American Beauty
Page 3
Cammie’s clothes were a lot more upscale than Adam’s, but, surprisingly, she didn’t care. It hadn’t taken long to pick her outfit from her cedar-lined walk-in closet: Seven For All Mankind jeans with a special-order Ferrari red leather low-slung belt encrusted with diamonds, and an Ella Moss kimono tee in hot pink held together by only a tiny clasp just below her cleavage so that it blew about her on the yacht, revealing miles of creamy alabaster skin. She didn’t need to worry about a bra, since her large breasts were compliments of silicone and surgery, and remained unnaturally perky at all times. Her shoes were silvery white Jimmy Choo snakeskin pumps that hadn’t even made it to market, courtesy of a 1970s movie star famous for a seminal film in the seventies in which she’d played a notorious female bank robber. This now-over-the-hill star had taken a liking to Cammie and had promised her early dibs on various fashion musts still offered to her by upscale designers who didn’t seem to realize—as Cammie did—that the former star was Birds Eye. As in, frozen. As in, Q rating zero. As in, put her on Hollywood Squares if it was still on the air.
It was nearly sunset; the blazing sun low in a sky turned pink and purple, its reflection sparkling in the waters of the Pacific to the west. To either side of them were stretches of oak wood chaises covered in persimmon-toned linen, but most of the partygoers were gathered in the main salon. More accurately, gathered around the mahogany bar inlaid in gold with the titles of each of Jackson Sharpe’s films, where three bartenders borrowed from the Elysian Fields private club for ladies-who-lunch poured Grey Goose vodka and Patron tequila into waiting shot glasses.
Sam had redecorated the expansive room in keeping with the theme of her pregraduation party, the Seven Deadly Sins: Pride, Envy, Gluttony, Lust, Anger, Greed, and Sloth. The main salon had been transformed into the Sloth room; in addition to the central bar, an enormous statue of the Greek god Dionysus had been reconfigured into a Cristal-spouting fountain. The A-list graduating seniors from Beverly Hills High—and a few lucky A-minus-listers invited because they were hot enough, amusing enough, or weird enough to be entertaining—had draped themselves on lush ochre velvet chaises that had golden legs and were laden with gold goose-down throw pillows.
The crowded salon had been too much for Cammie, so while Adam had stayed to get drinks, she’d ventured out onto the yacht’s promenade deck.
Yet even the relative solitude and the beauty of the approaching evening couldn’t quell the thoughts racing in her brain. Now that she was on the water, she found herself ruminating about her mother. More specifically, her dead mother, who ten years before had gone over-board off a boat off the coast of Santa Barbara and drowned.
It had been ruled an accident, possibly even suicide. Supposedly, Jeanne Reit Sheppard had been drinking, but Cammie couldn’t recall ever once seeing her mother with a cocktail in her hand. Much of the official story didn’t add up. Now Adam was helping her to unravel the mystery. They’d recently learned shocking information from a newly unsealed police document, that Sam’s mom—who’d left Sam and her family to move to the east coast a year later—had been aboard the same boat that very same night, sleeping with Cammie’s father.
At first, when Adam had brought her this report from the Santa Barbara police, Cammie had been pissed at him for getting it without her permission. She was still pissed. Or maybe she was just utterly stressed over the fact that after all this time she still didn’t know the truth, or how knowing the real truth might affect her life, or—
“Thinking about your mom, right?” Adam guessed.
She leaned into him. “How did you know?”
“Considering where we are, it kind of makes sense.”
“I am going to get some answers, you know. My dad gets back from Europe tonight and—”
“Nice tugboat,” boomed an indiscreet voice from behind them.
Cammie turned. There was Jack Walker, his rust-colored hair spiked straight up, framing his Elvis Costello glasses.
Trust him to interrupt. Cammie thought that Jack invariably displayed the tact appropriate of his working-class roots—he was probably the only person on the Look Sharpe who’d ever set foot in Newark, New Jersey, much less been born there.
