“Is this our exit?” I say, overexcitedly pointing out the Studio City exit sign. “You know, I have never been on a movie set before!”
The Cowboy shakes his head slowly, clearly not impressed by my sudden starstruck enthusiasm.
We drive through the gates, barely stopping as the guard waves to Sam and writes something down on a clipboard. I make a big show of being amazed by the city of studios and trailers, but I am not actually new to the movie world. When you’re a household name, the club gets small and sooner or later you know everyone who’s anyone. I know my share of actors. I’ve played around in their world just as they’ve hobnobbed with my society set. After a while you realize people are just people and, other than money, not much separates us from our basic common denominators.
I know, I didn’t say this to Sam, but deep down inside, it’s how I truly feel. Money buys all the trappings and it does buy a good measure of happiness, I don’t care what anybody says. But when I sit in my therapist’s office I have the same issues as any other woman; they’re just gilded a bit by my good fortune.
Sam parks outside of what looks like an airplane hangar and when we step inside we are suddenly transported back two hundred years, to what appears to be a cross between a Brazilian jungle and the Salem witch trials.
Jeremy stands in the center of a clearing, dressed in a flowing black robe not unlike the dresses Zoe and Diane wore to dinner the evening before. He is surrounded by women who also wear black, but some of them are so scantily clad it’s really not worth mentioning. They are wearing little strips of fabric that sway as they walk, revealing almost every inch of their bodies. It seems to be a ritual sacrifice that Jeremy is conducting because he has a woman tied to a tree and is approaching her with a knife.
They are rehearsing. The red light that indicates filming is not on and around us there is the quiet murmur of conversation. Zoe sits next to a cameraman, leaning in to instruct him as Jeremy closes in on his victim.
When he reaches the young woman, her eyes widen in fear as he raises the knife. With a single movement his left hand shoots forward. The woman screams and faints, and Zoe calls quietly, “Perfect!”
She stands up, leaving the cameraman’s side and I realize she is dressed identically to the woman tied to the tree. Jeremy steps back. His intended victim leaves and Zoe replaces her against the tree trunk. The look she gives him sends shivers of anticipation through my body. She wets her lips with her slick, pink tongue and seems to issue a challenge with that one simple flicker. There is a chemistry between the two of them that wasn’t there with the stand-in.
“Quiet on the set,” someone calls.
“And…action!”
The red light is on. The cameras are rolling and I forget that the figures before us are actors. The energy between Jeremy and Zoe is intense and strangely violent as he approaches her. Zoe does not play the scene as her stand-in did. She tilts her chin defiantly, thrusts her breasts out in invitation and, just as he reaches her, turns her head to offer her neck to his knife.
The other women standing around the clearing in a circle begin to chant and drums play. Diane emerges from the cult, slinking forward to come up behind Jeremy and it is obvious that she is about to do something when we hear “Cut!” There is a brief freeze and then everyone dissipates, vanishing to their various trailers and resting places.
Jeremy sees Sam and makes his way toward us, Zoe trailing like a vapor behind him. I think he doesn’t know she’s following him, because when he gets within earshot of Sam he says, “Load of crap, huh? Where’s the believability?”
Zoe’s eyes blaze and she veers off toward a small group of people clustered around a table and equipment. I see a few extras gesture in my direction, excitedly tapping others and know I have been recognized as a visiting celebrity.
When Jeremy sees me, he breaks into a wide grin and becomes the genial host.
“What do you think?” he says, sweeping one arm to include the set and everything around it.
I smile. “Quite nice,” I say. “Sort of like a giant topiary.”
Jeremy shrugs. “It’s a living.”
He seems full of energy, as if the events of last night had never taken place. It is amazing, really, to see him portray the casual, happy attitude of a Hollywood star leading a charmed life.
“Listen, I thought I might take you with us tonight,” he says. “You know, to see the town and all that. I’ve an apartment in Beverly Hills so we don’t have to make the trip back to the ranch tonight.”
“But I don’t have my things…” I begin.
