“Harper …” Prisha cautions, running her hands through her thick, dark curtain of hair. “All I’m saying is that you need to let me oversee the PR. The more money Brett is worth, the more you’ll get when the divorce is final.”
“I don’t want anything from him,” I spit with righteous indignation.
She sighs loudly. “The more he gives you, the less he’ll have to spend on other women.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Fine, I’ll keep quiet, but I want a hefty animal maintenance budget added to whatever childcare he has to pay. I’m talking five hundred a month per chicken.”
Prisha laughs. “You do realize that having free-range chickens isn’t exactly the celebrity way of doing things, don’t you?”
“Maybe not, but charging your ex-husband five hundred a month to keep their pedicures up sure is.”
She looks alarmed.
“Just kidding. But I might make those mealworms they love so much an everyday affair instead of a biweekly one.”
“You’re not expecting Sheila and me to feed them while you’re gone, are you?”
“Aren’t you going to feed the cats?” I retaliate.
“Of course, we’ll take care of the cats. But they’re cats. Sheila loves cats.”
“But as a card-carrying member of PETA, shouldn’t she also love chickens?”
“Yeah, but from afar.”
“You are aware that if you give them food, they’ll return the favor by giving you eggs for breakfast.”
Big sigh. “Fine, but just so you know, I might have to consult with Ethan about adding an animal tending stipend, depending on how long I’m here.”
As well as being my lawyer and godfather to my kids, Ethan Caplan is my only other true friend. Brett pretended he didn’t mind Ethan in my life—I mean, how could he when he was so busy telling me that all his relationships with other women were platonic—but the truth is, my husband was jealous of my close friendship with another man. Probably because it’s not possible for him to befriend a woman without wanting to screw her. He assumed Ethan must be the same way.
“I’ll make sure to tell him to give you whatever you want.” Then I ask, “Do you and Sheila mind being here for so long?”Please say no, please say no, please say no.
“Not at all,” Prisha answers. “Your place is six times bigger than our bungalow in Pasadena. We’ll treat it like a vacation—except for the chickens. I’ve never vacationed at a place with live poultry.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t get those pigs and that cow I had my eye on,” I tell her with a challenging lift of my left eyebrow. My mom calls it my power brow.
Waving her hands in front of her face like she can’t absorb the horror of actual farm animals, my friend demands, “Stop.” Then she adds, “You’re lucky the agency is lending their jet. Speaking of which, you’d better hurry because you’re scheduled to take off in just over an hour.”
Zipping up the last suitcase, I tell her, “We really need this, Prish. I’ve got to get the kids out of this circus. Plus, I’m so sick of this Hollywood life I could spit.”
“Well, now you can spit all day long in the middle of nowhere.” She jumps up and grabs two of my bags while I get the other two. We carry them out the back door where a fake gardener is waiting. He puts the suitcases into garbage bags and then drives them around the front on his golf cart. That’s where he’ll load them into his pickup before following us to the airport.
Prisha is going to drive me and the kids in her SUV. That defensive driving class she took two years ago has saved many of her clients from being tailed. While we may be vomiting our guts out by the time we get to the private terminal at the Santa Monica airport, we will get there without anyone following us.
Liam and Lily are sitting in the living room looking like a little prince and princess ready for a drive in the country. My son is wearing sharply creased khakis and a button-down shirt. Lily is wearing a light-yellow summer dress with a matching bow in her hair.
My mom always believed in the importance of dressing up when you travel, even if you’re going by bus. I’ve taken her lead. While no one else will be on the plane with us, I want my kids to grow up knowing that you have to make an occasion out of things.
Going on vacation is definitely an occasion, more so if you’re flying in a private plane.
We don’t even crouch down to hide in Prisha’s SUV. Instead, the kids wave to all the reporters waiting outside our gate. I merely keep my eyes on the road. As predicted, several vehicles follow closely behind.
When we hit the 405 Freeway, four similar SUVs join us. They are all being driven by employees of Prisha’s. As soon as we pull out ahead, they each take a lane and slow down to a crawl, effectively blocking anyone from getting too close. “I was prepared for you to go all NASCAR on us,” I tell her.
“Not with the kids in the car.”
“I appreciate that.” We all sit quietly for the rest of the drive. The kids are busy playing a game with their stuffed animals; Prisha stays focused on the road; and I fantasize about how pleasant it’s going to be spending the summer in Alaska, where people are nice and friendly, and, with any luck, will have no idea who I am.