A Breathless Place, page 2
Dinner at her house? What is she talking about? I’m not looking for a friend here. Before this meeting started, I was only moderately interested in having my biography finished. “That’s really not necessary, Miss Zadeh.”
“Please, call me Leila.” Her voice has dropped into a super smooth register. “And I wish you would take me up on my offer. Take some time to think it over, of course. But my gut tells me we can be a good match to bring this project to a satisfactory close.” As she hesitates, the tip of her tongue flicks across her bottom lip. She reaches for her drink. “And do bring the recipe to this with you.” She expels a brief sigh. “Simply delicious.”
Entirely unlike Bruce, Leila’s modus operandi is gutsy charm. I can’t say I’m unmoved by it. On the contrary. Her deference when she just arrived was just a ploy, or maybe a habit, or maybe even something she had to force herself to act until she got the lay of the land. What does she think of me right now? I already have more questions than I had before I started talking to her.
“I’ll let you know. I need to talk to my manager.”
She shifts her weight, uncrosses her legs, then recrosses them in the other direction. “Look, Miss Adler—”
“Isabel. Please.”
“Isabel.” Her gaze on me is so dark, it’s a little unsettling. “I know a thing or two about loss. I think I can give a voice to your pain.”
Her straightforwardness makes me glad I’m sitting down. I’m not used to someone speaking to me like this. Only Vivian and Ira would ever address me in this forward manner, and I’ve known both of them for decades. Leila just walked in the door.
“We’ll see.” My hackles are all the way up. I haven’t decided to work with her. I don’t have to show her how I feel just yet. Although the thought of opening up to a woman like Leila isn’t unappealing.
“Will you let me know about dinner?” She pushes herself out of the chair Bruce spent hours in. “Call. Text. Email. Whatever suits you best.”
Because I’m still sitting down, she gazes at me from above. When I rise to my full length, I’m a few inches taller than her. I’ve always been the tallest woman in any room. She offers her hand and I shake it. There’s still no trace of nerves on her bone-dry palm.
Not being able to sing any longer is not a terminal illness. It’s not like cancer or any other physical disease that, ultimately, causes your heart to stop beating. But you have to understand that not being able to use my singing voice to express myself for such a long time, has felt like a long, slow death. Maybe it’s wrong to liken it to a terminal illness, but that’s how it seemed. Like a part of me was dying all along. And that being the case, then why shouldn’t I die? The truth is I feel like I don’t have much left to live for. Please don’t take this personally—although there’s no way you won’t. You must know I love and care for you deeply. But that doesn’t mean I should extend my life for you.
I know all of this is one big taboo, and I’ve done my best so you don’t have to deal with the fallout of this too much. I’ve taken everything into consideration. Everything I could possibly think of. Every probable scenario and every potential question that might pop up. I’ve left clear and detailed instructions for what needs to happen after my death—when you read this. Of course, you’ll be sad. That’s normal. You might even be heartbroken for a while. I’m sorry to have to put you through this. But always remember: I wanted this. I was not someone with decades of life left in me. I didn’t have an enormous quantity of joy left inside me to be experienced—to be unearthed. In fact, the biggest joy I experienced in the past few years was when I was putting together this plan. The plan for my death. The relief was instant. Not that I haven’t had doubts. Of course I have. Which is why I made myself take the time to truly think it over, to come at it from every possible angle. To make sure you know this was not a rash decision.
Chapter 3
“She’s read the first draft already, Ira.” I give him a once-over. It strikes me that, to me, he’s looked exactly the same for the past thirty-five years, although he must have changed. His hairline must have receded because he’s practically bald now. But when you see someone nearly every day, these incremental changes just creep up on you. “I didn’t even know there was a first draft.”
Ira waves his hand. “Eh. They must have cooked something up at the publisher’s as soon as they heard about Bruce’s accident. Some sort of contingency plan. Let’s not forget, we are under contract with them. And a large part of next year’s bottom line is riding on that book for them.”
