Blonde Ambition (8 page)
“True enough, but—hold on.” Sam stood and waved her arms, trying to get the attention of a blue-jacketed man in his forties looking uncertainly around the quadrangle. “Hey! Over here!”
The man heard Sam, turned and waved in her direction, and came trotting over. “Leslie Newsom?” the guy asked.
“That’s me,” Sam confirmed as Anna looked on, baffled.
“Lunch delivery.” The man handed her a plastic bag from a French restaurant named Le Morvan and then Sam quickly signed a receipt—Anna could see that she signed it “Leslie N.” Sam tipped the deliveryman ten bucks. He gave her ten bucks’ worth of thanks and left.
Sam opened the bag and extracted two plastic-plate-shaped containers, a bottle of red juice, and utensils. “Power Eating,” she confided to Anna. “Don’t tell
anyone.
”
“What’s Power Eating?” So often Anna—who’d traveled all over the world—felt like Los Angeles was an alien universe, where she needed a full-time cultural guide in order to understand the natives.
Sam took the plastic top off one of the containers and sniffed it. “Ugh. Rabbit food. It’s like the Zone, but better. They cook all the food you eat and deliver it to you four times a day. You never have to shop and you never have to cook. But the best part is they deliver it in bags from fake restaurants so no one would suspect you’re on it.” She forked into an already cut-up chicken breast, put it to her lips, and tasted it. “God, that sucks.”
“Why don’t you just eat regular food?” Anna asked. “I woke up today, I looked in the mirror, and I almost barfed,” Sam said. She held up a hand quickly. “And please don’t start with the ‘you look fine’ bullshit. I’m a cow. So I had my dad’s assistant call Power Eating for me, and I told her to register me under the name Leslie Newsom. Whoever she is.” She took a bite of green salad. “Bleech! This tastes like ass.”
Anna had to laugh. She really did like the girl, even if Sam did keep some strange company sometimes. “One more question. How’d the school paper get its name? The
Well
? That’s kind of strange.”
Sam speared another cube of chicken and forked it into her mouth. “There’s crude oil under our high school. And a working oil well. Up behind the maintenance yards. That big building, covered with paintings of flowers?”
Anna’s jaw fell open. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Turns out Jed Clampett could have done his hunting out here.”
“Jed Clampett?” For the umpteenth time since she’d arrived in L.A., Anna felt like an idiot.
“
Beverly Hillbillies?
Sixties sitcom? Mirror image to Paris Hilton’s
The Simple Life
?”
“I am totally lost,” Anna admitted.
“And you’re going to work in TV?” Sam smiled sadly. “Nothing makes any sense in this town. Welcome to Hollywood.”
The character of Mike walked across the desert floor—the sound was good enough to pick up the rhythmic
crunch-crunch
of his steps. Then he turned, crossed his arms, and addressed the camera.
“People can call it passion. Or lust. Or obsession. I don’t really care. When I’m with her, touching her, is the only time I feel completely alive. If you’ve never felt the power of that, then I feel sorry for you.”
He held his gaze steady, focused on something in the distance. Then he turned and walked out of the frame, so that the camera took in the expanse of the Palm Springs desert—the lifeless landscape and the soaring sandstone mountain. Sam had made a last-minute edit at Anna’s suggestion: rather than ending with another long shot of Veronique’s spa, the last image was the glorious expanse of the desert itself. The Segovia music came up and mixed with the song of the desert mockingbird until the mockingbird overwhelmed the guitar entirely.
Then the credits started to roll:
Directed by: Samantha Sharpe. Written by: Anna Percy.
And a huge, rolling wave of applause and whoops swept through Mrs. Breckner’s English class.
As the lights came up, Anna could see that even Mrs. Breckner and Dee were clapping. In fact, the only person who wasn’t was Cammie.
Mrs. Breckner nodded at Sam, then at Anna. “Really fine work on
Gatsby.
Maybe this is the start of something great for the two of you.”
“We’re already on to our next project,” Sam said. “This one’s a feature called
Three-Way.
Anna’s in the middle of the screenplay. My dad’s financing, and we’ll be shooting in the spring.”
Electric excitement swept through the classroom. The five girls who considered themselves “actors” (the term
actress,
Anna had learned, was gauche) sat up straighter, or stuck their breasts out, or swung their hair—anything to attract attention. It was one thing for Sam to do a student film and quite another for her to be working on a feature—however low budget it might turn out to be—financed by one of the biggest movie stars in the world, her father.
