By eight, Lissa was completely on edge. She’d watched TV, attempted to read, found she couldn’t concentrate on either, and didn’t know what to do next.
I can’t just sit here, she thought. It’s driving me crazy.
Then she remembered that Nicci was having a dinner party.
Maybe I’ll go, she thought.
Maybe I won’t.
And once more she tried to settle down and watch TV.
•
THE DRIVE to Calabasas was long and boring. Especially as Larry insisted on driving them himself in his new SUV.
“Can’t we take the Mercedes or my Jaguar?” Taylor had asked.
“I think this vehicle suits the occasion better,” Larry had said.
He was always concerned about other people’s feelings, and since his friend Isaac was not exactly in the big leagues, it was obvious he didn’t want to arrive in an expensive car—even though it was no secret that he was one of the most successful men in Hollywood.
As she sat in the passenger seat, Taylor steeled herself for the evening ahead. She wasn’t exactly a snob, but on the other hand, she’d worked hard to gain her position among the Hollywood elite, and mingling with Larry’s not quite so successful friends did not interest her.
“No valet parking?” she remarked as they finally drove up to the modest home.
“Come on, Taylor,” Larry chided. “You’re not in Beverly Hills now.”
“I was merely thinking that if they’re expecting a lot of people . . .” She trailed off, Larry wasn’t buying it.
“This is a quiet street in a family neighborhood,” he pointed out. “I’m sure we can find a parking spot.”
“Maybe we’ll get mugged walking from our car.”
“No, honey,” he admonished. “That’s what happens in town, not here—remember?”
Isaac Griffith was a tall, good-looking black actor who had appeared in quite a few movies, only never in the leading role. Larry made sure there was always something for him in every one of his films, another thing that pissed Taylor off. If he could find roles for his friends, why couldn’t he find one for her? She was, after all, an established actress with a long list of credits. They might not be the best credits in the world, but that was only because of circumstances.
Isaac and Larry hugged each other like long-lost friends, which of course they were.
“This means so much to me, you two coming out here,” Isaac said, including Taylor in his greeting.
“You think I’d miss your fiftieth birthday?” Larry said happily. “You are now an official member of the old farts club!”
“Thanks,” Isaac responded, laughing. “I’ll tell Jenny, it’s her turn next year.”
Both men laughed.
Jenny, Isaac’s wife, was small, thin, and white. She resembled an anorexic ghost with her long, blond hair and exceptionally pale complexion. She and Isaac had met when they’d both done a stint in an off-Broadway production. They’d fallen in love, and she’d moved back to California with him. That had been twenty years previously, and they’d been happily married ever since. They had two children and three dogs.
Taylor was aware that Jenny had been a good friend of Larry’s first wife, which did not exactly thrill her. They exchanged cordial greetings, although neither of them was particularly fond of the other.
Once they entered the house, Larry was swamped by a sea of old friends and acquaintances.
Alone, Taylor walked around the large, comfortable house, wondering how long Larry would want to stay. Kids and animals seemed to be everywhere. This was not the sort of party she was used to. This was her past, and that’s where she wanted it to remain.
She glanced over at Larry. He seemed quite at ease, talking to people as if they were his equals. He simply didn’t realize how important and famous he was.
Round tables were set out in the garden, and there was a long buffet trestle, stacks of plastic plates, knives, and forks, and a pile of paper napkins. Isaac and some of his friends had begun working the barbecue. “Why don’t you sit down,” Taylor said, finding Larry. “And I’ll fetch you a plate.”
“Don’t be silly,” he replied. “We’ll all pitch in.”
He stood in line beside his wife, grinning broadly, waiting for his hamburger and hot dog like everyone else.
“We should entertain like this,” he said. “Our dinners are getting too fancy.”
“You think so?” she said, recalling their last dinner, which had been impeccably catered by Spago. Nothing wrong with that.
