Flawless (51 page)

Perhaps she was stupid even to have hoped for his support. He’d made his feelings on the subject pretty plain since Christmas, after all. She could hardly claim to be surprised. But still, part of her had thought that when he actually heard it he might see things her way. Andy Gordon, her friend from the BBC, had done a spectacular job pulling together all the evidence and presenting it far more calmly and dispassionately than she would ever have been able to. In fact, she’d been worried when she heard her own interviews that she might have come across as too hysterical, too emotive. She’d been audibly close to tears at one point, recounting the story of a mother from Yakutsk who’d lost two of her sons to cancer in the past eighteen months, both of them O’Donnell miners. She’d written to Brogan O’Donnell directly to ask for help toward the funeral costs, but he hadn’t even bothered to reply.

“Oh God, I sound awful,” she winced, listening to her voice crack as she sat on Jake’s couch with a portable HD radio in her lap. “D’you think Andy’ll be furious? I promised to stay rational and detached.”

“Why’re you asking me?” growled Jake, without glancing up from his Nintendo DS Lite. “If you gave a crap about my opinion, you wouldn’t have done the show in the first place.”

He knew he was being childish. That he was throwing all Aunt Agnes’s good advice out the window, sabotaging things again. But it was like being in the throes of relationship Tourette’s. He couldn’t seem to control himself.

“Oh for God’s sake, grow up!” snapped Scarlett. She knew she shouldn’t rise to his moodiness, but she was running on empty after weeks of almost no sleep, and her self-control had deserted her. “Sitting there sulking like a little boy with your stupid computer game. Maybe if you listened to these people’s stories instead of wallowing in self-pity you’d understand why I
can’t
just let it go.”

“And maybe if you stopped lobbying so hard for your bloody sainthood,” he shot back at her, “you’d be a bit more fun to be around.”

“I’m trying to do some good,” said Scarlett. “Then again, why should I expect you to understand that?”

“Just because I don’t bang on about things on the radio doesn’t mean I don’t do my bit,” said Jake.

“Oh really? Like what?” demanded Scarlett.

Jake bit his lip. It would have been so easy to tell her about Dr. Katenge and the work he’d been doing behind the scenes with the orphans in Sierra Leone. But some perverse desire for control, a need to have one simple, good thing that he kept just for himself, held him back. Instead he jumped back on the offensive.

“Listen, Mother Theresa. You may
think
you’re doing good with this crap, but let’s just see what happens, shall we? You
think the radio listeners of America are going to go to bat for these guys?” He gave a short, derisive laugh. “
You’re
the one who should grow up. And don’t come crying to me when Brogan and his thugs come knocking at our door again.”

“Don’t worry,” Scarlett yelled after him as he stormed out of the apartment, “I won’t. I can take care of myself, you know. Dickhead,” she added, under her breath.

But for all her fighting talk, the argument had left her deeply and lastingly depressed. Jake had come home a few hours later, bearing roses and apologies, both of which she’d accepted graciously. But she left for work the next morning with a heavy heart. There were only so many times you could paper over the cracks in a relationship. She and Jake were running out of chances, and they both knew it.

Thankfully, she’d spent the last forty-eight hours in such an all-consuming work frenzy she’d had little time to dwell on personal problems. Aware that the Oscars were her first big chance to establish herself as a serious player in the LA jewelry market, and that other people, such as Perry and Jake, were depending on her to succeed, she felt the weight of responsibility like a grand piano on her back.

Tonight, finally, was make-or-break time. If she could just get through her hour in front of the cameras—a billion people worldwide would be watching—everything else would be fine. She could enjoy the ceremony and the Elton John after-party with Jake…just as long as she didn’t fuck up in front of
the entire world
. Oh, God!

“Seriously, I think we should walk,” she said, looking anxiously at the solid line of cars in front of them. “If you carry me to Vine, I can probably hobble from there. The film crew were expecting us forty minutes ago.”

Jake looked at his own watch, a Patek Philippe he’d bought the day after selling that three-carat lump of GGG to Al Brookstein. Christ, that felt like a lifetime ago.

“All right,” he said. “You’re on.”

