Friends with Benefits (10 page)

Easton tugged on Jonathan's hand.
“¡Helado!”

“What's that?” Jonathan asked Esme.

“Ice cream.”

Jonathan chuckled. “
Más
. . . how do you say . . .
tarde
!”

The girls laughed at his mix of English and Spanish. Esme explained that they couldn't go for ice cream now because they were going to have their picture taken. Easton just kept asking for ice cream. Soon balled fists and a foot stomp were added to the demand for “ice cream now.” She got tears in her eyes; her lower lip trembled, signaling an impending meltdown.

Esme tried to soothe the little girl. “This is too much for them,” she told Jonathan. “I don't know how they're going to survive till the fashion show.”

“Why don't we duck out right after this and take them with us?” he suggested. “They'd like that, don't you think?”

Her eyes met his. “I don't know if your mother would like that.” The double meaning there was, she thought, more than obvious. “Plus they're due back home for a nap.”

“
Step
mother,” he corrected. “I know she built in nap time for them. But ice cream first won't hurt them. Will it?”

His eyes met hers. So. He was finally asking her to do something with him in the light of day (the half-assed offer to hang around at the modeling agency didn't really count), for the first time since they had started spending almost every night, all night, together. They'd be out with the girls, true. But that made it perfect, because it could appear that the only reason they were together was for the sake of the twins.

Esme could feel her guard slipping as she smiled up at him. He really
did
want to be with her! She was about to say yes—as long as they took the girls someplace close—when someone called Jonathan's name. Someone female.

Esme turned to see Jonathan's supposedly ex-girlfriend, Mackenzie, trotting toward him. What was
she
doing here? Her hair was a sleek waterfall to her shoulders; aqua beaded chandelier earrings danced from her ears. She wore pink boot-cut pants and a pink and aqua beaded tunic that split just below her bust, revealing her skin down to the how-low-can-you-go rise of her pants. She had the kind of all-American blond beauty that intimidated the hell out of Esme.

“Hey, sweetie, I had so much fun with you yesterday.” She kissed Jonathan's cheek and then turned to Esme, all fake sweetness and light. “Oh, hi. It's Esme, right? How's the nanny thing going?”

Esme narrowed her eyes and nodded her response.

“So, Esme,” Mackenzie went on, snuggling close to Jonathan, “could you be a sweetheart and take the kids away for a minute? There's something I need to discuss with Jon-Jon and it's not really appropriate for them.”

“Of course,” Esme said icily. “That's my job. Isn't it?”

She summoned the girls in rapid Spanish, her tone so sharp that they actually stopped kicking around an empty Coke can they'd discovered.

“Thanks, Esme,” Mackenzie cooed. “You're just a lifesaver. It's so hard to get Spanish-speaking help these days who aren't here illegally.”

Bitch. Esme hated every blond hair on her head. But she hated Jonathan even more.

“¡Vámonos!”
she called, and strode over to the girls, ready to lead them to the photographer's assistant.

“Esme, wait.” Jonathan had walked after her. “Let me explain.”

“There's nothing
to
explain.”

“You don't understand about Mackenzie.”

“Jon-Jon!” Mackenzie called.

“Mackenzie needs you,” Esme said, shaking off his hand. “Now get out of my face.”

13

Dear Mom,

Just a quick P.S. because I didn't get this letter in the mail yesterday. Remember my friend Tom from Iowa, the one I told you about? Well, there's a major fashion event here every year called FAB (we saw something about it on E!, remember, with all those clothes that no one could really wear?) and tonight Tom is modeling for Ralph Lauren! He had two front-row tickets messengered over to me. I'm very excited because the night shows are impossible to get tickets for unless you're a fashion reporter, or you're famous or something. I invited my friend Lydia to come with me because she knows all about fashion and—

“Ki-leeee!”
Not again.

Kiley heard Platinum's screech and the pounding on her front door all the way from her bedroom, where she was sprawled on the bed trying to finish the letter for her mom that she'd started the day before.

Well, it's not my day o
f,
she thought as she put down the pen and slid the letter under her bed.
Technically, I'm working.
Serenity and Sid had departed a half hour before to go on an overnight in Santa Barbara with the kids of Platinum's CAA agent. Platinum said Kiley didn't need to go because the agent was anal and had three nannies already for her two kids: “If you're there too, you'll probably end up just killing each other.”

It had been all Kiley could do not to cheer when Platinum had informed her of this. The kids weren't coming back until noon the next day, which meant that whatever happened with Tom tonight could extend to whatever happened with Tom tomorrow morning. Not that Tom had given her any indication that he
wanted
anything to happen.

