She paid for her box of Nice ’n Easy and joined Tyler for a massage at the Spa Montage. Afterward they grabbed a bite at their favorite Beverly Hills people-watching spot, the patio of McCormick & Schmick’s.
“I’m so relaxed, you could stretch me like a pretzel,” said Tyler. “That massage was fabulous. We need to make this a monthly priority. Weekly, even. I can never have enough ‘me’ time.”
“Mmmm. I needed that, too. I’ve been working fourteen-hour days lately.”
“Has the trailer lady started?” Tyler said.
“Stephanie? Yeah, her first day was yesterday. And yeah, she’s just as obnoxious as I thought she’d be. I’d rather deal with a yeast infection. The typical look-at-me, I-never-got-enough-attention-when-I-was-a-little-girl syndrome. Typical actress.”
Tyler rolled his eyes. “Say no more. I know that type to a T. Those bitches infiltrate the biz like a rampant case of the clap.”
“But here’s the thing—I’m looking at a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus if the show climbs an additional ten percent in ratings, Ty. So I can’t complain.”
“Lord, tell her to come work with me—I could use a raise. Here”—he lifted his glass—“cheers, skankazoid. To health and wealth.”
“Yes. To health and—”
“Tammy, look!” cried a man at an adjacent table. His worn Cardinals T-shirt barely concealed his tummy. “There’s the gal from that cheerleader show.” He and his wife craned their necks to inspect Callie. She slid farther down in her seat.
“Ugh, tourists,” Tyler grumbled.
The woman made her move. “Excuse me, miss; I don’t mean to bother you while you’re eatin’, but I gotta tell you my husband and I watch your show all the time! Your forehead don’t look nearly as big as it does on TV.”
Callie forced a smile. “Thank you.”
“So what’s it like?”
“It’s a great show to be a part of,” Callie said. “I’m really fortunate to have a steady gig and be a part of something so fun.” Typical question, pat answer. Yawn.
The woman’s eyes were bugged with so much adrenaline, she looked as though she’d pounce on Callie at any moment. “No, I mean what’s it like being famous? Having people recognize you and takin’ your picture? It must be so excitin’ and make you feel special.”
“Not really.” The blank look on Tammy’s face prompted Callie to continue, sans bullshit. “It’s not like any of those people love me. And at the end of the day, that’s all that matters.”
“Huh? What’s all that matters?” Tammy asked.
“Love. Without it, life isn’t complete. And I don’t know why—maybe because I can’t wear it or smell it or spend it—but it’s easy to take for granted. Trite but true. Love is what remains. The rest of that stuff—money and magazine covers and designer this and that—it’s sweet, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not real. Know what I mean? It’s not tangible. I can’t take it with me.”
“Not unless you’re Egyptian,” Tyler chirped.
Tammy’s weathered face was soaked in confusion and she turned back to her equally clueless husband.
“I’ve never heard you so unguarded before,” Tyler whispered. “You threw that poor thing for a loop.”
“Well, it’s true. It may not sound glamorous or be what she wants to hear, but come on—what else can I ask for?”
“A man,” Tyler said. “A big, hot, strapping man to sweep you off your feet. That’s next on your agenda.”
“Nah,” she demurred. “Trust me, I’m not looking. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
“Ha! That’s what you said before meeting what’s-his-name. When you’re not looking, that’s when you find someone. Which explained why I couldn’t find anyone for the longest time—bitch was trying way too hard.”
“Everything in due time. Right now, I’m exhausted just being me.” She attacked her Caesar and ignored the Missouri natives’ ogling.
59
One, two, one, two … Callie placed a gladiator sandal along the edge of the infinity pool, one in front of the other, as though balancing on a beam. Arms straight out, clutch in hand. Brant Van Zant’s house buzzed with Hollywood movers and shakers. She had met a good handful of the guests at one point or another through work but Callie wasn’t in the mood for superficial gabble. Tyler was supposed to have joined her but had to cancel at the last minute for a client.
