Who Killed Jenny Schecter? Ch. 20

Chapter 20 Memories. No Singing Cats.

"I think Richard and I are breaking up," Chase said.

Shane had been looking out the car window at the lights of LA at night, but turned to look at Chase in the gloom of the back seat. Renaldo was driving. They were returning from a successful store opening and media event featuring a trendy new wine brought in from Sonoma, canapes, cheek brush air kisses, media, minor celebrities. It had been a long day, and they were both tired, coming down after the adrenaline rush.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Shane said. "I thought you guys were cool together. Getting along well, I mean. A lot of people have told me they admired your relationship."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's how things look from the outside," Chase said quietly. "But shit happens. I don't have to tell you that."

"You want to talk about it?" Everyone, including Chase and Shane herself, knew Shane was never much good at relationships, but everyone who knew her well also knew that Shane was a good listener and good at diagnosing other people's problems, just not her own. If you had the need to unburden yourself, to download all your tears, fears, and woes, to get a good, sound, outsider's view, there were few people better to do it with than Shane McCutcheon. Even better, everyone knew she could keep a secret. A thousand women could attest to it, if necessary.

They were riding in the Albino Tabby, their nickname for the custom stretch limo Jaguar sedan Chase had commissioned to be their official staff car, working office, and status symbol of Shane's Sugar Shack, LLC (a semi-secret division of Sweet Things Enterprises, but a widely known subsidiary of Chase-La Jolla Holding Group). In that modest empire, Shane's Sugar Shack was but one spin-off, albeit a successful and highly visible one responsible for nearly twenty-two percent of all Chase-La Jolla's gross income. After SSS LLC's initial start-up costs had been amortized, SSS LLC never had a down quarter. They liked to call the company's acronym "Trip-S, Two-L C" and sometimes just "Trip-S."

"There's something I need to run by you," Chase had told Shane one day as Shane climbed into the back seat of the leased limo that had been using as their first mobile office. "I want us to buy our own stretch limo for our official vehicle for Shane's Sugar Shack. Our leasing arrangement for the limos we've been using is fine as far as it goes, and we'll still keep them for other uses, but since they don't belong to us, we are limited on what models we can pick, what color choices we have, and the issue of logos and decals we can put on them."

"Okay, so what do you have in mind?" Shane asked.

"Well, maybe you don't know this, but I've always loved Jaguar sedans, with that Jaguar hood ornament, you know the one I mean?" Chase knew Shane didn't know all that much about cars in general, and they barely registered on her radar.

"Yeah, I think so. I've seen them at some movie premiers and stuff. And I think I saw a convertible one once, some movie star was riding down Hollywood Boulevard in it."

"Yes, that's the one. I've seen that convertible, too, and I even thought about a convertible for us, but decided against it. We do too much paperwork in the car to be riding around with the top down, so we'll need the hardtop."

"Okay, sure, fine," Shane said. "I'm guessing Jags are expensive, aren't they?"

"Yes, but any really good status car is going to be expensive, and anyway, as you know by now, it's a one-hundred-percent business expense for Trip-S. I just saw an ad for a used one that's only sixty grand. That's a pretty good price. What I want to do is have it painted off-off-white, just ever so slightly not true white, the color of sugar, not like brown sugar or cane sugar. When somebody asks what that color is, we say it's refined sugar, because that's who we are. We are refined. What we do is for refined people. And I want to have the Trip-S logo on the doors on each side, so people can tell from a distance whose car it is. I want people to see it and say, 'Hey, that's Shane McCutcheon's ride, and she's here.'"

"I get the PR angle, the color and the logo, and all," Shane said. "but I'm still not comfortable being some kind of fucking celebrity."

"I know you're not," Chase said, "and that's one of your best qualities. You never let Hollywood go to your head. That means you're still down-to-earth and approachable. That's why so many people like you, and trust you with the single most private, intimate, personal grooming decisions women could possibly make, which is how they trim their pussies. Who they trust to do that work. That's you, that's Shane McCutcheon. One of the few people in Hollywood who can keep a secret, such as whether rising-starlet flavor-of-the-month Brianca Poutyface has a landing strip or a thunderbolt, or a hairy asshole. They know you're not going to go on Twitter and tell the world. In Hollywood, that's a really big fucking deal. Keeping their secret is money in our bank account."

