Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  The live-auction host was one of Emily’s least favourite actresses. It was the steely glint of naked ambition that put her off. In person, the woman was a cold, hard, flinty misogynist; it was bizarre that she had made her name playing cute, ditsy roles in romantic comedies, a habit that she’d continued, probably unwillingly, well into her forties. Often, when you met the less prominent actors, you realized they barely acted, that they had merely spent their career playing variations on themselves.

  Emily wondered if Nanny would remember to give Molly avocado with her pasta, and if George would be forced to eat a bit of cucumber. Nanny was a no-nonsense Australian from Perth, happy to spot any celebrity, no matter how mad, minor, or niche. Every Sunday she was in awe of Ed Begley, Jr, hawking his All-Purpose Spray at the Farmers’ Market; and if she spotted Jeff Goldblum in Wholefoods in his pink spectacles it was a major event. And yet, Emily knew – curious, not quite understanding how – it was just a diversion; these people meant nothing to her. Whereas to just about everyone else in LA, these people were it. Famous strangers mattered, more, Emily suspected, than family.

  She loved this town but its priorities were screwed. She needed Nanny around, keeping it real.

  She passed on a tray of skull-shaped chocolates and tried to pay attention to the host. She was having some trouble shifting the yacht trip. Didn’t most of this lot have their own yachts? Emily stifled a yawn and gazed at the back of an Olsen twin – well, it was one or the other. The girl’s posture sucked.

  ‘Now, for those of you who don’t realize, this yacht trip comes with a few extras. I’m throwing in a kiss with – don’t argue, darling, you know it’s for a good cause – Mr Ethan Summers! And I am not going to take less than ten thousand dollars; this man does not come cheap!’

  Oh. My. God. The cheek of her! Trying to brown nose the star of the moment to make herself look good. Don’t waste your time, honey; you haven’t got that much left. But – piss off, Olsen twin, there are calories in saliva – this is worth bidding for. Emily’s hand gripped the company credit card tight, and she knew, at once and with total conviction, that no one must win the kiss with Ethan Summers but herself.

  And, if Emily had her way, she wasn’t going to win just a kiss.

  N. CRESCENT DRIVE, BEVERLY HILLS, JUNE 2005

  Ethan

  Ethan laughed. It was great, being Ethan.

  He didn’t understand the stars who got depressed. What could you possibly be miserable about when everybody loved you?

  He guessed they were just sick with fear. Fear that someone else they knew was doing better and someone else they’d never heard of was about to break. Fear that someone else was getting that big script; fear that their pay cheque was a million dollars more, that someone else had a better body, a hotter chick, a slicker agent, more exclusive invitations; that tomorrow it would all be over and they’d be left with only millions of dollars, no friends and a few tapes.

  Ethan didn’t worry about shit like that. He knew he had the better life, and he loved living it.

  It was crazy being famous, but you got used to it. Your ego swelled to fit the space. He liked it that people made an exception for him. He liked it that he was treated as special. He liked it that 99 per cent of people he met would crawl over cut diamonds rather than disagree with him. He liked it that others worked to make every moment of every day perfect. He liked it not because he was a complete dickhead, he liked it because it made him a nicer person.

  Who likes being disagreed with? Who likes being told off? Who likes being treated like shit? Then you had cause to be a miserable bastard.

  But being a Hollywood star you lived the dream. You lived the fairy tale. Your wish was their command. Like a spoilt child, you always got what you wanted. There was no excuse to be anything other than delightful.

  Admittedly, he did find himself bristling with a silent ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ when he wasn’t accorded the red-carpet treatment – as he hadn’t been yesterday when he’d driven the new customized Cadillac SUV the wrong way up a one-way street and come nose to nose with a cop car. There had definitely been a moment of stunned outrage at the guy’s attitude – but then of course he’d taken off his baseball cap, smiled sheepishly, and the man had cried, ‘Ohhhh! God bless you, friend! You prosper and keep on being successful, Mr Summers!’

  Afterwards, he’d giggled to himself for being so touchy. He had an answer for those who criticized the stars for taking themselves too seriously. They were stars because they took themselves seriously. You had to in this town or you wouldn’t make it. But he could still laugh at himself for a sense of humour failure. Now that it was all OK.

