by November Tuesday

I sit on Rodeo, looking at my reflection in the rear view mirror. Long blonde hair, curled in waves, red lips.

I knew, when I decided to do this, that I would be fussing over my appearance. It's a moot point, because I'm here to tell her something, not to make her want me.

However, I have changed in ten years, and I want her to see that. Just to see it. Just to get it. Even though nothing will come of it. I want to see myself reflected in her eyes.

Her beautiful, open, giving eyes.

Last I spoke to her I was nineteen. I was a mousy adolescent, hair in my eyes, without confidence. Now I am on the brink of thirty. An adult. My eyes are clear and blue. No hair in my face. I turn my face left and right. I look hot.

I slump against the dash. Traffic ebbs and flows beyond the driver's side window.

Again I look in the mirror. Hot. A grown woman.

I shudder at the thought of facing Shane McCutcheon again.

Just fucking do it, I think. I get out of the car, smooth down my skirt.

The salon is swanky but deliberately grunge, like Shane herself. SHANE LEX it reads, paint on the window in an unpretentious font. I know that her business partner is Alex Withers, hence the name.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it lodging in my chest. I open the door, forcing myself to look away from the letters spelling her name on the glass. House music pours out. I hear the clatter of a pool balls in the back.

I suppose I look enough like young Hollywood for the receptionist to give me the time of day. He is at the height of faggish, polite, asking me if I have an appointment. Polite until I request to speak to Shane.

"You can't."

"That should be up to her. Tell her I'm here. Tell her my name, and she'll see me."

"I don't think so."

"Look, Dorothy, I know she'll see me, so just fucking tell her I'm here." I'm not about getting bitchy, but this gatekeeper of Hollywood phonies does not impress me.

I was born to that world and I know how arbitrarily one can enter or leave it.

"I don't even know if she's here."

"Of course you don't. Clea Jaffee. Tell her. I'll wait."

I sit down and pick up a magazine. The fag glares at me and then walks up the stairs and into the office.

My heart is pounding so hard I think I might throw up. Ten years, I think. I'm not a little nothing anymore. I'm not a child. I've made my own way in the world. And I'm not here for her approval.

Still, my heart pounds. When I came in I scanned the stylists. None of them is her. My foot is tapping rapidly on the tile floor. I make it stop, force myself to breathe.

I sense movement on the balcony. I look at the cover of the magazine for a few seconds, then set it aside.

"Clea." I want to close my eyes. That voice, rich like cream, cuts through me. After all this time, she burns, and I want to crumple into my chair. Nothing has changed.

But I turn to face her, and I stand, pulling myself to my full height.

She is walking down the stairs. I'm dizzy. So beautiful. She is thirty-five now. Jeans, boots. Black sweater over a Ramones tee shirt. Her hair is combed straight back, heavy with some product. Squared tortoise shell glasses. I have never seen her whole face before, and she is so goddamned radiantly beautiful that it takes my breath away.

I'm good though. I've imagined this for years, and I can keep my cool.

She steps down to my level, and I see that we are the same height.

"Hi." I smile a bit, grateful that she's agreed to see me.

"Clea, hi, you look beautiful. I haven't seen you in so long."

Her eyes slide effortlessly over my body, and I feel like sex in my white suit with the short short skirt. Oh, yeah. Validation that I've craved for a decade surges through my veins like a drug.

"I know, it's been a long time. Thanks for seeing me. Could we talk?"

"Sure. Um, come on up to the office. Would ya like anything to drink?"

"Um... mineral water would be great."

She nods at the fag. I follow her past a row of counters and shampoo sinks. Her ass is magnificent under the tight jeans. The strip of skin between jeans and shirt is lightly tanned. I can almost smell her. God, I want to smell her.

Jesus Christ, this is hard. Ma, if you're up there, you'd better thank me.

Her office is different from the shop. Retro butch gives away to shoji screens and sleek furniture. The desk is, however, in a Shanelike disarray, and pictures line the shelves at the windows. Lots of pictures. She has a life, or at least a lot of friends.

She foregoes her desk, sitting down on the sofa. I don't dare sit that close to her, so I perch on the adjacent chair. I cross my legs, and I know she is looking. The fag comes in with my mineral water.

"Thanks," I smile. I am not bitchy if it's not necessary. A key difference between my mother and myself.

I look back at Shane and am dumbfounded again by her beauty. She is thin as ever, slouching gorgeously on the sofa. She looks nervous.

"Relax." I smile, sipping the water. "No one's going to kill you."

It comes out before I think better of it, and I curse myself for my bluntness. But the result is staggering: she grins. Ear to ear, amused. It seems there is genuine affection in her eyes, though she doesn't know me from Eve. That must be it, how everyone falls in love with her.

"That's always a relief."

I just smile. So, so beautiful. Am I imagining things or is her hair shot through with strands of silver?

"Look, I know this is awkward and I'm probably the last person you want to see, but-"

"No. Not at all. It's good. I mean, really, I'm glad you came."

