by Zoey Dean
Cammie gave a mental shudder. These women dressed like this on purpose.
"Excuse me, please," Virginia whispered graciously. "I need to play hostess."
"Cammie." Anna leaned over to her. "Do you get what's going on here?" she whispered. "They think we're just two nice society girls who volunteered to help with the fashion show. They think we're Junior League!" Cammie saw that Anna was wearing a vintage off-white silk blouse and wide-legged white flannel trousers with ballet flats. Diamond studs danced in her ears; Cammie could see them, because Anna had pulled her hair back in a Gwynnie ponytail.
Had someone called her in advance with the dress code?
"Of course that's what they think," Cammie hissed. "Look how you're dressed. They probably want to adopt you. Personally, I wouldn't be caught dead with these fossils if it wasn't court-mandated."
Anna smiled. "This is just the kind of event my mother would do. The only difference is, on the East Coast, old money never, ever wears pastels. Not even in the summertime. It's all white linen."
A few incredibly dull minutes later, Virginia came up behind them and put a hand on each of their shoulders.
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"You know, we're always so pleased when you young girls get involved. A decade from now, you'll be running these shows instead of one of us."
Cammie went wide-eyed. "Gosh, Mrs. Vanderleer. How would we ever handle all that responsibility?"
Anna nearly choked on a candied pecan.
"Exactly why it's so important to learn the ropes now," Mrs. Vanderleer replied in her melodious voice.
"Virginia, darling!"
An older woman who looked to be in her sixties-- coiffed silver hair, pink knit
suit--glided over to their table with a gorgeous young woman in tow. Virginia quickly introduced the older woman as Victoria Chesterfield, head of last year's New Visions fashion show.
"And I want you to meet a simply lovely young woman. This is Miss Champagne Alicia Jones."
Victoria gestured to the beautiful girl. She was maybe five-six, and very slender. Cammie guessed she was fifteen or sixteen, with natural platinum blond hair, glossy and stick-straight; a heart-shaped face with chiseled cheekbones; and enormous emerald green eyes. Her hair was pulled off her face in a low ponytail. She wore lip gloss and perhaps a hint of mascara, but other than that, no makeup. As for her clothes, she wore simple black trousers--a reasonably good Chloe knockoff design--and a black
short-sleeve jewel-neck sweater meant to pass as cashmere.
Another trespassing arrestee, but one with less money?
"Ms. Jones is actually a new member of the New
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Visions program," Victoria explained. "Once she heard about it, she very much wanted to be involved in this fashion show. We're delighted to have her."
"Nice to meet you," Champagne muttered dutifully. Cammie could see that the girl was a bit intimidated. It was as if she couldn't even contemplate a handshake.
"You look like you could model, yourself," Anna told her.
Now that, Cammie noted, made the girl's eyes light up.
"Thanks, but I'm only five-six," she replied with a sigh-Champagne was escorted back to her table, and then an apricot torte dessert was served. Cammie was not about to waste calories on mass-produced hotel sweets, so she pushed it away. As the others were eating, Virginia explained that they'd be watching a video of twenty up-and-coming designers who were being considered for the event. They wouldn't be seeing the sixties-inspired clothes that would be in their fashion show, but they would get an idea of the talent and style of each designer.
"As many of you know, one of the reasons our project gets so much attention every year ..." Virginia explained. She had a handheld microphone, and was wandering between the four tables as she talked. ". . . is because we find the most exciting new designers who are just on the cusp of fame. You'll find forms right next to the flowers." She pointed to the tasteful arrangements of white orchids in the center of the tables. "You check off the six
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designers whose clothes you'd like to see included in the show. We're very democratic about it."
"Why do I think all these designers are going to suck?" Cammie whispered to Anna as the lights were dimmed and the video began.
"Keep an open mind," Anna whispered back.
Well, Anna the Good would suggest that. Just once, why couldn't Anna be petty or bitchy like the rest of the world? Was she missing that gene or what?
One by one, different designers appeared on the screen along with their creations.