Jack was hand in hand with one of Cammie’s lifelong friends, Dee Young. Cammie had seen them earlier at the bar: they’d had their arms around each other, and Dee had been laughing at something Jack had said. It made Cammie happy to see Dee that happy. In fact, she looked great too—her wispy blond bangs were swept over one pale blue eye. She’d gained a little weight on her petite five-foot frame; and while normally the words gained weight and looked great never occurred in the same paragraph in Cammieworld, this was an exception that proved the rule. Dee wore white twill Marc Jacobs cuffed trousers, two C&C California tanks—one turquoise, one robin’s egg blue over it—and Indian flip-flops trimmed in blue satin and gilded sequins. Perfect for a party at sea.
Dee had always marched to her own metronome ever since Cammie had known her, but she’d had a serious psychological breakdown on a road trip to Las Vegas a few months before that had landed her in the Ojai Psychiatric Institute, where the high-priced staff—a day at Ojai cost more than the GDP of many island nations—had been able to diagnose a treatable chemical imbalance in her brain.
She’d come out of Ojai a different girl—happier, healthier, and much more self-confident. That was good. It was also boring as shit. Though Cammie was pleased that Dee had regained some sense of psychological equilibrium, she frankly missed the friend who flitted from kabbalah to Esalen and back again at the drop of a Ferragamo, and who’d insist on flying to Sonoma for a pinot noir spa soak because she’d just read about it in the Los Angeles Times. That Dee had been a lot more interesting.
“So guess who I saw at Ghost this afternoon?” Dee asked, wide-eyed, naming a boutique on Robertson Boulevard near West Hollywood that was famous for carrying designer sizes in negative numbers—in other words, smaller than size zero. “I was trying on this Dolce & Gabbana sequined slip dress, and I come out of the dressing room, and there was Pashima Nusbaum, about to buy these ugly Zippy Balenciaga by Nicolas Ghesquiere shit-kicker boots.”
“With her legs?” Cammie asked, since Pashima was built like an Oakland Raiders linebacker. “Were you able to keep down your lunch?”
“Care to fill me in?” Adam asked, cocking his head to the side and raising his eyebrows, an amused expression on his face.
Jack groaned. “You don’t really want to know, do you? It’s gonna be a girl/shopping/bitch-slap fest.”
“No, it won’t,” Dee insisted, kissing his cheek. “Pashima and her friend Stefanie Weinstock are the girls I told you about. You know, the ones giving the graduation party later in the week.”
“Do they go to our school?” Adam looked perplexed.
“Nope. But it’s not all that fascinating, Adam,” Cammie opined, then put a hand on his arm. “Every year, Pacific Palisades High School and we have a joint pregraduation party. Last year it was thrown by our school, this year it’s thrown by theirs. Pashima and Stefanie are the two most evil girls on the planet, but Pashima has the coolest house in Los Angeles. Well, besides Sam’s. Her father, like, invented the Internet. It’s Thursday night, and we’re all going. It’s tradition.”
Adam didn’t look impressed. “Why would you go to a party thrown by two girls you hate? You’re not even going to remember their names next year.”
“You may not remember—you’re going to be at Pomona. But I’m going to be right here in Beverly Hills, running into them at the Ivy. I’ll remember.”
“Hey, that was your call,” Adam reminded. “You’re the one who didn’t want to start college next year.”
Cammie shrugged. “Next year? Any year. I deserve it. Anyway, why do you play basketball against kids that you hate?”
“To win,” he admitted.
“Bingo. We outdo them. There’s a contest as part of every party, but they don’t announce it until, like, the day before.”
“What they did …” Cammie frowned at the memory.“It’s a long, ugly story, so I’ll just describe one incident for you. After Stefanie moved to Pacific Palisades, like, a year and a half ago, Sam and I ran into her at and Pashima at Blue on Blue. Sam and I were sitting outside in the patio section, because the tourists sit inside and try to pretend they’re somebody. So anyway, Stefanie and Pashima were with these two Abercrombie guys they were pathetically trying to impress.”
“Just how long is this story?” Jack broke in.
“You asked, I’m answering,” Cammie responded, in her most dignified tone. “Sam was having killer cramps, so I went with her to the bathroom. We get back and slide into our seats. Sam feels something squishy. She jumps up. The ass of her white Imitation of Christ jeans was covered in dog shit.”
