California Dreaming (7 page)
And so it began. First, three minutes from her father, followed by three minutes from her mother, and not a single surprising statement. You could have torn it out of
Modern Maturity
: what to say when your eighteen-year-old daughter says she's getting married and you think the idea is insane. It was, Sam thought, awfully rich coming from them. What the hell did they know about marriage and family?
When they finished their monologues, Sam did her best to stay cool. “I respect your opinions,” she began. “And I'll consider them.”
Her dad looked surprised. “Well, that's great, Sam.”
It was also a crock of shit, but Sam wasn't about to add that sentiment. “We still don't know what Eduardo's parents are saying to him. Let's go out to the bungalow, have a drink, and we can talk about it together,” she suggested evenly.
“What about the wedding preparations?” Dina pressed.
Yeah, those. Sam had thought about that, too. She had no venue, no caterer, no guest list, no invitations, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids, no maid of honor—who would it be? Cammie? Anna? If it wasn't Cammie, she'd be so pissed. Most Hollywood weddings took at least a year to plan. How was she going to pull this off in time for next Friday night? The idea was preposterous.
But then, her whole Hollywood life was pretty preposterous. Sam had learned, early and often, that the answer to … well, pretty much
anything
was that the application of copious amounts of money solved most problems.
“I'll figure it out,” Sam responded. “Can we just go to the bungalow now?”
“Fine,” Jackson agreed. “But I doubt that your mother and I will change our minds.”
They left the lobby and walked along the gaslit asphalt path through the hotel's fragrant gardens toward the bungalow. Giant bouquets of yellow and orange nasturtiums hung from tall stone planters and perfumed the air. Sam walked a few steps ahead of her parents, but she could feel them behind her, bearing down on her. She clicked along in her three-inch stilettos, and had never walked a hundred yards faster.
Eduardo's father answered Jackson's discreet knock on the door. “Welcome,” he greeted them. “I'm Pedro Munoz.” Eduardo's father was just as Sam remembered him. He had an elegant but friendly-looking face, silver hair and a mustache, and his English was accent-free. Tonight he wore an immaculate gray Canali suit.
“And I'm Consuela,” added Mrs. Munoz, appearing behind her husband in the open doorway. Tall and slender, Consuela wore a simple fitted black Prada dress that fell to just below her knees, and black suede Ferragamo pumps. Her dark hair was twisted off her face into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. Her inflection only occasionally betrayed that she was not a native English speaker.
“And me you already know,” Eduardo chimed in. He stood, nervously shifting from side to side, a few feet behind his parents. He was attired more casually, in vintage Marc Jacobs jeans, a fitted white V-neck, and a black Dolce & Gabbana velvet blazer. Even so, the three of them were dressed far more formally than anyone else in the room.
Sam had met Eduardo's parents once before, when she and Eduardo had taken an impromptu trip to Peru right after graduation. They lived in a fantastic white villa on a mountainside overlooking the capital city that had all the creature comforts of a Bel Air mansion and then some. Pedro Munoz was a high-placed government official, and Consuela owned Lima's most prestigious art gallery. Each had been educated abroad—Pedro at St. Paul's and then Dartmouth, Consuela at a boarding school in the south of France and then the Sorbonne, with a two-year stint at Carnegie-Mellon in the middle.
Sam's parents introduced themselves, and then they all stepped inside, where the air was at least fifteen degrees cooler and smelled of oranges and bergamot, thanks to a thick scented candle flickering on the coffee table. The room could have been designed in the 1920s; there was something timeless about its crystal chandeliers and polished brass sconces. The furniture, all buttery yellow and pale apricot, was plush but sophisticated, and tufted stools and velvet throw pillows gave the seating area an almost
Alice in Wonderland
feel. A baby grand piano stood in one corner, and through the bathroom door Sam glimpsed a mint green Jacuzzi tub and a tower of plush towels piled almost to the ceiling.
When she'd been in Peru back in June, Consuela had been the perfect hostess. Tonight, she outdid herself again, bringing a pitcher of iced limeade and a fruit platter from the kitchen as Sam joined Eduardo on the lemon silk brocade couch, and Dina and Jackson settled into cream-colored club chairs. Pedro perched on a peach chenille love seat. Eduardo kissed Sam's cheek and entwined his fingers with hers.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured, low enough that none of the parentals could overhear.
