Bliss (20 page)

“What now? Do we introduce ourselves to the host and say, ‘Allo! We're crashing your party!'” asked Charles.

“Watch me,” she said.

Leandra clicked over to the nearest sunken couch pit with about a dozen Harry Styles and Ellie Gouldings seated poshly in it. A few of the men watched her coming, their puffy red lips (in striking contrast to their pale-as-paste skin) turned into curious grins. She said, “Happy birthday, Wubby!”

The Brits stared. The girls tittered rudely. Leandra wasn't overdressed, but she didn't quite fit in. Even she could tell she came off as someone trying to match their style, but missing the mark by a hair. She was a poser. They knew it. She knew it. At least her eyebrows were above reproach.

“Wubby's not here yet,” said a man, white blond hair swept across his forehead in an artful and haphazard wave. “But he'll be so glad to meet you when he arrives.” He held out his hand. “I'm Oliver Bracknell the Third, nineteenth Earl of Grayson.”

A fucking earl?
Was that higher in rank than a baron or a duke? “Leandra Hunting, of the Malibu Huntings. And this is Charles Lemming, of the Park Avenue Lemmings.” She took his hand, and Oliver kissed her knuckles.

The girls howled, definitely making fun of her.

Charlie shook Oliver's hand, too. Side-mouth, he whispered, “Malibu?”

Leandra shrugged. Like this crowd would be impressed if she said, “I'm a car salesman's daughter from Bumblefuck, Canada”? No. If she were going to impress the affected royals, she'd have to fudge her background a bit. Charlie
was
from Park Avenue. Not the ritzy part, though. His parents' place was at the corner of Park and Thirty-third Street, a mid-market Midtown address. He might as well be from Queens.

Oliver said, “You look a bit parched,” and handed them glasses of champagne. “Join us. Introductions. Everyone, this is Leandra and Charles.” The crew recited their names as Oliver went around the couches: Bruno, Cosimo, Hugo, Jaime (boy), James (girl), Spanky, Spotty, Swanky, and ('allo again!) Blinky and Shaggy.

They made room for Leandra and Charlie on the red leather couch between Spotty and Spanky. The conversation picked up where it left off.

“I have a major, major announcement,” said Shaggy.

“What?” they asked, which sounded like
hwaut
.

“I'm going to cut off my 'air.”

Her friends went ballistic. “No!” they cried in shock and horror, as if she announced she was joining a convent. Fifteen minutes went by, with each person weighing in on the upcoming sheering of Shaggy. It did seem like a questionable call. Her 'air really was stunning, long, thick, and shiny like an overgrown mink.

“I really need to make a major change in my life,” she said.

“You just got back from four months in Saint-Tropez,” said Hugo, who looked exactly like Liam from One Direction.

“Precisely, darling,” said Shaggy. “We go there every yeah.”

By
yeah
, she meant
year
? Probably. Or it could be like, “We go there every YEAH, BABY!” Shaggy went on to describe her different wardrobes for Saint-Tropez, Capri, and Cannes, because she wouldn't be caught dead wearing white linen in Cannes or a silk print in Capri.

“So, Charles,” drawled Spotty, a glamorous ginger with blue glitter eye shadow over ice azure eyes. “How's New York?”

“I'd have to ask my mother,” he said. “I've been living in Bangkok for the last two years.”

And they were off and running. Spotty “absolutely madly deeply”
loved
Thailand—especially Phuket. Leandra squeezed Charlie's leg to say, “Do
not
tell the story!” and he got the message.

Just hearing the name of that hideous hellhole gave Leandra a minor panic attack. Charlie started discussing Bangkok banking stuff with Bruno, which went on and on. The Brits listened closely to him, and seemed to accept Charles into their fold. Meanwhile, she sat there, invisible, completely frozen out. She tried to get a word in, but the girls spoke over her, deaf to her voice. After about twenty minutes of being ignored, Leandra had reached her limit. She excused herself and headed for the ladies' (not that anyone seemed to notice). A few glamour girls were bent over the vanity table in the bathroom antechamber, rolled hundred-pound notes up their noses. They barely glanced at her as she walked by.

She went into a water closet and tried to calm down. Charlie fit in with the posh people, which should have made her proud of him. Instead, she resented it. He was a real international jet-setter. She was a fake. They saw through her like a pane of glass. She felt uncomfortably exposed. Her dress cost $2,000, but she might as well be wearing a burlap sack. Her hair, makeup, and outfit screamed “Look at me!” They had taken a look and written her off as a wannabe. Well, they could fuck off. She didn't have to stand around being judged. She'd grab Charles—

“There she is,” said Oliver. He was leaning against the wall in lanky handsomeness when she came out of the ladies'. “I was waiting for you.”

“Me?”

“I consider myself the ambassador for our little group,” he said. “It's my job to make newcomers feel welcomed.” He led her toward the bar, which was more crowded than before. “Wubby is the bloke at the end of the bar.”

She thought he'd be chubby with a name like Wubby, but the birthday boy was another elegant Cumberbatch with an asymmetrical haircut. “Do you think he'll mind that we're crashing his party?” she asked.

“Of course not! Well, he might not warm to Charles, who's holding forth on foreign exchange rates, because we all care
so much
about them. I'm being ironic, darling. I'm sure Wubby will adore you. He turns to pudding around California blondes. I'd watch out for Blinky, though. She doesn't like it when people lie about being her friend.”

“Got it.”

“I have to ask you a question. Is Charles your boyfriend?”

She started to say “maybe,” but why be coy? “He's just a friend.”

