A Date You Can't Refuse Page 4

  “Thank you.” No one had ever complimented my ears.

  “With you, the challenge is the breasts. With breasts, sexy is easy. Here, we project class. That, not so easy.”

  “That sounds good,” I said. “Class.”

  “It will be done, but it will not be cheap. And Yuri needs you up to speed tomorrow.”

  “What's tomorrow?”

  “DOA. Day of arrival. The first of the trainees arrive at LAX. The last ones come in the following day. Instantly, we begin the training. This is an intensive course, for you as well, so you must stay hydrated. Kimberly will work with you, so you will be in good shape, which is also important. Not as important as Americans believe, but some exercise is okay.”

  “I'm expected to … exercise?” I said.

  Donatella nodded. “Kimberly is the finest personal trainer in L.A.”

  “Wow. That's like saying someone's the finest chef in Paris.”

  “Los Angeles magazine put her in the ‘Best of L.A.’ issue five years in a row.”

  I was feeling less qualified by the minute. “I should tell you that my car's pretty ratty, if I'm to be driving people around.”

  “Oh, we give you a car to drive. When do you move in? Tonight?”

  “Move in?”

  “Did Yuri not tell you? Bad Yuri. You will live in the house with the trainees.”

  “I'm supposed to live … on campus? So to speak?”

  “Exactly.” Donatella looked pleased. “House of Blue, Alik has named it. He also lives there. You have not met Alik, I think. He is Yuri's son.”

  “But I have an apartment, and my stuff is—”

  “You are not to worry, Yuri will work it all out. You must live here, or you will never sleep. Already you will need to be in three places at once most of the time. You will see. We will forward your mail and even your telephone number, if you wish.”

  This new wrinkle was disturbing. If I lived here and worked here, what would become of the rest of my life? What would Bennett Graham think? And Simon?

  Parashie came in, arms filled with clothes, which she hung on ornamental hooks.

  “The Sonia Rykiel is good,” Donatella said, inspecting a suit. “Where is the Ungaro?”

  “With the exaggerated lapels?” Parashie asked.

  “Yes.”

  Parashie looked surprised. “But—it's been worn. Remember? She wore it to the HELP Foundation lunch.”

  “So? Only one time. Did she spill consommé on it?”

  “No, but—” Parashie glanced at me, then away. “Is that … okay? I mean—”

  “What is the problem? Does it need dry-cleaning?”

  “The clothes belong to someone else?” I asked.

  “Yes and no,” Donatella said. “They were purchased only last month for Chai, who was on the team for the last two training groups. Most have not been to the tailor yet. Parashie, do not be silly. We have a sixteen-hundred-dollar pearl-gray Ungaro that will look better on this woman than it did on Chai. Bring it, please.”

  Parashie threw another look at me, then left the room.

  “Teenage girls,” Donatella said, “do not fully appreciate money. Or couture. You do not have a problem to wear this jacket, do you? I promise you it is gorgeous.”

  “I'm sure it will be fine. It's not like someone died in it, after all.”

  “No, not in the Ungaro. I believe she was wearing Commes des Garçons.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Chai.”

  “When?”

  “When she died,” Donatella said. “Come, let us try these pants on you.”

  SIX

  Why should I object to wearing a dead person's clothes, I asked myself while trying on trousers. Especially the ones still sporting price tags? How many things in our lives—antiques, for example—belonged to dead people? It's not like I was being asked to wear used dentures. Not that someone with Chai's wardrobe owned dentures.

  But for reasons I couldn't identify it disturbed me. As Joey had put it, wear a clown costume, you feel like a clown. Wear a dead woman's clothes and—or was she a dead girl? “How old was Chai?” I asked.

  “Twenty-one,” Donatella said. “Turn, please. Let's see the pants hang.”

  No dentures, then. “How did Chai die?”

  “She drove off a cliff. At night, on Old Topanga. In a classic Corvette. Very unfortunate. No clients were with her at the time, happily.”

  Happily for them, anyway. “What was her job on the team?”

  “Hold your tummy in, please. I need these pleats to fall straight.”

  “I am holding my tummy in.”

