tables. There was nothing personal in the designer down-laden sofas and color-coordinated area rugs. There was no sign of Celia, of the young girl I once knew, or the woman she had become. But what do you display on your shelves if you’re a long-time mistress—photos of Zaitlin, his wife, and their son?
“I don’t want one night to destroy my life. Please don’t make me tell you what happened to me,” she added softly.
“But you’ve been beaten up, I heard you scream. I can’t let that go.”
“I’m really sorry, but is your fear important enough to you that you’re willing to ruin my career?”
“I don’t think that’s the point. I would never do anything to harm your career. And it’s not fear, it’s concern. We’re friends, Celia. You can’t carry around what happened to you all by yourself. You need to talk about it.”
“Then promise me you won’t tell anyone. Not the police, not Robert, not anyone.”
Staring at her desperate face, I took a deep breath. “I promise, but if it happens again, I’m dragging you to the emergency room.”
“It won’t happen again.” She walked over to her French doors and stared out at the steel-gray ocean, hugging herself.
I joined her, watching the morning fog swirl, and waited.
Finally she spoke: “The man who was with me yesterday when we found you in the swimming pool.”
“You mean Mr. Ward? The one who was looking at the house?”
“Yes. He wanted … he wanted to meet me for a drink. He said there were some things he needed to discuss if he made an offer on the house.”
“You thought he wasn’t interested in it.”
“I should have listened to my instincts.” She pushed her fingers through her hair. “When I got there …”
“Where?”
“A bar, that’s all I’m telling you. We talked about the pros and cons of the house. Then we just began to chat in general. You saw him. He’s handsome in that kind of off-kilter way. I enjoyed being with him. I got a little tipsy. Well, sloshed might be a better word. He said I was in no condition to drive and he’d take me home. He was parked on a quiet side street.” She let out a weary sigh. “When we got in, he threw me back against the passenger door. His hands all over me. I struggled. That’s when he hit me, hard.” Tears rolled down over her bruise again.
“Did he rape you?”
She shook her head. “I somehow reached behind me and got the door open and I fell out onto the sidewalk, screaming. He drove off. Left me there like trash. I made it back to my car. At that point I was sober enough to drive.” She forced a smile, then winced, touching her lip.
“Christ, Celia. I wish you’d report …”
“Diana, you promised. You and I are never going to mention this again.” She held my gaze.
“All right. What are you going to say to Robert when he sees you?”
“I was tipsy and stumbled in my five-inch heels and fell flat on my face. He’s always predicted one day I would, so he’ll believe it. I need to lie down.”
I stayed while she showered and got into bed. Her hair fanned out like an ink spill on her snowy white pillows. “Thank you for being a good friend, Diana.”
“Get some sleep.” I wondered whether keeping quiet about what had happened was really being a good friend. But Celia was right—in real estate an attempted rape by a client could jeopardize her career and reputation maybe more than his.
“Are you going to the party tonight?” she asked.
I stopped in the doorway and turned. “What party?”
“Robert said they were having some kind of celebration.”
“Oh, God, I forgot. I think it’s a birthday party for their son. I don’t suppose you’re going.”
“Of course not.”
“Why do you stay with him, Celia? It’s not like you’re kept by him.”
She stared down at the delicate laced edge of the sheet. “I don’t want to end up like my parents did. When my father got home from work he would lie on the sofa expecting to be waited on by ‘big mama’ and my mother. Both women vying for his attention and arguing over who was in control of the kitchen. God, I hated it.”
I smiled. “I loved your life.”
“I loved your mother’s. Robert comes here to see me because he wants to, not because he has to. And if I don’t want to see him, I don’t. I’m not dependent on anyone. I like my life the way it is.” Then she added, “And I want to keep it.”
“I’ll call you later to see how you’re doing.”
She closed her eyes, and I left her looking vulnerable tucked among the mass of her pristine bedding.
Walking back home, I noticed Ryan was still splayed on his lounge, snoring with his mouth open. The golden hair on his legs glistened in the sunlight. He must’ve slept there all night. God, he’s going to get sunburned.
“Ryan!” I yelled up from the beach. “Wake up!”
He kicked his feet and turned onto his side.
Climbing the steps to my house, I thought of Ryan, Celia, and me. Ryan got so drunk he passed out on the walkway, a man battered Celia, and I drank a bottle of wine and took sleeping pills. Just another Monday night in Malibu.