Girls on film: an A-list novel

by Zoey Dean

  Anna looked confused. "Sorry?"

  "Dumb, dull, retarded, thick, moronic, dim-witted, imbecilic, pea brained," Sam answered herself as they cut through the building and out onto the quad. "They all apply to my new--gag me--stepmom, who has decided to redo my home in her image, beginning this weekend. Ergo, no party."

  "Can't we just shoot it in a club?" Anna suggested. "Someplace decadent?"

  "Been there, done that," Sam replied. "A guy last year did a short film at Au Bar that made it into the L.A. Film Festival. We need something fresh. We really

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  need to get it together by this weekend if we want to---wait. I've got it. Veronique's Maison!"

  "Veronica's house?" Anna translated.

  "It's this incredible spa in Palm Springs," Sam explained. "I was thinking of going up there later in the month anyway. Here, check it out. Look in the very back." She pulled the latest edition of Los Angeles magazine out of her backpack and handed it to Anna, who flipped to the last page, where she found the tiniest of boxed ads.

  It read simply: VERONIQUE'S MAISON. 2006 waiting list only. E-mail only to reserve@veronique-palmsprings.com. NO calls.

  "2006? Impressive," Anna said.

  "They don't really need the ad; they only place it to be snotty. Like, they don't even tell you it's a spa; you just have to know. Trust me, this place is as Daisy Buchanan as you can get. Mixed with a little Deepak Chopra, but whatever. I think we should go this weekend. And film there."

  Anna handed the magazine back to Sam. "I suppose the waiting list doesn't apply to you."

  "Your point?" Sam asked.

  "None. But I really don't know if I can spend the weekend away."

  "Why not?"

  "I might have plans."

  "Change them."

  "Adam and I were talking about going to the San Diego Zoo."

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  "Yeah, I saw you two together yesterday." Sam worked hard not to look at Anna's mouth. Which was just so sick! The only reason she was even thinking about that was because of her stupid dream, which didn't mean anything. "Invite him to come out to Vs. So, you and Adam, huh?"

  Anna shrugged. "We're friends."

  "Friends who get naked and do the nasty or the boring kind?"

  Anna laughed. "I don't know yet."

  Sam shook her perfectly streaked locks off her face. "Come on. You know if the vibe is there."

  Anna looked contemplative. "Well, I kissed him last night."

  Sam checked in with herself on how she felt about that, but everything was too jumbled together in her mind. She shrugged. "A kiss is just a kiss."

  " Casablanca ." Anna smiled.

  "Wait, I thought you told me you never went to the movies," Sam reminded her.

  "Come on. Casablanca is a classic."

  "And you're a classics kind of babe," Sam surmised. Oh God, did she sound flirtatious ? Because that would be horrible! "So, anyway, how was it?"

  "Nice."

  "Translation--no chemistry," Sam surmised.

  "It was a first kiss, not a scorched-earth policy."

  "Chemistry is chemistry," Sam insisted. "Either you want to jump his bones or you don't. Hold on, I've got a phone call to make."

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  Sam pulled her cell from her purse and made a quick call to her father's executive assistant, telling her to book two suites at V's for the weekend.

  "Done." Sam dropped the palm-size phone back into her purse with a big smile. "We'll have a blast." Her gut told her that the Anna and Adam thing wasn't exactly torrid. Plus the thought of spending the weekend at a spa with Anna made her feel... happy. "And it's on me," she added.

  "That's not necessary, but thanks for the offer. Listen, if we're going to do a film, won't we need to write a script?" Anna pointed out.

  Sam shook her head. "We'll just improv and see what we get."

  "I think that's another way of saying we'll be unprepared."

  Sam sighed. Why was Anna being difficult? "Fine, I'll write a--"

  "Why don't I do it?" Anna interrupted. "You're directing and producing, the least I can do is write."

  Sam was dubious. "Have you ever written a screenplay?"

  "No. But we're only talking about, what, a ten-minute film? Everyone has to start somewhere."

  "Really, Anna, I should--"

  "No, I should," Anna insisted. "It's a co-project, remember?"

  " Fine ," Sam acquiesced, though she was not happy about it. She checked her new Cartier Tank watch.

