Skinnydipping (3 page)

chapter one

W
ho do I have to sleep with to get a drink on this plane?”

I called out the request randomly, hopefully, as passengers pushed down the aisle into coach, their suitcases bumping my arm. Some of them raised their eyebrows at me, but I’m used to that. I’m rarely what you would call “appropriate,” although what these people around me didn’t seem to realize was that tequila is
always
appropriate. I just smiled at them.

Besides, I couldn’t contain myself. Just minutes before, I had been sitting at the gate in Kennedy, devastated, trying with every inner resource I had not to break down into tears in front of everyone, and dreading how I would tell my father I’d missed the flight. Getting onto this flight meant everything to me.
Everything.
I’d skipped college graduation to catch this flight, but last night I’d stayed out until four club-hopping with friends I hoped never to see again, celebrating the end of my four-year imprisonment at NYU. I’d gone home with some handsome dark-haired Wall Street trader whom I’d then wrangled into driving me to my apartment, double-parking out front while I ran upstairs to grab my bag (and pull off last night’s sequined halter top and mini skirt in favor of a black jersey dress that didn’t wrinkle too badly), then driving me to the airport. Heading toward JFK, I lectured him
about how fast to drive and which route to take. He’d dropped me off in front of the terminal, not sure what to do about my tears and hysteria about missing the plane. What was his name again?

Anyway, I’d been too late—or so they’d told me, until the woman at the desk called my name.

“Faith Brightstone, please come to the ticket counter.” I was sitting right in front of her, for God’s sake. Did she have to use the little microphone?

“Yes? What! I’m here,” I said, jumping up and clutching my carry-on with suddenly renewed optimism.

“There’s one seat left. Hurry!” She pointed to the door. I sprinted down the jetway, nearly toppling off my sample sale Manolos with the four-inch heels, the ones that had finally tipped my credit card over its $30,000 limit. I rushed breathlessly into the first-class cabin, where a flight attendant with her hair severely restrained in a blonde bun looked me in the eye, and there was that moment when we both knew I didn’t really belong in first class. I wondered, self-consciously, if I still smelled like champagne and sex. I pursed my lips to contain any telltale alcohol fumes and hoped the spray of Chanel No. 5 to the crotch had taken care of the rest.

She surveyed me with undisguised condescension, her gaze traveling over my unwashed hair, my slightly puffy face and probably bloodshot eyes, and my rumpled dress, and fixing on my red leather carry-on, the one I’d purchased because I knew it would absolutely meet any airline’s carry-on standard. And because it was red, and stood out from the others. “You’re going to have to check that,
dear
,” she said, smugly.

“What? But it’s small! We can squeeze it in, I know we can. Please!” Frantically, I unzipped the front pocket and pulled out the tangle of bras and underwear I’d packed, and stuffed them into my purse. “There. Just let me try to make it fit.”

She sighed, barely able to keep from rolling her eyes. “I suppose we could move
this
, and
this.
” She spit out the words as she rearranged two other bags in the compartment above that one beautiful empty seat that was about to be mine. She took the carry-on from
my hands and jammed it unceremoniously between a silver hardshell Tumi carry-on and a Louis Vuitton tote the color of browned butter. Then she actually wiped her hands on her skirt, as if my bag was covered in cooties. I almost laughed—with relief, because of a slight sense of hysteria I’d been nurturing since I woke up in a panic, and because she was just so mean that it was funny. She turned primly and walked away. Bitch.

One day, I vowed, I would belong in first class, and people would wonder who I was. She’d be kissing my fully-paid-for Manolos.

I threw myself into the seat and sighed with deep contentment. I made it! And now, at last, I could relax. I looked at the man sitting next to me—schlubby, middle-aged, with a thick rectangular mustache. An almost–Tom-Selleck type. He wore an expensive suit and had a pile of scripts on his tray table. I noticed a very nice briefcase under the seat in front of him. I smiled to myself. I was intrigued. It wasn’t the standard reading material I usually noticed on planes. I was really on my way to Los Angeles.

So, in that spirit, where was my drink? Wasn’t that the whole point of first class?

The woman with the blonde bun walked by, brusquely checking that everyone was following the rules for takeoff. She stopped at our row and told Almost–Tom-Selleck, “Sir, please put your tray table up for takeoff.” He moved the scripts to his lap, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. Although I didn’t like my odds considering our previous encounter, I decided it couldn’t hurt to ask again: “So … when do we get those drinks?” I asked her, trying out my best Hollywood smile.

“We’ll be serving the drinks momentarily, Miss,” she said icily. “Please try to be patient.”

I sat back, closed my eyes, and imagined a serious-faced man in some sort of flowing university regalia reading my name in a monotone: “Faith Brightstone.” He’d move on to the next name on the list when I didn’t appear. And why would I? I’d escaped that place like I’d just broken out of prison, and besides, I had no patience for sitting
through the pointless ritual, even if my mother had begged me to attend. “Darling, I just want to see it happen,” she’d said over the phone, her words a-slur with her third highball of the afternoon. “Because who would be-leeeve it?”

Nobody thought I would actually graduate, much less on time, but I had surprised them all. I’d always been good at getting by—I could memorize well enough to ace the tests, and I was an expert grade finagler. Plus I had a knack for briefly dating the T.A.s until after the tests were graded. I hadn’t exactly been a model student. Once I made it into NYU, I quickly became more interested in partying than studying. I smiled, imagining my college roommate, Samantha, seeing me right now. I know what she’d say. “Faith, only you would avert certain disaster and end up in first class.” I would miss her … and her fabulous shoe collection.

