Tainted Love (5 page)

If the clothes were bad, her hair was worse. Her long, golden waves had been blunt cut to just below her chin. Serenity had cried the whole time she was in the stylist's chair at Supercuts—no more Raymond on Rodeo Drive for her—but the colonel was impervious to her misery. Buck up, he ordered, or he'd take her to the barber at Edwards Air Force Base.

With his mother's departure, Sid had gone through similar agony. He wore khaki shorts identical to his sister's, along with a red tennis shirt. His mop of blond hair had been buzzed off marines-style, his young chest and shoulders noticeably wider because of the push-ups he'd done in response to the colonel's discipline. Unlike his younger sister, he didn't have the heart of a rebel, and never tried to alter his new style.

The colonel had even regulated what Kiley could wear during work hours, which was why she was clad in black trousers and a white shirt, purchased with her new “work uniform” budget. To the colonel, discipline mattered. There was a
military-style regime at Platinum's estate; he kept track of merits and demerits on a pocket calculator.

All this horrified Platinum, but there was not a thing she could do about it. It had taken some hard convincing by her high-priced lawyer to convince Judge Ito to grant her a visitation with her children at a public location under the watchful eye of Ms. Johnson.

Platinum even had to have her clothes approved. Instead of, say, Badgley Mischka capris and a white Imitation of Christ tank top with Bottega Veneta Noce Super Spiga natural linen sandals, Ms. Johnson mandated de rigueur don't-notice-me threads: jeans, Chicago Cubs baseball cap, sunglasses, and a plain white men's dress shirt. So far, no one had noticed her presence.

As they strolled past the park midway, though, a tall model-thin girl in a Notre Dame High School varsity volleyball T-shirt, approaching from the opposite direction with a group of equally thin friends, stabbed a finger in their direction.

“Omigod!” she bellowed at a volume that could certainly be heard in eastern Nevada. “It's Platinum!”

Like a pack of zombies zooming in on fresh human meat, she and her teammates rushed forward, shouting Platinum's name, begging for autographs. Pieces of paper, pens, and lip pencils suddenly materialized in outstretched hands. The bodyguard and Ms. Johnson tried to step in front of Platinum to fend them off, but it was too late.

Other park guests overheard the name Platinum and joined in the ruckus. Within a few seconds, there were no fewer than fifty people clustered around the rock star. The fact that the object of their affections had recently been arrested for endangering
her children and had suffered the ignominy of being removed from her own home seemed not to matter a whit. Such was Platinum's star power.

“Back away, back away,” Granite ordered.

“Omigod, I'm like your biggest fan!” A fat middle-aged woman wearing a button that pledged her allegiance to Toby Keith pushed to the front of the circle, all three of her chins jiggling in ecstasy. She managed to thrust a gas station receipt and pencil stub at Platinum, avoiding Granite's beefy arm.

“Thanks,” Platinum replied, scribbling her name and handing it back. Cameras and cell-cameras were clicking away. Platinum posed, shoulders back, chest out, tossing her trademark silvery hair over one eye.

“You the bomb, girl!” a Latina yelled from the back of the mob. “What they did to you is a crime!”

Others in the crowd agreed enthusiastically. Kiley looked over at Ms. Johnson, who now had her hands on her hips and eyes narrowed.

“Not guilty!” A spontaneous chant erupted. “Not guilty! Not guilty!”

Platinum grinned wildly as the onlookers joined in with enthusiasm. “Thanks for your support. I'll have my day in court!”

Ms. Johnson stepped in. “We need to ratchet this down some,” she announced, but Platinum ignored her, blowing kisses to her fans and taking her grinning children under her arms.

“Clear out!” Granite yelled.

“Go!” Platinum told her admirers. “See you at the concert stage in a half hour! I'm singing!”

***

“Please welcome to the Magic Mountain main stage a very special surprise guest for the day. Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only … Platinum!”

A huge crowd had gathered. The people went wild, screaming, whistling, and clapping. Kiley stood just offstage with Ms. Johnson, Granite, and both kids. She watched as the leader of the Magic Mountain house band motioned to the wings. With professional aplomb, Platinum confidently strode to the mike and shook the clean-cut young man's hand.

“I'm not sure I should have allowed this,” Ms. Johnson groused. “Look at all these people.”

Once the park public address system had announced that Platinum was going to be performing a few songs in concert right here at Magic Mountain, it seemed as if every one of the thousands of guests visiting the park had flocked to the main stage circle, which only had enough wooden benches to seat several hundred. Most people came to Magic Mountain to ride the coasters like X and SCREAM!, not to listen to a glorified lounge act or watch one of the high school or amateur dance troupes take their moment in the sun. Platinum, though, was a big attraction, all the more so because of her recent notoriety.

“I think it's good for the kids,” Kiley said carefully. “It'll make them proud of their mom. Just look at them.”

Serenity and Sid stood together just to her left, their faces shining with pride.

“Maybe,” Ms. Johnson agreed. “But this is highly irregular.”

There had, in fact, been a heated impromptu conference when Platinum had announced that she'd be singing at the Magic Mountain main stage. It turned out that she had called
the park ahead of time and gotten permission to perform, so long as her minders were in agreement. Platinum played the it's-good-for-my-children card heavily, and a reluctant Ms. Johnson acquiesced, threatening to cut off the microphone and return Platinum straight to Judge Ito if there were any missteps.

