Tall Cool One (6 page)
“Yeah, I’m up for anything,” Adam joked. “That is, if we don’t count last night.”
Cammie shrugged. “Already forgotten,” she lied.
He grinned at her. “If at first you don’t succeed . . .”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “My sentiments exactly.”
Ten minutes later, armed with the plastic money chips, they’d visited several of the open-air food vendors arrayed around the plaza and loaded up on pad Thai, meat satays, papaya salad, and sweet pancake rolls. By the time they found some unoccupied space on the grass under a huge eucalyptus tree, Cammie’s mouth was literally watering at the luscious aroma from the food. Meanwhile, Adam extracted a thin ground cloth from his backpack, along with linen napkins, silverware, and two small thermos bottles.
“The fair lady said something about a mimosa?” he asked, offering Cammie one of the thermoses.
“You’re kidding. You mixed mimosas?”
“I’m a guy of many talents.”
Cammie bit into a forkful of pad Thai. “Delicious. But I don’t get it. You moved here last year from Michigan, I’ve lived in L.A. my entire life. Why didn’t I know about this place?”
“Umm . . . because there are no waiters and no valet parking?” Adam quipped.
“That must be it.” She leaned over to kiss him. What started out as a peck turned into the real, pad Thai–flavored thing. “Yum.”
They ate for a while, watching the passing parade. When Cammie recognized two cast members from
Saturday Night Live
with an Endeavor agent named Ari Something-or-other who had once threatened to put out a hit on her father, she knew this had to be an actual Hollywood insiders’ hot spot. Eventually she put her food aside half eaten; there were only so many calories she was willing to ingest while the sun was still up.
“So, what would you like to do
now?
” she asked, keeping her tone low and suggestive, though there was a definite answer she was looking for. From their spot under the tree, she could see the tops of both the Universal City Hilton (decent, though it catered to too many tourists) and the Universal City Sheraton (somewhat less nice, but hey, for what she had in mind, they wouldn’t be spending a lot of time in the lobby). It was a Sunday; people checked out early to catch their planes, so there would certainly be a suite available.
Adam took way too long to answer. “I don’t know how to ask you this,” he began, “but . . .”
“Ask,” Cammie commanded. She could already picture them inside a suite, already imagine the look on his face when he realized he’d just lucked into the sexiest girl on the planet.
“I do some work for Habitat for Humanity,” Adam went on. “They’re building houses for two homeless families on this vacant lot in South Central. How ’bout we go down and help out? I’ve got a few hours before I’m supposed to run hoops down in Venice with some guys from the team.”
A house? He had a few hours, and he wanted her to help build a
house?
Was there something wrong with him? Maybe he was gay. No. Couldn’t be. Cammie’s gaydar was better than that. Her friend Dee was the one who hooked up with gay guys. What could the problem possibly be? Her? What if it
was
her? What if he’d decided that she wasn’t a charitable enough human being or some such shit? Well, she would change, if that was what it would take to get this guy to want her.
Pushing aside thoughts of what hell would be wrought upon her French manicure, Cammie smiled and did her best to look enthusiastic. There was something touching about a guy sincere enough to believe that pounding nails in the hot sun would save the whales, the redwoods, Tibet, and the universe. She kissed him again and told the second lie of the day.
“I’d love to.”
Had Kabbalah Reprogrammed Her Neurons?
S
am was confused. The noxious smell that had awakened her was paint. Fresh paint. But fresh paint made no sense. Her father and Poppy had flown in Harry Schnaper, the famous New York interior designer, only three weeks ago. Under Harry’s meticulous direction, the whole upstairs had been redone and repainted. Everything: the bedrooms, the new nursery, even the hallway. So Sam rolled over, buried her nose in her pillow, and pulled her Yves Delorme rose-colored combed Egyptian cotton four-hundred-thread-count sheets over her head.
But it was no use. The smell was overpowering. Reluctantly, she got of bed, her Sunday morning sleep ruined. As she brushed her hair, she saw her new clothes from Fred Segal hanging in the closet, though she’d left them in the foyer the night before. But the evening housekeeper, a recent immigrant from Belarus named Svetlana, had left the closet doors open. Sam closed them. She was not going to walk around all week smelling like acrylic.