Jeremy lifts his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I’ll have someone bring in what you need. It’s no big deal, but you will need an outfit.”
I look at him and wonder what he’s got planned.
Jeremy smiles at me. “You coming here was Andrea’s idea and I don’t know what favor she called in to do it, but I figure she’ll feel just a little bit responsible for you, and Mark will have to watch out for me. You know, I am a bit of a wild boy!” He says this with an overly exaggerated wink to me and then laughs as if it’s some kind of huge joke. “I’ve told Andrea she simply has to come along, you know, duty and all, and that she doesn’t even have to talk to Mark if she doesn’t want to.”
“She won’t come,” I say, but I am really hoping Jeremy holds the magic card and can force her into it. I want to hear her version of last night’s events. I suddenly find myself trusting no one, not even the woman who had called Renee and begged for her help.
Jeremy smiles like he knows a big secret and says, “Oh, I think Andrea will come!” He leans closer to me. “Mark sent her an absolutely fabulous room full of flowers this morning and a long letter of apology.”
I shake my head and look to see Sam apparently having the same reaction.
“Who sent the flowers and letter, Jeremy—you?” I ask.
Jeremy feigns mock dismay. “Of course not! I may be an asshole with plenty of experience in these sorts of predicaments, but I would never…”
“Spare me,” I say.
Jeremy drops the act. “Okay, I helped but I didn’t write it. They’re my friends and in a way, it’s probably my fault that bitch Diane got her claws into him. I owe them a little help. Come on, Porsche, I’m not heartless!”
I realize Jeremy really does appear to mean what he’s saying. Every now and then a flash of sincerity seems to bubble up from the depths of Jeremy’s personality. I look at my watch and realize it’s already midafternoon. My stomach growls and I think it has to be a long time before dinner.
“I’ll take her to the condo,” Sam says, which makes me feel like luggage, but grateful luggage.
“Maybe Porsche would like to see Rodeo Drive, Sam,” Jeremy says, gleefully baiting his friend while tantalizing me.
I am so distracted by the shopping possibilities that I don’t notice Zoe and Diane approaching until they are almost upon us. Zoe has a clipboard in hand and is glancing at it nervously, while Diane eyes Sam and Jeremy with a speculative glint. I figure she’s planning her next conquest. They arrive just in time to hear Jeremy tell Sam where to make reservations for dinner and when to order the limousine’s arrival.
“Oh, goodie!” Diane coos. “Wolfie’s!”
Jeremy ignores her and lets Zoe take him over. The two walk off, consulting the notepad and discussing what I assume is the next scene. Sam turns his back on Diane and leads me back to his SUV. He doesn’t say a word, just starts up the car and takes off, the sullen scowl back in place. It’s going to be a lovely evening.
“You don’t have to take me to Rodeo Drive,” I say, attempting to make peace. “I’ve been before. It’s nothing new and the paparazzi in this town are too damned voracious.”
Sam continues to stare straight ahead as we drive away from the studio. “Didn’t intend to take you,” he says.
“Well, good. I didn’t think you were much of a shopper.”
I take a moment to fantasize a suitable punis
hment for his transgressions and feel much better when I imagine him trotting behind me, toting hundreds of bags from every boutique shop in Beverly Hills.
“Where are we going to party tonight?” I ask.
“Don’t know, don’t particularly care.”
“You know, you’re about as friendly as a cactus,” I say, finally losing my temper.
This draws a glare from him. “Why, princess, should you care about a hired hand’s attitude?”
I sit there across from him, stewing, and am surprised when I feel a sudden sting of tears behind my eyelids and my throat tightens dangerously. For some reason I find myself flashing back to my conversation with Renee. “Who would miss the poor little rich girl if she suddenly vanished from the planet?”
Why do people see me as such a superficial playgirl? I have feelings. I have a mind. I’ll show them. I’ll show them all, I vow silently.
