Blonde Ambition (14 page)

The guy answered Cammie’s question quickly enough. “Rick Resnick! From Jackson Sharpe’s wedding!” He pulled Cammie into an unwilling embrace.

Now Adam remembered. At the New Year’s Eve wedding of Sam’s father and Poppy Sinclair, Rick had been one of the guests. He was a record producer; he and Dee’s father were friends. And he had totally humiliated Anna.

Anna. Couldn’t he stop thinking about her? And couldn’t the world stop sending people his way that made him think about her?

A few other people drifted over to join the conversation—Dee Young and her father, among others. The conversation quickly turned to other post-show parties that they’d attended and how the buffet and open bar at this one compared to those. Adam had zero interest, so he told Cammie that he needed to use the facilities, which was true enough. He drifted back toward the hotel, skirting clumps of music industry types who stood together in clusters, talking.

Just as he neared the velvet ropes, though, he heard something unusual: the faint but very pleasant notes of an acoustic guitar being plucked. Curious, he followed the music across a grassy lawn to his right. As he got closer, he realized that what had sounded like a single guitar was actually two. Then at the far end of the lawn, on a pair of white plastic chairs nestled between three palm trees, he spotted the source. Two men were picking together, heads bowed so that they were almost touching. One had extremely long gray hair and a red bandanna.

Willie Nelson, who Adam hadn’t even realized was at the party. And with him Beck himself.

Their fingers flew furiously, picking out the notes of a rollicking bluegrass tune. Adam froze, not wanting to disturb them. That was when Willie Nelson looked up, saw him, and smiled. Then with a cock of his head, he indicated that Adam should join them if he wanted to.

Adam—heart pounding at his good fortune—had to stop and pull himself together. Then he gave a little wave and practically floated to an empty chair. There he sat down, grinning from ear to ear, listening to two of his musical heroes jam.

An hour later he was still there, sure that if he wasn’t in heaven, he was close.

Oops

B
en’s house was cedar shingled like a New Mexico country cottage, only in this case the “cottage” was at the top of tony Stone Canyon Drive in Bel Air and covered seven thousand square feet. Anna was there for dinner with the Birnbaums. Ben had offered to pick Anna up, but she’d told him that she’d drive over herself. Now, as she turned her Lexus into his driveway, anxiety welled up inside her.

After their argument at the beach, she and Ben had kissed and made up; then she’d gone home to shower and change. But she was still uncomfortable with what had transpired—she’d never expected Ben Birnbaum to be a possessive boyfriend, and she wasn’t really sure how to handle it. And she felt equally uncomfortable, the closer she got to it, about a family dinner with parents. Ben had told her in great detail about the travails of his father, whose huge gambling addiction had sucked dry his enormous income from being plastic surgeon to the stars. It had led to an ugly incident on New Year’s Eve and to Ben’s mom being hospitalized with a nervous breakdown.

Now here it was, just a few weeks later. Mom was home, Dad was supposedly functional, and Ben had invited her to share a Friday night meal with them. Though she’d told Ben yes, by the time she was ringing the front door to his house, she was thinking a big fat
no.

A maid opened the door and cheerfully invited Anna inside. Anna hadn’t been sure what to wear for a meet-the-parents, so she’d gone with wardrobe staples: a gray cashmere sweater and black wool Chanel trousers.

The front hallway was adorned with photographs of Ben and his parents at various ages, as well as a few framed articles about Dr. Birnbaum from the
Los Angeles Times, New York Times,
and
Los Angeles
magazine. Anna was looking at this last one and reading how Dr. Birnbaum was the consensus best plastic surgeon in Los Angeles when Ben came bounding down the stairs, looking fabulous in a black T-shirt under an Armani jacket.

He hugged her and held her close. “How about if we just pretend this afternoon never happened?” he whispered into her hair.

Her answer was to nod and kiss him. But she noted that it wasn’t the first time in recent memory that she’d been forced to erase the mental records on his behalf. She felt herself relax; everything was going to be all right.

“So listen,” he went on, “my parents decided we should eat out. My dad made reservations at Spago; we’re supposed to meet them there. That okay with you? It’s not my favorite, but my dad thinks it’s good for his business to be seen there.”