So Chase bought the stretch Jag and had the SSS LLC logo put on the rear passenger doors, large enough to see it was there, but not so large and gaudy it detracted from the classiness of the car. From a distance it looked like it might be a shield or a family crest of some sort, but when you got closer you could see it was the standard black-on-white Shane's Sugar Shack logo, which featured a simple pen-and-ink sketch of a shabby-chic shack with a tin roof in the background, and in the foreground in front of the shack was a bag of sugar on its side, with some sugar spilling out into a small pile. "SSS" was printed on the bag. To the left side was what at first appeared to be a vertical black bar, but on closer inspection it was revealed to be a tightly woven mat, wiry and curly. In fact, it was a brunette landing strip, but you had to know that; it could have been nearly anything. Underneath was the name "Shane's Sugar Shack" in a classy script.

"The other great thing about the Jag," Chase had said, "is the symbolism of the hood ornament."

"What about it? Shane asked.

"Come on, Shane," Chase laughed. "It's a smooth, sleek, hairless pussy."

***

"Is breaking up your idea, or Richard's, or mutual?" Shane asked.

"Richard's. You know what he says? I know you'll never guess. He says I work too much. I'm a workaholic, I'm never home. I don't pay any attention to our relationship. I work all day long, then I got to all these business events at nights, I work weekends, my head is always in one business problem or another. The phone never stops ringing. I never take him along with me, because he doesn't want to go to all these social functions, and he could care less about the business stuff. He's bored to death by it, and by the people I work with. And here's the great big cosmic joke. Every word he says is true. Every fucking word."

"I'm sorry," Shane said, having nothing else to add. She knew it was all true, that Chase was one hundred and fifty percent invested in his job, his work, his corporations. He had inexhaustible energy. He was brilliant and creative. He was decisive. He was great to work with. He took care of his people. He was decent and kind, thoughtful, funny, charming. He sometimes worked 18-hour days. The weekend was just two more working days, days when people who had 9-to-5 weekday jobs could come in to Shane's Sugar Shack for a little trim and some "me" time. Chase was just a lousy spouse, that's all, like a million other Type A career-driven, ambitious go-getters in California, male, female, straight or gay.

"That's kind of what happened to Harvey and Jack, way back when," Shane said. "Harvey was a terrific guy, but he was totally into his career, the orchestra, and always on the road. And one day Jack went down to the beach in Malibu and walked into the ocean and never came back."

"I think about your friend Harvey sometimes," Chase said, "and I see the parallels. I see it in dozens of people I run across. All us high-achievers with great, successful careers of all kinds, and horrible, self-destructive personal relationships. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I have yet to see somebody successfully work his way out of the hole. I have yet to see somebody like me or Harvey pull up in time, get effective counseling, repair their relationship. I know some who've tried, but it never worked out in the end. They cut back a little on their businesses, and the business starts to decline. They cut back on meetings and events, and they get bored and they start missing the action. They don't want to go for long walks in the rain and browsing in antiques stores, they want to get back to their desks and cellphones, their meetings and deals before the business goes into the dumper. They can't wait to get back to the rush."

"It's an addiction," Shane said. "Adrenal rush."

"It truly is," Chase said, "only there's no 12-step group for us."

"Maybe that should be your next business venture," Shane said, half seriously.

Chase laughed in the darkness of the back seat. "Right. We could call it the Letting Go Intervention Society. How to give up everything you'd worked your ass off for fifteen or twenty years in ten easy, minimally self-destructive steps, and sink to the bottom of the shark tank like guppy poop. All the Hollywood movers and shakers will be lined up around the block trying to get an appointment. Not."

"It might work out okay. They'd send their minions and flunkies to get the appointment," Shane said, "and then they'd send their AA's and executive assistants to actually attend the classes and bring them back the notes and summaries. The minions could scale back and drop to the bottom of the tank on their behalf, and the big shots would just get new minions."

"Right, right," Chase laughed. "And then they tell their new assistants to send flowers to their significant others. Then they schedule ninety minutes of quality time at Spago for a week from next Thursday. And then when the spouse or significant other sneaks out to get laid by somebody who pays attention to them, the high-achiever is totally mystified."

They lapsed into silence until finally Shane asked, "So, is he moving out?"

"I don't know. We're talking. Put 'talking' in quotes. Discussing things. Getting in touch with our feelings. He suggested we get counseling."