Chapter 7
It is long past midnight and I itch in all the wrong places. Perspiration trickles in rivulets between my breasts and joins the creeks and rivers of sweat that are running downhill beneath my absurd costume. I stomp my foot, open my mouth and scream from the sheer frustration of it all, but no one hears me. The band is too loud, and anyway, everyone else is screaming, too.
My only pleasure comes in knowing that Sam the cowboy is more miserable than me. He is wearing the same thing he always wears, a ten-gallon Stetson, tight jeans and a white, cotton dress shirt. His discomfort comes from Jeremy’s choice of entertainment. Venue doesn’t play country music. It is a tightly packed, ultrahot dance club and Sam the cowboy doesn’t fit in with its young, chic clientele.
I fit right in. I am wearing Stella McCartney shiny black pants, paired with a white, handkerchief peasant top and Manolo Blahnik stiletto sandals. I am almost as tall as Sam and I positively tower over Jeremy and the other two women. Mark, however, is about my height, or would be if he’d stop standing with his shoulders slumped in a pitiful display of affected humility and remorse. I don’t know why he bothers; Andrea has not so much as looked his way.
She is wearing a black Kevin Johnn pantsuit. Her brunette hair is swept back in a ponytail and she wears almost no makeup, probably because she has spent all day and most of the evening crying. At dinner, she left the table at least five times only to return with less makeup and a slightly redder nose.
For the occasion Mark has chosen a long, black leather trench coat and matching fedora. He would look sinister if he weren’t so pathetic.
Scott has accompanied us, along with two extra bodyguards hired for the evening to fill in for Dave. Scott stands a short distance away from Jeremy, shadowing his every move, but the other two are nowhere in sight, well-hidden but easily summoned should the occasion warrant their presence. Scott isn’t wearing a designer suit but his regular dark suit and grim expression make him fit right in.
At the beginning of the evening, Jeremy stayed stuck to my side, fawning over me at dinner and almost vacuuming my lips off outside the Geisha House as we waited for the others to board the limo. The man smells a photo op and is more of a ham than anyone I know. I mean, I am not averse to having my picture taken, but I certainly don’t make a spectacle of myself! All right, so there was the Italian fountain incident…and maybe one or two more…and yes, perhaps a video with an early and somewhat older boyfriend: but it’s not as if we actually did anything in it! I am not Paris Hilton, for God’s sake!
Anyway, Jeremy certainly seems to have forgotten me. Zoe, accompanied by the obviously unwelcome Diane, has somehow materialized at the restaurant where we are to eat dinner, and now seems to have monopolized his attention. She is wearing black leather, too, but her getup makes Andrea’s tastefully sexy outfit seem ultraconservative. For one thing, the seams of Zoe’s floral silk pants are ripped straight up the sides, almost to her waistband. She was wearing a long tunic top at dinner, so no one noticed, but once we entered the club, she stripped the blouse off to reveal a sheer rose-colored, silk bra.
Of course, Zoe and Diane have brought a little added enticement. I see them slip off with Jeremy to a secluded private booth and I can tell from the way they’re sniffing when they return that Zoe brought nose candy along with her.
A few yards away from where I’m watching the action, Andrea stands beside Sam. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she just stands there like a statue, and doesn’t appear to hear a word I say. Sam has not left her side all evening. So, of course, that leaves me stuck with the only other person in our group, Mark.
“Wild scene, huh?” he screams over the music. He nods his head, like he thinks the music has a beat he can follow, like he’s hip and into the whole scene.
I look at him, frown and cup my hand to my ear. Let him think I can’t hear him and maybe he’ll wander off. Idiot! But he doesn’t leave. Instead he stands next to me, pathetically watching his wife ignore him.
“I don’t know what happened,” he says, speaking right into my ear so there’s no drowning the words with techno-bop. “I think she must’ve put something in my wine. One minute I was fine, the next I was drunk on my ass and floating above the table, you know?”
No, I did not know. I like control too much to lose it on a chemical.
“Everything felt so good,” he says. “It was like my nerve endings were supersensitive. Everything tasted better, sounded better, felt…Well, you know.”
