Inexpressible Island Read online

  “Sorry, but didn’t you come to my play a few weeks ago?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “New York? Cherry Lane Theatre?” Theatrically she spread out her arms and said in a British accent, “I’m dead then. Good.”

  “Definitely not. Sorry.” The British accent stirred him up a bit.

  “Huh. I could’ve sworn it was you.”

  “Wasn’t me.” She had a breathy soprano that sounded oddly familiar. Yet he had never heard such a combination of sexy and innocent in a woman’s voice.

  “You sat in the third row between your date and your friend. You were all pretty wrecked by the end. I don’t blame you. I was excellent, if I do say so myself.”

  “I’m sure. But it wasn’t me.”

  “The Invention of Love? I played A.E. Housman. I was Nicole Kidman’s understudy. Love is ice in the hands of children.”

  “Sounds good, but I haven’t been to New York in years.”

  “Incredible.”

  It sure was. A squinting Julian studied the specials board again. He had that specials board memorized.

  She faced front for barely a second. “I just had an audition for a Mountain Dew commercial,” she said, turning around.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I was also in Six Characters in Search of an Author. I was one of the six characters. And I was in Top Girls.”

  “Were you one of the top girls?”

  “How did you know? Actually, I wasn’t, so—ha. I was one of the second-tier girls. You’re not a producer by any chance, are you?” She appraised his suit. “Maybe I could audition for you.”

  He demurred. “The kind of producer I am you don’t want to audition for.”

  “Why?” She batted her eyes. “Are you in . . . naughty films?”

  “No.” He lowered his gaze, took a step back. “I sponsor and train some fighters at a gym near here.”

  “Oh my God, really? I love boxing!”

  “You do?” He tried to remain impassive.

  “Oh, sure.” She put up her fists. “Hey, can you train me, too?”

  It was hard to stay impassive. “I don’t train girls, sorry.”

  “Why not? That’s sexist. Girls can fight.”

  “They sure can. I just can’t train them. I’d be like, don’t get hit, duck, move away, run.”

  “So maybe somebody should train you to be a trainer of girls.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  She kept looking him up and down, reviewing the shine on his shoes, the cut of his jacket. She roamed his face, from his forehead to his chin, peered into his eyes, studied his full mouth, his twice-busted nose, stared at his Adam’s apple above the open top button of his shirt. He had taken the tie off. He had to. “This is how you dress for fight training?”

  “No, suit is for a meeting,” he said. “The boxing’s usually first thing.”

  “What kind of meeting? I didn’t know there was a gym around here.”

  “Freddie Roach’s place, just up on Vine.”

  “Yeah, I know it. The Chiquis Taco food truck in the parking lot is pretty good.”

  “I prefer the Han Tai Vietnamese truck next to it.”

  “Oh yeah? I’ve never had Vietnamese food.” She waited.

  “Oh yeah?” Was she expecting him to say something else, like invite her out? “You should try it. It’s very good.”

  “I bet. Did you know I used to run the Gotham Girls Roller Derby rink?”

  “I don’t think I knew that, no. But it doesn’t surprise me.”

  “I did. On Coney Island. That’s me, I’m a Gotham Girl. I bet I roller blade better than you box.” She smiled.

  “I bet I roller blade better than you box, too.” He smiled.

  She laughed and edged half a foot closer. “Have you ever been to Coney Island?”

  He stayed put. “I haven’t, no.” There was nowhere for him to go; the small place was packed.

  “It’s awesome. We have a boxing gym there, too. Plus a Ferris wheel and amusements. We have fortune-tellers and a kiss me quick promenade”—she grinned—“and we had Sideshows by the Seashore where I used to work with my dad. I was the emcee, an amazing emcee, by the way, I was a carnival performer, did a little of everything, including juggling knives while riding a unicycle.”

  “That sounds pretty great.”

  “Oh, it was incredible. But we closed unfortunately. Coney Island still has a world-famous roller coaster, the Cyclone, and a boardwalk, and the best pizza joint in the entire world.”