(“Tyler, I implore you, come to Palm Springs,” Barbara Hickey said. “A friend backed out of presenting an award at an architecture gala tonight and I’m filling in for her. This old face is screaming for your magic.”
“Sorry, Barbara, can’t do it,” Tyler told her. “I’m going to a party tonight.”
“Surely you can change your plans,” scoffed Barbara. “I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up at your house and drive you here.”
“I already told Callie I’d go with her.”
“And, young man, I’ll triple your rate.”
“What time is good for you, Barbara?”)
A woman’s nasally voice rose above all other partygoers—ugh, Stephanie Schueller. Like a hyena on steroids. She rushed over to Callie and dragged her by the forearm.
“Come here, Callie, there’s someone I want you to meet. That French guy who owns that magazine you were in. He’s gonna invest a buttload of money in the franchise. You gotta meet him. And from what I hear”—Stephanie lowered her voice—“his dick matches his bank account.”
Callie found it extremely difficult to be fond of Stephanie but impossible not to be grateful to her, too; thanks to the addition of the new character, Blaze, Callie’s bank account was thriving more than ever. The Cheerleader Chronicles soared 30 percent and Paul Angers was able to get her contract rewritten, guaranteeing her $125,000 per episode. She didn’t know if longevity was in store for Blaze (the Wilders claimed they weren’t sure, either, but wanted to keep Stephanie on board for the remainder of the season) but hoped the blonde’s storyline involved a gun or knife or nuclear explosion in the near future.
“Guess what that publicist, Sherri Finstad, managed to do?” Stephanie said. “Go on, take a guess.”
“I have no idea.”
“It involves something we both have in common.”
Callie couldn’t think of a single quality the two shared. “No clue.”
“She scored me my first real interview! The cover of Tell Us. And I even mention you in it.”
“I can hardly wait to read it.” She reluctantly let Stephanie guide her over to Brant. He mingled with a small group of people drinking and smoking at a wrought-iron table. The smell of tobacco clouded the crisp night air.
“Mr. Roo-sew,” Stephanie trumpeted, “meet Callie Lambert.”
Yves Rousseau was sandwiched between two statuesque Latinas but rose when Callie approached. He raised her hand to his lips. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. At last I have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.” He raised her hand to his lips and his wide-set eyes flickered.
She hadn’t yet been introduced to Mr. Coquette himself—they had missed each other by mere minutes at the celebration for her pictorial the previous year—and was struck by the Frenchman’s style. Yves was a walking billboard for Parisian luxury; his silk tie was perfectly knotted and his full head of salt-and-pepper hair and swarthy skin emphasized the starkness of his white Givenchy suit. Any air of aloofness disappeared when he smiled; his dimples gave Callie’s a run for their money. Of course, there were those scandalous rumors—he threw marathon sex parties every weekend and liked to keep his two girlfriends, Inez and Anita, tied to his bed, naked, for days at a time, allegedly—but Callie found him nonthreatening. Sexual, to be sure, but harmless.
“Likewise, Mr. Rousseau—”
“Yves,” he interjected. “Please, mademoiselle, call me Yves. Everyone does.”
“Yves,” Callie said, “may I have one of your cigarettes?”
“But of course.” He whipped a smoke from his gold case and lit it for her.
“Mon plaisir, ma chère,” Yves said. He brushed a fallen ash off the lapel of his white linen suit. “Your diction is very good. You studied French, no?”
“Just in high school for a few years. If that counts.”
“Of course that counts, absolutely. You have lovely coloring. What’s your background? Mediterranean, I suspect.”
She nodded. “Yes, Greek. I—”
“Isn’t she great, Yves? Her skin tone is in-fucking-credible,” said Stephanie. “The makeup team always has to drench me in body makeup just so I have a little color and look remotely human but, nope, not Callie. She’s got a tan for days.”
Yves ignored the interruption. “You were saying, mademoiselle?”
