Friends with Benefits (7 page)

10

Esme held tight to Weston's hand as she opened the massive double mahogany doors of the Major Modeling Agency, located on the twenty-first floor of the high-rise at the northwest corner of La Cienega and Beverly Boulevard. The agency was fortunate to be on that corner, since it came with a Beverly Hills address instead of one in West Hollywood.

First Esme shepherded Weston inside; then she held the door for Jonathan and Easton. Jonathan had insisted on bringing the twins to the agency, though he had a tennis date at the Riviera Country Club and was dressed in tennis clothes. He would drop them at the agency and then pick them up. Along the way, they had stopped in Hollywood at the main offices of Puppy Love, an upscale pet-grooming service. There they'd dropped off Diane's Pomeranian to have its nails done and hair bow changed; Diane planned to switch the current zebra stripes to hot pink with tiny pale pink polka dots, in honor of FAB's two-toned pink logo.

Fortunately, the twins had escaped the same treatment. Instead, they were wearing matching crimson silk kimonos with smiley-faced dragons hand-embroidered on the back, and thick obi sashes at their nonexistent waists. These were samples of Emily Steele designs that the girls would be wearing in their FAB fashion show late that afternoon. As for Esme, she knew she had a long day ahead with the kids; she'd dressed for comfort in jeans, a white T-shirt, and flip-flops.

It had been a strange ride from Bel Air to the agency, to say the least. Jonathan and Esme had sat together in the front seat of the Range Rover (one of the nine vehicles Diane and Steven owned, including a Lotus that Steven drove only on a special closed racecourse in Riverside). The twins had been buckled into their safety seats in the back. They had been in an ebullient mood, singing Spanish songs all the way. But Esme had found herself extremely taciturn, giving monosyllabic answers to Jonathan's questions about her plans for the day, what she had done the night before. She wasn't about to say that she'd been out with her paramedic boyfriend. Not because Jonathan would care, but rather because she was so sure he wouldn't.

Jonathan explained that he'd been at a pre-FAB party hosted by some record label. Esme stared straight ahead. Of course he hadn't invited her to this party. For all she knew, he'd been there with Mackenzie. Then he had the nerve to bring up the unfinished tattoo Esme had designed on his bicep; when could Esme finish it?

She told him she was busy in a tone that closed down the conversation. She'd finish his damn tattoo when hell froze over. If he couldn't be public about their relationship, then he could damn well walk around with a half-done Ferris wheel tattoo on his bicep.

Esme rubbed the space between her eyes; her own hypocrisy gave her a headache. Had Jonathan come to her guesthouse the night before when she'd been with Junior, thinking they'd fall into bed per usual? If he had, he didn't say.

While Jonathan went to chat with the receptionist, Esme looked around the agency's elegant, low-key lobby. A pair of black suede couches faced a coffee table covered in what Esme had learned were called the trades—newspapers and magazines of the show business industry—
Variety,
Hollywood Reporter, Publishers Weekly.
On one couch, a middle-aged brunette with a hip, short haircut and a Botoxed face sat with her toddler daughter. The girl was fidgety, alternately kicking her mother and the coffee table. Opposite them was a set of tow-headed triplets a little older than Easton and Weston, dressed identically in jean overalls and red and white checkered shirts. A bored-looking brown-skinned woman with dreadlocks watched them, arms folded. The boys were completely wrapped up in their PSPs, connected to each other by a three-way game link.

She's their nanny,
Esme reckoned.
All of us poor brown-skinned
girls taking care of all the rich white-skinned children. Except
in my case, the brown-skinned kids look like they actually could
be mine.

For lack of anything else to do, she took the FAB final banquet invitation from her pocket and stared at it.

TENTH ANNUAL LOS ANGELES FASHION BASH
June 22–23
Shows: Staples Center
Final Dinner Banquet: The
Queen Mary,
Long Beach Harbor
8:00 p.m., June 23
Dress: Black tie
Theme: Classic Hollywood, to Benefit
International Coalition for an AIDS-Free Planet (ICAP)
Photo Identification and Invitation Required for Admission
Banquet Hosts: Steven and Diane Goldhagen

There was no admittance fee on the invitation, but it was understood that banquet tickets were a thousand dollars each. When Esme had awakened that morning, Diane was already at the Staples Center; she'd warned Esme that she would be largely unavailable over the two days of FAB.