  “Thank you.” He couldn’t help smiling. “I know what Coney Island is.”

  “Oh!” She almost blushed, but quickly regrouped. “So what do you do, Mr. Boxing Guy? Do you just train others, or do you box yourself? Oh, you box, too, really? Maybe I can come to one of your fights. What do you mean, not professionally? But you used to? Wow. Were you any good? You were? Why’d you quit? Oh no!—that sounds terrible. Head injuries are the worst. No, I never had one myself, knock wood”—she rapped on her own head—“but I knew a guy who dived into the shallow end of the pool, and he was never the same after. Mind you, he probably wasn’t all there to begin with, to dive into the shallow end. I really do like boxing, you know. I’m not just saying that.”

  “Why would I think you were just saying that?”

  “Like to try to impress you or something.”

  “Why would I think you were trying to impress me?” He twinkled at her.

  She twinkled back at him. “I used to follow this blog online,” she said. “Then I got busy, I don’t know if I mentioned it, but I’m in both film and theatre . . .”

  “Yes, you mentioned it.”

  “Well, I have no spare time is what I’m saying. But I found time to follow this dude’s blog. He was a former boxer, like you, but he was also a Mr. Know-it-All, and he ran an awesome boxing-slash-survival-slash-life hacks-slash-lonely hearts website.”

  There was a pause. “The lonely hearts part wasn’t intentional,” he said. “Everyone kept asking all kinds of personal questions, even though it was supposed to be just life hacks.”

  “Oh, you know the blog, too?”

  “I do,” said Julian. “It’s mine.”

  “No, the guy was an actual boxer, plus he also knew a ton of survival stuff. Not that I needed it, but it was so much fun to read.”

  “I’m that guy.”

  There was a second or two of processing silence. “Shut up—you’re not Julian Cruz!”

  “Um . . .”

  Her smile, wide before, became Hawaii-wide. She stuck out her hand. “Well, well, Mr. Julian Cruz, we meet at last. I’m Mia. Actually, Mirabelle, but most of my friends call me Mia. But you can call me Mirabelle or Mia, or whatever you want.”

  Her soft slender hand remained in his. Julian let go first. That didn’t happen. The girl was usually the one to pull away.

  “What’s your stage name?” he said. “I’ll look you up on IMDb.”

  “You’re going to look me up, are you?” Irrepressibly grinning.

  Now he was at a loss for words.

  “I’m kidding. It’s Mirabelle McKenzie.”

  “That’s a good name.”

  “I like it. For a while I wanted to change it to Josephine Collins. I saw it written out in an old diary and liked the ring of it, and how it looked on the page. It sounded so historical and posh, like British aristocracy, Josephine Collins, a Shakespearean star of film and stage! But my mother said she would kill me.”

  “Mirabelle McKenzie is better.”

  “I told my mom if she kept making me mad I’d change it to Mystique McKenzie. Moms was not amused. She doesn’t even know who Mystique is.”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh, yeah, baby.” She clicked her tongue. “I know everything. I’m like Miss Know-it-All. You said the morning bun?” It was her turn at the counter. “What else?”

  “The sausage rolls are good. Australians run this place. They know their coffee and sausage ro
lls.”

  “So you come here a lot?”

  “Yes, semi-regularly.”

  “Like around lunchtime?”

  “Uh, no, different times. Depending on the day.”

  She ordered, paid, and barely waited for him to order his own coffee before resuming. “I have an audition coming up for a London play,” she said. As if London and Australia were interchangeable. “The director is flying in all the way from London, casting for a revival of Medea at the Riverside Theatre. It’s right on the banks of the Thames. My life’s dream is to live in London and be on stage there, ideally at the Palace Theatre, which is my favorite. Have you heard of it—the play, I mean? Medea, the woman who kills her children to avenge her betrayal. Dress up murder in handsome words, why don’t you.”

  “Well, kids can be such a handful,” Julian said dryly. “I hope you get the part. London sounds fun. Though I hear the weather’s not great. Five months of drizzle followed by a day of sun.”

