Friends with Benefits (4 page)

Lydia laughed. “Ex. She's divorced.”

“No shocker there,” Kiley said, rolling onto her stomach.

“I know it's going to be an amazing party.” Lydia sighed. She'd been reading about Diane Goldhagen's annual FAB party for years, dreaming about how wonderful and glamorous it all had to be. “Can we come?”

“Lydia!” Kiley chastised her. “That's kind of out of line.”

“Worth a shot.” Lydia's eyes slid to Esme. “So can we? Oh, and can Kiley's friend Nina come too, now that Mrs. Bony Butt is ready to buy her a ticket?”

“Uh, excuse me,” Kiley called out, “but you're putting Esme in a terrible position. Nina hasn't said yes yet. Why don't you call her again?”

Lydia was about to, when the rippling pecs of a hard-bodied lifeguard she'd never seen before caught her attention. Hmmm, he had to be new. His dirty blond hair was tied back in a ponytail; Lydia's eyes were glued to him as he ascended the lifeguard stand.

Kiley waved. “Over here, Lydia.”

Lydia blinked. “Right. Waiting for Billy. I'm seeing him tonight, if he can get his boss to cut him loose for a while.” She sighed as Mr. Hard Body stretched his arms over his head.

“Off-limits conversation.” Esme stood and stretched. “You want anything from the snack bar? We can charge it to our bosses.”

“Umm . . .” Lydia watched one of the poolside waiters edge past carrying a tray of lobster tails with the shells already cracked, and a pitcher of icy Dos Equis Mexican beer. “Lobster for you, Kiley?”

“Burger and a Coke.”

“Make it two of each,” Esme said as she got up. “I'm not charging lobster.”

Lydia shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

As Esme walked away, Lydia opened her cell and passed it to Kiley. “Can you call your friend for me? It's crucial that she says yes.”

Kiley looked wary. “I don't know. I never told her what a bitch Evelyn is. Why would she want to work for her?”

“Seven hundred and fifty reasons why, actually.”

Kiley's eyes widened. “I thought the pay was four-fifty.”

“That was before I whispered in Evelyn's ear that the salary just went up. Plus two weeks' salary as our commission— fifteen hundred big ones, split three ways. Imagine all the lingerie you could buy and wear for Tom.”

“Tom,” Kiley groaned. “I managed to forget about it for a few minutes.”

“You'll be fantastic,” Lydia insisted. “But you'll be more fantastic in great underwear.”

“Or I can save it for my college fund. Scripps costs a fortune.”

“Whatever floats your outrigger,” Lydia agreed as Kiley started to punch in Nina's number. “I don't know about you, but I feel richer already.”

5

What did a nice girl from La Crosse, Wisconsin, wear to a party in Malibu when her date was a supermodel?

Kiley had no idea, it was already past seven-thirty, and Tom was picking her up. Worst of all, Kiley was still in her white cotton Kmart bra and panties. It was underwear that she knew full well belonged on a nun. What had she been thinking, that
she
could seduce Tom Chappelle? She wasn't cute enough or sexy enough or hip enough or
anything
enough. In fact, she should just call and say she wasn't feeling well, and then—

Stop,
she told herself.
Don't do what Mom would do. Don't have
a panic attack over a party, for God's sake.

She marched purposefully to her closet. The only really cute item of clothing she owned was the bottle green camisole purchased for her by the TV show. She slipped it on and was reaching for her jeans when she felt the tug on her back and heard the material rip. Damn. She whipped it off and examined the damage: an inch-long gash right up the seam.

Great. This was just great. Why, why, why hadn't she taken Lydia up on borrowing something? Kiley glanced at her Timex. Fifteen minutes until Tom, if he was on time. Shit.

She scanned the closet again, though she knew exactly what she had on hand. When she'd packed to come to California, she'd brought the bare minimum, never expecting that she'd be invited to stay: three boring T-shirts, a denim bowling shirt compliments of her father's league, a University of Wisconsin–La Crosse sweatshirt, three cotton shirts, and one faux silk blouse in a bilious shade of yellow that had been a gift from her grandmother so that she'd have “something decent to wear to church.” In her drawer were two pairs of khakis and two pairs of jeans. In the two weeks since Platinum had hired her, she'd acquired some white socks. That was it.