“Are you sure you really want to have dinner with them?” Anna asked. “It’s not too soon?”

“Nah. It was my idea. I really want them to meet you.”

Anna swallowed uncomfortably. This was Ben’s idea?

“Well … Spago sounds okay, I guess,” she said. If she had to meet Ben’s parents, neutral ground seemed less intimate.

Ben checked his watch. “We’ve got a little time. At the risk of sounding like I’m ten, want to see my room? It’s been pretty much hermetically sealed since high school. Last year’s BHH yearbook alone is worth the price of admission.”

She nodded, so Ben led her upstairs, along a wide hallway, and then into his blue-carpeted bedroom. A large-screen plasma TV dominated one wall; a Sansui sound system, as well as floor-to-ceiling compartments full of CDs, lined another one. In the far corner was a well-equipped office and study area, complete with PC, color printer, and fax and answering machines.

Ben reached for some photo albums on a bookshelf; they sat on his bed to leaf through them. “Just remember, if I’m willing to let you see me looking like a weenie, you have to return the favor and show me your own geek-stage pictures.”

She hesitated before nodding, because as far as she knew, she hadn’t had a “geek” stage. Nonetheless, it warmed her heart to see snapshots of Ben playing Little League and as a Cub Scout in the troop at Temple Emanuel in Beverly Hills. He even broke out his bar mitzvah pictures—it had been a lavish affair, to say the least. Anna recognized a younger and chubbier Sam sitting at a teen table with Dee. Cammie stood behind them, one hand on each of their shoulders, secure in her pubescent sensuality.

“Just one more set, then I’ll put you out of your misery,” he promised. “High school junior year, when I made the mistake of trying out for the school play. Here, look through these—I have to pee.” He handed her one more photo album and kissed her forehead before departing for the bathroom.

She grinned as she turned the pages—there was Ben as Danny Zuko in
Grease,
decked out in a 1950s costume, his mouth opened wide to sing. That he wanted to share that part of himself with her was endearing, really.

Across the room Ben’s phone rang three times. She didn’t answer it—wouldn’t have dreamed of answering it—then his machine picked up. Ben had left the volume turned up on the machine, so Anna couldn’t help but overhear the message.

“Dude, it’s your roomie Josh at Princeton. Dean Ward called me today to see if I’d heard anything from you about spring semester. She said she FedExed a letter to your house. Didja get it? Basically said if your ass isn’t back here on Monday morning, you’re out. So get it in gear, because I don’t want them to give me some transfer student from Hofstra. Later.”

The machine clicked off, leaving Anna stunned.

“Oops. Princeton is a thorough place,” Ben said. Anna turned. He was standing in the doorway, grinning sheepishly.

“What are you doing, Ben?” Anna demanded.

He shook his head. “How did we get here, Anna? How did this happen?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Once I told you that I didn’t know what love was, you remember?” He stepped into the room, then sat on his bed.

“Yes.”

“Well, now I do. Isn’t that a bitch?”

She still didn’t understand. He tugged her gently to the bed. They sat side by side, and he stared into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, Anna, but it happened anyway. It’s the most overwhelming, consuming thing, wonderful and terrible at the same time.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his index finger to her lips. “And now that I know what love is,” he continued, “I can’t just walk away from it. Away from
you.
”

It was Anna’s worst subconscious fear, articulated. “You haven’t gone back to school because of
me?
”

He put a hand in her hair and held it away from her face. “You feel it, too. I know you do.”

She did feel … something. But Ben’s revelation didn’t feel liberating—it felt quite the opposite. Yes, the earth had certainly moved more than once during the last few days. But she didn’t want Ben to jettison his life because of it. What had happened to the self-confident boy to whom she had given her heart? Where was his center? Who was he? Clearly he didn’t know. And it was easier to hang his life on her than to face his own self-doubts and insecurities.

“I only want what’s best for you, Ben, I swear it. You have to go back to Princeton. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t. In the long run, you’ll never forgive me, either.”

“How do you know what I’ll do?” he retorted. “Don’t you hear what I’m telling you?”

“Ben, I think you’re the one not hearing me. Don’t you understand? You’re smothering me.”

