Some Like It Hot (22 page)
“I want to see.” Maddy was practically pleading from her seat at the manicure station, which the eyebrow queen of Los Angeles had transformed into a brow-and-makeup center.
“Nope. Makeup first,” Valerie declared, brushing nonexistent eyebrow pluckings from her black cashmere turtleneck/black Anne Klein trousers combination. She then opened the levels of her traveling makeup box as the other girls gathered around to watch.
Valerie was a consummate artist. She used Cle de Peau ivory concealer under Maddy's eyes to soften the dark circles, then sponged a translucent creamy base all over Maddy's face. “The trick is to make sure your natural skin shines through.” Valerie explained her work as if she were teaching a class. “Your freckles are cute, so we'll leave them.”
Colorless loose powder came next, to set the base. Then Valerie focused once more on Maddy's eyes, blending shades of soft matte beige, taupe, and pink eye shadow, and following that with a deftly wielded eye-brow pencil. Three coats of Blinc Kiss Me black mascara onto curled eyelashes, then it was back to the cheeks with cream blush, plus a touch of Valerie's signature fairy dust sparkling powder above it on the cheekbones.
Finally Valerie went to the lips: Burt's Bees lip plumper, followed by a rose lip pencil, followed by a high-shine clear lip gloss. The makeup artist stepped back and squinted at her subject. “I'm good, if I do say so myself. Okay, gotta go, have a class at Yoga Booty in forty-five.” She turned to Sam, who was standing with everyone else in a cluster around the makeup table. “Sam, I'll send the bill.”
“Thanks, Valerie. You're a lifesaver.”
“I know.” Valerie gathered up her weaponry and departed.
“You guys
have
to let me see,” Maddy pleaded. She stood up as if to go to the big mirror, but Sam blocked her path.
“Nope,” Sam told her. “Go put on your prom dress first. In the bathroom.”
“I'll help,” Anna volunteered.
“I'll do it,” Sam responded quickly. “I want to make sure she keeps that dress clean.”
She couldn't help it. Sam simply had to compare Maddy's body with her own, which turned out to be a bad idea. No matter how shy Maddy was in her WalMart white cotton underwear—very shy, indeed—the truth was right there for Sam to see. Maddy might tip the scales at a higher number, but her body still put Sam's to shame. Her waist was easily ten inches smaller then her bust, and her hips were maybe an inch smaller than her bust. Hourglass, all the way. It might not be the Hollywood look of the moment, and there were plenty of surgery scars, but hot was hot and Sam knew it.
Shit
. An image of Eduardo entwined with a dangerously curvy French girl—Veronique? Danielle? Martine? —whose body was just like Maddy's flew uninvited into her head. The image morphed into a feature that Sam was helpless to turn off.
Stop. This is not about you.
Okay. She could rise above this.
She helped Maddy into her lavender prom dress and Jimmy Choos, instructed her to close her eyes, and led her back into the bedroom. Anna, Cammie, Dee, and Gillian had unveiled the 270-degree mirror; Sam positioned Maddy right in front of it. “Open up,” she instructed.
Maddy did. Her jaw fell; her eyes grew enormous.
“Is that me?” she whispered faintly.
“This is just like
The Swan
!” Dee cried happily.
Maddy's eyes pooled with tears. “I just can't … I can't believe …”
“Don't cry, for God's sake!” Cammie commanded. “You'll ruin the makeup.”
“You look beautiful, Maddy.” Anna hugged her warmly.
Maddy looked around at them, overwhelmed. “You guys just met me, and then you go and do something unbelievable like this. I don't know what to say, except thank you.”
“You're welcome,” Sam replied.
So. Maddy had a better body than she did. She was also, with newly arched brows and decent makeup, considerably prettier. Still, Sam's heart momentarily went out to the girl who previously had been hidden under a mountain of fat. Which was remarkable, because Sam's heart rarely went out to anyone. For the second time in twenty-four hours—the third, if you counted her change of heart with the prom weenies—it felt good.
