Who was she kidding? Cora hadn’t been hanging out with anyone lately, other than Amber, Blue, and now Gemma.
Cora smiled back at Portia, feeling as fake as fur trim at the Oscars. “Dottie is beautiful, unique, and a rescue dog. She gives you something to talk about. And here.” Cora handed Portia a purple leather dog carrier that looked like a purse, with a purple rhinestone-studded collar and matching leash inside. “My gift to you.”
“Miss Francis.” Someone knocked on Portia’s dressing room door. “You’re needed in five.”
Portia sighed. “Rehearsals.” She stood and air-kissed Cora’s cheeks. “Thanks for the dog. Do you think she’ll be all right in here alone?”
“What part of everywhere didn’t you understand?” Cora snapped.
Gemma leapt in. “That’s why we brought you a designer carrier. Take Dottie to rehearsal.”
“Oh.” Portia blinked at Gemma as if she was from a sub-species that spoke a different language. “But – ”
“Portia, if you want to get back into People or the L.A. Happenings column, this dog never leaves your side.” Cora waited for Portia to nod before collecting Gemma and heading to her car. She waited until they were down the paved path to say, “Leave the talking to me.”
“Of course. You’re so charming. Portia was ready to do whatever you suggested.”
They both knew that wasn’t true. They walked the short distance to the space where Cora had left her car running and locked, air conditioning blasting to keep Brutus and another little dog cool on what was turning into another hot summer day.
They’d almost reached her Mercedes when Cora heard her name.
Cal Lazarus hurried up to them. He was tall and fit, with silver threading his thick brown hair. Once upon a time, she’d been taken in by his kind brown eyes. Today they were intense, rimmed with dark circles, and repelled her.
“I’m glad I caught you,” he said.
Cora wasn’t, but she smiled anyway, subtly positioning herself in front of Gemma.
“I requested you as a life coach.” His gaze stroked Cora’s body with uncomfortable familiarity. “They said you were booked solid and I’d be assigned someone else.”
“That would be me.” Gemma reached around Cora and introduced herself. Little fool.
“How…unexpected.” He submitted Gemma to a calculating review, blinked at the sum of impressions, then sent Cora a look that said bad things might happen if he didn’t get his way.
Cal was an über-shit. Cora didn’t care about losing his billings – either for herself or the company. But she was oddly protective of Gemma. She gently moved her aside. “I think I can squeeze you in.”
“I’m glad we understand each other.” He snared Cora’s hand and tugged her forward, pressing a kiss to her lips that left her feeling dirty. “We can start tonight,” he whispered.
Cora suppressed the need for a crotch-aimed knee-strike.
After Cal left them, Gemma stomped to the car, her mood as black as the Mercedes. “Don’t do that again.”
“What? Save your ass?” Cora could have unlocked the doors. Instead, she faced Gemma over the hood of her idling engine. “Do you know who that is?”
“Everyone knows Cal Lazarus. He’s one of the most successful producers in town.”
“And one of the biggest head-cases. Did my dad ever let you read his file?” When Gemma shook her head, Cora unlocked the doors. “I thought not. If you want to be a life coach, let’s start you out with something simple.” Like an aging Hollywood housewife who was more interested in saying she was a Dooley Foundation client than wanting to change her life.
Brutus and a sweet, tea cup poodle were in carriers in the front seat, soaking up the cool air. They transferred the dogs to the back. It wasn’t until she’d buckled her own seat belt that she realized Gemma was absorbed in her cell phone, posting to… “You have a Twitter account?” Gemma didn’t seem like the type.
“That’s none of your business.” Gemma set her phone in her lap and pushed her out-dated, rectangular glasses to the bridge of her upturned nose. Dark hair floated in unruly curls about her face, much as Cora’s father’s used to. Neither one seemed to have heard of hair gel. “And no, I won’t tell you what my Twitter account is. Don’t try to follow me.”
As if Gemma had anything Cora needed to read about in 140 characters. She started the car. “Cal Lazarus needs a woman. Any ideas?”
“Is that what he’s paying for?”
“No.” He wished. Instead, he said he needed some balance. Balance seemed to be the latest celebrity buzz word. Why couldn’t Cal take a yoga class?