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  "Damn, I'm late to meet Cammie. Listen, meet me after school at the Beverly Hills Hotel and we can plan the whole thing."

  "Why the Beverly Hi--"

  "Convenient, cool, beats Starbucks. Gotta run. Catch you later."

  Sam took off, her mind buzzing. She was used to giving directions, not taking them. On the other hand, she kind of liked that Anna Percy was no pushover. One could say, Sam found it very ... attractive.

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  Screw Hazelden

  "Hi, Sam," the Angelina Jolie look-alike waitress said as she reached behind her head and pulled a pen out of her ponytail.

  "The usual?"

  "Yeah. Thanks, Madeline. Anna?"

  "Espresso would be great," Anna said.

  The girls were seated in the Polo Lounge, the outdoor cafe at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Surrounded by a spectacular array of palm trees and flowers in brilliant shades of pink and rose, Anna was reminded of the afternoon teas she'd once had there with her grandparents when she was little.

  Though it was early January, all Anna needed to wear over her T-shirt was a denim jacket. Sam leaned her elbows on the table. One of her hands came to rest atop Anna's. "So, I've been thinking about how perfect it is for us to do this project together. It's like you're Daisy and I'm Jay."

  Anna tried to figure out what Sam could possibly mean by that remark. In The Great Gatsby , Jay Gatsby

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  had a massive crush on the wealthy Daisy Buchanan. He became wealthy himself. But somehow his "new" money wasn't considered as good as her "old" money. Though Jay did everything he could, he never quite convinced Daisy--or himself--that he was good enough for her.

  What was Sam implying? Was it about money? Class? Or something else?

  No. It couldn't be romance. Sam was straight.

  But. Just in case. Anna dead-eyed Sam's hand over her own. "Care to explain?" she asked, casually withdrawing her hand.

  "Just kidding. I'm thinking when we get to V's, we should suss out the social-climbing nouveau faction and ask them if they want to be in a movie. People always say yes, especially when they realize who I am."

  "What if they can't act?" Anna asked. "Someone has to do the dialogue that I'm going to write."

  Sam waved dismissively. "Think of the guests as wallpaper. We'll definitely have your basic filthy-rich snooty types from back east. You might even know some of them. Any luck, some filthy-rich guy who made his money in Internet porn will be visiting from Texas. That'll add some, ahem, color. Cut and paste, mix and match, splice them in around the script, and voila: we've got a visual commentary on the modern American aristocracy that would make R Scott proud. So, what about your script?"

  "What about it?" Anna said, hoping she sounded confident.

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  "You've thought about it?"

  "Sure," Anna improvised. That was true. She had thought about it. She just hadn't come to any conclusions.

  "Main characters, at least?" Sam prompted.

  "A Gatsby type, of course. And ... a Daisy type. And probably another girl." Anna was making it up as she went along. "Maybe Parker Pinelli could play Gatsby?" She'd met Parker at the wedding, too. He was a stunningly handsome BHH senior who allegedly was an actor.

  "Why, are you interested in Parker now?" Sam asked.

  Anna noticed a sharpness to Sam's tone. "Not at all. But he can act, right?"

  "Using the term loosely," Sam allowed. "Yeah, he'll do in a h
eartbeat. We'll get his brother, Monty, to help out, too. I'll give some thought to the Daisy character and get back to you. Unless you want to be Daisy."

  " Definitely not. And there's only one other casting absolute: No Cammie Sheppard."

  "You have my word," Sam said with a chuckle. Anna wasn't sure what the chuckle was meant to imply. And she didn't really care, quite frankly. If Anna's low opinion of Cammie Sheppard was comical to Sam, so be it. As long as Cammie stayed far away from the set.

  "Here you go, Sam." The waitress set a cup of coffee and an iced crystal goblet of fresh raspberries in front of her. "Hey, I got a callback for your dad's new film."

  "Good for you," Sam said.

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  "It's just one scene--I'd be a go-go dancer at the Limelight who has information your dad's character needs to find his kidnapped lover. But it's killer."

  "Great, Madeline. Hope you get it."

  Madeline held up crossed fingers, then went on to the next table. Sam tore open a packet of Equal and shook it into her coffee. "I swear, everyone in this town is delusional. I've seen her reel. She sucks."

