Friends with Benefits (3 page)

4

“Maybe he's gay,” Lydia opined to Kiley, then wrapped herself in her aunt's white Irish linen swimsuit cover-up. The late-morning sun had just ducked behind a bank of puffy cumulus clouds and Lydia had skipped breakfast—very unusual for her. Low blood sugar always made her cold. As for Kiley, she'd arrived at the country club pool only minutes before and immediately started to yammer about Tom Chappelle; she was so excited that the hot young model had actually asked her out.

Lydia had quickly learned upon her return to America that her tendency to speak her mind without sugarcoating the truth could be off-putting. The way Kiley's face fell as she stepped out of her no-name jeans confirmed that, but it was too late for Lydia to take back her words about the possibilities of Tom's sexuality.

“I never thought of that,” Kiley admitted. “But wait. What about when I met him? I told you guys, he was in the next suite at the Hotel Bel-Air. I would swear there was a girl in there with him. At least she moaned like a girl.”

“That proves it,” Esme said sharply from the chaise on the other side of Lydia. Lydia thought she looked curvy and luscious in an aqua Shoshanna halter-top bikini that she'd told Lydia had been a gift from Diane after she'd stayed up late with the twins one night. “He's not gay.”

“He could be gay and was using her as a beard,” Lydia countered. “Maybe he's using both of you.”

Kiley pulled her T-shirt over her head. Lydia saw she wore the same tank suit as on the day they'd met. “And a beard is . . .?”

“Gay guys go out with a girl and a guy and pretend they're with the girl so no one will know that they're really with the guy,” Lydia explained knowledgeably.

Esme closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun, which had peeked out from under the clouds. “Don't tell us,” she murmured. “You read it in a magazine.”

“Ha, y'all are wrong this time!” Lydia crowed. “You know X? Anya and Kat's driver? He told me he has friends who do that. He thinks it's tacky. Anyway, Kiley, maybe you're wrong. Maybe it was a guy who
sounded
like a girl.”

“Kiley, don't listen to her,” Esme interjected. “And toss me the sunblock. He asked you out because he likes you. Why can't you just accept that?”

“Because I don't look like . . .” Kiley cast around until her eyes landed on the actress Kate Bosworth, who was on the opposite side of the pool drying off her perfect body after a swim. It was no shock that Kate was at the club, since the membership seemed to include most of the Hollywood A-list and a good part of the B-list-striving-desperately-to-be-on-the-A-list as well. “Like
her,
that's why.”

“Oh, who gives a rat's ass?” Lydia asked. She hadn't meant to hurt Kiley's feelings; she just wanted to be a loyal friend and tell it like it was. No sense not facing reality. In the Amazon basin, not facing reality could get you killed. Since she'd come back to America, she'd sometimes found it difficult to understand how exactly to act—the social rules were so different here. In Amazonia, you always watched your friend's back, so you could knock off the poison snake that had just dropped onto it from a tree. Here, you had to make sure that your words wouldn't hurt her fragile feelings. Who could figure it all out?

“You only say that because you
do
look like her,” Kiley explained. “I didn't come to California to get all weirded out about my appearance.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes and surveyed her friend, trying to be objective. Kiley was very cute, but she wasn't skinny and never wore makeup or sexy clothes in a town where all the other girls seemed to look like models who'd be appearing at the upcoming FAB fashion shows. But Lydia knew better. Those girls weren't naturally any hotter than Kiley. She'd seen the “Caught in Public” photo spreads in
US
magazine. Without expensive clothes, haircuts, bling, and a layer of war paint, most of the so-called stars looked—as they said in Texas—rode hard and put up wet. Lydia could fix Kiley. She was certain of it. She'd certainly memorized enough makeover articles.

“What you need is a big ol' dose of self-confidence,” Lydia said emphatically. “I've got it all planned out. I do your makeup, loan you a hot outfit—”

“You don't
own
a hot outfit,” Kiley interrupted. “They all belong to your aunt Kat and her wife. Husband. Whatever she calls her partner.”

“Anya,” Lydia declared. “She calls her Anya. Her name. They got married in Massachusetts.”

“Fine, whatever. My point is, even if you did own one, I wear a size ten and you wear a size three or something.”

