Santa Monica Read online

  Today, Regina thought. Today.

  Perhaps today would mark the beginning of a new chapter for her, and the end of the one in which she’d been miserably stuck for the past year, her anxiety increasing by the day, weight dropping from her already lean form, and her sleep—when it finally came—fitful and shallow. She’d never intended to let her financial arrangement with Zack stretch on for so long. Version Two You! was a step in the direction of putting it to a stop. Of replacing it with something respectable and aboveboard. A business endeavor they could be proud of. One that would allow her to get some goddamn sleep, without recurrent dreams of her daughters sobbing as a cop handcuffed Regina and escorted her into a cruiser.

  Regina had been planning to host V2Y! in her own yard, which was a quarter the size of Mel’s, but then she’d had a bad day—another IRS notice had turned up at her office, this one marked by the ominous bright green of certified mail: RESPONSE WITHIN THIRTY DAYS REQUIRED. Then Fernando, their gardener of ten years, had called to say her last check had bounced. She cursed him under her breath for not having Venmo or PayPal or anything that would have allowed her to squeeze his payment off a credit card. She’d told Fernando they were out of town, to take the week off, and that she’d pay him when they returned. Of course, they hadn’t been out of town, and without Fernando, the yard looked too dry and unkempt to host the event. So, she’d roped Mel into hosting. Mel, a newish mom-friend from John Wayne Elementary, where Kaden, and Mel’s daughter, Sloane, were in fifth grade together.

  Now that Regina was actually in Mel’s yard, the thought of using her own was embarrassing.

  “Guess how much they spent on landscaping when they moved into this place?” Lindsey Leyner’s throaty whisper filled Regina’s ear.

  Regina turned to face Lindsey, a fellow Color Theory devotee and John Wayne Elementary mom (Landon, also fifth grade) whom Regina had been working out with for years, and whose smarmy husband, Trey, had once patted Regina on the bottom at a PTA fundraiser cookout—on school property! As usual, Lindsey wore her curly brunette hair in two low pigtails that bounced in corkscrews around her shoulders, and had painted her nails an aggressively bright color (this week, canary yellow); her standard workout look. Regina wanted to tell Lindsey to lose the pigtails, that a nod to youth was good, but a full embrace just made you look old and desperate. But they were gym-friends first and mom-friends second, and really not friend-friends at all, so she kept her mouth shut.

  “I wouldn’t have a clue how much Mel spends on anything,” said Regina. “Nor do I care.”

  Lindsey slung her arm around Regina’s shoulder. “Quick double selfie, ’kay? For posterity.” Before Regina could protest, Lindsey shot out her arm and snapped a photo with paparazzi-like speed.

  “Do not post that,” said Regina. Lindsey was a relentless Instagrammer.

  “Relax,” said Lindsey. “I already did a story. Now I’m just documenting.” She opened her arms toward the sky. “I mean, this day, this house, it’s just epic, don’t you think? I heard Melissa’s husband personally pocketed ten million from his movie, which, by the way”—she lowered her voice confidentially—“I thought was just so-so.”

  “Awesome,” said Regina flatly. Lindsey compulsively talked about money—estimating the cost of anything in her line of vision. The personal finance of others, Regina thought, was Lindsey’s third-favorite hobby, right behind fitness and the endless regimen of cosmetic services she referred to as her “wellness routine” or “me-time.”

  “Come on,” Lindsey said, “just give me a wild guess on the landscaping number.”

  “One hundred million dollars,” said Regina.

  “Ha!” Lindsey slapped the taut skin under her cropped T-shirt that read Eat Pure, Train Filthy. The sight of the phrase gave Regina an instant knot of dread in her stomach, and made Lindsey even more unbearable. Regina’s firm, Big Rad Wolfe, had coined the slogan for Color Theory, a phrase that had triggered the biggest merchandise sales in the gym franchise’s history. The tagline also represented a “before” period in Regina’s life, when contracts like that one had seemed a smallish retainer to Regina at the time, around nine grand a month. How had she taken business like that for granted? Assumed the clients and contracts and hefty retainers, deposited into Big Rad Wolfe’s coffers like clockwork, would just keep coming and coming, plentiful as the Santa Monica sunshine? That Regina could spend and lend and borrow money freely, saying yes to everything from custom-designed Halloween costumes for her kids to spring break on Kauai?

