Away for the Weekend

Beth, Gabriela and the LAPD

Interestingly enough, Gabriela and Delila aren’t the only ones having an unexpected meeting with members of the Los Angeles Police Department this afternoon.

“So let me get this straight.” Officer Wynlot looks from his notebook to Beth. “You and your friend got on the bus because you saw some guy in a red sports car.”

“The stalker,” says Beth. “He’s been following us all morning. He even got onto the property of the Madagascar studio and set off the alarms.”

“In his car?” Officer Medina is Officer Wynlot’s partner.

Beth shakes her head. “No, he wasn’t in the car then. He was on foot. He was in the car when we were waiting for a cab. That’s why I got on the bus.”

Officer Wynlot nods, almost as though this is making more sense to him than anything else he’s heard in the last half hour since they stopped the runaway bus. “Right. Because you thought he was following you.”

“I didn’t think he was following us.” Not only is Beth not blushing, she seems to have forgotten how to stammer and whisper as well. “He was following us. He was everywhere we went at Sunset Plaza.”

“In his car?” asks Officer Medina.

“Of course not,” snaps Beth. Among the many fears Beth seems to be overcoming this weekend is her fear of figures of authority. “On foot.”

“Wait a minute.” Officer Wynlot is looking at his notes again. “You said this guy was on the bus? When did he get on the bus?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him until the snake got loose. He must’ve changed his clothes.”

“He changed his clothes?” Many people think that Officer Medina has a lovely, melt-your-heart smile, but Beth is not one of those people. “First you see him in his car, so you get on the bus. And then he somehow ditches the car, changes his clothes and gets on a couple of stops after you?”

“I don’t know how he did it,” says Beth, “but he was definitely on the bus.”

Officer Medina moves his mouth as though he’s impersonating a fish. “Well, he wasn’t on it when we searched it.” This is an accusation, not a statement. “And we talked to every passenger that came off your bus and there was no one like the guy you described.”

Officer Wynlot sighs. “What about you?” He turns to Lucinda. “Did you see this ‘weird’ guy on the bus?”

“Well…” Slowly and reluctantly, Lucinda shakes her head. “No, I didn’t see him on the bus. But—”

“Now that’s kind of interesting.” Officer Wynlot looks thoughtful as well as interested. “Because Miss Menz here says that he was sitting next to the tattooed man, but the tattooed man didn’t see this guy either. He says nobody was sitting next to him. How do you figure that?”

“I didn’t see him because I was busy trying to get my phone to work.”

“Of course. So that explains why the guy sitting next to him didn’t see him either.” He taps his pencil against his notebook. “But you saw him when you were shopping?”

“Well…” Lucinda’s eyes dart towards Beth. “Not exactly.”

Officer Medina takes his turn to sigh. “Not exactly ‘yes’ or not exactly ‘no’?”

“Well…”

“And when he broke into the back yard of the studio?” persists Officer Wynlot. “You must’ve seen him then.”

“Well…” Lucinda shrugs. “I was looking at something else then.”

“I thought he set off the alarms.”

She shifts from one foot to the other. “Well … they did go off…”

“So what you’re saying,” recaps Officer Wynlot, “is that you never saw this man who your friend says was following you around all day.”

Lucinda does some more foot shifting. “Well…”

“What the heck is going on here?” Shaking his head, Officer Medina directs this question to his partner. “Are we in the Twilight Zone or something? The bus driver went in the wrong direction on a route that doesn’t exist, but he never noticed. And nobody on the bus noticed either. They just rolled along like they were on their way home.” He turns his attention to Beth. “And now you’re reporting a stalker that seemingly can be in two places at once, change clothes in a matter of minutes, and who’s invisible to everyone but you.”

“You know what they say,” says Beth. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

“It is today,” says Officer Medina.

Either out of kindness, or because they think Beth is delusional and poses a threat to both herself and public order, the policemen take her and Lucinda the few blocks to The City of Angels College of Fashion and Design. Up until now, there was never any possibility that Beth would ever be brought home in the back of a cop car, but if she had Lillian Beeby would have fainted on the spot. Taffeta Mackenzie, however, is not the sort of woman to get upset just because someone in her care turns up with a police escort.