The night of Marym's party had ended with a hug and a kiss on her cheek. Her freaking
cheek,
for God's sake. Kiley had been certain it was literally the big kiss-off. Yet after that, he'd invited her to his FAB show. He couldn't possibly be tacky enough to invite more than one girl, could he? Like, one babe he wanted to ravish and one little sister he wanted to kiss on the cheek? Kiley didn't have the nerve to ask.

She opened the front door for Platinum, who wore white linen pants and a plain white T-shirt; her hair was up on her head in a messy bun. Apparently she was sober, since she didn't trip on the edge of the rug.

“Hi,” Kiley ventured.

Platinum pushed past her. “Your damn door was locked.”

Which would explain why you couldn't barge in like you did yesterday,
Kiley thought.

“So listen, we need to talk.” Platinum slumped into the Danish modern couch. “I'm pissed.”

Uh-oh. This could not be good. She'd told Kiley she could have the rest of the day off. Maybe she'd forgotten and she thought Kiley was just goofing off. “Is it something I didn't do for the kids? Because whatever it is, I can—”

“Blah-blah-blah,” Platinum droned, making a talking puppet of her hand. “You don't need to freak, I'm not canning you. Something else.”

Kiley racked her brain. “The interview yesterday with the newspaper?”

Platinum laughed. “You think that's the worst shape I've ever been in for an interview? This thing I did with
Spin
once. My friend Hunter Thompson got it for me. He died. Sid Vicious died. Kurt too. Doesn't that suck?”

“Sucks,” Kiley agreed. She didn't know who any of those people were, but she was going with the flow.

“I miss Hunter so bad,” Platinum murmured. “Anyway, I was totally wasted on this primo Thai stick. The reporter was such an uptight bitch that I threw a bottle of champagne at her. Five stitches. Hunter sent me a thank-you note when it ran; he soaked it in blotter acid.”

Kiley blinked twice. She had only understood about half of what Platinum had just said. “Uh . . .”

“You are like walking white bread, you know that?”

“Well . . .”

“Forget it.” Platinum swung her legs over the side of the chair. “I wanna talk about your buddy. Tom Chappelle, that is. How the hell did you meet him?”

That's
what this little impromptu visit was about? “Hotel Bel-Air, during
Platinum Nan
—”

“Shut up.” Platinum raised her index finger and got in Kiley's face. “I don't want to hear the name of that goddamn show around here. Ever. That show is dead to you.
Understand?
”

“I understand,” Kiley told her. She sat down in one of the matching chairs by the couch, just for something to do.

“So, Tom Chappelle. He's hot.” Platinum ran a hand through her hair; evidently she'd forgotten that it was up in a bun. The mother-of-pearl comb holding it up fell out; her hair fell around her face. “What's up with you two? Are you screwing him?”

Kiley blushed. “Um . . . is that relevant to my job, somehow?”

“Oh, don't go all Midwest tight-ass on me.” Platinum reached for the comb, which had fallen to her feet. “He invited you to his fashion show, so I figured you have to be doing him. Not that I know why, since obviously he could get, like, a babe. Do you know how hard it is to get tickets to that freaking show?”

“Extremely?” Kiley ventured.

“Try impossible. This whole FAB thing is like some closed-door society bullshit. They let you on the grounds of the Staples Center, but to get into one of the tents, forget it. Or one of the parties—especially Diane Goldhagen's thing—impossible. So hot Tom laid two FAB tickets on you. I want one.”

Why, why, why had she been so stupid as to tell Platinum that Tom had given her two tickets to the main show tonight? Because she was so excited, that was why. Because she had to explain why a messenger was showing up at the gate for something that did not involve Platinum.

“Gee, I'd be happy to give you one,” Kiley began slowly, “but I already asked my friend Lydia to come with me. She already said yes.”

“Who the hell is Lydia?”

“Another nanny I know.”

“Screw it, uninvite her.” Platinum curled her hair back up again and stabbed it with the pearl comb.

“B-but I can't. I mean, that would be so rude.”

“Please,” Platinum scoffed. “I'm famous for being rude. Tell her your bitch of an employer forced you to do it.” She stood and stretched, showing an inch of taut, tanned stomach. “I'm glad we had this chat. I'll have my driver take the Mercedes so we won't have to park downtown, unless I change my mind and want you to drive the Lotus. Be ready at seven. And for God's sake, wear something decent; the place will be swarming with photographers. I plan on giving them something to photograph.
Ciao.
” She strolled out.