  How had she allowed—no, encouraged—her husband, Gordon, to take a “sabbatical” from his TV writing work with its steady paychecks so that he could devote himself full time to the screenplay he’d always wanted to write?

  Regina averted her eyes from the lettering on Lindsey’s shirt.

  “I’ll give you my guess,” said Lindsey, ignoring Regina’s lack of enthusiasm and holding up six lacquered nails. “This many digits, starting with a three.”

  “Lindsey,” said Regina coolly. “I’m here for a workout. Not a property appraisal. And for the record, I seriously doubt the Goldbergs spent three hundred grand on this yard. I think Mel did a lot of it herself, actually. She’s plant-crazy.”

  “Bullshit,” said Lindsey merrily. “You don’t buy a three-point-eight-million-dollar house and then DIY the landscaping. I saw this property before they bought it and back here was like a dying savanna.”

  Lindsey worked as a Realtor, which, Regina supposed, was similar to working in finance, but required far less education and a fraction of the weekly hours. As a rule, Regina did not care for Realtors. They reminded her of mortgages, which reminded her of banks and foreclosures and her ever-multiplying debt, which gave her the same knot in her gut as the slogan on Lindsey’s T-shirt. Sometimes, it seemed the world was conspiring to give her a panic attack with visual cues.

  “Oh, hey.” Lindsey pointed to the house. “There’s your bestie.” Regina turned to see Mel stepping out the back door, wearing the new gear Regina had given her that morning and an expression that was equal parts anxious and funereal.

  “I’ve never seen Mel in workout clothes,” Lindsey went on. “I didn’t know she was into . . . physical activity.”

  “Back in a second,” said Regina to Lindsey, though she had no intention of returning, and broke into a jog across the springy grass toward Mel, calling out hellos to the clusters of guests as she weaved around them.

  “Hey, lady,” she said, stopping short in front of Mel, who was holding a champagne glass at arm’s length, as if it were poison. “Can you lose the frown? This is a party. Not a wake.”

  Mel sighed. “Please don’t lady me. This isn’t some Sex and the City reboot.”

  “Very funny,” said Regina. “Can you please lighten up?”

  “You sound like Adam,” said Mel. “Next, you’ll be telling me to just breathe and install a meditation app.”

  “It’s not terrible advice.”

  Mel ignored her. “I cannot believe you talked me into this. I must have been drugged. I’m thirty pounds heavier than every woman here, minimum. I thought you said it was a party for people who wanted to get fit.”

  “I said upgrade their fitness level. And don’t be ridiculous. You look amazing.”

  “Can someone please put a ban on women telling each other they look amazing? It’s the world’s most meaningless phrase. Next to it’s all good, that is.”

  “Do you have to be so negative?”

  “Yes, I do. You’d feel the same way if you had this many boob jobs in your own backyard.”

  “But they’re tasteful boob jobs,” said Regina, giggling. Snarky, neurotic Mel, with her yin-yang of brassy confidence and immobilizing self-doubt, was a refreshing change from Regina’s usual friends. “This is Santa Monica. Not Beverly Hills.”

  Mel rolled her eyes. “Another page from the Book of Adam. He seems to think Santa Monica is some precious, authentic sanctuary, exempt from all LA bullshit.”<
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  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Regina. “But he’s not entirely wrong.”

  Mel, Regina had noticed, seemed to have a blind spot when it came to the nuances of Los Angeles. She simply lumped the entire sprawling urban metropolis into the contemptible category of Not New York. Her bitterness was hard for Regina to fathom: Mel got to live here, on this jaw-dropping property north of Montana Avenue, with her head-turningly handsome husband and adorable soccer-star daughter. What on earth did she have to be sour about? Regina herself had a number of major problems at the moment—many more than Mel, she was quite sure—and yet she was still managing to smile. Would it kill Mel to do the same?

  Suddenly, as if reading Regina’s thoughts, Mel’s expression brightened. “Oh! There’s Leticia. I have to go talk to her.”

