Eden and I had had our first in-person meeting on October 27 the previous year. We ate lunch at a vegan restaurant in the Venice Beach area near Abbot Kinney—her choice. She pointed out six well-known actors, who were seated around us, all dressed as if they’d just finished a spin or yoga class at a nearby gym. I took note of how she brought her fellow thespians to my attention. I could tell that she liked being in the mix but didn't want anyone to perceive how much she enjoyed it. She herself looked pretty casual in a pair of tight navy blue stretch pants and a blousy T-shirt with the word Lollygag across the chest, with her hair pulled into a high ponytail. She capped off her outfit with the usual celebrity’s touch—mirrored aviator shades. The purpose of our meeting was to find out if we had enough chemistry to design together. My philosophy was that I was merely the part of my clients that could step outside them and see their truth.
Eden told me her story. She’d been born and raised in Toledo, Ohio, the middle child of six siblings. After graduating from high school, she’d left home for Colorado State University.
She gazed off, unfocused. “One day, I packed my car, got behind the wheel, and just drove. I didn’t let myself think about what I was doing. I just kept going. I ended up in LA. I had three thousand dollars in my savings account. It took me three days to find a job waitressing. I went back and forth between living in my car and staying in a hotel near LAX. They’re cheaper there.” She said that with a nostalgic yet proud smile. She was on a roll, retelling the story of her humble beginnings.
When Eden finally had enough money to pay the security deposit and first month’s rent, she moved into an apartment in Sherman Oaks. “Thank God I wasn’t fresh in town by then. Live in Hollywood for more than a month, and you’ll know better than to live there while broke.”
One of her coworkers, another waitress, invited her to improv one evening. She found making up her own words—shuffling through her thoughts to bring a random scenario to an onstage performance—exciting. She kept going and then took a class on how to be better at improvisational acting. Less than two weeks in, her instructor had challenged her to go on an audition for a national commercial.
“He said it was good practice,” Eden recalled. She’d gotten the job. “I was good at acting. I never knew it until I left Colorado for LA.”
“Oh, maybe you did,” I suggested. She frowned at me questioningly. “Of all the places in the world, why did you choose Los Angeles, and more specifically, Hollywood?”
Eden became pensive. The waitress showed up and served us our bean-and-sprouted-greens burritos and refills of chicory coffee. Eden then changed the subject by asking me a barrage of questions about growing up a Christmas and the bestselling book about my family. I was very much aware that she was done talking about herself, and I respected her boundaries.
“So, what’s the verdict?” she asked as I took care of the bill.
I looked up from signing the receipt and smiled at her. “I will definitely take you on as a client.”
I could see by the look on her face that she wanted to ask why, but she only said, “Thank you,” and then asked if I’d ever taken a local spin class.
I learned that her house was in the neighborhood, and when I asked if I could see it to get an idea of what she liked, Eden had said perhaps another time. “It’s a pigsty. Plus, I want my vacation home to be something I could never have imagined.”
So there we were, finally designing her multimillion-dollar vacation home, which was the first over-the-top purchase she’d made since landing a leading role in a hit sitcom and thereby making it big. When Eden and I were left alone, we moved to our first space, the living room, which already had a large gray U-shaped sectional, a mahogany mid-century modern coffee table, and a pendant-style floor lamp with an aluminum hood. I guessed that she was into modern sophistication with a touch of hidden humility. I asked her to stand in the middle of the room and tell me what was the first thing that came to mind, no matter how gory.
Arms folded and looking up at the ceiling, she said, “Cockroaches.”
I interpreted that one word to mean that to her, the room felt cold, murky, desolate, and uncomfortable. She’d tried to get rid of that feeling with the furniture that was already there. However, the heavy, clunky sofa and blocky coffee table only made it worse. So I showed her renderings of how the room could be if we added furniture and design pieces that complemented the trees and the view of the snow-covered mountains not far in the distance.
We moved from room to room, performing the same exercise. Time flew by. We only saw Dale twice. The first time, he found us in the kitchen and asked Eden if she would like him to go into town to get her something to eat. She told him she wasn’t hungry. Then he came back an hour later and asked her the same question. Eden and I were too involved in what we were doing to want to stop to eat, so she said no again.
“Well, I’m going into town.” He sounded irritable, as if Eden had forbidden him to do what he wanted. I was very familiar with Dale’s disposition. It used to give me anxiety.
“That’s fine. See you later,” Eden said, keeping her attention on the lighting catalog.
He glared at me before turning his back on us and plodding off. Once again, I waited for Eden to ask me about my past relationship with Dale, but she didn’t look away from her shopping. Since we were alone, I considered bringing it up, but I chickened out. Instead, we continued with our activity.
A few hours later, when Dale returned, we were in one of the bathrooms on the third floor. He informed us that he had hero sandwiches with Dijon mustard, extra tomatoes, and sweet pickles, with the bread lightly toasted.
“That’s awfully specific,” Eden said.
I could feel my skin flush as I tried to hide my shock. Years before, we’d driven to Providence for lunch and had come across a sandwich shop. I rarely ate outside the mansion in those days because we had the best chefs in the world cooking in our kitchen. But I ordered a hero sandwich because I was blinded by love and called Dale my hero. I ordered it with Dijon mustard, extra tomatoes, and sweet pickles on a lightly toasted kaiser roll. I found the sandwich so tasty that after that, I often had our driver take me to the same shop at least once a week. I stopped when Amelia came into my room to tell me that I was getting fat and Randolph had noticed and didn’t like it.
“You know what he does when he doesn’t like something,” she said.
I knew. I’d never gone back to that shop again. Regardless, by ordering that sandwich, Dale was being sneaky and disrespectful to Eden, once again showing me that he hadn’t changed a bit.
“And I don’t eat sandwiches. I have a TV show, you know.” Eden turned her attention to me. “The camera really does put ten pounds on me, and the producers are always checking my weight.” She shook her head. “I hate that.”
“Don’t worry, babe. I bought you green goddess salad, no chicken. The sandwich is for me, and for the heiress if she likes.” His eyebrows flew up twice. He was flirting with me, and poor Eden couldn’t detect it.
I knew the tactic very well. The boundary he’d just crossed pushed me farther down the rabbit hole. I had to tell Eden about his and my past relationship. I wanted to say something then, but she was smiling and in a good mood. Plus, I had to figure out how to tell her the truth that her boyfriend had kept from her. I wished I’d said something that morning.