Then she left her room, following the strong odor to Ruby Hummingbird’s new nursery. Even larger than Sam’s bedroom, it had a small room attached for the soon-to-be-hired live-in nanny.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” Dee chirped as soon as she saw Sam. “Want to help us?”
Sam was aghast. There were cans of paint, brushes, and rollers everywhere. All the new furniture in the nursery that Harry had brought in was now covered by drop cloths. Ditto the floor. Two of the walls, which yesterday had been a hand-mixed off-white blend, were red.
Fire-engine red.
“Isn’t the color great?” Poppy asked. Like Dee, she held a red roller and wore crisp denim overalls. A smock speckled with red paint ballooned over her belly.
“For the seventh rung of hell, yes; for a newborn baby’s room, no,” Sam replied.
“But Ruby Hummingbird resonates with red,” Poppy explained. She showed off her slender wrist, which was encircled by a red Kabbalah string that supposedly warded off evil energies.
Dee lifted her own wrist and displayed a similar string.
Suddenly Sam felt a bit dizzy from the paint fumes. “Are you sure this is okay for the baby, Poppy? It reeks in here.”
“It’s fine,” Poppy assured her. She pointed to an open window. “There’s plenty of ventilation.”
“Does my dad know about this?”
Poppy nodded. “Jackson is fine with it. Go ask him, he’s out in the lap pool. You really are going to have to get used to the idea that this house is as much mine as it is yours.”
Sam rolled her eyes. She knew there was already a betting pool run by assistants around Hollywood over how long the Jackson-Poppy marriage would last; the over/under was fifteen months.
“Focus on the work, Poppy,” Dee urged. “You don’t want to upset the baby.”
“Why not? She’s already asphyxiating her,” Sam growled.
“That is mean and untrue,” Pop retorted. “But Dee is right. It’s important to be serene.”
“Thank you, Poppy.” Dee practically blushed.
“Thank
you.
I’m glad Ruby has you, Dee. You’re going to be like a
real
older sister to her.”
“That’s so sweet, because . . .” Dee’s voice trailed off, and she fixed her huge blue eyes on Sam. “You don’t mind if Ruby Hummingbird has two big sisters, do you, Sam?”
“Why would I mind?” Sam asked, plotting strategy as she spoke. As little interest as she had in the soon-to-be-born evil spawn, it did tweak her that her stepmother had formed a bond with Dee. Ditzy as Dee might be, Sam was not about to give up one of her chosen friends to the Pop-Tart.
“Dee, can I talk to you for a sec?” Sam asked sweetly.
“Sure.”
“Out here, I meant.”
Dee smiled at Poppy, put down her paintbrush, and stepped over to the edge of the drop cloth closest to the doorway. Sam kept her voice low so Poppy wouldn’t overhear. “So, I bought all these new clothes yesterday.”
“That’s nice.”
“Want to come see? They’re in my closet.”
“Um, I’m kind of busy.”
Sam swallowed her frustration. “Well, how about lunch, then? I’m going to ask Anna to meet me at Marcos Fresh at the Farmers’ Market in Hancock Park. We can go over to Melrose after that and shop. I’ll help you pick something out. I saw this DeMarco tapestry jacket at Masque that’ll be perfect on you.”
Dee nibbled on a hangnail. “Gee, I don’t know if we’ll be done by then. Also, I promised Poppy I would lead her through a guided prenatal meditation this afternoon. Maybe another time. Okay?”
It was impossible but true. She’d just given Dee every possible opening to display her vaunted loyalty, and Dee had turned her down flat. It made no sense. Sam had always had more power in their friendship than Dee did. Sam led, Dee followed. Had her infatuation with Kabbalah reprogrammed her neurons?
But Sam knew better than to show any sign of vulnerability or weakness. “Have a great day painting, then. I’m going to eat breakfast.”
She headed down the hallway. She’d have some oolong tea and an apple and read the weekly
Variety.
She stopped downstairs and asked the cook to bake her a Granny Smith apple with Splenda and to add a dollop of fat-free, sugar-free whipped topping. Then she went upstairs to her room and began trying on her new clothes. First on was her new cropped jacket—pale pink and silver suede.
