Blonde Ambition (6 page)
Cammie folded her arms. “Well, I say you can’t.” “Jeez. I was just trying to be nice,” Mia muttered under her breath as she flounced out of the room, still wearing Cammie’s bustier.
Cammie lay back on the stack of white and cream silk pillows atop her extra-king-size teak platform bed and sighed. Her “stepsister” had moved in a mere sixteen hours ago, and it had taken a mere sixteen minutes for Cammie to detest her.
Clark had sent his driver to pick the girl up in the valley. When they returned, he had carried in an endless number of cheap suitcases, followed by a coltish girl with choppy, flaming red hair and a petulant look. She wore low-cut cheap jeans that Cammie didn’t recognize and a black T-shirt with
Teen Millionaire
sequined over her nearly nonexistent breasts. Over the tee was a mini red pleather jacket—at least Cammie thought that was what the material was called—that hideous plastic shit made to look like leather. On her feet were pink Converse All Stars with pink shoelaces. The outfit alone sufficed to make Cammie want to lose her lunch (she wasn’t one of the many girls at Beverly Hills High who voluntarily sacrificed their midday meal in the BHH “Binge and Barf” club, either).
Then there was Mia’s makeup. Chalk white eye shadow and black liquid eyeliner. Nothing else. Ugh.
A maid had helped Mia settle in since Patrice was at the Fox lot re-looping some dialogue for a featured role she had in the new Adam Sandler movie. From the moment they’d been introduced, Cammie had tried to simply avoid the girl. The driver had taken her to her school in the valley that morning and picked her up afterward. Meanwhile, Cammie had gone to the Beverly Hills Hotel with Dee to have espresso and see if any hot guys were wandering around. Mia had beaten her home. And evidently had sashayed into Cammie’s room to do a search-and-expropriate of any clothes that struck her valley girl fancy.
Suddenly Mia reappeared in the doorway in bra and thong, flinging Cammie’s outfit into the room. It landed in a heap on the thick carpeting. “That’s what I get for trying to be nice? Thanks for nothing, sis!” She slammed Cammie’s door so the bang put the exclamation mark at the end of the sentence. Cammie loathed slammed doors unless she was the one doing the slamming. She swung off her bed and marched down the stairs to Mia’s new room, where Mia was on her bed in her underwear, reading a screenplay.
“Go away.”
Cammie stepped inside.
Mia briefly looked up. “What do you want?”
“I want to set a few ground rules. One, don’t come into my room without my permission, ever. Two, never borrow my stuff without asking. Three, I never let anyone borrow my clothes, so don’t ask. Stay out of my way and I’ll happily stay out of yours. Are we clear?”
“Sure,” Mia replied. Then she looked back down at the script.
“I’m talking to you, you brat.” Cammie stepped to the bed and yanked the script out of her hands, shutting it in the process. It was a new spec by a very famous screenwriter whom her father happened to represent. Cammie knew for a fact that a studio was currently casting the project because it seemed as if half the girls at Beverly Hills High were auditioning for the lead teen role. The script itself, though, was top secret. Even the stars hadn’t seen it.
“Where did you get this?”
Mia looked unsettled. “Around.”
“From my father’s office downstairs?” Cammie demanded. Clark had a home office where he sometimes worked on the weekends if he didn’t feel like driving to Westwood. It was as disorganized and free-form as his Apex office was neat. Screenplays and tele-plays covered every square inch of free space that wasn’t his chair or the spot on his desk where he’d rest his feet. The maids had strict orders not to enter, even if they knew there was a six-day-old uneaten lunch moldering away on the floor. Even Cammie stayed out of it.
“Whatever,” Mia mumbled. “My mom said it was okay.”
“You are never, ever,
ever
to go in there. Do you hear me?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong! Why are you being so mean to me? I just got here!” Mia got up and padded into her private bath.
Though she felt like busting down the door and slapping the stupid girl silly, Cammie was far too smart to succumb to such an impulse. The fact was, when her father found out that Patrice’s daughter had snuck into his home office and taken a top secret script, her ass would be fresh-cut grass, and she’d be on a slow bus back to the valley in no time.
Bye-bye, Mia. Valley Village or bust.
“Your father is in a meeting,” Gerard told Cammie. “Can I get you anything, Cammie? Water, coffee?”