“On my father’s side, yes.”
“So is one of my girls.” He pointed to one of the Latinas. “Anita is part Greek.”
“Only the good part,” Anita purred.
“Don’t let the good part fool you; this woman is all bad. Fantastically bad.” His dark eyes out-burned his cigarette. “Callie, you must pose for me again. You were such a smash, the best-selling issue of last year and the top seller in all of Europe! I’ve put in several calls to your agent and you’ve ignored me.”
“I’m sorry, Yves. I’m just not into nudes anymore.”
“You should be—everyone else is. I certainly am. Name your price.”
“It’s not a question of money.”
“Impossible. Everything boils down to money. Sex and money, that’s what makes the world tick.”
Callie looked away. “I don’t know, Yves, I’m not really into—”
“Je t’en prie—I beg of you—name your price. Coquette needs Callie again.”
But Callie doesn’t need Coquette. “I’ll think it over.”
“You Americans make everything so difficult,” he moaned. “Très difficile, when it need not be.”
Stephanie chimed in. “Mr. Roo-sew, Callie is dying to hear all about your investment idea.”
Brant shushed her but Yves didn’t seem to mind. “Yes, yes, it’s true. I’ve been giving much thought about financing a follow-up to Nympho Cheerleaders.”
“A sequel? I haven’t heard anything about this,” said Callie.
“Yves has a meeting with the Wilders next week,” Brant said. “Under my direction—NCA! Part Deux. Great news, isn’t it? You’ll be a huge part of it, naturally. You and Nympho go hand in hand, like hotcakes and syrup.”
Callie wasn’t crazy about the sound of that; she was tired of being associated with anything overtly sexual, especially something carrying the word “nympho.” All eyes were on her, impatient for her response. “Umm, wow,” she said. “That’s fantastic.”
Stephanie bobbed up and down on her seat cushion. “Isn’t that awesome? Yves says we can do Coquette together, too, as a tie-in. Another pictorial, only better.”
“And bigger,” Yves said. “A double layout, I’m thinking. Maybe even a double issue—you on one cover, Callie, and Stephanie on another. Big, big—I want to go big.”
“Wonderful,” Callie murmured absently. She puffed the remainder of her cigarette.
“I have many tricks up my sleeve, oh, yes. Many different ways to entice mademoiselle. You say no to one offer, I come up with another idea. You say no to that, I come up with ten different ideas. One way or another, I get my way. You see, I do not believe in losing—and besides, I’ve never been remotely good at it, anyway.” Yves laughed and the others joined in.
“Excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ room.” Callie walked to the front of the house, where the valet was set up, and waited while they fetched her car.
“Hey,” said a male voice.
She looked over her shoulder. The last person she’d expect to see—a forlorn-looking Mitch Gracie—stood a few feet away from her, hands shoved deep in his torn jeans. “Hey,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I do manage to score a few invites around here, believe it or not. You look miserable, Callie.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“I am miserable. That’s why I’m leavin’. My girlfriend dragged me here, in case you were curious. As you know, these shindigs aren’t my forte. But she’s visiting from Alabama and wanted to go to a chichi Hollywood party.”
“Where is she?”
“I have no idea.” Mitch shook his head. “None whatsoever. And I don’t really give a rat’s ass, either. I haven’t seen her in an hour. Last I did see of her, though, she was getting a little too friendly with some Z-list actor she recognized from TV. Her phone is off, too, so she must be really enjoying herself.”
Callie looked down at the driveway. “I don’t know what to say, Mitch. I’m sorry.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I was planning on breakin’ up with her after the weekend was over, anyway. I realized we weren’t exactly compatible. Better now than later. So what are you so upset over? What, did you break a Louboutin?”
Callie’s mouth dropped. “Oh my God. Did you actually say—?”
“Yes, believe it or not, I do know what expensive shoes are, Callie. I’m not that much of a redneck. Wait a minute, let me rephrase myself—I believe the correct term is ‘Hick Prick,’ am I right? A few birdies told me that was your special name for me.”
