Corman apparently meant Roger Corman, which apparently also meant the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. The nearby museum was hosting a retrospective of the director’s work (“He’s that B-movie guy, right?” Lizzie said, and Rose threw her such a look of disdain. “If that’s the way you want to think of one of the most influential directors and producers of the twentieth century, then so be it.”) This week his Edgar Allan Poe adaptations were being featured, Rose explained as she led Lizzie the several blocks to the museum, with more alacrity to her step than she’d had moments before.
They made it with fifteen minutes to spare, and they had their pick of seats in the small screening room. Soon they were watching Tomb of Ligeia. It was a hot, gothic, campy affair: a loner of a man (Vincent Price, looking younger than Lizzie had ever seen him) obsessed with his dead first wife, a crumbling abbey, a deranged black cat, hints of necrophilia. The plot was overstuffed but Price hammed it up, and the scenes filmed outside in the English countryside were gorgeous. It seemed to be more concerned with romantic obsession than an attempt to frighten, and it reminded Lizzie of Jane Eyre and The Woman in White, two books she loved. (“The script is by Robert Towne, who also wrote Chinatown,” Rose leaned over to whisper.)
As Vincent Price was fighting with the spirit of his first wife, who now took the form of a cat, Lizzie felt her phone buzz. She looked down to see a text from Max (“Miss you,” it said. “See you for dinner?”). She turned back with renewed determination to the screen.
The film ended a little after six p.m. It was already dark when they left the theater, Lizzie’s thin jacket no match for the dropping temperature. They headed back to Rose’s apartment, where Lizzie’s car was parked.
“What did you think?” Rose asked.
“It was fun,” Lizzie said. “Vincent Price especially.”
“You know Robert Towne didn’t want to use him. He thought he was too old. But Corman insisted. He made Price wear a wig and layered on the makeup.”
“See, there are solutions to everything.”
“I would say that it’s essential to stick to your guns.”
Lizzie laughed; she read it that way too.
“Food. Shall we order in for dinner?”
“Yes,” Lizzie said. “Please.” She still hadn’t answered Max’s text. She’d gone to the bathroom, started to peck out a response, then stopped.
Earlier that morning, she had pretended to be asleep when he left, keeping her eyes faux-shut when he brushed his lips across her forehead. After he’d gone, she got up and headed out with her laptop, spent the morning at a nearby café. She came across a long thread in her work e-mail about the Clarke appeal. Kathleen, the associate, reported to Marc that Clarke had complained in a call that they were being too deferential to the lower court in the brief. (“They’re wrong; that’s what the appeal is based on. Why fuck around?” Kathleen reported Clarke as saying.) But that would be a mistake, Lizzie thought, and she wrote both Kathleen and Marc, furiously tapping out her response. A few minutes later, she sent Marc a separate e-mail about Michael Ciparelli, the lawyer who specialized in restitution cases. “Of course I know him,” Marc wrote back. “Sharp, smart. I’ll put you two in touch.” Lizzie felt a flash of pleasure. Maybe Rose would listen to Ciparelli, if not her.
Now Rose was talking about the dearth of decent Chinese food in her neighborhood as they rounded the corner and reached her building, a stucco four-story fronted by a shallow rectangle of yellowing grass and a forlorn palm tree. A man stood on the steps of the concrete walkway. “Rose! There you are!” He took the stairs purposefully. He was a bear of an older man, clad in a dark blazer and jeans. “I was beginning to worry.”
“You were?” Rose said, sounding annoyed. “Why?”
“Porter’s—for dinner.” He reached Rose and kissed her on the cheek. He dwarfed her. “Don’t tell me you forgot.” He had a deep, authoritative voice; it assumed people paid attention.
“So then I won’t,” Rose said. Lizzie was watching and listening to all of this, taking in Rose’s irritated tone, the man’s clear affection for her. Who was he? She had a sense but she didn’t dare ask.
“Come on,” he said, head to the side, but he didn’t seem annoyed. “Aren’t you hungry? I for one am famished.” He turned to Lizzie. “I don’t believe we’ve met; I’m Bob Fisher.” He gripped her hand in greeting.
“I’m sorry,” Rose said. “Lizzie and I were at the movies. Lizzie is the daughter of an old friend of mine. And Bob is—a new friend of mine.”
“Not all that new,” Bob said.
Rose shrugged.
Lizzie wanted to catch Rose’s eye and raise an eyebrow, knowing she would be furious if she did. Rose had a boyfriend!
“Lizzie and I were just talking about dinner; she’ll join us,” Rose said.
“For dinner?” Bob said. He looked at Rose, then to Lizzie, then back at Rose again.
“No, no,” Lizzie said. She wasn’t going to intrude. “I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine,” Rose said. “But you’re coming. Do not tell me you have plans. You didn’t have them five minutes ago.” She turned to Bob. “I took her to a horror movie—the least I can do is feed her.”
Bob gave Lizzie a declarative nod. “Of course, join us. I hope the film wasn’t too bad; Rose is always trying to drag me to the worst movies.” He reached for Rose’s hand, grinning.
“It was Corman,” Rose muttered, but she allowed him to take her hand.
Watching them together, Lizzie felt a quick joyful current. “She does have very particular taste,” she said to Bob. “And thank you, I will come.”
“Oh, please, what’s wrong with my taste?” Rose asked, but Bob was already on his phone calling the restaurant to change the reservation, and Lizzie was texting Max back. “I’m so sorry; I won’t be back for dinner,” she typed with a strange shot of giddiness. “But I won’t be back late.” And for the first time that day she truly missed him.
Three people, two cars, less than half a mile’s drive. In no time at all, Lizzie pulled up at Porter’s on La Cienega, Bob and Rose behind her in Bob’s boat of an old Mercedes. The steak house was more Austrian ski lodge than L.A.: darkly but invitingly lit, wood beams crisscrossing the high ceiling, wide-mouthed fireplace crackling, leather-bound books for menus.
“They have boar here, and it is delicious,” Bob told Lizzie as they were ushered into a leather booth.
“I am not ordering boar,” Rose said, nose to menu.
“You don’t have to, but it is an option.”
“I like options,” Lizzie said.
Bob suggested manhattans, he highly recommended the strip steak and creamed corn too. Lizzie took him up on all of it. Rose stuck with water while Lizzie was soon draining her drink and eating a warm roll and oysters (when had Bob ordered those?). And then the steaks arrived—charred at the edges, tender, delicious.
Bob was talking and talking—about being a salesman for a medical equipment company (“He’s being modest,” Rose added. “He’s a salesman and a vice president.”) and his boat that he liked to sail out to Catalina. “Have you ever seen the wild pigs out there?” he said. “They’ll eat anything, including each other.” He asked her about living in New York and how she decided to go into appellate work (he knew what appellate law was; not everyone did). And after ordering a bottle of Merlot, he said: “Here’s the thing you need to know about me—and Rose is coming to terms with it—I am a Springsteen fanatic.”