  Tonight, as with every night, he was feeling good. The interview with Los Angeles magazine had come out today, and it was a corker. They’d gone to the Natural History Museum and the journalist had been charmed when he’d paid for her ticket, saying, ‘Anything else and my mother would slap me round the head!’ You could always legislate for grateful amazement when you briefly brought yourself down to the little people’s level.

  He had carefully avoided talking about himself in the third person, and he had convincingly laughed off the ‘myth’ that he used Fiji water to clean his teeth. They’d schlepped all the way back to the Hills and the chauffeur had dropped them at Mr Chow. While Ethan needed to order off menu (tuna tartare with lemon and extra chips), he hadn’t noticeably revelled in the fuss and attention. He had greeted the valet by name, he had hugged the publicist, he had nodded his thanks for the secluded table: he had proven that he was an all-round decent guy.

  And he was about to prove it again.

  He stood up, reluctant, grinning, happy yet bashful to be the centre of attention when the true heroes of the hour were the orphaned babies in the Third World, and as the celebrated hordes clapped and cheered, he was bathed in that familiar golden glow, a sea of grinning faces oozing love. He could precisely recall the last time he’d seen a frown because it was such a rare occurrence.

  ‘You go, girl!’ said Clooney. He was such a wag! Ethan resisted the urge to give him a dead arm.

  Outside he wore shades; inside, he had mastered the art of not making eye contact to avoid being pestered. The alternative was to take minders everywhere, which was great for kudos but a drag, like living in a baboon troop. Now, however, he removed his Tom Ford sunglasses and allowed his gaze to lock with various select females in the audience. There was Katie – ah, the untouchable, the gracious, the chocolate-cupcake-loving Mrs Cruise – he gave her his little-boy-lost look and she smiled back, maternal. And there was the newly single Emily Kent. Poor Emily, a shining product of bad parenting, but, Jesus, couldn’t the girl tell a fruit when she saw one?

  He shot her a wink. Make my day.

  Then he stepped up beside the host, and smilingly suffered her to kiss him on the mouth, wondering if her publicist hadn’t offered her a breath mint on purpose because she was such a total bitch. She routinely blanked other women and that was just plain rude. He wouldn’t mind but she did it to her own employees, including her sister!

  ‘So, my darling Ethan – oh my, get a feel of this guy’s muscles – you know, suddenly I realize that ten thousand isn’t going to cut it. Children, I think we are morally obliged to start the bidding at twenty thousand dollars. Now, ladies – and gentlemen! – think of those dear little orphan babies, and, more to the point, think of kissing Ethan Summers smack on the mouth! What do you say?’

  Ethan grinned and declared, ‘Man, I am going to be so pissed if Clooney doesn’t bid!’ It got a huge laugh, because famous people were just that extra bit funnier.

  ‘Fifty thou, but I’m gonna insist on tongue!’ shouted Damon.

  Ethan laughed. Did he have a choice? He shouted back, ‘This is blackmail! I’ll double your money for a firm handshake!’

  The host, unwilling to be prised from the limelight, cut in. ‘The bidding stands at a hundred thousand if my math serves me right, and frankly, I’m not impressed. We’
re not doing wonderful. This man does not get out of bed for more than – I mean, less than fifteen million a picture. Come on, people!’

  How dare she mention his salary – and she’d underestimated it! She was underselling him! He couldn’t stand her.

  She joined his list of unmentionables alongside that upstart George Eads from CSI, who’d nearly run him down on Mulholland last week in a silver Porsche. He’d told Mark, who’d got a funny look on his face. Ethan had just known that while Mark now hated George Eads on Ethan’s behalf, he was torn. To be run over by a celebrity had its plus side. If you were seriously injured they’d be forced to visit your hospital bed (rather than leave it to their rep). You’d become friends … gain access to their inner circle … cosy dinners chez George. I mean, if you had medical insurance, what wasn’t to like?

  Mark’s reaction had frustrated and delighted him. George Eads was only television. He, Ethan, had starred in four of the top-grossing movies in the last three years. He could do no wrong. Right now, he was more powerful than God. The world was his.