Jumping out into the street, he ran around to the other side of the car, opened Scarlett’s door for her, and scooped her up into his arms. They’d shared a bed every night this week, but only when he picked her up did he fully appreciate how much weight she’d lost recently. The stress of work, plus all their arguments, must have affected her more than he’d realized. He’d lifted heavier eight-year-olds.

“You need to get some more meat on your bones, sweetheart,” he said guiltily. “Bloody sexy dress though.”

“Thanks.”

Scarlett positively glowed with happiness. It felt like eons since he’d complimented her. Pressed against his chest, breathing in his aftershave, her hands clasped around his neck like a fairy-tale damsel in distress, she felt a surge of desire for him gush through her body like a blood transfusion. His strength, his warmth, his confidence, all the things that had drawn her to him in the first place, were suddenly there again. Her nervousness about the night ahead began to melt. So what if she’d never presented before? How hard could it be, really? She was going to the Oscars—the Oscars!—on the arm of the sexiest man in the world. Jake Meyer loved her and she loved him back. In that instant, nothing else mattered.

Fifty yards from the red carpet line, Jake set her down on the sidewalk.

“Think you can make it from here?”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “Just don’t walk too fast. And hold on to me. These shoes are like stilts.”

After a brief flashing of paperwork at the various security checkpoints (Jake was also frisked, airport-style, for a weapon) they were ushered through banks of salivating paparazzi, all of whom ignored them utterly.

“Look at ’em. They’re like wolves that have just been fed,” whispered Jake, nodding at Will and Jada Smith, who’d arrived immediately ahead of them to a barrage of flash bulbs.

“I know,” Scarlett giggled. “I feel like I could strip naked and no one would lift a camera.”

“Don’t bet on it,” said Jake, patting her bottom.

Scarlett smiled as once again joy and relief washed over her. It was OK. They were going to be OK.

Seconds later she saw Christian, the E! cameraman, signaling frantically for her to come over.

“Shit, that’s me. I’ve got to go,” she said, kissing Jake perfunctorily as he waved to another old friend. He seemed to know a lot more people here than she’d expected. “Wish me luck.” But he’d already wandered off toward his buddy, out of earshot above the din of partygoers, and Christian had the look of a man in no mood to wait.

“Where’ve you been?” he snapped, thrusting an earpiece and microphone into Scarlett’s hand. “Coverage started fifteen minutes ago. Brooke’s been winging it solo.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Scarlett, fiddling with the wires. “The traffic was insane. We couldn’t move.”

“OK, OK. To camera two,” yelled Christian. “Annette and Warren are coming over. Scarlett, ask her about the necklace.”

Talk about a baptism of fire. For the next twenty minutes, Scarlett wilted in the combined heat of the afternoon sun and the TV lights as she rattled off an on-camera commentary about various stars’ choice of jewelry.

“That’s Marcia Cross in a gorgeous black-pearl choker,” she heard herself saying, hoping she didn’t sound like quite as much of a QVC saleswoman as she feared. “I have no idea who made that, but the pearls are Tahitian, and it looks like her ring…yes, it’s vintage Cartier. Full marks, Marcia.”

“And here’s Emma Stone in Neil Lane. Wow. Those diamonds must weigh more than she does. Not my style, but she’s young enough to carry it off.”

“Goodness gracious, is that Clive Owen? He’s gone very Puff Daddy on the cuff links, hasn’t he? I dread to think who made those. We’ll have to ask him.”

The plan had been for her to do the interviews alongside Tamara Mellon, who’d pontificate about the shoes and clutches while Scarlett dealt with the diamonds. But Tamara must have still been stuck in the never-ending limo line, and Scarlett found herself acting as expert sidekick to Kevin Frazier instead, marveling at his ability not to sweat in a tuxedo and six-inch-thick makeup, not to mention the heat. She wanted to ask him if he still got nervous at these things, but their camera breaks were so short there was barely time to reapply powder and take a sip of water before being plunged back into the maelstrom.

Jake, meanwhile, was happily prowling around, soaking up the sunshine and attention, when he found himself being pulled aside by a skinny, insistent female arm.

“You don’t write. You don’t call.”

