A-List #8, The: Heart of Glass: An A-List Novel (A-List)

by Zoey Dean

  He pointed the empty kushi skewer at her. "Answer this without making a scene. Please. I won't make a scene either. Are you fooling around with this jerk you barely know?"

  "For one thing, when you're at Ojai, you're not allowed to have sex--"

  "Yeah, like no one ever broke that rule," Jack scoffed.

  "I don't even know if I want him . . . like that. I mean, when I'm with you, usually I'm thinking about the next time I can get your clothes off. I don't feel that way with Aaron. Not at all. But because we were at Ojai together..."

  God. How could she put this so it wouldn't hurt his feelings?

  "Because we were both at Ojai, there's a special kind of connection."

  There. That was honest. Even so, it didn't get the reaction she had hoped for. Instead of understanding, Jack laughed cynically.

  "This is rich. It's like payback for every girl I ever put moves on when I was only into her for the night. So I'm, what, your boy toy?"

  Damn, why was this going so badly? Why was he being so negative?

  "I just want to be Aaron's friend."

  He shrugged, but his face was hard. "I don't tell you who your friends can be, Dee."

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  "I know. But I feel like we . . . like maybe you and I are going too fast, and . . . it's kind of confusing." Dee winced. She hated, hated, hated hurting him.

  "Is this the 'I need space' talk? Because I hear what that really means is 'I'm not into you anymore.' So if that's it, just fucking say it. I'm a big boy. I can take it."

  "No, no, that's not it!" She felt a lump in her throat. She was just not used to doing this. "I really just mean that I need . . . space."

  "Ha. I called it."

  "But not that kind of space. More like, I don't want to plan the future or talk about marriage or babies or things like that. I'm so sorry if I'm hurting your feelings."

  For a long moment, Jack was silent. He poured himself some tea. Then he warmed hers up, too.

  "That kind of space, huh? I can handle it."

  She smiled. "Yes."

  "No more talk about the Jersey Shore. Scout's honor." He held up three fingers like a Boy Scout.

  "Exactly."

  "So we're still good?"

  Dee nodded. She was pretty sure she meant what she said, but not positive. At least she'd told him what was on her mind.

  He took her hand again from across the table. "Okay, then. First, we eat. Really eat. Then, when we leave here, we go back to my guesthouse, and I give you the best massage of your life. And after that . . . we'll talk about what's for dessert."

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  Dee felt the tension ooze out of her body. She was relieved enough to spear a delectable slice of ahi with her chopsticks. "Can't wait."

  "Let me tell you, Dee. I don't know if you'll ever experience it, but karmic payback? It's a bitch."

  "I'm really interested in karma. But what are you talking about?"

  He grinned the grin that she loved so much. "Trust me. You don't really want to know."

  "So let me understand this." Eduardo literally scratched his head. "Poppy is gone. Your father kicked her out after he saw the Galaxy."

  "Yes, she's gone. Ding-dong, the witch is gone. That's the good part."

  "But she left the baby behind?" He sounded incredulous. "I can't imagine any mother leaving her child behind."

  "Well, start imagining," Sam said bluntly.

  It was a serene night and they were in a serene place, the outdoor cafe at the W Hotel practically around the corner from UCLA. Sam couldn't help but feel extremely pleased about the departure of Poppy Sinclair Sharpe from her father's Bel-Air estate, to be followed as soon as possible--one could only hope--by the departure of the name Sharpe from that same Poppy Sinclair. It was almost enough to make one believe that the H in the HOLLYWOOD sign stood for "Higher Power," and that said Higher Power had booted Poppy out on her cheating ass.

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  The Backyard at the W had recently become one of Sam's favorite destinations. With its canopied white tenting and white umbrellas, beautiful brown wooden furnishings, and secluded location behind the hotel that shielded it from the vehicular noise of the nearby 405 freeway, the Backyard was one of those few Los Angeles spots that had not yet been overrun by tourists. When Sam had called Eduardo in the aftermath of the Blowout in BelAir (as she termed it), she'd been in an ebullient mood. Mostly. In any case, she was upbeat enough to propose taking him to dinner at the Backyard. She told him she had news for him. Big news. The biggest possible news.