“Shit!” This time she said it aloud.

“What the hell do you have to swear about?” came a voice from behind her.

Kiley whirled around. Platinum stood in the doorway, a half-empty bottle of Taittinger's champagne in her hand. Her trademark poker-straight white blond hair fell to both sides of her high-cheekboned face. She wore an exquisite white silk scoop-necked top that fell in graceful folds to her waist, and white boot-cut jeans. Even semi-sloshed, the rock star still looked a good ten years younger than the midforties Kiley knew her to be.

“You just . . . showed up?” Kiley asked, because she couldn't think of a better way to say “Where do you get off walking into my place without knocking?” without alienating her boss.

“It's my house, baby.” Platinum took a long swig from the champagne bottle, then plopped herself down on Kiley's bed. “What's happening?”

“It's still my day off,” Kiley replied. “I've got a date.”

“I don't have a date,” Platinum pouted, narrowing her eyes as she scrutinized Kiley's bra and panties. “That's the goddamn ugliest-ass underwear I ever saw. Serenity's is hotter.”

Kiley forced herself not to point out that a second grader had no business in sexy lingerie. Meanwhile, she reached for her father's bowling shirt. “Where are the kids?”

“TV.” Platinum took another guzzle of champagne. “I'm so damn bored. Can I come with you?”

Okay, this was getting weird.

“Um . . . no. It's a
date
.” Kiley checked her watch again. Five minutes. She needed perfume. Where was that Vera Wang perfume sample that had been in the Hotel Bel-Air bathroom? She opened a night-table drawer and started rummaging. Meanwhile, Platinum rolled onto her taut stomach, holding the champagne bottle upright against the quilt with one fist.

“Who's your date?” Platinum asked, as if they were two teen friends hanging out.

“A guy.” Kiley uncovered the bottle behind her map of the Walk of Fame on Hollywood Boulevard and applied a little to each wrist.

“Where are you and ‘a guy' going?” Platinum asked.

“A party. In Malibu.” Kiley thought the best way to get rid of Platinum was to be curt but polite. “I think at the beach colony or something.”

Platinum exploded in laughter. “A party at the Malibu Colony? No way you're going in a bowling shirt!”

Kiley flushed as she took her favorite pair of khakis out of the bottom drawer of her dresser. “Excuse me. I don't own a lot of clothes.”

“Oh yeah, that's right, you're poor.” Platinum sat up. “That sucks. Sure you don't want some? It's the best.” She offered Kiley the champagne bottle.

“No, thanks.”

Platinum shrugged and belted down some more.

Kiley immediately thought of Serenity and Sid—she knew what it was like to be home with a drunken parent. “You might want to slow down on that, you know, since the kids are here.”

Platinum's eyes flashed. “I
know
you're not telling me what to do.”

“No, I just meant—”

“Because you know what happens to people who tell me what to do? If they don't work for me, they can go to hell. If they do work for me, they get canned and
then
they can go to hell.”

Kiley's heart thudded. It was true. She'd seen two employees come and go since she'd started as Platinum's nanny. Three, counting Jeff Greenberg.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Platinum nodded with satisfaction, then smiled. “I forgive you. Hey, it's too damn quiet in here.” She reached across the bed and flicked on the Bose Wave clock radio. Mariah Carey at ear-splitting volume. Platinum listened to about three seconds before she snapped it off. “She's such a diva. I hate that bitch, and I hate her ex more. You like her?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Hey, no hard feelings about before, right?” She set the champagne unsteadily on the floor, rose to her feet, and yanked her gauzy shirt over her head. The bra underneath was a gossamer wisp of white and pale pink lace. “Here.”

“What?”

Platinum held the shirt out to Kiley.

“Sorry?”

“Take the shirt. Wear it on your date.”

