Dangerous Machinations, Book One Part One (Chapter One)

Chapter One

Lady McPherson found herself in a quandary. To an outside observer, she appeared to have it all – three delightful and delightfully precocious children (Abigail, aged 17, just on the awkward cusp of womanhood and prone to all the idiosyncrasies and mawkish behavior of girls her age; Conrad, aged 14, the prototypical middle child – caught between a slightly aggressive need for independence and an almost desperate striving for his parents’ love and acceptance; and Paul, “Paulie,” Lady and her husband Noah’s ‘love child’ – born not out of wedlock but from a rather surprising – and all-too-rare – spontaneous burst of passion eight years previous after a Chianti-soaked and scampi-filled evening in a too-precious-for-words Italian trattoria in New York’s Little Italy during a totally unexpected anniversary weekend.)

        Paulie, dear sweet little Paulie. Lady couldn’t help but tear up at the mere thought of him. He was her special child, a victim she feared of a mild case of Asperger’s that she knew would affect him for the rest of his life.  Of course she’d never taken Paulie to see a specialist nor had their pediatrician seemed overly concerned by his inability to recite nursery rhymes from memory at the age of two, but Lady knew in her heart that Paulie was different – special – and nothing would persuade her that all he suffered from (as Noah himself had suggested) was a relatively common case of late-bloomer-ness. Lady had argued that she was the expert in all matters of socio- psychology – she was after all one of Los Angeles’s pre-eminent relationship therapists – so Noah should stick to what he knew as a leading biochemistry professor at UCLA, and let her be the expert on what she was convinced ailed their youngest child. Paulie suffered from Asperger’s and that was the end of it.  Noah knew better than to contradict her.

To this outwardly perfect existence, add a stunning 16-room Mexican-style hacienda in Topanga Canyon with panoramic views of downtown L.A., a 3-bedroom guest/pool house, a heated infinity pool with its own waterfall, a state-of-the-art home theatre and a bowling alley in the basement where they loved to entertain their Hollywood friends and acquaintances, a live-in Guatemalan maid name Rosie who never talked back and never expected a raise (probably because she couldn’t speak much English, which is how Lady liked it), and two ridiculously successful careers. It was a life to be envied and Lady knew she was envied but somehow for some reason she found herself spending too many agonizing sleepless nights wandering across the mosaic-tiled floors – imported from Morocco, no less – of her luxurious hacienda wondering why she was so…unhappy.

What was it? What could it possibly be? Lady was living a life that fit her name to a T – the name courtesy of her skunk-addicted hummus-crafting commune-living mother, but more on that later.  Lady’s life was so celebrated, in fact, that a producer at one of the top cable networks in the country – this, courtesy of her best friend Ashleigh of  ‘Ash by Ashleigh’ fame – had recently approached her about turning her life into a reality show, the ultimate compliment in this media-driven age. It had been pitched to her as “A Lady’s Life.” She had been on the brink of committing to a two-season contract when at the last minute Noah had balked out of concern that anything that might arise during the course of filming – true or otherwise – might jeopardize his shot at finally getting tenure at UCLA. His vehemence had alarmed her – Noah was generally such a passive, cerebral man – that she felt she had no choice but to turn the network down. The producers begged her to reconsider. The network chairman himself flew out to meet with her in person, which she took to be the ultimate compliment, but alas Noah was adamant and even the chairman’s slightly off-kilter charm couldn’t change her husband’s mind. Maybe next year, she said. But that next year had never come, at least not in the way she’d envisioned it as the star of her very own television show, the ultimate validation. If there was a silver lining to this brush with reality TV fame, however, it was that Noah received his tenure and the even higher admiration and esteem of his colleagues in the biochemistry field that, she supposed, counted for something even if it didn’t do much to bolster her already healthy ego.

And now, here she was – 5am of what would prove to be another action-packed day with Noah’s celebration party at the Getty that evening – standing alone in a lacey negligee that hadn’t managed to arouse Noah’s libido in the way she had hoped, gazing out at the fading lights of pre-dawn Los Angeles with a slight breeze blowing across Topanga and across her lustrous naturally chocolate brown hair, fighting back tears that had nothing to do for once with Paulie’s self-diagnosed Asperger’s. Why am I so unsatisfied? Lady asked herself for the umpteenth time. What would make me happy?Am I even capable of being happy? What does happiness even mean anyway? With all her psychiatric expertise, not even Lady McPherson could diagnose what was wrong with her.  But of one thing she was certain, however: this Lady needed a change.