  "You got a movie to direct?" he'd asked.

  "Not that big. But almost."

  Now here they were, sitting at Sam's favorite table closest to the pool, enjoying the Backyard's signature cucumber martinis, a romaine-lettuce-and-sliced-Portobello-mushroom salad for Sam, a cheeseburger on pita bread with a side of couscous for Eduardo, and a platter of chilled oysters on the half shell for both of them.

  She felt so damn happy. Just looking at Eduardo across the table from her was thrilling enough. He was dressed in his typical style, in dark summer-weight gray linen trousers and a white cotton dress shirt so well tailored that it had to have been handmade in London or Hong Kong. His shoes were black Bruno Maglis, and he had on a simple, masculine Peruvian Indian necklace made of bamboo and hemp.

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  It had been a pleasure to recount the story. Mostly. How quickly she'd gotten over the nausea she felt when she first saw the Galaxy. How Poppy had blanched so much when Jackson showed her the tabloid that Sam swore the color drained even from her hair. How Poppy, faced with the evidence in front of her, didn't deny having the affair with Bodhi, but blamed it on Jackson's absence. How her father had launched into a staccato monologue that could have been written by David Mamet, recounting the course of their relationship, the many ways in which he'd compromised what he personally wanted in order to make her happy, and slamming the perfidy of the mother of his new infant daughter. How Poppy had dissolved in tears and rushed away. And then, how Jackson had retreated to his downstairs office to call his publicist and draft a statement that would be issued to the press in the morning.

  Eduardo took a thoughtful sip of his martini. "How do you feel now?"

  "Better than I have all year. Since they got married, anyway."

  He pursed his lips. "That's sad, in a way."

  "Please, he only married her because she was pregnant. My father is an old-fashioned guy."

  The waitress--an Italian girl with a riot of dark curly hair springing free from the bun she clearly had been told to wear to keep her hair out of the food--brought over a fresh basket of homemade bread. Eduardo waited for her to depart before he continued.

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  "Your happiness is so tied up in what your father does or doesn't do. You just finished high school. You could have moved out of that house anytime you wanted. Certainly since we came back from Peru. And yet you've stayed there and let yourself be irritated by her. Of course, that irritant is now gone, but what's going to happen with the next young actress your father meets? You told me he has a pattern of this."

  Sam hadn't expected this response. She hadn't even considered that this would be his response. She actually hadn't thought about it at all. What was harsh about it was that Eduardo was speaking the truth. She could have gotten the hell out of there, if she'd really wanted to.

  He smiled. "Perhaps you ought to think about contacting a real estate agent. There are some wonderful condominiums not far from me."

  "Okay, you have a point," she conceded. "However, it's my home. She was using my father. So it seems to me the one who should leave is her." Sam felt positively smug. "And she did."

  "Your father will be very sad. Have you thought about that?"

  Not enough, maybe. She finished her martini. There was something else she wanted to talk to him about. It would require fortification, alcohol calories be damned.

  "There's something else I need to tell you."

  Shit. Why did she need
to tell him? That was the question. She wasn't responsible for the photos in the Galaxy. It would be so easy to keep what she and

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  Parker had done a secret; Eduardo would never find out. Parker would never tell. So what was with this, this compulsion to tell him? It could ruin everything. Yet she plunged ahead toward the abyss. "There were other pictures taken. Of Poppy."

  "Of course there were. The tabloids don't print them all."

  "That's not what I meant." She couldn't bring herself to meet his soulful dark eyes.

  "Okay, then. So what do you mean?"

  "I was involved."

  Eduardo seemed to take in the implications of this. "Sam, you mean you are responsible for the photos in the Galaxy?"

  "No, not those. Others."

  "Explain."

  She did, starting with her suspicions of Poppy and Bodhi at the Peruvian meal Eduardo had cooked the day when that designer, Gisella, had come over, right through what she'd helped instigate between Parker and Poppy at the Ritz-Carlton in Pasadena.

