III.PORTRAIT D’UNE FEMME.
LOS ANGELES.
FEBRUARY. 2015.
The yoga towel is ruined. Ten days after the accident when I am up and about and have been cleared to drive, I buy a similar one at a yoga spot on Montana, package it with a lovely card, and head to Anouk Ferrand’s home. I do not tell her I am coming. I do not, in fact, have her number. But I have a photo of her driver’s license, and assuming she is still at the same residence, I know where she lives. And that bit of knowledge feels powerful, dangerous, wild.
The house is in Brentwood, north of Sunset; and the farther I ascend, the more I feel like a stalker. A fan. A trespasser. All of Brentwood feels like trespassing, to be honest. Counting others with my complexion has become a game I play solo. At the oh-so-charming Country Mart with its high-end boutiques, farm-to-table restaurant, and handcrafted ice-cream shop, I’ve yet to top six. At the Whole Foods on San Vicente, there’s an African American butcher behind the counter, a kind Fijian gentleman who runs one of the registers, a handful of Latine grocers. But customers who resemble me? Four, maybe. And fewer still at the restaurants. Katsuya, Toscana, Tavern… all wonderful eateries. But outside of the de rigueur “exotic” hostess? Next to none. I am a unicorn.
It is even worse in the Palisades.
And so, as I navigate my replacement SUV (at a tentative postaccident pace), I am already aware that I stick out here. But as the lots grow larger and the hedges higher, I begin to have second thoughts. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Maybe I will be stopped by someone’s security before I even reach my destination. Maybe she has dogs.
I rehearse the script I’ve spent the last two days finessing:Sorry to drop in unannounced. Didn’t have a number. Wanted to thank you profusely. It didn’t dawn on me until I got to the hospital why I knew your face.…The last line rings false, I realize. But I’m hoping she’ll assume I was in shock and could not properly register.
At some point the road veers left and widens into a picturesque palm-lined boulevard with a landscaped median. It is charming and unexpected, and I smile a little when the GPS signals that I’ve arrived. I have to loop around the far end of the boulevard to access one of the two entrances to her driveway. I ring the button and wait.
“Good afternoon.” The voice is male, British. I could have sworn this husband was American.
“Hello, yes,” I say in a voice two octaves higher than my own. “This is Cecilia Chen; I’m looking for Anouk Ferrand. I was recently in a car accident with her, and just wanted to drop something off.” Nothing about this sounds natural.
“Your name again, please?”
I repeat it. The Brit at the other end of the speaker says, “One moment, please.” And again, I wait.
I am about to ring again when the gate slowly rolls back to reveal a wraparound paved driveway leading past a tennis court, around a well-landscaped cluster of olive trees, and up to an extraordinary modern architectural home. It’s a sizable cantilevered structure fabricated of stone and glass, and feels more contemporary art museum than private residence. For a moment I wish François were with me to witness it all. So this is how she lives.
I pull up to the front entrance and then hesitate before putting the car into park, aware I’m blocking the driveway. There’s a shallow turnoff to the south of the manse, beyond the garage, but parking there seems presumptuous, as if I intend to stay awhile, which I don’t. Unless invited to, of course. Everything about this is awkward.
Before I can shut off the engine, the front door swings open and puts an end to my indecision. There, standing in a white tie and waistcoat, is a middle-aged gentleman whose posture and countenance are so erect and severe, I cannot imagine he is anyone but the butler.
“Ms. Chen.” He greets me as I exit the car, yoga-towel gift bag in tow.
“Cecilia.” I smile, reaching to shake his hand, and then in the moment wonder if that’s perhaps not the thing to do. There was a time I was up to par on my Emily Post. That time is not now.
“Ames. Do come in. Ms. Ferrand will be with you momentarily.”
I follow him into a breathtaking atrium flooded with natural light and opening into a minimalist dining hall. The view extending through the depth of the house and beyond the double-story retractable glass doors overlooking a serenely landscaped two acres. A virtual oasis. I have learned not to gasp at the homes here in LA. Just as I learned to hide my awe at the villas and the yachts on the Riviera the first time François was feted at Cannes. But part of me can’t help feeling like my much younger self; me, the summer I fell for the boy from Connecticut and gained entrée into his rarefied world. I was twenty-five then. It did not end well.
And as always, I think: I don’t belong here. I’m just visiting. I am a middle-class girl from a third-world island and I will carry that with me until I die. For better or worse.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, because one must say something.
Ames directs me through the entryway and into a living room. The décor is understated, cool. Gray and beige and shades in between. Everything pristine and in its place. Hard to believe someone lives here.
“May I offer you a drink? Water?” His accent is BBC crisp, and I wonder how someone who has mastered Received Pronunciation has ended up in the service sector. In Los Angeles, of all places.
“Please.”
“Still or sparkling?”
“Sparkling. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He slips out a second entrance, and I turn to take in the view. Two of the walls are floor-to-ceiling glass, the outdoors bleeding in. There’s a lounge area, a firepit, a grill, and farther down—past the succulents and herbs and all manner of vegetation—is an austere pool house and a linear pool.
There’s someone in it. A man. His hair is silver, but his body is unmistakably fit. The speed at which he cuts through the water. His arms slicing the surface. The power of his kick… He moves like an athlete.
This must be the billionaire husband. Older. Aloof. Once-divorced. Heir to the Longmore dynasty. The descendant of publishing magnates. I’d only googled so much before I’d started feeling guilty.
