Tainted Love (9 page)

“Well … was Platinum like that when she was a teenager?” Kiley asked.

“Like what?” Susan asked.

“Like that girl over there,” Kiley explained. “A show-off.”

“Not exactly. First off, Rhonda is two years older than I am.”

“
Older
?” Kiley couldn't believe it. “But all the bios I read—”

“I know.” Susan shrugged. “Her PR people are really good at rewriting history, and the press is really good about repeating the rewrites. I know it's hard to believe.”

True. Platinum looked a good decade younger than Susan. It was amazing what good hair, makeup, skin care, and Dr. Barry Weintraub's skills as a plastic surgeon could do.

“Anyway,” Susan continued, “we were both born in Michigan, but after that we moved around a lot, and ended up in San Francisco in the seventies. We went to Catholic school there. I loved it but Rhonda hated it. She cut all the time and got into punk, which was just starting to be big. She was friends with Jello Biafra, Rocky Graham from the Symptoms, the guys from Eye Protection, the Mutants, the deejays at KSAN and then at KUSF—”

“How can you even remember all that?” Kiley asked.

Susan grinned conspiratorially. “I was the little sister. I knew them all, too.”

Whoa. There was a whole hidden side to the colonel's wife that Kiley never could have imagined. “So they were your friends?”

“Not really. But they fascinated me. Rhonda brought them home sometimes. Even I wanted to be friends with them. … Well, I guess I just don't have the rebel gene. I was just a lot more studious than Rhonda. And religious. I worshipped the nuns. She worshipped the hardest of hard-core punk. Of course, we were just teens then. That was before she became a rock star in the eighties.”

“So she started singing and you—?”

“Went to college in San Diego. To the University of San Diego. It's a Jesuit school—perfect for me.” She drew her pale
knees up to her chest. “That wasn't my dream, though. What I really wanted to do was go to Scripps.”

No way. Impossible.

“Did you say … Scripps?” Kiley queried. “The oceanography institute?”

Susan nodded. “It's in La Jolla—”

Kiley sat up. “That's where I want to go! That's why I auditioned for your sister's TV show—so I could establish California state residency and get in-state tuition. If I get in, of course. This is just so amazing!”

Susan smiled. “I wanted to work with dolphins. How about you?”

“I don't know yet,” Kiley admitted. “There's just something about the ocean …I can't explain it. Why didn't you go to Scripps?”

“I didn't get in.”

Kiley felt a physical pang, as if the rejection was happening to her. “That must have been so hard.”

Susan nodded. “I was devastated. Anyway, I ended up studying elementary education instead.”

Kiley couldn't get over it. What were the odds that she and Susan would have Scripps in common?

“So, go on,” she urged, liking Susan more by the minute. “How did you meet the colonel?”

“At a church function.” She looked into the distance, her eyes dreamy. “He was so responsible—an actual marine at Camp Pendleton and a practicing Catholic like me. I knew I could always depend on Richard.” Her gaze went back to Kiley. “So, that's it. We got married, had our children, and I became a marine wife. Not something I necessarily recommend—hold
on.” She cocked her chin toward the far end of the pool deck, where the colonel and Anya, still dressed for golf, were approaching, laughing together about something. “I'll tell you more later,” she added quickly.

“I'd like that.”

A moment or two later, the colonel and Anya joined Kiley and Susan, unslinging their golf bags and plopping heavily down on two deck chairs.

“How did you play, dear?” Susan asked, reverting instantly to marine-wife mold.

“Like Tiger Woods!” the colonel boomed. He was tall and thin, with the perfect posture of a career military man, close-cropped gray hair, and a chiseled chin. He wore bright blue golf pants with a knife pleat and a white golf shirt with the Marine Corps logo emblazoned on the left chest.

“Like Tiger Woods on bad day with blindfold!” Anya hooted in her Russian accent.

To Kiley's shock, the colonel laughed heartily at Anya's dis.

“I shot an eighty-five,” he admitted.

