“Does he respect you?”
Jane was practically hugging the wall, she felt so awkward witnessing this. Meanwhile, Lindsey was unabashedly engrossed, like a fangirl watching a TV reality show.
“He respects me, he does. Maybe he isn’t the best at always showing it, but he loves me.”
“How can he love you and play around like he does?” Tashaasked gently. “How can he respect you and do that? I’ve seen you so hurt, baby.”
“He’s a big overgrown boy. The NBA doesn’t exactly make you grow up.”
“Well you’ve got three kids that actuallyarechildren. You don’t have to put up with him anymore.”
Tracey blinked back tears.
“I know, but he’s a good father.”
“He can still be a good dad if you aren’t together.”
“But... I still love him. I see the sweet goofy guy he was when we met, even when he’s being a total jerk. He’s not perfect, but who is?”
Tasha brought Tracey in for a tight hug. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, Trace. All I want is for you to be happy.” Then she turned to Jane and Lindsey. “I am going to need your numbers for when she comes around!”
Each vehicle on the Ventura Freeway was like a clog in the digestive tract of a giant constipated snake. The sun was setting behind in Jane’s rearview mirror, turning the sky that shade of ocher that, while pretty, could be nothing more than light refracted by the thick layer of smog.
She didn’t bother to turn on any news or music. She was trying to solve Tracey, and that was a challenge. Was her marriage entirely transactional? Was she simply cashing in on her looks for wealth and status or did she genuinely love her husband? It appeared to be the latter. But Jane reminded herself not to be so binary. Maybe it was some of both. In any case, Tracey’s eyes were wide open, and even if there was some willful blindness, she was making the choices she wanted to make.
The idea of being financially dependent on her mate terrifiedJane. If Tracey wanted out of her marriage, she’d no doubt get an enormous divorce settlement and be more than fine. Tracey, who had seemed at first like a kindred spirit—a perfectionist—had accepted an imperfect marriage. How could that be reconciled? Being a perfectionist was a fool’s game, and Jane understood, now more than ever, that she herself was quite the fool.
Jane opened the door to the detached garage. In her hand, she held the memento of the day, a Louis Vuitton Murakami wallet. The distinctive brown and tan leather was spotted with whimsical pink flowers, some with yellow smiley faces that projected the blissful joy of anime mindlessness. The Vuitton Murakami reminded Tracey of a rocky time in her marriage, so she had decided to get rid of it. Something about the traditional colors overlaid with the fantastical ones felt balanced to Jane, like the wallet was taking the piss out of itself. It was unclear where and when Tracey was going to consign all her stuff, so rather than let it linger, unwanted and abandoned, Jane had slipped it into her pocket.
She opened a drawer full of a carefully curated collection of small leather goods and paused. Why wait? She wanted to see how carrying it felt.
Jane and Anna had decided to eat at a small plates restaurant in West Hollywood. The shared plates eating trend enabled everyone at the table to be hyperaware of how much, or how little, everyone else was consuming. Sometimes it got really competitive.
Anna eyed Jane’s wallet as she slipped her valet parking ticket into it.
“I love that, Jane! It’s so colorful and whimsical.”
“Yep, that’s how I roll.”
“Ha.”
“A client wanted me to take it. I would never buy something like this.”
“That must be worth, like, at least five hundred bucks!”
In fact, it was worth more than a thousand dollars. Jane had done due diligence when she got home.
Jane was glad to be out and about. Evenings in the house alone were starting to feel, well, lonely, and Anna, as usual, had a lot to share.
“I can’t date actors, but I’m always dating actors! I mean, that’s who I meet. I don’t have the time for Hinge or Raya or whatever. We’re casting this TV show which is so, so stupid. It’s about some space colony but it’s all medieval, it makes no sense, and it has been such a beating, the network—you should hear the way they talk about these actors. ‘She seems tired.’ ‘He looks too ordinary.’ ‘She’s too big.’ Did I tell you about the time we were reading for a nine-year-old girl? This adorable little girl gave a fantastic read, spot-on and natural and perfect, and the exec said, ‘I think we need a girl with a little more seasoning.’ And I was thinking, What the fuck? So what if she doesn’t have any credits? What does he want, for us to find a nine-year-old who just won an Oscar and is coming out of rehab? These people. I mean, you were smart to get out.”
“It was the right decision for me, but you’re doing great, Anna—and I know you love the work no matter how aggravating it is.”
“Yeah, I kind of do,” Anna conceded. “I mean, work isn’t the real prob. It’s dating. Shouldn’t dealing with all that idiocy at work make it easier to deal with idiotic men?”
“Hmm. I’m not sure it translates.”
Anna popped an olive into her mouth. “No, it definitelydoesn’t! It’s so frustrating. I wish I didn’t like sex so much. Or men for that matter.”