Sam smiled. He knew exactly the right thing to say. Though she'd felt reasonably calm when she was in the lobby with her parents, the walk down the path to the bungalow had been a nerve-racking experience, and she was now so anxious that she could actually feel a drop of sweat traveling into her two-hundred-dollar black-and-beige lace La Perla push-up bra.
“So,” Consuela began as she sat next to her husband on the peach love seat and crossed her slender, elegant legs. “We come together to discuss a happy occasion. We are very fond of your daughter.”
“Then we already have something in common,” Jackson said in his resonant movie-star voice, glancing over at Sam with paternal warmth. “Because we're fond of her too.”
Sam tried very hard not to roll her eyes, but Consuela smiled and looked charmed.
“We understand our children would like to be married soon.” Pedro took a sip of the fresh limeade that Consuela had poured for him. “It's a lovely idea.”
“Why have a long engagement when you know exactly what you want?” Eduardo added rhetorically, smiling at Sam and squeezing her hand.
Dina cleared her throat and crossed her legs, revealing perhaps the ugliest red-and-black zigzag-patterned trouser socks Sam had ever seen. She was momentarily stunned by the notion that someone related to her
by blood
had actually gone into a store, picked out these socks, and said to herself,
Yeah, wow, these are cute—I definitely want these
.
“Sam is very young. We thought she'd wait until after college even to think about marriage,” Dina said slowly, twirling her own glass of limeade in her small hands.
Sam looked at her mother, unable to handle the combination of the ugly socks and this latest statement. “How would you know?” she blurted, instantly regretting it. She didn't want to look like a snotty little bitch in front of Eduardo's parents. Well, too late.
“It's true that Sam and I haven't seen a lot of each other.” Dina looked from Pedro to Consuela, neither of whom betrayed a sign of surprise. “I hope to change that in the future.”
Sam rolled her eyes and nuzzled her head into Eduardo's shoulder so that she wouldn't have to look her mother in the eye.
Consuela smiled easily, as if she hosted estranged mothers-of-the-bride for drinks all the time. “Well, what better way to help family come together than a wedding?” She graciously picked up the fruit tray and circled the group with it, offering the fresh strawberries and mango, along with a cocktail napkin. “And I cannot think of a better spot on earth for newlyweds to live than Paris. Paris is a city made for lovers,” she said enthusiastically, nodding her glossy dark head.
“Paris?” Jackson was about to pluck a juicy orange slice of mango from the fruit platter that Consuela was offering, but withdrew his hand quickly, surprised. “Who said anything about Paris? Sam's not moving to Paris,” he finished, more firmly.
“What my father means is that Eduardo and I talked about being long distance for a while,” Sam hastened to explain, leaning forward on the brocade couch. She ran her fingers through her hair nervously. “I'm planning to go to USC while he finishes out the year at the Sorbonne.”
Pedro frowned, stood stoically, and moved toward the fireplace. He put his hands into the pockets of his well-cut gray suit. “You here in California and my son in Paris? What kind of marriage would that be?”
Consuela nodded as she put the fruit platter back on the glass coffee table. “I agree. A new marriage is too tender a thing to endure such strain. Eduardo's father and I are no strangers to airplanes—we own one, as you probably know—”
“I've got a Gulfstream myself,” Jackson put in.
“This is not about planes,” Sam interjected hotly. She felt Eduardo put a calming arm around her shoulder. That helped. A little. But she was feeling squeezed in both directions.
“What I was saying,” Consuela continued patiently, “is that it is one thing to have a long-distance relationship when you have been married for many years and one of the spouses must travel. It is another thing in the first months. Don't you agree, Eduardo?”
“No, Mom, I don't,” Eduardo replied. He had a firm look in his dark eyes that spoke volumes. Sam breathed a little easier.
Sam saw Consuela bristle, and decided that, like her own father, Eduardo's mother was probably used to getting her way most of the time.
“Here's what I want to know, Sam.” Her father leaned forward and held her gaze, earnest and focused. “What's the point of rushing to get married—which I still am not in favor of, by the way—if you're going to live thousands of miles apart? If you're going to do that, why not just wait to get married until both of you are done with school? You only just finished high school. You have plenty of time. Maybe you wanting to live apart like this is a sign that you don't really want to get married.” Sam stared back at her dad. Looking particularly young in his baby blue shirt and patterned cowboy boots, he made her feel like she was being counseled by one of her Beverly Hills High classmates, not her father.