“No ideas then, especially since you poached him from me.” That was Gemma. A joy to work with.
Cora drove out of the studio lot. “You have to get out more. You know nothing about Hollywood or men.”
“I read L.A. Happenings. And I know that I want a guy who appreciates me for me, not my bedroom moves or the clothes I wear.” There was a note of pain in Gemma’s voice, like a little girl admitting to her dad that no one else in school liked her.
Her tone bothered Cora. Their relationship was antagonistic, bordering on pain-in-the-ass, but it was a relationship forged by bitchiness. She didn’t want Gemma to wimp out on her. “In case that was your way of asking, Gemma, I don’t do fashion makeovers.”
Gemma recovered with whip-cracking anger. “The right guy won’t like me just because I’m wearing great shoes.”
Cora tried not to smile. “Yep, behind those glasses and army boots hides a real dude magnet.”
Bullseye. Gemma crossed her arms over her chest. “At least I’ll have my virginity on my wedding day.”
Cora almost rear-ended a Hummer that had stopped abruptly on a yellow light. She recovered enough for a late volley. “At least your best sex will be behind you – when you were alone in your bed.”
“Whereas your equipment will have more miles than a used Camry.”
“Bitch,” Cora said good-naturedly.
“Whore,” Gemma spat.
Cora refused to think of herself as a slut. She’d only slept with four men in the past year and it wasn’t as if she was hooking up to catch a sugar daddy. Having a friend with benefits was like having a racquetball partner. She spent time with a man to do something they both enjoyed, without strings or the need to be nice to whatever social circle the man belonged to or suffer the censure of his mother.
Men did it all the time. Why couldn’t she do the same?
Chapter 10
When Cora pulled into Mimi Sorbet’s driveway, Gemma started in again. “Give me a chance. I can do this. You intimidate Mimi.”
“You think being a life coach is easy? Like being someone’s friend?” Stubborn clients and annoying receptionists. Today was turning out to be just as frustrating for Cora as yesterday. “Let’s do a practice run. Pretend I’m a client whose career is in the crapper. This week my agent landed me a reading with none other than Cal Lazarus. What are you going to do?”
Gemma squared her shoulders. “First, I’d tell you to visualize yourself in the role. To choose that image and pretend you’ve already got the part. Voice your wish to the world. And then imagine how you’ll feel when you land the role. Let the positive feelings fill your heart.” Gemma patted her chest, ruining her delivery with her snapping eyes. “Trust the feeling is real and welcome that feeling every morning. Never doubt. Never surrender.”
“That was rough, but good.” Amber insisted they be cheesy and try to incorporate the choose-voice-trust-welcome positive affirmations into their coaching. “But then what? What exercises? What – ” Hell. “ – are you going to put me through so I have the confidence to land that role?” Because other than cute little dogs, most of Dooley’s programs were like being in emotional boot camp.
Gemma opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“That’s what I thought. It’s not just visualization and the power of positive thinking. Daddy came up with a grab bag of well-meaning torture.”
“Like giving them a dog?” Gemma deadpanned.
“People who’ve achieved a high level of success often become insular. Dogs help them open up, teach them the importance of patience, and make them think of someone else first.” Cora got out of the car and took Brutus out of his carrier, giving him an affectionate pat and indicating Gemma should do the same for Coco. “Most of Daddy’s programs tend to be worse. Much worse.”
“Give me an example. What would you do if it was me?”
That was too easy. Cora had ridden shotgun with Daddy too many times. “Keep in mind that this is for you. It wouldn’t work for Mimi.” Gemma had confidence issues, while Mimi had lost her courage. “I’d make you strip to your skivvies and read your lines in character. Then I’d take you to a crowded bus stop late at night and do the same.”
“If I could do that – and not get arrested…” Gemma moved slowly toward the front door. “I could do anything.”
“Exactly.”
“I can do this,” Gemma said. “If you’ll teach me.”
Cora scoffed. “You don’t even like me.”
“True. But that doesn’t mean I don’t realize I can learn something from you.”
Mimi opened the door before they could knock. Recently released from rehab, the starlet looked as fragile as a wilting lily...if wilting lilies wore Daisy Dukes and glittery sports bras. And yet, Mimi was still beautiful in an Anna Nicole Smith type of way – that voluptuous innocence that men preyed upon.
