Soul

PART TWO

The Serpent

29

Los Angeles, 2002

NAOMI, CLUTCHING HALF A BUTTERED croissant, stood in Julia’s kitchen, attempting to make coffee with her free hand.

‘Think positively: now you get to sample every dysfunctional divorcé this side of Kansas.’

‘What am I—the wicked witch of the West?’ Julia said.

‘No really, now you don’t have to put up with all those disgusting habits husbands force you to accommodate—like baseball and breaking wind under the covers.’

‘Klaus is European, he hates baseball.’

‘Whatever. He’s still a total mother-fucker. God, when are you going to start hating? I so wish you would; anything’s better than this victim shit. Remember what Nietzsche said—anger is an energy.’

‘Naomi, you’re showing your age. That wasn’t Nietzsche; that was John Lydon of Public Image Limited.’ Julia handed the ground coffee to Naomi, whose chin was adorned with a cascade of crumbs, which, for some obscure reason, reminded Julia of the whiskers of a walrus. ‘I just wish I could stop trying to analyse what went wrong. We had great intellectual compatibility, the sex was good, we shared humour, fun…’

‘Well, for a start, this Alpha female, Beta male shit doesn’t work. Support a guy and he’ll end up resenting you. And as for being blatantly more successful professionally, forget it. I don’t care how much lip service a guy pays to Simone de Beauvoir, Susan Sontag or Gertrude Stein, be more successful and it cuts their balls off. I swear, they will shoot you down. More than that, they will enjoy every goddamn minute of your screaming freefall.’

‘Klaus isn’t like that.’

‘Sure, he’s Mister Born-Again Humanitarian and Enlightened Male.’

Naomi shoved the remaining croissant into Julia’s hand then slammed a mug of black coffee in front of her. ‘Eat. You look like some abandoned anorexic forty-year-old extrophy wife they’ve just found wandering through Bel Air.’

Julia took a tentative bite then realised she was ravenous.

Naomi perched on the bench, her ample curves spilling out of her brightly coloured capri pants and tight T-shirt. ‘Let me guess, in your heart of hearts you’re hoping Klaus is going through some temporary mid-life madness, and one day he’ll wake up, look across and think what am I doing in bed with my wife’s best friend? And then he’s going to come running back, screaming “I was wrong, I love you, I’ve always loved you” or some such total crap, right?’

Julia looked at her croissant. ‘He is at that age…’ she ventured.

‘God! Julia! You’re an award-winning scientist! Women like me look at women like you and we think, Yes! It is possible! We can transcend our emotional destinies, we can be rationalists, we can beat them at their own fucking game.’

‘Naomi, it is not a gender war out there! You are talking about individuals, complex creatures that are all different from each other, regardless of their sex.’

‘Right, whatever. Reality check number one: guess who I bumped into at the Latons’ place?’

Fear snapped Julia’s appetite in half. Gillian Laton was an older academic who had mentored Julia when she first arrived in LA from San Francisco. Dick, Gillian’s husband, was a powerful television producer at the apex of his career. Originally Julia’s friends, they had also grown close to Klaus.

‘Don’t…’

‘You’ve got to pull your head out of the sand, girl. Personally I couldn’t believe their fucking chutzpah, but then I never liked Carla. I’m telling you, the industry fucks with their heads, and after a while any semblance of ethics, humanity or empathy evaporates and what you’re

left with is one smoking skeleton of white-hot ambition. That’s all Carla is—a glorified development girl who got lucky. Bitch.’

‘They weren’t…’

‘As bold as friggin’ brass. All over each other—and I can tell you, Klaus didn’t look remorseful in the slightest. The guy’s not having some mid-life crisis; he’s just as emotionally shallow as a kiddies’ blow-up paddling pool. But boy, was that bitch working poor Dick. They’re up to something together, I swear it. Probably some dumb TV series about abandoned wives.’

‘Enough!’ Julia put down her cup, her hand shaking, then took a deep breath. ‘They are both persona non grata,’ she said softly.

‘But is that healthy? Denial isn’t closure.’

‘Don’t let Mom fob you off with that psychobabble.’