Blonde Ambition (3 page)
He slammed down the phone and then smiled up at Anna. “Studios,” he said lightly. “The guys in business affairs are all masochists. Otherwise they’d quit after their first conversation with me. So, tell me about you, Anna Percy.” His eyes went to his Rolex. “Fast.”
Anna gave Clark the quick version of her life—her recent move from Manhattan to Beverly Hills, that she was attending high school here, and that her father and Margaret were seeing each other. She figured that if she didn’t tell him, he’d find out anyway, so better for him to hear it from her.
“Where’d you go to school in Manhattan?”
“Trinity.”
“Where do you go here?”
“Beverly Hills High School.”
Clark smiled thinly. “You know my daughter?” He turned around a photograph of Cammie that was at least three years old.
Details would be counterproductive. Anna merely said, “Yes.”
“You friends?”
“We know some of the same people, I think,” Anna said carefully.
“Cammie wants your gig tomorrow, it’s hers. But she doesn’t want it. She never wanted it, and she’ll never want it. No interest in the business. So, Anna Percy, you watch a lot of TV?”
“No.”
“Good answer. Which means you’ve never heard of
Hermosa Beach.
Teen-oriented soap kinda thing.
Beverly Hills 90210
on a beach meets
Upstairs, Downstairs.
Rich kids and the poor help, that kinda thing. You know those shows?”
Anna shook her head. Clark just reached for a script on his desk and handed it to Anna. There was a noise in the doorway. Anna looked up.
There stood Cammie Sheppard, looking as gorgeous as Cammie always looked but also, at the moment, more than shocked to find Anna in her father’s office. “Hi, Anna,” she said smoothly. “How nice to see you.”
Which, Anna knew, actually translated to:
Die, bitch.
But Anna smiled politely anyway.
Clark went to the door, took his daughter by the arm, and apparently spoke to her outside. Then Clark returned and closed the door behind him. “Where was I?”
“Hermosa Beach,”
Anna reminded.
“Right.” Clark paced as he spoke. “Anyway, the show just started shooting. Our agency is as involved in the production as the network that will air it. It premieres in two weeks, and don’t listen to the good buzz on the street, because right now it’s in deep shit. Studio and network can’t agree on what to do. Assholes. All of ’em. So you’re gonna spend a lot of time on
H. B.
Got it?”
Anna’s head was swimming. “I do have one question, Mr. Sheppard.”
“Shoot.”
“Why me? There have got to be a thousand people in this city more qualified to work with you on this.”
“Any kid who can stand toe to toe with Margaret Cunningham has
cojones.
I like
cojones.
You never raised your voice, but you held your own. Plus you get brownie points for the pedigree. Your looks don’t hurt, either.”
Anna couldn’t quite decide if this was a compliment or an insult.
“What about what Margaret said in there?” Anna wondered aloud. “She said that me being fired was a group decision.”
“It was,” Clark said. “Then I changed my mind. So you remember what I said about Margaret. She’s dead to you. You fuck up, you’re out. Leave your address with my assistant, and I’ll send over the show bible. Clear your weekend. We’re going to be busy.” Anna could see his foot tapping the floor under his desk, a clear sign that he was ready for her to leave his office.
She stood—the couch so low that getting to one’s feet was more easily said than done—shook Clark’s hand, and said she was looking forward to working with him. By the time she left the office, he was already barking commands to Gerard.
Anna looked both ways when she got outside his door, thoroughly prepared for a confrontation with Cammie. Fortunately she wasn’t around.
“Anna!” Margaret headed in her direction. “Anna, can you stop in my office before you go?”
She’s dead to you.
Clark’s words came back to her. Maybe she’d call Margaret from home to let her know that she really didn’t have any hard feelings. But right now Anna knew that Clark Sheppard might be watching her. So as she passed Margaret, she kept her eyes fixed on the carpet.
Welcome to Hollywood.
T
able 8 on Melrose Avenue was the hottest new restaurant in Los Angeles. Upstairs was a tattoo parlor, where local hipsters and daring girls from Lakewood came to get painted and pierced. Downstairs from the parlor was Table 8, the “it” place of the moment, where it was impossible for anyone—tattooed or tattoo-free—to get a reservation.
But Samantha Sharpe wasn’t anyone. She was the daughter of the best-loved movie star in the world, Jackson Sharpe. Her name, associated with a place or a product and read in the supermarket tabloids by the unwashed masses, guaranteed popularity.