  She laughed. “Clearly you’ve been to London.”

  “No. Always wanted to go, though.”

  “Me, too. Did you know that if you laid all the streets of London end to end, they would reach from New York to L.A.?”

  “Yeah, but who’d want to?”

  “Well, there’s that. I really hope I get the part. It’d be like a year commitment, though.” She blinked at him, as if inviting him to follow up with . . .

  “But what an opportunity,” he said. “And you’ll get used to the rain.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because people can get used to anything,” he said.

  They waited for their food and drinks in the mobbed place. She got hers first, but wouldn’t leave, kept talking to him.

  “Well, best of luck to you,” Julian said, when he got his coffee. “Break a leg.”

  She was chewing her lip, her eyes darting up and down.

  He turned to walk out.

  “Jules, wait!”

  37

  Paradiso and Purgatorio

  THEY HURRIED DOWN THE STREET.

  “I hope it’s not a terrible inconvenience,” she said. “I know the Greek Theatre is out of the way.”

  “It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it. I’m right here.” Julian pointed to his black Mercedes AMG two-seater with its top down, parked just around the corner on Larchmont.

  “Oh, swerve! Look at your car,” she said, impressed. He held the door open for her, closed it behind her, walked around. “Must be smoking fast out in the desert.”

  “It’s smoking fast everywhere,” Julian said, “and the City of Beverly Hills never lets me forget it. They haul my ass into court every few months.” Slowly he drove up Gower, debating whether or not to take Fountain. “Are you visiting from New York?”

  “Me? No. I live here now. A transplant. I moved out west a few years ago. Why do you ask? Oh, because of Invention of Love? I couldn’t pass up the part. Marty told me it could be a career break. Marty’s my agent. I was there for two months. But when my contract ended, I came back. That was less than a week ago. But I think I have a good shot at the Mountain Dew commercial and now this Paradise in the Park thing at the Greek. Plus a horror movie I’m auditioning for on Thursday . . .”

  “You live in L.A. but don’t drive? How do you get around?”

  “My roommate drives me, or I take the bus, or a cab, or I walk. I walk everywhere. My female roommate,” Mia added. “Her name is Zakiyyah. She’s my oldest friend. We grew up together.”

  “Is that safe, walking everywhere?”

  “It’s fine. I keep meaning to get a car, but I can’t afford the payments yet. Soon. Maybe if I get this Dante gig and I don’t go to London. I know it seems crazy to an Angeleno, but in New York I never needed a car.”

  “But you’re not in New York,” he said.

  “Old habits die hard,” Mirabelle said. “Did you know that Ray Bradbury lived his whole life in L.A. and never got a car? He took the bus everywhere.”

  He drove, and she didn’t stop talking. “Where do you live, Julian?”

  “I’m up in the hills.”

  “That’s pretty swanky,” she said dreamily. “I like going up in the hills. I have a place I sometimes hike to . . . which way do you face?”

  “Every which way. We’re on a mesa that we’ve cleared on all four sides. Plus we have a roof deck.”

  “Ah, a roof deck,” she said, suddenly subdued. Her mouth tightened. “Who’s we, your fam, your wife?”

  “No. Me and my friend Ashton.”

  She continued to look disappointed; at first he couldn’t figure out why. “I mean, my actual friend Ashton,” Julian said, getting it eventually. “It’s not a euphemism.”

  “Are you over thirty?”

  “Yes, just—why?”

  “You’re not allowed to have a roommate if you’re over thirty.”

  “Says who? And didn’t you just say you had a roommate?”

  “I’m not over thirty, so there.”

  “Technically, Ashton and I are not roommates,” Julian said. “We bought two adjoining lots and built two houses, connecting them by a pool and a common patio. So, together but apart.”