“Fuck the contract. I’ll buy them out if I have to.”
“Did you like Leila for the job?” Ira ignores me the way he usually does when I go a touch diva on him.
“It looked to me as though she liked herself very much for the job.”
“Just give me a yes or no, Izzy.”
“I haven’t decided yet. She invited me to dinner.”
He whistles through his teeth. “Are you going?”
“I don’t know.” Secretly, I’ve already decided to go, but a part of me doesn’t seem ready to admit that out loud yet.
“I think you should,” Ira says. Of course, Ira wants me to go. The pickings of being Isabel Adler’s manager have been rather slim of late—not that Ira isn’t smart enough to have made his fortune off me a long time ago. But men like him can never have enough money in the bank. The pursuit of ever-more dollars is what gets him up in the morning. “And not for the reason you think I want you to go.” He lifts an eyebrow, inviting me to inquire further. Through it all, Ira has become much more of a friend than a manager. I do have to give him that.
“And what’s that?” I smile at him. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing his trademark navy polo shirt again, the sleeves tight around his biceps.
“It’s a chance to get yourself out of this house.” He looks around. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a lovely house, but must you spend all your time in it?”
“I go out plenty.” It’s a blatant lie and we both know it.
“Okay, sure. In that case, next time you want to talk to me in person, why don’t you come to my office? If you’re out and about so much, it should be easy enough for you to drop by.”
“Fuck off, Ira.”
He shrugs. “That’s what I thought.”
“I’ll go.” I make it sound as though I’ll go to Leila’s house to please Ira, my long-plagued manager, when the truth is, now that I’ve slept on it, I quite liked her. Her energy was arresting. It filled the room. Her dark gaze was slightly mesmerizing. And I have been psyching myself up to tell the story of the last ten years of my life, in all its brief brutality, to Bruce. I’m not sure yet whether I’ll be able to tell Leila—maybe my voice will fail me all over again—but I don’t mind trying.
At this point in my life, with 179 days to go, I literally have nothing left to lose. Because that’s the thing when you decide to die. So many former issues stop being important at all. In the end, I don’t care what Leila Zadeh thinks of me. I no longer care what anyone thinks of me. Whether they feel sorry for me or want to give me a good kick up the ass or have forgotten about my existence entirely. None of it matters. Because in less than six months, I’ll be gone.
“Good. Evie had nothing but good things to say about her,” Ira says. Evie is his new assistant. Although, she must have been around a while for me to actually remember her name. “Zadeh won a Pulitzer for her essay on gender pay disparity in the theater.”
“I know.” I’ve won thirty-six Grammys that now have zero meaning to me. Or was it thirty-seven? I don’t even know. It sounds conceited. And it is. But so many things are how they are, and usually for a good reason.
“Let me know how it goes. This book’s going to be massive. People are absolutely dying to hear from you.” Ira usually isn’t one to put this kind of pressure on me openly. He’s more of a stealthy manipulator.
“Do you have another agenda I don’t know about?” I ask.
He shakes his head, then stops abruptly. “Actually, I do.” He takes off his glasses. “There’s something different about you that I can’t put my finger on. I’m hoping that working with someone new might… I don’t know. Spark something in you.”
“What’s there to spark?” It’s funny he uses the word ‘spark’. I’ve always associated it with how alive I always felt on stage. It’s exactly that spark of vitality I’ve been missing for nearly a decade.
“Meeting someone new can have that effect on you,” he says.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re the expert, of course. What did Evie spark in you when you first met her?” I give him a facetious look. I’ve never been Ira’s easiest client, not even when I made him millions every year and my antics were easier for him to stomach.
“A lot.” Ira has always been a good sport. That’s probably why I’ve kept him on for such a long time. Neither of us is going to change now. But I’m glad Ira feels the spark so often. I used to envy him for that, but I don’t anymore. “And it’s wonderful.”