At four in the afternoon she’d had her father’s assistant, Kiki, call Table 8 to say that Sam Sharpe wanted to book a table for two that evening, in the back. At two minutes after four Sam had her reservation.
The owners of Table 8 were no dummies. They knew that by March, their restaurant would be toast with insiders who’d already moved on to the Next Big Thing. They’d need tourists and diners from Van Nuys and Encino to survive. Giving Sam Sharpe a table today ensured that there would be customers tomorrow.
It seemed to Sam that trying to pick up Adam Flood on the rebound from Anna Percy was the right thing to do. After all, Anna and Adam had met at her own father’s wedding when Anna had shown up on Ben’s arm as his mystery date. So, actually, Sam was responsible for their having met in the first place. The least she could do was take Adam out for a nice dinner and try and seduce him.
As for Anna being back with Ben, Sam knew it was true because Ben had called her to tell her so. That day at school she and her friends Cammie Sheppard and Dee Young had gone to their favorite place at Westside Pavilion for sushi (although Beverly Hills High hired cooks straight out of the California Culinary Academy, there was just something so
ick
about eating in your high-school cafeteria). When Ben had telephoned, Sam didn’t let on to Cammie and Dee who she was talking with. Since they’d simultaneously been on their own cells, they hadn’t asked.
Ben couched the call as a thank-you, since Sam was the one who’d told him that Anna had escaped to the Montecito Inn in Santa Barbara. Ben had followed Anna there. Crashing waves, passionate kisses, fade to black.
A hot guy Sam recognized from an underwear billboard walked by her table on his way to the men’s room. She immediately sucked in her stomach and tossed her hundred-dollar blowout—plus two thousand dollars’ worth of hair extensions—saucily off her shoulders. She was wearing a new Plein Sud electric blue silk shirt with Fini black pants and her favorite black patent leather, stiletto-heeled Jimmy Choo boots. Her makeup was, as always, perfect. But Sam knew that in spite of the thousands she spent on upkeep and maintenance, she was a long way from a ten on the Beverly Hills Hot-or-Not scale. She’d gotten her too-wide nose done, and there was an implant in her naturally receding chin. But there was nothing she could do about her fire-hydrant calves and fat ankles. Sam wasn’t even a nine. You couldn’t be a nine if your pants size was eight.
The hot guy looked right through Sam. Shit. She decided he was gay and sipped her spring water with mint just for something to do.
Adam was late. While she waited, she felt ambivalent about recent developments. A few days ago she’d thought she wanted Anna. Now that Adam was available, she thought she might want him. Her famous psychiatrist, Dr. Fred, had suggested that Sam was confusing the intimacy of true friendship with the intimacy of sexual love. Sam had no idea. Though she’d had many friends and more than her share of sex, she hadn’t had the intimacy part. Ever. With anyone. Maybe she was just acting on the possibility that Adam or Anna was capable of offering this.
“Hey, Sam. Sorry I’m late.” Adam kissed her cheek before sliding into his seat.
Sam smiled. There was something so appealing about Adam. He’d moved with his family to Beverly Hills from Michigan and was probably the most decent guy on the West Coast. That he was offbeat-Ben-Stiller-but-taller, cute, and charming kept him in the margins of the BHH A-list, extra points added because he didn’t care about being on it.
“Not a problem,” Sam said easily, though normally it irritated the hell out of her not to be the one keeping the other person waiting.
Adam looked around the restaurant. “I told my mom you’d invited me to dinner here. She was duly impressed.” He grinned his disarming grin. “And I’m kinda surprised. What’s the occasion?”
Before Sam could respond to that, the black-clad waiter was at their table, handing them menus. The name of the restaurant came from the fact that there were only eight appetizers and eight main dishes from which to choose, so the menu fit comfortably into one hand. The waiter, who reeked of cute-struggling-actor, rhapsodized about the various dishes until Sam broke in.
“Tell you what. Bring us half a plate of one of each.” She took Adam’s menu and handed them both to the waiter.
The waiter faltered a moment. “You want
everything?
”
t was a trick she’d learned from her father. If you ordered everything, you could taste-test each dish and never had to envy what the other person ordered and wish you had ordered it yourself. Of course, half the time Jackson Sharpe ended up not even touching half the dishes since—like his daughter—he was constantly on a diet.