“How very kind of you to return our lost sheep,” purrs Taffeta, smiling at Officers Wynlot and Medina as if they were fantastically wealthy fashion gurus and not poorly paid public servants. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee or tea?”

But showing up in a police car and showing up with bare, filthy feet and your clothes dishevelled because you were wrangling snakes and dogs on a bus filled with hysterical people are two different things. The smile vanishes the minute the officers leave.

“Good grief, girl!” Taffeta points one dagger-like nail, midnight blue and flecked with gold, at Beth’s heart. “Your hair! Your clothes!” Her delicate nose twitches. “God help us, you smell like drugstore aftershave and cheap perfume. What in the name of Christian Dior is that on your blouse?” She peers closer. “Is that excrement?” It’s a good guess. In fact, the tiny smudge on Beth’s blouse is snake poo. “And your feet! What the hell happened to your shoes?” She puts a hand where her heart can be presumed to be. “You look like you’ve been herding cows. Barefoot.” Taffeta puts a hand to her cheek, but although she is careful not to disturb her make-up, this is a sign that she couldn’t be more upset if someone had dumped a case of red wine on the entire Spring collection. “I think, Lucinda, that you should go to the tea. I want to speak to Gabriela alone.” She sits down at her desk as Lucinda, with a last, worried look at her roommate, closes the door behind her. “All right, I want the whole story,” says Taffeta. “And let me tell you, it had better be really, really good.”

It is, as we know, a really, really good story. But, good as it is, Beth can tell that Taffeta Mackenzie doesn’t believe her any more than Officers Wynlot and Medina did.

As Beth’s tale of menace and mayhem comes to an end, Taffeta purses her mouth, risking smudging her lipstick, and sits back in her chair. “It’s not that I’m not sympathetic,” she says after a few seconds’ pause. “I’ve been there myself, honey. When I was a top model and had my face on every magazine in the solar system, there was this madman who became obsessed with me. And let me tell you, it scared the bejabers out of me. It got so bad I wouldn’t go anywhere by myself. Even to buy a pair of shoes.” She taps her fingertips on the edge of her desk. “But there is one big difference between my guy and your guy…” Taptaptap. “The guy who was stalking me wasn’t invisible, Gabriela. His name was Sam and he installed air conditioners.”

“But my guy’s not invisible. I saw him. I—”

“You didn’t even take a picture of him. Why didn’t you take a picture of him if he’s real?”

“I didn’t think…”

“And nobody else saw him, did they? You admit that none of the other girls saw him, even though you say he followed you all the time you were shopping. I was right there when the alarm went at Madagascar, and I didn’t see him.” Taffeta smiles. “How do you explain that, Gabriela?”

“Well I guess I can’t, but—”

“Even Lucinda never saw him, and she’s been with you all day.”

“But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there,” argues Beth. “It just means nobody else saw him.”

“Or maybe she didn’t see him because there was nothing to see. Just some guy being a little admiring.”

“A little admiring?” Following her around like he was a balloon on a string that was tied to her finger?

“Honey, Lucinda knows and you know, too – men are going to follow you around. That’s why you look like you do. Well, not like you look now–” Taffeta gives a delicate shudder. “But like you usually look. That’s the point of all the make-up and clothes and the diets and everything. That’s the price of beauty.”

“Being stalked by some psycho is the price of beauty?” What kind of a world is this?

Taffeta leans forward, eyeing Beth as if she were a piece of flawed fabric. “Look, honey, you haven’t been yourself all day. Don’t think I didn’t notice. As soon as I saw you this morning I said to myself, Taffeta, we have a little situation starting here. This is not the young goddess you met last night. This is not the girl who sent that awesome portfolio. Not the girl who designed the angel dress. Something’s gone horribly wrong…”

Beth stares back at her, wavering between horror and hope. Is it possible that there is some explanation for what’s happened to her, and that Taffeta Mackenzie knows what it is? Has this kind of thing happened before? Is it part of the magic of Hollywood? The part no one ever talks about? “I haven’t been myself?”