Larry nodded. “This is more down home and friendly,” he said. “I’m talking to a lot of people I haven’t seen in years, and I like it.”
“Whatever you want, darling,” Taylor murmured. She wasn’t about to argue with him here.
Isaac came over, dragging another couple. The man was in his fifties, nice looking with a vaguely familiar air about him. His wife was a short, plump woman with a big gummy smile.
“Say hello to my friends, the Rocks,” Isaac said, flashing his I-could’ve-been-a-big-star smile. “Their son, Oliver, recently sold a spec script for a million bucks. How do you like that?”
Taylor was quite speechless. She didn’t like it at all.
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
BY THE TIME their first guests arrived, Nicci was happily stoned, the chef was busy doing his thing in the kitchen, the flowers had arrived and were safely on the table, and Evan was still on the phone.
“Honey,” she called sweetly, buzzing him in his office at the back of the house. “People are arriving. Can you get off the phone, please.”
“Not now,” he snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m in the middle of an emergency?”
If it’s such a freaking emergency, she thought, how come Brian isn’t by your side helping?
Actually, she was well aware that Evan was the one who took care of all the business details, while Brian handled the artistic side. Although surely an insane director fell more into the category of artists than business?
She took a quick peek in the kitchen. The annoying chef was balanced on a stool reading her latest copy of Talk magazine; an empty beer bottle stood on the counter in front of him. No food in sight.
“Everything under control?” she asked, trying to sound like an experienced hostess used to dealing with staff. “Nine o’clock,” he said, winking.
“Shouldn’t you be . . . doing something?”
“Nine o’clock, sweetbuns,” he repeated, barely glancing at her.
She backed out of the kitchen with a horrible gut feeling that he was a total fuckup.
Saffron was the first to arrive, dragging her date behind her. Her date was not exactly what Nicci had expected. Rather than a studly young actor, he was a forty-something, surly, long-haired Latino, in a scuffed brown leather jacket, red Tee, and tight jeans that showed off all his best assets.
Hmm . . . Nicci thought. Maybe that’s the attraction. There has to be some reason why Saffron is always attracted to older guys.
“Meet Ramone,” Saffron said, exotic in a flowing antique coat over cobalt-blue satin pants and a sequined tube top, her dark skin gleaming. “My new best friend.”
“Hi, new best friend,” Nicci said, trying not to stare at his crotch.
His answer was a nod. A man of few words.
“The bar’s over there, go fix yourself a drink,” Nicci said, pointing him in the right direction. She turned to Saffron. “Evan’ll be out in a minute—he’s on the phone.”
“Place is lookin’ good, girl,” Saffron proclaimed, checking everything out. “How many people you got coming?”
“Brian and whatever date he drags with him. A couple of friends of Evan’s, and uh . . . I guess that’s it.”
“Quite a stud, huh?” Saffron said, indicating Ramone at the bar.
“If you say so,” Nicci answered evenly. There was no arguing with Saffron when she thought a guy was hot.
“Tru
st me, he’s a stud,” Saffron said, all pleased with herself. “I’m sure you eyeballed the package?”
“Couldn’t miss it.”
Saffron chuckled and hitched up her top. “I may be getting veree, veree lucky later.”
“Oh, and I forgot—my mom might drop by,” Nicci said. “But that’s highly unlikely.”
“Lissa?”
“No,” Nicci said caustically. “I have another mom I keep in a closet somewhere. Of course it’s Lissa, you retard.”
“Why would she come here?” Saffron said, not looking happy.
“Because I invited her.”
“You invited your mom?”
“Anything wrong with that?”
Saffron rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine if I had Kyndra to one of my dinner parties?”
“You don’t have dinner parties.”
“No, but I might.”
“And if you did, what would be wrong with Kyndra showing up?”
“For God’s sake get it together, girl. There’s no way you can cut loose with a mother around.”
“Sure you can if your mom is Kyndra or Lissa. They’re both way cool.”
