Page 8 of Second Act
She had already realized that and felt terrible for Andy. He was so painfully honest with her. All he could see ahead of him was a bottomless dark pit he was struggling every day not to fall into. And maybe the house in England at the seaside would stop his free fall. She hoped so. He was a good person and deserved a good life, doing something that made him happy. He certainly wasn’t happy now, notby a long shot. She was beginning to think he was smart to leave town before he tried to reinvent himself when he got back.
She called the realtor back in East Sussex and organized renting the house. She wired the money to the bank the next day and got it all set up in twenty-four hours. All he had to do now was pack and leave. She booked a flight for him on Saturday night. Timothy, the butler, was going to drive him to the airport. Andy was taking a commercial flight for the first time in years. He smiled as he thought of it. He was a regular person now, and a damn lucky one. He knew full well that his financial circumstances were a blessing, and his severance had been a very good one. He didn’t have to worry about where his next meal was coming from. He could do what he wanted and go where he pleased, he could run away to England to a house that looked more than comfortable. And maybe he’d find his way again, doing something he loved as much as his old job. He was leaving himself open to the winds of fortune, wherever they took him.
Andy told Wendy where he was going and how to reach him. She thought it was a good idea and said maybe she’d bring the kids to see him if he was still there in the summer. He said that for now he was going to be living day by day, and let himself drift for a while, to figure out where to be and what to do. He was open to all possibilities, and he was relieved to be leaving LA. He didn’t want to run into any of the people he knew. Tony Bogart, who was a terrible memory now and had betrayed him by selling out to the new owners and sacrificing Andy, or Alana, with any one of her new boyfriends who would further her career now because Andy no longercould—he had ceased to exist for her the day he had lost his job. She wasn’t who he wanted to be with anyway. She wasn’t real. Most of the people he knew weren’t. Maybe he hadn’t been either. He questioned himself now on every subject, about who he had been, and who he should become. He hoped to find himself in England, either the old version or a new one.
The hardest person to say goodbye to on Friday night was Frances, who had been so staunchly there for him for so many years when he was at the top, and especially now that he was at the bottom of his career, the low point of his life. She had been wonderful and supportive for the past two weeks, better than anyone else, and so had Wendy. He was lucky to have them both. He hugged Frances when she left the house on Friday night.
“Take care of you now. You’ve taken such good care of me.” He had stopped drinking a bottle of scotch every night, passing out at the pool and waking up hung over every morning. He was still drinking, but not as much, and was planning to lead a healthier life in England than he had been recently in LA. He was going to try and eat right, exercise, and drink less. He had never drunk as much in his life as he had in the past two weeks.
Frances clung to him for a moment before she left. “Take care of yourself, and if it gets too lonely there or you hate the house, come home, and we’ll figure out something else.”
“Just be careful and find a good job where they treat you well and appreciate you.” He had given her a glowing reference that morning to show potential employers.
After she left, the house was quiet. The staff were going to covereverything with dust covers while he was away. He stopped to look at one of the posters of his father and gazed earnestly into the eyes in the photo.
“I’ll try to get back on the right path, Dad. I promise. I don’t know what the hell happened here.” It had all spun out of control so quickly. In minutes his career and his job had ended, and now he’d been washed up on shore and had to find his way again. Maybe he would in England, or after he got home, but he knew he had to find himself again. His father was smiling in the photo, and it felt like a blessing as Andy looked at him. Maybe it was all he needed to know, that his parents had taught him how to live right, and what mattered. He had to find those values again, and the path he’d been on. He had stumbled and fallen, and now he had to stand up again, and follow his own path with courage. Maybe it was all much simpler than he thought, and all he had to do was be a good person and believe in himself again. He suddenly realized as he stood there that he had lost a job, not himself.
Chapter 5
It was part of Andy’s reeducation and entry back into the real world, traveling commercial again. Frances had bought him a first-class ticket, but other than bigger seats and a fancier meal, it wasn’t much different from the rest of the plane. The security line had been endless at LAX, he had to take off his shoes and his belt and empty his pockets, go through the metal detector three times before he cleared, and then reclaim his belongings among pushing, shoving, harassed people at the other end, with security agents shouting, people complaining. They took him aside to go through his briefcase and put his computer through separately, which delayed him so he had to run for his plane. He had checked one suitcase, which had been an ordeal at the curb. For nineteen years, he had been spared the inconveniences of the real world and how stressful and complicated travel was now. He felt as though he had run a marathon by the time he got to his seat on the plane. He had a single seat at the window, sat down, and refused a glass ofchampagne. He wasn’t in the mood for it. He was booked on a tenp.m.flight, had had to check in by eight for an international flight, and had left his house at seven. With the eight-hour time difference and ten hours in the air, he was due to arrive at Heathrow at four in the afternoon, and had a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Winchelsea after that.
