The Nannies (9 page)

19

“That’s it. Over there!”

Lydia pointed to a makeshift plywood barrier that blocked the main entrance to the Santa Monica Pier. A line of beautiful people waiting to be ushered into the party extended back nearly a hundred feet.

“I’ve been down here a few times with my home—my friends,” Esme told the other girls. “I’ve never seen it walled off like this, though. How do you know about the pier, Lydia? You’ve never been here before.”

“Italian
Vogue,
last summer,” Lydia said. “I picked it up in Manaus. There was a photo spread of Heidi Klum in these amazing Vera Wang dresses. It was the only magazine I had for a month, and I couldn’t read Italian.”

The other girls grinned. On the limo ride to the pier, they’d swapped a bit of their histories. Lydia had regaled them with some amazing tales from the Amazon rain forest. Esme had carefully edited her own life story, simply saying that her parents had moved from Fresno to the Echo, and that she’d moved with them.

But she was feeling good. Great, even. When she’d called Lydia and Kiley, they’d been at House of Blues swatting away drunk frat boys from Arizona State who’d bet each other that they’d all get laid on their road trip to Los Angeles. Lydia and Kiley had zero interest in helping them fulfill their fantasy, so they were more than up for Esme’s invitation. In fact, Lydia volunteered to have her aunt’s limo swing by the Goldhagen estate so that no one would have to drive.

Esme had wanted to ask Lydia and Kiley what to wear, but didn’t have the nerve. So she tried on everything she owned, then panicked when she realized she was standing in the midst of a sea of obviously cheap clothes. Finally, she pulled on some low-slung black pants and a very fitted red Lycra T-shirt, then stepped into a pair of mile-high strappy red sandals she’d bought at the “All Shoes $9.99” store. She added a slick of red lip gloss and left her hair loose and wild. It would have to do.

She looked at Kiley and Lydia as they joined the line. Kiley tugged self-consciously on a beautiful green camisole, purchased for her by
Platinum Nanny.
She wore it with her Levi’s and a pair of Dr. Scholl’s sandals, saying it was either the sandals or her Cons. Lydia, on the other hand, was decked out in a vintage Gucci print minishift with the middle cut out and borrowed Manolo Blahnik heels she said were called the Hourisan: silver gray leather heels with intricate chain ankle straps. Evidently, Naomi Campbell had worn them to the MTV Video Awards—or at least that’s what Lydia said she’d read in
In Style.
Both dress and shoes had been borrowed from her aunt. Her celery-colored eyes were outlined in smudgy kohl black; there was some kind of styling stuff in her white blond hair that made it look choppy and hip.

Esme thought,
If ever there were three girls who looked like they
do
not
belong together, it’s us.

Each arriving partygoer had to flash their invitation to security multiple times. First at the check-in table, where they also had to show ID. Then again, as they stepped through a metal detector. And one more time, at the temporary door to the pier itself.

“Metal detectors?” Lydia asked. “What are they afraid of?”

A guard overheard her. “Standard procedure, in case a stalker tries to get through. Just ask Letterman or Zeta-Jones. On second thought, I think they’re inside. Don’t ask them.” He swung the door open, and the girls were in.

They were surprised to find their end of the pier practically empty, except for a knot of twenty or thirty people waiting just inside the door. From the far end of the pier came pounding rock music; they could see the Ferris wheel and roller coaster at that end in full operation, as two searchlights crisscrossed the sky. Obviously, the party was way down there.

A San Francisco–style trolley car, equipped with wheels instead of riding on a metal track, rolled up to them. A conductor called out over a loudspeaker, “Step back for departing passengers. Then, all aboard for the
The Ten
party. Next stop, West Pier! All aboard!”

A bunch of people got off the trolley; the girls climbed on. They stood at the rear, grasping a vertical metal bar as the conductor whooshed them along. It was a short ride, not more than two minutes. But they rolled straight into an amazing party. Not only were the floorboards packed with gorgeous people who all seemed to know each other, but both sides of the trolley-way were lined with carnival-style sideshows—fire eaters, jugglers, contortionists, and the like.

“Welcome to the
The Ten
opening-night party,” the conductor announced as his trolley slowed. “We’ve re-created the moments from the movie just before the seventh plague. Minus Kirsten and her broken ankle, of course.”

All around the three girls, people laughed as if at an inside joke.

“Have a great time,” the conductor continued. “I’ll be here every ten minutes to bring you back to Ocean Avenue. Please watch your step as you exit the trolley.”

People piled off. Esme, Kiley, and Lydia were swept along by the crowd. Most people were heading for a sixty-feet-high movie screen that had been erected at the far end of the pier. Below it, a huge crowd watched in awe as the enormous hailstorm featured in
The Ten
swept up the coast from Long Beach, heading for Los Angeles. Jump cuts from the movie followed, set to heart-pumping music.