"What did you say?"

"I managed not to laugh sarcastically."

"That's a good thing."

"Yeah, but it wasn't easy. I think I pulled it off."

Shane looked out the window in psychoanalysis mode. "You sound like you might be happy to break up," she said.

"I know," Chase said. "You know what word I hate? The word 'ambivalent.' I'm pretty far from an ambivalent guy. But I'm ambivalent about this."

"I really hate to ask—"

"But you want to ask, is there somebody else? Is he cheating? I don't know, but I don't think so. He says not, and I believe him. And maybe it doesn't even matter. At least he knows goddamn well I'm not cheating on him. Too fucking busy."

There was another long silence until Chase asked, "Okay, doctor, what's your diagnosis?"

"It's over," Shane said. "I'm sorry, but it is. I hate to be the one to tell you--"

"—but I already know you're right, and I've already admitted as much to myself."

"Yes."

Chase sighed. "I know what I really ought to do."

"What's that?"

"Marry you."

Shane guffawed and Chase laughed, too. "I already have lunch or dinner with you three, four times a week," Chase said. "We go to cocktail parties, mixers, or wine-and-cheese things at least twice a week. I spend way more time with you than I do with Richard. We like each other. We make each other laugh. I can talk to you, and you to me. We have great communication. We know and accept each other's faults and peccadilloes without judgment. I mean, we're just about the perfect couple already. And as for sex, lately, I've been getting zero from both of you."

Shane laughed. "Of course, you've never gotten any sex from me. At least you used to have a sex life with Richard, didn't you?"

"Yeah, once upon a time."

Shane said nothing.

"It was okay, our sex life," Chase said quietly.

"I didn't ask," Shane said.

"No. But it was the logical next question."

They rode in silence for a while.

"You know who you should have married?" Chase finally asked. "Carmen. I liked Carmen. Carmen was a keeper."

"I know. I fucked it up. Not the same as you fucking it up with Richard. I did it entirely differently. But I fucked it up."

"She ever get over it?"

"No, not at all. She's civil, you know, she talks to me and all. And there's this kind of truce between us while we do this investigation thing, trying to get Alice out and find out who really killed Jenny. But yeah, there's this edge she has. It gets chilly. I think the day this investigation ends she could very well cut my throat and walk away smiling."

"That's pretty harsh. And it doesn't sound like the Carmen I knew."

"Maybe it is harsh, I don't know. And you know that I'm not exactly real good at saying the right thing. I made a half-assed apology to her, and she said she accepted it, sort of, but I was horrible at it, and I'm still not sure she was telling the truth when she accepted it. She was like, yeah, whatever."

"That doesn't sound like her," Chase said.

"What do you mean?"

"Lying to you. Saying she accepted your apology but not meaning it."

"No, I guess not. The thing is, I used to be able to read her pretty well. Now I can hardly read her at all."

"Can I ask a difficult question?"

Shane sighed. "I know what you're going to ask."

"Okay. So what's the answer? Do you still have feelings for her?"

"You're asking the last fucking person on planet Earth who would know the answer to that. I barely knew I had feelings for her back when I did have feelings for her. Uh, does that sentence makes sense?"

"No, not at all, but I know what you were trying to say."

"Good, at least one of us understands me." She let a beat go by. "How long have you and Richard been together?"

"About four years, I guess."

"Not too bad, I guess, for Hollywood. Maybe about average. Anyway, way longer than any of my relationships."

Renaldo turned the car onto Santa Monica Boulevard, and Shane looked out the window to the street corner where she had once upon a time been a prostitute giving hand jobs to chickenhawks for twenty bucks a jerk. Now she rode in an off-white custom stretch Jag with Renaldo behind the wheel, a healthy bank account creeping into seven-figure range, a reputable career and the respect of her friends and colleagues. Somehow she had survived, she had made it, and if she didn't fuck it up, she was set for the rest of her life. There was only just the one thing missing, and to tell the truth, Shane wasn't sure she ever missed it. No significant other. Nobody waiting for her at home in Alice's old apartment. Nobody to snuggle with at night, nobody to tell about how your day went. Nobody to laugh with, or cry with, if it came to that. Well, except Chase. Sex was never an issue; Shane could always get any amount of sex, almost at the snap of her fingers, and she still did, regular as a morning cappuccino. But it was everything else that went with relationships. "My relationships," she had just said.