Jack recoiled. “This chick—”
“Yep. Put dog shit on her chair,” Cammie filled in. “Like Sam wasn’t self-conscious enough in fucking white jeans already. I told her not to buy them, but that’s not the point.”
“You’re sure those girls did it?” Adam asked. Adam had been raised by two politically correct lawyer parents and was always trying to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“Fuck yes. They were falling all over each other laughing. Then Stefanie blew Sam a kiss and they ran out.”
There was a long moment of dead silence.
Then Adam spoke. “Who gets off on that kind of cruelty?”
“Stefanie Weinstock,” Cammie replied darkly. First her mother, then Stefanie and Pashima. Why was she spending all this time on such loathsome subjects? “Have you guys been through the boat? Let me take you on the tour.” She was determined to get into a better mood.
“Sure,” Adam agreed, “I’ve never been on an amusement park with gills before.”
“Me neither, man,” Jack agreed, putting his arm around Dee’s tiny shoulders.
Cammie hid her inner yawn. Fine. She’d play tour guide for the Look Sharpe—Sam had invited her on the vessel’s maiden voyage right after Jackson had acquired it, and she knew her way around.
Maybe it would take her mind off what promised to be a very ugly confrontation with her father. Damn. There she was, thinking about her dead mother again. This was the week before graduation; this was supposed to be a time to look to the future, but that obviously wouldn’t be possible until she put the past to rest.
How she would accomplish that, she had no earthly idea.
Balancing Out the Baddies
“Okay. Who’s in the mood for Greed?” Cammie stepped into a VIP guest bedroom suite that had been transformed into a gifting center; the girls’ goody bags, by Bliss, were spread on a feather bed covered in a dark green crushed velvet quilted bedspread; the boys’, by Fila, were on a matching fifteen-foot-long green sectional sofa.
Two party assistants dressed in black velvet cigarette pants and fitted women’s tuxedo shirts knotted under the bust were in charge of handing out the bags. “What are your names, please?” the taller woman asked.
“Dee Young. Plus Adam Flood, Cammie Sheppard, and Jack Walker.”
“Perfect,” said the other assistant. “Cerise, you get the guys, I’ll get the girls.”
Adam was the first one to have a bag pressed into his hands. He opened it and peered inside.
“Jeez, there must be hundreds of dollars worth of stuff in here. How did they know this was … Okay, this is cool.” He held up a small bottle that contained a miniature wooden version of the Look Sharpe.
“What a great Christmas present!” Dee exclaimed. God, she felt wonderful. Sure, there was a carefully prescribed cocktail of pills balancing out the baddies running in her brain, but she didn’t think her good feelings were all due to pharmaceuticals. Nor were they due to that afternoon’s oxygen facial and Escada shopping spree.
It was Jack. Smart, sexy, deep Jack. She had met him the night of the senior prom. Cammie had convinced Jack, whom Dee had never met before, to be Dee’s date (well, technically her second date, since she was also escorted by an Ojai chaperone). The connection had been electric. They’d shared secrets.
He had told her all about his sister, Margie, back in New Jersey, the one who’d been brain damaged as an infant. What made Jack’s sister happiest was watching reality television with her palms pressed against the TV screen. Together, they would watch Survivor, Big Brother, and The Apprentice. Dee could have sworn that she saw a glimmer of tears in his eyes when Jack talked about Margie.
And Dee had confessed how, some months ago, she’d told everyone she was pregnant with Ben Birnbaum’s baby. Ben, who was Jack’s best bud from college. Total lie. Dee had just wanted attention. And Jack had said he understood.
Cammie had fixed them up; Jack was in L.A. to work in Fox’s reality programming division for the entire summer. Dee had gotten a lot of therapy at Ojai and had learned a lot about herself. She’d learned that she couldn’t handle too much pressure in her life, which made her decide to go to Santa Monica Community College for at least a year, instead of one of the other schools she’d applied to, like UC Santa Cruz and Evergreen State College up in Washington. Thanks to Cammie, though, she had the best medicine of all: love. That thought was corny as shit, but Dee didn’t care.