“Oh my God, it’s us!” Kiley cried.

Esme and Lydia turned to see what Kiley was talking about. To their left was another enormous movie screen. The girls’ images were on it. It was the weirdest thing: when they laughed in reaction to their projected image, they could see themselves laughing on the giant screen.

“There must be cameras mounted somewhere,” Esme said. As if on cue, one zoomed in; her face appeared in close-up—the lips pouty, the eyes enormous. “I’m not sure I like it.”

The image shifted over to Lydia, who posed and blew kisses the way she’d seen Paris Hilton work a crowd that afternoon on a TV show called
Access Hollywood.
Hilton’s picture had been in every recent magazine that Lydia got in the Amazon.

“Wow, look at that,” Kiley said, nudging Lydia’s attention back to the
The Ten
trailer. It was another scene from the movie, this one on a Los Angeles freeway. The locust swarm of the eighth plague was rushing east. A family was stuck in their SUV, a terrified little girl in the backseat cranking up the windows against the huge cloud of marauding insects.

“That’s sick,” Lydia declared. “Why would anyone want to watch other people die?”

“Umm . . . because it isn’t real?” Kiley queried, amazed that Lydia was having such a strong reaction. “Because it’s a movie? Like, say,
Titanic
?”

“I didn’t see
Titanic,
” Lydia admitted. “But I’ve watched six people really die. Two from snakebite. One from malaria. Two from dengue fever. And one sliced his heel on a rock in the Rio Negro and was eaten by piranhas before he could get to shore. How about you?”

“None,” Kiley admitted, chastised. “I didn’t think of it like that.”

I’ve seen plenty of people die,
Esme thought. But when she took in Kiley’s stunned face, she decided to keep her mouth shut.

“Oh, ignore me,” Lydia said, waving away the disagreement. “I’m still suffering from culture shock. Hey, y’all think we can get a drink out here?”

No sooner did she pose the question than a waiter in a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball uniform smoothly appeared, carrying a tray. On it were flutes of champagne, cans of beer, and plastic bottles of springwater.

“What’s with the uniform?” Lydia asked him. She took a champagne glass for herself, while Kiley and Esme both opted for bottled water.

“Dodger Stadium gets invaded by lice during a doubleheader with the Giants,” the waiter reported. “World’s biggest itchfest. Barry Bonds can’t even get to the plate. Keep watching. They may show it on the big screen.” The waiter moved off into the crowd.

“Esme?”

Esme froze. A deep male voice had come from behind her. Who could possibly know her in this place?

She turned to see the Goldhagens’ handsome son a few feet from her, smiling broadly. What was his name? She didn’t remember. She didn’t
want
to remember. What she did remember was that when she’d met him, her feet had just been drenched by a wave of shit.

“Jonathan Goldhagen,” he reminded her. “We met yesterday?”

“I know who you are,” she said, sounding cross.

He grinned and cocked his head toward the smaller of the two movie screens. “I recognized you. You looked great.”

Esme clamped her jaw. She was not about to thank him for his cheap compliment. He was rich, handsome, and so sure of himself, standing there in faded jeans and a white linen shirt that probably cost more than Junior made in a week. He was undoubtedly used to girls throwing themselves at his feet. Well, she did not intend to be one of them. But she didn’t want to be impolite, so she introduced him to her friends.

Lydia wagged a playful finger at him. “I know who you are. You’re a movie star. Right?”

Jonathan scratched his head sheepishly. “I don’t know about that.”

“Your first movie came out last winter,” Lydia went on. “Some indie thing that no one saw but got a really good review in
Cosmopolitan.
They said you were going to be the next Jake Gyllenhaal. Esme, don’t you know who this guy is?”

Esme shrugged, guarded.

“It’s no biggie, Esme,” Jonathan said. “Like she said, no one saw the movie.”

Esme didn’t respond to that, because what could she possibly say?

“I’m not into the whole movie-star thing, anyway,” Jonathan continued. “That’s my dad’s world, not mine.”

“You probably got your big break because of him,” Esme commented coolly.

Jonathan nodded. “I’d say no, but I’d be lying. Yeah, his name got me through the door. But I’m the one who played the role.”

“Lots of people can act,” Esme insisted, a bit surprised at her own venom toward this guy.

Jonathan held his hands up. “Hold on. Did I miss the part where you decided you hate me?”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Lydia assured him. “Most likely she’s attracted to you and feels conflicted about it.”

Heat rushed to Esme’s face. “Since you know so much about him, Lydia, why don’t you two go off together and yak about how wonderful he is?”

“He
is
very hot,” Lydia said, quite serious. “But he likes you.”

