Chapter Eight
At eighty thirty there’s a sharp knock on my door. I drag myself off the couch while swearing death to Mr. Knuckles if he keeps getting out and climbing trees. Grabbing my loafers and a handful of promotional pens which are sitting in a box on the console in the entryway—I’m going to throw those instead of my shoes—I open the door. “Mrs. Feldman, you have got to …” I don’t continue my thought because it isn’t my neighbor. It’s Jonathan.
“I’m not sure I want to live here if the neighbors are such pests,” he declares.
“What are you doing here?” I don’t sound the least bit hospitable.
“I’m here to discuss our living situation.”
Putting the pens down, I kick my loafers off, and walk back into the living room. Jonathan trails behind. He looks around critically before announcing, “You should fire your cleaning lady.” Correctly reading my body language, he takes a step back before I lunge at him.
Instead of following my instinct to tackle him to the ground, I somehow manage to ask, “Mr. Silver, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Silver, huh? And here it was Jonathan just last night.”
“Answer my question,” I order.
Sitting down on the chair next to the couch, he says, “I’ve been thinking about your suggestion that I live here.”
“It’s not my suggestion,” I tell him. “Personally, I don’t care where you live. It’s whoever is looking out for you up there,” I point toward the ceiling, “who wants you to live here.”
“I’ve decided to do it,” he says.
“What?” I did not see this coming. I thought Jonathan would chalk me up to being a kook and ride off into the sunset. “You’re going to buy my house?”
“No,” he says plainly.
“I’m sorry, then why are you here?”
“I have a proposition for you,” he says. “I propose we switch houses until I find my soulmate.”
“Switch houses?” I can’t seem to absorb what he’s saying. “You want me to live in your house and you’ll live in mine?”
“I think that’s the definition of switching houses,” he says. “That way neither of us will have to move and I’ll still get what I came to you for, my soulmate.”
“Are you still planning on buying a new house once you meet her?”
“I don’t see why I’d have to. I love my house. The only reason I was going to leave it was to find the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.”
“Not to sound self-serving, but what do I get out of this?
“You get to live rent-free in my fabulous estate,” he says, like I’m an idiot for not working that out for myself.
I grab my laptop and ask, “What’s your address?”
“Five hundred North Rexford,” he tells me. I hurry to punch it into my computer.
Holy. Hell. “This is where you live? By yourself?” According to Zillow, his house is twenty-five thousand square feet and it’s on three prime acres of Beverly Hills real estate. It’s also worth forty million dollars.
He nods his head. “Yes. Well, actually, no. My brother Steven lives in the guest house, but he won’t bother you.”
“The entire Barnum and Bailey Circus wouldn’t bother me in a house this size,” I reply. “I’m not sure I’d be comfortable living there alone.” High class versions of every horror movie I’ve ever seen start to collectively flood my brain.
“You wouldn’t be alone,” he tells me.
“Well, you’ll be here, so who else would be there? Other than Steven that is.”
“The maids, the cook, and my personal helper,” he enumerates.
“How many people other than you live there?”
“Four. Their quarters are separate from the main living area. They’ll be there to make you feel secure, but they won’t get in your way.” I am tempted to ask why his shoe shiner, personal shopper, and doorknob polisher don’t live there as well, but I wisely keep my less polite queries to myself.
“I’ll lose the commission on whatever house I would have sold you.” I quickly calculate that as being close to a million dollars if he had been planning to buy a comparable property. That’s more than I have ever made on a single property. Let’s face it, it’s more than I’ve made on four properties combined.
“If I find my other half while living at your place, I’ll pay you half of that commission. That’s free money for no work as well as a luxury vacation while you’re waiting.”
“And if you don’t find the love of your life?” I demand.
“Then, obviously, you aren’t as good at your job as you claim to be,” he says unkindly.
“So far, I’m batting a thousand.” I point my finger at him like I’m casting a spell. “If you can’t find love here in my place, then the problem is you, not me.”
“How soon can you move out?” He’s in quite the hurry.
“I guess tomorrow, as long as I can come back here and get anything I forget to take.” The good thing about not being a high maintenance woman is that I can be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
“Of course. I’m sure I’ll have to do the same.”
George slinks into the living room and stretches before jumping onto my lap. Shoot, I’d forgotten all about him.
“You can’t take that to my house,” Jonathan says while pointing at George like he’s a rodent.
“I’m pretty sure your house can accommodate one small cat.”
He shakes his head. “What if he breaks something? No. No cat.”
“If I don’t take George,” I tell him, “that means you have to take care of him.” I’m positive that will get him to change his mind.
“I can put down food for him as long as your maid takes care of the litter.”
That’s the second time he’s referenced my cleaning help. “Jonathan,” I sound like I’m talking to a second grader. “My house is twelve hundred square feet. I don’t need a maid to maintain that.”
He runs his forefinger across the coffee table leaving a clean path through the dust. “I beg to differ.” He hurries to add, “Don’t worry, I’ll have Greta come over and give this place a thorough cleaning a couple times a week.”
“How messy are you?” I ask.
“Not nearly as messy as you are. I like a clean environment,” he explains. “Especially as I’ll practically be camping here.”
For a seemingly solid specimen of masculinity, Jonathan Silver sure is prissy.
“I might have a friend come and stay with me,” I tell him.
“No strange men in my house,” he says, sounding like a stern father.
“Skylar is a woman,” I tell him. “She’s a realtor at my office, so you can rest assured she won’t steal your artwork.”
“You’re a lesbian?” he asks.
“No.” That’s when I put two and two together. Jonathan’s persnickety ways, his arrogant attitude … “Is this woman you’re hoping to meet really a man?” I ask.
“What? Why would you ask that?”
I shrug. “You’ve got no judgment from me, Jonathan, and I promise not to tell a soul.” I hold up my hand like I’m being sworn in on a witness stand. “Scouts honor.”
“I’m straight,” he tells me in no uncertain terms. “Why would you think I was gay?”
“You seem a little particular about dust.”
“I like a clean house, sue me!” Oh boy, he’s mad now.
“If you say so. What time do you want me over tomorrow?” I ask.
“I am a red-blooded heterosexual male,” he answers, ignoring my last question.
“So, what, three o’clock? Six?”
“Emily, I’m not kidding. I’m straight.”
“It’s not my business,” I maintain. “I’ll be over at seven o’clock. How does that sound?”
His head looks like it’s about to blow right off his shoulders. “Greta will be here to clean at ten in the morning. Please arrange to let her in.” He turns and walks out my front door.
Poor guy. I know some celebrities are loath to come out of the closet for fear of being typecast and losing out on plum roles, but you’d think a studio head would be more secure than that.