  “I know what you mean,” Mirabelle said. “When we lived in New York, me and Z shared a studio not much bigger than your car. Our two twin beds were separated by a privacy curtain, so we too were like together, but apart. And I guarantee, we paid more in rent than you pay for your spread. But then again, we were in the best location, Theatre District, 46th Street between Broadway and Eighth. What does Ashton do, is he a boxer like you? What’s the Treasure Box? You have a prop store, too? You’re a busy guy, aren’t you? That sounds like amazing fun though, running a prop store. Nothing but joy every day.”

  “Ashton is a lucky guy,” Julian said. “He only likes to do what he loves.”

  “Welcome to the human race,” Mia said. “I must check it out. I like haunted houses. I used to love your blog, you know.” There was hardly a pause between sentences.

  “Thanks, but why past tense?”

  “Well, like I said, I got busy, plus you went dark a while back. What did you do, write a book?”

  “Actually, yeah,” Julian said. “I kind of did.”

  “Did you really!”

  “That’s why the blog’s been quiet.” The book had been on the bestseller list in the self-help section for the past seventy-two weeks. Because of that, he now taught a survival course at the community college, traveled sporadically around the country giving motivational speeches, and offered consulting services on movie sets needing survival experts. He had almost no time for boxing, which is why he got up at dawn every day.

  “I’ve never met a published writer before, wow,” she said, assessing him in cheery wonder. “What’s the book called? Cruz’s Compendium of Clever Creations?”

  “Cute—but no. Tips from a Boxer and a Know-it-All.”

  “That’s good, too. I actually wrote to you a few times. I was one of the lonely hearts.” She hadn’t put on her seat belt. It kept beeping every 15 seconds, to which she was utterly oblivious. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?” She didn’t stop smiling. Or looking at him.

  “Sorry. Did you sign as yourself or use some other name? Most people use . . .”

  “I signed as Gotham Girl.” Her body was turned all the way to him in the passenger seat.

  He kept his eyes on the road. Her laser focused attention was slightly disorienting. “Did I ever write back?” He didn’t remember a Gotham Girl. But so many people wrote to him.

  “You sure did! We went back and forth. I heartily disagreed with your assessment of my personal situation.”

  “What did you ask me?”

  “One was why, if I was so talented and so gifted and was doing what I was meant to do, blah-di-blah, was I always so flipping broke.”

  “And I said . . .”

  “You quoted Marlon Brando. Never confuse the size of your paycheck with the size of your tal
ent.”

  Julian nodded in understated self-approval. “And the second?”

  “I asked how a girl could tell if a guy had a thing for her.”

  “To which I . . .”

  “Told me to run.” She laughed. “You actually said that. You said if you have to ask, he doesn’t.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You’re telling me. Then you asked if he’d seen my favorite movie.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it. I really took that apart. And you kept writing back, repeating, but has he seen it? You were very annoying.”

  Julian vaguely recalled that exchange. The girl had been insistent, writing to him several times a day, presenting bags of evidence, but refused to answer his basic question and one day went radio silent. “Well?” he said. “I never did get an answer from you. Had he seen your favorite movie?”

  She threw up her hands. “Do you see now why I stopped writing to you?”

  “Why, because you don’t like answering questions?”

  With the top down, the wind blew about her hair. Julian pulled over to the curb. She looked worried for some reason, like he was going to throw her out of the car or something. He nearly reached out and stroked her flushed cheek to reassure her. “I want to put the top up,” he said. “You don’t want to be a wild Beatrice for your audition, do you? Probably best not to be too disheveled.”

  Her face melted at him, confounding him.

  At the Greek Theatre in Griffith Park, she asked him to come in with her instead of waiting in the car. He checked his watch, texted Ashton to take the Fox meeting without him, and followed her into the amphitheatre.

  With a spring in her step she hopped up onto the stage when her turn came, waited for her cue from a man with the clipboard, nodded to Julian, and began. She was well prepared. She was phenomenal.

  After his eyes had sought the starry guide,

  they turned again into the light.

  “Tell me who you are,” he cried.

  And thus I answered:

  “A while ago the world possessed me.

  Had my time been longer,

  Much evil that would come,

  Had never chanced upon me

  Because you loved me well, and had good cause: