Girls on film: an A-list novel

by Zoey Dean

  Anna was silent. She had no idea what to say. Until finally she came up with, "Of course I'm not happy. What happened?"

  Susan stared at the carpet, as if she couldn't bear to face her sister. "I didn't get high, if that's what you think." Finally she raised her eyes. "I was with a guy. He was getting high. We got caught. And I'm not going to ask you if you believe me because I don't give a damn. So fuck you, Anna, and the sanctimonious horse you rode in on." Susan got up and stormed out the door.

  Anna sat there, stunned. She knew Susan was in pain. There had to be secrets Susan hadn't shared. But instead of being there for her sister, she'd attacked her. The worst part of it was, Anna knew how upset it had made Susan when her father had done the exact same thing.

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  Size Six

  "Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty!" Cammie sat up on the incline stomach-crunch bench, having just finished her fifth set of crunches.

  "Impressive," Susan said, wiping her neck with a towel. She'd just finished doing three miles on an elliptical machine.

  It was the next day. Cammie had called Susan at the Beverly Hills Hotel and invited her to come work out with her at the Summit, the most exclusive fitness club in Los Angeles. Occupying the penthouse and roof of the tallest building in Century City, the Summit attracted actors, models, studio executives, and celebrities who were not at all put off by the five-figure annual membership fee and who would not be caught dead in, say, L.A. Fitness, regardless of whether Cindy Crawford did their advertisements or not.

  The Summit was massive. The Summit was plush. There was a rooftop swimming pool, four lighted tennis courts, an indoor basketball court, a climbing wall, a restaurant and juice bar, aerobics, yoga, spinning, and

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  kick-boxing studios, plus all the weight-lifting, circuit training, and cardio equipment that anyone could want. What members liked the most--aside from being insulated from the Los Angeles riffraff, and the incredible vistas through the glass walls from the Pacific to downtown--was that once they were out on the fitness floor, there was none of the pretense that ruined so many other clubs. Even if the clients were on the covers of major magazines, everyone dressed down to work out. Which was why both Cammie and Susan were wearing ordinary gym shorts and T-shirts with athletic shoes. This was perhaps the only "in" spot in Los Angeles where it was "out" to preen, except in the sense that everyone checked out the perfection--or lack thereof--of everyone else's shape.

  "Ready to pack it in?" Cammie asked, wiping the damp hair off her forehead.

  Susan agreed. Cammie led the way to the locker room, which featured floor-to-ceiling glass walls--the glass was one-way so no helicopter-borne paparazzi with a supertelephoto lens could snap any embarrassing photographs. "Did you call Anna and tell her that you're bringing me to the Steinbergs' party?"

  Susan opened her locker. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "We had a fight last night. Coming back from the desert, we barely said a word to each other."

  Perfect . Cammie had studied Susan and Anna's relationship. Susan was Anna's weak link. And, by extension, her sacrificial lamb.

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  Cammie cursed herself for not having been able to hold on to Ben Birnbaum. And she cursed Anna Percy for having such power over him. Ben had come for Anna, right into the Mount St. Helens sauna, fully dressed. He'd never done anything like that for her, and he never would. It hurt so much to know that he loved Anna in a way he'd never loved her.

  For that, Anna would pay.

  As Cammie stripped down, she was careful to keep the smirk off her face. Susan was emotionally dependent on Anna; that, Cammie had already figured out. A fight between them was definitely something she could use to her advantage. Poor little Susan could so easily come unmoored without Anna to prop her up.

  Cammie stretched, knowing that her naked body was fabulous. In contrast to Susan's, whose stomach was fleshy and whose ass sagged a little. After they'd undressed for the shower, Susan wrapped a towel around herself and tucked in the end.

  "So, what was the big fight about?" Cammie asked.

  "I'd rather not talk about it."

  Cammie laughed. "You sound just like your sister."

  "Who sounds just like our mother. Who probably writes a thank-you note after sex." The edge of Susan's towel came untucked, revealing her naked body. "God, I wish I'd lose the weight from rehab already."

  Cammie's eyes flicked over Susan's body before Susan retucked the towel. "Doesn't it suck? The same thing happened to me when I was in rehab."