“And me eighty-three,” Anya added proudly. “I beat him. Lucky for him we were not playing streep poker!”

“The actress?” the colonel joshed. “Meryl Streep poker?”

“Very funny joke!” Anya slapped him on the back and grinned broadly.

“You're a card, Anya,” said the colonel. “Streep poker? A card? Get it?”

Anya roared with laughter. “A card? Like joker? You very funny man!”

Kiley stared at them in amazement. Not only was it the first time she'd ever seen Lydia's dour employer laugh, but it was
also the first time she'd ever heard the colonel make anything approaching a joke.

He looked at his wife. “We're going to go get a beer. Susan, can you join us? Kiley, where are the children?”

“You should see them in the restaurant. They went in for a hamburger about fifteen minutes ago.”

The colonel smiled, and winked at Anya. “Very good. If they're eating contraband, it's seven years in the stockade for them.”

Anya roared with laughter again. Kiley looked at Susan, who wore a stiff smile as she slid off the chaise lounge and put on a terry cloth cover-up.

Anya clasped her hands together. “As your past president once said to our past president,
‘Doveryay, no proveryay.'
”

“Trust, but verify!” the colonel translated.

Anya clapped him on the back again. “You are smart man.” She turned to Kiley. “If you see Kat—she is on putting green— you tell where we are.”

“Those are orders, McCann,” the colonel barked.

“Yes, sir.” Kiley had learned the hard way about not responding directly when the colonel asked her something.

Anya laughed again, and the two golfers headed off toward the restaurant-and-bar complex, with Susan bringing up the rear. Kiley was appalled. Never, ever would she marry a guy who treated her the way the colonel treated Susan. Never, ever,
ever
.

“You can hang out right over there.” Jonathan pointed to a bank of monitors under a canopy that was set up in the parking lot of the rustic-looking convenience store in Topanga Canyon.

It was the very first day of production on
Montgomery
. The cast and crew would be at this convenience store, and the log cabin home located behind it, for the next week. Though still nominally inside the boundaries of Los Angeles, the convenience store and surrounding area had the look of small-town Alabama, where
Montgomery
(named for the main character, not the city) was set.

“You're sure it's okay?” Esme eyed the monitors and the handful of people sitting on black canvas director's chairs in front of them. They were laughing and chatting with one another; obviously at ease, which was definitely not how she felt on the walk down the hill from the movie's “base camp,”
where the cast and crew parked, equipment was stored, and the stars had their dressing trailers.

“Absolutely. They'll give you headphones, so you can watch and listen.”

Esme felt fortunate to be able to visit the set on this week-day morning. Steven Goldhagen was working and Diane had taken the twins to a birthday party at the Museum of Television & Radio on North Beverly Drive. The birthday boy, Romeo, was the son of an actor-turned-director and a mother well known for her role on a long-running sitcom as the ditzy one in a group of longtime friends. The parents had decided to throw their child a “Make Your Own Sitcom” birthday party. Adult actors would be on hand with a professionally written script, and the kids would improvise around those scripts. The whole thing would be filmed and duplicated by a professional camera crew. Each kid would receive a copy of
Oh, Romeo!
once the editors finished cutting and splicing it.

According to Diane, the space at the museum in which they would be shooting was very small, so the invitation had asked that nannies not attend. Tarshea had volunteered to stay at the Goldhagens’ and await the girls’ arrival and subsequent nap. Diane had no objection. Esme was grateful. Having Tarshea around was proving to be incredibly helpful.

The night before, Esme had been so excited about Jonathan's invitation to the movie set. Everyone in Los Angeles was used to seeing movies made from afar. Traffic jams often resulted when word spread over
www.gawkerholly wood.com
, a Web site that posted who was spotted where.

She'd spent a good hour trying to figure out what to wear. She didn't want to look as if she was trying too hard. On the
other hand, there were gorgeous girls in this movie with Jonathan. Since she'd be there as his girlfriend, she wanted to look hot. Finally she'd settled on tight black capris and a burnt orange Betsey Johnson camisole. Instead of a Valley girl high-heels-with-capris-means-I'mtrash look, she'd opted for black flats from an Echo shoe store where everything was under ten bucks, and hoped that their simplicity would keep people from realizing how cheap they were.

