California Dreaming (12 page)
Cammie flashed her professionally whitened smile, giving the camera her best angle. “This lady goes by one name only: Champagne. Besides being exquisitely beautiful, she has an amazing story to tell.”
Dash gave Champagne an admiring once-over and asked, “Exquisite beauty and an amazing story. Tell us more.”
This was one time for the truth, Cammie decided. Embellished in the best Hollywood style, of course.
“Well, Champagne has overcome so many obstacles, obstacles that would've flattened an ordinary being. She grew up in the Valley, with a mother who was barely there and a father who was never there. She's just come through the New Visions program, and she'll be the first person in her family even to graduate from high school. That Martin Rittenhouse would choose her to model Martinette—the new petite fashion line he's launching—is a testament to both her inner beauty and her conquering attitude. And when you get to know her a little bit better, she might even talk to you about the time that she was homeless.”
Two pink spots appeared on Champagne's high cheekbones. Well, if she was going to become famous, she was going to have to get over being self-conscious about her background. The trick was to make her past work for her in the present.
“I have a million questions,” Dash began excitedly, looking like he'd just discovered a direct route to the Pulitzer.
Cammie handed a passing waiter her Flirtini and put a hand on Dash's. Now that she'd whetted his appetite, it was time to wrap this up. “I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a million things to do. This was fun. We'll talk again soon.”
“How about you, Champagne? Stay a few more minutes and let the public get to know you,” Dash coaxed, smiling at her flirtatiously like he was asking for a date rather than an interview.
Champagne opened her mouth, but Cammie smoothly stepped in before any sound came out. “There are a million people waiting to meet her,” Cammie said apologetically. “Have a fab time tonight. Bye now!” Cammie quickly steered her client away from the
ET
crew, chattering as they walked. “And that, my dear, is called the spin. We give them just a little taste of you. Soon they'll be clamoring for more.”
“Cammie?” Champagne looked up at her with her soulful green eyes.
“Yeah?”
“How did you know that I was homeless a few years ago?”
Cammie laughed. “I totally made that shit up. I was just embellishing. You really were?”
Champagne nodded. “But I don't want people to feel sorry for me. …”
Cammie took Champagne's slender hands. “Sweetie, listen to me. It's just hype. No one is going to feel sorry for a gorgeous girl who came from nothing and made it to the heights of something. They're going to be
happy
for you. And very soon, they're going to want to
be
you.”
“Do I have to talk about that in interviews?”
Cammie edged away from the buffet stand so the cook could go back to making his couscous. “No. You don't have to. But you might want to. You have an amazing story. Tell it. You are Champagne, the model. People are going to care about you. Help them. Make them. Got it?”
“Got it,” Champagne agreed. She squared her elegant shoulders, looking every bit the sensation-to-be that she was.
Cammie gave her a quick hug. Frankly, she respected Champagne for standing up to her. “This is for you and your career,” Cammie said. “Now go out there and have fun. I'll catch up with you later. Is your cell on vibrate? I'll send you a text.”
“Yeah, got it.” Champagne smiled broadly, then headed off into the street party. It meant Cammie could move on to equally important matters.
Where was Ben?
Leaving the extravaganza of the street fair behind, she entered Bye, Bye Love. The club was deserted. The silence was a welcome relief, though Ben was nowhere to be found. She drifted toward one of the bar stools, remembering how packed this bar had been on opening night, and how surreal it had been to sit here with Adam and Ben, watching Anna's plane crash-land on TV. Remembering how cold Adam had been. How could he turn off his feelings for her so easily? When had he turned into such a heartless asshole? Maybe he just talked a good game like everyone else. Silly her, to think that he was different.
Well, whatever. She ran a petal-pink-polished nail in a circle of moisture on the bar. She wasn't one of those people who said,
Everything happens for a reason
. If she was, there would have to be some big cosmic reason for her mother doing a swan dive off a friend's boat, never to be seen or heard from again. That could not possibly have happened for a
reason
. But Cammie could say that everything had worked out for the best. She and Adam were officially over, the end, finis, have a pleasant life with some fat chick with an overbite in Michigan. Anna was alive. And she herself and Ben were … well, they
almost
were. That was the part of the story that needed fixing, and she was just the girl to fix it.
