Tall Cool One (13 page)
“Hey, Parker,” Adam greeted him. Parker was an actor wannabe who skated by on his incredible good looks. Lack of talent and IQ points didn’t seem to prevent him from hooking up with some of the hottest girls in Beverly Hills. But Twyla and her friends barely registered Parker’s appearance. They were too busy manhandling Adam. Which, from Adam’s point of view, made zero sense. He knew he was supposed to like it, but he really wasn’t attracted to Twyla. Frankly, he just found the attention peculiar.
“So Twyla, I got three extra passes to this private party at Deep tonight,” Parker went on. “P. Diddy’s shooting a video there. You fine ladies want to go?”
“That depends,” Twyla answered coyly, accidentally-on-purpose brushing her left breast against Adam’s arm. “Do
you
want to go?”
“Um, Parker said
three
passes, Twyla,” Adam pointed out. “And I have a girlfriend.”
“So?” She looped a playful finger through his belt. He stepped away from her.
“Okay, this is wack,” Adam insisted. “Whatever you’re on, go for a half tab next time.”
He extricated himself from the girls just in time to see Cammie undulate in his direction. “Hey, handsome,” she called.
God, she was something else. That voice. Just the sound of it could get him . . . Damn. He wished he could take her back to that beach. Right this very second.
She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. “Missed you.”
“Missed you, too.”
She edged up again to whisper in his ear. “Let’s ditch school and go to my house. No one’s there.”
“I’ve got bio. And then a calc test.”
“What’s more important? Me or calc?”
“Let’s just say the calc test is slightly more time-sensitive.” He ran a hand down her back. “Can I take you up on that offer later?”
“Ooh, sounds fun, can I come, too?” Twyla asked. Parker and Twyla’s two friends had slipped away, but Twyla had hung around long enough to overhear what Cammie was saying.
“Sure. What say you mix drinks, turn down the bed, then back out of the room and close the door?” Cammie made a shooing gesture with her hand, and Twyla scooted away into the passing throng.
“Bizarre,” Adam muttered. “I feel like I just walked into some surreal Charlie Kaufman flick, and I’m the only one who didn’t get the script.”
“The only movie I’m interested in has a cast of two.” Cammie leaned into him.
“I second that emotion.” He leaned in to kiss her. “I have zero interest in having Twyla give me a lap dance.”
“A
what?
”
“She practically offered. Hey, it’s not like I took her up on it.”
“You’re such a modest stud puppy,” Cammie teased. “So, we on for later? I have to ditch early to go to Poppy’s baby shower. But after that?”
“Absolutely.”
The bell rang. All around them, kids hustled out of the quad and into the buildings. Meanwhile Cammie gave the finger to one of the ever-present security cameras mounted on posts in the quad.
“Testy, testy,” Adam teased, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Actually, I’ve got a surprise for you. Later.”
“Really?” She looked up at him. “Good surprise?”
“Hope so.”
“Is it a
big
surprise?”
He laughed and swatted her butt. “I’m late for bio,” he said, then veered off into the opposite hall. “I’ll tell you later.”
Three minutes later, he walked into his biology lab. “Adam, wow, you look so hot in those jeans,” Krishna Kaplan remarked. She had an affinity for collagen and was known for having the puffiest lips at Beverly Hills High School. Now she gently bit her enormous bottom lip and then smiled.
Again, weird. Maybe he was dreaming that he was in some grade-C porn flick. If so, when Mr. Davis entered the classroom, he’d be clad in black leather and a dog collar, and built like Andy Roddick, and that new girl with the great ass would be sitting on his desk taking dictation.
Definitely no dream. Mr. Davis, whose massive stomach had obliterated his belt line late in the twentieth century, emerged in his usual khaki pants, blue polyester shirt, and lab coat stretched to the max. No leather. No dog collar.
Krishna, however, gave Adam a salacious wink.
Huh. Maybe all the flirting was because he and Cammie were now a couple. Mere mortal girls wanted whatever the goddess possessed, and the goddess of Beverly Hills High School was Cammie Sheppard.
Yeah. That had to be it.
D
ee gazed around the ballroom at the Sharpe compound and broke into a broad smile. Everything was perfect. More than perfect.
There were fifteen round tables. At each table sat exactly twelve of the two hundred of Poppy’s dearest friends and family who’d been invited to the baby shower. All female. And nearly every guest had obeyed the invitation’s suggestion to wear either white or a shade of red.
