by Melody Mayer
Now, staring out at the impressive sea of faces in the courtroom, waiting for the next question from the prosecutor, she wished desperately that Lydia and Esme were in the courtroom— two friendly faces to support her. But they were both stuck at work. At least Tom had shown up. He nodded encouragingly from the second row.
“Miss McCann? Are you going to answer the question?”
Startled, Kiley faced the attorney. “Excuse me?”
“I asked you if you could tell us what you saw and did on the night in question.”
“Sorry. Um, so, I was out that night with my …my boyfriend on the Queen Mary—there was a charity event—and I got a call from Sid.”
The prosecutor smiled. He had to feel relieved, Kiley realized, that he was actually getting an honest answer.
“What did Sid say?”
“He told me that Serenity couldn't breathe very well, and that she was covered in what sounded to me like hives. I had him put her on the phone, and … and … she told me she had smoked some of her mother's marijuana, which she had found on a coffee table in the living room.”
A collective gasp filled the courtroom.
Kiley gulped. “Anyway, that really scared me, so I called nine-one-one from the car and told them Platinum's address and what had happened to Serenity. When I arrived home, she was feeling much better but the house was swarming with police. When Platinum came home just a little while later, they arrested her.”
The courtroom erupted in conversation and exclamation, and Judge Terhune banged his gavel a few times to restore order.
Kiley braved a glance at Platinum and found herself on the receiving end of a rage-filled stare. In her mind's eye, she pictured the night that Platinum had given her a beautiful white shirt right off her back so that she'd have something pretty to wear on her first real date with Tom. Then she thought about the other moments when Platinum had actually seemed to care about her.
God. What a betrayer she was. She felt terrible. What was worse—betrayal or lying? Kiley just prayed she was doing the right thing. The prosecutor asked a few more questions—had she ever seen Platinum intoxicated? Yes. Had she seen Platinum behave erratically around her children? Yes.
That was it. The prosecutor gave her over to the defense attorney for cross-examination—except there wasn't any. All Platinum's lawyer said was, “No questions,” and then Kiley stepped down from the stand. Try as she might, she couldn't even look at the kids, and especially not at Platinum. Judge Terhune cleared the courtroom, then called a recess for lunch. Tom motioned to her that he'd meet her outside. She nodded gratefully. Maybe he would drive her to the beach and they could look at the porpoises from the Santa Monica Pier. That always put things in perspective.
If only life was so easy.
Spencer Lacroix, editor in chief of the Universe, was waiting for her outside the elevator in the lobby of the courthouse building. He held a copy of the new edition of his tabloid, and offered it to her. “For you,” he said impassively. “Gratis.”
Kiley took the magazine. Oh God. She was on the cover. And the picture had been taken at a very unflattering angle. Basically, it made her thighs look as though they were the size of Lake Ontario.
The headline wasn't much better.
PLATINUM NANNY HAS CLOSET FULL OF SKELETONS!
She turned to the first interior page. There were smaller inset pictures of Kiley's mom and dad—again, not looking particularly attractive—and one of Kiley picketing the model Marym Marshall's house because Marym hadn't allowed free access across her property to the beach in Malibu (how had they possibly found out about that?). And there was one final photo of her with Tom that had been taken aboard the Queen Mary the night of the benefit, the same night that Platinum had been arrested.
Numbly, she started reading the story as Lacroix looked on knowingly.
Stories of Platinum's drugs-and-sex
benders have been all over the place,
but now it's her former nanny, Kiley
McCann, whose salacious life is making
headlines all its own. McCann, 17,
arrived in Los Angeles in June, has
already dodged one arrest and is
shagging a hot model—who is
romantically linked to a supermodel!
Then there's the story of her alcoholic
daddy back in Wisconsin, and
her anxiety-ridden mother, who abandoned
her teenage daughter to a life
of debauchery in the City of Angels.
There was more. Lots more. Kiley felt sick all over again.