Kiley stepped backward. “Oh no, I couldn't. I mean, thank you, that's so thoughtful of you, but—”

“It's Alberta Ferretti, for crying out loud. So take the goddamn shirt!” Platinum bellowed. “What kind of a person doesn't let another person do something nice for them?”

Oh God, this was terrible. What else could she do? Kiley took the shirt.

“Thanks. That's . . . really sweet of you.”

“Horseshit. I'm never sweet, don't try to flatter me. Put it on, let's see how you look.”

“Uh . . . it might be too small.”

“Nah. I bought it when I was gonna get my boobs done; I was thinking big at the time. Try it.”

Kiley did. It fit perfectly. Not only that, it even looked fantastic with Kiley's khakis—the contrast of expensive shirt and low-rent pants worked, somehow.

“Good,” Platinum pronounced.

It did look good. Really good, Kiley had to admit, as she appraised herself in the dresser mirror. The shimmery white silk cast a light on her face, and the scoop neckline made her look curvy. Maybe even sexy. She turned to thank Platinum, but what she saw in the doorway ensured that the words never left her lips. There stood Tom Chappelle in jeans and a sky blue shirt that matched his sky blue eyes. He wasn't even looking at her. He was, however, staring at Platinum's well-filled-out Wonderbra.

6

Say something,
Kiley told herself.
Say
anything.

Kiley had already gotten into Tom's white Ford F-150 pickup truck—it still had Iowa plates on it. Tom explained that buying the latest BMW or Mercedes or whatever was considered the hip L.A. car of the moment was just not him, and anyway he'd always loved his truck. He'd already pulled out of Platinum's circular driveway and was cruising west on Sunset Boulevard, en route to the Pacific Coast Highway and Malibu. Weezer wailed on the sound system, the windows were cranked open to the evening air, but still Kiley hadn't said a word.

The night she'd run into Tom at the late-night showing of his movie, she'd somehow mustered the nerve to be flirty and confident. It had all been just so perfect, so spontaneous.

This, by contrast, was planned. An actual date. That changed everything.

Tom stopped the pickup at the light at the intersection of Sunset and Barrington. His face was quizzical. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“You're just so quiet.”

“Umm . . .” She cleared her throat. “I'm just thinking about how to handle an employer who gives me the shirt off her back—literally.” She gestured to the shirt Platinum had bestowed on her for the evening.

He laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That why she was undressed?”

Okay, this was better.

“Exactly. I was gonna wear my dad's bowling shirt.” Kiley fingered a wisp of gauzy silk material. “I have to admit, it's a lot nicer than anything I own. Besides, if I'd said no, I would have gotten fired.”

“Kinda high-strung, huh?”

“To put it mildly.”

The traffic started to move; it was pretty heavy, even for a Sunday night. Tom's eyes flicked to her again, then back to the road. “Well, it looks great. She was pretty toasted, huh? Platinum, I mean.”

“Yeah.” Kiley was ready to elaborate—the insanity of working for Platinum was a subject on which she could babble for hours. She knew, however, that she shouldn't. One of the conditions of her employment had been for Kiley never to discuss Platinum's private life—Kiley had to sign a legal document where she swore under penalty of penury never to be a source, even off the record, for a reporter. As for a tell-all book, forget it. Platinum had simply alluded to a close relationship with the Los Angeles chapter of the Hell's Angels motorcycle club. Kiley needed no further convincing.

“She can't be as crazy as your tour was. How'd it go?”

“Truth is, after a while it was pretty boring. We basically had to say the same things over and over, to every TV talk show host from here to New York and back again. ‘People are going to love the flick.' ‘We loved working together, it was like a family.' ” He shook his head.

“You mean it wasn't fun?”

Tom stopped for a light. “Yeah, I guess. My little sister Raina is completely starstruck. She wanted to come for the premiere, but my parents said she had to show her pigs for 4-H at the county fair. I just think they don't want to fill her head with nonsense.”

“Some pig,” Kiley joked, citing a favorite line from
Charlotte's
Web.

Tom smiled. “Good book. Templeton the rat was my hero. Just kidding!”