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  "I've already dropped three pounds," Susan said. "Two more weeks, I'll take off the rest."

  "Well, I admire your self-confidence. I mean, it must suck, having such a perfect sister."

  Susan just shrugged.

  They spent the next half hour in the marble-and-glass shower and the steam room. Cammie made sure that she let her eyes stray over the small fleshy roll at Susan's waist, then when Susan "caught" her, she pretended she hadn't been staring. She pointed out the gorgeous hard bodies of the other women they saw. And made a joke that it was illegal to be over a size six at the Summit.

  "So, what are you going to wear to the party?" Cammie asked as they headed back to the locker room area.

  "The black pants we got at Betsey Johnson."

  "Those? Oh. Great." Cammie made sure doubt colored her declaration.

  Susan dropped her towel into the wet-towel bin and took her clothes from her locker. "What? You helped me pick them out!"

  "They're great," Cammie assured her. "You and Anna have such different styles."

  "So?" Susan hooked her bra and reached for her T-shirt.

  'Just that Anna would never wear the pants you bought."

  Susan pulled on her panties, then her jeans. "I could wear something else."

  "No, it's cool. You have your own taste. I mean, you like that look. It's fine."

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  "What look?"

  "You know, that Fm-so-fucking-cool look. You're rebelling, it's fine."

  "Thank you, Dr. Fred," Susan muttered.

  "I know just how you feel," Cammie went on. Susan was sitting on the bench, strapping on her sandals, so Cammie sat next to her, leaning close, her voice low and hypnotic.

  "Do you ever feel like if you let yourself give in to everything you want, that you'd just never stop wanting?"

  "All the time," Susan confessed. She reached for the other sandal.

  "Like you'll never measure up. And nothing can fill you up, ever," Cammie went on, "because you're just this gluttonous, needy thing ? I feel that way all the time."

  Susan looked around. The locker room was empty. No one was there to overhear their conversation. "Well, don't you hide it well."

  "Do I?" Cammie feigned surprise. She pulled her Giuseppe Zanotti suede-and-leather sandals out of her locker. "Thanks. I'm telling you, Susan, after rehab, I was afraid to do anything. Eating was out--I was such a pig. Drinking--how was I supposed to stop at one drink? Pot--I'd want to smoke my way into oblivion and stay there. Coke, E, sex--anything I ever did before rehab, I wanted to do and do and do."

  "So, how'd you stop?"

  Cammie pulled on her silk lace Miu Miu T-shirt. "I had to prove that I could master it, you know? I mean,

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  what was I supposed to do, stay alone in my room listening to Ani DiFranco for the rest of my life? So I just, you know, had one drink."

  Cammie could see the yearning for "one drink" on Susan's face.

  "And?" Susan prompted.

  "And so what? Seriously, that's the conclusion I came to. If I have one or two drinks, so what? It made me feel better. It didn't hurt anyone. And I proved I could party and not, like, just pass out."

  "Must be nice." Susan stood up, zipped her jeans, and pulled on her Chanel shirt.

  "It is nice." Cammie reached deep into her gym bag, rooted around, and found what she was looking for: a pint of Flagman vodka, its Russia
n label proving that it was authentic. She unscrewed the cap. "I can't stand for people to tell me what to do. You want some?"

  "No." Susan sprayed her neck with Escada perfume, then started to brush her hair and put on lip gloss.

  "Fine. I understand. Personally, I'd like to say a big 'fuck you' to Anna and everyone else who thinks they know exactly how I should be and who I should be." Cammie took a long, dramatic swallow. She could feel Susan's eyes on her. "Oh yeah. Nothing else feels like that. Sure you don't want some?"

  "No."

  "You're right. If you're really out of control, I mean. One sip and you'll be lap dancing for Jell-O shots." Cammie upended the bottle again.

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  "I'm not out of control."

  "Anna thinks you are. Otherwise why would she be playing Baby Sitters Club with you?" Cammie tilted the bottle to her lips one more time; she could feel Susan's yearning as the fiery liquid rolled down her gullet. "Mmm. Nothing takes the edge off like Flagman, you know? Makes Stoli taste like Drano."

  Susan didn't answer, but Cammie could see she was gritting her teeth as she worked the hairbrush.

  "But listen," Cammie went on. "I completely understand. I guess Anna is right. You're this out-of-control loser who can never have a drink again. It sounds like a death sentence, but you know what's best for you."

  "When did I say I was never going to drink again?"

  Cammie shrugged. "I was where you are once. For me, the only way to conquer the fear was to do what scared me and prove I could handle it. But I guess you're different."

  Susan glared at her. "That's bullshit."

  "Prove it, then. Loser." Cammie held the vodka out to Susan.

  For a long moment Susan stared at the bottle like it was Pandora's box. Cammie could sense her wavering.

  "Why should I?" Susan asked, her eyes on the open bottle.

  "To prove it doesn't have power over you. To prove you're not the fat loser your sister thinks you are."

  Another long beat, then Susan grabbed the bottle

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  from Cammie's hands. "My sister is right about you, you know. You really are a bitch."

  Their eyes held. For a moment Cammie thought Susan was going to dump the vodka onto the floor of the locker room. But instead Susan lifted the bottle to her mouth and took a long swallow.

  Bingo .

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  Home Theater

  The Steinbergs' own huge home in the Hollywood Hills was in the midst of a complete renovation, so their party was being held at the Graystone mansion on Loma Vista Drive in Beverly Hills. As Anna drove Brock from his hotel to the party, he was utterly silent, except to mention to Anna that he'd recently taken up Buddhism and always felt out of sorts when he visited Los Angeles. "I guess I'm destined to live and die in New York City," he said.

  She smiled and stopped at a light on Santa Monica Boulevard. He didn't look very different from how Anna remembered him in New York: short and skinny, with straight dark hair that fell boyishly over one eye, he wore black jeans and a black T-shirt under an oversized black sports jacket and the latest variation of Pumas on his feet. He was quieter, though. And far nicer than she'd remembered.

  Anna had chosen her clothes carefully--a simple raw-silk black Chanel sleeveless dress that had belonged to her mother. Her only accessory was a white-gold chain

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  around her neck that had been a sixteenth-birthday gift from Susan. She'd left her hair loose; it fell in a glossy, straight line to her shoulders.

  Brock peered out the window. "Think these mansions are close enough together? You could be in the crapper, run out of toilet paper, and call to the next house for a roll."

  "Land is very expensive here," Anna said as the light turned green.

  "These people just want to prove they have the biggest-ass house," Brock told her. "It's all so meaningless."

  "I guess," Anna said diplomatically, discreet enough not to remind him that he'd just dropped three-quarters of a million dollars on an apartment in Chelsea that wasn't even fifteen hundred square feet.

  A few minutes later she pulled her Lexus up in front of the impressive stone mansion. A valet opened her door and helped her out; another opened Brock's door for him. Brock put his hands together in a prayerful gesture and did a slight bow to thank him. The door to the mansion was open, and they could hear the party in full swing.

  "Ready?" Anna asked.

  When Brock nodded, they stepped inside and wended their way through the beautiful people to the massive living room. Its cathedral ceiling made the room seem even larger than it was; the furnishings ranged from dark and Gothic to eclectic contemporary. There were teal, hand-carved, trilevel Chinese end tables adorned with carvings of dragons; sofas of deep, lush velvet; and purple tapestry

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  throw pillows. A magnificent saltwater aquarium had been built directly onto an oversized coffee table. In various nooks around the room green and red velvet paisley cushions created conversation areas. There was even a wood fire roaring in the stone fireplace.

  Anna looked around for her sister. After the silent drive back to Los Angeles with Sam, they'd dropped Susan at her bungalow. Anna had tried to call her in the early afternoon to make peace, but there was no answer. All she'd been able to do was leave the address of the party on Susan's voice mail, make a brief apology for her part in their fight, and say that she hoped to see her sister later.

  However, Susan was nowhere to be found. But there were plenty of movie-industry people. She even had a couple of celebrity sightings--the ebullient Italian actor-director Roberto Benigni. She recognized him from his Oscar-winning film, Life Is Beautiful. The French actor Gerard Depardieu. He'd been in the movie Roxanne , a takeoff on Cyrano de Bergerac .