I smile. "Me too."

"Though I have to admit I wish you'd just tell me already because I'm getting really nervous wondering what it is."

"Nothing earth-shattering. Probably. I just... I..." I look out the window. "I'm not sure if you heard, but my mother died in May."

"I did hear. I'm sorry."

"Thanks. Um, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, though... I guess you knew anyway. Anyway, the reason why I'm here is because I feel like you deserve to know something. I wish I'd told you sooner. Hell, I wish I'd known sooner, though I've known it for about six years now."

"Clea?"

I close my eyes. My name on her lips is like foreplay.

"Sorry. I'll get to the point. I know that she said some awful things to you. I know she said that you weren't worth it, worth all the material things: the houses, the bling, all the stupid Hollywood bullshit. I hated her for years because I overheard that conversation. I thought it made her a whore, a whore by contract and not by act, but a whore nonetheless."

I glance up at her. She is sitting there biting her lip and I want with all my being to hold her.

"But, none of it was true, Shane. She lied to protect you. Because my dad really would have killed you. She loved you. She loved you as much as you loved her. And I think you deserved to know that. I wish I'd told you when my dad died. I'm so sorry that she did that to you, and that I didn't speak up sooner."

She is staring into space, a strange expression on her face. Then she looks at me, and the way the tears glitter in her eyes... it's my undoing.

My own tears fall and I wipe them away.

"I don't know what to say." she whispers.

"It's okay. You didn't have to say anything. I wanted you to know. You deserve to know that she loved you." So did I. I don't say it. Because I could so easily fall back into it.

She sniffles, takes off her glasses, tosses them on the desk. Her naked eyes are so gorgeous. I just have to look away. She pulls out several tissues from a box on the desk, then hands me the box with a wobbly, excruciatingly endearing smile. When her eyes meet mine I feel frozen for a second, unable to move. She is like the goddamn sun, and looking into her eyes is too much light.

I take a tissue, and wipe my own eyes. It's a bizarre and teary communion for a minute.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry."

"Don't be sorry. Clea, I'm so glad you came."

"Me too," I say, sniffling like a dumb ass.

"Was she happy?"

"I think so. My brother has two kids, and they are - were - her life."

"You were on good terms with her?"

"Since my father died, yeah. After... after all that shit hit the fan back in '04, I sort of disowned my parents. Left Bel-Air and moved to Venice and did the starving artist thing. I didn't talk to her for almost four years, but, no, we were good in the end."

"How did she die?"

"Ovarian cancer. It was quick. They didn't catch it early."

"I'm so sorry."

I smile, feeling just a bit more comfortable. "You're as sweet and genuine as ever. Fame hasn't distorted you." The last thing I intended to do was to give her fawning compliments, but I suddenly feel so secure, so connected with her.

She reaches over and takes my hand. I'm shocked. The physical contact leaves me reeling but she squeezes my hand and it's more than mere sex. Simple, pure compassion, and shit, but I'm probably falling a bit back in love with her.

"You're not the girl I knew back then."

"No," I say. "I'm not." I know she means it as a compliment, I know that it means she sees everything I've achieved in the years since that awful summer.

"That's a compliment."

I can only glance at her eyes for a second, because it is too much.

"I know," I say calmly, and we let go of each other's hands.

I lean back. "Well, it's been good to see you again."

"Yeah. It has."

"I should take off. Thank you for seeing me. I had to get a bitchy with your assistant, but I knew you would."

"Don't mind Anthony. He's a little too Hollywood."

"I know. I called him Dorothy, but he strikes me as the kind of fag who might take that as a compliment."

Shane laughs. Her laughter is loud, shocking, sweet. A gorgeous bright clear carefree sound that tickles me eight shades of pink.

I stand up, and so does she.

"My, how you've grown up, little Clea."

I tilt my head defiantly, trying not to glow too much under her compliment. "I could say the same of you, Miss I-do-hair-for-J-Lo."

"Thanks." This time she follows me down the stairs. I'd like to think that she's looking at my ass. Hell, who am I kidding? I know she's looking at my ass. I try not to grin.

She walks me out, opens the door for me, gallantly waves me ahead of her. She follows me to where I am parked.

"Seriously, Clee, I can't thank you enough for coming to tell me that. It means so much to me."

I smile. "It's been my pleasure. Really."

She smiles, a bit of sadness lingering in her eyes. "Don't be a stranger."

"I won't. I have a big gallery show coming up and I'm gonna need a haircut."

I hope that she's not insulted that I choose to see her on a professional basis, rather than saying "let's have lunch." But she just smiles. "Okay," she says, and taps the roof of my car.

I grin all the way home. I feel warm between my legs and light all over. But above and beyond the carnal flurries zipping around like butterflies inside me, I feel something even more powerful: relief, an old burden gone from my shoulders. A balance restored. She did truly appreciate what I could give her. Grace. It makes me want to sing.