  He blinked, winningly, and smiled his whitest smile.

  ‘Two hundred thousand for my dear friend Ethan – though I better make it an air kiss or people will talk!’

  Ah, the lovely Patricia Arquette. She was a goddess. He adored her. He’d worked with her when he was just starting out; a nobody, still waiting tables, and she’d been so warm, so kind, so encouraging. Ethan never forgot how people had treated him when he wasn’t Mr Ethan Summers. As he’d told Access Hollywood, years later, ‘I felt so embraced.’

  He blew her a kiss.

  There was a clatter, and a husky English voice shouted, ‘Five hundred thousand – no, screw that – one million dollars!’

  There was a stunned silence, then a murmur that became a buzz of excitement, as people started clapping and whooping and turning in their seats.

  ‘Oh my good Lord,’ cried the host. At least she’d managed to clean her potty mouth for the occasion. ‘Hollywood’s biggest hitter, Mr Ethan Summers, is going, going, gone, to the lady in last season’s Hervé, for a grand total of one million dollars. I am so thrilled on behalf of all those little orphan babies, who I swear to God will be clapping their darling pudgy hands around now! Stand up, please, honey, so we all can have a good look at ya! Oh, Emily Kent! Honey, forgive me, I didn’t recognize you. We haven’t seen you in a while. Well, what a sensational comeback – isn’t she adorable?! Ethan, how are you feeling right now?’

  As opposed to yesterday?

  Ethan twizzled his Tom Ford shades and gazed at his feet, then up at Emily, a challenge in his eyes.

  She was smiling, her mouth half open, panting with the thrill of risk. Then she placed one hand on a slender hip, and pouted, looking straight at him. She didn’t have that squeaky-clean Californian girl glaze. While she had a fragile beauty with a tanned, honed body, she was plainly a bad girl with a big mouth that got her in all sorts of trouble. This chick had a streak of pure filth. You got this babe in the sack, she wouldn’t give a toss about messing up her hair, she’d ride you into the ground.

  He smiled again and, without taking his eyes off Emily, he said, ‘How do I feel? I’m stoked!’

  The host squealed with delight. ‘Oh, honey, you big spender, come on up!’

  Slowly, Emily sashayed towards Ethan. She walked right up to him, until he could feel the heat pulsing off her. That dress, she was busting right out of it. Jesus. Their eyes locked and they understood each other.

  There was dead silence, and she tilted her face, and he bent towards her. As their lips met, her hands fluttered and she gripped his shoulders. He pulled her close, pressing her body to his. It was as if the whole crowd had been teleported to the Valley and only the two of them remained. He felt her relax against him, and he knew, in that instant, she was his.

  N. CRESCENT DRIVE

  Emily

  Sure, it was a thrill to be kissing the hottest movie star on earth. But the real thrill was to be kissing him in front of a million people. Emily always liked a chance to say ‘ha ha’ to the world – in particular her sister, her mother, the girls from school, all her ex-boyfriends, her husband, her father, and anyone who’d ever had a mean thought about her.

  That only left about ten people.

  As for the movie star himself, Ethan Summers was gorgeous, charming, rich and successful. His one flaw was his dating history: a hideous line-up of supermodels and Hollywood goddesses. As Emily was more intelligent than all of them put together in a sack and dropped off the Empire State, it would be insulting to compare badly as a sex object. She would stand out as special.

  As their lips met, and a hundred cameras clicked, Emily’s hand snaked down towards the crotch of his jeans, unzipped and squeezed.

  She felt his lean muscled body tense with desire, and begin to tremble. Aha, the heat of lust!

  Wait.

  Was Ethan shaking with passion or was he … laughing?

  She opened her eyes and saw that he was. Furiously, she pulled away.

  Grinning, Ethan adjusted himself. And then whispered in her ear, ‘I’m not that cheap.’ He had a nerve. She’d paid a million dollars for this!

  Or, rather, Daddy’s firm had paid a million dollars for this.

  There was his secretary on her mobile now. Those cameras must be live. Well, there was no way he could have a problem. It was for charity. Anyway, she had more immediate issues to deal with. The audience were starting to clap, uncertain, as if the kiss was over. This was not the plan at all.