“You wouldn't believe how roomy some of Kat's clothes are,” Lydia retorted. “There's this gold Emanuel Ungaro silk tunic to die for—real low-cut—that falls from the bust in ripples and ends about here.” She held two fingers to her thigh a good six inches above her knees. “Kat wears it with pants but you could wear it with a little thong. Add some strappy Jimmy Choos— what size are you? Kat's an eight.”

“I'm not wearing your aunt's clothes
or
her shoes,” Kiley said, making a face, “and I don't own a thong. First of all, it's just not me. Second of all, what are you going to do when she finally catches you stealing her stuff?”

Lydia raised a forefinger. “It's borrowing,” she corrected. “And I'm not worried. She's doing all the big tennis tournaments this summer for ESPN, so she's traveling a ton. Like, she'll be in London for Wimbledon for almost two weeks. By the time she gets home from the studio, she's so whipped she just falls into bed.”

“What about Anya?” Kiley challenged.

“Anya couldn't care less about fashion. Only makeup. Isn't that bizarre? Her clothes are in a whole different room.”

“I just want to point out that you sound really defensive,” Esme said.

Okay, there was some truth to what her friends were saying, Lydia admitted to herself. But the “borrowing” wasn't going to last forever. She had big plans to—

“Lydia, a mo'?”

Lydia turned. She recognized the woman standing there, Evelyn Bowers, a publicist who had once tried to steal Lydia away from the moms—what Lydia called her aunt and Anya— with a sweet job offer. Lydia had remained loyal to the moms, realizing that without them, she'd still be eating roast monkey instead of pâté and truffles.

Not one to miss an opportunity, though, Lydia did dangle the possibility of finding a nanny for Evelyn in exchange for a serious commission. Evelyn had bit, and Lydia had sold Kiley and Esme on the idea of a nanny agency. Kiley volunteered that her best friend, Nina, might be interested. For several days now, Lydia had been trying to reach this Nina in Wisconsin to settle the deal, but the girl hadn't returned her phone calls.

From the glare in Evelyn's eyes, as she stood with her arms crossed in a size nothing white and green leaf-patterned bikini, it was obvious that the publicist was losing patience. Lydia's response was to smile up at her as if she didn't have a care in the world. The Amazonia tribesmen made an art form out of it— killing with kindness. The only thing was, often as not, they followed it up with killing for real.

“Oh, sure, Evelyn,” Lydia replied easily.

Evelyn hoisted her Jamin Puech beaded silk bag with metallic leather trim farther up her bony shoulder. Lydia had seen it in a W layout on the most sought-after accessories. “Lydia. I'm not feeling entirely comfortable with our business arrangement.”

This was not good, yet Lydia's face still betrayed nothing. “Well, then we need to have a little chat about that.”

“What we need is for you to deliver me an excellent nanny as promised.”

Lydia smiled. “Evelyn, this is your lucky day. After an extensive and exhaustive search, I found her. Her name is Nina Hopson.”

Evelyn seemed taken aback. “Well, that
is
good news. I figured you'd flaked out on me.”

“No chance of that, Evelyn,” Lydia assured her.

“When do I meet her?”

“Well, there is one little thing. She lives in Wisconsin. You'll need to buy her plane ticket to Los Angeles.”

This was true,
if
Nina was taking the job. Lydia had no idea if she was or wasn't.

Evelyn scowled. “Are you kidding me?”

Lydia shrugged. “I'd just hate to see you lose out on an employee of this caliber. But if you want to settle for one of those girls where you need a bank of nanny cams just to make sure they aren't abusing your children, well . . .”

Evelyn considered this, tapping one impatient foot against the white concrete of the pool deck. “At the very least I need some references for you before I—”

“Hold on a sec, Ev—hate to be rude,” Lydia added, then nodded toward Kiley and Esme. “Evelyn Bowers, meet Kiley McCann and Esme Castaneda. They're two of my nannies.”

Evelyn gave them an appraising look. “Are you telling me you placed these girls in their current jobs, Lydia?”

“Of course,” Lydia lied smoothly. She saw Esme and Kiley exchange a glance and hoped for two things. One: that her about-to-be-first-client didn't notice. Two: that her new best friends were not about to be her new worst enemies.