“I happen to turn to pudding around California blondes as well,” he said, blue eyes twinkling. “I can't help picturing you in a bikini, riding a white horse on the beach, sand and ocean water kicking up. You're like the summer dream of America, fresh and tan. Tell me, do you eat tofu often?”

Leandra had never been to California. Helpfully, Oliver's vision of the Golden State matched her own. All she had to do was live up to the stereotype, and she could wrap Oliver around her fingers.
Okay, then. Here we go
.
Organic, health-conscious, bodacious, airheaded, sexually adventurous, all teeth and boobs
. Leandra morphed from the doting proper lady of Charlie's fantasy into the bubble-brained ditz of Oliver's. She took off her shawl to show her tan shoulders, arched her back so her chest jutted out, smiled bright as the Pacific sun, and eyes wide open and vapid.

“Believe it or not, I've never eaten tofu,” she said, her voice pitched higher, bordering on babyish. “But I'm open to trying anything—and I do mean anything—at least once.”

Oliver stared, twinkling at her à la vintage Hugh Grant, and said, “Let me introduce you to the birthday boy. Just promise me one thing. No matter how deeply Wubby falls in love with you, you must stay by my side, all right?”

Dapper Oliver put his arm around Leandra's shoulder and held her against him. He was so skinny. No American buff on his skin and bones. She tried to soften against him, let herself relax. With Oliver, her key words were soft, warm, and stupid.

One hour later, Charles found Leandra at the center of a circle of blokes, describing each man's respective aura color and vibration.

“I'm ready to go,” he said, glaring at Oliver in particular.

She said, “I'll take a taxi back to the hotel. Don't wait up.”

He left, reluctantly. Leandra didn't make it back to the Connaught that night. She returned to the hotel midmorning when she knew Charlie would be in his meeting. She packed her suitcases quickly. A couple of bellboys and the nineteenth Earl of Grayson's valet piled her luggage into Oliver's Bentley and drove Leandra and all of her possessions to his five-story town house on King's Road.

Leandra had successfully swung on the monkey bars, grabbing a firm hold of her new boyfriend before letting go of the old one. And what a swing in the right direction! Oliver was a peer (whatever that meant). He had a castle in Scotland, and family money and treasure going back hundreds of years. It wouldn't have worked out with Charlie anyway. He was just too damn needy.

Leandra wasn't completely heartless. She left him a note.

Dear Charlie,

I've decided to stay in London. Thank you for being such a generous host in Thailand. It was great catching up after so many years.

Your friend,

Leandra

 

P.S. I cashed in my Emirates return ticket. Since I won't be using it, I just thought, why the fuck not?

 

13

the art of pissing people off

Demi could spot Sophia in a crowd of thousands. For one thing, at six feet in heels, she was taller than most women, way taller than her costars (actors tended to fall on the short side of the spectrum). For another, she knew her friend's walk and gestures better than her own. She'd been watching Sophia since they were young. And now, the whole world was going to be watching Sophia, too.

The pilot episode of
Hipsters
was being shot in Vancouver. The
Sun
and the
Courier
tweeted locations each morning, and posted pictures from readers and staff photographers throughout the day. It wasn't such a big deal that a TV series was shooting here. Vancouver had been pseudo–New York in TV and movies many times before. But this wasn't just
any
series. It was starring Vancouver's own Sophia Marcus. The story of a local girl makes good—even if the “local” was a city of 600,000 people—resonated. It gave dreamers hope that shooting for the moon was a viable life plan.

Demi stood behind the spectator blockade. Her spot sucked; the crowd pushed her right behind the camera setup. If she leaned to the left, she could see seventy-five percent of Sophia's head, which was enough. She didn't need to see more. When the shoot was over, Demi was meeting Sophia in her trailer. It'd be the first time in over a year that the best friends were in the same place at the same time. They'd talked last night, a quickie, but Sophia couldn't linger on the phone. Her mom and dad were having a party to celebrate her return home, and her success. Demi was invited, but she didn't want to have to fight through the Marcuses' friends and neighbors to grab a few minutes with the returning champion. She wanted Sophia's undivided attention. They had a lot to talk about. Things had been such a whirlwind in Sophia's life, she hadn't been able to give her the blow-by-blow story of landing the part. Demi hadn't mentioned a word to Sophia about her DUI, and everything that happened afterward, including her encounter with James. She wasn't sure what she was going to tell Sophia about it, if anything.

The excitement of watching the shoot turned to restless boredom among the spectators before long. The crowd thinned, and Demi moved closer for a better view. The scene appeared to be the three stars of the show exiting a coffee shop, waving good-bye to one another, and going their separate ways—clearly, a pivotal moment in the script. The scene took an hour and a half to shoot and would account for fifteen seconds of airtime.

When the cameraman started to dismantle his setup and move the equipment inside the coffee shop, Demi received a text from Sophia.

“Lunch break! Come to my trailer.”

Demi left the blockade, and rode her bike the four blocks over to where all the trailers were parked. She could've left her bike chained by the blockade, but Demi had become paranoid about taking care of it. She was determined to give it back to Catherine in better shape than when she received it—and that meant, first and foremost, locking it up so it wasn't stolen.

Three whole city blocks were lined with trailers, equipment trucks, and portable tents with craft food service tables laden with bagels, sandwiches, and sodas, food choices the actors wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. Demi pushed her bike on the sidewalk until she found the trailer with the name “Valerie” written on a strip of tape on the door. Demi chained her bike to a parking meter. A dude in a flannel shirt and headset rushed over to her, saying, “This is a restricted area. You can't leave your bike here.”

“I'm meeting a friend,” she said. “I'll only be a few minutes.”

“Move your bike, or I'll have to call security.”

“Fuck off, little man.”

He snarled into his headset, “Security! Bravo, bravo!”