“I’ll keep you posted, but don’t go expecting too many sparks, okay?”
“At least she’s better looking than Bruce.” Ira paints on a smile. “Not wanting to speak ill of the ill, of course.” We got word yesterday Bruce has woken up from his coma, but his recovery will be a long road.
Truth be told, I never even considered whether Bruce was handsome or not. Maybe that says it all. Leila’s beauty, on the other hand, is pretty obvious. Uh-oh. Something begins to dawn on me.
“Am I to believe you didn’t have any hand in her selection?” I study Ira’s face for a reaction he might not be able to hide.
He holds up his hands. “I didn’t. I would tell you if I did. She was on the short list two years ago, before we decided on Bruce.”
“She was?” Surely, I would have remembered that. Unless it was kept from me.
“Or maybe it was the long list and she was otherwise engaged. I don’t remember. If it’s that important, I’ll look it up for you.”
I wave him off. It’s not important. My phone buzzes its daily reminder. It’s Ramona time. I feel like I need her more today, as if I have more energy to burn. I already know I will work extra hard for Ramona later.
I say goodbye to Ira and let Harry show him out. Before changing into my workout gear, I text Leila that I will take her up on her invitation.
I’m writing this almost six months before I will actually die. I could offer you proof of that, but it seems futile to put my energy into that right now. My point is that I’ve wanted this for a long time. Not that I’ve been dragging myself through the last months of my life, but I’ve known for years that this time would come.
And yes, it’s unfair I’ve been able to live toward this date and you haven’t. Please, don’t go blaming yourself for not noticing anything. I made sure that you didn’t. It’s not your fault. If any of you even think that for a split second, let me assure you that you’re on the wrong track. There’s nothing you could have done. This is me. This is where the events of my life have taken me. To illustrate this in more detail, let me tell you about my 50/50 theory.
Even before the surgery, I lived by this theory, out of necessity. The big difference between Before and After is that Before, I had my Voice, by which I mean my singing voice. I’ve always been fragile, delicate, perhaps a touch too sensitive for this world. I’m sure that isn’t news to you. Because of this, I came to realize that life is a 50/50 game. 50% of the time, I was happy or close enough. The other 50%, I decidedly wasn’t. I don’t believe I’m special when it comes to this. I think this is probably how it breaks down for most people. Or maybe not. I haven’t exactly done a survey on this. I can only speak for myself. I’ve always promised myself that if I was having too many 49% days, I would do something about it. And by something, I mean this. I don’t want to live a 49% life. Honestly, 50/50 is already hard enough.
I hope I’m explaining this adequately. Maybe not. To put it very simply: for a very long time, I was happy half the time. And that was enough. Because I had my Voice. I could sing. I was grateful for that gift. For all it gave me. The fame. The money. Although, honestly, I could have done without both, because I now know that they don’t mean a single thing. The insurance payout still leaves a very bad taste in my mouth. Millions in return for what? I would give literally all I have—I would go millions into debt—for one more night on stage. Because I know what that means to me and I know what money means to me. They don’t compare.
After the surgery, I had a long string of well-below 49% days, which was to be expected, of course. If there’s one thing you can’t accuse me of, it’s that I didn’t try. Because I tried every single thing. You know this. I didn’t give up easily because my Voice is worth fighting for. I would even dare say it’s the single most precious thing about me. It’s not just my Voice; it’s not just an organ that allows me to produce sound. When my Voice left me, a part of my soul, of what makes me quintessentially me, left me as well. Without what my Voice can do for me, I’m not the same Isabel Adler. I’m someone else.
Chapter 4
The first thing I notice, as though it has already become the feature that allows me to pick her out of any crowd, is her lipstick. Surely I must have come across this shade on many a woman in my life, but on Leila, it looks extra special. It makes her face come completely alive. Maybe it’s what it suggests—a fierce, unquestionable love of life—that, ironically, draws me to it with such force.