  "There was a PI in the Lobby Lounge," she continued hoarsely. "The same detective who found out where my mother was living in North Carolina. She was dressed like an old woman. She took pictures of Poppy kissing this guy I hired. Right there in the lounge." No way was she going to admit it was Parker. Eduardo knew him. He knew Eduardo. She had to leave Parker out of this.

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  "You still have those photographs," Eduardo surmised.

  "No."

  "No?" He raised his eyebrows.

  "I destroyed them. Actually, she destroyed them for me. I couldn't go through with it."

  His eyebrows stayed high. "Why not?"

  Why not, indeed? She didn't know. There'd been a dozen times when she'd been ready to leak the envelope to the Galaxy. It was stamped and ready in her night-stand. No return address. No way to trace it to her. Yet she hadn't done it. The question was: Why not?

  "I don't know."

  He smiled. '"How beautiful it is to do nothing, and then rest afterward.'"

  "What's that?"

  "An old Spanish proverb. It sounds better in the native tongue, but it means the same thing. I'm proud of you. You did the right thing."

  "By having those pictures taken?"

  "No." He broke off a piece of one of the rolls, buttered it, and handed it to her across the table. "By destroying them. Bravo. And then Poppy got caught anyway. I don't believe much in karma, but this could make me change my mind."

  She cocked her head slightly sideways. "Wait. You're not mad at me?"

  "For what? Doing the right thing? Let's eat. I have a surprise for you, which you'll have to see after dinner."

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  "A surprise?" Sam said coquettishly. "I like surprises." Eduardo grinned and then extracted a key card from his wallet. "Penthouse. How hungry are you, really? Or perhaps the better question is: What are you hungry for?"

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  Desperate for Champagne

  Lizbette had an arm around Champagne's naturally well-defined shoulder as they strolled through the fashion and costumes gallery at the LACMA, which Anna considered to be a very good sign. She and Cammie were following a discreet distance behind, doing everything they could to make it look like they were taking in the exhibit instead of straining to catch every word that the Greek princess was saying to their young friend

  --and now, Cammie's protege.

  Anna watched them stop in front of a mannequin in a Plexiglas cube. The mannequin was garbed in a stunning olive green silk jacket, very fitted, with a flounced peplum and matching skirt. Lizbette pointed at the outfit and explained how it was designed in 1945 and that the color corresponded to what American soldiers were wearing in the war at the time. Champagne nodded, rapt with attention.

  Anna checked her watch. Four-thirty. They'd been walking through the museum for close to an hour. She knew they'd have to wrap this up reasonably soon if

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  they were to make it back to the Lichtenstein gallery to prep for the fashion show.

  She and Cammie--all the girls in the show, in fact-- had been at the museum since nine that morning for last-minute fittings and to clean, arrange, and decorate, along with a small army of New Visions participants and adult volunteers. Mrs. Vanderleer miraculously granted everyone a couple of hours of freedom between three and five, on the proviso that they were not to leave the museum.

  Luckily, Lizbette had agreed to come to LACMA to meet Champagne. As usual, the princess was dressed immaculately, in a spectacular gray Fendi minidress, black Donna Karan tights, Christian Louboutin wedges with tiger stripes, and an incredible

  custom-made tiger-striped belt. Cammie had on a beautiful vintage pale pink shirt and skirt with inverted pleats, while Anna had chosen a simple black eyelet starlet dress by Burberry. They'd only told Champagne about Liz-bette's visit fifteen or twenty minutes before the princess's arrival, and their instincts had been right. Champagne had been surprised, but there hadn't been enough time for her to get truly nervous. That she was wearing her black Bebe outfit from the Beverly Center made her feel more confident.

  "What should I do? What should I say?" she'd asked Anna right before Lizbette arrived.

  "Be yourself," Anna advised.

  Finally, Lizbette turned back to Cammie and Anna

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  and gave a slight nod of her head. Then she turned back to Champagne.

  "Champagne, could you excuse us for a few moments? Perhaps you'd like to go into the next gallery and look at the designers from the 1950s. Givenchy, Dior, Charles James? You may recognize the names." Champagne took the hint and walked away, leaving Anna and Cammie with the cosmetics magnate.