“No. Definitely not. You are not the real Gabriela Menz. And that is not a good thing.” Taffeta shakes her head. Mournfully. “Your outfit didn’t come together at all today; it was like you dressed on a boat in a storm in the dark… You’re not wearing any make-up and you’ve been hobbling around like you have beans in your shoes and never wore heels before… But when you wanted to put that tailored shirt with those cropped beachcomber trousers—” Though it happens rarely, for almost a full half-second Taffeta Mackenzie is at a loss for words. “Well, I just couldn’t believe it. I would’ve been less shocked if my favourite model had put on a hundred pounds and started shopping in charity shops.” She smiles as if the fabric she’s been considering is worse than she’d feared. “It was only then I figured out what was happening.”

She knows? She really knows? Maybe it’s some kind of rare natural phenomenon like the Bermuda Triangle or a shower of frogs. But peculiar to Los Angeles. The Los Angeles Syndrome. It’s all Beth can do not to fling herself on Taffeta’s desk begging, Well, tell me! Tell me what it is!

“You did?”

“Uh, huh. It’s obvious.”

“Really?”

“Sure,” says Taffeta. “It’s nerves. Nerves are a killer. This is a big deal for you. Maybe you’re a little overexcited. Wound up. I’ve been there, too, honey. When I first started out, I was a bundle – an enormous, jiggy bundle of nerves – and they were all being jabbed with needles. I shook. I puked. I even sweat.” Her expression darkens with the horror of it all. “But you’ll get over it. Trust me. It’s like actors get stage fright.” She stands up. “So I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” She comes round to where Beth is sitting and eases her out of the chair. “You’re going to go back to the hotel and get ready for tonight. You’ll miss the tour of the school, but that can’t be helped. We can’t have the staff seeing you like this. I’ll tell them you have a migraine. Tonight’s when you girls meet the major players. I want you to look like you were beamed down from Heaven. You’re going to take your place at the party and show them all what you’ve got. Because that’s what this town and this business is about. The show must go on!”

I’m not even in real life any more, thinks Beth. I’m in a movie. Any minute now this woman’s going to start singing and dancing.

“Well, I—”

“Let’s get something straight, OK? You’ve been messing up all day, Gabriela. And I can’t put my patronage behind someone who messes up like that. Think jungle. You either eat or you’re eaten.” She gives Beth a look that says she’s on the verge of being someone’s dinner. “So this is your chance to prove I wasn’t wrong about you. That you have what it takes.”

Suddenly Beth feels cold, as though someone has opened a window behind her that looks out on winter in Iceland. What she’s messing up are Gabriela’s hopes and dreams – and in a rather spectacular way. And if she’s doing that, then there’s a very good chance that Gabriela is doing the same for her. Every god there ever was can’t help her now. Even if she somehow manages to get back in her own body, her life has been ruined forever.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Taffeta’s smile holds as much amusement as a hanging. “Don’t blow this, Gabriela.”

Beth barely has the strength to nod. “I won’t.”

“That’s the spirit.” With one hand Taffeta guides Beth out of the office and down the hall, and with the other she calls for a cab. “And then we’re going to forget this day ever happened,” she says when they reach the entrance of the school.

“That’s fine by me,” says Beth.

The police officers who apprehend Gabriela and Delila as they squeeze through the hedges at the bottom of Joe’s property are Cecilia Rueda and Ivan Zokowski. Officers Rueda and Zokowski have been patrolling the area since earlier this afternoon, when several people reported a prowler in the neighbourhood. That the prowler wasn’t described by anyone as two teenage girls is immaterial as far as the officers are concerned. They’ve known thieves use small children, dogs, monkeys and even – once – a bird to help them. Why not teenagers who look as if they might be selling candy to raise money for their school?

“So, you young ladies taking a short cut?” asks Officer Zokowski.

He isn’t smiling in the friendly way of the policeman in Jeremiah who helped Gabriela when her bike had a flat, but she smiles back at him anyway. “Yes, we were. We’re in a hurry.”

“I’ll bet you are.” Officer Rueda isn’t smiling either.

“It’s just that our group is waiting for us.” And Gabriela explains that they’re in LA for the weekend with the other finalists in a writing competition and that they’re touring the cultural highlights of the city today. “We got separated from them and we’re trying to get back to Sunset Boulevard.”

It’s unclear whether or not the officers have heard a word she said; if they heard, it certainly didn’t make any impression on them.