Dina stood up and moved a step toward her, so that she was hovering by the side of the couch. “I agree, Sam. I agree completely with Jackson.”
“Thank you,” Jackson said as he rose and stood by his ex-wife.
Jesus Christ. It was happening. Her mother and father—who'd barely communicated for ten years—were presenting her with a united front. It was maddening. Enough so that she decided she'd rather piss off her parents than piss off Eduardo's. She stood, too, and reached for the limeade pitcher.
“Would anyone like more to drink?” She turned to face Consuela and Pedro across the coffee table, her back facing her parents. “I'll think about France. Maybe that really would be the best thing.”
Eduardo's response was a beaming smile. His parents nodded in tandem and Consuela indicated that she'd like a refill. Sam leaned over to pour Consuela a glass of the pale green drink, and as she did so sneaked a glance at Jackson and Dina. They each looked like someone had just peed in their limeade.
Sam smiled to herself. Their expressions alone were almost worth making the move to Paris and skipping USC altogether.
Almost. But not quite.
Saturday evening, 10:45 p.m.
“S
tep away from the police line! Step away from the police line!”
A special off-duty officer of the Los Angeles Police Department, chosen by Cammie and Ben as much for his rangy good looks as his man-in-black authority, barked into a loudspeaker. “The club will not open for fifteen minutes. Step away from the police line!”
Cammie stood alone, surveying the madhouse scene outside Bye, Bye Love's second night of operation, smiling with satisfaction at the hundreds of people trying desperately to get into her club. She wore a black Azzaro by Vanessa Seward swing halter top studded with crystals, with black Imitation of Christ skinny jeans and black Jimmy Choo ankle boots with lethal-looking scarlet stiletto heels. She'd piled her strawberry blond curls on her head haphazardly, allowing a few to fall across her forehead and down her back.
Behind her stood her and Ben's brainchild, a low, squat, building, with auto-bay doors facing an asphalt tarmac, and an old-fashioned, low-rent sign announcing
BYE, BYE LOVE
as if it were an oil-change special. There were gas pumps in front that had been rigged up to dispense pure spring water, and the windows had been painted over—bloodred on the outside, black on the inside—to heighten the club effect.
News of Bye, Bye Love had spread like some kind of virus through the cell/text/Internet/tele-friend grapevine that was club-hopping Los Angeles. Within twenty-four hours it was
the
club, and if you didn't know about it, or you did know about it but couldn't get in, you were relegated to the great unwashed underclass of the subhip.
“We wanna get in!” a Valley denizen in a tartan micro-mini and a matching bustier wailed.
“Guest list first,” replied the rent-a-cop.
“I've been here since noon!” The Valley girl wasn't quitting.
“Yeah, we've been here since noon!” her friend joined in. She wore a cobalt blue Juicy Couture tube dress that did nothing for her dumpy figure and had VE—visible extensions, the cheap kind, glued in. Both girls screamed “before” photo in the makeover section of a fashion magazine.
“Then you can wait a little longer,” the rent-a-cop growled from behind his too-cool shades.
As if they'll get in at all
, Cammie thought with a satisfied smirk.
The Valley girls were not alone in their desire to infiltrate the club's exclusive clientele. Venice Boulevard was jammed bumper-to-bumper. The valet-parking operation that Cammie and Ben had hired already had a full lot, except for spaces being held for VIPs, so prospective parkers were being shunted off to neighborhood side streets. A five-abreast line snaked down the sidewalk to the west, which was fine, since Cammie and Ben had anticipated this chaos and arranged a special VIP entrance through the back alley. It was guarded by a phalanx of security guards to ensure that no riffraff squeezed through.
Tonight they were expecting Fergie, Gwen and Gavin, Justin, David and Posh, Kobe Bryant and his wife, Cate Blanchett, and the Duff sisters. Cammie had left explicit instructions that none of the following were to be allowed in: Paris, Lindsay, or Britney. They were overexposed. Toast. Yesterday. More buh-bye than Bye, Bye Love.