He called his father to say they couldn’t make it; then they sat in his boyhood room, talking for hours. Anna tried to convince him that the boy who’d lived in that room was gone and that the man he would become needed to move forward and have the courage to let her go.

By the end of the night there wasn’t an emotion left unfelt. Anger, joy, sadness, fear. And of course, love. Lots of love. The evening ended with them making love by the moonlight streaming in through the open shutters.

And both of them knew it was for the very last time.

Crash Helmet

B
en looked around—the line of people waiting to go through the metal detectors and security screeners to reach the departure gates for American Airlines flights snaked back for several hundred feet. To his left was a prominent and threatening sign: ONLY TICKETED PASSENGERS BEYOND SECURITY. HAVE YOUR TICKET AND ID READY FOR INSPECTION.

“Not exactly like the movies,” he said to Anna. “What do you mean?”

“You know, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman on the tarmac in
Casablanca
, plane revving in the background, music swelling, et cetera.”

Anna managed a half smile. Even she had watched
Casablanca,
where heroic Humphrey Bogart loved Ingrid Bergman but made sure she got on the airplane because it was the best thing for her.

“Will you come visit?” Ben asked. “We could go skiing or snowboarding or rent a cabin in Vermont.”

“Ben,” she gently chided, then peered at him closely. “You gonna be okay?”

He grinned; it was the assurance that Anna needed. Then he gently nudged Anna’s chin with his fist. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder, turned, and walked away to join the security queue farthest from Anna. She stood for a moment, waiting to see if he would look back. He didn’t. So she drifted away, edging through the crowds of travelers to go back to the parking structure and her car.

Getting out of LAX was easy. Getting home, though, was a pain in the ass. She’d been stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic for a half hour when her cell phone rang. Normally she didn’t answer when she was driving—Los Angeles drivers were dangerous enough without her being distracted on the phone. But bumper-to-bumper traffic that rolled along at three miles an hour maximum didn’t seem particularly hazardous.

She answered. “Hello?”

“Hey, Sunshine, what’s up?”

Anna recognized Danny’s warm, upbeat voice.

“I’m at a dead stop on the 405, staring at the rear end of a Hummer that hasn’t moved in five minutes. How about you?”

“Joy. On my way to Hugo’s for lunch. Wanna join me?” “Where’s Hugo’s?”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. You’re a newbie. Santa Monica Boulevard, West Hollywood. Serious industry hangout with awesome French toast and eight-buck oatmeal. Whaddaya say?”

“I say yes,” Anna agreed impulsively. Why not? She really didn’t want to go home to her father’s empty house and brood. Besides, Danny was so upbeat, he could bring anyone out of a funk. “It might take a while, though; traffic’s barely moving.”

“Take the 405 to Santa Monica Boulevard, then go east. It’s on the left-hand side—you can’t miss it.”

“How long?”

“Thirty minutes. Just look for the Jewish guy with the big nose, with three, four babes hanging on my every word. Or my laptop. Take your pick.”

She said goodbye, hung up, and smiled. Danny was definitely the antidote she needed. As it turned out, Hugo’s French toast turned out to be a close second— sizzling golden brown, with fresh California strawberries and homemade whipped cream. During their lunch at least five people stopped by their table to say hello— mostly other writers who knew Danny. But Danny also took her over to meet someone named Dick Wolf, the producer of the
Law & Order
cop dramas. Anna had never heard of him, but Danny assured her that he was one of the most powerful men in Hollywood.

To everyone Danny said that Anna was “from Apex.” Anna was surprised at how much respect this introduction reaped. No one looked fazed by Anna’s young age.

“This is a young town,” Danny confided as he took out a credit card to pay their check. “Live fast, die young, write your scripts in eight days max.”

“I think I’d prefer to live medium and take a year to write a novel,” Anna confessed.

“Then maybe you haven’t really lived,” Danny said as the waitress took his credit card. “What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven a car?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Just curious. How fast?

Anna thought for a moment. When she was seventeen, she’d been in Germany with her mother. One time, on one of the autobahns, she’d cajoled her mother into letting her drive and had gotten the speed up to a hundred forty kilometers—about eighty-four miles an hour.