Each table supported a statue of a naked Mayan fertility goddess, albeit with Poppy’s profile—a trick she’d stolen from her own wedding, where there were ice sculptures of Aphrodite carved in her likeness. Red roses and honeysuckle sprigs surrounded the statue’s base. From overhead, supported by strong monofilament line, hung jeweled mobiles of red pelicans carrying baby baskets. The name Ruby Hummingbird Sharpe was encrusted on each basket in Swarovski crystals.
Best of all, Dee had been seated at the main table right next to Poppy. The only other people there were Poppy’s mother, grandmother, sisters, and her female cousins from Texas. There was a place set for Sam, but she was nowhere in sight.
Dee felt as if she had gotten a whole new family; the thought choked her up with happiness. Not that she didn’t love her own family. But her father was the well-known and venerable rock-’n’-roll producer Graham Young. He’d been the go-to guy for a number of platinum-selling pop artists for two decades and was always busy in the studio or on the road with whatever diva was doing drugs and/or having a breakdown. As for her mother, she’d been one of the pioneers of the music video business—it was how she’d met Graham. But Karen had dropped out to raise Dee and run her husband’s business from home. Now, with Dee a senior in high school, Karen had gone on a self-improvement kick that kept her almost as busy as Graham. She was either at the Century Club gym, taking history classes at Loyola-Marymount, or volunteering at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. (Dee suspected her mom was doing one of the museum curators, judging by the amount of time she worked in his office.)
Dee was an only child. It didn’t used to bother her—she and Sam and Cammie had been friends for so long that it seemed like they were sisters. But ever since Anna Percy had arrived from New York, there’d been tension in their trio. So to be in the bosom of Poppy’s family was very precious. The more she thought about it, it was as if Poppy had been sent to her by divine ordination.
The proof of this was that Poppy had chosen
her
to help with all the baby preparations. Poppy had even asked Dee to help choose her outfit: a custom-designed Carlos Miele red mohair pregnancy sweater with white satin cargo pants that exposed a bit of distended belly in all its glory to the world. Dee thought she had never seen anyone look more beautiful in her entire life.
It made her recall when she’d almost-sort-of thought that she herself was pregnant with Ben Birnbaum’s baby. That would have been so cool. But Dee had learned her lesson: Don’t hold onto something that isn’t going to happen. She hadn’t been pregnant, and she’d known it all the time in her heart of hearts, too. It had been a ploy for attention that she now knew was toxic thinking. Now, when something happened that made her feel bad, she’d replace it with something good and purchase herself a minibag by her favorite designer. Let go and let Gucci.
The waitstaff was all female, in button-down red shirts with white tuxedo pants. That had been Poppy’s idea, as had the red-and-white color-themed menu: pomegranate, strawberry, and chestnut salad, followed by tomatoes au gratin and chicken in white sauce, finished with cherry sorbet and a strawberry-and-vanilla layer cake. There was also an Atkins alternative: thinly sliced, extremely rare roast beef.
Nor had Poppy and Dee forgotten the party favors. At each place setting was a gift bag, including a new shade of red lipstick MAC had created just for this occasion, called Ruby Hummingbird. There were also Francois Rose Parfum, a rose-toned BlackBerry, and a Jules le Grat watch with loose faux rubies that floated over its oversized face.
The only male in the room was Yanni. He sat at a white grand piano, wearing a formal white suit and red tie, playing his compositions. These were melodious and serene, almost like the trance-inducing space music that Dee liked to play in her room before she went to sleep. In fact, Dee and Poppy had specifically requested that Yanni not play anything in a minor key, lest he upset the harmonic energy in the room. The musician had gladly acceded to the request.
“What’s this thingie in the salad?” Poppy’s oldest sister asked, pointing at a fruit she obviously didn’t recognize.
“Pomegranate,” Poppy piped up. “Flown in from Morocco. It’s delicious and very good for you.”
Her sister shrugged and forked up a slice of fruit. “I’m into iceberg lettuce and ranch dressing.” Another sister nodded her agreement.
Culinary tastes aside, Dee noticed a striking resemblance among the Sinclair women. All of Poppy’s relatives—grandmother, mother, sisters, and cousins—had wide blue eyes, thin lips, and high cheekbones. The only differences between them and Poppy were their exceptionally doughy noses and exceptionally minuscule cleavage. Poppy had taken care of both those problems her first month in Hollywood, though it had put her in credit card debt that had lingered until she met Jackson Sharpe.