She blushed. “Mitch, I—”
“Relax. As I told you when I first met you, I don’t give a damn. Or a rat’s ass. Or anything you wanna call it. So, answer my question—why do you look so pissed off?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not one for these Hollywood gimmicks, either. They’re always the same—a bunch of phonies stroking each other’s assholes.”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “I like that—strokin’ each other’s assholes. Phrased perfectly. You don’t seem like one of those types to me.”
“I’m not. That’s the problem. And every time I go to one of these parties I’m reminded of that,” she sputtered.
“You know, when we first met I assumed—wrongfully, I admit—you were high maintenance. I came off a little strong—”
“A little?”
“A lot. Yeah, I’ll give ya that. But I stand corrected.”
He’s not so bad, Callie thought. With his quick wit and raw sense of humor, he could be quite entertaining to work with, actually. His unpretentiousness was authentic and refreshing and, dare she admit it, a little sexy. And those lips … those lush lips of his demanded to be kissed for days at a time.
The valet pulled up in a Jeep. “That’s me. Well, princess, your head’s on straighter than most. Just don’t forget to keep that chin up. If nothin’ else, just to piss ’em off.”
“So when is your next call time?” she asked.
“I’m done, darlin’. I’m wrapped.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. They’re not bringing you back?”
“Not unless the Wilders wanna renegotiate with my agent. Which they could, I guess, but so far, they haven’t. My last day on set was last week.”
“Really? Why didn’t you say something?”
“Why would I? Don’t tell me you miss me already.” He hopped in the front seat and propped his elbow out the window. “Since when does hell freeze over?”
“Humph.” Callie stuck her nose up. Mitch laughed again, a devil-may-care chuckle that brought a smile to Callie’s lips.
“Look at those dimples,” he said. “A badass is never supposed to have dimples, you know. Not good for your reputation. See ya around.” He pulled out of the driveway. Callie watched his teeth flash in the rearview mirror as he trailed down the winding road.
60
“No? What do you mean, no?” Paul Angers held his fork of lasagna in midair and gawked.
“I mean no. N-O,” Callie said. Their waiter brought another basket of bread over and she dove in. “I’m not interested in
posing for Coquette again. Been there, done that.”
“But Rousseau’s offering three hundred thousand dollars, Callie—that’s sixty higher than his last offer.”
“I know, Paul.”
“If you’re holding out for more, forget it. He said that’s as high as he’s going. Take it or leave it.”
“Then I’ll leave it. It’s not about money. Besides, Paul, I thought we were on the same page? We agreed I need to steer away from this kind of work before I get pigeonholed.”
“And, trust me, I fully believe you need and deserve diversity in your work, Cal. That’s never been a question for me and I’ve never doubted you. But think it over—three hundred grand is a whole lot of dough.”
She sighed. “Tell me about it. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lost my marbles.”
“You can say no until the cows come home, but when they dangle that cash in front of you, all bets are off.”
“It brings out the whore in me, is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Brings out the whore in all of us—me, you, and Jane Schmoe. There are no exceptions where a large lump of cash is concerned.”
“But I’m not hard up for cash, Paul. What if I don’t want to do it for any amount?”
“Here’s the sticky part,” Paul said carefully. “Rousseau is insisting you do another layout for the magazine if you want to do the sequel.”
“Let him insist all he wants,” she said. “Maybe I don’t even want to do the sequel, did he ever think of that? Besides, Rousseau doesn’t call the shots.”
Paul cleared his throat. “Actually, yes, he does. The Wilders agree that in order to be part of the film you have to do the magazine, too. A package deal, so to speak. They’re going to stipulate it in your contract.”
“Come again?”
“Rousseau is financing it, Callie—ten million of his own. He figures, tie in the two projects together. First and foremost, he’s a businessman and he wants to guarantee his investment is a smart one.”
Hollywood Strip Page 22
