“You know what you did,” one of the twins said. It was Kelly, but only her blood relatives could tell for sure—Sari and Lucy had no idea which twin was which.
“Yeah,” Christa said. “You know.”
“Honestly,” Kathleen said. “I don't. Last night is kind of a blur.”
Christa stepped forward, ruining their symmetry. “Oh, please. Like you don't remember talking to that Hollywood Reporter reporter?”
“Reporter reporter?” Lucy repeated under her breath to Sari.
“Not really,” Kathleen said. “I had a lot to drink—”
“Tell us about it,” Kelly said with a roll of the eyes. “You were so wrecked—”
“Like you weren't,” Christa said to her. “You were all over Munchie's nephew.”
“He was all over me. Jealous much?”
“The point is,” said their mother. “The point is, Kathleen, that you said some unfortunate things last night—”
“And now we're screwed because of it,” Kelly said.
“Well, we hope not,” their mother said. “Junie's trying to convince the guy it's worth killing the story to have her owe him a favor—but if he decides to go to print, well, then …”
“We're screwed,” Kelly said, and this time her mother nodded.
“Why?” Kathleen said. “What'd I say that was so bad?”
“What didn't you say?” Christa asked. “I mean, you started with our—”
“You let leak some confidential family information,” her mother said, cutting her off with a meaningful glance in Lucy and Sari's direction.
Kathleen was still trying to figure it out. “What? You mean about their age?”
“That. And some other things I’d rather we not discuss at the moment.”
“Shit, Mom, I didn't say anything that isn't common knowledge. What's the big deal?”
“The big deal is that you've betrayed your sisters’ trust,” her mother said. “Your sisters who house you and feed you and employ you … The least you could do is respect their privacy.”
“I was drunk,” Kathleen said. “It wasn't on purpose.”
“Then you shouldn't drink,” Kelly said.
“Neither should you,” Christa said to her. “You were as bad as she was.”
“I didn't say anything stupid.”
“No, but you did a lot of stupid things. Your tongue was so deep in his mouth—”
“I think,” said their mother, “that Kathleen owes you both an apology.”
Kathleen shrugged. “Sorry,” she said. “I was drunk. Sometimes I do stupid things when I’m drunk.”
“And sometimes even when she's not,” Lucy whispered to Sari, who hushed her.
“Oh, come on,” Christa said. “At least try to sound like you mean it.”
“She's right,” their mother said. “Kathleen, your sisters have been nothing but good to you and you don't seem to appreciate it. Everything you have you have because of them, but they get nothing from you in return—”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been working for them since college.”
“Yes, you have,” said her mother. “And that steady income you get is something else you owe them.”
“If you don't like the way I do my job—”
Kelly snorted. “Come on, Kathleen. All you do is make a couple of phone calls now and then.”
“No, really,” Kathleen said, standing up straight and squaring her shoulders. “If you guys don't want me around, just say so. I mean, I thought I was doing you all a favor by helping out with the company and keeping an eye on things here, but if you think the favors are all on your side …” She looked from one member of her family to another. No one said anything. “Fine,” she said then. “Fine. I don't have to stay here. And I won't. I have other options.”
“No, you don't,” said Christa, rolling her eyes.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don't.”
“Yes, she does,” said Sari, swiveling the bar stool around to face Christa directly. “I’ve been begging her for ages to come stay with me and help me out with the rent.” She rotated back around. “What do you say, Kathleen? You ready to move in with me?”
“Are you kidding? Just give me ten minutes to pack my bags.” Kathleen came around the island.
“Don't be silly,” her mother said. “Come on, Kathleen, if you're doing this to prove something, it's not worth it. You know we don't actually want you to leave.”
“Yeah,” said Kelly. “You're making too big a deal out of this.”
“We don't want you to move out,” Christa said. “We just want you to not get trashed and say stupid things anymore.”
“Live free or die,” Kathleen said, brushing past her. “That's my motto.”
“I thought that was New Hampshire's motto,” Lucy whispered to Sari.
“It is,” Sari whispered back. “But I’ll bet you anything they don't know that.”
II
The twins may have been the ones with a successful television and movie career, but Kathleen had her own flair for the dramatic. She flounced out of the house half an hour later, with two packed bags, a toss of her head, and a haughty, “You can reach me on my cell,” leaving Sari and Lucy to murmur awkward goodbyes and follow her outside.
“At least it got her dressed,” Sari said as they walked toward the car.
“If you call that dressed,” Lucy said with a disgusted nod at Kathleen, who was wearing a pair of old, torn sweatpants and a tank top with no bra. Lucy only left the house in sweats when she was on her way to the gym. And she always wore a bra.
She snagged the front seat of Sari's car while Kathleen was still stowing her bags in the trunk.
Once they were well on their way down the long narrow driveway that led out of the twins’ property, Sari said over her shoulder, “Hey, Kath, you know I was just bluffing about the apartment, right? I mean, you're welcome to spend a night or two but you can't actually move in permanently. I don't even have room for me in there.”
“That's okay,” Kathleen said. “I can sleep on the floor.”