Shit. Yesterday she’d thought the jacket looked great. Now she saw in her three-way mirror that it only emphasized her pear shape. She tugged on the new red leather pants. Ugh. Why not just stand on the Getty Center roof and holler, “Wide load!” What alternate universe had she been living in when she’d bought this stuff? It never did pay to go shopping by herself. If Dee or Cammie had been with her, she would have been too intimidated by their size—or lack of size—to buy something as assholian as size-ten red leather pants. And if she
had
been on the verge of such a brutal fashion error, Cammie would have made some bitchy but all-too-true comment about the circumference of Sam’s ass, and Sam would have dropped the pants as if they’d just been endorsed by Ashlee Simpson.
Her empty stomach rumbled. She had a sudden craving for a Sunday morning feast at the most famous showbiz deli in Beverly Hills, Nate and Al’s. Lox, eggs, and onions. A buttered everything bagel fresh out of the oven, laden with poppy and sesame seeds and garlic chunks. Fresh coffee with real cream and real sugar. Then maybe a slice of fresh Nate and Al’s cheesecake after—
Stop,
she told herself. As her celebrity shrink Dr. Fred always said: “Sam. Ask yourself—what’s the real issue?”
Well, that was a no-brainer. The real issue was fifty feet down the hall, very pregnant, and wearing a wedding ring from the father that Sam hardly ever saw. From the moment that Poppy had entered Jackson’s life, she’d been a completely disruptive force. Everything in the Sharpe mansion changed, even the food in the refrigerator. Now Poppy was going even further, remaking one of Sam’s best friends into her new surrogate daughter. As for Jackson Sharpe, he’d always been long on material gifts and short on time and attention. He was either at the studio, on location, doing publicity, in a meeting, getting Botoxed, working out, or now fawning over his young wife. She couldn’t count on him for anything
So who could she talk to? Not pompous Dr. Fred. She’d been seeing him for two years, but the only progress Sam had made on what she saw as her main issue—food—she’d had to do on her own by starving herself. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that there were really only two people she knew who might understand the absurdity of the clichés that passed for her life: Cammie or Anna. Both co-sufferers of the poor-little-rich-girl syndrome. Though in completely different ways.
And even though she’d known Cammie for most of her life and Anna for only six weeks, Sam opted for Anna. Cammie would never understand why the Poppy-Dee thing was so upsetting to Sam, because Cammie apparently hadn’t allowed herself a moment of vulnerability since her mother had died in a boating accident nine years ago. But Anna was a genuinely feeling and caring individual.
A
nna came back from a quick morning run to find her parents on the couch again. This time, her father’s hand was on her mother’s knee. There was a heather gray Christian Dior flannel trouser leg between said hand and said knee, but still. Her parents were sipping tea from her great-grandmother’s bone-china tea service while light classical music wafted through the sound system.
“Good morning, Anna,” her mother announced, uncrossing her legs so that her ex-husband’s hand slid from her knee. She smiled broadly at her daughter. “I was just about to get some more scones. Would you like one?”
Anna nodded as her mother moved off. When Jane was safely in the kitchen, she stared at her father, a question in her eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” her father demanded. A man who never put his feet on the coffee table, he kicked them up and leaned back, resting his head against his own palms.
Anna shook her head. “Something is wrong with this picture.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You. Like that. And Mom. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s almost . . .” Anna searched for the right word. “Relaxed.” Anna stopped. The
why
of this dawned on her. But no, it couldn’t be. She cleared her throat, feeling extremely uncomfortable.
“Um . . . where did Mom sleep last night?”
Suddenly Jonathan seemed decidedly uncomfortable. He pulled his legs off the coffee table and sat up straight. “Uh . . . here,” he replied, leafing through the newspaper that was scattered across the coffee table.
“But didn’t she book a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”
“Yes.” Jonathan fixed his eyes downward. “But by the time we got back to the house, she didn’t feel like driving all the way to her hotel, so it just made sense for her to stay here.”
“Okay,” Anna said slowly, even though it made absolutely no sense at all. The Beverly Hills Hotel was about a five-minute drive from Jonathan’s home. A five-minute drive that Django would have been happy to make.
Without letting herself fill in too many of the details, Anna felt reasonably sure that her mother had not only spent the night in Jonathan’s house, but in Jonathan’s room.
It made no sense. Her parents
loathed
each other.
“You two aren’t getting back together. Are you?” Anna asked cautiously.