Relationships, plural, and not the one-night stands. Shane thought to ask herself how many there had been. On the one hand, she was surprised there had ever been any at all. On the other hand, there had been ... uh... let's see, how many? Tiffy, but Tiffy doesn't count, they were only nine years old at the time. I guess the first had to be Cheri Peroni, she thought. That one was difficult to categorize. It met the definition of a relationship, but there was no love in it, no affection. Certainly no romance, in any conventional sense. There was fucking, and manipulation, and above all no future whatsoever. Was it a "relationship" at all, or just a one-night-stand that lasted a month or two with a couple of auxiliary three-ways with Becky thrown in for good measure?

Then there was Carmen. No question, that was a relationship. But definitionally, was it her first true relationship, or her second? Who gives a shit? Okay, yes, dammit, her first true relationship. Serious. So start counting with Carmen at Number One. Because there was love. There, she said it. There had been love. No question about it from Carmen's side; that was love-at-first-sight, to hear her tell it. It just took Shane a long time to face up to it, understand that's what this feeling was, what love looked like. Let's don't even think about all the ways she managed to screw it up. It was love, and it lasted eight months until Shane made it crash and burn.

And then, inevitably, there were the Carmen look-alikes. In the years since the disaster in Whistler, there had been several hundred women, and twice that many partnered orgasms. It was statistically impossible that out of several hundred random lesbians a few had to have that luxurious dark hair, those hips, those breasts, that gorgeous, tasty, Latina skin tone. The laugh, the smile, the glint in the eye. The hunger, maybe, but of course not quite the skill level. At least a few of them had to resemble Carmen in some way. And there were: four one-night stands, two Latinas and two whose ethnic background was unknown. The last one had been a few months ago. She was the one who looked the most like Carmen, but whose personality was least like her. Carmen had been warm, bubbly, open, friendly. This last one, whose name was Sameen, had some Middle East in her, was quiet, intense, almost sullen. She didn't want to talk, or drink, or go out to dinner, or do anything but fuck. When Sameen took off her clothes Shane was shocked by the scars on Sameen's body. Some looked fresh and some well-healed. A couple of healed knife wounds, maybe, and something that looked like maybe a bullet hole. Some clean, neat scars that might have come from surgery, some ragged and amateurishly tied up. Some bruises. It wasn't that Sameen didn't mind when Shane ran her finger over a couple of them. It was that she just didn't fucking care. No tats, of course, no flower boxes. Sameen fucked well, Shane might even have said "efficiently," and in the morning she was gone. In the shower afterward, Shane realized Sameen Shea had been the anti-Carmen. Shea or Shaw, something like that. Shane had never been sure of the last name. Very similar appearance, both lesbians, both skilled in bed (but Carmen much more so, of course) ... but a night-and-day difference in personality.

Paige. Another hard one to categorize, but yes, the relationship with Paige staggered across the definition finish line; there was affection there. Okay, love. Yes. Just say it. Never mind the complications and the fuck-ups. Above all, try to ignore the outcome, the arson of Wax. And not Shane's first crazy one, by any means.

Molly. Molly, oh Molly, Molly, Molly. It was the first relationship in which Shane had been ahead of her partner. She had fallen for Molly before Molly had fallen for her. Fuck, why did she use the euphemism "falling for"? Why couldn't she just fucking say it, I fell in love with her before she fell in love with me. There, was that so hard?

Yes.

Oh, fuck, whatever.

Then Jenny. Jesus, how to describe whatever that --- that "thing" -- whatever it was, was. (Huh?) It wasn't a relationship, it was a train wreck hit by an airplane crash after running into an iceberg. A person who had been a deeply valued friend and roommate for the better part of six years had gradually slipped into a kind of insanity, the culmination of which was a declaration of love for Shane. And Shane, possessor of all that exquisitely fine-tuned hyperacuity and sensitivity to other people's moods and feelings, had been the iceberg, silent and unknowing and unfeeling and unable to get out of the way of what ran into her. Was any of it "love," as anyone commonly understood the term? Did Jenny really and truly love Shane, romantically and sexually, or was it some sort of self-delusion? Was Jenny making it all up? Was she crazy? Did she need to go back to the Illinois funny hat factory for a tune-up? For that matter, did Shane?