“Kiley? Let's get out of here.”
She had been so engrossed in the article she hadn't heard Tom approach her. He wrapped an arm snugly around her shoulders and walked her out of the building, after noting with a look of pain the magazine that was in her hands. They emerged into the California sunlight, and he shielded her with his body from the gawkers until they reached his truck and he opened the door for her.
“It's gonna be okay,” he assured her. “Stories like this come and go every day. I'll bet hardly anyone will even read it.”
Kiley closed the door after her. “Thanks for the effort.”
“Didn't buy it, huh?” He grinned.
“Nope.”
“Had to take a shot.”
“They're sure as hell going to be talking about it back in La Crosse,” she replied as he started the truck. She sighed and leaned her head back. “Thank you. I think you just rescued me. Again. Can you take me out to the beach?”
“Definitely,” Tom agreed.
“I've got to call my mom. She never called me back. And I was too chicken to call her again. I have to warn her so she's prepared for what people are going to say.”
Kiley dug her cell out of her purse and dialed the familiar number. It rang twice, then her father picked up.
“Dad, it's me. Can I talk to Mom? It's …really important.”
There was an uncomfortable—unbearable, really—long pause. Kiley heard her father take a sip of something before he answered her.
“Kiley.” Her dad sounded disgusted. “Your mom can't speak to you right now. She's not feeling well.”
For her father, that was War and Peace. Then, there was silence.
More silence.
“We all read it, Kiley.” His voice was clipped. And angry.
“Look, I know she's mad at me, and I don't blame her, but please can you just put her on the phone? There's something I really need to tell her.”
“Yeah? There's something she needs to tell you, young lady,” her father seethed. “Letting you stay in California is the biggest mistake of our lives.”
“You're sure that's the color I gave you? I'm very particular about my black.”
Esme gritted her teeth, and carefully worked the tattoo needle against the small of the actress's back. In this case, the “small” of her back was named correctly. The British television star Rhetta Huff couldn't have been taller than four foot eleven, and couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds. Yet in the past year, her dark-haired pixieish face had graced the cover of any number of magazines and television advertisements; she'd been featured on Grey's Anatomy, and had been asked by NBC to carry a sitcom of her own creation. They wanted so badly to be in business with her that they were willing to commit to six episodes sight unseen, reportedly at a million dollars an epi.
With all this attention and success came a great deal of money, which was why Rhetta was currently installed in one of the three presidential suites at Shutters on the Beach, the famous Santa Monica hotel located right on the sands of the Pacific. The suite was more lavish than anything Esme had ever seen. Larger than her parents' bungalow in the Echo, it was equipped with a bedroom, living room with ocean views, powder room, bathroom with a whirlpool, dining room table for six, and overstuffed ochre and crimson furniture. Esme had taken a quick look at the rate card when Rhetta had let her in for this tattooing experience. Over three t
hou a night, which was more than her parents made together in two weeks.
“It's the right color,” Esme assured her.
“Okay. I'm at your mercy, I suppose. I hate that.”
Esme checked her watch. Just one more square quarter-inch of this tattoo to go. For eleven hundred dollars, she could put up with anything. It was ten o'clock; she'd be done by ten-thirty. She had this crazy idea to go and surprise Jonathan at his apartment, which was on the way home. It would be a reward well earned after this job. A big reward.
“For a tattoo artist, you don't talk much.”
I don't talk when I don't have anything to say, Esme thought.
Then she figured she had to say something. Rhetta was paying her three hundred and fifty dollars an hour.
“Your back is beautiful.”
“Aren't you a sweetheart.” Like every other star Esme had ever met, Rhetta got nicer the moment she heard a compliment. “Would you like to take a break? They have a smashing room-service menu.”
“No, I'm on a roll here.” Esme's tools were spread out around her; the electrical cord running from the wall to her needle snaked over the dining room. She could say this for tiny Rhetta: the British girl had guts. There hadn't been a single peep of pain since Esme had started the procedure three hours before, and there hadn't been a drop of alcohol on Rhetta's breath, either. “You've got a high tolerance for pain.”