Esme sighed and looked at the children, wondering if they were bonding with their new adoptive mom at all. During the day, the girls rarely saw Diane. She was on the board of a dozen charities, all of which seemed to be planning major fund-raising events. The FAB final party was no exception, as ICAP was one of the most popular Hollywood causes of the moment. The year before had been for tsunami relief; in Diane's home office was a photograph of her, Tom Hanks, and Meg Ryan with the prime minister of Thailand, presenting him with a check for twelve million dollars.

It wasn't just her volunteer work, though. Diane's personal grooming regimen was itself a full-time job: workouts at the Century City Gym, facials at the spa at the Peninsula Hotel, manicures and pedicures at Spa 415, brows at Valerie's salon on Rodeo Drive, waxing at Pink Cheeks in Sherman Oaks (according to Diane, everyone knew they did the best Brazilian wax in the city), hair highlights by Raymond, ditto blowouts at the same Beverly Hills establishment, and a million other things that kept her looking perfect.

Esme snuck a look at Jonathan, who was still waiting for the receptionist. The outline of his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow V, the easy grace of his stance, the apostrophes of dimples he flashed at the receptionist when she held up a “one moment” finger to him and finished directing the phone call to the right office, filled her with a now-familiar twinge of desire.

“Hi, Jonathan!” the receptionist cried, her glossy chestnut hair held back by the headset through which she directed calls. The phone rang again. “It's insane this morning, sorry,” she told him, and took another call.

So, the receptionist already knew Jonathan. Esme studied her. She was young, not much older than Esme, with round eyes that gave her a constant look of surprise. She wore a tiny citron T-shirt and lots of silver jewelry. What stood out about her, though, was the large bandage over the bridge of her nose, and a prominent bruise under her left eye.

Esme figured it out right away:
I bet her boyfriend hits her.

“Major Modeling, can I help you?” the receptionist intoned. “Hold one moment. Major Modeling, can I help you? Hold one moment. Major Modeling, can I help you? No, he's in a meeting; I'll put you through to his voice mail.”

Finally, the calls stopped. The receptionist pulled off her headset and trotted around the desk, throwing her arms around Jonathan. “Gosh, it's crazy with all the calls? How are you?”

“Terrific, Pandora. You're healing up really well.”

“The doctor said in another week or so the bandage could come off?” Pandora the receptionist raised her voice at the end of the sentence, as if it was a question. “So, I can't wait to see my new nose, you know?”

“It will be fantastic,” Jonathan assured her. “Barry Weintraub is
the
best.”

The girl nodded. “I have to thank your stepmother again so much for . . . you know?” She touched her bandaged nose again. “Because I would have been, like, middle-aged before I could save up enough money?”

Now Esme realized: The girl hadn't been hit. She'd had a nose job. It was darkly funny, really, that Esme had jumped to the conclusion that the girl was battered before she'd considered plastic surgery. It just reminded her all over again what a totally different world this was. Plus, the clear implication was that Diane Goldhagen had either helped pay for her surgery or gotten this Barry Weintraub to reduce his fee. Just when Esme wanted to nail Diane in a box labeled Clueless and Selfish, her boss did something to prove she didn't exactly belong there.

Jonathan grinned. “Forget it. Your mom has saved Diane's butt a million times. She owed her. Esme?”

He turned to Esme, and Esme automatically stood. “This is our new nanny, Esme Castaneda. Esme, this is Pandora Carrier. Her mother worked for Diane in my dad's production office.”

“Hola!”
Pandora chirped. “Sorry, that's, like, the extent of my Spanish, you know?”

“Oh, I think I can manage in English,” Esme said tartly.

“Esme's English is better than my Spanish, too,” Jonathan joked, betraying nothing of a more intimate relationship between himself and Esme. Part of Esme was happy about this. Part of her was furious. He was treating her just like what she was—the hired help.

“Oh, that's great, you know?” Pandora said without a trace of insult. “Diane told me that the children are still learning English?”

Esme nodded.

“Great. Could you ask the girls if they're ready to learn how to be fashion models?”

Esme faced the kids.
“¿Vosotros estáis listas hacer modelos de
la manera?”