“Don’t you get it?” Saffron said irritably. “All the attention gets focused on them. They become the dinner party, and we become invisible.”
“Oops! Hadn’t thought of that.”
“You see my date over there, the one fixing himself half a bottle of scotch at the bar—you think he’ll pay attention to me if Lissa Roman walks in? Forget about it.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think.”
“No, you didn’t,” Saffron said bad-temperedly.
“The thing is,” Nicci explained, lowering her voice. “Lissa’s having a hard time.”
“Yeah,” Saffron drawled sarcastically. “It must be real hard being such an enormous movie star, with your CDs selling up the kazoo, and millions of people worshiping your fine ass. Man, I should have it so tough.”
“You don’t understand,” Nicci said patiently. “She’s going through a personal crisis.”
“Another one!” Saffron exclaimed. “Jesus, Lissa and her marital shit sucks.”
“I didn’t say it was marital shit,” Nicci responded, annoyed that Saffron was getting into something that wasn’t her business. “And keep it down, I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”
“Whatever,” Saffron sighed. “Maybe she won’t show.”
Nicci resented Saffron not wanting Lissa there. Although she understood her attitude only too well, having a famous mother was definitely no walk in the park.
Fact of life. Most people were star fucks.
Fact of life. Most people would kick you out of the way to cozy up to a star.
Before she could give it any further thought, Brian strolled in with a zaftig redhead clinging to his arm. Nicci checked her out, she looked as if she’d recently strayed from the grotto at the Playboy mansion with her huge fake boobs, cut-out white dress that could easily double as a swimsuit, and vacant expression.
“Hey, Nic,” Brian said, noncommittal as usual. “Meet Luba.”
“Hi, Luba,” Nicci said, trying to muster some enthusiasm, although she disliked the girl on sight.
“Luba’s Russian,” Brian offered. “Doesn’t speak English, so don’t bother.”
What was it about Brian Richter that got her adrenaline pumping? Was it his mussed up hair? Bedroom eyes? Hard body?
No. It was the whole damn package.
“Then how do you communicate?” she asked politely.
“How do you think?” he replied, squeezing Luba’s tiny waist. “Where’s Evan?”
“On the phone, where he’s been all day, dealing with some kind of director thing.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Brian said uninterestedly. “Our director, it turns out, is a major fuckhead. I warned Evan about him, as usual he refused to listen.”
“I thought you were partners,” Nicci said. “Shouldn’t you be helping Evan deal with it? It’s quite obviously some kind of crisis.”
“I let him handle the difficult shit.”
“Big of you,” she said sarcastically.
“It’s his deal,” he said, raking her up and down with his sleepy eyes. “Sexy dress, Nic. Didn’t realize you had a body as well as a mouth.”
“You’re so rude,” she said, frowning, although she got off on the compliment.
“Never seen you in a dress before,” he remarked.
“You’ll be seeing me in my wedding dress soon enough,” she said crisply.
He leaned toward her. “Do I smell the faint aroma of my favorite smoke?”
“You do.”
“Hmm . . . you mean Evan allows you to smoke pot? He’s always bitching when I do it.”
“That’s the difference between us,” Nicci said defiantly. “Evan doesn’t tell me what to do about anything.”
“That’ll all change when you’re married to old uptight. All you gotta do is wait.”
She tried not to gaze into his bedroom eyes. This is silly, she thought, a schoolgirl crush, it’s Evan I love.
“How come you two don’t get along, yet you still work together?” she asked.
“Get off my case, Nic,” he snapped. “If you’ve got a joint stashed somewhere, let’s go smoke it. If not, I’m into the vodka.”
“What about Luba?” Nicci asked, indicating his date. “Is she coming too?”
“I can’t take her everywhere I go,” he said, straight-facedly.
“Then let’s dump her,” Nicci said, feeling a tad mean, but so what?
