I read the message through a few more times, trying not to panic. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I can handle this. In fact, this is good timing. This could be the answer to everything. Luke and I need to clear the air; Luke and Elinor need to clear the air; everyone needs to clear the air. We need one big honest, cathartic session, and then everyone will be a lot happier.
Maybe this will even bring Luke and me together. He’ll realize that I do care about more than being on the red carpet. He’ll realize that all this time I’ve been thinking about his welfare and happiness. And then he’ll be sorry for calling me shallow. (OK, maybe he didn’t actually call me shallow. But he thought it; I know he did.)
I haven’t prepared any ground with Luke, but how can I? If I mention Elinor’s name, he shuts down. The best thing is just to get them in the same room and lock the door. That’s what you do with interventions: You take people by surprise.
What I have done is write a letter. Because that’s the other thing you do with interventions: You write down all the ways in which the individual is hurting you by their behavior, and you read it out and they say, My God, now I understand, and immediately give up alcohol/?drugs/?rifts with family members. (Well, that’s the idea.)
I’ll buy some candles and some calming room spray, and … what else? Maybe we should all chant first. I did a brilliant chanting class at Golden Peace, except I never quite learned what words we were supposed to be saying. So I usually just chanted, “Pra-daaaaa,” over and over. No one seemed to notice.
And maybe I should coach Elinor. Because if she arrives and gives Luke that icy look and says, You need a haircut, then we might as well not bother.
I consider for a moment, then type a reply:
Dear Elinor, I will be glad to meet you later today. Perhaps we could have tea together before seeing Luke in the evening. Shall we say 3:00 p.m.?
I’ve sent it before I realize that I have no idea where to have tea in L.A. In London it’s easy. You can’t move for teapots and silver tiered plate stands and scones with cream slathered on them. But in L.A.?
I think for a second, then text Aran: Do you know the best place to have afternoon tea in L.A.?
Immediately his reply pings back: Sure. The Purple Tea Room. Latest place. Always booked up. Shall I get you a reservation?
After a few more texts, it’s all set up. I’m meeting Elinor at 3:00 P.M. and we’ll talk everything through. And then she’ll come here to see Luke at 7:00 P.M., and I guess we’ll take it from there.
The trouble with Luke is, he’s so stubborn. He’s decided he hates his mother and that’s it. But if he only knew. If he’d only give her a chance. Elinor may have done all kinds of terrible things when he was growing up, but while we were planning his birthday party I saw how much she regrets it. I saw how much she wants to make amends. I even saw how much she loves him, in her own chilly, Vulcan weirdo way. And the thing is, she won’t live forever, will she? Does Luke really want to be estranged from his own flesh and blood?
As I’m gazing through the kitchen window, Suze’s car turns in to the drive, and I watch her park carefully under a tree. Thank God. Suze will help me. I haven’t seen Suze properly for ages, I realize. I’ve missed her. What’s she been up to? Where was she last night?
I’m about to yell “Suze!” out of the kitchen window when, to my surprise, the front passenger door opens and two long legs in capri leggings emerge, followed by a sinewy body and unmistakable blond hair.
I stare, discomfited. It’s Alicia. What’s Suze doing with Alicia?
Suze is just in jeans and a black top, but, as usual, Alicia is wearing an amazing yoga outfit. There are slits in the side of her orange top, and I can see her tanned, lean torso. Urgh. She’s such a show-off. The two are talking earnestly. Then, to my horror, Suze leans forward and gives Alicia a big hug. Alicia is patting her back and seems to be talking soothingly. I feel outraged at the sight. In fact, I almost feel sick. Suze and Alicia Bitch Long-legs? Hugging each other? How can she?
Suze turns and heads toward the house, and a moment later I hear her key in the lock.
“Suze!” I call, and I hear her turn her footsteps toward the kitchen.
“Oh, hi.” She stands at the doorway but doesn’t rush up or smile or anything normal. She looks strained. She’s clutching on to the doorframe, and I can see the tendons in her hand standing out.
“How was the TV?” she says, as though she couldn’t care less. “Are you even more famous now?”
“It was fine. Suze, where on earth have you been? Were you out last night with Alicia?”