“I think I'm light on that gene. I don't even like novocaine at the dentist. Has certain advantages, really. Broke my ankle on a set once and didn't realize it until the dresser pointed out that my left shoe didn't want to come off. They were Manolos, too. Close to done?”
“Yep. Just hold still.” Esme finished the last character, dabbing with a sterile pad at the blood she raised. “You know the drill for care of one of these?”
Rhetta nodded. “You saw the one on my ankle? A month for it to heal. Wash four to five times a day with antibacterial soap. Pat it dry. Antibacterial cream to follow.”
“Bacitracin. And stay out of the sun. You'll be ready to rumble by the end of September.”
“Brilliant. You'll find cash in an envelope on the table. Do you have any business cards? I'm sure I can make some referrals.”
Esme smiled. She'd finally had some cards printed at Landmark Print and Copy in Sherman Oaks, which Jonathan had said was the best print shop in the city. She and the owner had designed a simple dove gray card with just Esme's name in raised print, her cell number, and the words “Body Art” printed continuously around the four edges of the card. She extracted one from her jeans pocket and handed it to Rhetta.
“Give me ten,” the actress insisted. “And get ready for your phone to start ringing. Just don't abandon me when you're rich and famous.”
When she was rich and famous? That was a joke, coming from a hot actress like Rhetta. But still. It made Esme feel good. She decided that this evening had been something of a test. It was one thing to do tattoos for the boys in the Echo, or even for Jonathan and his actor friends. Or even for someone like Jacqueline, who approached her at the club. It was another to do one when a friend of a quasi-friend called, as Rhetta had, out of the blue. And when, at first blush anyway, she didn't care for the friend of the quasi-friend at all.
She'd gotten the envelope with the money and was just about to leave when Rhetta stopped her with her posh British voice. “Esme? Can I give you some unsolicited advice?”
She wanted to say no but didn't. “Sure.”
“You're a great artist. And you seem like a nice person. But coming to people's hotel rooms to do tattoos? By yourself ? A bit dodgy, luv. You're getting paid well. Bring a big strong guy and pay him twenty bucks an hour just to sit there and look hot. It's a bargain, for what you're getting paid. And you'll be in a better position when the person who answers the door turns out to be Rhett instead of Rhetta. If you catch my drift.” Rhetta put her palms up, in a gesture that said to Esme that she might have been talking from personal experience.
Esme nodded. It really was a good idea. Then she thanked Rhetta again, wished her luck with her career, and headed out into the hotel hallway. Ten minutes later, she had the Goldhagens' new Aston Martin tooling up Ocean Avenue toward Jonathan's apartment. Miraculously, there was a spot on the street across from his building, and she did a U-turn on Ocean Avenue and pulled in. She'd only been to his apartment—an underdecorated one-bedroom in this exclusive location—a few times. Most of those times, they had ended up making intense love atop his billiards table.
From where she was parked, she could see up to his eighth-floor oceanfront apartment. All the lights were blazing, which she took as a very good sign he'd be home. Maybe she could surprise him.
But when she buzzed his buzzer, there was no answer. Strange. He had to be in the shower, or something. She buzzed a couple more times; he still didn't answer. So when a young white couple in their twenties obviously dressed for clubbing came out the front door, Esme flashed them a winning grin, walked as if she belonged there despite her low-key, ideal-for-tattooing jeans-and-blue-work shirt combination, and slipped in through the open door.
So much for security. It made Esme think once again that Rhetta was right; maybe she should start doing jobs with a guy escort. Or maybe she should just forget about what her mother said and open her own studio—not one of those sleazoid ones like you'd find in the Echo or in the far reaches of the Valley, or—gasp!— on Hollywood near Vine. No, an upscale one, maybe in a discreet office in Century City, or near CAA or Endeavor. That'd be cool. Stars would come to see their agents, and stop off for some body art on the way to Yoga Booty.