"Hate it," Cammie told Anna in response to Siobhan McGee's floaty chiffon monstrosities.
Anna nodded her agreement.
Next was Martin Rittenhouse, who screamed metro-sexual. Of medium height, well built, and with thick, black, swept-back hair, Rittenhouse was impeccably dressed in black trousers with a lethal-looking crease, a black cashmere sweater, and a black man-bag slung over his shoulder. He was obviously the kind of guy who took great pains with his appearance. He took great pains with his clothes, too. They were spectacular. He showed a cream-colored fitted lace blouse with a long black silk skirt slit all the way up one leg; a strapless, cherry-red cocktail dress cut on the bias that was to die for; white cigarette pants with a black chiffon bra top under a wispy aqua-and-black paisley shirt; and a lavender suit that would have been too precious, except that there was nothing on under a jacket that
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was held together with one huge, jeweled safety pin at the waist.
Cammie put a check mark and a perfect star next to his name. Anna checked him off, too. It was immediately clear to Cammie that Martin Rittenhouse really was a rising star. In fact, she made a mental note to buy some of his stuff tomorrow so that she'd be wearing it before the rest of Beverly Hills.
When the video ended, Cammie and Anna compared notes. The only designer they'd both picked was Martin Rittenhouse. Champagne went from table to table and collected the tally sheets. When she took Cammie's and Anna's, she added how nice it had been to meet them, and said that she looked forward to working with them on the show. It seemed to Cammie like the girl had mentally practiced what to say and how to say it before approaching them.
"Let's get out of here before they try to fix us up with their sons. Can you imagine?" Cammie leaned over and whispered.
Anna got up too and looked around. "We just need to thank Virginia--there she is."
Cammie followed Anna's lead. They thanked the older woman for "a lovely afternoon."
"I hope you girls will take Champagne under your wing," Virginia began. "She seems lovely, but ..." A frisson of concern marred her placid brow. "She's had quite a few problems in the past. Well, I might as well just come right out and say it: Martin Rittenhouse was
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kind enough to invite a group of our New Visions girls to tour his design studio, and Champagne was one of them. Right before the girls left, Martin noticed that one of his most expensive couture gowns was missing. We checked all the girls' backpacks but didn't find anything."
"So then none of them took it," Anna concluded.
"Well, the thing is, Champagne was missing for quite a while. When we found her, she was downstairs chatting with one of the security guards. We think she may have worked something out with him, given him the gown so that she wouldn't be caught with it, and plans to give him part of the sale price after she sells it."
"You can't really accuse her, though," Cammie pointed out. "You don't know that she did anything wrong." For some reason, she suddenly felt protective of the girl.
"True, true," Virginia agreed quickly. "It's just that our New Visions girls have done some unsavory things in the past. Champagne comes from a very disadvantaged background." Virginia whispered "very disadvantaged background" as if it was something about which Champagne should be ashamed. Like she had any control over the world into which she was born.
"We so want to steer Champagne to a more productive life,"
Virginia added peppily. "That's why we have New Visions!"
After a round of fake hugs and a final lament over just how wonderful all the promising new designers
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were, Cammie and Anna walked back outside into the bright afternoon sun.
Cammie heaved a sigh of relief as she handed her parking ticket to the valet. "Honestly, I thought I would suffocate in there."
Anna shook her head slowly, looking uncomfortable. "I think that it's horrible of Virginia to accuse Champagne without any sort of proof."
"That's the second time today I've agreed with you, Anna. What's happening to me?"
"You've decided to dedicate yourself to a life of clean living and good deeds," Anna teased, as she saw the valet pull Cammie's cherry red Lamborghini up to the curb of the roundabout in front of the hotel. "I couldn't be prouder."
The valet got out and held open the door. Cammie tipped him lavishly and made sure he got an excellent view of her black lace thong when she got into the car. There was really only so much clean living she could take in one day.