“There isn't enough space on the floor for you. For me, maybe, but not you.” Sari was almost a foot shorter than Kathleen.
“Then I’ll take the bed and you can have the floor,” Kathleen said. “Problem solved.”
“Try again, Sari said.
“I’m kidding.” Kathleen was slouched low in the backseat, her knees sticking up at chin height. She hadn't put her seatbelt on. “I’m kidding. I won't stay long. I’m planning to get my own place—there was this guy at the party last night who was bragging that he knows someone really big in real estate. I’ll see if he can help me find a cheap apartment.”
“You remember that?” Lucy said. She had pulled her knitting back out of her bag and was working on it, right there in the car. “You can't remember what you did that pissed off your sisters but you remember that some random guy at the party had a friend in real estate?”
“I wasn't drunk yet when he told me that.”
“She'd only had twelve margaritas by then,” Sari said. “Some brain cells were still functioning. So do you have that guy's number?”
“The guy who knew the guy, yeah.”
“You should call him soon. Like today soon.”
“Do I detect a note of panic?” asked Lucy, eyebrows arched.
“Not panic,” Sari said. She looked at Kathleen in the rearview mirror. Their eyes met. Sari smiled. “Notyet.”
“We'll have fun,” Kathleen told Sari's reflection.
“I know we will. But call that guy soon, anyway, will you?”
“Soon as we get to your place.”
“Oh, I know what I wanted to tell you guys,” Sari said suddenly. “Remember that woman at the knitting store in Santa Monica—the young one with the incredibly long black hair who's always just sitting there knitting, no matter what time you go in there?”
“A knitting junkie,” Lucy said. “When good girls go
just a little bit bad.”
“Do you remember how the last time we saw her I said I thought she was pregnant?”
“No,” Kathleen said.
“You don't? I said her breasts had grown since the last time we'd seen her and either she was pregnant or had had a boob job and you guys voted for boob job.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lucy said. “I remember.”
“I still don't,” Kathleen said. “But I’m slightly disturbed to know you go around staring at women's breasts, Sari.”
“It's all about the envy,” said Sari, who was built like a twelve-year-old girl. She was small and slight, with cropped thick hair and enormous blue eyes—the kind of woman who would never get past being called “cute” her entire life. “Anyway,” she said, “the point is that I went in there the other day and we started talking and she is actually pregnant.”
“How old is she?” Lucy said.
“Twenty-eight,” Sari said.
“Twenty-eight?” Kathleen said. “That's way too young to start having kids.”
“No, it's not,” Sari said. “The majority of women in this country have babies by the time they're twenty-eight. Just because we're incapable of growing up—”
“Hey, hey. Speak for yourself,” Lucy said.
“Yeah,” Kathleen said. “I left home today.”
“Leaving home for the first time at the age of twenty-seven isn't grown-up,” Lucy said with a quick hard tug at a strand of yarn for emphasis. “It's pathetic.”
“It's not my first time—I went to college for four years.”
“And then moved right back in with mommy afterward. Face it—you've only ever lived off your family.”
“I wasn't living off of them,” Kathleen said. “I worked for them the entire time. Nine to five and all that.”
“Getting paid to sit at home and polish your toenails. It's a hard-knock life, isn't it?”
“I didn't say it was hard.” Kathleen leaned forward, putting a hand on each of the two front seats. She was so tall that her head barely cleared the top of Sari's small Toyota. “You sure knitting in the car is safe, Luce? Sari could hit the brake, and a needle could go right in your eye and—poof—no more hotshot research for you.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” Lucy said.
“So who was the guy you met last night?” Sari said. She was stopped at another light, so she tilted the rearview mirror to look at Kathleen. “The one with the real estate connections?”
Kathleen fell back with a thud against the car seat. “No one special.”
Sari knocked the mirror back in place. “I know that tone. There's definitely more to this story. Was he cute?”
“People would probably say he was handsome.”
“Our age?” Lucy asked.
“Twice that.”
“Too old then,” Sari said. “Why was he at the party?”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Kathleen said. “It was my father.”
“Your father!” they both exclaimed. Sari turned to look at her. “You're kidding!” she said. The light changed, and the car behind them honked. Kathleen automatically raised her hand and gave them the finger without even looking. Sari lifted her own hand in an apologetic wave as she drove on.
“I thought your dad was completely out of the picture,” Lucy said.
“Oh, he resurfaces now and then when he needs money. He's such a jerk, it's unbelievable.” She wrinkled her nose. “And I had to be the one who looks like him.”
“You just said he was handsome.”
“Yeah, but who cares? What kind of a freak says to his wife right after she's given birth to triplets, ‘Sorry, babe, just realized I don't like kids,’ and takes off?”
“He came back,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, right—once the twins were rich.”
“Why was he invited to the birthday party?” Sari asked.
“He wasn't. He just found out about it somehow. He knows that if other people are around, the twins have to act like they're glad to see him or it'll be all over the tabloids that they hate their father.” She grinned. “But I’m not famous, so I don't.”“But you said you were talking to him at the party.”