Both girls looked utterly blank; Esme was pretty sure they had no idea what “model” meant. She then explained in Spanish that modeling was just walking around showing people the pretty clothes they'd be wearing, but the clarification didn't seem to make an impact. Instead, Easton squeezed her crotch.
“Yo necesito la sala,”
she complained.
“Ahora! Pee-pee!”

Pandora nodded. “Wow, that one is, like, universal?” She laughed. “Esme, why don't you take the girls to the bathroom and then I'll show you the way to Tolstoy's office?”

Esme turned to Jonathan. “Are you staying?”

“I have a meeting with a development guy over at Paramount.”

“Pee-pee!”
Easton repeated, crossing her legs in desperation.

Jonathan's gaze stayed fixed on Esme. “I could cancel it . . . ,” he offered, “if you want me to.”

Is that what he wanted?
Esme wondered. No. It couldn't be. If he wanted to be with her, he'd just tell her. Obviously he had all the power. “Bye, Jonathan,” Esme said firmly. “I'll call you when we're finishing up here.”

Jonathan looked like there was something he wanted to say, but Easton was literally dragging Esme toward the bathroom.

Tolstoy Kocherzhinsky's actual name had been Ekaterina Kocherzhinsky when her parents had immigrated to the United States as political refugees back in the late seventies. But she'd changed it with her parents' help after having both her first and last names butchered by most of her elementary school peers. Former literature professors at Tver State University, her parents had suggested Tolstoy as a replacement, reasoning that only the rarest American would recognize that the great Russian novelist had been a man. Tolstoy had been shortened to Tol, and it had worked well for Ekaterina, who was now in her midthirties and running a powerful agency that specialized in under-fourteen clients.

Pandora ushered Esme and the girls into Tol's office, told them to wait, and then discreetly departed. The office was massive, with a 270-degree view from the Santa Monica Mountains out to the ocean and down toward Long Beach. When the agency head stepped through the glass front doors of her inner sanctum, Esme was shocked to see that Tol herself matched the outsized dimensions of the office; she was one of the first people Esme had seen in Beverly Hills with a serious weight problem. Clad in an impeccably cut black designer pantsuit, blond hair cut in a stylish shag, her makeup perfect, Tol looked like a fashion model who had been inflated with helium. In fact, Esme had a momentary flash of the oversized balloons in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“Ah, here are my angels!” Tol cried when she saw the girls, who merely gaped at her dimensions.

“¡Ella es muy, muy gorda!”
Easton exclaimed.
“¿Por qué ella es
muy gorda?”

Esme softly chided Easton and told her to be polite. But Tol clapped with glee, which made the dozen bracelets on each of her forearms ring like chimes. “Don't you two look just precious in those kimonos. Are you girls ready to learn to walk the runway?”

“I've explained it to them,” Esme said carefully. “But I'm not sure they understand. It's kind of out of their realm of experience.”

Of course, so are running water and indoor plumbing.

As Tol prattled on about what a good time the twins would have at the fashion show, Esme feared a meltdown. She'd seen it happen when the twins were overwhelmed by new experiences, new people, or just too much of anything. Fortunately, the twins held it together as Tol led them down the hall to a much larger room that was a perfect small-scale simulation of the site of a fashion show, with a raised T-shaped runway and banks of folding chairs along both sides. Blue velvet curtains hung at the rear of the walkway. Along the walls were television cameras and darkened klieg lights.

“Chantal, we're here!” Tol announced.

From behind the curtains stepped a stunning, very thin black woman over six feet tall in her polka-dot stilettos; she wore a white eyelet lace dress so tight it resembled a knee-length straitjacket.

“My darlings,” Chantal cooed, strutting down the runway to meet them. “These must be my little protégées!” She stepped down gingerly and hugged each girl in turn. “Delicious, simply fabulous!”

Esme noticed that Chantal had quite a distinct Adam's apple, as well as thick makeup and furlike false eyelashes. Chantal reminded her of a guy named Joaquín who'd lived down the street from her in Fresno, back before she'd come to Los Angeles. Joaquín made good money working at a female impersonators' club. He was
trolo
—homosexual—not exactly accepted in macho Latino culture. Joaquín had gotten his ass kicked on a regular basis, and one day he just disappeared. No one knew what had happened to him.