“Amber sent me a dog?” Mimi clutched the chocolate teacup poodle to her cleavage. With such a big foundation, the dog could sit there and watch TV.
“It was your agent, Cy Maxwell,” Cora said. Cy was concerned that Mimi’s confidence was shaken, and her faith in her sobriety weak. Mimi hadn’t left her house since her release and was refusing to read any scripts.
“What a beautiful place.” Without waiting to be invited in, Cora stepped past Mimi and inside her 1940s bungalow, followed by Gemma and her army boots.
Mimi’s home had a professionally decorated appearance, uncluttered, a modern sensibility with antique touches. But the vibe was pure sex-kitten – a zebra print throw, a white couch with a wide seat (wide enough for two), a white, faux fur rug in front of the fireplace. Like Portia, Mimi had extended her public persona into her environment, as if she needed help keeping up the façade that her bra size created.
From a chair in the dining room, a woman built like a linebacker and dressed like Sporty Spice looked as if she wasn’t happy to see them. Since she wasn’t modern or fashionable or friendly, Cora assumed she was the sober companion Cy had told her about.
“What’s this cutie’s name?” Mimi snuggled her nose into the poodle’s brown hair.
“Coco,” Gemma said, beating Cora to the punch. “If you want to keep her, you have to agree to one condition.”
Mimi glanced up. Her blue eyes were huge, despite the lack of make-up and the ravages of alcohol.
“She has to go with you everywhere,” Cora cut in. Damn upstart newbies. “That’s why she comes with this doggy tote.” Gucci. Tan. If it’d been a purse, Cora would’ve been jealous. Under the conditions of Daddy’s will, she couldn’t buy new purses either.
Blue eyes blinked guilelessly. “But I have a date with Kent Decklin tonight. I have to look perfect. If I go…” The actress trailed off, then gamely assembled a nonchalant smile. “I don’t think Kent likes dogs.”
Kent Decklin was a dog. He’d tried to win Amber back last spring, while stringing Mimi along.
“Didn’t you ever see Legally Blonde?” Surprise. Gemma broke into the conversation again. “Coco’s the perfect fashion accessory.”
The fact that Gemma looked the way she did destroyed the credibility of her statement.
“But that isn’t.” Pointing at the dog carrier, the actress turned up her button nose. “I might have something better in my closet. A Ferragamo or Dolce & Gabbano purse.” Hips swaying, Mimi strolled down the hallway, Coco still tucked on her breast shelf.
“She doesn’t go out.” The sober companion spoke with the rough grumble of a drill sergeant. “And she’s not going out with him.”
“Not to worry.” Cora studied a painted, framed fresco on the wall depicting a couple having sex. “We know she hasn’t been out since she came home from rehab. And Kent Decklin is going to have something come up.” Not his dick. Cy, who also represented Kent, was going to remind him that Mimi wasn’t far enough along in her recovery to go to a nightclub. Hence the call to the Dooley Foundation to help run interference. “She needs to get out, but to a store, not a bar.”
Mimi’s sober buddy nodded begrudgingly.
“This room is as jaw-dropping as she is, isn’t it?” Gemma gazed around in awestruck wonder.
“It’s meant to look like a high end boudoir,” Cora said. Mimi’s place was tame compared to some Hollywood homes.
“Spoken by a woman who probably lives in a high-end boudoir.” Gemma smirked.
“I bet you don’t get out to many private art galleries.” She’d have to broaden her horizons if she was serious about life coaching. “Or museums. Broaden your horizons.”
“Go to the kind of pretentious, over-priced warehouse that displays six-foot tall cereal boxes and calls it art?” Gemma rolled her eyes. “I don’t have the time.”
“Weren’t you just saying you wanted to learn from me?”
Mimi va-va-voomed into the room, ending their bickering. She’d slung a purse over her shoulder and Coco’s little face peered over the edge of the bag. “What do you think?”
Oh, God.
Cora felt a real pang of jealousy this time. Mimi’s bag was Anuschka, hand painted leather. Cora’s Louis Vuitton was from last year. Her reputation as a fashion leader was fading faster than the name of last season’s Project Runway winner. She would have felt better if she’d gone into Aloysha’s boutique earlier – broke, but better.