But I couldn’t get out of Manhattan soon enough. I was L.A.-bound, baby. My star was rising. I could feel it. I had fame to chase. Success to score. Moguls to meet, whom I would allow to seduce me. And who knows what else? Movies to make? Sitcoms? High-profile commercials? I was going to take Hollywood by storm, damn it. I would show my mother what to
be-leeeve.

All I’d ever really wanted out of life was success in my chosen career, and perfect, passionate, eternal love with a hot and preferably independently wealthy soul mate. As I waited,
patiently
, for the drink the airline owed me, I decided I wasn’t asking too much of life. I’d been dealt a fairly shitty hand so far, all things considered. Now, it was my turn to cash in. I’d certainly paid on the front end.

The flight attendant reappeared at my elbow with two glasses of something bubbly. Obviously, she’d failed to find any loopholes that would allow her to deny me this simple pleasure. I sipped gratefully. In a sudden impulse of solidarity, I held up my glass to toast my seatmate. He gave me a wry smile and clinked my glass with his. “Hair of the dog,” I said. I could feel a killer headache coming on, and I hoped the cheap sparkling wine might head it off. Of course, there was a fifty-fifty chance it would just make it worse.

I held out my hand. “Faith Brightstone. What do you do?”

He smiled a surprisingly attractive, genuine smile and took my hand. He had a firm handshake. But so do I.

“And?” he said.

I paused, confused. “And?” I repeated.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I drive?”

“Should I have?”

He laughed. “No. No, you should not have. And I’m Larry Todd. I’m a producer.”

“Really? Wow. That is such a coincidence,” I said.

“Let me guess. You’re an actress?”

“Not yet,” I admitted, suddenly embarrassed. I didn’t want to sound like just another MAW—the acronym I’d heard for a Model-Actress-Whatever. I didn’t want him to discount me as somebody who wasn’t anybody. I wanted to sound more intellectual, more
significant
than that. “I’m fresh out of NYU and headed to L.A.,” I said, trying to sound smart. “I’m going to give it a try.”

“Courageous,” he said. “But let me give you some advice, New York. And this is just because you’re not from L.A.”

“What’s that?” I said, my interest piqued. I was ready to learn whatever Larry Todd, producer, had to teach me.

“Every gold digger in L.A. asks ‘What do you do?’ and the follow-up question, ‘What do you drive?’ Avoid those two questions and you’ll separate from the pack.”

I blushed. “That wasn’t what I was trying—”

He interrupted me with a laugh and raised his hand. “It’s fine. Now you know.” He paused, then added, “And as long as I’m dispensing advice, don’t
ever
ask anybody’s sign. That’s just annoying. I hope you never become
that
comfortable in California! There’s definitely something to be said for being from somewhere else.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate the advice, and I’ll take it. I learn fast,” I said.

“I’ll bet you do.” He smiled. “So, an actress. Do you have any experience?”

I couldn’t help cringing at the way he said
actress.
It sounded wrong. I didn’t feel like I could call myself that yet because I hadn’t earned it, but I wanted so badly to claim the title. I was salivating for it.

“I did a little theater in college. But frankly, I couldn’t wait to get out. College wasn’t really my thing.” I paused, wondering if I should continue. “I’m too impatient.”

“You want success and you want it now,” he said.

“That’s so true,” I said. “When I was just a high school freshman, I was cast as the understudy for Maria in our school production of
West Side Story
, and I turned it down because I wanted to be the lead, not the understudy.”

He smiled in a fatherly way. “Sometimes you have to pay your dues first.”

As the plane backed out of the gate and headed toward the runway, I thought about my father. He was probably a little bit older than Larry Todd, but I hadn’t seen him in fourteen years, and I’d spoken to him only a handful of times. Ever since my mother left him, taking me to New York with her to marry one of my father’s friends and rivals, I felt responsible, like I had left him, too. I’d been four years old.

My mother used to tell me he blamed us both for leaving him. I believed her. I’d spent the last eighteen years trying to make it up to him, but he was a hard-bitten, unforgiving man who hardly ever made himself available to me. When I’d called my father and told him I was moving to L.A., I asked if I could stay with him for a little while, just until I found a place. He’d reluctantly said yes. I’d expected a no, but I had the impression that someone in the background was telling him to let me visit. Probably his latest girlfriend. As far as I knew, he’d had a long string of them, always girls from the racetrack, horse trainers or exercise riders, girls who would be impressed with his reputation as one of the best thoroughbred horse trainers in the business, girls not much older than me. But even if he hadn’t exactly said he was going to throw me a welcome party, I still held out hope—maybe he was ready to have a relationship with me. Maybe he had wanted to be convinced. Maybe he had just needed me to come to
him.

I glanced at Larry. He was handsome, in his way. Maybe a six. Out of habit, I immediately looked for a wedding ring. He wore a thick gold band. He was wealthy, powerful, influential. Married. Money intrigued and excited me, and fame was a dream.

“So, Larry Todd, what exactly do you produce?”

He had been flipping through another script, looking bored and distracted. He tossed it onto his tray table and turned to me. “Have you ever seen
Hollywood & Highland
?”

My eyes widened. “Shut up. You produce that? I watch that every week.” He’d suddenly gone from a six to an eight.
Hollywood & Highland
was one of the hottest new primetime soap operas. Everybody I knew watched it. The show followed the personal lives of a group of beautiful people who worked in the sprawling Hollywood & Highland complex of theaters, clubs, restaurants, and the hotel on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue in Hollywood, California—right where I was headed. When something big was about to happen on the show, viewers would call in sick from work, skip studying for tests, even cancel dates.