B
en straightened his bow tie and went to the refrigerator for the first of the two corsages he'd be bestowing that evening. Anna had asked for something simple and white, so hers was freesia blossoms from Floral Originals by Gregory on Wilshire Boulevard. Maddy hadn't specified what color she'd be wearing, so the gay salesman had recommended a white orchid surrounded by white baby roses, which wouldn't clash with whatever color gown she'd be wearing. While he'd been getting dressed—a Hugo Boss three-button tuxedo with a classic white shirt without ruffles and a black bow tie, Maddy had slipped a scrawled note under his door, suggesting that he wait for her in the kitchen. That was fine. It wouldn't matter what she looked like. He was going to help make a wonderful night for her and treat her like a princess, albeit of the little sister varie—
Maddy stepped into the kitchen. “Hi, Ben.” She was so nervous she could barely get the words out.
Whoa
. Ben could not believe what he was seeing. She wore a lavender gown. No, wait. It was a low-cut top and a long skirt, the combination skimming gracefully over her curves. Her hair was glossy and straight, her brows … her eyes … her lips …
Ben was a guy, which meant he couldn't decipher everything she'd done. There was no doubt, however, that the Maddy he was looking at bore little resemblance to the Maddy he knew. No way could she be mistaken for anyone's little sister.
“Maddy. You look beautiful.”
“Really?” She gazed across the room at him from under sooty, smoldering lashes.
“Really. Wow.”
“That's what I was hoping you would say.”
Ben held out the white corsage. “For you.”
She came to him, took the box, but fumbled opening it—now, this was the Maddy he knew—so he unwrapped the corsage for her and slipped it on her left wrist. “I never had one of these before,” she breathed, turning her wrist this way and that. “I feel like I'm in a movie.”
“You
look
like you're in a movie,” he remarked. “So, Shall we?”
Ben held out his elbow for her to take his arm and escorted her through the house and out the front door … where he had arranged a surprise.
“A limo! A stretch limo!” she exclaimed, grasping his arm tightly. “Oh my gosh, I've never been in a limo. Holy cow, we have to get pictures!”
Ben laughed as she dug a disposable Kodak camera out of her evening bag and took some shots of the black limo. Then she asked the driver—a middle-aged Russian man with close-cropped dark hair in a black suit and tie—to photograph the two of them with his vehicle as a backdrop.
Ben checked his classic Steinhausen wristwatch, trying not to make it too obvious. He'd promised to meet Anna in Palmdale at ten-thirty. No way was he going to be late.
Pacific Palisades High School's junior prom was being held at the Getty Center, the huge new art museum perched on a hillside at the south end of the Sepulveda Pass between Westwood and Sherman Oaks. Traffic on Sunset and Sepulveda Boulevards was actually moving, so the limousine pulled into the Getty Center round-about within twenty minutes of having left the Birnbaums' front door. There, the Golden Boys Valets were stationed—the company's conceit was that all the handsome young out-of-work actors who moonlighted for the agency had to bleach their hair blond. A Golden Boy built like a linebacker helped Maddy from the limo, since one couldn't drive up to the Getty Center itself. Instead, a silver monorail train ran from the roundabout up the hillside to the museum proper.
As the limo headed for the three-story parking structure, Ben and Maddy joined a small group already waiting for the monorail. Though the girls were in gorgeous gowns and the boys in crisply pressed tuxedos, Ben marveled at how young they looked. Was it really such a big jump from high school junior to college freshman? Maddy shyly greeted one girl in a strapless red velour gown, but other than that, she didn't seem to know these kids. Moments later, the four-car white monorail pulled up. Ben and Maddy stepped inside for the quick trip to the museum itself. There was only one other couple in their monorail car—a muscular Latino guy with a blond girl who had extremely long, extremely straight hair.
“The architect who designed this place is Richard Meier. Did you know that?” Maddy asked nervously, sounding like a guidebook audio CD. “There's a mix of buildings, beautiful gardens, and open spaces, with a view of the whole Los Angeles basin.”
Ben nodded politely as the monorail rounded a soft curve. It was a hazy night in Southern California—the lights of the city swirled like the stars in a Van Gogh painting.
“They used sixteen thousand tons of travertine from Bagni de Tivoli. There are fossilized leaves and feathers and branches still in the stone.”
Ben smiled gently. “I know, Maddy.”
She looked surprised. “You do? This docent from the museum gave a speech at an assembly last week.”
“I got the same speech when I was in high school.”
“Oh.” Maddy started to bite at a hangnail, then remembered she had a fresh manicure and stopped herself. “Were Sam and Cammie there, too?”
He raised his eyebrows. “How do you know Sam and Cammie?”
