Drive Me Sane (21 page)

“Seriously.”

“Gee whiz, I would’ve given Ian more credit than to date a woman named Tanqueray. I mean really, who the hell names their kid after a bottle of gin?” Her throaty laugh lightened my mood.

“It’s probably a stage name. She looks like a slasher.” Slasher is the title Poppy and I’d given to the hundreds of wannabe model slash actresses who crawled the streets of LA like cockroaches.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. There are other Hollywood schmoozers here. Why don’t you take half an hour to do some networking? I’m sure you’ll score a new client.”

So, I handed out five more cards. Two were to Hollywood spouses, one to the wife of a producer and the other to a director. The rest ended up in the clutches of trophy girlfriends, what Poppy and I called hangers-on, also known as “entourage” to bigwigs, the people actually making the money. I didn’t hold high hopes of obtaining an actual client out of anyone except possibly one of the trophy girls.

Poppy sent me home around two in the morning when the party had wound down to about two dozen older guests. All the young starlets and actors gathered their entourages around midnight and moved onto the latest “it” club to see and be seen. The maneuverings of the Hollywood grind made me glad I wasn’t trying to become a slasher. There was too much relying on looks, weight, and whether or not you were liked by certain producers and directors. I was content to have my business, good friends, and my dog. Anything else was overrated. Or at least that’s what I liked to tell myself.