Savanah's Swan Song (Part 17)

Nota Bene: Here's that supersized installment of Savanah's Swan Song I promised! If you need a refresher: https://www.patreon.com/posts/savanahs-swan-16-120624877 

“Please be ready to go in thirty minutes,” said the man’s deep and soothing voice on the phone. It sounded like a DJ on a smooth jazz station. "We will call back when your car is ready.”

“How long—"

—click—

“Wait!”

Savanah was right to believe the man wouldn’t answer questions.  She didn’t know how long she would be gone.  How to dress.  What to pack.  Anything. 

Of course, the latter two questions were dictated by what still fit, and the answer was pretty much nothing.  Sweatpants, hoodies, and a couple of oversized T-shirts—that was it. So, Savanah stuffed herself into one of each and a second set into a duffel bag with her toothbrush. 

Since she hadn’t eaten dinner (apart from her pint-and-a-half of ice cream appetizer), she boiled a hotdog and gulped it down while gathering a few last items.  That’s when she glimpsed herself in the bathroom mirror. 

Savanah nearly choked on her dog. 

The bathroom—with its walls of forced reflection and its steely-eyed scale standing sentinel in the corner—had become her arch nemesis.  Other than answering nature’s call, she gave it a wide berth.  She hadn’t even showered in a week. 

It showed.  Her hair was greasy, limp, and lifeless…as was the rest of her.  At least her hair sported the remnants of her signature streaks; otherwise, the dumpy mess staring back was unrecognizable.    

"What am I doing?” Savanah thought.  She wouldn’t let her maids see her like this, much less one of the most glamorous movie stars on the planet.  She needed more time.

Savanah shoved what remained of the hotdog into her mouth and scurried back to the kitchen.  She grabbed her phone off the island just as it rang.  

“Mmm-hmm?” Savanah murmured.

“Your car is waiting downstairs.”  

Savanah swallowed hard, but the man was gone before she finished her bite.  She stared at the screen, debating whether to call back and cancel the whole thing. 

Five minutes later, security footage captured a frumpy-looking woman in a hoodie and a Covid mask slipping past the doorman, who was attending to someone else, and into the back of an idling black Suburban with a Dekalb-Peachtree logo.

                                                                    ***

The SUV lurched forward the second Savanah closed the door, pushing her back against the leather seat. 

“Hello?” Savanah asked tentatively.

A smoky glass partition separated her from the driver.  It was so heavily tinted she could barely make out their silhouette.  She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.

“Hello, Ms. Georgia.” The same mellifluous voice from the phone came over the vehicle’s speakers.  “It’s a short drive to the airport.  Please make yourself comfortable.  There are refreshments in the center console.”

Savanah lifted the console’s cover to find champagne and shrimp chilling over ice.  She wasn’t hungry but popped a few in her mouth before filling a flute from an overhead rack.  It had been months since she’d received any sort of star treatment and wasn't going to miss the opportunity.

Apart from the pop star’s mastications, the ride was silent.  By the time the Suburban arrived at the airport—pulling directly onto the tarmac adjacent to a midsize private jet with its ladder extended—the shrimp were gone, and Savanah was well into her third pour. 

“We’ve arrived," came the voice again.

“You comin’?” Savanah asked as she swilled the last of her glass and hung it back on the rack.

There was no reply.

Savanah shrugged and, after wiping away a spot of champagne that had dribbled from the flute onto the leather interior, grabbed her duffel and exited the vehicle.  It peeled away the second she shut the door.

“Hey!”

Savanah watched the SUV cut across the runway, speed through a gap in a chain-link fence, and race toward a row of Gable-roofed hangars that reminded her of Monopoly houses.  The vehicle vanished beyond them, leaving only a cloud of dust accompanying Savanah on the tarmac.   

When no one else came to greet her, Savanah boarded the empty plane.  It was posh, with padded leather seats rivaling the best that Lazy Boy had to offer, tinted portal windows as large as serving platters, and dynamic LED lighting that made it seem more like a nightclub lounge.  

“Please find a seat, Ms. Georgia.  We have clearance for takeoff.”  

Savanah followed the now-familiar voice's instructions and plopped into the closest chair.  By the time she buckled her seatbelt, the cabin door had closed and the plane was beginning to taxi.

“It’s a five-hour flight.  Please relax and enjoy the ride.”

Savanah stared at the closed cockpit door. “Where are you?  Are you the pilot?”

Again, no reply.  Savanah doubted whether her questions were being heard at all.  

Rather than continuing the one-sided conversation, Savanah settled into her seat as the plane taxied down the runway and, after building speed, lifted into the midnight sky.  The vibrant lights of Atlanta filled her portal like a swarm of fireflies.  Minutes later, there was nothing but inky blackness. 

                                                                  ***

“Good morning, Ms. Georgia.  We've landed.”

Savanah rolled her head within the confines of her comfy headrest and looked outside.   It was as dark as it had been in Atlanta.  All she could see was a narrow swath of tarmac illuminated by runway lights and the soft glow of city lights on the horizon.  It was almost as if she hadn’t left.

Savanah lifted her phone from her lap.  4:37 AM.  She yawned and unbuckled her seatbelt, awaiting further instructions. 