As she eyed the group of producers under the canopy, she felt nervous and insecure. “I might be in the way,” she pointed out with as much sauciness as she could muster.

“Nah, it's fine,” Jonathan assured her. “Just don't sit in any of the chairs that are marked Producer or Director.” He kissed her lightly. “Gotta go. Time for my shot.”

He headed toward the convenience store, having already explained that the upcoming sequence would be him coming out of the store and running into Mischa Barton, who played a high school sweetheart he'd dumped at prom two years before due to a misunderstanding. There were three cameras already aimed at the store, plus a burly guy testing a boom mike.

Esme took a deep breath.
Okay, you can do this
, she told herself.

Head held high, she strode into the canopied area. Immediately, a gorgeous young woman with red hair tumbling down her back stormed in after her. She carried a clipboard; her wireless headset was nearly obscured by her mass of curly hair.

“You.” She pointed to Esme, who hoped there wasn't already a problem.

“Yes?”

“Laszlo is out of diet Mountain Dew.”

Esme blinked. “Pardon?”

“I can't find Manuel—he always keeps Laszlo's cooler stocked, but I guess he's setting up for lunch. Go back to base camp and get him a cold six-pack. Now.”

She thinks I'm the hired help.

“I'm Jonathan Goldhagen's girlfriend,” Esme said stiffly.

“What? You're not with Craft Services?”

Esme shook her head.

“Sorry.” The girl's face turned as red as her hair. “I'm Laszlo's second assistant, Daphne.”

“Esme,” she replied tersely.

Daphne backed away. “I'm so sorry. Really.” She turned and scurried back toward the convenience store.

“Hey, Esme? Sit over here if you want,” a slender, attractive blonde who looked to be in her forties suggested, and patted the chair next to hers. “It's Laszlo's, but he never sits with us. He has his own clamshell monitor that he carries with him.”

“If you're sure it's okay …”

“It's fine,” the woman assured her, and Esme slid into the seat. “I'm Sara Risher, one of the executive producers.” She quickly introduced the other producers and assistants under the canopy. “Ever been on a movie set before?”

“No.”

“It seems much more glamorous than it really is. Mostly it's a lot of hurry up and wait. They've been setting up this shot for the past hour. Then they'll shoot for ten minutes and go on to the next sequence. If they do three pages of script a day, that's pretty decent.”

An African American girl with dreads, her headphone dangling off two fingers, eyed Esme with curiosity. Sara had
introduced her as Vanya, a makeup artist. “So you snagged Jonathan Goldhagen, huh?”

Esme bristled. “I didn't snag anyone.”

“Oh, girl, it's just a figure of speech, don't get all bent out of shape.” Vanya waved a dismissive hand that held glittery rings on every finger, and a dozen bangle bracelets just below it. “I meant it as a compliment. I worked on
Tiger Eyes
when he was with that witch Mackenzie. I'm glad to see that the boy's taste has improved. Of course, it couldn't get much worse.”

Esme laughed. “Thank you. I think.”

“Vanya is notoriously outspoken,” Sara quipped.

“Yet I keep getting hired anyway,” Vanya pointed out. “So I must be damn good.”

Daphne hustled back to them—it seemed to Esme that she was doing everything to avoid eye contact with her. “Bad news. Laszlo doesn't like the light. So we're breaking for lunch and we'll pick it up later.”

“That puts us behind schedule. We'll never make our day!” Sara protested. “Where am I supposed to find the money to pay for overtime?”

Daphne shrugged. Meanwhile, everyone under the canopy took off their wireless headphones and placed them in the oversized canvas pockets attached to the arms of their chairs for just that purpose.

“And so it goes in the magical world of moviemaking.” Sara sighed. “I'll show you the way to where we eat. You can meet Jonathan up there. Like I said, it's a lot of hurry up and wait.”