Week 1 - Los Angeles

Los Angeles isn’t what it used to be. In my opinion, that is. It’s 6:57PM, and I’m looking across a skyline that’s becoming increasingly hazy. From my house in the hills, I can make out the flashing lights of cars and billboards whose signs seem to be changing each day. I take another sip of my cognac and set the glass down. Without moving my eyes from the cityscape, I palm my hand across the table, searching for the carved glass decanter holding the rest of the amber liquor. Finding my prize, I maneuver the decanter closer to my glass and pour a hefty serving. I’m going to need it tonight. My wife’s hosting another party and seems hell-bent on inviting (and impressing) the who’s who of Beverly Hills. I loosen my tie, almost suffocated by the prospect of a night of schmoozing. You could say that we’re “new money,” but to the residents of Beverly Hills, as long as we keep the champagne flowing and the diamonds present at our parties it doesn’t matter.

I know I should go back inside and traverse through the living room, sitting room, library, and down the hall to the master bedroom but I can’t really bear the thought of seeing my wife right now. She’ll nag me to put on fresh khakis, a white shirt, and a blue tie that she always says brings out my striking eyes. Allegedly. I down the rest of my drink and pour another one, bigger this time. I’m personally trying not to remember most of this party. I refocus on the coast and squint to try and make out the glistening ocean and the lights of the boardwalk. I keep thinking about the woman. Simone. I met her a few nights ago at another party on our circuit. She was different. Narrowing her eyes, she had squinted at me and asked where I was from. The words “Orange County” slurred from my mouth. She seemed different from everyone. She was, as I later found out, French. Her beauty struck me and I tried to straighten my posture and ask what I assumed to be a casual question: “what are you doing here?” Her eyes flashed for a second and I thought I had offended her. Yet almost immediately she launched into her time in L.A. and, more broadly, her time spent traveling across the United States.

Her demeanor attracted me. I don’t know whether it was her air of superiority or the way she held herself. I’m not sure whether it was the way she talked about each city she visited. Or maybe the way she praised New York instead of Los Angeles struck me as something different from the average L.A. woman who believes she’s living in the center of the universe. Or, maybe it was the fact that she didn’t seem interested in me. At all. I know I’m married, but to be honest, I’m a hot commodity. Most women in the Los Angeles area are tripping over themselves to get me in their bed. Sometimes I partake. Sometimes I don’t. My wife turns a blind eye because I’ve given her all she wanted from our marriage. Money. I don’t know what she does with her days, and to be honest, I don’t particularly care. Talking to her is like talking to a brick wall. But this woman, this woman was different. Talking to her was exciting. Exhilarating. She’d been so many places. She seemed to care about so many places. So different from the shallow and vapid people that roamed the streets of the city of angels. So different from the fake women I came across so often. So different from anyone.