Officer Zokowski snorts. “Through Beverly Hills?”

“Are you aware that this is all private property around here?” asks Officer Rueda. “Why would you be coming out of somebody’s yard?”

“We told you.” Gabriela continues to smile. “Because we were taking a short cut.”

Delila doesn’t smile. “We weren’t hurting anything,” she says. “It’s not against the law to walk on the grass in California, is it?”

“And anyway,” Gabriela interrupts before either cop can answer Delila, “we had permission.”

“Did you?” Officer Zokowski pulls out his notebook. “And who gave you that?”

Delila points through the shrubs. “The man who lives in that house up there. Joe.”

“Joe.” Sunlight glints off Cecilia Rueda’s badge. “And his last name is…?”

Gabriela looks at Delila, who is looking at her. “Well, he didn’t tell us his last name, but—”

“Get in the car,” orders Officer Zokowski.

No one answers the door of Joe’s house.

“We told you,” says Gabriela. “His housekeeper’s out and he can’t walk.”

“Because he sprained his ankle jogging.” On the lips of Ivan Zokowski the word “jogging” somehow sounds like “picking daisies”.

“That’s funny.” Cecilia Rueda looks musingly up at the house. “I would have thought someone living in a place like this would have their own gym.”

“I don’t know if he does or not.” Gabriela is still smiling. “I only went to the freezer for the peas.”

“I’d like to take a look in your bags,” says Officer Zokowski.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” groans Gabriela. “Do we look like terrorists or something?”

Delila, the granddaughter of a man who has lost count of how many times he’s been arrested for civil disobedience, says, “I don’t think so. I know my rights. You have to have a reason to search our bags.”

“You were acting suspiciously.”

Delila sighs. “We were walking across the lawn.”

Gabriela was hoping that the officers would realize how ridiculous they’re being and give them a ride back down the hills, but she can tell that, between Delila’s belief in sticking up for herself and the kind of day this is, that probably isn’t going to happen. Instead, she has an image of them being bundled back into the police car and thrown into a holding cell with people whose dress sense is even worse than Beth’s. “Why don’t you call Professor Gryck,” she suggests. “Professor Cybelline Gryck? She’s our chaperone for the weekend. She’ll vouch for us.”

Officer Rueda looks as if she’s been invited to telephone Santa Claus. “You have a number for this professor?”

Professor Gryck is standing outside the bus when they arrive, her hands clasped and her sharp features softened by concern. “I can’t tell you how worried we’ve been,” she says several times to the officers. “They’ve never been to LA before. I was afraid something terrible had happened.” This isn’t actually true. Beth Beeby may present herself as mild-mannered and unassuming, but Professor Gryck knows that this is only an act. In reality, Beth Beeby is a troublemaker, a subversive force who has no respect for the rule of law. Che Guevara in grey trousers, generic trainers and a cheap barrette. Even the fact that Professor Gryck couldn’t get through to her or Delila on their phones didn’t make her worry for their safety. They were AWOL not MIA. Nonetheless, she does worry about her own reputation, and couldn’t stop the lurid headlines that raced through her brain like a runaway train: Visiting Teens Missing from Tour… Girls Found at Bottom of Pool… Tomorrow’s Writers Dead Today… And it would be all her fault for leaving them on their own while she restored her shattered nerves with a glass of white wine. How would her career ever recover from that? Instead of Dr Cybelline Gryck, leading authority on the Norse sagas, she’d be Cybelline Gryck, the woman who lost those poor, innocent girls. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” she says several more times. “You’re a credit to the force.”

Piled with praise, the officers are modest. They’re glad they could help. It’s not every day they have a happy ending.

“I can’t apologize enough for any trouble you’ve been caused,” says Professor Gryck, who apparently can’t. “I really am very sorry.”

“No trouble,” says Ivan Zokowski. “We were just doing our job.”

But as soon as the patrol car moves back into traffic, all traces of empathy and concern vanish faster than an ice cube tossed into a volcano. “Why did you wander off like that?” demands Professor Gryck. “What in the name of God were you thinking?” Now her expression is as dark as the inside of the barrel of a gun. This is yet another thing that has never happened to Professor Gryck before.