Kiley slumped in her chair. Platinum had left her no choice. She'd have to call Lydia and explain.

Bitch of an employer was right.

14

“Hey, Nina, it's Lydia, Kiley's friend, callin' you again about the nanny job? Just wanted to make sure you got my message about Evelyn Bowers upping the pay to seven-fifty a week, plus the Jag. Sure beats that pizza place, huh? I'm tryin' to hold the position for you on account of your bein' Kiley's friend and all, but I have to hear from you, like, today, because I've got girls lined up wanting to grab this sucker. So I really need for you to call me back, okay? My cell is 310-555-8818. Bye now. Stay sweet!”

Lydia hung up and deposited the new Ericsson phone in the rear pocket of her fuchsia floral-print cotton-blend jeweled D&G miniskirt. Shockingly, the skirt was hers, Kat having bestowed it upon her at breakfast. Her aunt, who had been in town for all of six hours before turning around to leave for New York yet again—more meetings for Wimbledon—had explained it had been in the goody bag given to her by one of the sponsors of the upcoming broadcast. Goody bags were one of the perks of her job, evidently, as she casually offered Lydia anything in the bag; she and Anya had already taken out the stuff they wanted.

Lydia had pounced on the bag like a panther on a mongoose and secured herself a green and white apple-patterned Luella canvas jacket, a burnt orange oversized Tylie Malibu deerskin bag, Lea Extreme perfume, white Christian Roth sunglasses wrapped in fourteen-karat platinum, and Frederic Malle shower gel in Anterenea (which, according to the label, was essence of citrus, mint, and geranium).

Lydia was thrilled with the booty, but she also felt as though she deserved it. This was one of the first times Kat had treated her like her niece, like her flesh and blood. In the Amazon, blood members of the same tribe shared a special bond. They would die for each other, not just hand over perfume and clothing that they'd done nothing to earn.

She checked her watch. It was 3:15 in the afternoon. At any moment, she was expecting the girl from LEAP, Alexis, to stop over. She hoped Alexis would be on time—she had a tight schedule today. Martina and Jimmy were doing their appointed activities, which would be followed by showers, which would be followed by a special outing that Lydia had planned for them that wasn't exactly in the schedule but for which she could reasonably construct, if pressed, some educational purpose. Anya. What a pain. How uptight could one Russian lesbian be? Maybe her sex life with Kat wasn't working out, what with Kat harboring secret
Kama Sutra
how-to books and all. Sexual tension. That could be it.

Lydia went to the front door of her guesthouse and looked outside. There was Alexis, sitting on the front stoop. Early. Excellent. This was an outstanding sign of interest and commitment.

“Hey,” Alexis said when she heard the door open. “I didn't want to be late.”

“Hey yourself,” Lydia told her. She plopped down on the stoop next to Alexis. “For five bills a week, plus a car, plus a 90210 address, I wouldn't be late, either. Plus two real sweet kids.”

“Wow, sounds great!” Alexis chirped.

Indeed. If Kiley's friend Nina wouldn't jump this puppy, that would just be her loss and Alexis's gain. Lydia would get her cut, either way.

Lydia rose. “So, come on in, we can talk about it.”

She led the way inside; Alexis took in the twin black French dressers, the rust-colored curtains by the picture window, the framed circular mirrors over the dressers, and the Fortuny chandelier. “This place is gorgeous,” the girl marveled.

“It's okay. I've seen Evelyn Bowers's place, and this looks like an outhouse compared to where you'll be living. Want anything? Water? Soda?”

Alexis shook her head as Lydia studied her. Strawberry blond hair was neatly plaited down her back in a single braid. She wore baggy olive green carpenter pants and a crisp little white blouse; very cute, very Southern California, very about to make Lydia so much money.

“That is awesome.” Alexis took in Lydia's short, bejeweled skirt.

Lydia smoothed it over her hips. “Oh, thanks. The woman I work for gave it to me. Yeah, she gives me expensive gifts all the time. It's just one of those nanny perks. I'm sure the same thing will happen to you. Just sit wherever.”

Alexis sat on the couch, obviously impressed. So far, so good. Lydia slid into the Eames chair and crossed her legs neatly. “So, Alexis. What's your current living situation?”

“Bad. I live in a two-bedroom apartment in Westwood with three roommates. One of them never cleans up after herself—I end up having to do her dishes all the time. The other has this brain-dead skateboarder boyfriend, Ryan, who's over all the time. They use the pullout couch in the living room for sex, like, every night.”