He accepted a copy of the LondonFinancial Timesfrom a flight attendant and dozed off while he read it before takeoff. He was already exhausted before the plane even left the gate. The other passengers were busy settling in, putting their hand luggage in overhead racks, and several of them gratefully accepted the champagne to calm their nerves. There was no sign of the calm, easy departures he’d enjoyed for years on the company plane, where everything was taken care of for him. It was a wake-up call, being part of the mass of humanity again, even in the luxury of first class. He realized that he was lucky to even be able to afford that. The people in economy would sit bolt upright for the ten-hour flight to London, with no legroom for anyone as tall as he was, and only snacks for sale on the late flight. There was a curtain he could close around his area for privacy, and his seat reclined to a bed if he wanted to sleep. He could at least arrive rested and would be comfortable on the flight. He just wasn’t alone, and was no more important than any other passenger.
He smiled thinking about it, and how symbolic it was of the changes in his life. He was no longer special or powerful. He no longer had thousands of employees, headwaiters in restaurants would no longer jump at the sound of his name. He had slippedmany notches down in the world and was embarrassed to realize that it mattered to him, that he felt diminished by the status he had lost, and felt foolish for doing so. He felt humiliated and vulnerable, like a turtle without a shell now, a soldier without armor. There was nothing to protect him except himself, and he had to prove he was worthy of respect. It wasn’t automatic at the mere mention of his name, or the studio he ran. He wondered if others felt as he did when they lost their jobs. He understood now how integral his job had been to his self-respect. What was there to respect now? Who was he? He was no one, headed for places where his name would mean even less. Doors wouldn’t magically open for him, exceptions wouldn’t be made for his convenience, to make life simpler for him. He would have to fight like everyone else for what he wanted and needed, even though he was going to a luxurious home in a location he knew nothing about and had never been to before. But it was what he wanted now, total anonymity, while he contemplated how to start his life over and where to begin.
It still felt overwhelming whenever he thought about it. He was going to miss Frances terribly, his little magical elf, who performed miracles for him, like finding him the house where he could hide for the next six months until he felt ready to face the world again. He wasn’t ready to yet by any means, and the decision to go to a little town in England felt right to him. Sitting around the house in LA, with nothing to do, too embarrassed to go anywhere and show his face, had been killing him.
As the tensions of the decision eased, and the worries about the paparazzi and the press, Andy relaxed and slept for most of theflight. He had croissants and coffee when he woke up, shortly before they landed, and looked out the window at the British countryside beneath them.
Frances had arranged a car and driver for him, and he hoped to get to the house around sevenp.m. if there wasn’t too much traffic on the way. The people at the bank had emailed him the alarm code, and the keys had been left under a potted plant near the back door. Since there was no live-in staff, there would be no one to let him in on a Sunday evening. The two women who worked there would arrive at eight the next morning and leave at five. All he knew about them was that the housekeeper was Mrs. MacInnes, and Brigid was the maid. The manager/groundskeeper would check in with him once a week, and the gardeners were from a service hired by the bank. The bankers had already explained that the gardeners weren’t planting or maintaining the gardens, they were just keeping it all tidy enough to make the house attractive to potential buyers. The new owners would have to restore the gardens and replant them where necessary. Likewise with minor repairs on the house. Andy didn’t know anything else about the house, or the staff. He hoped it didn’t look too different from the photographs Frances had shown him on the internet, and that it wasn’t a total disaster. The bank had been very minimal with their information, other than dimensions and number of rooms, and when the house had been built, and then later remodeled in its current, slightly ostentatious form. He was still curious about who had owned it and how they had lost it. Clearly, their funds had evaporated if the bank had reclaimed the house.
—
Andy went through customs without a problem, and the driver found him when he came through immigration. He was holding up a small sign that said “Westfield.” He was wearing a uniform and a cap, and had a Mercedes to drive Andy for the rest of the trip. There was heavy traffic on the road, so they got there close to eight. They came on the A259, driving past the town of Winchelsea to the town of Winchelsea Beach on the coast. Andy had slept the entire way. He realized now how exhausted he was from the stress of the past weeks. He felt like someone had pulled the plug on him. He had only said a few words to the driver, at the airport, and then had fallen into a sound sleep in the back seat.
Once they arrived at the area, all he could see was the quaint little town they drove past and the moon over the water when they got to the beach town. There were no houses near the one he had rented. They stopped at two stone pillars and a tall electric gate. Frances had given the car service the gate code, and the gate opened easily when the driver entered the code into the keypad.
There was a long driveway with a three-story stone house at the end of it, and the lights were on in most of the windows. The housekeeper had come in and turned them on that afternoon, so it would look cheerful when he arrived. Andy looked for the keys in the hiding place the bank had described to Frances, and he found them easily. He could see now that it was a handsome stone house that had probably been built in the 1920s or 1930s, and had been remodeled more recently, as confirmed by the bank. There was a shiny black painted door, with a big brass modern knocker. The door swung open when he unlocked it and he turned off the alarm with the code he’d been given. He told the driver he could leave his bagin the front hall, and thanked him, and he left. Andy was left alone to explore the house.