  “We must have the seamstress in. Chai had good shoulders, but your waist is bigger.”

  “We could surgically remove some of my ribs,” I said.

  “There is no time. With luck, the seam allowance is generous.”

  “So, Chai's job?” I asked again. “What was it she did?”

  “The same as you will do. Social coach.”

  Now I felt almost ill. Same job, same clothes. “A twenty-one-year-old was squiring men around town?”

  Donatella nodded. “Precisely. An error in judgment on our part. I was blinded by her beauty. Yuri also. Chai knew the social scene, but not human nature. She was fantastic at presentation, however. Good for attracting business. She was on America's Next Top Model.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It was some seasons ago. And only the seventh runner-up. But to some men, even to date an America's Next Top Model loser is appealing.”

  I was struck by how poor dead Chai's value as a meaningless celebrity so outshone mine. “Donatella,” I said, “I have to say, I feel a little inadequate, following in the footsteps—not to mention wearing the shoes— of America's Next Top Model.”

  “Seventh runner-up. Also, did I not say that Chai was a mistake? You, we have vetted. Also, you were demanded by Vlad, our partner in Belarus. Yuri is an intuitive, you see. We have high expectations for you.”

  That explained the scrutiny I'd felt in the courtroom.

  “You are more suited to the job,” Donatella continued. “You have a nearly perfect driving record, you are born in Burbank, and you are a mature woman.”

  “Well, let's not overstate it,” I said. “But I am older than twenty-one.”

  “So you have life experience. And you are fully American, which is vital, as this is an immersion course. Also, you have warmth. Yuri has commented upon this. Chai made a good impression initially, but Chai cared only for Chai.”

  I turned to see Parashie standing in the doorway, listening. She looked at me with an expression I couldn't read, then said to Donatella, “Here. The Ungaro.”

  Donatella took the blazer from her. “One good thing,” she said. “Chai was skinny, but she had her breasts enlarged, so at least her clothes will fit you around the chest.”

  That was good news. I wondered how much of my job I owed to a skeletal resemblance to a dead America's Next Top Model reject.

  I was hoping to avoid Grusha's lunch, because after trying on Chai's clothes, it was clear I'd be better off weighing less. Fifteen pounds, minimum. Fortunately, none of Chai's new pants had yet been to the tailor; if they had, the waists wouldn't have fit a normal human being. In their unaltered state, they were almost big enough for me. If I gave up exhaling.

  I was not allowed to skip lunch, however. Donatella would prefer to see me with three or four kilos of body fat less, she said, but not at the expense of lunch. “A meal is more than calories,” she said. “In Europe we do not eat standing up or in the car and we do not drink powdered substances or bars of protein and call this a food.”

  “Okay” I said, “but aren't we introducing the trainees to America?”

  “Introduce, yes. Turn them loose, no. Europeans come here and gain ten kilos. Too many choices. Kimberly takes care of that. We cannot send piglets on a press tour.”

  “I thought food was Grusha's department.”

  “Grusha coo
ks what Kimberly tells her. You will see how we work, as one great organism. Now, at lunch we make the first impression, so you wear these pants and the Roberto Cavalli top. With the Chanel loafers. How lucky Chai also had feet the size of skis.”

  When I was dressed, Parashie led me outside and over a flagstone path that connected Donatella's house to the other three. We passed a gardener wielding a leaf blower, the body of which was attached to his back like a baby koala. Its noise was considerable, and Parashie and I suspended conversation until we were past him. A dozen other men ate lunch on the grass, in the shade of the adjoining house. This was one heck of a gardening crew.

  “And where do you live, Parashie?” I asked. “Here on campus or somewhere else?”

  She laughed. “That's funny. ‘Campus.’ We all live on the campus. I live in the house I take you to now, with Yuri and Kimberly. Grusha too. Alik lives in House of Blue. That is where the trainees live. You have a nice room there. It was Chai's.”

  Naturally. “And the other house?”

  “Green House. That is for the workers. They build a pool. Yuri lets them sleep there. That house, it is not finished inside.”