  "Champagne is a lovely girl, Anna," Lizbette declared, once the girl was gone. "Truly stunning. A face that's one in a million."

  "We think so, too." Cammie matched her enthusiasm.

  "I'm thrilled that Anna sent me her photos and set up this go-see. You have an excellent eye for beauty and talent, Cammie."

  Anna felt Cammie give her arm a little squeeze. She hadn't anticipated that Lizbette would make her decision right here in the museum. Yet it seemed like that was exactly what was happening. Champagne would be beyond excited. Her life was about to change completely. How ironic that Anna and Cammie getting arrested and being assigned this particular community service could turn out so positively. Within a year, Champagne's face would be in all the magazines, and probably on--

  "I love her. Absolutely love her," Lizbette declared. "She's beautiful, she's charming, she's innocent, and there are so many positives about her. But I can't use her. She's just not quite what I'm looking for."

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  What?

  "What?" Cammie asked incredulously.

  "It's very difficult to make these decisions. A choice made from the gut, oftentimes. Champagne will not be the face of my new cosmetics line, but I do envision a brilliant career for her and encourage you wholeheartedly in your efforts. Thank you for having me come to meet her. It was well worth it. I look forward to the show."

  Anna hadn't been much in favor of this whole modeling thing for Champagne, thinking that there were better things for a girl as smart as her to do with her life. But now that they had come so close, she found herself terribly disappointed.

  "You knew from the minute we met you that you were going to turn her down, but you didn't say a word." Cammie didn't raise her voice, but Anna could tell she was furious.

  "Cammie, please. There's a way to do this kind of thing. It is not the kind of thing one blurts out." Lizbette tried to defuse the tension.

  "Oh, really?" Cammie interrupted. "Well, maybe 'one' doesn't know what the hell one is talking about. If you can't see that Champagne is the face of the twenty-first century, it's because your vision is stuck in the twentieth century. You are going to come begging to me-- begging!--in a few years, desperate for Champagne to do a commercial for you. And you know what I'm going to tell you? I don't work with uncrea
tive anachronisms and

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  neither does my model. So call PacWest, and realize you're only getting second best."

  Lizbette was obviously stunned but didn't say a word. She simply turned and walked away. As for Cammie, Anna couldn't believe it. She was actually smiling.

  "Do you know what you just did?"

  "Absolutely."

  "She's going to hate you. And you didn't do me or my family any favors, either."

  Cammie shook her head. "You have so much to learn, Anna. She'll respect me for fighting for my client. If I don't completely believe in Champagne, then why should she?"

  This was unbelievable. Impossible. How could Cammie even think in this direction, let alone curse out the CEO of one of the biggest cosmetics firms in the world?

  That's exactly what Anna asked her.

  "It's simple, Anna. I am who I am, and where I am is where I came from. When she was talking, it was like I had a fucking revelation."

  "Well, maybe you could fill me in."

  Anna was already thinking about how she'd apologize later to Lizbette, at the fashion show. Or how she would explain when her mother called--which she inevitably would

  --to tell her that Lizbette had been treated horridly by a friend of her rude, ingrate daughter.

  "Okay, first of all, you worry too much."

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  Cammie motioned Anna to one of the wooden benches at the center of the gallery. "Second of all, you don't know what fun it can be to say exactly what's on your mind, instead of always fudging it."

  Anna shook her head as they sat there together. "That's not a sane way to approach the world."

  "Maybe. Maybe it's genetic." Cammie brushed her hair off her face. "My mom was so fucked up she killed herself. Who the hell knows?"

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

  "Yes, you did, so stop apologizing. For the last few weeks, I've been thinking how much I'm like my mom, which, I guess, means maybe I've got her good traits and her bad traits. But when that idiot Lizbette was talking, I remembered that I am also my father's daughter. Big-time. I just did what he would have done, and said what he would have said."

  "I just--it goes against everything I was raised to believe."

  "But you need to ask yourself: What do you believe? Who do you want to be?"