“We’re really sorry, Professor Gryck,” says Gabriela. “But we did have a good reason.”

“That’s right,” Delila chimes in. “There were seriously extenuating circumstances.”

Sadly, Professor Gryck doesn’t believe their story any more than Taffeta Mackenzie believes Beth’s.

“Your aunt?” Professor Gryck’s voice is sour with doubt. “Your aunt was hiking through Beverly Hills?”

“No, it wasn’t my aunt,” repeats Gabriela. “I just thought it was my aunt.”

“Like you thought you helped a jogger who sprained his ankle?”

“How could he answer the door when he couldn’t walk?” argues Gabriela.

“And anyway he probably fell asleep right away,” adds Delila. “From the shock.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t fallen asleep from the shock,” mutters Professor Gryck. So far, the weekend hasn’t gone according to plan. Not according to her plan. The competition and all its fanfare and publicity were supposed to add a contemporary, media-wise coda to the distinguished book that is her academic career, but it’s turning into a Three Stooges movie. Or it would if she allowed it to. Which she won’t. From now on, Cybelline Gryck, PhD, isn’t taking any more chances. “Nothing can go wrong tomorrow. And by ‘nothing’, I specifically mean nothing that has to do with you, Beth Beeby. You won’t start a food fight. You won’t set off alarms. You won’t go wandering around private property.”

Tomorrow is the awards ceremony. The distinguished academics and writers who judged the competition will, of course, be attending, but the very large and rare feather in Professor Gryck’s literary cap is the fact that she has persuaded one of the greatest and most reclusive figures in American literature to present the prizes. No one knows about this except the organizers; if news leaked out, there would be a tent city of reporters and photographers and slightly rumpled-looking, intense young men outside the hotel in a matter of minutes. Professor Gryck has not worked so hard for this coup, and to keep her secret, to have the day ruined by a high school student. “I’m going to be watching you as if I’m a broker on the verge of bankruptcy and you’re the stock market, is that clear? The only time I won’t have my eyes on you is when you’re sleeping.”

With some effort, Gabriela manages not to bang her head against the side of the bus. This day just gets better and better.

Outside a small taqueria on the busy boardwalk, a couple sit at a table with a view of the ocean, paper plates of food in front of them.

“Look at you, eating Mexican!” crows Remedios, as though this is a personal victory for her. “I thought you said Mexican food’s the revenge of an oppressed and conquered people.” She scrunches up her face in horror and distaste. “All those nasty chillies.”

“I’m hungry.” Otto’s run around so much today you’d think he was a racehorse, not an angel. And then, of course, there was all the palaver on the bus – dogs … snakes … hysterical women … police officers … “And in any case, I didn’t call you here to discuss my diet, Remedios. We have more pressing concerns.”

Remedios watches him, amused. “You know, I’ve never seen anybody eat a burrito with cutlery before…”

“Don’t try to change the subject.” Otto points his plastic fork at her. “I want to know what happened. I did my part. All you had to do was get Gabriela on the same piece of sidewalk as Beth at the same time and swap them back. What was so hard about that? That was our understanding.”

It was his understanding, not hers. Remedios bites into her lunch in a non-committal way.

“However,” Otto continues, “for some twisted reason of your own, you didn’t do that, did you?” Otto cuts his food into remarkably even slices. He may be upset, but he’s still neat. “You just sat there and watched them charge off in opposite directions as if they were being chased by rampaging Cossacks.”

“I don’t know why you’re blaming me. I am not responsible for the unpredictability of humans, Otto. Beth just bolted for that bus like a frightened horse.”

“You could have stopped her.” He pops a slice of burrito into his mouth.

“I’m so sorry, Otto.” Remedios is the voice of sweet reason. “But if you recall, you told me very specifically to look after Gabriela. Not Beth.”

He flaps his fork at her. “You didn’t stop her either!”

This, of course, is true. And because it is true, Remedios takes another bite and chews slowly. “You know, humans may have invented guns and nuclear weapons and drone bombers, but they also came up with the black bean burrito – and the black bean burrito’s really good.”

“You could have stopped Beth,” repeats Otto, “but you didn’t. You sat there and watched her go off on that bus like a lamb to the slaughter.”

