Skinnydipping (7 page)

T
ony pointed west down Hollywood Boulevard, toward the Hollywood Hills, and I was feeling powerful and sexy again, like I could do anything, absolutely anything, not the least of which was to steal my father’s vintage Mercedes and drive a minor celebrity to an afterparty in the Hollywood Hills. I sped down the road, marveling that this was me, that any of this was happening. Tony’s hand rubbed my inner thigh as I drove. The night was clear and cool and perfect.

After a couple of miles, Tony directed me to pull up along the curb in front of a huge, white and red-trimmed, multistoried Mediterranean-style home in Beachwood Canyon. The front gate stood open and people milled around on the wide, sloped driveway with drinks in their hands. The four of us walked past and into the house, which had vaulted ceilings and gleaming white floors with expensive Persian rugs in every room I could see. The black granite kitchen counters held at least forty different bottles of liquor and mixers, and Tony went over to make us more drinks.

I was immediately drawn to the liquor bottles. “I’ll do it,” I told Tony. I began inventing. I loved creating new cocktails, and I was always searching for that one perfect cocktail. Let’s see. I looked in the refrigerator and grabbed a pitcher of lemonade and a bowl of
fresh mint. Only in L.A. would you find fresh mint in the refrigerator. I added a splash of cranberry juice to the lemonade to make it pink, then put it with ice, white rum, and mint in a cocktail shaker. I muddled it, shook it, and poured it over ice, topped it with club soda, garnished it with a lemon and a lime, and handed it to Tony.

“Here you go,” I said. “It’s a pink lemonade mojito.”

He took a drink. “Hey, this is really good,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I just made it up.”

“That looks great, what is that?” asked Susan. I had been so absorbed in mixing that I hadn’t heard her come up behind me.

“It’s a pink lemonade mojito,” I said, cooly. “Do you want one?” Secretly, I was thrilled that she wanted something I was making—something I’d invented.

“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”

I made her one, then started making another one.

“This is really good,” she said. “It’s not too sweet. Perfect. Donna, come here!”

Before I knew it, I was making the drink for everyone, and I loved that they loved my invention. People filled up the kitchen. When Brooke came over, I handed her one, too. “Wow, this is great,” she said. “They should be paying you.”

“Nobody’s tipped me yet,” I complained.

“They should! Here,” she said, pulling a $20 bill out of her purse.

“Ha ha.” But I took it. I was totally broke.

Brett came up behind her. She looked at me, embarrassed, and slapped his hand away. “Stop it, I told you I’m
with someone
,” she said, but she couldn’t help giggling. I decided not to mention to her handsome but thwarted suitor that “someone” was my father, just in case Brooke’s resolve was actually foreplay.

Brooke turned away, arguing with Brett about something (probably her honor, or lack thereof), and for the first time in almost an hour, nobody was asking me for a drink, so I slipped out of the kitchen and wandered around the dazzling house. Then an arm holding a drink appeared from behind me. I turned and took the vodka martini from Tony.

“I see you’re admiring the house,” he said. “One of my former producers lives here. We met on the set of
Murder, Inc.
”

I did a double take. “You were in
Murder, Inc.
?” It wasn’t the greatest movie ever made, but I’d actually seen it, and suddenly I realized I’d seen him in it, too. “Oh my god! Now I know who you are. No wonder those girls were impressed with you.”

He shrugged. “Are you a professional bartender or do you just play one on TV?”

“So now you’re going to ask me what I do for a living?”

“I didn’t ask before because I just assumed actress, and I was hoping you weren’t one. I get so tired of actresses.”

“I happen to be getting a job on
Hollywood & Highland
,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “And it’s not an acting job.” I said it with pride.

“Network TV, huh?” he said. “Yeah, TV’s OK. So, do you want to check out the upstairs?”