“Coffee, but brew a fresh pot,” Cammie insisted. “What meeting?”
“You’d have to ask him,” Gerard said. “Hang out. I’ll be right back with your coffee. Two percent milk and Equal, right?”
Cammie sat in the leather chair by Gerard’s workstation and pretended to leaf through
Variety
until Gerard had turned a corner on the way to the office kitchen. Then she walked the few paces down to her father’s office. The door was partially open. She peeked in: there was her father, practically knee to knee with Anna Percy. Was the world conspiring to ruin her day?
Cammie pushed open the door and stepped into her dad’s office. “Hi, Anna,” she said, oozing faux sincerity. “How nice to see you.”
Anna looked up. “Hi,” she said.
Clark stared at his daughter, then at Anna. He gave Anna an “excuse me” look, got up, and went to the door and took Cammie outside.
“What’s up?”
“Just something at home.”
“Did Gerard tell you to barge in here?”
Cammie felt herself redden. No one could humiliate her quite the way her father could.
“I’m really busy, Cammie,” her father went on. “If you need to speak with me, we’ll be done in around fifteen minutes. Tell Gerard to make you some coffee.”
Her father was
dismissing
her? Impossible.
“I just thought you’d want to know,” Cammie began, head held high, “that Patrice’s spawn stole Bradley O’Keefe’s new screenplay.”
“Why the hell did you let her into my office?” her father blasted, glaring at her.
“I wasn’t even there, okay?” Cammie shot back. “I caught her with it in her room.”
Her father sighed. “I’ll deal with it when I get home. Is that all?”
Cammie tossed her hair off her face. “Mia has to go, Dad. I’m serious.”
Her father put an arm around her shoulders and spoke quietly. “I said, I’ll deal with it. She’s not going anywhere.”
“But—”
“She’s fourteen. Buck up. You didn’t write that script.” “She’s loathsome.”
“You know nothing about her, or what she’s been through, or what the situation is now.”
Cammie could see Gerard returning with her coffee, so she whirled back to her father. “How could I know anything about Mia? The bitch won’t have a conversation with me!”
“Got some advice for you, Cammie,” her father murmured in her ear. “Grow the hell up.” Then he made a big show of hugging her goodbye, stepped back into his office, and closed the door emphatically.
Gerard held a paper coffee cup out to her. “Your coffee, Cammie?”
HERMOSA BEACH
FADE IN:
CHYME LANGLEY, 17, the kind of bikini-clad blonde that makes all little girls aspire to move to California, and her boyfriend, CRUISE PEREZ, 18, a bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks, walk hand in hand down the sun-swept beach.
CRUISE
I’m not going to dishonor your father. He’s been too good to me.
CHYME
All we did was fall in love. It’s not a crime!
CRUISE
Your father owns Hermosa Beach Hotel, Chyme. And you’ve fallen in love with the maintenance man’s son. In this town that’s not awkward. That’s a felony.
Anna sat on the living room couch, feet tucked under her, reading the pilot script to
Hermosa Beach
that had been messengered to her dad’s house. Her mind still reeled at the notion that Clark Sheppard in essence wanted her to be his protégé and help out on the show.
“People think the bucks in this town are in movies,” he’d told her that day in his office. “But that’s bullshit. TV rules.”
Anna had never given it much thought one way or the other. Aside from the one short screenplay she’d written for the film with Sam, she’d never considered a career in show business. Teaching literature at a small New England college had always seemed a more likely endeavor. But for some reason, Clark seemed to find her innocence a positive. That her reference points would be great works of literature rather than modern movies struck him as a plus.
There was a brief cover note that came with the material Clark had sent over. In it Clark explained how the producers had sold the show to the network as a modern retelling of John Milton’s
Paradise Lost,
with the characters of Chyme and Cruise representing Adam and Eve tempted by a snake, Alexandra. At first Anna thought he was joking, but evidently he was totally serious. The unspoken message was that in Los Angeles,
Hermosa Beach
passed as literature.
Anna read a few more pages, then the melodic chimes of the doorbell rang. She went to open it. Django stood there, two large brown paper bags in hand.
“Smell.” He held one bag up to her nose. The most amazing, exotic spices wafted from the warm bag— Anna couldn’t place them.
“Whatever it is, it smells heavenly.”