“You heard the girl,” Jonathan added playfully.

He was just so smug, so sure of himself. She didn’t want to look at him. Instead, Esme glanced back up at the big screen again, where the locust cloud was threatening Las Vegas. She was sorry she’d ever called Lydia and Kiley.

“You have a very outspoken friend,” Jonathan told Esme.

“She’s not my friend,” Esme snapped.

“Oh, I am, too,” Lydia insisted easily.

Jonathan scanned the crowd. “I’m looking for a waiter, but they seem to have disappeared.” He put a hand on Esme’s arm. “Want to take a walk? Let me get you something better than that water to drink.” He nodded to Lydia and Kiley. “Will you excuse us?”

“It’s not up to them,” Esme pointed out. “And I don’t feel like going anywhere with you.”

“You’re a big ol’ liar,” Lydia told Esme. “You know you want him.”

How humiliating. “I don’t—I’m not—” Esme sputtered.

“Go with him,” Kiley suggested kindly. “He seems nice.”

“You should listen to your friends,” Jonathan put in.

“We’ll meet up at the Ferris wheel. In an hour,” Kiley said. “How’s that?”

“Oh, I can get her home,” Jonathan said easily, lightly touching Esme’s back. He smiled. “After all, I know where she lives.”

20

“Here you go, sir. Two Arnolds, spiked.” The bartender in the Dodgers uniform handed Jonathan two tall frosty glasses.

“Thanks.” Jonathan stuffed a five-dollar bill into the tip jar, picked up the drinks, and handed one to Esme.

“It’s called an Arnold?” she asked, dubious.

“Arnold Palmer, actually,” Jonathan explained. “Named after the legendary. Try it.”

Esme didn’t raise the glass to her lips. “The legendary what?”

“Golfer.” Jonathan looked incredulous. “You never heard of Arnold Palmer?”

Esme shook her head. “Golf looks boring.”

Jonathan laughed. “Yeah, some people think so. But I like it.” He nudged his chin toward her drink and she put the straw to her lips. “Taste it. Half lemonade and half iced tea, spiked with vodka.”

She did. “You’re right. It’s delicious.”

She sipped more of the drink and glanced around. They were at a bar near the arcade; when Jonathan had taken Esme’s elbow and guided her through the masses, the crowd had seemed to part like the Red Sea for Moses. Esme admitted—if only to herself—that she had liked the feel of his strong fingers on her, the authority with which he led the way. It was a different kind of authority than Junior had. Junior had earned it. Jonathan was born to it.

“So, how goes the nanny gig?” Jonathan asked. He waved at someone who recognized him, then immediately returned his gaze to Esme.

“I just started. I don’t really know yet.”

“They’re sweet kids. But Easton and Weston? Whatever possessed Diane to name them that?”

In spite of her raised guard, Esme smiled. “I wondered the same thing myself.”

“She meant well, I guess. Wanted them to fit in. But it just makes it harder on the kids, seems to me.”

“I agree with you.”

Jonathan smiled into her eyes. “Well, well, we seem to have a meeting of the minds on two things.” He hoisted his drink. “A good drink named after a golfer you’ve never heard of, and the idiocy of renaming my new siblings. At least she didn’t name them after fruit. Apple, Pear, Cantaloupe . . .”

Esme chuckled despite her best intentions.

He pointed a playful finger at her. “I heard that. Soon you’ll have to admit that you actually like me.”

“I don’t
dislike
you,” Esme said carefully.

“That’s progress.”

“Look, I’m sorry if I was rude before. I just . . . I work for your parents.”

“Rudeness forgiven, and why would I care that you work for my parents?” Jonathan asked. “That would be like saying I can’t be friends with the daughter of my director or my producer.”

Esme looked out to the dark ocean. “It’s not exactly the same.”

“Sure it is.” He put his hand on her arm. “Hey, no need to be so serious. We’re at a hot shit Hollywood premiere party. Let’s have fun. So, what says big fun to you?”

“Um . . . the Ferris wheel?” she asked. She’d always loved Ferris wheels and carousels, the tinny music and the simple pleasure of going round and round, always knowing you would end up safely where you started.

“As my lady wishes.” He gave her a courtly bow and put their nearly finished drinks on the bar. Then he extended an elbow. She was about to take it when he grabbed her hand, yelled “Come on!” and they made a headlong dash for the giant wheel.

Whoosh!
A few minutes later, they were flying. Up, up, up, over the pier, the ocean, and seemingly all of Los Angeles. To the east, the city spread out in all its glory. In the clear of the night, Esme could see from Santa Monica clear down to Long Beach. It was a glorious feeling. What was it? Freedom, that was it. She felt young. And pretty. And carefree.