All of which was fine, from Anna’s point of view. Except for the fact that she had no idea what Sam was talking about.
“Tell us more,” called Heather Chasen, who wore a geometric Marc Jacobs mini and had drawn fake lashes below her real ones for a retro Twiggy look. “Does this have anything to do with Anna working on
Hermosa Beach
?”
Others started calling out questions: How many roles would there be? When would auditions be? When could they see a copy of the script?
Anna shot Sam a look that conveyed, she hoped, her shock. Sam was clearly unperturbed by it. “As soon as possible, we’ll let you know,” she said smoothly. Then the bell rang, but instead of dashing for the exits, half the class gathered around Anna and Sam.
“I didn’t know Sam and Anna were working on a feature, did you?” Dee asked as she and Cammie left the classroom.
“Guess what? I don’t care,” Cammie said.
Tiny Dee had to walk double time to keep up with Cammie’s long strides. “Just remember, animosity turns loose free radicals. And this isn’t a theory. It was in the Monday Health section of the
Los Angeles Times.
I think.”
“Dee?”
“Yes?
“Be quiet.” Cammie was in no mood to hear any of Dee’s theories on life, health, or the new age. She knew it was but three sentences from animosity and free radicals to the therapeutic nature of high colonics. But the only person she wanted to get a high colonic right now—preferably with sulfuric acid—was her so-called friend Sam. How could she be working on a feature with the A-word and not even mention it? Where were her loyalties?
“Stevie!” Dee exclaimed, waving to a guy walking toward them. Cammie didn’t recognize him. Which meant he didn’t go to BHH, where she knew everyone who was anyone.
When the guy reached Dee, he kissed her and kept an arm looped around her tiny shoulders. “Thought I’d come check it out,” the guy said with a heavy New York accent. The word
thought
came out like the word
taught.
Dubious grasp on diction notwithstanding, Cammie had to admit he was hot, whoever he was, though in a trying-too-hard kind of way. He was tall and lanky, with jet black hair that fell forward almost over his cheekbones. And he wore regulation rock-and-roll black— black jeans, black tee, black leather jacket. The pants had to go. But other than that, he was quite the tasty treat.
“This is Stevie Novellino,” Dee told Cammie. “From New York.”
“Brooklyn,” Stevie corrected.
“Brooklyn,” Dee echoed. “He plays guitar for Border Cross. You know, the band my dad’s producing? They’re in town to do a show tomorrow. At the Hollywood Bowl.”
“Opening for … ?” Cammie asked, since she’d never heard of Border Cross.
“Beck,” Stevie said. “You know Beck?”
Cammie smiled. “He’s a client of a friend of mine.” “You should come ’n check it out tomorrow night,” Stevie went on, shaking hair out of his eyes.
“Stevie’s band just got signed to Sony,” Dee reported excitedly. “And my dad’s producing the new CD. Isn’t that cool? We met the last time I was in New York. My dad introduced us.”
“Wow,” Cammie deadpanned. But her sarcasm was clearly lost on both Dee and this guy, who was evidently her new squeeze.
“I know, it’s so cool!” Dee chirped. She stood on tiptoe to give Stevie a kiss. He turned it into a full-on make-out session, as if Cammie had nothing better to do than to stand there in her Badgley Mischka baby blue suede boots and watch this seventh-grade-cool twelfth-grade-sad suck-face fest.
In fact, as the kiss crossed from affectionate to disgusting, Cammie fumed anew. What was
happening?
Why was this the first time that she was hearing about this guy Stevie Novellino? Dee always confided in her, at least in the past. Was Dee joining the Sam express that was pulling away from her, too?
“When you two are done swallowing each other’s spit …” Cammie interjected.
Dee broke the kiss and nuzzled into Stevie’s chest. “Yeah?”
There was only one solution for the disquiet and anger that she felt. Retail therapy.
“Dee, say goodbye to your new friend,” Cammie told her. “We’re going shopping.”
“Oh gosh, I can’t!” Dee exclaimed. “Stevie and I are going out on David Geffen’s yacht. I mean, we already promised, so … Did you want to come?”
“I’m busy,” Cammie snapped.
“With what?”
Cammie’s voice dropped to a whisper, which was what she always did when she was furious.
“Shopping.”
God, could this day get any worse?