Jonathan's lobby belied the opulence of the apartments. Stark white, with just some framed photographs of Santa Monica in the fifties on the walls. There was a Latino doorman reading the Hollywood Reporter, but he merely waved to Esme as she headed for the elevators. Esme figured he must have thought she was hired help for someone. The wood-paneled elevator was open, and she took it to the eighth floor. Jonathan's apartment was to the right at the end of the hall. As Esme approached it, she heard music: Astrud Gilberto, the Brazilian singer. She grinned. She'd been the one to introduce her music to Jonathan. And now, he was playing it? Nice.
She rang his buzzer. No answer. She rang again. Still no answer. But there was definitely music.
“Jonath—”
She started to call his name when the door swung open. There was Jonathan, wearing nothing but a white terry cloth robe. And there was Tarshea behind him, wearing nothing but a white terry cloth towel.
Anger didn't begin to describe the tsunami of white-hot rage that crashed over Esme. He was cheating on her. No—Tarshea had stolen him. She had stolen her job, and now she was stealing her boyfriend. Jonathan opened his mouth to speak but Esme beat him to it.
“Don't even try to explain,” she snapped. “There's nothing to explain.”
She swallowed the rage, mostly because she didn't want to look at his puke-worthy face for one more instant. As for the life-stealer Tarshea, she could go back to Jamaica and rot, for all Esme cared.
She got into the Goldhagens' car, but she didn't drive home. Instead, she went to an Internet café she knew of on the Third Street Promenade. The promenade was full of lovers and strollers at this hour, gathered around the street musicians and performers out passing the hat. The café was full, so Esme had to wait for a computer.
It didn't matter how long it was. It could have been an hour, it could have been a day. The rage turned to numbness and back to rage again. So many people had warned her. Her mother had warned her. Jorge had warned her. Even her old boyfriend, Junior, had warned her, in his own way.
But no. She thought she knew better. She knew she knew better. And where did it get her? To this Internet café she'd never been in before, as angry as she'd ever been. She tried to direct the anger at Jonathan. And still, a lot of it came right back to herself. She was such an idiot.
She didn't notice the iced tea for a long time. When
she did see it, she drank it quickly. And then, she started to type. It was an e-mail she realized she'd been composing from the moment Jonathan opened his door.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Resignation
Steve and Diane,
I've thought about it a lot, and I am going to resign as nanny to Easton and Weston effective as soon as possible, but no longer than two weeks from today. There are several reasons that I am doing this, and because you have been kind to me and to my parents I think it is important to explain my reasoning. I want you to know first that I have given this a great deal of thought and that it is not a decision I am making rashly. Most importantly, you have a very good nanny already. Tarshea is wonderful with the children and very responsible.
Second, I thought that I would want to attend Bel Air High School. But I have to say that I am not comfortable there and that my first experiences with the school have not been good ones. I think that I will be more comfortable at my same school in Echo Park instead of doing my senior year with kids I don't know at all.
Third—
Esme stopped writing. Was it the Goldhagens' business that her tattoo venture was taking off, and that she wasn't even sure she was interested in going to college? No. It wasn't any of their business. So she didn't do the third paragraph, just wrote some general stuff that she hoped wouldn't get them too upset with her or with her parents. But even if they did get upset with her parents, or even fired them, Esme knew that with her income from tattooing she could support her entire family. They could probably move out of the Echo to someplace like South Pasadena or Eagle Rock, if they wanted.
So she finished the e-mail, signed it, and sent it. Even as she did, she realized that she never addressed the real reason for her quitting: Jonathan. She resolved that if the Goldhagens asked her any questions at all, she would just refer them to their son.
Monday night, Lydia thought, would be a perfect night for a fantasy date. And she planned it as carefully as the Amas planned a jaguar hunt.