“I guess.” I had no intention of sleeping with him, no matter how much I drank or how much X I did. I’d intentionally not shaved and worn hideous granny panties to ensure that. My bikini line was a chia pet. And I wasn’t about to give up that much power this soon. Still, I wanted to see the bedrooms. We climbed the polished wooden staircase and peeked into the spacious rooms with windows overlooking the canyon. Everything was so perfect, I found it hard to believe anybody actually lived here. It looked like a magazine home. Of course, they would have a team of housekeepers.

A few of the bedrooms had people in them, but we found an empty one. I walked over to the window and looked out. “Nice pool,” I said. I turned around and Tony was pulling out a bag of coke.

“Want some?” he said.

“Um… OK,” I said. What the hell. The Ecstasy had worn off and I could use another boost. I didn’t even like the coke high. God knows I didn’t need anymore nervous energy. But I did like the danger, the intrigue, the ceremony of it, and the tingling sensation in my mouth. More important, it was an appetite suppressant.

Tony portioned out the lines and I snorted one line. That was enough, and I wanted to stay in control. He inhaled the rest. He leaned back on the bed, his arms behind his head, and looked at me. “You’re cool,” he said. “I like you.” He patted the space on the mattress next to him. I crawled over, trying to show my cleavage to best advantage. He put his arm around me. “And you’re so much hotter than my wife.”

“Your wife?” I was angry for about a second. We’d shared so much about our lives in the bar all night, but he’d left out this one minor detail. Then, somehow, I wasn’t surprised.

He looked guilty. “Yeah. She’s back in Brooklyn with my daughter. I really miss them. But I like you. You’re smart. Not like most of the women I meet at clubs. I can actually talk to you.”

“Um … thanks?” I said.

“You’d probably really like my wife.”

I leaned back against the headboard and looked at him. “Yep. I probably would.” We smiled at each other. And another potential soul mate bites the dust.

This confession and my tacit acceptance of it seemed to open a door for him. He told me all about his family, how he had met his wife, how he felt when his daughter was born. He wanted to talk all night. He wanted me to be his shrink. “You’re probably too young to get what it feels like to have that responsibility, but it’s a lot of pressure. It’s great, but it’s also hard. When I’m away from them and I go out like this … it’s just really nice to flirt with someone young and pretty like you. You know what I mean?”

“Not really,” I said.

“I just love talking to you!” he said.

“Tony, I think you’re a sweet guy,” I said. “Handsome and charming and obviously very successful. Your wife is a lucky woman. But you should set a better example for your daughter,” I said, noticing the coke residue under his nose.

“Yeah, I know.” He sniffled a little. Oh God, was he going to cry? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on. I
am
an asshole. You should
see my daughter. She’s beautiful.” He looked up at me hopefully. “We could still fool around?”

“No,” I said, patting his leg maternally. “We could not.” I got the impression he wasn’t really the cheating kind. He could probably have been persuaded. But maybe he liked me because he sensed I wouldn’t go there.

I left him alone, staring into space.

I went back downstairs to find Brooke. She was talking to a group of women seated in a circle on the floor. “He’s married,” I said.

“What?” she said, alarmed. “Married?”

“Yep.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry. I really didn’t think he seemed like the type. Isn’t he too young?”

“Apparently not. He’s even got a kid.” Defeated, I threw myself onto a sofa. I felt like I had a motor running in my chest. My heart was beating fast but my body was exhausted.

One of the girls sitting on the floor leaned back against my knees. She had long wavy blonde hair and a perfect tan. “Have another drink, honey,” she said. “Then come talk to us.”

“I’ll get it!” Brooke said, eager to do penance for introducing me to a married man.

“I’m Sandra,” said the blonde. “And you are adorable.” She had a lilting British accent.

I didn’t feel adorable. I could see my stomach pushing against the tight fabric of my dress—and I hadn’t even eaten anything.

“I’m Faith,” I said. “I thought I was getting lucky tonight, but apparently not.”

Sandra laughed. “Men. They’re hardly worth it unless they’re disgustingly rich. And actors hardly ever are.”