“You look like you’re about six,” Jonathan said as the giant wheel crested and swooped downward again.

“I love this!” Esme called into the wind. Something about being on the wheel made her feel so much less self-conscious. “So you’re a big movie star. What were you in?”

“Just one movie so far.
Tiger Eyes.
It closed pretty much before it opened. Except for New York and Chicago and here, where it’s still in the art houses.”

A breeze pushed some of Esme’s dark hair onto her face; she brushed it away as the wheel started another revolution. “What’s it about?”

“This guy, Martin—his dad’s a screwed-up ex-cop who messes with his head. So Martin ends up with a kill-or-be-killed mentality.”

“You were Martin?”

Jonathan nodded. “He drops out of college and lives on the mean streets. Falls for a junkie hooker. His dad pulls it together and tries to save him, but he hallucinates that his dad is a murderer and kills him.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It took three weeks to shoot—I was depressed as hell,” Jonathan admitted. “I mean, I told myself how lucky I was to get the gig. The guy who wrote and directed it is fresh out of USC film school—everyone says he’s a genius. But I’m a pretty positive guy. Spending three weeks in Martin’s skin sucked.”

“And when you went home at night, could you stop being him?” Esme wondered.

“Home? My hotel room.” Jonathan corrected her. “The Comfort Inn in Metairie, Louisiana, where we shot in August because it was cheap. We’re talking seriously low budget. I dreamed Martin’s nightmares every night I was there.”

“That must have been very painful,” Esme said.

He nodded, cocking his head. “You mean that.”

Esme was confused. “What?”

“You didn’t just say the words. You meant them,” Jonathan explained. “I see it in your eyes.”

Esme shrugged. “Maybe I know what it’s like to have nightmares.”

He studied her for a moment. “Do you?”

“Not about a movie role.” She looked away.

“What then?”

What, indeed? Real life? Like he could ever begin to understand. She pushed the windblown hair from her face again.

“Objects moving in a circle are under the influence of changing force.”

“Which means?”

She leaned close to his ear. “That we’re moving in a circle. And that I took physics last year.”

Jonathan laughed. But they were returning to earth, where Esme carefully guarded her life, her past, the truth. The wheel slowed to a crawl. People in the cage below them stepped off to rejoin the festivities.

“So what’s bumming you out, Esme?” Jonathan probed.

She shook her head. “Forget I said anything. Can we go around again?”

“As many times as you want.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I like you.” Jonathan waved off the ride attendant as she tried to help them out. “One more time.”

“Have fun,” the attendant told them. Their cage creaked upward. Then, as the wheel filled with passengers and finally whooshed them skyward, that feeling of freedom rushed over her again. She found herself telling Jonathan that she was also kind of an artist, only with ink on skin. How she saw a tattoo as a sacrament, a sacred trust between her and the person who offered up their flesh. When she’d started out, someone had told her what she could and should draw. But now, she only did her own designs. “And I will never let anyone tell me what I can do again,” she finished.

“So you’re the independent type, huh?” Jonathan teased.

“Let’s just say I can take care of myself.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “Let’s.” He put his hand atop hers. She leaned her head into him. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

After two more rides on the wheel, they debarked and wandered through the crowded party, lost in each other, words tumbling. Jonathan talked about how he felt he didn’t really know how to act; that he wanted to learn and do live theater, maybe even write plays of his own. Esme talked about how she wanted to study serious art, like sculpture and oil painting. They laughed and joked. Ate cotton candy. He gave her a piggyback ride. Esme felt like a Latina Cinderella, at the most perfect place with the most perfect boy.

But even for Cinderella, the clock struck midnight. When they walked back to the east end of the pier, and out through the same door they’d entered, everything that glittered was no longer gold. The streetlamps cast their light on the Santa Monica homeless as well as the Beverly Hills rich, the have-nots as brightly lit as the haves. There were two worlds out here. She belonged to one. Jonathan, to the other.

As the traffic inched by on Ocean Avenue, just thirty or forty feet away, they made their way to the valet station and joined a long line of people waiting for their cars. Cars in both directions slowed so that their occupants could gawk at the partygoers, in the hopes of maybe recognizing someone famous. Esme felt eyes even on Jonathan and herself.

“¡Oye chica, qué guapa!”
shouted someone derisively from one of the passing vehicles.
Hey, girl, you’re hot!

Jonathan drove a Prius. By the time he piloted it to Bel Air, the night felt thick, its magic trapped and then suffocated. She was just a girl who worked for his rich parents. Not Cinderella. Fairy tales were stupid. And dangerous.

“You have a girlfriend,” she blurted out, when he went through the broken front gate and pulled up in front of his parents’ home. “The girl on the tennis court.”

She saw his half-smile. But he didn’t speak. Just lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.