“She didn’t go off to the slaughter, Otto. She went downtown. It’s not the same thing at all.”

“That’s what you think. That bus was almost literally Hell on wheels. What is it with this city? It’s usually only religious wars that bring out so much insanity.”

“She wasn’t hurt, Otto. Everything turned out just dandy.” Remedios reaches for the salsa verde. “And just for the record, since you seem to think everything’s my fault, I’m not the one who caused a major international incident.” She smiles at him as she scoops up a spoonful of sauce. “That would be you.”

And that would be why he’s changed his clothes again. Just in case the police are looking for him.

“I wouldn’t call it major, Remedios.” He forks another piece of burrito. “It was just one bus.”

“It’s all over the news already.” An angel would never gloat, of course, but she can’t resist a slightly smug smile. “By tomorrow it’ll be in every paper on the continent.”

“I think that’s very unlikely.” He certainly hopes that it is. Even though Otto holds her completely responsible for everything that’s happened, he can see that it might not appear that way to everyone. “Things like that must happen here all the time. And, in any event, it’s a national – not an international – incident.”

“That woman from Tokyo had to be sedated.”

“That wasn’t because of me.” He wipes hot sauce from his mouth with a yellow napkin that says The Whole Enchilada in red lettering. “That was because of the snake. And the dogs.”

“It wasn’t the snake or the dogs that made the bus go the wrong way. For miles.” She points the salsa spoon at him. Accusingly. “I heard that the driver may never recover. He keeps repeating, over and over, ‘How did it happen? How did it happen?’”

“Oh, he’ll be fine.” Because human emotions are so undependable (they cry at weddings, but bomb whole cities without blinking back a single tear), they are also irksome and exhausting. You never know what insignificant incident is going to set them off. “There was a lot of screaming towards the end. It probably jangled his nerves.”

“The screaming, of course. How silly of me. Driving like a zombie and finally being stopped by the cops had nothing to do with it.”

Otto slips another slice of burrito into his mouth. “I only did what I had to do.”

“And that’s what I did.” She picks up her burrito and takes a bite, a noticeable amount of the stuffing falling back onto the table and her paper plate. “What I had to do.”

“Putting Beth on that bus? That was what you had to do?”

It’s not easy to sound indignant with a mouth full of rice and beans, but Remedios manages heroically. “Excuse me, Mr Wasserbach, but I thought we’d been through that. I didn’t put her on that bus.” Though she did, of course, make the bus available. “She got on all by herself.”

He picks up a pepper. “And you expect me to believe that?”

“It happens to be true.” If only technically.

Otto watches her closely for the slightest shimmer, but much to his chagrin, there is none. And yet he’d be willing to wager that she isn’t telling the truth. Not Remedios Cienfuegos y Mendoza, the DIY angel.

“And in any case, you’re the one who’s looking after Beth,” says Remedios. “Not I.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you were meant to switch them on Sunset. Beth was standing right there at the kerb. Gabriela crossed the road. Everything was perfect. I was all set to pick you up, check out of the hotel and go home. But, no. Next thing I know, Beth’s going west and Gabriela’s disappeared. How could you have botched that? What went wrong?”

“Beth got on the bus; that’s what went wrong.”

“And Gabriela? What happened to Gabriela?”

“Gabriela’s on the tour bus with old Dragon Breath.” Still not even the shadow of a shimmer. “Where do you think she is?”

“Well, how would I know?” One minute he’s as good as shaking the sand of Los Angeles out of his shoes and the next there’s a snake hissing at him and a dog bouncing off his knees. “I just hope you don’t lose track of her again.”

Remedios licks sauce from her fingertips. “Otto, what difference would it make? We can switch them back in Jeremiah.”

“What? After you’ve ruined their lives?” He pushes his empty plate away. “Because that’s what you’re doing, you know. I, for one, certainly don’t imagine that Gabriela’s doing a better job of being Beth than Beth is of being Gabriela. Or are you going to tell me that she is? That she’s going to emerge from this weekend triumphant and covered in laurels?”

Remedios, too, pushes her empty plate away. “She’s doing a great job.”

Unfortunately, because of the sunlight reflecting off the ocean and the hazy quality of the air, he still isn’t sure whether or not he caught a shimmer.