Leila’s wearing jeans again, but this time with a low-cut V-neck sweater. In my book, it doesn’t really pass as dressed up, but at least I didn’t go to too much effort myself this time.
After she closes the door, she bends toward me and plants the lightest, briefest, quickest kiss on my cheek. I’m not even sure it qualifies as a kiss, so barely-there is it. But a whiff of her scent lingers, a summery, fruity perfume I find myself inhaling greedily.
Yesterday, after my daily workout with Ramona left me sweaty and horny again, a thought I’ve been consistently pushing away snuck up on me. I can’t say if it was triggered by Ramona or by Leila’s visit—by the memory of her bright red lipstick and her pitch-black gaze on me. Either way, it wasn’t a new thought, just one I’ve chosen to ignore, even though it’s not the time for me to be ignoring persistent thoughts any longer.
As I follow Leila into the lounge, it hits me again.
I need to be with another woman one more time before I die.
It’s a dicey idea, however. I’m not someone who can simply go out and pick someone up. The height of my fame was many years ago, but doing something like that is still out of the question. Even if I’m not instantly recognized, photographed, and posted all over social media, just the notion of being out on the prowl would make me too self-conscious to try anything.
I’ve considered going the ‘professional’ route, to pay a woman for her discretion, but that scenario is simply too unappealing to me. There are too many psychological hurdles to overcome and for what, this late in the game? The mental effort it would require doesn’t feel like it would be worth the reward.
The truth is that my options in this field are very limited because of who I am. The truth is also that, at the moment, my gaze is drawn and glued to the shape of Leila’s ass in her jeans.
“Sorry?” She said something that I missed.
Leila has turned to me, removing her shapely behind from my line of sight, and she flashes me that smile again.
“I make a mean martini,” she says. “Dirty as they come.”
Oh, dear. No, no, no, Izzy. No way, don’t even go there. But the idea seems to explode in my brain, its particles merging with my own. My entire psyche is taken up with the prospect of kissing those red lips. But that’s not why I’m here at all. It’s most certainly not the intention I left my house with.
Something about seeing her has triggered this friskiness. And I should really stop doing Ramona’s classes. I have no use for a shipshape cardiovascular system anymore. Only male virtual instructors for me from now on. Yeah right.
“I’d love one.” I stand around not sure what to do with myself. Leila is wearing 4-inch heels—one of the only luxuries I’ve never been able to afford for myself because of my towering height—and her face is almost level with mine.
“I’ll be back in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.” She briefly touches my arm and hurries off to what I think is the kitchen. Great. She’s a toucher. I should be happy she hasn’t hugged me yet.
Check yourself, Isabel. This is getting out of control quickly. I don’t know what has gotten into me. It’s like someone flicked a switch deep inside me—a really well-hidden one. Now that it’s been switched on though, and I’m suddenly aflame with desire, the off-function doesn’t seem to work anymore.
I take a deep breath. I’m not going to sleep with my biographer. Unless, of course, I don’t allow her to become my biographer. But no, I shouldn’t think that way. I’ve barely spent thirty minutes with her. I’m just a touch aroused. It will pass. It reminds me of the hot flashes I used to have. They passed as well. Everything will be fine.
I look around her living room. It’s cozy in that borderline messy kind of way. I can feel myself calming down. Another thing about knowing you’re going to die soon is that extreme moments of aliveness can sneak up on you, as though to remind you that you’re not dead yet. And what makes you feel more alive than being physically intimate with someone else? To be connected in that way with a gorgeous woman. Because, let’s be honest, Leila Zadeh is really rather beautiful. I’d dare say even in a slightly overwhelming way. She’s all elegance and pillowy lips and brooding gazes. And I haven’t had sex in a very long time. It’s not a kind of intimacy I feel I can still allow myself, which is the reason I try to banish any thought from my mind as soon as it asserts itself. I’m not sure I can even let someone in like that any longer.