“Hm,” I said, nodding as if I already knew this. Which I didn’t.

Another one of the girls, who had long reddish-brown hair and bangs and the body of a supermodel, crossed her long legs and held out her hand to me. She wore a cocktail ring with the biggest emerald
I’d ever seen. I had a feeling it was real. “Come, sit with us,” she said, in an accent I guessed might be French.

I sat down on the floor with them, shifting to keep my knees together in my mini dress. The French girl eased my heels off and rubbed the bottoms of my feet. I was surprised—but it felt really good. Brooke put a pink lemonade mojito in my hand and I sipped it gratefully. “I hope I made this the right way,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry about Tony. I should have done more research.”

“It’s OK,” I said. “How would you know? I did like him. He’s actually a pretty decent guy.”

Brooke sat down next to me and put her head on my shoulder. She was really drunk. I could smell the fumes rising off her. Or maybe it was me.

“You’re so nice,” she said. “I wish Frank was as nice as you are.”

“I’m really not that nice,” I assured her. “Like father, like daughter.”

“Yes, you are!” she said, leaning back away from me and looking at me earnestly. “I feel like we’re sisters!”

“No, I’m not nice, and we’re not sisters. I hate to even try to dissect the bizarre idea of us being sisters and what that would mean you were doing with my father. And I’m not nice because I’m going to tell you that you shouldn’t be putting up with him. He’s a jerk to you. You deserve better.”

She looked miserable.

“Tell me you don’t think you deserve better.”

“Your father is … he’s everything!” she protested. “He’s a legend. Everyone knows him. Everyone admires him. Worships him!”

“Everyone on the track worships him, I know that,” I said. “But he’s just lonely. He just wants someone around. He’s wasting your time. The world is a lot bigger than the racetrack, you know. You could do anything. You could have anyone.”

She didn’t answer. I could tell she didn’t believe she could do anything.

The coke was really starting to click. I couldn’t shut up now if
my life depended on it, and as long as I’d opened this can of worms, I figured I might as well say what I’d wanted to say to her since the first day I met her. “Look, Frank Brightstone is a coldhearted man who doesn’t know how to love anyone. You’ll always be disappointed. The only thing he really wants to do when he’s not with his horses is sit in that leather chair all day. There’s a stain where the back of his head rests, he’s such a fixture there. He’s boring. He never goes out, and he doesn’t like you going out, either. What does he expect you to do all day? You’re young and beautiful and you’re giving him the best years of your life, and you’re not going to get them back. You’ll never get what you want out of him. He’s not going to marry you. You should cut yourself loose and move on to someone who can appreciate you. He just wants you because you worship him. Wouldn’t you rather be the one who’s worshipped?”

I could tell I was talking too fast. This always happened. I’d hold it all in, then as soon as I drank too much or did any drugs, it would all come spewing out—diarrhea of the mouth. It was a chronic problem.

She started to cry.

“Oh God, don’t do that,” I said. “I just feel like somebody has to say this to you.”

“How do you know he’s not going to marry me?” she sobbed.

I just shook my head. We both deserved better. My father deserved my mother, and she deserved him, and I wished they would have stayed together and spared everyone else from their mutual dysfunction. Brooke, on the other hand, had been nice to me, and although I never would have picked her out as a friend, she was in my life now. I felt like we would probably remain friends, even if she and my father really did break up. I felt obligated to tell her the truth.

“He’s not a total jerk to me,” she said, swallowing. “No, Faith, really he’s not. He acts differently when you’re around. I think you’re projecting your own feelings onto me. I don’t feel like that about him,” she sobbed. “And he talks about you all the time. He thinks you’re wonderful—he thinks you’re a much better person than I am.”

Brooke stopped crying and got very quiet. I put my arm around her. “It’s OK,” I said. “It’s OK. You’ll figure it out. Don’t listen to me, what do I know? I’m just an angry, deprived daughter with a long list of grievances. I’m hardly unbiased. Let’s change the subject.”