The tall assistant gave her an enormous Bliss bag, and Dee checked out the contents, squealing with delight as she tore open her treasure trove: Kiehl’s pineapple facial scrub and seaweed clay mask; a real oceanic bath sponge; a Nars eye shadow palette in Sea, Sex & Sun; Lulu Frost drop earrings in gold and red coral; and a Rosa Chá beach tunic in shimmering turquoise chiffon swirling with sequined flowers in pink and orange, in size extra small. Last but not least, a red leather Gucci motorcycle jacket with her name set on the back in tiny rubies. Cammie’s gift bag was the same, except instead of a long tunic, she got a London by London strapless tangerine one-piece bathing suit with strategic cutouts on the stomach and lower back.
The boys fared just as well, with baby-blue Lacoste polo shirts, Kiehl’s Ultimate Man exfoliating scrub, and the male version of the Gucci motorcycle jacket in jet black.
They decided to leave their loot and pick it up later, which allowed Cammie to continue the tour. The Look Sharpe was immense, with two upper decks for Jackson and his guests, and a lower deck for the crew. At two hundred and sixty-five feet, it was aquatic luxury at its best … not to mention at its most expensive.
Their next stop on the tour was the vaulted shipboard movie theater, crowded with partyers, which currently was screening a reel of guest spots that Jackson had done for his favorite shows—Will & Grace and The West Wing—in a futile effort to keep them on the air. Dee noted that quite a few couples in the theater were busy making out. It was then that Jack cupped his hand around her butt. She loved that about him; how he wanted her all the time.
After that, Cammie led the way to the main salon on the uppermost deck. “Oh look,” she pronounced coolly as they stepped into a high-ceilinged atrium. “It’s a double. Lust and Envy,”
In stark contrast to the rest of the ship, which was mainly muted reds and browns, this room was completely white, save for a dozen tall windows facing the stern. A throng of at least sixty kids was jammed around a white marble platform suspended from the ceiling. Adam and Jack led the way through the crowd to get a better look at whatever was fixating everyone so thoroughly. Then Jack lifted Dee up on his shoulders so she could see: Six girls, wearing nothing but pale lime-green bras, lacy panties, garter belts, and white patent leather Electra-2020 go-go boots, were dancing wildly on the platform, even helping up willing guys to gyrate with them.
“Looks like Sam snagged the Pussycat Dolls,” Cammie noted. “Great idea, but she should have warned me.”
Dee knew the Pussycat Dolls—a cabaret group fixture at the Roxy for many years; they were now chart-topping pop stars—and giggled. “You hate it if anyone thinks of anything fabulous before
you do.”
“Because I am usually the prime mover of that which is truly fabulous, Dee,” Cammie responded.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Dee recalled.
“I don’t get it,” Adam mused loudly to be heard over the pulsing music. “Why name this room both Lust and Envy?”
“Isn’t it obvious, man?” Jack replied, as he put Dee back on the hardwood floor. “The guys are drooling all over themselves, but the girls are analyzing whether or not they look as good as the Dolls.” He leaned over to his new girlfriend and whispered, “You’re way hotter than any of those girls.”
“So is Cammie,” Dee whispered back.
“You’re hotter.”
This thrilled her. He thought she was hotter than Cammie Sheppard? No one was hotter than Cammie Sheppard.
“Shall we press on?” Cammie suggested. “Pride is the full-service salon at the end of the deck. Anger is the piñatas at the stern.”
“How about food?” Adam queried. “There’s only so much I can take on an empty stomach.”
“Downstairs is Gluttony.”
Dee wasn’t hungry. Not for food. What she was ravenous for was to tear each and every article of clothing off Jack’s wiry body. “Why don’t you guys nosh, and I’ll … take Jack … to look at … the helipad,” she invented.
“You do that,” Cammie agreed; Dee was sure she knew full well what Dee’s actual intentions were.
“Helipad?” Jack asked her, as soon as they were out of earshot. Dee winked. “You read my mind, babe,” Jack said with a grin.
Dee led them back to one of the smaller rooms, stepped inside and flipped on a gold-plated light switch, which revealed a massive plasma screen on the wall, plus a small stage. Several chintz-covered maroon sofas and armchairs surrounded a marble table. A small square machine was hooked up to the plasma screen, as well as two microphones.