A door in the office area opened and Ben appeared. She watched with appreciation as he crossed the main floor of the club. He wore a black cotton T-shirt and black Costume National Homme jeans.
Stylish, sexy, and semi-mine
, she thought. No time like the present to get rid of the
semi
.
“Hey, handsome,” she said as he approached. She reached up to hug him, letting her strawberry blond curls brush seductively against his shoulder. “Whatcha been doing?”
“Paperwork. You?” He asked, sitting next to her on a bar stool. He half-turned his stool, playfully bumping his leg into hers.
There was an open bottle of Cristal on the table, and Cammie found a clean glass on the bar and poured herself three fingers’ worth. “Pimping my protégée to the press.”
“Champagne? The girl, I mean?”
“Yep.”
“You sure you have time for her? This club is a demanding mistress.”
“So am I,” Cammie cooed, passing Ben the bottle of champagne. “I have time for all the important things. Work. Her. You. Here's to good karma, great parties, and even greater times to come.”
She lifted her glass to him; he clinked the champagne bottle against it but didn't drink from it. “So. When can we move on to the good times? As in, pick up where we left off on Saturday morning at about 3 a.m.?”
He smiled, but ran a hand through his short brown hair. “I appreciate the sentiment. But there's a ton of work to do around here.”
“That's why we have help,” Cammie pointed out. “And why we're closed tomorrow. How about we drive up to the Santa Ynez Inn for a little R ’n’ R? We deserve to chill for a day.” As she set her glass down on the bar, she made sure that her forearm lightly brushed his.
“Love to, but I can't,” Ben replied. “I'm meeting with our tax guy, our accountant, and with someone from the Department of Water who isn't happy with our sewer system. Unless you want to take that meeting?”
“I don't do sewers.” She thrust the champagne bottle at him. “Drink up, party boy. The night is young.”
“I'll pass,” Ben replied easily. “Not getting happy while the club is open. There's too much to keep an eye on. Too much money going through this place. I need to stay—hold on.” He whipped his Razr out of his back pocket and held it to his lips. “Yeah? This is Ben. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.”
Cammie zoned out as Ben launched into a conversation with the gatekeepers at the police barricades about a couple of purported members of Linkin Park who'd shown up unannounced and wanted to come in.
“Let ’em in,” Cammie advised, even though she'd only heard Ben's half of the conversation.
“What if they're bullshitters? The door guy doesn't know their music. Gotta handle this myself,” he told her, then told the door guy he'd be out in a minute.
He slid off his bar stool, leaving the champagne bottle on the bar. “Gotta run, beautiful.” He kissed her on the cheek, then trotted toward the door.
Cammie pushed the Cristal away from her. She didn't feel like drinking anymore. There were priorities in life. Sure, running a club was one of them. But so was she. And right now, Ben didn't seem to be seeing it that way.
Monday morning, 12:19 a.m.
A
nna sat at the best table at Bar Marmont, a banquette located in a cozy alcove with an open skylight cut into the ceiling, as she waited for Logan to come down from his room. The breeze, the black lacquered walls, and the red Chinese lanterns were a pleasant change of pace and a much-needed reprieve from the self-imposed solitary confinement of writing that she had thrown herself into for the past twenty-four hours.
Writing, writing, writing. It fulfilled her in a way she had never experienced before, and she wasn't about to share what she had been working on with anyone else—it just felt too personal, too raw, too intimate. She'd been in the oddest state while writing it; there, but not
there
. Off to some place inside her head, living the characters she was writing. She'd eaten nothing but fresh pistachio nuts and had drank nothing but spring water and black Sumatra coffee as she worked. What she had to show for that was eyes that burned, hands that shook, and acid swirling around in her empty stomach. But dammit, it was finished.
The first thing she'd done when her screenplay was finished was shower. Then she ate four containers of lemon chiffon yogurt and spooned tuna salad into her mouth while standing in front of the open refrigerator. After that, she called Logan. He was in his room at the hotel, reading García Lorca.
They hadn't seen each other, or even spoken, since the crash landing. Yet he was understanding of her need to be incommunicado. He'd been reliving the flight again and again himself. He'd love to see her. How about a drink at his hotel?