“He was talking to me. He was going on about having met this real estate guy at a party some bimbo girlfriend of his took him to. I wasn't even paying attention. Oh—by the way—that's why my mother and sisters were so pissed at me. They said I told the Hollywood Reporter guy all about Lloyd—how he shows up asking for money and we're always bailing him out of trouble. And I guess at some point I also mentioned the twins’ real age.”
“Why'd you do that?” Sari asked.
“How should I know? I don't even remember doing it.”
“The first step is admitting you have a problem,” Lucy said.
“The second step is for you to fuck off.”
“Girls, girls,” Sari said. “Let's play nice.”
They dropped Lucy off at her place, and Kathleen hopped out and got into the front seat, folding up her long legs so she could cram them into the small space. “Let's go do something fun,” she said. “See a movie or something.”
“Can't,” Sari said. “I have like five thousand progress reports I’m behind on. I’ve got to work.”
“Okay,” Kathleen said. “I’ll just go for a run, then. Best way to get rid of a hangover.”
“You do that. And then—”
“What?”
“You'll make that call? To your father? To get the name of his friend?”
“Don't you love me anymore?” Kathleen asked, tilting sideways so she could rest her head on Sari's shoulder. “Don't you want me to live with you?”
“If you make me crash—”
“Fine. Be that way.” Kathleen righted herself. “Hey, I’m going to need a new job. You guys hiring at the clinic?”
“You wouldn't last an hour there,” Sari said.
“Why not? I like kids.”
“No, you don't.”
“No, I don't,” Kathleen agreed. “But kids with autism don't talk, right? I don't mind kids if they don't talk.”
“Some of them talk. And a lot of them hit people and bang their heads and scratch at your eyes and scream all the time.”
“Sounds like fun,” Kathleen said. “Think I’ll skip it.” She reached down for the lever that adjusted the seat and reclined the seat as far as it would go, so she was more lying down than sitting, then slipped her feet out of her flip-flops and shoved them against the dashboard, so her knees were way up in the air. She had a Chinese pictograph tattooed above her left ankle but always claimed to have forgotten what it meant. “So what kind of job can I get where you don't have to work all that hard but you make enough money to live in a nice house and hire people to do things like clean and pick up after you? I mean, I don't really want to give any of that up, just because the twins are acting like jerks.”
“There aren't jobs like that,” Sari said. “Not for someone at your level of expertise, which is none. The only thing you could do is marry someone who's already rich.”
“I love that idea,” Kathleen said. “I’ll marry someone rich. Rich and wonderful—I don't want a rich asshole. Know any wonderful rich guys?”
“Do you think I’d be driving this shitty car and living in that shitty apartment if I did?”
“Possibly,” Kathleen said, rolling her head to the side and studying Sari's profile. “The problem with you, my love, is that you raise self-sacrifice to an art. Look at you—you have the toughest job in the world, and you know you'll never make even decent money doing it. You're either an idiot or a saint.”
“I vote for idiot,” Sari said with a sigh. “I mean, I told you you could move in with me and I just remembered—”
“What?”
“You're a total slob.”
“See?” Kathleen said. “That's why I need to be rich enough to hire a maid. I’m a slob.”
“No,” Sari said, “that's why you need to find another apartment now.” r />
“I’m on it,” Kathleen said and took her cell phone out of her purse.
III
Kathleen's phone calls were so productive that she was able to land an appointment with the real estate guy early that very evening. At her request, Sari helped her pick out some “responsible” clothes—a pair of dark brown pants and a cream-colored silk shirt. Kathleen even put her hair up in a twist. “Wow,” Sari said. “You look almost like an adult.”
Sari insisted on driving her back to the twins’ house to pick up her car. Kathleen had intended to leave the car behind as a grand gesture to her newfound independence—the twins’ production company was leasing it for her. But Sari pointed out that Kathleen would have no way of getting around town without it.
“I could drop you off at work every day and use your car the rest of the time,” Kathleen said. “Play chauffeur.”
“No, you couldn't,” Sari said. “We're getting your car.”
They drove up to the house, and Kathleen jumped out of Sari's car and into her own without anyone even coming out of the house. And she was relieved, really—she loved her car. It was a turquoise-colored convertible Mini Cooper that had originally been leased for Kelly—Christa had the same car in red—but the twins had moved on to electric cars at the suggestion of Junie Peterson, who said that people liked their celebrities to be environmentally conscientious. So this one was now Kathleen's baby.
Kathleen was very good at changing her mind when it was expedient to do so, and by the time she had arrived at her destination, she had already decided that there was nothing morally compromising about her using the car, that she had earned it by working for her sisters as long as she had.
She parked the Mini Cooper in front of the address she'd been given, which turned out to belong to one of the high-rise buildings that line Wilshire Boulevard near Westwood Avenue. She entered off the street, through the building's big glass front doors.
Kathleen gave her contact's name—Sam Kaplan—to both the doorman and the security guard at the front desk. The elevator man, who wore a red suit and an air of frosty boredom, took her up to the penthouse floor, gestured toward the only door in the foyer, and closed the elevator doors behind her as soon as she stepped out.