  "Why doesn't someone tell her the truth, then?"

  "You're in La La Land now, Anna. The truth is always relative." Sam plucked a raspberry from her goblet with French-manicured fingers and popped it into her mouth. "Lots of girls who can't act make it. If she makes it, you don't want to be the one who dissed her. Or she could be sleeping with someone really important. You dis her, she tells him ... or her ... you're screwed. And other variations on that theme." Sam chewed another raspberry, then lowered her voice. "They use girls like her for the 'box' scene."

  "Which is ... ?" Anna asked.

  "You know how there's always a still photo of a babe in a bikini or her underwear on the box of every DVD movie? It's supposed to attract buyers and renters to the film, even if it has nothing to do with the picture. Want one?" She pushed the berries toward Anna.

  "No thanks. Actually, I think I'll head back to my dad's and start writing. Any ideas for a plot?"

  "Pound away, we'll see what you come up with," Sam

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  said, sipping her coffee. "But don't go yet. Let's hang out awhile."

  Unfortunately, Anna really was itching to start writing. She'd been accused many a time of living with her nose in a book but had never thought about actually becoming a writer. Maybe it would turn out that she had talent. That is, if she could come up with an actual story for their film. "I read somewhere that Fitzgerald came out here to be a screenwriter," she recalled.

  "And failed miserably," Sam added. "It only seemed easy."

  "Well, then I really better get started," Anna said as she rose to gather her things. Progress was definitely being made. A few days ago she would have felt guilty leaving Sam alone. But Sam could fend for herself.

  And so could Anna.

  A half hour later, when Anna pulled her car into the circular driveway, there was a red Saleen Mustang parked close to the front walkway. Her first thought was: Ben . Her second thought was to tell her first thought to shut up.

  First, she knew Ben drove a Maserati. Second, just because he'd sent her balloons the day before didn't mean he'd try to stand in for those balloons today. Third, Anna knew he had to get back to New Jersey for the start of classes at Princeton. Chances were good he was already there. But even if by some fluke he was still in town and it was his car, that did not mean--fourth-- that she would talk to him.

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  "Anna?" The car door opened. It wasn't Ben. It was her sister.

  " Susan?"

  "Got a hug for your big sis?" Susan came over to her with outstretched arms.

  Anna got out of her Lexus and embraced her sister, all the while wondering how this could be. She'd spoken to Susan at Hazelden twenty-four hours before. She knew her older sister wasn't due to leave the rehab facility for several more weeks.

  Susan hugged her back hard. "I missed you so much!"

  "I missed you, too," Anna said. "But what are you doing here?"

  "Hey, you're supposed to be glad to see me." Susan flipped her platinum-blond hair off her face. She was a half inch shorter than Anna, and an impartial observer would have said not quite as classically beautiful. But when Susan was at the top of her game, Anna knew that her sister could be stunning--though now in a downtown, rebel kind of way. At the moment she was a little on the plump side with an edgy, sexy look: lots of smudgy black eyeliner, red lipstick, tight jeans, and a sleeveless white muscle T-shirt under a black leather motorcycle jacket. Her hair was naturally the same color as Anna's, but for the past couple of years she'd been bleaching it Courtney Love white blond. It drove their mom insane, which Susan took as an excellent reason to keep doing it.

  "I am glad to see you," Anna said, stepping back

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  from her sister and giving her an appraising look. "You look great. I mean it, too."

  Susan shook her head. "No, I don't. I'm a blob. I need to drop fifteen in a hurry. Flipping rehab mac and cheese and endless Snickers bars. Hey, every addict needs something."

  Anna looped an arm through hers. "Well ... just come on inside. Why were you out here, anyway?"

  Susan squeezed her arm. "Because I really don't want to see Dad, that's why. I was waiting for you. Hey, how do you like my ride?" She patted the top of the red Saleen. "Pretty hot, huh? Zero to sixty in three point three."

  "Yeah, great," Anna said distractedly. "So. Here you are. In Los Angeles."

  Susan reached into her pocket for cigarettes. "Gee. Don't hyperventilate with happiness or anything."

