by Zoey Dean
I'm going back to the same club twice in two weeks, Cammie realized as she opened the front door to Trieste. I must be slipping.
This time, though, there was no velvet rope, no doorman, and no line of would-be club kids stretching down toward Hollywood Boulevard. Just a small black-lettered sign on the door that read, TRIESTE MONDAY, 9 TO 11, $10 COVER, CASH ONLY. And then, in red marker scrawled underneath, in case anyone didn't know what they were getting themselves into, were these words: NO DANCING, NO ROCKING, TALK HARD.
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She'd spoken with Ben late in the afternoon, just to see how he was. Okay, she admitted to herself, she'd really phoned him because she couldn't bring herself to call Adam again--she didn't want to appear the least bit needy or desperate. To her surprise, Ben had invited her to the club that night to check out this new thing he'd been organizing called Trieste Monday. "Dress casual," he'd warned. "It's different."
Cammie scoffed at "dress casual." Like she ever dressed the way people told her to dress. She wore Earl jeans rolled to the knees with skintight patent leather Gaultier boots and a snug little white BCBG top, all the better for a summer night. She pinned her
Raymond-styled strawberry blond curls half up and half down, the better to show off her new Jacob the Jeweler chandelier earrings made of an intricate pattern of tiny, diamond-studded palm trees.
Though there was no doorman, there was someone stationed just inside the front door. A burly guy with a beard, thick glasses, and a ready smile was taking cash in a shoe box. Ben had said she'd be on the guest list, and the guy checked her name off when Cammie gave it to him. "Cammie Sheppard? Ben said you can find him in the play room."
"The playroom?" Cammie repeated.
"The play room. Where they're doing plays. It's the first room you'll come to--you can't miss it."
"Ah. You mean the army hospital room."
The burly guy laughed. "Not tonight."
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He was right. As she made her way into the club, Cammie saw that the glitzy lights had been turned off and all the props removed from what had been one of the hottest, most elite dance floors in the city. Instead of a mock army mobile hospital, rows of simple steel folding chairs had been erected, and a crowd of sixty or seventy people was intently watching three actors performing a scene.
"Thank you to our great Trieste Monday audience!" A familiar voice boomed over the club PA system ten minutes later, when the scene ended. Whoa. Cammie grinned. Ben. "And thanks to our fine volunteer cast performing the ten-minute play No Pain, No Gain by Stephen Greene. Next performance will be back here in twenty minutes, featuring new actors and a new script. Please visit our jazz and art rooms! Thanks for being here on Trieste Monday."
The enthusiastic crowd clapped again. Most everyone stood, either to stretch their legs or to check out one of the other attractions. A moment later, Cammie felt a tap on her shoulder.
"You came."
She turned. There was Ben, in black trousers and a black T-shirt imprinted with the club logo. He was giving her that delicious, irresistible Ben smile. "Yeah, I caught most of it. I liked it."
He looked pleased. "The writer does a lot of TV He's brilliant. But he really wants to write for the stage."
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"Funny how no one seems to want what they've got. Does he have any idea how many playwrights would kill to write for TV? Just ask my father."
"No doubt. You want a drink?"
She pursed her lips. "I thought there was no partying here tonight."
"Follow me. I've got special privileges."
He took her hand and led her through a door behind the makeshift stage and then down a narrow, ill-lit corridor to a small office at the far end. To her surprise, the office was remarkably elegant, with a buttery brown leather sofa, a small bar, a sound system, and a desk tidier than Cammie had thought humanly possible. The only giveaway that they were in a nightclub back office was the bank of ten security monitors. If the customers didn't know they were being watched, they should.
"Whose is this?" She settled into the delicious folds of the sofa.
"My boss's. But on Monday night, it's mine. Pick your poison."
"Champagne?"
Ben smiled. "Definitely."
There was a fridge under the bar. Down went Ben. Out came a bottle of 1995 Clos du Mesnil, plus a pair of chilled champagne flutes.
"Your boss keeps that in his fridge?"