“Everything, thanks,” Sam said, which translated to:
Go away. Now.
Adam winced. “I hope we’re planning on taking the leftovers to a homeless shelter or something.”
“How about we just mail a donation and call it a day?” Sam suggested. She reached across the table and put her hand atop Adam’s. “So, what do you think about Anna?”
Adam shrugged and took a sip of water. “She’s her own person. She has to follow her own heart.”
“That’s incredibly mature,” Sam said. “You’re not a bit jealous that she spent the last two nights with Ben Birnbaum—”
“What?
Since when?
”
Adam sputtered water, and Sam’s hand flew to her mouth. She realized that her assumption about Anna had been wrong—that Anna hadn’t spoken to Adam yet.
“Didn’t Anna call you?” Sam asked.
“Like, three times today,” Adam said. “But I wasn’t near the phone. Voice mail picked up. I know she wants to talk to me. She said she was out of town but now she’s back.”
Sam backpedaled. She suspected that Anna wouldn’t be pleased if she learned that Sam had spilled her beans. “Well, it doesn’t seem right to be the one to tell—”
Adam looked steadily at Sam. “Come on. I’m a big boy. Tell me.”
She told him. Ben and Anna. Anna and Ben. Together. Big time.
Emotions skittered across Adam’s face. He rubbed the small star tattoo behind his ear. His shoulders slumped. “I just don’t… .” He reached for a fresh-baked roll, then put it down again. “I guess I won’t understand until I talk to her. Man, love sucks.”
“Hey, I have an idea,” Sam said, sensing that if she was planning to make a big move on Adam, this wasn’t the time. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Walking my dog and licking my wounds, most likely.”
“My dad’s doing a cameo in a TV series,
Hermosa Beach,
this weekend, a favor for a friend. It’s new this season. There’s an after party. Why don’t you come with me?”
“I don’t think I’ll be up for it, Sam. But thanks.” “Oh, come on. Why should you stop having fun just because Anna and Ben are having lots of it?”
Adam grimaced. “Way to rub salt in the ol’ wounds.” She touched his hand again. “It’ll take your mind off her. I’d really like you to come.”
Before Adam could answer, a line of waiters came to the table, carrying their eight first courses: everything from green beans and figs with sliced summer truffles to grilled sweetbreads thinly wrapped in pancetta. Sam looked at the food. None of it appealed to her. Maybe the realization that Adam was nowhere near ready to be thinking of anyone other than Anna Percy had dulled her appetite.
She touched the sleeve of the last waiter.
“On second thought, could you just ask the chef to make me a burger? Medium rare, a slice of tomato, a scooped-out baguette instead of a bun. That’d be great.”
The waiter nodded. “Absolutely, Ms. Sharpe. That’ll be about ten minutes.”
“Hey, aren’t you the one who did the Fox show? And was in that video? You are so hot, no lie.”
Cammie barely turned her head toward the guy who had just crept up next to her at the bar. It was so dark that she could barely make out his features. But whatever they were, he was short—no more than an inch or two taller than she was. Cammie Sheppard could afford to be choosy. She didn’t do short. Besides, he was confusing her with Paris Hilton. And that really
was
an insult, and not just because Cammie had the best implants that money could buy.
That Cammie was an eleven on a looks scale of one to ten was something she took for granted. Her strawberry blond mane and bee-stung lips pretty much guaranteed a plethora of male attention. When you added that to her size-two figure, topped off by perfectly perky D-cup breasts, men were simply going to fall at her feet. It was a given. It wasn’t even all that interesting anymore.
At the moment, she was wearing a white velvet Jenny Packham bodysuit with a thong bottom and her lowest Posh jeans, which meant that there was a good six inches of golden, tanned flesh exposed on both sides, all the way to her hip bones. Her hair was in its trademark wild style, and you could ski down her pink Stila lip gloss.
Just because a girl suffered from Beverly Hills ennui didn’t mean she should let herself go.
Wordlessly she turned her back and iced the guy out, deeming him unworthy of the energy of a put-down. In fact, Cammie was already wondering why she’d agreed to meet Sam at this new place in Los Feliz near the ABC studios. So what if a variety of flavor-of-the-week under-thirty stars owned it? It was a pain in the ass to get here. As far as Cammie could tell, it was just as boring as every other bar.