“Cute,” Gemma said in an uncharacteristically perky voice.
Cute wasn’t a word used to describe Anuschka bags, even ones holding adorable dogs inside.
“That bag was made for Coco.” Cora gushed with forced gusto. “What do you think the caption under Mimi’s picture in People will read, Gemma?” Cora was betting on Sassy and Sober.
The sober companion’s frown deepened into a scowl. She’d probably been trained to sniff out bad influences and bullshit stories.
Mimi noticed nothing amiss. She was too busy arranging Coco’s paws on the edge of her purse.
“America’s Sweetheart Rescues a Sweetheart?” It was Gemma who sounded sassy. She was full of shit today. “Mimi Opens Heart to a Heartbreaker?”
Cora pinched Gemma’s arm and tried to mimic Amber’s disapproving expression, the one that said: Don’t lay it on so thick.
“We’re going to be media darlings,” Mimi cooed. She pressed her nose to Coco’s and giggled. She had that sex kitten demeanor that made men forget they had a brain above their shoulders. “I’ve never had a dog.”
“She’ll need a lot of love and care.” Cora prayed Coco wouldn’t suffer if Mimi fell off the wagon. “Walks, baths, brushing.”
“And accessories,” Gemma said. “Lots of accessories. A car seat, a princess bed, a – Ow.”
Cora pinched her again.
Mimi giggled, seemingly for no other reason than that Coco gave her joy. “We could get matching T-shirts. I need to go shopping right now.” She froze. In her Daisy Dukes and sports bra, the actress looked like a marble statue. Not of Venus, but of a white trash sex goddess.
“How about this?” Cora gently steered Mimi toward the rear of the house. “Gemma is in desperate need of a makeover.” She high-beamed Gemma a warning look. “Help me out with that, and we’ll drive you to the pet store to spoil Coco. Straight there. Straight back.” They just needed to help Mimi make that first step. The second was always easier. Cora was willing to bet Mimi wouldn’t leave her home without a distraction, and a makeover w
ould give Gemma fits.
“Would you do that for me?” Mimi appeared to have nothing going on upstairs, but Cora had been warned not to be fooled.
At Cora’s nod, Mimi hugged her. It was a heartfelt clinch, not your typical, polite press of bodies.
The actress led them to her bedroom. “Can we do away with the army boots?”
“No,” Gemma muttered.
An hour later, Cora snapped a picture of Gemma with Mimi in the pet store using Gemma’s phone. Brutus and Coco pranced at their feet.
“I am so going to kill you,” Gemma murmured.
Cora couldn’t understand why. So what if they’d been unable to pry the army boots off Gemma’s feet? Under Mimi’s skillful hand, the Dooley Foundation receptionist morphed into a knock-out. Gemma had gone from looking like she came from the softball field to looking like she could play the field. Her shoulder-length, brown curls fell in tame, sophisticated waves. Her eyes, which were a shade away from brown, just shy of violet, seemed larger and slanted attractively behind her now not-so-ugly glasses.
Gemma snatched at the phone. “Do not tweet that.”
Cora danced out of reach. “I am so tweeting this.” She’d been surprised to discover Gemma was fan-girling Trent’s assistant coach under an alias. “Obviously, you’ve never heard of password protection.”
Gemma groaned.
“Wait.” Mimi handed her phone to Cora, then picked up Coco. “Take a picture of us together with my phone. Gemma, you hold Brutus.”
Rolling her eyes, Gemma lifted Brutus.
Mimi slung her arm around Gemma and breast bumped her.
Gemma’s eyebrows shot up behind her bangs.
Cora snapped the picture.
And then she took pity on Mimi and took another. This time with both of them smiling.
“My new BFFs uploaded to Twitter.” Mimi grinned at the photo as she headed for the check-out. “And now everyone will know.”
“I’m retweeting that.” Cora hung back with Gemma. “Coach Farrell will see you at your best.”
Mimi may have over-highlighted Gemma’s brows, because her scowl would have scared little children on Halloween. She fumed all the way back to Mimi’s. After they dropped the actress and her dog off, Gemma blew. “I look like a hooker.”
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 9