  “Make it quick,” said Regina, inwardly rolling her eyes at Mel’s carefully accented pronunciation of Lettie’s full name. “We’re starting in two minutes.”

  “Okay!” said Mel, her mood shifted by the mere sight of Lettie. It was odd, Regina thought, that of all the things in Mel’s life worth appreciating, their shared housekeeper seemed to make Mel happiest.

  “Seriously, as soon as Zack walks out of the house, it’s go-time.”

  “Understood, Sergeant,” said Mel, with a mock-salute. Regina watched her hurry off in the direction of the large magnolia in the center of the yard, where Lettie was busily stacking mats and laying out the dumbbells, jump ropes, and rubber resistance bands to be used during the workout.

  As if on cue, Zack stepped out of the house, wearing his highest-watt smile and the T-shirt Regina had designed, just snug enough to reveal a hint of his chest muscles. He looked exuberant yet relaxed; nothing on his tanned, smiling face betrayed any of the stress Regina knew he was under right now. Zack was the one, after all, who actually clicked the Approve Deposit button every week, while sitting in the back office of Color Theory, doing the part-time bookkeeping work that supplemented his measly pay as an instructor. All Regina had to do was wait for the money to appear in the corporate account of her own business. Which was plenty stressful, yes, but not quite the same as Zack’s position. Sometimes, she felt guilty over letting him incur the bigger risk, but then again, she was the one with the husband and kids, plus a mortgage and endless other expenses, while Zack lived alone in a tiny rented apartment off Pico, so close to I-10 Regina imagined he could smell exhaust from his bedroom.

  She’d never actually been to his place, of course, but she liked to think about it. Especially in bed at night, with Gordon’s snores sawing through her earplugs.

  Anyway, Zack had less to lose than she did. And he was profiting handsomely from the arrangement. It was okay, for now. But eventually, someone would catch on. An eagle-eyed accountant combing the minutiae of Color Theory’s profit-and-loss statements, or perhaps the gym’s ultra-tanned, ultra-wealthy owner himself, Jensen Davis. Schemes like hers and Zack’s, Regina knew, always had an expiration date. Even the infamous cafeteria ladies who’d skimmed mere cents off students’ lunch money had gotten busted after a couple of years (she’d recently made the mistake of listening to a podcast about the scheme while stuck in traffic, causing her such anxiety she feared she might have a heart attack right there on the 405).

  Today’s party needed to work. The guests needed to fall in love with Zack, on the spot, and then pull out their checkbooks or tap the payment apps on their phones to secure more time with him. If he could just score five new clients from this group, it would mean a gross profit of forty grand. Sixteen of which would go into Regina’s pocket. Not much, but enough to suspend their illicit transfers for a couple of weeks, give their consciences a break. Enough to give Regina the headspace to focus on what to do next.

  As Zack moved through the yard, Regina watched the guests’ heads swivel instinctively toward him; he had the sort of presence that emitted a charge. The mere sight of him always lifted Regina’s spirits. Gave her a sense of possibility, an instant hit of happiness. It was silly, she knew, that a thirty-two-year-old kid with a red-state twang made her feel this way, but he did. She tried to catch his eye, but he’d broken into a loping jog toward the base of the magnolia tree, effortlessly swinging an equipment duffel bag in each hand.

  “Hey, hey, happy Saturday!” he called out to the crowd. “It’s time to ditch those drinks and congregate over here.” He set the duffels down and beckoned toward the women. They shuffled into a semicircle around him under the tree. Regina hung toward the back of the group, keeping a clear sight line to Zack. She saw Mel walking toward her, eyes fixed on the grass, as if determined to shut out the scene around her.

  “Now the real fun begins,” Regina whispered cheerfully as Mel stopped beside her, appearing slightly winded from her walk across the yard.

  “I really should’ve gotten stoned first,” said Mel.

  “Wait, who’s getting stoned without me?” Lindsey Leyner installed herself on the other side of Regina.

  “Nobody,” said Regina curtly, and shot Mel a disapproving look. Was it really necessary to mention drugs just before the start of a workout?

  Zack’s voice rose over the crowd. “Howdy, and welcome to the first ever Version Two You! event! First off, I want to thank Melissa Goldberg for generously offering the use of her mind-blowing backyard. Shout out to Miz Mel, please!”