Evelyn switched her bag to her other arm and shook her perfectly streaked shoulder-length brown hair off her faux-tanned face. “For whom do you girls work, if you don't mind my asking?”

Lydia jumped in before her friends could reply. “That's confidential information, Evelyn. It wouldn't be ethical to divulge it. Employer privacy and all that.”

“What are you talking about? Of course it's ethical,” Evelyn snapped. “That's how references get checked. So if you're not willing to provide me with—”

“I work for the Goldhagens,” Esme interrupted smoothly.

“
Steven
and
Diane
Goldhagen?” Evelyn pronounced the names with slow reverence. “They hired Lydia, and Lydia here hired you?”

Lydia held her breath.

Esme nodded. “Actually, Lydia informed me that there were a number of families on her roster seeking nannies, but that the fit with the Goldhagen family seemed to be right for them and for me.”

Lydia exhaled. “So true.”

Evelyn fanned her face, as though the heat of being one degree of separation from the famous TV producer and his wife was more than she could take. “I heard that Diane had adopted two little girls from one of those hideous, poverty-stricken little third world countries,” she recalled. “The woman is a saint.”

“So, there you go, Evelyn,” Lydia said, beaming. “How's that for a reference? I'm sure you don't know Steven and Diane personally, but—”

“Yes, I do,” Evelyn interrupted, haughtily shaking her hair off her pinched face.

Oops. She'd been sure that Evelyn Bowers had never met the Goldhagens, otherwise she never would have said . . . Then Lydia noticed that Evelyn was tapping her foot again. It was a dead giveaway that the woman was lying her bony ass off.

Lydia dug her cell phone out of her bag and flipped it to Evelyn, who automatically caught it. “Great!” she exclaimed. “Why don't you give Diane a call right now? Diane's home, right, Esme?”

“Definitely,” Esme confirmed. “She's got a ton of planning to do for FAB. All these caterers and flower arrangers for the
Queen
Mary
banquet on Tuesday night.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn't want to interrupt her right now.” Evelyn backpedaled furiously and handed the phone back to Lydia. “It just proves once again my instincts are completely correct. You really
are
a gem! Just don't go giving my new nanny away to a higher bidder, even if it's my friend Tricia.”

“You can count on me, Evelyn,” Lydia assured her. “We'll talk about Tricia another time. Let her see the nanny I place with you and get insanely jealous first.”

“You must have Hollywood genes, Lydia.” Evelyn smiled as she stooped to perch on the edge of Esme's chaise. “So . . . Esme. You're helping your boss with this year's FAB bash?”

Esme nodded.

“I would just
kill
for an invitation.”

“Just call Diane,” Esme suggested. “I'm sure she'd—”

The publicist shook her head. “Oh, not now. She's far too busy.”

“Let's see how things work out with the new placement,” Esme said, smiling. “And then I'll see what I can do.”

Evelyn grabbed Esme's hand. “Oh my God, really? That's fantastic!” She leaped to her feet. “Call me as soon as possible, Lydia.”

“I sure will. I'll call this afternoon about the plane ticket for the nanny,” Lydia said sweetly. “Oh, and one more thing.” Lydia rose and whispered in the older woman's ear.

“Absolutely,” Evelyn agreed. She turned to Esme.
“Thank you.”

Lydia waggled her fingers in Evelyn's direction as the publicist tottered off on her green and pink espadrilles. “I owe you. Forever,” she told Esme.

Esme put on her oversized black sunglasses. “You don't owe me shit.”

It took Lydia a moment to process—Esme lying for her, and then going cold. Then she got it. “It was Evelyn's stupid third world comment, wasn't it?”

“Women like her make me sick. What, she thinks her ignorant ass is the first world? Give me an effing break.”

“Let me make a mental leap here,” Kiley ventured. “That woman is a client for your upscale agency that doesn't exist.”

“
Our
upscale agency,” Lydia corrected.

Kiley turned to Esme. “You're really going to get her an invite to Diane's party?”

“Please,” Esme snorted. “I'd sooner invite some
puta
from the
barrio.
In fact, maybe I'll pay for one to show up at the witch's front door and ask for her husband.”