"Nope. You said you'd stop by, so I stocked up. Is this still your favorite champagne?"
If only Anna could see her now.
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"Yeah."
Pop went the cork. Out came the bubbly. There was nothing like Clos du Mesnil and no year like 1995.
She raised her glass to his. "To Ben Birnbaum, for his exquisite preparation and wonderful taste in friends."
They clinked, and Cammie took a long sip. Liquid bliss slid down her throat. Too bad Adam didn't indulge. Some people had no idea how good it was to be bad.
"So, how is this Monday night thing working out?"
"So far, so good." He sat down next to her. Not too close, Cammie noted, but close enough. "I'm psyched about it. I have all these ideas for sort of a modern version of a salon, you know? With poets and rappers and playwrights. But not that experimental shit that no one can stand, like you'd find in Santa Monica or at UCLA. Very Hollywood. Which means quality."
"So open your own place," she suggested, crossing her left leg over her right, toward him.
"Princeton first, my own place second, third, and fourth. But yeah, I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm thinking about it. So, how's the fashion show prep going?"
Cammie tensed slightly. She and Ben had been an item for many months back when he was a senior in high school and she was a junior. She knew every tiny nuance of Ben's voice, and she'd felt the shift in his tone, minute as it might have been.
This was his way of asking about Anna. She was sure of it.
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"We did Modeling 101 today. Oddly enough, it was fun."
"How'd Anna do? How's Anna doing?"
As if the lack of eye contact wasn't a dead giveaway.
There was so much she could tell him. Like how Anna had found out that Tattoo Guy was a money manager by day and a bare-chested fireman-style faux-stripper waiter by night. But that would only fuel his hopes of a Ben-and-Anna reunion.
"How do you think, Ben?" she asked lazily.
"She was great."
"She was great," Cammie agreed, thinking about the Ben/Anna liplock she'd seen outside of Raymond's salon. "What is up with the two of you anyway?"
"What could possibly be up? She's with this Caine
"That much I know."
He nodded and sipped some of his champagne. "I'd like to be able to just walk, you know? But . . . damn, I just can't."
"Gee, you found it easy enough to walk away from me."
"I was younger, dumber--who the hell knows. It was high school. If it bothers you to have me talk about her--"
"No, it's fine," Cammie lied.
"Because you're so into Adam. Yeah, I get that."
"Right." That she and Adam were currently less than tight and that he seemed to be opting for blackfhes and
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lake trout guts over her was another thing she didn't plan to share.
Ben stood up and paced the small office. "I never expected to fall so hard for her. But ... it happened. And I've made so many dumb-ass mistakes." He shook his head. "If I could go back and undo them, I would."
"God, you sound like me." Cammie leaned her head back against the forgiving leather. "Do you think it's possible for two people to be in love and stay in love? Or does that only happen in bad movies that no one likes but people who own hundreds of teddy bears?"
"You're asking the wrong guy. My parents? I don't think they've really been in love for a long time. Plus, my dad's always either gambling and chasing tail, or at a twelve-step meeting undoubtedly chasing tail. I'm a little
short on role models."
"I'm not," Cammie replied thoughtfully.
Ben returned to the couch. "I know you don't mean your stepmother, Patrice."
She laughed. "Not hardly." Then she hesitated, wanting to tell him about the letter her mother had left for her, but at the same time not wanting to open up that much. It wasn't like Ben loved her the way he loved Anna. And she really did still love Adam. At least she thought she did.
"I remember so many things about my mom. Her perfume--Rive Gauche. When I catch a whiff of it--it doesn't matter where--I get this visceral memory of her." She twirled the stem of her champagne flute
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thoughtfully between her fingers. "And her smile--how her eyes would take in my face as if seeing me was the most important and beautiful thing in the whole world. I remember how she used to draw pictures for me, and sing me to sleep, and really listen to me, in a way that maybe no one else ever has. And I mean, I know that isn't romantic love. But it was real. I had it. And I remember it."
"It sounds great, that's what it sounds like."