  The crowd whooped and clapped.

  Mel lifted her hand in a weak wave. Regina fought the urge to jab some enthusiasm into her.

  Zack went on. “Second, I want to thank all of you”—he panned his hand toward the group—“for coming out here today to start your transformations. I’m honored to see such a great turnout. Hashtag blessed, right?”

  “Kill me now,” muttered Mel.

  “Shhhh,” said Regina, though she wished Zack wouldn’t use that stupid phrase.

  “Anyway, I’m Zack Doheny, certified personal torturer—I mean, trainer”—the crowd tittered weakly—“here to launch you into the fitness stratosphere. I’m going to push you to places you never thought possible—and then some. And you’re going to thank me for it. My program, Version Two You!, is designed to transform your body—and, let’s be honest—your mind too, because one is nothing without the other. All in just eight weeks! Regardless of your current fitness level, whether you work out five days a week or haven’t worked out in five years.”

  “What if it’s ten?” Mel whispered to Regina.

  “I promise, if you stick with my program, you will see dramatic changes in your endurance, your strength, your muscle tone, and the overall topography of your body.”

  Regina heard Mel snort softly. She tried not to care. Regina had come up with that phrase for Zack—topography of your body—and she was proud of it.

  “Today is designed to give you a preview of what you’d experience if you decide to commit to Version Two You! Of course, this is a group class, and the program is one-on-one, custom-tailored to every client’s individual goals. But today you’ll get a taste of my general methodology.”

  “Yum!” Lindsey called out. Regina elbowed her in the side.

  “Ouch,” Lindsey hissed.

  “No catcalling,” Regina hissed back.

  “It’s very simple,” Zack went on, clasping his hands together in the center of his chest. Then, with dramatic flair, he lifted them into the air and tipped his face to the sky. Regina had to smile. She’d seen him do this in the classes he taught at Color Theory.

  “You build it up!” he said, raising his voice to a cheerful war cry. “And thennnnn”—slowly, he began to lower his arms, hands in prayer position—“you bring it down. Translation: we spike your heart rates, we slow your heart rates. We burn out your muscles, we rest your muscles. All in the span of a few minutes. Then we repeat the cycle again. For one hour. Just one. Measly. Hour. Which, at first, will feel like a year. But not only will you adjust—you’ll come back begging for more.”

  For the first time, Zack looked directly at Regina. His eye
s locked with hers and gave her the feeling he was speaking to her privately. The familiar current zipped through her body, boosting her heart rate and shortening her breath. And the workout hadn’t even begun.

  “At the end of today’s session, which we call HIIT, for High-Intensity Interval Training,” Zack continued, “if you’re still alive, that is—JOKING!—you’ll have a limited time to register for my solo program at a one-time, heavily discounted rate. Just see that lovely senorita with the clipboard over there.” He angled a hand toward Lettie, who, to Regina’s annoyance, shrunk back at the recognition. “And she’ll give you a simple form to fill out. It’ll take just a few secs and you’ll be on your way to a better you!”

  Regina was proud of Zack. He was sailing through the introduction she’d coached him on. The lie she’d told Gordon (“last-minute client meeting”) in order to get out of the house to rehearse with Zack had been worth it.

  “Now, without further ado,” said Zack, “let’s get this party started.”

  “Dear God,” Mel mumbled.

  “No commentary,” Regina whispered.

  “Repeat after me, everyone,” said Zack. He pressed his palms together again and lifted them into the air. “Build it up!”

  “Build it up,” repeated a few of the women.

  “I can’t hear you!” said Zack. “Let’s try that again. Repeat after me. Build it up!”

  “Build it up!” said the group, louder.

  “Use your hands!” said Zack.

  Regina clasped her hands together and began to raise them into the air. Mel hadn’t moved her hands from her hips.

  “Come on,” said Regina.

  “No way in hell,” said Mel.

  “Bring it down!” said the crowd.

  “Better!” said Zack. “One more time.”

  “BUILD IT UP!” Now the women were screaming; nineteen pairs of prayer hands rose like shark fins toward the magnolia leaves.

  “I LIKE IT!” yelled Zack. “BRING IT DOWN!”