After lunch, an army of international experts marched in and set up at stations around the ballroom: Russian nail techs from Galina’s Nails in Bel Air, an army of masseuses with massage chairs from Fung Wu in Pacific Palisades, and the female stylists from Raymond’s new salon on Canon Drive. Each guest could choose which type of pampering she preferred.
Finally, when every woman was well fed, gorgeous, and relaxed, Poppy went to sit in a throne-like red velvet chair that had been placed next to a large table brimming with wrapped gifts of every size and shape. Normally Jackson’s assistant, Kiki, would have kept track of who gave what and then handwritten the thank-you notes for Poppy’s signature. But Kiki was in Chicago with Jackson for a publicity blitz in advance of Jackson’s newest movie,
Lucky Charmed
(a whimsical comedy in which Jackson played a forty-five-year-old American advertising executive who had run out of ideas but meets a leprechaun who saves his career—for a price). So Dee had been drafted for the job. She was more than happy to do it.
There’d been a big debate about how to do the presents. Normally they’d all be opened. Because there were so many guests, they’d decided to unwrap only a representative sampling.
Dee started things off by handing Poppy a large silver envelope. Poppy read it aloud and grinned from ear to ear. “This is the best! From Dr. and Mrs. Dan Birnbaum, a postpartum tummy tuck. Omigod, that is so thoughtful!”
Dee led the underwhelming round of applause. Dr. Birnbaum—Ben’s father—was a famous plastic surgeon. While a tummy tuck was a really useful present, it wasn’t as if it had cost Janet Birnbaum a cent in time, money, or effort. Everyone knew it.
The gifts kept coming. An Ecco Baby Sling. A Baby Einstein Learning System. A Bebe Sounds sounds-and-movement monitor that raised an alarm if a baby stopped moving—even breathing—for more than twenty seconds, and a Sassy Deluxe Curved Back and Side Sleeper that was designed to help baby get a full night’s sleep in her bassinet.
“Open mine,” Cammie suggested, and passed a small square box to Poppy. It was wrapped in red leopard-print paper. Dee wasn’t feeling any too thrilled with Cammie, who had showed up in a sky blue Dolce & Gabbana camisole and white jeans. She was the one guest who had eschewed red completely. But Poppy obliged, tearing off the wrapping paper and extracting a pink rabbit fur bra and thong set lined in red satin.
“Oh my gosh. Red fur! This is so wild! Wait until Jackson sees. It’s a good thing we’ll have two baby nurses so we can try these out! Thank you so much, Cammie.”
The guests applauded enthusiastically for the outrageous gift. Dee had to admit it was just like Cammie to pull off something that no one else could. Like Sam always said—
Sam.
Wait a minute. Dee scanned the room. Where was Sam?
Cammie sidled over to Dee. “You did a great job on this shower, Dee. If I ever have a lapse in sanity and decide to breed, remind me not to have one of these. What you did here couldn’t be topped.”
Dee beamed. “Thanks, Cammie. That means a lot to me. Listen, have you seen Sam anywhere?”
“Last night. We went to Spider Club together,” Cammie replied. “Why?”
“How about today?”
Cammie shook her curls off her face. “Now that you mention it, no.”
“Isn’t that strange? That she’d miss
this?
”
Cammie shrugged. “Not to me. Poppy makes Sam gag. So there is only one reasonable conclusion.”
“What’s that?” Dee asked.
“She had something better to do. Just like I do now. Enjoy the party. I’m off to enjoy Adam.” With that, Cammie turned on her three-inch Kenneth Cole black patent leather pumps and strode away.
T
he bored bellhop whose nameplate said Peter opened the door to a suite at the Au Mer hotel in Santa Monica. Adam stepped inside.
Whoa. Impressive.
“Our goal here at Au Mer is fun and luxury,” Peter droned. “The rugs were woven in Turkey to match the earth tones of the George Smith custom furniture. In the bathroom, you’ll notice that the nineteenth-century French washstand has been converted into a fully functional sink. The floors are parquet wood, the fireplace wood-burning, but don’t even think about using it, because this a non-smoking room. The ocean can be reached from the elevator at the far end of the hall; it opens to our pool area and the beach. Happy?”