She'd searched her wardrobe for something elegant and sophisticated, considering several options before settling on a mocha Missoni sweater dress with a portrait neckline and three-quarter sleeves, delicate brown suede sandals she'd had forever and loved because they were so comfortable, and a beige Carolina Herrera cropped jacket. When she came downstairs, she found an envelope with her name on it by the Ming vase in the entryway. It was an invitation to a block party at Bye, Bye Love for that same night. She'd shoved it in her Prada bag—she had no intention of actually going—and been on her way.
A six-foot-tall, willowy, redheaded waitress with an Irish accent appeared wearing a uniform, if one could call hot pink short shorts paired with a vest sans shirt a uniform. Anna ordered a Black Velvet on the rocks. It felt like a very adult drink, and she was feeling very adult. She guessed Logan would want Belgian pale ale, as she remembered him drinking one in New York. Her order drew an approving smile from the waitress.
Anna had been to Chateau Marmont, a voguish 1920s-era hotel, which was modeled after an elegant Loire Valley castle, many times. Usually with Sam. Twice with Ben. Once with her dad. The gastropub at the Marmont was dimly lit, and an eclectic sound track—Anna thought it might be Billie Holiday—played as she felt a warm, strong hand on her shoulder.
She turned, and just looking into his deep blue eyes took her back to her fear on the plane, how he had held her hand, how he had tried so hard to be strong for her. She slid her arms around his neck and he held her close.
“I know,” he whispered into her hair. And it didn't take any further explanation.
Anna felt tears sting her eyes, which made her laugh for some reason. “I'm sorry,” she murmured, wiping them away with a forefinger. “I'm all … emotional.”
He smiled and twined his fingers with hers. He looked so handsome, in khakis and a blue shirt with an Armani cashmere sports jacket. They sat. They drank. They talked about that night. Logan repeated that he was sticking around for a couple more days—he couldn't even get another flight to Bali until Tuesday.
Anna smiled sadly. “I have to stay here until next Saturday. My friend is getting married. Sam.”
“No kidding.” Logan raised his eyebrows. “Who gets married right out of high school?”
“Eduardo—you've met him—is wonderful, but …” Anna stopped herself before she said anything more, and shook her head. She was not going to judge Sam for her decision. Maybe Sam was just trying to live as if she were dying too.
“Well, how about after that? I could stick around. Bali isn't going anywhere.”
Anna took a slow sip of her drink. The day after the wedding was the day she was supposed to go back east. Yet she still had no more idea about what she wanted, or what she was going to do, than she'd had before. “I can't answer that now.”
To her surprise, Logan nodded. “Sometimes the best thing to do is to kick the can down the road. And sometimes the best thing to do is carpe diem.”
“Seize the day,” she agreed.
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out an invitation. Anna recognized it. It was an invite to the Bye, Bye Love street party. “Sam had one of these sent to my room.”
“I got one too.” Anna fished hers out of her bag. She had no intention of going to the club. She wasn't all that keen on running into Cammie or Ben. And especially not into Cammie and Ben together.
“You up for it?” Logan asked. “It sounds like fun. We could use some fun, don't you think?”
True. Enough with life and death and the future. Why not? What was the worst that could happen? Certainly not worse than what had happened to her forty-six hours before.
“Seize the day?” she suggested. “I'd really love to see Sam.”
“Consider it seized.”
The ride was quiet. Logan had rented a black convertible Aston Martin, and he drove to Venice Boulevard with an arm around her. She snuggled against his shoulder, feeling the warm night air wash over them. It was so simple. So right. There was no awkwardness to the silence as they rode to the club.
When they arrived, they gave their car to the valet at the police barricade, flashed their invitations to the hulking doormen in matching tight black Gucci tees, and stepped past them and into the party.
Anna had been to any number of street festivals in New York—the San Gennaro one down in Little Italy in September was one of her favorites—but those outdoor gatherings had nothing on this block party. A rock band she didn't know was playing on a stage at the west end of the throng. Moorish belly dancers snaked through the crowd. Waiters and waitresses in sort of sexed-up versions of vaguely Middle Eastern attire passed hors d'oeuvres: fantail prawns and papaya, lobster and hummus, feta cheese with caviar. Water pipes had been set up at discrete intervals, circled by Hollywood glitterati putting them to good use. People were dancing; people were talking; people were cuddling intimately on jumbo-size mattresses. It was almost two in the morning, and the energy level was indescribably high.