Stevie said goodbye (“Nice-ta-meetcha”); then he and Dee took off. Meanwhile, Cammie decided to wait for Sam. She’d find out what was going on. She’d lure Sam back to her side. They’d go shopping and spend inordinate amounts of money. Then everything would be—
“Hey, Cammie!”
Cammie turned. Sam was coming toward her. And she was arm in arm with Adam Flood.
Which meant it wasn’t the time to ream Sam out, Cammie quickly decided. No reason for Adam to think that she was a coldhearted bitch. So Cammie gave Sam a big hug. “I waited for you to tell you how great your film was,” she exclaimed. “Magnificently shot. Adam, you really missed something. You have to ask Sam to show you. It’s wonderful.”
Sam beamed. “Thanks.”
“So where are you two going?” Cammie asked pleasantly.
“Bev’s,” Sam said, which, Cammie knew, meant the Beverly Hills Hotel. Cammie, Sam, and Dee hung out there the way kids in say, Kansas, might hang out at the local Taco Bell. “Adam’s never been, can you believe it? And his basketball practice got canceled. Want to come with?”
“I’d love to, but I have to meet a friend,” Cammie said, making sure the way she said it intimated that “friend” equaled hot.
“Got a new guy?” Adam asked easily.
“Always,” Cammie said, laughing as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Well, if you change your mind,” Sam offered, backing away with Adam. “Call me tonight; we’ll talk.”
“Sure. Have a great time, you two.”
Now it was Sam and Adam’s turn to walk away and for Cammie’s blood pressure to shoot skyward once again. Sam Sharpe and Adam Flood? Arm in arm? What happened to Adam licking his wounds over losing Anna? She remembered that Sam had told her how on New Year’s Eve she and Adam had swapped some spit. But that was all. Now was Sam moving in like the pear-shaped vulture she was to pick up the pieces of the body before they rotted away entirely?
In any case, this was the first afternoon in a long time—maybe forever—that Dee and Sam had both made plans without consulting Cammie.
What was going on here? Who the hell did they think they were?
She picked up her cell and dialed home. Mia answered. “Yeah?”
“That’s how people answer the phone in 818? ‘Yeah’?” Cammie asked.
“What do you want?”
God, the girl was impossible. But Cammie wasn’t the type to fly solo. Mia was better than nothing. “Wait outside,” she snapped. “And I’ll pick you up. The wicked stepsister is taking you shopping.”
C
lark Sheppard’s driver pulled the pearl gray Mercedes up to the front of a white beachfront hotel. Facing the street was a small, understated awning that sheltered a double glass door. The only thing that identified this place as a hotel was a small brass plaque by the doors. Anna had to squint to read it:
Hermosa Beach Inn. Established 1939.
Anna was in the back, next to Cammie’s father. The chauffeur came around and opened her door. Anna slid out, then Mr. Sheppard. He didn’t bother to acknowledge his driver’s existence as he led Anna to the front doors.
“This is the place?” Anna asked.
Clark nodded. “Used to be the Seaside Manor. They sold it and were about to renovate when we took it over for the show. Worked out perfectly. We’re able to have our production offices on-set. We shoot inside the hotel and outside on the beach. Wait until you see the other side.”
At the front door they were checked in at a security desk, then Clark led Anna inside. The lobby was done in white and yellow, dotted with sun-bleached white-blond tables and handmade carpets of muted beach scenes. The furniture was of the same white-blond wood, with cushions of yellow and white. There were opaque vases on every table, holding slender stalks of white orchids, and a white grand piano in one corner. At one end was a Moroccan-style fireplace, with two neat piles of firewood stacked on either side.
It looked, for all practical purposes, like a working hotel lobby. Except for the glaring television lights, cameras, and production people scurrying around as though the take that they were about to do was the most important thing in the world to accomplish properly.
Clark stopped to watch, so Anna did, too. Huge lights were being focused carefully on the actress who played Chyme, the hotel owner’s daughter. She wore a white minidress and strappy heels, and her blond hair fell in a waterfall down her back. Sitting on a folding chair close by was a brunette nearly as beautiful as Chyme. She wore what Anna recognized as a Versace dress, very colorful, slit at the sides to the waist. Her neckline vee’d all the way down to her navel. Her fingernails were long and scarlet. A makeup person dabbed at her face with powder.
“They’ve got at least another half hour of setup. Come on. And be careful of the cables,” Clark warned Anna as they stepped over the snaking lines and made their way to a wing of the inn that had evidently been converted to a suite of production offices.