  "Brock!" A small, balding man in a red baseball jacket pushed through the crowd and joined them. "Kenny Kendall--we spoke on the phone last week. Margaret Cunningham at Apex put us together. I directed Case Sensitive . She sent you the DVD. It's going to be at Sundance this year."

  "Right, right," Brock said, shaking his hand. "Brilliant work, man."

  "Speaking of, I caught Uptown/Downtown in New

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  York last week." His hands fluttered toward his face. "Hot, hot, hot. Adored it."

  "Hey, I just try to put the truth out there," Brock said.

  "That's why your work spoke to me." He squeezed Brock's nonexistent biceps and moved closer. Since Brock hadn't bothered to introduce Anna, she figured this was her cue.

  "Hello, I'm Anna Percy, with Apex." She held out her hand.

  Kenny gave her a dead-carp handshake, his eyes glued to Brock. "Listen, we absolutely have to work together. The German financing for my new film should come through next week. Double Samurai . It's the spiritual quest of a man in pain searching for something to believe in. Harrison is attached to star, but frankly, it needs a top-to-bottom rewrite. I'll call Margaret. Listen, you want to meet Harrison?"

  "Sure," Brock said. "I'd love to."

  "Cool. Come on!"

  Before Anna could open her mouth, Kenny had put his hand on Brock's elbow and was steering him through the crowd. What was she supposed to do, trot after him? No, that would be ludicrous. Why hadn't Margaret sent a real agent to this party, someone who would know what to do?

  "Hello, Anna."

  Anna turned around. Dee Young stood before her. "What are you doing here?"

  "My dad did the music for Krissy Steinberg's last

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  movie, so we got to be friends. I just want you to know, Anna, I've decided to turn over a new leaf."

  "Mm-hm," Anna mumbled, since she had little comprehension of what Dee was talking about and even less interest.

  "My life coach told me that I have the power to reinvent myself."

  "What's a life coach?"

  "She helps me plan my path." Dee's hands went to her flat stomach. "She helped me realize that while I was psychologically pregnant with Ben'
s baby, it wasn't a physical reality."

  Without a doubt, Dee needed someone a bit better trained psychologically than a "life coach." But now wasn't the time for Anna to offer her counsel. She had to find Brock. "Excuse me, I need to use ..." Anna pointed toward the powder room.

  "All right." Dee gave Anna a quick hug and waved as Anna walked away. As soon as Dee was out of sight, Anna scurried toward the other end of the house, searching for Brock.

  It was perverse, but Sam couldn't help herself.

  She sat in her father's home theater (which looked like a small art-house theater in every way--twenty rows of plush seats with built-in cup holders, a full-size screen, even an old-fashioned popcorn machine in the back) and watched Monty's footage of the Anna-Ben showdown at the V Sauna Corral, over and over. The

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  irony was not lost on her. Until very recently it would have been Ben she was staring at with longing. And now the object of her desire was Anna.

  Sam bit nervously at a hangnail, ruining the hundred-dollar lavender-oil-and-beeswax-soak manicure she'd gotten at the spa. She knew she wasn't gay. At least she didn't think she was gay. She'd seen Cammie naked a thousand times, Cammie had the best body on the planet, and all Sam had ever felt was envy.

  So why, why, why did she have to be going through this over Anna?

  It was just so unfair. Anna would never in a million years be attracted to Sam. Not that Sam wanted her to be. It was just this weird thing about a kiss. Kissing Anna.

  By the light of the flickering screen, Sam checked her watch. Time for the Steinbergs' party. Cammie would be there with Susan, she'd already been informed. Dee would go with her dad. Poor Dee. She was getting stranger by the day. And Anna would be escorting some young playwright/screenwriter wannabe from New York. But up on the screen, twenty-foot-tall Anna was telling off twenty-foot-tall, sweat-drenched Ben. How could Anna look so good in a simple bathing suit, hair slicked back, and no makeup? She was probably lovely even when she cried.

  Shit.

  Sam turned and shouted to Monty in the projection booth, "Turn it off!"

  The screen went black, and the house lights came

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  on. "It's killer, huh?" Monty said as he stepped into the theater.