Free Autobiography of Us by Aria Beth Sloss Page B

I’d catch up with them by the tent. The car ride had given me a headache, I said. I needed to walk. I headed back through the trees toward the main house, where I made my way to one of the bathrooms on the first floor. I’d spent the night before at the house on El Molino, Mother insisting on helping me do my hair up that morning in an elaborate arrangement.
    “There!” she’d declared as she slid the final pin into place. “Look at you.” Her voice had held an almost negligible vibrato. “You’ve gotten so pretty.”
    And we’d looked together—both of us, I believe, surprised to find that in that moment it was true.
    The day had turned uncomfortably hot, however, the air heavy. The heat was causing the whole thing to slide down my neck, working little tendrils loose here and there around my ears. I was standing at the sink, doing my best to pin everything back in place, when Alex walked in, pushing the door open without so much as a knock.
    “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” She looked as though she was doing her best not to burst out laughing. “Well, all hail the queen, I guess.” She lit a cigarette and dropped the match on the floor, grinding it under her heel; I saw that what I’d taken for laughter was anger. “I’ll say this for Linds, she doesn’t waste any time.”
    I busied myself with my purse right away, fiddling with the clasp. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
    “Snap out of it, please. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” She waved me off. “Look, I can hardly blame her—the man’s brilliant. Filthy rich. He’s got Kennedy’s nose, don’t you think? The dead one. Bobby’s a touch beaky for my taste. Not to mention, he’s already got his own place—down on Melrose, did you hear? Gosh, there’s no need to look so morbid.” She peered at me through the smoke. “You didn’t think he was my first, did you?”
    I could feel myself blushing furiously. “Of course not.”
    “It was that agent at that summer program, if you must know.” She frowned. “Fred. Freddy. Bled all over his hotel sheets like a stuck pig. Call me Lady Macbeth , I told him, but he didn’t think that was funny. I thought it was pretty goddamn witty, considering.”
    “You never told me.”
    “I didn’t tell a soul, silly. The whole thing was mortifying.” She used her pinky to remove a bit of tobacco clinging to her bottom lip. “I fell for the oldest trick in the book. The auditions that happened to be switched at the last minute? The director who was dying to meet me but happened to have been called out of town? The emergency strategizing lunches—which, incidentally, I ended up paying for more often than not.” She shook her head. “Makes me sick just thinking about it.”
    “But that’s awful.”
    “What’s awful is the man stank of onions. Positively reeked,” she declared. “And don’t get me started on his hands. Christ, his hands . Ham-fisted or whatever, and he moved them like a goddamn—but, look, now I’m embarrassing you again.” I started to protest and she wagged her finger, shushing me. “So you’re last. So what? Most men find the whole vestal virgin thing quite charming.”
    “Since when am I last?”
    “As of tonight , fine, if you insist on getting technical. You and Robin were the only contenders, and one assumes conjugal rights. Lindsey confessed to me ages ago. Some stiff in the philosophy department, poor thing. Sounded like a complete snore.”
    “And Betsy?”
    “Betsy est verboten .” She frowned. “I’ve got that wrong, haven’t I. Doesn’t count, that’s my point.”
    “I don’t know why not.”
    “Book of Ruth? Sappho? Freud’s theory of childhood trauma? Christ, Rebecca—Isle of Lesbos?”
    “Betsy? I don’t see that.”
    “No, I don’t expect you would.” Her voice was amused.
    I took my time fishing out an extra pin from my bag, guiding it into my hair. “I’m not completely ignorant about sex,” I said finally. “I just