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Kiss and Tell
Anna sat at her antique oak rolltop desk, typing an e-mail to her best friend, Cynthia Baltres, back in New York. It was the morning after the luncheon at the Century City Plaza. This afternoon's community service would consist of her and Cammie meeting a couple of the organizers at the caterer's and tasting a variety of hors d'oeuvres and cocktails that might be served at the fashion show after party. It was bizarre. She realized how lucky she was. Most people getting busted like she had would end up in juvie, or doing the kind of community service that Cammie dreaded--graffiti duty on the freeway overpasses. For her and Cammie? Nothing of the kind. They'd gotten the most benign punishment possible.
Someplace else, the DA might have made an example of the overprivileged, but here, they got the plush gig.
Anna nodded as she finished her e-mail to Cyn, because Cyn would love this kind of affair.
Cyn and Scott, Cyn reported in the same e-mail, were completely and officially over. It struck Anna as
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amazing, now, the massive crush she'd once had on Scott Spencer. Looking back, she was pretty sure that she'd simply been in need of an object of affection after whom she could lust from afar, because she'd been too big of a wuss to lust from anear. Knowing that Scott wasn't into her made him safe.
Well, Anna had made a choice to stop being so damn safe all the time. Not in the sex-without-condoms sense, or the getting-too-high-to-know-what-the-hell-she-was-doing sense (both of which were, in her opinion, far more stupid than daring), but in the romantic sense. She had decided to throw out the rulebook and have new experiences. She was glad about it, even if she did, at times, feel like she was flying without a net. It was why she'd been willing to tell Ben on graduation night that she didn't want to be with him, that she wanted to be with Caine that night instead.
"Miss Anna?"
She heard the voice but didn't recognize the housekeeper standing in her doorway. Of course, her father was a typical Los Angeleno. He went through domestic help the way domestic help went through Windex.
"I am Julie. New house helper for your father," she explained, in an accent that sounded like it came from somewhere in the vicinity of what had once been the Soviet Union. "There is boy here to see you. He says his name is Ben. He gave me this for you." She handed Anna a folded note.
Ben? She couldn't help it. Her heart pounded in her
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chest. But she'd been raised on the This Is How We Do Things Big Book (East Coast WASP edition). She knew how to keep her emotions out of her voice. Page one hundred and seventy-two: Nothing should throw you enough for someone else to notice. If global thermonuclear war erupts, ask what is appropriate to wear to a radiation party.
She waited until the new housekeeper was out the door to unfold the note. Ben had handwritten it in his familiar scrawl.
Anna,
Good morning, jailbird! Cammie and Sam told me about your adventure in the criminal justice system, and that you had your first day of comm. service yesterday. All serious felons deserve coffee and rugelach from Nate'n Al to start their day. I've got some with me downstairs. Just call me and I'll bring it in. Or we can go somewhere to eat and talk. If not, then . . . not. I'll leave it on the doorstep and you can enjoy at your leisure. Take off the handcuffs if you're planning to eat. Or leave 'em on and invite me in.
--Ben
Anna refolded the note. Ben was downstairs. Her Ben. Except that she needed to not think of him that way now. Too much had happened, and she couldn't pretend otherwise.
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She'd actually met him before she'd even arrived at LAX, because they were on the same flight from New York on New Year's Day. He'd been a freshman at Princeton then, and would be a sophomore this coming fall. He wore his brown hair a little shaggy, had eyes the color of the Pacific on a sunny day, and had the toned build of a swimmer. He was also smart and sweet and sexy, and he'd been the boy to whom she'd lost her virginity. She had some great memories of her time with Ben. That was one of them.
Was that the reason that she'd thought he was "the one" for so long, and why she sometimes still thought he'd be the one forever? She sighed. There had been too much deceit, both major and minor. He'd stranded her on his father's yacht not far from Joe's Clams in Marina del Rey on the same night that they'd met. There'd been the Anna Nicole Smith look-alike (much younger, brunette version) who'd surprised her at the front door of his parents' house, and whom he'd actually taken to her junior prom. Not that anything bad had happened with that girl--what was her name, Maddie?--but Ben hadn't exactly been up front with her about it. And then, finally, there was a girl from Princeton who was basically stalking him, but whom Ben didn't mention anything about until it was too late.