  I hesitated, not wanting to seem too inquisitive. “Were you friends with Chai? She wasn't that much older than you, was she?”

  “Of course we were friends. We are all friends, all of us on the team.” She seemed a little less perky, though, so I searched for a safer topic.

  “What's your job title, Parashie?”

  “Production assistant. Like the movies. Alik gave me this title, like a joke. Yuri thought it was clever.”

  “That must be interesting, living in the same house as the boss.”

  “Well, Yuri's not just my boss. He's my father.”

  “Oh.” This surprised me. “So is Donatella your mother?”

  “No, my stepmother. Like Kimberly”

  Was she from Yuri's first marriage? Before I could figure out how to ask gracefully, we were inside Yuri's house, and Yuri was coming down a black marble staircase toward us.

  I was taken in a powerful embrace and kissed on both cheeks, for the second time that day, then Yuri held me at arm's length and positively beamed at me. He turned to his daughter. “Well, Parashie? How do you like her? Is she not exactly right?”

  “I like her.”

  “Good. Good. You look splendid, Wollie. I see Donatella's been working on you.”

  “They're Chai's clothes,” Parashie told him.

  He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Yes? Good of you to fit into them.”

  “My pleasure.” I was annoyed at myself for feeling so pleased with Yuri's compliments. I was a sucker for charisma. Even as my mind whispered, He's just saying that to win you over, I found myself basking in the light of his attention. It's a quality that's fine when you're in primary school, but fairly pathetic when you're all grown up and six feet tall.

  “Come into the great room, let's get you a drink. Sweetheart, see if you can find Alik for us.” Parashie ran off, and Yuri led me through a formal dining room into a large, light-filled space dominated by a long conference table. The table was modern, made of some alloy and topped with translucent mint-green glass. It was set for seven, but could probably seat twenty. Yuri gestured to a well-stocked bar and asked what I liked to drink.

  “Water,” I said. “With or without gas.”

  “Good girl.” He smiled and reached for a goblet.

  “Was that a test?” I asked. “What if I'd said double vodka, straight up?”

  “Then we would have a problem. And yes. Everything is a test. Now tell me,” he said. “What was it that made you change your mind and come work for me?”

  My heart stopped. I felt my face growing warm and my breath quicken. “Oh, you know. You're a persuasive man.”

  He turned and handed me the goblet, making eye contact. “But you're not easily persuaded. What was it?”

  My whole body was heating up. Could this be a hot flash, a decade or two early? I felt sweat gathering on my forehead. “I have a brother,” I said. “He lives in a kind of halfway house in Santa Barbara. It's expensive.”

  “Go on.” Yuri, I got the impression, already knew about P.B.

  “And you're paying me a very nice salary. Oh, by the way: Donatella tells me I'm to move in here. That's a little tricky.”

  “Why?”

  “For one thing, I visit my brother every week.”

  “But you're closer to Santa Barbara here than you are from your apartment.”

  “Yes, but my Uncle Theo always comes with me. I pick him up in Glendale.”

  Yuri continued to study me. I continued to sweat. I thought I'd done an okay job of changing the subject, but maybe not. “It can be worked out,” he said finally. “Kimberly my wife, deals with scheduling. Today, go home, pack what you'd need for a long weekend, and lock up your apartment. I want you here tomorrow. Have you any pets?”

  “No, and you don't have to pay my rent—”

  Yuri held up a hand. “I promised you, no expenses.”

  But money wasn't what bothered me. Living here made this whole thing less a job than a relocation, like boarding school. Or boot camp.

  A telephone rang. Yuri answered it and moved through sliding doors out onto a deck.

  I looked out after him, taking in a spectacular view of the Santa Monica Mountains, a vast expanse of wilderness and canyons that seemed incredible, existing so close to Los Angeles. Beyond the mountains was Malibu.

  I turned back to the huge room. His house appeared to be structurally identical to Donatella's, but done in pastel desert tones with black accents, a combination that, like Yuri's wardrobe, shouldn't have worked, but did. The black surface of the grand piano was covered in silver-framed family photos, including several of a yellow dog.