Platinum had to wait a moment or two for the cheers to die down.

“Hello, Magic Mountain!” Her voice boomed through the public address system. “It's great to be here. Ready for some music?”

Platinum turned to the five-piece band that looked as if it had just collectively died and gone to rock-and-roll heaven, shouted some instructions, then whipped back around and launched into her first hit, “Eighth-Grade Roadkill.”

Platinum started pogoing around the stage while she sang—the transformation she made as a performer was remarkable, and she was in great shape for a woman well into her forties. Any other woman that age would have looked ridiculous. Platinum, though, just looked cool.

She brought that song to a close, and then raced through a four-song medley of her biggest hits: “Love Junkie,” “Eat Your Heart Out,” “More and More and More,” and “Who's Your Daddy?” This last one, Kiley knew, had been composed just a few years ago as a kind of answer song to all the queries Platinum got about the paternity of her children. She never answered that question, and the song lyrics underscored her intent never to tell.

“Who's Your Daddy?” finished to thunderous applause and whistles from the crowd.

Serenity was literally jumping up and down with glee. “That's my mom! That's my mom!”

“Talented lady, for sure,” the social worker muttered to Kiley. “If she could ever get her head screwed on right.” She gave a signal to Platinum that this would be her last song. Platinum made the okay sign to show that she understood.

“I'm here with two very special guests today,” Platinum told the crowd. “The most special people in the world. Friends, I'd like you to meet my two youngest children, Serenity and Siddhartha. Guys, come on out and take a bow!”

Once they got an approving nod from Ms. Johnson, Serenity and Sid charged out to their mom; the little girl blew kisses to the crowd as it cheered. Except for the clothes, she was a miniature of her mother, with an equal amount of moxie.

The singer put her arms around her children. “Some of you might know my family's had a difficult time lately. I've had a lot of time to just think. And write. I want you guys to hear a new song I wrote. It's called ‘I Don't Know.’ I don't know what the future is going to bring. But I do know if any of you are
moms or dads out there, love your children. And kids, show your moms and dads that you love them back.

Kiley looked out at the crowd as Platinum sang this very un-Platinum-like song. People's eyes were shining; parents with arms around their children were swaying to the melody.

This was a Platinum she'd never seen before. Hokey or not,
contrived or not, Machiavellian or not—Kiley was not so naive that she didn't see the PR benefits of a song and performance like this—it was still a touching moment. Impressive, in fact. If this was the new Platinum, maybe she needed to be arrested more often.

Esme contemplated her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she quickly pulled her hair back in a ponytail for a no-nonsense nanny look. At least that was what she'd hoped for. Diane had given her the morning off because Easton and Weston were seeing their English-language coach, a multilingual professor at USC who made extra money removing the accents of those who immigrated. Though Esme had assured Diane that the twins would sound completely American in a matter of months, the anxious mother wasn't taking any chances.

Even with the twins away, Diane asked Esme to come up to the house. There was something she wanted to discuss. Esme was puzzled, since things had been going really well lately; she'd even been given a raise. She hoped it wasn't about Jonathan. Their most recent night together, after she finished his tattoo, they'd celebrated his potential new movie role with Taittinger champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, and fresh mango. After
that … well, remembering the “after that” part was what made her blush. They'd awakened on the pool table. Enough said.

As she hurried up the gravel path to the main house, past the swings and sandbox where she had first met Easton and Weston, past the tennis court where she had first seen Jonathan hitting balls with Mackenzie, she vowed to banish thoughts of that night from her mind.

Steven and Diane Goldhagen's Bel Air mansion was in a class by itself in a city that sprouted mansions like dunghills sprouted mushrooms. Three floors and thirty rooms, it was constructed of natural wood, with soaring windows and radically sloped roofs. A series of cascading reflecting pools that produced a constant lulling white noise lined one side and circled around to the front.

Esme approached it from the back, pulling open the heavy, gleaming brass door handle and then making her way through the enormous front hallway with its twenty-foot ceiling toward the family room. This room was a marvel. Half open-air and half roofed, it could be closed off completely in the rare case of inclement weather. There was a freestanding stone fireplace surrounded by a riot of flowers that were changed every other day by the local Conroy's floral shop.

She found Diane already waiting. Esme guessed that her employer was a good fifteen years younger than her husband of two years. The embodiment of a Hollywood cliché, she was Steven's second wife, upgraded from being a line producer on one of his many successful shows. Since they married, she'd quit working, preferring to devote her time to her hair, makeup, and body, plus any number of worthy charities. Today she wore a Louis Vuitton cotton and silk taupe jacket with gold
piping, and skinny jeans. Her champagne-colored toy poodle, Cleo, whose look changed as often as Diane's, sat by her feet. For today, the Beverly Hills Mutt Club—the designer canine boutique on Santa Monica Boulevard—had outfitted the poodle in a gold lamé doggie sweater with a gold neck ribbon, plus matching glittery gold polish on Cleo's perfectly manicured nails. As a BHMC member, Cleo also received regular doggie massages and a “communication session” with Kim OgdenAvrutik, famous for her ability to speak with canines.