It was all too much and too angst-y for her. So when Caine Manning came along via her father's investment firm--a little older and, it seemed to Anna now, a lot more mature
--she had been intrigued. Caine was different
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from any boy she'd ever known. He drove a pickup truck. Ben drove a Beemer. Ben lived in Beverly Hills. Caine lived in Venice. Ben's arms were tan from the tennis court and the pool at the Riviera Country Club. Caine's arms were tattooed with reproductions of Botticelli paintings.
Anna rested her forehead in her hands,
She still held the note. Ben was downstairs. Right now.
And that's how she came to be sitting across from him in the gazebo in her father's huge backyard fifteen minutes later.
"Anna."
Her insides did a somersault when he spoke her name. His voice gave her goose bumps. His looks, too. He wore old jeans and a polo shirt the same blue as his eyes. She was wearing what she'd had on when she got his note: ancient white cotton pants and a white men's T-shirt, green flip-flops, a ponytail, and no makeup.
"Nice out here," he commented, passing her a cardboard cup of coffee. He placed the rugelach between them on top of a white paper bag. "Doesn't even feel like Beverly Hills."
"I love it, too." Anna ran a finger over the natural blond wood of the gazebo, wood that had been lovingly hand sanded to the texture of velvet. "I hardly ever come out here; maybe I spent too many years living in New York to even remember to think about a backyard." She sipped the coffee.
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Ben bit into a cherry rugelach and stretched out on the long wooden bench seat that circled the gazebo. "So, let's start with the basics. How are you?"
"I'm good." Anna winced. Ugh. What a banal thing to say. How could she possibly feel awkward with him after everything they'd experienced together? She tasted the hot coffee just for something to do and hoped he hadn't noticed the goose bumps on her arms.
"So, community service for trespassing?" He sounded incredulous.
She shrugged and pulled her knees up to her chest. "Some vendetta between Cammie's father and this guy, I guess. Cammie and I got stuck in the middle
. In some bizarre way I think it's going to be fun. We're helping with a charity fashion show at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. It's a week from Wednesday night. I love that museum. Anyway, that's our community service."
"Ah yes, the Anna Percy who is up for new experiences. We shared some of those." He sipped his own coffee and smiled.
Damn. Maybe he had noticed her goose bumps.
Before the fact, she'd wondered what it would be like to have sex, and then, more specifically, what it would be like with Ben. As it turned out, it was wonderful, amazing, and fantastic. It took her out of her head, something that rarely happened. When Ben made love to her, she was all feeling.
"You ought to come by the club sometime," Ben suggested casually. "Maybe on a Monday."
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"You know I'm not really the clubbing type."
He smiled. "That's why I said Monday. I had this idea and we're trying it out, because Trieste is pretty empty on Mondays, anyway. So we're doing some different things in the different rooms. There are poetry readings on the back patio, jazz in the dance room, and short reader's theater plays in the main bar, all of which are actually set in bars. It's pretty cool. Mondays draw a very different kind of crowd. No second-generation club kids, no wanna-bes from the Valley. I think you'd like it."
"This was your idea?" Anna was impressed.
Ben nodded, broke off more of a rugelach, and chewed it before he answered. "I've been going on basically no sleep, but it's incredibly exciting. We did the first Trieste Monday last week, and we've got another one this coming Monday. The owner knows Chick Corea--amazing jazz pianist--and he'll be playing as a surprise at midnight. Then we've got some really cool one-act plays."
Wow. She never would have expected this from Ben. He'd never talked about being a club promoter. "Maybe I'll check it out."
He smiled winningly. "I'd like that." Then, ever so casually, he asked, "You still seeing that guy with the tattoos?"
"Caine. Yes. We're . . . dating." It was weird. She felt sheepish saying it.