  "It's just... you weren't due to get out of Hazelden for--"

  "Screw Hazelden," Susan said, torching her cigarette and taking a deep drag. "Because of Hazelden, I'm smoking again and I'm fat. So I checked myself out." She made a pouty face at her sister. "Oh, come on, Anna. Lighten up. I'm fine. Really. I was worried about you, all alone here with dear old Dad. It's not like he's going to look out for you or anything."

  Anna was tempted to say that Susan had never looked out for Anna, either; in fact, it had been Anna who'd always been the one to look out for Susan. Susan needed looking after. Anna didn't. But no one ever

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  talked about it. That was just the way their family worked.

  "Dad's trying to change," Anna said instead as she opened the door.

  "Thrilling." Susan chucked her burning Marlboro Light into the shrubbery. "I'm not staying here, no matter what. He's not home now, is he?"

  "Doubtful."

  "Then I'll come in." They stepped into the foyer, and Susan took in the spacious surroundings. "My entire apartment in the East Village could fit in this hallway."

  "You don't have to live in a dive, you know," Anna reminded her. "So, where do you plan to stay?"

  "Maybe I'll get a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Remember when we got a bungalow there for the opening of the Getty Center art museum? It was so great."

  "That's funny. I was there this afternoon. The hotel, I mean. I was meeting with someone about a school project. But look, Sooz, Dad's got tons of room--"

  "Forget it. Just show me to the bathroom, then we're on our way."

  "Come up to my room with me. I want to chuck my jacket," Anna said. Her sister's face darkened. "Don't worry. He's definitely not home. You won't see him."

  Reluctantly Susan followed Anna upstairs. As soon as they reached the hallway, they were hit with an overpowering smell of roses. The closer they got to her

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  room, the stronger the scent became. "Jeez, you think the maid used enough air freshener?" Susan asked.

  Anna opened her door. "Holy shit," Susan breathed.

  Every horizontal surface of Anna's room was covered in roses: crimson and cherry red, pale and dusky pink, white, yellow, even orange. Some were in vases, some were strewn across on her bed, and some blanketed the carpets and hardwood floor.

  There was a note in the center of the bed.

 
; ANNA --

  I'M STILL IN TOWN. LET ME MAKE IT UP TO YOU. CALL ME. PLEASE.

  -- BEN

  Susan read the card over Anna's shoulder. "Ben who?" "A guy I met on the flight from New York." Anna crumpled up the note and threw it toward her trash basket. Why was Ben making it so difficult for her to do the right thing? If he really cared about her, he'd let her go ... wouldn't he?

  "A guy who sent you like a thousand roses--" "That I'm about to have removed by one of the maids." With studied nonchalance, Anna went to her closet--crushing rose petals all the way--and hung up the jacket.

  "What does he mean, 'let me make it up to you'?" Susan asked as she brushed rose petals from Anna's bed so she could plop down on it.

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  "It doesn't matter. He's a bastard."

  Susan smiled knowingly. "A hot bastard?"

  "Very," Anna admitted. "But there's more to life than that."

  "Honey, I've been locked up for three weeks with about a hundred Twelve Steppers in training. Right now, I can't think of anything better than a hot bastard."

  "Not this one. Trust me. Come on, let's go."

  "Let's take my car," Susan said. "I never get to drive in Manhattan."

  Downstairs, Anna found the cook and gave her thirty dollars to take the roses to the closest battered-women's shelter. Then they went out to Susan's car. They were just pulling out of the driveway when Django turned in. The dark roots of his platinum-bleached hair were showing more and more each day.

  "Whoa, who the hell was that?" Susan asked, craning to get another glimpse.

  "Dad's driver. He lives in the guest house."

  "He's renting it?"

  "I think it's part of his salary."

  "Buttoned-up Dad hired a guy who wears rings? On his thumbs?"

  "Dad's pretty unbuttoned these days," Anna replied. "Turn left, you'll head toward Sunset Boulevard. So, how long are you planning to stay?"

  Susan followed her sister's directions. "I'm playing it by ear. Anyway, let's do something fun this weekend, okay?"

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  "Can't. I'm writing a short film and going to a spa in Palm Springs to film it."

  "Since when do you write films?"