"I know. Maybe we need to call that something else besides love. Because it's crazy to think you can fall in love with someone and have that and toe-curling good sex, too."
Ben grinned widely. "There is no one else on the planet like you, Cammie."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should." He hand brushed against her cheek and he looked deeply into her eyes. "It sucks that you lost her, Cam. It really sucks."
"But it would suck worse if I'd never had her at all."
Slowly, she watched Ben's face come toward hers; she remembered exactly what it felt like to kiss him, the texture of his lips, the way he would sigh from the back of his throat, his hand tangled in her hair. And she wanted it, she really, really, really--
Just before his lips brushed against hers, she pulled back. So did he.
"Bad idea." His voice was husky with desire.
"Yeah."
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He picked up his champagne again. "Don't take this the wrong way. But you are not the shallow, self-involved chick you used to be."
"What, you're allowed to grow up and I'm not? Besides, you were with me mostly for the hours between 10 P.M. and 6 A.M. So what does that say about you?"
Ben nodded. "I deserved that. But the thing is .. ."
"What?" She drained her glass, not wanting to admit how shaky she felt from their near kiss.
"If things were different and we got together again ..." His eyes met hers; Cammie felt as if they were piercing her heart. "It would be 50 much more."
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The Smell of Rive Gauche
"So anyway, I really love Jack, but I think I'm starting to love Aaron, too. Does that make any sense?" Dee asked.
She was curled up on the oak daybed, wrapped in an aquamarine cashmere throw, while Cammie dug around in the five-hundred-square-foot closet. They were in one of the guest rooms at Clark's estate. It was done in cool blues and greens, wallpapered in the palest of blues the same shade as the carpet. Though she had a huge walk-in closet in her own bedroom, Cammie's wardrobe was so extensive that she'd kept the overflow in here. She and Dee were here because she'd been unable to find what to wear to the fashion show in her own walk-in. The decision was especially important, because now there was going to be that face-to-face with Lizbette Demetrius beforehand. Anna had forwarded the email from Lizbette--Cammie had been so psyched--but they'd decided not to say anything to Champagne. Why make the younger girl nervous?
"Does that make any sense?" Dee repeated.
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"Yeah. It makes sense."
Cammie had no idea what she was talking about. Not because Dee was incoherent again, but because she had too many other things on her mind.
There was Lizbette's arrival tomorrow for the fashion show.
There was Adam. This morning, she'd broken down and tried to call him, but she hadn't been able to get through.
There was her almost-moment with Ben the night before at Trieste.
"Do you think it's possible to love two boys at the. same time?" Dee went on. She smoothed the fabric of the belted silk Rebecca Taylor day dress she was wearing. It was sheer enough that Cammie could see Dee's tiny silver nipple rings.
Cammie didn't answer. Instead she held up a hanger with an emerald green Albert Nipon suit with a shrunken jacket and short, pleated skirt. No. Too matchy-matchy. Maybe the Nicole Miller lavender sheath? Too short. Barely thong-protecting.
"Like, suddenly Jack is getting all clingy," Dee continued. "Usually I'm the one who does that. And Aaron--well, he needs me in a way that Jack doesn't. I'm usually the needy one. My whole life is changing."
"Hurrah for great meds," Cammie observed absent-mindedly, as she considered an Akris Punto hounds-tooth skirt. Nope. Too day-at-the-races.
"Totally. I just wish could talk to my mom about
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stuff like this." Dee took a sip of the iced mocha she'd brought with her from the Coffee Bean.
That comment actually got Cammie's attention. "I feel that way all the time."
Dee looked surprised. "You do?"
"What's so shocking about that?" She shut the closet door and stood with her hands on her hips, feeling dissatisfied.
"Well, you never talk about her," Dee pointed out.
"What's to talk about? It's not like it would change anything."
"Yeah," Dee responded gently. "My mother is a ditz. But at least I have her."
