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“Good things come when we least expect it,” she adds.
I roll my eyes. Shey can say that because she’s known only good things. She comes from a stable, loving home. Her modeling career fell into her lap. Her brilliant, wealthy husband pursued her hard for two years before she capitulated. She has adorable boys, an Upper East Side apartment, a country estate, and a thriving business. In short, she has it all.
“I hope so,” I whisper.
Shey reaches out and squeezes my arm. “I know so.”
I glance at her, and she looks so serious and so sure of herself that some of the tension in me eases. How can I not believe Shey? Shey has a huge heart and more strength than any woman I know.
“So do you want to know where we’re going?” I ask, shooting her a quick smile.
“We’re not going to your place?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Thought we needed to do something totally escapist and self-indulgent.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Are we going to a spa?”
“In Palm Springs.”
Shey lets out a whoop and pumps her fist in the air. “Road trip!”
Chapter Eight
Our hotel, the Parker, has enjoyed an impressive list of owners and names, first as Gene Autry’s Melody Ranch Estate, then as the Merv Griffin Resort and then the Givenchy Hotel & Spa, and now the Parker. The villa walls are pale pink and draped with bougainvillea, and the gardens are as lush as a desert oasis. Restyled by designer Jonathan Adler, it’s also hip, stylish, and popular among celebrities fleeing Los Angeles for sun and fun.
Shey and I tumble onto the slipcovered living room couch with happy sighs. The doors to our private garden and pool are open. Fresh flowers and chilled champagne greet us. We even have our own “butler” on call for the next two days.
“It’s forty-five degrees in New York,” Shey says, wiggling her bare toes. She’s been talking about changing into her swimsuit to go lie out by the pool, but she still hasn’t moved from the overstuffed sofa. “My kids would die to be here. They’d love the pool.”
“The boys are good swimmers, aren’t they?”
“For city kids, yeah.” She stretches, yawns. “I love my boys, wouldn’t trade them for anything, but God, sometimes it’s all so much. Sometimes it seems like everyone needs so much from me.”
Shey turns her head, looks at me, her expression unusually serious. “You don’t know how badly I needed this. Two days of nothing. Two days to be lazy. Two days where I can just take care of me for a change.”
After an hour by the pool, we finish off the afternoon with massages and oxygenating facials before changing and making a ten-minute drive into downtown Palm Springs for dinner. The sun set behind the mountains an hour ago, and the desert city sparkles tonight. The night is calm and clear as we arrive at one of my favorite restaurants.
The maître d’ knows me on sight, welcomes me warmly, and finds us a table almost immediately. Not long after we’re seated, Brett, the owner, appears table side with a kiss for me and a complimentary bottle of champagne.
I introduce Shey, and he swears he recognizes her. She laughs, demurs, and then he snaps his fingers. “Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue 1991.”
“Yes,” she admits, cheeks dusky pink.
“I knew it. Green bikini in the waterfall. And then there was the lizard-skin one-piece against the sand. Right?”
Her jaw drops a little. It’s been a long time since she’s been recognized as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. “That’s impressive, sugar.”
He just grins. “I have two of the most beautiful women in America dining at my restaurant. Am I a lucky man, or what?”
As he walks away, Shey shakes her head. “That never happens anymore.”
“It’s because you’re always with your husband. Men aren’t going to trip over themselves in front of John.”
The exchange with Brett reminds me of my conversation with Christie on Thanksgiving when she told me that beautiful women get better reservations, tables, and services. They get attention and eye contact.
I tell Shey about the conversation Christie and I were having in Christie’s kitchen, and I ask Shey if she’d ever consider getting work done.
“Probably, at least my eyes,” she answers without much hesitation, but then adds, “But Marta would kill me. She’s so antisurgery, so anticaving to societal pressure.”
“You’ve discussed cosmetic surgery with Marta?”
She nods. “Marta just about took my head off. Wanted to know what kind of role model would I be for Eva? What kind of example was I setting for other girls?”
“Easy for her to say. She’s not in front of a camera, not like you or me.”
“Which is why she was livid I’d consider it. Apparently I’d be perpetuating Madison Avenue’s propaganda, that only young and beautiful women are valuable.”
A little heavy-handed, but that’s Marta for you. And although heavy-handed, Marta’s usually right. I don’t know if it’s because she’s the mother of a daughter or a rebel at heart, but Marta just doesn’t succumb to society pressure the way many beautiful women do. But maybe that’s what makes Marta beautiful. She’s strong, different, unique.
“If you were to take Marta out of the equation, surgery wouldn’t be an issue then? You’d have the surgery tomorrow?”
She starts to answer and then stops, shakes her head. “No. Not tomorrow. Maybe in five years, maybe ten. I’d do it when I wanted to do it, when I felt comfortable with it. I certainly wouldn’t do it because I was being told to do it.”
“I don’t want to be told to do it, either. It’s one thing to want to do something. It’s another when it’s forced on you. Besides, I don’t want to be a clown.”
Shey shudders. “There’s that. I’ve seen some bad work, too. I guess the bottom line is that people should feel good about themselves, and that includes taking responsibility for themselves. There’s nothing worse than being unhappy and blaming everyone else for your unhappiness.” She looks up at me, and her gaze meets mine. “If you’re not happy, fix it. Life’s short, you know?”
The expression in her eyes is sad, and I realize we’re not talking about plastic surgery anymore. I reach out, take her hand, and give it a squeeze. Something’s going on with Shey, but she’s clearly not ready to share. Shey might be our sunshine, but she’s also damn stubborn. When she’s ready to talk, she will, but until then, I’ll just keep letting her know I love her.
After dinner we return to the hotel, where we change into PJs and lounge around the living room with the TV on mute so we can talk. Shey and I haven’t had this kind of time alone in years, and we make the most of it. She brings me up to speed on her boys and some of the issues they’re facing in school. The youngest one is very tall and very thin, and kids make fun of him for having a stork neck.
“It brings back all the feelings of inferiority I had as a girl growing up. Giraffe, stilts, daddy longlegs.” Shey shudders and runs a hand through her blonde hair, thick and tawny as a lion’s mane. “Being a kid was horrible. Did anybody have a good time growing up?”
“I hear a few people did. But for the majority it’s rough.”
“Can you imagine being pretty and popular in school?” She laughs her low, husky laugh, and then her laughter dies. “It’s funny how just when you get old enough to take the hits, the hits go to your kids instead, and they don’t know what the hell to do.” She sees my face. “Am I going on too much about the parent thing?”
“No. I like it. You make me feel normal again.” And it’s true. It feels so good to be around someone who has known me for over half my life. It feels even better to be myself and accepted and understood. No matter what I do in life, no matter what career I choose, I’ll always have Shey and Marta. Real friends, true friends, are worth their weight in gold.
“Ah, honey, you are normal. It’s your industry that isn’t.”
She gives me a crooked smile and it’s
a little country, a little cowgirl, and I love it. It’s her real smile, not her model smile and I suddenly lay all my cards on the table. “Maybe it’s time for me to retire.”
Shey looks at me for a long moment, her blue eyes narrowed. “You don’t really mean that, do you? If you were to ask me, I’d say you’re just pissed off right now.”
She’s right. I am pissed off. How can I be valuable only if I look young and unlined? How can they really replace me just because I’m closer to forty than twenty?
I roll over onto my back, cross one leg at the knee, and swing my foot. “Why didn’t I see any of this coming? During the summer I thought I had it made. Hot guy, great career, steady income. But it was an illusion. I’m in trouble.”
“What would you do if you weren’t with the show anymore?”
I pause, think. “No idea.”