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘That all you got?’

  His grin faded. He gripped her arms and roughly pulled her to him, kissed her long and hard.

  She felt dazed and weak with longing. She gasped lightly as he finally broke away. It was fate; they were meant to be together. Her gamble had paid off. It was the end of all her problems; the beginning of a twenty-first-century fairy tale.

  Ethan stroked her hair and bent to whisper in her ear. Here it was. He was going to ask her out.

  ‘Hey, babe, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘And how precious!’ cooed the host who, despite extensive surgery, looked at least forty and was now only ever cast to play grandmas or psychopaths. ‘How romantic to raise so much money for all those little orphaned babies in the Third World. Thank you, Ethan darling, I’m sure it was tough. And thank you, Miss Emily Kent, for your hugely generous bid.’

  The assembled Hollywood stars rose to their feet, clapping and cheering. Emily gave Ethan her best withering look, and said, ‘I didn’t give it to you.’

  Then she turned her back. The man was so arrogant, he needed a snub British-style.

  Her mobile rang again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Emily. I’m putting you through to your father now.’

  Ah, crap. ‘Daddy! My favourite. Hello!’

  ‘Emily. You bore me. You are fired. Your desk at the hotel is cleared. You are twenty-three now, and a mother: finance your own mistakes. I am sick of seeing you in the papers, compromising the family name. We’ll speak when you accomplish something. Until then.’

  ‘Daddy, wait!’

  She was speaking to dead air.

  She shoved on her Gucci shades and strode away from the crowds to the quiet of the pagoda.

  If she didn’t have an income, she would lose the apartment. Tim would get the children. She felt sick. She stared down over the gorgeous sprawl of West Hollywood and its blue, blue sky, a line of ocean visible in the distance, but at that moment she saw only black.

  ‘Do you support any other charities?’

  Oh God. It was impossible not to smile at Ethan Summers when he was being cute, but she wasn’t going to take off her sunglasses.

  He paused. ‘Jack wasn’t so impressed.’

  It was humiliating that he knew her situation. Of course he knew who she was. The kiss had been a mistake. It showed she was desperate. She didn’t want pity. She supposed she wanted him to fa
ll in love with her.

  ‘He never is,’ she said.

  He raised a hand. For a moment she thought he was going to hit her. He gently removed her sunglasses. ‘Now we’re talking.’

  She sighed. ‘So now I have no job, and no way to pay the rent.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t think even Access Hollywood are going to want a fifth interview.’

  Ethan bent his head. Every move, every look, every word made her want to rip off his clothes. ‘You could always crash at my place until you get yourself sorted. I promise I won’t’ – he waved a hand in the vague direction of her cleavage – ‘interfere with you.’

  Yes, yes, yes. The hand down the trousers – told you – irresistible!

  She made a point of hesitating. Ethan seemed to suppress a smile. ‘That’s a very kind offer,’ she said. ‘I’d like that. But I have a question.’

  ‘Go.’

  Emily gazed into his eyes. ‘Do you ever … break a promise?’

  LOS ANGELES, A WEEK LATER

  Emily

  So what if her father had seen the news footage and sacked her on the spot? It was his loss. He had said goodbye to the best publicity genius he would ever employ. He had no idea. To him, she’d blown a million dollars of company money on nothing. What an idiot. Didn’t he understand that publicity was all about perception? And, thanks to her and that kiss, millions of people, from New York to LA, from London to Paris, were perceiving the clip of Disgraced Hotel Tycoon’s Daughter Kissing A-List Movie Star Ethan Summers for One Million Dollars in Aid of Charity.

  Some stations had mentioned Belle Époque by name. Bookings would go through the roof. People were dumb. In their Neanderthal skulls, they would now link the exclusivity and desirability of Ethan Summers with her father’s hotels: the silver sparkle of his Hollywood glamour, his youth, his sex appeal, would rub off on Jack’s damaged empire like a sprinkle of fairy dust, for a mere million-dollar fee, when Japanese fizzy-drink firms paid ten times that amount, because other people knew that Ethan’s name could rewrite a reputation and get the hard cash pouring in.