He was standing in an entrance hall with a black and white marble floor, which hadn’t been in the photographs, but looked stylish, and the living room was a few steps down from there, with a black marble fireplace, and what looked like expensive furniture, in cream-colored fabrics. It was more formal than anything in his own home and would have been a good room to entertain in, which he wouldn’t be doing. There was a handsome library, with leather-covered furniture and big comfortable chairs that looked almost new. The art on the walls was modern and most of it was attractive. There was a formal dining room he knew he’d never use, and a big high-tech kitchen, which again suggested that the previous owners had done a lot of entertaining. But the kitchen was a cheerful room with a dining area that opened out into the garden. He opened the door to take a look, but it was too dark to see much, and there was a fussy powder room for guests, with pink wallpaper and a fancy crystal chandelier that looked French.
The staircase to the second floor had an elegant sweep to it. There were four large bedrooms, and a very big master suite with two dressing rooms, and a small sitting room / study, where he could see himself spending quiet evenings, or in the library downstairs, which was more masculine. Everything was in pristine condition, and it gave him the feeling that the owners would return any minute. He checked the closets in the dressing room to make sure they were empty, and they were, every room had its own bathroom, and the master suite had two. It looked almost like a London house, except that it was a little more relaxed, and he decided to explore the topfloor the next day. He vaguely remembered Frances telling him that there were old servants’ rooms upstairs that were being used as storerooms, and one with some relatively new gym equipment, which he might use if he felt restless or ambitious. He felt almost guilty having such a nice house, just for him, and he would only use part of it. Now that he’d seen it, the rent seemed even more reasonable. He was surprised that the bank hadn’t been able to sell it in three years, but it was out of step with the area, which seemed better suited for beach cottages or small country homes. This was too formal, and too decorated for a beach town off the beaten path. He felt lucky to have found it. Six months there suddenly seemed even more appealing with such a comfortable place to stay. He had plenty of room for Wendy and Peter and their children if they came to visit at any point. There was no pool, but they had the sea and the beach in walking distance, which he wanted to see the next day.
He opened the fridge in the kitchen and saw that the housekeeper had left him enough groceries to make breakfast. He helped himself to a bottle of water and walked from room to room again, turning off the lights as he went. He had found an iPad with instructions about what it controlled: the curtains in every room, a stereo system, the alarm, which he didn’t bother to turn on, and the lights in every room. The owners had spared no expense modernizing the house, and then had lost it. It seemed like a shame to him. It was a waste of a lovely home that had obviously been someone’s main residence and not a beach house for occasional use.
He carried his suitcase upstairs and left it in his dressing room, which had built-ins for a man’s wardrobe, and he saw that the large TV in the bedroom was connected to the iPad too. He didn’t botherto turn it on, although it might have been nice to hear voices in the house. It was totally silent. There were no city noises or signs of life to break the silence, but this was exactly what he had said he wanted, to get away from everyone and everything and have peace. He smiled as he took off his jacket. “Beware of what you wish for,” he said out loud, and then sat down at the desk in the small study, put his laptop on the desk, and sent Frances and Wendy texts saying that he had arrived safely. It was lunchtime in California, and mid-afternoon for Wendy and her family in Greenwich. He added on the text to Frances that the house was terrific, better even than the pictures and just what he had wanted.
She had been waiting to hear from him and texted back immediately. She was thrilled to read that he liked it. She lived to please him and make his life easier, and had for fifteen years. This might have been the last thing she would ever do for him if she took another job, so it meant a lot to her to know that he was happy. She hoped it had been the right move, although going to England had been an impulsive decision that had worried her at first, but maybe he was right. He needed a positive change in his life, and for now this was it.
—
He checked the bed, and it was made with clean sheets. He noticed that they were an expensive French brand that he had in his guest rooms in LA. They almost matched the curtains in the bedroom, with blue and red flowers, and he suspected that a decorator had done the home, and not a cheap one. He had complained himself at the price of the sheets. He had told his own decorator that for thatamount, he could have bought a small car, and she had responded that his guests couldn’t sleep in a car. She had a point.
He unpacked his valise and put everything away, which he liked to do as soon as he arrived, although he didn’t usually do it himself. He realized that he was about to discover how other people lived, without the benefit of power and having his every thought and need anticipated, but he liked feeling independent too, and proving to himself that he wasn’t actually as spoiled as he knew he was.
After he unpacked, he took a shower and relaxed in the strong jet of a powerful showerhead with numerous settings. Every possible luxury seemed to have been installed in the home. It was easy to see where the money had gone. The owners had spent a fortune remodeling and furnishing the house, with every comfort and high-tech device. It made the transition for him very easy, there was nothing quaint or old-fashioned there, and he could see that he was going to be extremely comfortable during his stay. There had been no shock or bad surprises on his arrival. As always, Frances had done her homework well.
He got into the bed and enjoyed the feel of the fresh, impeccably pressed sheets on his skin, and lay in bed smiling. So far, his sudden decision to leave LA and come to England had been a good one. There had been no disappointment. The house was an excellent surprise, and he was still curious about the owners and how they had lost it. He felt a little bit like a gatecrasher, or a squatter, being there. All the trappings of their previously luxurious life were still there, and he was enjoying it all immensely.