They deposited Luba with Saffron and Ramone at the bar.
“Where you goin’?” Saffron asked.
“We’ll be right back,” Nicci promised.
Brian followed her into the bedroom. She opened her bedside drawer, reached in the back and handed him a rolled joint.
“You’re more down than I thought,” he said, lighting up.
“What did you think—that I was uptight?” she countered.
“Not uptight,” he answered casually. “Just a kid.”
“Thanks!”
He took a long, slow drag, inhaling deeply. “How come you wanna get married? Especially to Evan.”
“I love him,” she answered simply. “Is that a good enough reason?”
“Nope,” he said, passing her the joint and squinting slightly. “You need more than that.”
She took a hit. “Why are you saying this to me?” she asked, determined to find out why he didn’t seem to like her.
“ ’Cause I know my brother, and you two are not a fit.”
“I’m glad to hear your opinion, Brian,” she said, taking a second hit and almost choking. “It’s very special to me. But we are getting married, whether you approve or not.”
“Hey, no skin off mine,” he said, as she handed him back the joint. “Here’s to wedded bliss,” he said, once more inhaling deeply. “Now I’d better return to my scintillating date. She’s probably pining for me.”
“Is that what they do, Brian?”
He grinned and shrugged. “Not my fault they fall all over me.”
Jesus, he was conceited!
“Anyway, thanks for your good wishes,” Nicci said stiffly, adding under her breath as he left the room. “And fuck you too.”
As soon as he’d gone, she hurried into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, then went into Evan’s office, where he was just putting down the phone.
“Everyone’s here,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was stoned. “Well, almost everyone, ’cause that other couple you invited hasn’t arrived yet, and since I don’t know them anyway, you’d better come out.”
“Jeez!” Evan said, running a hand through his spiky hair. “Dealing with directors is getting to be worse than dealing with actors.”
“Did you solve everything?” she asked, playing Miss Considerate Wife-to-be to the hilt.
“I hope so,” he said, getting up.
“It’s like the United Nat
ions out in the living room,” she said, speaking too fast, but unable to stop herself. “Brian’s with a Russian hooker who doesn’t understand English. Saffy’s dragged along some old Puerto Rican actor stud, and I’m playing perfect hostess trying to make everyone happy.”
Evan gave her a long, appraising stare. “Have I seen that dress before?” he asked.
“I don’t get to wear it much. It was a present from my mom.”
“It’s pretty sexy. Are you sure this motley group deserve it?”
“I didn’t wear it for them. I wore it for you.”
“She always knows what to say.”
“Exactly like you.”
“About those shoes,” he said. “You know I hate it when you’re taller than me.”
“Live with it for once,” she purred, snaking her arms around his waist. “And later, if you’re very very good, I’ll wear the shoes and nothing else.”
•
DINNER WAS A TOTAL DISASTER. Obviously drunk, the so-called chef served an almost inedible limp Caesar salad, followed by steak so tough a dog would have a hard time eating it.
Evan had marched into the kitchen, paid him off, and thrown him out. Then they’d sent out for pizza.
Now Eminem blared on the stereo, his misogynist lyrics and mesmerizing beat assaulting the room.
“What’s that music?” Evan asked, not happy with Nicci’s choice.
“You don’t like it?” she replied.
“It’s crap.”
“Everything’s crap to you tonight,” she responded. “The wine’s crap, the dinner’s crap. It’s not my fault the chef turned out to be a falling-down drunk.”
“Who recommended him anyway?”
She shrugged. “Somebody at my kickboxing class.”
“Somebody who’s not your friend.”
Fortunately she was too stoned to care that Evan was criticizing her and that their first dinner party was a dud.
Talk about a mismatched group! Ramone was a surly loser, barely speaking to anyone—including Saffron; Luba sat stiffly next to Brian, silent and sulky, huge tits dominating the table. And the other couple Evan invited had failed to turn up. They were the fortunate ones.
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