I have been leaning against the wall, watching the crowd as Mark talks, but suddenly the air is too close and I feel as if I just have to get outside and breathe.
“Be right back,” I say, not caring if he hears me, and start through the crowd toward the exit.
The bouncer stamps my hand and attempts to kiss it, but I pull away from him and half run through the doors to the cool evening air. I hate L.A. I hate everything about it, the phony people, the lies, the lights, the glitz that only seems cheap after a while. The town is dirty and sleazy, even the good sections, and yes, even Beverly Hills. I look up at the night sky, the stars obscured by the dull orange glow of street lights, and wish I were anywhere but here.
I walk off a few steps, aware of a photographer across the street who is following my every move with his zoom lens. I notice one of Jeremy’s security people heading in the man’s direction, know the press won’t be a problem and pull my cell phone out of my tiny Gucci bag to dial Renee’s number. By my watch, it must be close to 6:00 a.m. in New York—time for her to be up anyway. She’ll be mad that I haven’t called back sooner, but may be too groggy to give me much hell about it.
“Hello, Porsche,” she says, her voice as cool and crisp as ever. Damn caller ID.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a rather hectic day and this is my first chance to get back to you,” I begin, but Renee isn’t interested in excuses.
“I was getting a little worried,” she says, and I am sure I hear annoyance in her tone.
I walk a little farther away and lean against the side of a car. Without further delay, I tell her everything that’s happened since my arrival. She listens with very few interruptions.
“So, Reins couldn’t possibly be behind the failed attempt at the pool?” she asks.
“It wouldn’t be impossible,” I answer slowly. “And the shooting incident could’ve been done by one of his bodyguards or his manager or even Andrea, but I don’t really get the feeling that’s the case. The police have recovered the slugs and are running an analysis of all the staff weapons to compare them with the bullets so they should know definitively within a day, I’d guess.”
Renee sighs softly. “I don’t like the way this sounds,” she says. “The Oscar party is in three days. I’m sending Emma.”
“What?” Why send Emma, not that I wouldn’t be glad to see her, but why? Surely she wasn’t going to send me home?
“I’m sending Emma because her father’s corporation, as you well know, owns a large chain of office supply stores. She’ll be bringing a large check and the promise of school supplies for the students. No one w
ill question why she’s there with you for the party.”
“Except for me,” I say. “Why are you sending her?”
A tiny twinge of jealously gnaws at my stomach. This is my job. I’m handling it. I don’t need a babysitter.
“Now, Porsche,” Renee says, her voice set to soothe. “Two sets of eyes have got to be better than one. Besides, it sounds as if things could escalate and if they do you’ll be glad of the help.”
Only I’m not glad. I’m pissed. I mean, I love Emma, but this is my first job. I want to do it by myself! I know what I’m feeling isn’t rational. Yesterday all I wanted was to come home, but somewhere along the line something changed inside me. I have something to prove now, to myself.
Renee isn’t interested in my wounded pride. She wants the job done with the least amount of risk to her Roses. I know this and that’s why I don’t argue further with her.
“I’ll talk to Emma,” she says. “I should be able to get her there by tomorrow night or the day after at the latest. I trust you and Andrea can work out the details so no one wonders at her arrival.”
Oh, what am I supposed to say to that? No? Of course not. “Okay, we’ll be ready,” I say, and hang up. I turn away from the sidewalk, sheltered by the SUV I’ve been leaning against and consider bashing my head into its metal frame until I am knocked senseless. I am a failure. Why else would Renee send backup? She doesn’t trust me to discern the real story here. She’s sending someone to look over my shoulder.
I stand there, feeling sorry for myself for a long minute, and then my self-respect gene kicks in. I don’t know where this gene comes from because I don’t know my real father and I don’t think my mother has it. It’s this well of icy cool that overcomes me in times of extreme stress. It just surges up through me and takes over. I’ll just up my timetable and find out the real score before Emma can make it to L.A.
I straighten up, turn, and find Sam the Cowboy standing three feet away, arms crossed, watching me.
Lethally Blonde Page 11