“And tastes even better. Since our Ethiopian dinner got called last night on account of jealousy, I thought we’d try again. I know it’s still early, but are you up for it?”
Anna let the “on account of jealousy” remark pass and waved Django in. “That was thoughtful of you. Ben’s coming at seven, though.”
“Weren’t nothin’, Miss Anna,” Django drawled in his best “aw, shucks” accent. “Pick your locale.”
“How about here,” Anna decided. “I’ve got a video to watch, if you can get my dad’s TV to function. I think that’s called a working meal.”
As she got plates and silver and he got the television working, she explained the new direction her internship had taken—how she was supposed to assist Clark Sheppard on
Hermosa Beach.
“I’m game if you are,” Django said. “But truth is, I don’t watch network TV.”
“That’s the truly funny thing.” Anna put the pilot into the combination VCR and DVD player. “Neither do I. It seems as if in this town, if you have no interest in show business, show business is all the more interested in you.”
Anna sat next to Django on the couch, where he’d set fragrant flat, round bread on their plates. Between them was another piece of this bread covered with little mounds of various foods—mashed chick peas, greens, beets, potatoes, and a few other things she couldn’t identify. Django showed her how to break off a small piece of the soft bread and use it to scoop up a bite of the food.
“No silverware involved,” he added solemnly. He pulled off a small piece of bread, grabbed some of what looked like chicken, and held it out to Anna. She leaned forward and he popped it into her mouth. It was spicy and sour and completely unlike anything she’d ever tasted before.
“That is … amazing!”
“Now you know why I drive over the hill to Sherman Oaks to get this stuff at Langano twice a week. There are other Ethiopian places south on Fairfax, but they don’t compare,” Django said, laughing. “Dang if I ain’t addicted.” He popped a bite into his own mouth. “Well, let’s see the show, girl.”
She started the pilot. The theme music rocked, and they watched a gorgeous blond teen girl running on the beach in front of a small upscale hotel. Then a gorgeous, shirtless Latino teen guy repaired a window shade in one of the hotel rooms. He stepped onto the balcony and watched the girl run. There were quick shots of a few other people—all equally gorgeous. Then the title of the show and some credits flashed on the screen.
“High art. I think I’m remembering why I hardly watch any TV,” Django said between bites. “Although Hermosa Beach is beautiful.”
“It’s a real place?” Anna asked, astonished.
“Yep, south of the airport, between Manhattan Beach and Redondo Beach. Big nightlife scene, beautiful sand, huge pier. A good hang.”
Twenty minutes later Anna was licking chicken juice from her fingers and enjoying the food and the company immensely—far more than the TV pilot. When the blond hotel heiress—Chyme—was stealing a forbidden kiss with the Latino son of the maintenance man—Cruise—Django shook his head. “Are they giving Shakespeare any credit for this retread?”
Anna cocked her head at him and hit the pause button. “It’s supposed to be like Milton. Don’t you believe in love?”
He sat back and studied her. “Do you?”
She nodded.
“You in it now?” He waited patiently for her answer. Was she in love with Ben? She certainly cared about him. Loved the way he made her feel. Loved his hands on her and his lips on hers and—
“You’re blushin’, girl,” Django said with a sly half grin.
“No, I’m not.” But that only made more color rise to her cheeks. “I’m
not.
”
“You are so busted!” Django hooted. At that moment the door chimed. “Saved by the bell,” he added, laughing harder as she headed for the door.
She glanced at her watch. Seven o’clock.
It should be …
She opened the door. And it was.
“Ben! Hi! You’re right on time!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, making sure Django could see. So that neither guy would get the wrong idea.
Whatever that was.
“T
his time will be totally different, I promise.”
Ben and Anna stood on the deck of Ben’s father’s yacht, the
Nip-n-Tuck III.
It was docked in Marina del Rey at the same slip where Anna had last seen it on New Year’s Eve. At the time, Anna had considered it the most romantic night of her life. Until Ben had abandoned her at the boatyard at three o’clock in the morning and she’d had to call Django to rescue her. But it was different now. Everything was different.
“My plan is to erase the first time on this vessel from your memory,” Ben said softly, gently pushing some windblown hair off her face. “I could spend forever making it up to you. Gladly.” He kissed her. “Okay. Now I have to get her ready to go. Don’t do a thing except stand there and look beautiful.”