None came. 

Savanah rose from her seat to find the cabin door open, its ladder extended.  At the base of the ladder idled another black Suburban.  Along its side, the vaportrail of an illustrated jet underscored the words, Van Nuys Airport. 

The groggy singer grabbed her bag, descended the ladder, and clambered into the back of the vehicle.

“It’s thirty minutes to Ms. Jolie’s villa.  Please make yourself comfortable.  There’s coffee in the console.  One cream.  Two sugars.”

“How did you—” Savanah began to query the mystery man as to how he knew how she liked her coffee but stopped.  He wouldn’t respond.  Besides, she already knew the answer.  After all, his boss had probably watched her humanoid drink it that way for months.

Savanah lifted the console’s lid.  Next to the coffee cup was a cardstock food container—emblemized Melvin’s of Hollywood—that held the largest cinnamon roll she'd ever seen.  Cinnamon rolls had been her favorite as a child.  Savanah frequently baked them with her mother, and they had undoubtedly contributed to her prepubescent poundage. 

The pop star removed the container and set it in her lap. The aroma of the fresh-baked sweet intermingled with the fresh-brewed java was heavenly.  Buttery icing oozed over the pastry’s sides, between its frosted fissures, and onto her fingers as she tore off a small bite to try with her coffee.

Delicious.

She broke off a larger piece.  Then another.  Then another.  Soon the intermittent sips of coffee were abandoned completely in favor of the roll’s decadent flavor.  Soon after that, the frosted treat was gone.

As Savanah licked her fingers and wiped away the residue with the single cocktail napkin provided, she tried to remember the last time she’d had a cinnamon roll.  Her 13th Birthday?  Surely, she’d had one since then.  Regardless, it had been years.

Or had it?  Perhaps “Melvin’s of Hollywood” was the caterer on set?  Had her bot made a pig of itself?  Raiding the catering table without restraint?  And had Angelina noticed its affinity for sweets just as she’d noticed its coffee preference?

Abandoning the overmatched napkin, Savanah wiped her hands on her t-shirt, her sticky fingers lingering against the belly billowing beneath— 

Of course, her bot didn't need willpower or self-restraint.  It couldn’t get fat.

                                                                       ***

Thirty minutes later, the Suburban serpentined up a secluded coastal drive beneath a canopy of high clouds tinged orange in the early morning light.  As it negotiated the switchbacked hillside lined with a firework-like display of purple, yellow, and red flora, blue waves burst into foamy sprays of white against the craggy coastline below.  Savanah had toured the West Coast more than a dozen times but had never seen anything so beautiful.  Of course, it was hard to see beyond the throngs of fans and busy tour buses filled with musicians, promoters, and sycophants. 

That’s when Savanah realized she’d just traveled 2,000 miles without seeing a soul.

If anything rivaled the stunning vista, it was the villa itself.  Savanah had pictured a cozy cottage by the sea, but this was more like a sprawling tourist resort.  Rather than blighting the natural beauty; however, it accented it, nestling seamlessly against the cliffside and incorporating the curvilinear topography into its design. It looked like something the Ancient Puebloans might have built had they survived to become architects to the stars. 

The car entered a roundabout and stopped beneath what appeared to be a cliffy outcropping but was actually a second-floor balcony.  Savanah waited.  Although she’d yet to interact with anyone, she thought that might change now that she’d arrived at her ultimate destination.  That the driver might open the door for her and carry her bag.  Or an attendant would scurry from the villa to do the same.

Nope.

Sighing, the pop star grabbed her duffel and pushed through the door with her shoulder.  The instant it closed behind her the Suburban continued through the roundabout and began its decent.  The singer squinted as it passed, trying to glimpse the driver, but it was moving too fast, and its windows were too heavily tinted.

After taking a moment to gather herself—running sticky fingers through matted hair and brushing bits of cinnamon from her shirt—she approached a set of heavy oak doors.  A small button glowed beside them.  Savanah pressed it.

Seconds later, a familiar voice crackled from an unseen speaker, but it wasn’t the mellifluous mystery man who had guided the singer’s 2,000-mile journey from Atlanta to the Pacific. 

It was Angelina Jolie.

“The door is open.  Come in and make yourself comfortable.  I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Ok, thank you!” Savanah gushed; fighting the urge to wave at the security camera perched overhead. 

She turned the brass handle on the door and, as promised, it opened into a large foyer.  The regal room featured rich wood paneling and contemporary furniture that looked more like modern art than functional tables and chairs. A second-floor balcony with a wrought iron railing rimmed it on all four sides.

Along the far wall, a pair of windowed doors led to a small footpath. The path wound down the hill and disappeared amidst a flourish of flora, before reemerging at a private cove. Beyond the cove, the sea stretched to the horizon, blending with the skyline. Its transition from dark to light was like a monochromatic abstract painting.

Savanah was so captivated by the view she didn’t notice that she was no longer alone.

“Do you like it?”

The startled singer pivoted to find herself face-to-face with Angelina Jolie.  The actress was every bit as gorgeous and glamorous as Savanah envisioned.

With one notable exception—

She was fat!