  The sliding glass opened, and Yuri came back in. “Sorry for the interruption. Ah, here's your male counterpart. This is Alik. My son.” He gestured behind me, and I turned.

  “Delighted to have you on the team,” Alik said, shaking my hand. I recognized him from Yuri's trial. The whole jury had noticed him, but especially the women. Alik Milos had his father's vitality and a lot more hair. He wore glasses, which made him look intelligent, in a dashing sort of way. I guessed him to be twenty-five, a decade or so older than Parashie, who was coming into the room now too. Did they have the same mother?

  “I'm happy to be here,” I said. “How many Milos children are there, by the way?”

  Yuri answered. “Only two. So far.”

  “That we know of,” Alik added, under his breath.

  “Unless you count Olive Oyl,” Kimberly said, entering the room and heading for the deck. “Hello, Wollie. Let's eat outside.”

  “My father should've been a Mormon,” Alik said, taking my arm and escorting me onto the deck. “Hundreds of children, dozens of wives. That would've made him happy.”

  “I am happy,” Yuri said.

  “Wollie, Alik's field is psychology,” Kimberly said. “He can't help himself, he psychoanalyzes everything that moves. Damn, there goes my visor.” She leaned over the deck, watching her red visor ride the breeze down into the canyon. She wore a sporty dress, tight and sleeveless, showing off a flat stomach and muscular arms.

  Parashie looked through a telescope, into the canyon. “I see it, the hat.”

  Donatella joined us, giving Alik a kiss. “Hello, ragazzo. Kimberly it is too breezy to eat outside. We shall be covered in soup.” And back into the house she went, with all of us following. What was it like for her, watching her ex-husband live out his life with his trophy wife? And Kimberly? How was it for her to live and work with her husband's previous wife and a knockout stepson her own age?

  “I don't psychoanalyze, by the way,” Alik said to me. “I'm not an analyst. But I want to do a Myers-Briggs on you, Wollie. After lunch. The short version. It'll be fun.”

  “You and your Myers-Briggs,” Kimberly said. “Wollie, it's the standard psychology student pickup techniqu
e. I'd lie if I were you.”

  “What is a pickup technique?” Parashie asked.

  “American girls,” Dontalla said, “do they fall for this silliness?”

  “Stepmother,” Alik replied, “you would be shocked.”

  “Come, come,” Yuri said. “Wollie has just met us. Wollie, you're family now, and en famille, informality rules. When the trainees arrive, we become more discreet.”

  “We try,” Alik said.

  “Respect,” Yuri said, “for cultural and religious backgrounds is imperative. We resist sexual innuendo and avoid the careless use of the name of God.”

  “So I guess Pope jokes are out,” I said.

  Alik put an arm around my shoulder. “Not to me. I love Pope jokes.”

  “Stop flirting with her, Alik,” Kimberly said. “She might not like you.”

  “She doesn't know me well enough to dislike me, Stepmother.”

  “Shut up,” Kimberly said.

  “This must be my orientation,” I said.

  “In fact,” Yuri said, “I planned to do a proper orientation this afternoon, but Zagreb just called. I fly to New York tonight. Kimberly, make that happen, will you, my love?”

  Kimberly walked over to a keypad on the wall and pressed a button. “Grusha, are you there? Pack up Yuri again. He's going to New York.”

  “Lunch first,” Grusha's voice barked back.

  We seated ourselves at the conference table, joined by a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Nell and avoided eye contact. No one explained who she was.

  Grusha came through an archway with pot of soup. Alik went to take it from her and was told to sit and not treat her like a weakling.

  “Yes, Grandma,” Alik said, and he winked at me.

  I turned to Yuri. “Grusha is … your mother?”

  “My mother-in-law,” Yuri said. “From my first marriage.”

  So Yuri's household was composed of a wife, an ex-wife, the mother of a dead wife, the son of the dead wife, the daughter of an as-yet-unidentified mother, and Nell, sitting next to me.

  And me, of course, taking over a dead woman's job.

  “You,” Grusha said to me, ladling soup into Wedgwood bowls. “No beets, no sauerkraut, no liver. So. Now you eat.”