“We all did prom prep this afternoon. Anna and Cammie and Sam and Dee. At Sam's house.”
Ben smiled, very pleased. “Anna really came through for you, huh?”
“Actually … I think it was all of their idea. But Sam was the one who set up the hair and makeup and had this cool stylist bring over dresses. The worst part was my eyebrows. Ouch! But now I know you have to suffer for beauty.”
They reached the top of the hill and stepped out of their monorail car, then followed several other couples into the complex. Ben had been here before but always marveled at the Getty Center's astonishing architecture. There were seven gleaming white, geometrically intricate buildings, each containing art from a different era. A dazzling riot of plants and flowers stood sentry to the walkways while a natural stream led to a cascading waterfall that poured into a sparkling blue pool with a floating maze of azaleas. Some couples were wandering around the gardens; a few were already making out. In one of the arbors a small stage had been set up, where a harpist played a sedate version of the REO Speedwagon classic “Keep on Loving You.” As Ben and Maddy watched the harpist, an angelic-looking girl in a pink tutu and fairy wings slithered over and sprinkled fairy dust on their shoulders.
“What was that for?” Ben asked, brushing the pink glitter from the lapels of his tux.
Maddy giggled. “This year's prom theme is fairyland. I voted for the eighties, but lost. Come on. Let's go inside, where the real party is.”
They walked to the south end of the plaza, boarded the long escalator, turned right at the top, and entered what was normally the Getty Center's main restaurant. Glass-walled, it offered a panoramic view of the low-slung Santa Monica mountains to the west and north, their dark shapes visible against the deepening blue of the evening sky. For the event, the staff had arranged circular tables with fairy-tale-themed centerpieces around the room, while a dance floor and stage had been erected at the west end of the restaurant. Enormous blown-up cells from animated fairy-tale movie adaptations adorned the walls, and the servers were dressed as characters ranging from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs to Rapunzel. The band hadn't yet started its first set, but a DJ already had the place rocking; kids jammed on the dance floor to Kanye West's “Golddigger.”
“Maddy!” An angular-faced skinny girl with braces, her unnaturally burgundy hair adorned with pink baby's breath that matched her pink-and-white strapless gown, ran over to them and hugged Maddy as if they were sisters who had lost each other in wartime. “Oh my gosh, shut
up
! You look fantastic!” she squealed.
“So do you!” Maddy squealed back.
“No lie, you look amazing. I hardly even recognized you!”
“Really?” Maddy's face lit up as she grabbed Ben's arm, practically dislocating it from his shoulder in the process. “Theresa Kushner, this is Ben Birnbaum. Ben, this is my friend, Theresa. She was on the prom committee.”
“You did a great job,” Ben affirmed politely.
Theresa beamed as the deejay brought “Golddigger” to a close. “Thanks. The little garden fairies throwing fairy dust on people? That was my idea. And my mom does PR for the Roasters; that's how we got them to play. We almost lost them to Beverly Hills High!”
“Lucky you,” Ben grinned.
God, had he been this young two years ago? It didn't seem possible.
Maddy's eyes strayed intently around the room, as if she were looking for someone. Theresa tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Earth to Maddy!”
“Have you seen Mr. T?”
The skinny girl nodded toward the crowded dance floor. “He was dancing with Miss Brewster last time I saw him. But that was like twenty minutes ago.”
“Miss Brewster?” Maddy echoed. “But she's so mean to us!”
“Yeah. But she's got big boobs and her dress is to die for. Anyway, I gotta go. My boyfriend drank so much in the limo that he's already hurling behind the Renaissance Pavilion. See ya.”
By the time Theresa departed, the five members of the Roasters—four grungy white guys with a Rastafarian black lead singer—had taken the stage to an enormous cheer from the gathered crowd. They launched into a rocking ska-tinged tune at earsplitting volume.
“Dance, Maddy?” Ben shouted, over the lead singer's soaring wail.
She was in his arms the moment they hit the dance floor. To Ben, it felt … not odd, but different, to be holding such a voluptuous girl. Maddy was as different from Anna as different could be.
Not only that, she was definitely looking over his shoulder.
“Watching for someone?”
“Oh, you know, just want to see who shows up,” she replied, making a point of gazing up into his eyes. “You're a good dancer, Ben. Am I doing it right?”
Ben was bemused. “You're doing great, Maddy,” he assured her.