Damn. How could this guy look like . . . well, like this guy, and be nice and sweet and make jokes about characters in
Charlotte's Web
? If only he would be a little less perfect, she could concentrate on his flaws, and not spiral into a needy place where every atom of her body yearned for him.

She gazed out the window, not wanting to fall in love with a guy so obviously out of her league. It would feel hopeless and helpless and out of control. That was way too much like how her mom felt most of the time.

“It must be weird,” Kiley mused aloud. “Six months ago you were working on your family's farm, and now . . . all this.”

“Yeah, the media loves the hayseed thing. They think anyone who lives between L.A. and Manhattan is barefoot and illiterate. My dad went to Drake. My mom graduated from Iowa State. Ever see
Field of Dreams
? That's them.”

Kiley nodded. “My great-aunt has a farm near Rochester, Minnesota. She grows wheat, mostly.”

“Then you know what I'm talking about. Like, you told me your dad works at a brewery? I bet people make judgments about him because of that.”

In my dad's case, all those judgments are true.

Kiley changed the subject again, not wanting to discuss her alcoholic father. “Tell me about the other stars. What are they like?”

“I get wiped out early on by locusts, so you can't really count me as any kind of star. Owen Wilson is great—loves to play jokes. Tara Reid is wild. She could do promos all day and still party all night.”

“Are we going to her place?” Kiley asked lightly. She still didn't know their precise destination.

“I didn't tell you? It's Marym Marshall, the model. You've heard of her?”

Of course Kiley had heard of her. You had to be dead not to have heard of her. Marym was
the
hot teen supermodel, just seventeen years old. A native of Tel Aviv, she was everywhere, her image even more ubiquitous than Tom's bare torso on the Calvin Klein underwear billboards. VH1 had even thrown together a special about her life, complete with fifteen minutes of thong bikini footage from beaches the world over.

Kiley had seen the VH1 special, where Marym confirmed that her real name was Miriam Mendel and that she had been visiting cousins in South Africa before starting her mandatory stint in the Israeli defense forces. On a Cape Town beach, a vacationing
Vogue
photographer had spotted her playing Frisbee with her cousin's whippet and asked if he could take some shots.

Marym hadn't thought anything of it, until the publisher of
Vogue
called her a week later and said she could have a major career if she would just come to America. She came, bringing her father with her as her chaperone. Within three months, she appeared on consecutive covers of
Vogue,
had signed with Ford for modeling and Endeavor for everything else, and was tabbed as a thinner, taller, and more beautiful version of the young Elizabeth Taylor.

“Of course I've heard of her,” Kiley confirmed. “She's amazing-looking.”

“The whole stardom thing happened so fast for her—it's hard to handle, especially when you're seventeen.”

Boo-hoo, poor Marym.

Kiley knew it was a little petty, but she couldn't help thinking that here she was, almost the same age as Marym. She had also uprooted her life. Not to be photographed and be put on the cover of fashion magazines, though. Instead, she had bet on herself so that she might—it wasn't a sure thing, after all—have a chance to get accepted and pay in-state tuition to a school where she could study advanced oceanography. She was willing to work. Marym was willing to get paid for the looks that she'd done nothing to earn. There was something very unfair about it.

“Anyway, this is Marym's eighteenth birthday party, and she just bought this place in Malibu—she's been living with her dad in a rental in Encino.”

“So, it's a birthday party for a supermodel,” Kiley declared, trying to sound chipper as Tom drove through Pacific Palisades. “Wow.”

Tom reached over and tugged gently at Kiley's ponytail. “Don't worry about it, kid.”

Kid?
Had he just called her
kid
? What was she supposed to be, his little sister? Ugh. Maybe it was true—he had only invited her to this party to be nice, because she was new in L.A., or because he hadn't been sure when his press junket would be over and knew she'd be available on practically no notice.

“Marym and I got together for a little while, a while back,” Tom added casually.

Got together?
What did “got together” mean?

Then it hit Kiley. Holy shit. The screams of pleasure she'd heard that night coming from Tom's Hotel Bel-Air suite had belonged to supermodel Marym Marshall.