Lydia was intrigued, but since she was currently in business mode, she kept her mouth shut and simply leaned forward to circle her knees with her entwined fingers. “We're not here to talk about sex, Alexis. We're here to talk about your future.”

For the next ten minutes, Lydia painted a glorious picture of what Alexis's life as a nanny to a rich Brentwood publicist would be like, and what it would be like to live on her property, notwithstanding the fact that she barely knew Evelyn Bowers and knew nothing about her dwelling save for its address.

After that, Lydia segued to the perks—membership in the Brentwood Hills Country Club, tickets to premiere parties, dinner at Koi, VIP passes to the Dungeon, etc. “Publicists are always hooked up, Alexis,” Lydia promised. “You'll be on so many guest lists, you'll have to pick and choose.”

“Wow,” Alexis marveled. “It's just, like, amazing. It kinda sounds too good to be true.”

Lydia wagged a finger at her. “There's a reason for that, Alexis. You can imagine how many girls I have applying for every one of my openings. But I only accept certain very select girls. I mean, who wouldn't want a job like this, right?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Alexis agreed. “So tell me more about . . . what's her name again?”

“Evelyn Bowers.”

“Right. How are her children?”

Lydia held up two fingers and smiled. Earlier in the week, while the kids were playing in the country club pool, Evelyn had gone into some detail about her “very special” offspring.

“Well, Star is ten,” Lydia began. “She's a perfect little princess. Her younger brother, Moon, age seven, is even nicer. He's like a little flower that just needs watering.”

This was a big fat lie, of course. According to Evelyn, Moon had a whole list of problems that each boiled down to letters: APD—Auditory Processing Disorder; ADHD—Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder; and ABD—Antisocial Behavior Disorder. But Evelyn, being a proactive single parent, had a detailed BIP—Behavior Intervention Plan. Personally, Lydia suspected the whole thing was a crock of SHIT—Somehow Human Idiots Triumph.

Take the mother, for example. Evelyn Bowers was more intense than a barrage of poison arrows. Lydia was confident she'd ruined her son, not that she would share this information with Alexis, just as she wouldn't share it with Nina (or Kiley, for that matter, lest she fill Nina in). Some might consider this dishonest. Lydia considered it warfare. The important thing to do was to win. No one ever remembered who fought dirty and who fought clean.

“So,” Lydia concluded, “what do you think?”

“It's fantastic.” Alexis grinned. “What can I say except I'm just so glad that you walked into LEAP!”

“Oh, honey, I feel exactly the same way,” Lydia drawled. “Now, of course, my agency gets twenty percent of your pay every week—I'm sure that's no problem.”

Alexis hesitated. “Uh, I guess not. It's still a much better deal than what I have going on now.”

“Great,” Lydia continued. “I'll need two references, and all pertinent personal information—legal name, address, all of that. Social Security number, driver's license, et cetera. If you could get it to me by tomorrow that would be great. Then I'll arrange for you to meet Evelyn. I'm sure she'll love you.”

Alexis twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “What about time off?”

“Oh, did I forget to mention that? You'll have Sundays off, and every other Saturday.”

“What time do I get done at night?”

“Well, when a job is this desirable—and I'm sure you'll agree that this one is a peach—the nanny is expected to stay until the parent says they're free. Sometimes Evelyn might have a thing she has to go to in the evening, and you'd stay with the kids. You have to be flexible.”

Alexis frowned. Damn.

“Well, Alexis, if that seems too much for you, I have dozens of other applicants who—”

“It's not too much,” Alexis interrupted. “It's just that on Wednesday nights, well, if she needed me to stay with the kids, I'd have a conflict.”

Lydia nodded smoothly. “I'm sure whatever it is you can change, right?”

“It's when my meditation group meets.”

Meditation. Ugh. No one in Amazonia meditated. Close your eyes without someone watching your back, and you might never open them again.

“Well, I'm sure you can get as spiritual as you want and still make Evelyn's schedule work,” Lydia said cheerfully.

“Okay . . . I guess.”

Alexis stood, and so did Lydia. “I can't thank you enough, really.”

“You're just so welcome, Alexis. You get that information to me tomorrow, hear, and we'll see about an interview.”

Mission accomplished,
Lydia thought, waving to Alexis as the girl made her way out. As they said in Amazonia: If you are going on a monkey hunt and you see a monkey, kill it. This monkey was definitely dead monkey meat.