It was Julia Brookstein, pouting at him reproachfully in a micro silver chainmail minidress. Her honey-blonde hair had been cut short and dyed platinum, a look Jake normally hated, but on Julia oddly it worked, emphasizing her wide mouth and ridiculously leggy figure. She looked like a sexy first mate from the Starship Enterprise.

“Your husband wants to have me kneecapped,” he said, glancing around nervously for Al as he kissed her on both cheeks.

“Oh, he so
doesn’t
.” Julia waved her hand dismissively. “He was over that months ago. It’s a great pendant, even if it is a fake.”

Jake laughed. “Thanks.”

“In any case,” said Julia, slipping a hand blatantly under the waistband of his pants, “he’s my ex-husband now. Well, almost.”

“No. Really?” said Jake, removing her hand from his groin as tactfully and subtly as he could before Scarlett saw and blew a gasket. How could the Brooksteins be getting a divorce and he not know about it? Not so long ago he was plugged into the heartbeat of this town like a human fucking pacemaker. Evidently he was no longer an insider. “You left Al?”

Julia shrugged.

“We kinda left each other. Oh, don’t look so poo-faced, Jacob, it’s all very amicable. He wants to marry his girlfriend; I wanna buy a bunch of horses and move to Malibu. Plus, it’ll be nice to have my freedom, you know?”

She took another step closer to him, a predatory gleam in her eye.

“As I recall, darling, you were never terribly literal about your marriage vows. How much freedom do you want?”

“More,” Julia grinned. She was very close now. Jake could feel the heat of her magnificent body radiating against him. “Al’s been real decent. I get the beach house, eight in cash, the cars, and all my diamonds. Oh, and the kids,” she added as an afterthought. “I’m a woman of means now. You know, I’d treat you a whole lot nicer than your British sugarmommy does.”

She glanced over at Scarlett, who was nervously thrusting a microphone toward Kirsten Dunst.

Jake’s eyes followed her gaze, and he realized with a pang how beautiful Scarlett really was. With her piled-up dark hair, freckled nose, and her long, slender body shrink-wrapped in that ludicrously sexy dark-gray dress, she looked both innocent and sophisticated, like a teenager at her first grown-up dance, or a little girl preening around in her big sister’s wardrobe. He wanted to fuck her and protect her all at once. To march over to all the idiots standing around her and let them know that she was his, only his. He wanted to take her away, back to England, to safety and sanity. Back home.

All these thoughts were compressed into a single second. The next second, his mind had whiplashed back to Julia’s comment.

“What do you mean, ‘Sugarmommy’?” he asked, frowning. “Scarlett’s my girlfriend and my business partner. She doesn’t bankroll me, you know.”

Julia raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “OK baby. If you say so.”

“I do say so.” Jake was getting angry now. “Why? Who says different?”

“No one,” laughed Julia. “I mean, no one specific. There’s no need to be so touchy.”

Jake could smell her perfume, Prada, mingled with the sweet mint of the candy in her mouth. Unbidden, an image of her naked and climaxing, a glistening pink stone nestled between her perfectly smooth labia, popped into his head, like an errant porno shot slipped accidentally into his mental slide projector. Weirdly, he wasn’t aroused but revolted. With an effort, he blacked it out.

“It’s no secret that Solomon Stones isn’t what it used to be,” she went on, rubbing salt in the wound. “We all have bad years, Jake. There’s no shame in it.”

“The business is fine,” he said brusquely. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Julia’s voice was soft and soothing. “Look, honey, you’re taking this all wrong. I wasn’t criticizing. You got yourself a piece of Flawless, and good for you. That girl’s going places.” She looked over at Scarlett again. “Grab onto her coattails for dear life if you want to. I would, in your shoes. All I’m saying is, you don’t
have
to save yourself for Anorexic Annie like some kind of monk. You’re not married, Jake. You
do
have other options.”

“Well, thank you for reminding me, Julia,” said Jake, his face like stone. “But it just so happens I’m not a flank steak, up for sale to the highest bidder. Nor am I in the business of hanging on to women’s coattails.”

“Hey, come on,” she pouted. “Don’t be like that, Jakey.”

But he was already making an angry beeline for Scarlett.