Cammie went over to her window, which overlooked a decent swath of her backyard. Near the guesthouse was a cluster of clementine trees. Her mother had loved that fruit. She recalled a day when she and her mom had sat together at the modest butcher-block kitchen table of their old house in Santa Monica. She'd been how old? Eight, maybe? There'd been a huge black ceramic bowl on that table that had been filled with Clementines. They'd eaten and eaten the sweet fruit, until they both had stomachaches. She even remembered what her mom had been wearing--a raw silk shirt with oversize buttons in a pink that was so pale it was almost white, and a floral skirt with inverted pleats. Where had that memory come from?
When they'd moved to this whale of a mansion-- when Cammie had insisted on taking the partially
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finished Charlotte's Web mural with them--they'd also brought her mother's clothes. Those clothes were boxed in storage up in the attic. Or at least they were supposed to be, unless her father or the stepmother from hell, Patrice, had tossed them away.
For all this time, Cammie had never gone up there to look at them. The idea of doing it was too sad. But now, for some reason Cammie couldn't quite put her finger on, it seemed right.
She was halfway to the door before she called to Dee. "Come on!"
The attic space was lit by harsh bare lightbulbs, and the air smelled musty, like old newspapers. There was furniture that Cammie remembered from her childhood--an ornately carved armoire, an oval-shaped full-length antique mirror, and the gilded brown rocking horse she'd named Alex, after The Secret World of Alex Mack, her favorite TV show when she was a girl. There were the boxes. Scores of them. Identical and white, obviously packed by professionals, stacked against the far wall.
Dee wandered over to a large support beam and squinted at a sheet of paper taped to it. "Wow, whoever moved you guys in here was really organized. There's a master list here. All the boxes are numbered."
Cammie hustled to join her. She ran a finger down the list of a hundred and fifty-six packing boxes. It didn't take long to find what she was looking for--
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three consecutively numbered boxes labeled JEANNE'S CLOTHES.
"You want your mother's clothes?" Dee asked, as Cammie's finger stopped on those numbers.
"It's a sentimental blip." Cammie didn't want to admit the clutch in her stomach. "What my father would call 'a nonrecurring phenomenon.' Just go with it."
"You didn't see your mom's ghost, did you? Because that wo
uld be way cool. Especially if it was at the Roosevelt in Hollywood."
"Dee?"
"Yes?"
"Help me find the damn boxes."
As it turned out, finding the right boxes was a snap. Whoever had put together the master list had also been wise enough to secure a box cutter to the pillar, so Cammie could even break the packing tape seals with ease.
Her heart pounding, she opened the first one. It was full of sweaters, mostly polyester or cashmere blend-- they hadn't had enough money back then for her mother to wear really good cashmere. Cammie found a red one with a boat neckline she remembered and held it to her nose. It still smelled just ever so slightly like Rive Gauche perfume. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Amazing.
The second box held a variety of things--shoes, costume jewelry, the silver filigreed brush and comb set her mother had kept on her vanity. Cammie replaced it all with care; maybe she would use them herself one day.
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The third box held more clothes. Some she didn't remember, but some she did. She examined each piece with care. And then, halfway through, she found exactly what she'd been looking for. The pale pink shirt with the oversize buttons. The full skirt with the inverted pleats.
She took them out carefully, as if the fragile memories they held could shatter if a single wrinkle was undone or a single thread came loose.
"My mom wrote me a letter," she said as she fingered the clothing like it was precious gold. There was no sadness. She just felt giddy. And excited. As if her mother had come home after a long trip, and she was so excited to see her.
"But she's--"
Dee didn't need to say the word for Cammie to know what she meant. "She wrote it when I was a baby, and I wasn't supposed to get it until my wedding day. My father gave it to me. A couple of weeks ago."
"What did it say?"
"Basically that I should be more than the selfish bitch I've been all my life," she confessed with a bitter laugh. "You think she knew how I was going to turn out ahead of time?"
"Probably she was just telling you what was important to her. Don't you think?"
"Maybe she was just worried that I'd be way too much like my father." Cammie raised her gaze to her friend. "My mother was clinically depressed, and I
