Heart of Glass (22 page)
“Jack, I can’t go away with you this weekend because I’m picking Aaron up at Ojai. He’s being released.” She blurted it out and received a full-on scowl from Jack in return.
“Aaron? That asshole.”
“He’s not an asshole. He’s very sensitive and deep and sweet—” Jack looked incredulous. “No way are you breaking up with me to be with that loser.” “First of all, you don’t even know him. Second of all, I wasn’t planning to break up with you. But there’s no reason for you to be mean to me. The right thing to do would have been to ask me if you could come along, instead of getting all negative. I’m sure Aaron could use the support, after what he’s been though.” Dee felt herself bristle.
The waitress brought them their sushi. It sat in front of them, about as lifeless on its gold-and-tan platter as their conversation seemed to be.
“Okay, let me rephrase that.” His voice was tense. “The guy is an alcoholic. Right or wrong?” “Right.” “And the guy did drugs. Right or wrong?” “Right.” “Probably while his parents were going crazy about it. Right or wrong?” “Right,” she admitted. “Both right. But he admitted himself to Ojai. He’s been clean and sober for weeks.” Jack picked up a piece of shrimp kushi—shrimp that had been skewered on a stick, and then roasted—bit it into it, and chewed thoughtfully. “This is good. Anyway, I grew up with an alcoholic, also known as my old man. Just when you think they’ve changed . . . bingo, they break your heart. When push comes to shove, they will always love the bottle more than they love you.” “But I can help him,” Dee maintained.
He nodded slowly. “That’s what you want? Someone broken you can fix?” Dee bit her lower lip. She hadn’t looked at it like that. Was that what she wanted? In the past, she had always been the broken one. “I don’t know. He’s my friend, though.”
“Can I ask you something?” “Sure.”
He pointed the empty kushi skewer at her. “Answer this without making a scene. Please. I won’t make a scene either. Are you fooling around with this jerk you barely know?” “For one thing, when you’re at Ojai, you’re not allowed to have sex—” “Yeah, like no one ever broke that rule,” Jack scoffed.
“I don’t even know if I want him . . . like that. I mean, when I’m with you, usually I’m thinking about the next time I can get your clothes off. I don’t feel that way with Aaron. Not at all. But because we were at Ojai together . . . “ God. How could she put this so it wouldn’t hurt his feelings?
“Because we were both at Ojai, there’s a special kind of connection.” There. That was honest. Even so, it didn’t get the reaction she had hoped for. Instead of understanding, Jack laughed cynically.
“This is rich. It’s like payback for every girl I ever put moves on when I was only into her for the night. So I’m, what, your boy toy?” Damn, why was this going so badly? Why was he being so negative?
“I just want to be Aaron’s friend.”
He shrugged, but his face was hard. “I don’t tell you who your friends can be, Dee.”
“I know. But I feel like we . . . like maybe you and I are going too fast, and . . . it’s kind of confusing.” Dee winced. She hated, hated,
hated
hurting him.
“Is this the ‘I need space’ talk? Because I hear what that really means is ‘I’m not into you anymore.’ So if that’s it, just fucking say it. I’m a big boy. I can take it.” “No, no, that’s not it!” She felt a lump in her throat. She was just not used to doing this. “I really just mean that I need . . . space.” “Ha. I called it.” “But not that kind of space. More like, I don’t want to plan the future or talk about marriage or babies or things like that. I’m so sorry if I’m hurting your feelings.” For a long moment, Jack was silent. He poured himself some tea. Then he warmed hers up, too.
“That kind of space, huh? I can handle it.” She smiled. “Yes.”
“No more talk about the Jersey Shore. Scout’s honor.” He held up three fingers like a Boy Scout.
“Exactly.”
“So we’re still good?”
Dee nodded. She was pretty sure she meant what she said, but not positive. At least she’d told him what was on her mind.
He took her hand again from across the table. “Okay, then. First, we eat. Really eat. Then, when we leave here, we go back to my guesthouse, and I give you the best massage of your life. And after that . . . we’ll talk about what’s for dessert.”
Dee felt the tension ooze out of her body. She was relieved enough to spear a delectable slice of ahi with her chopsticks. “Can’t wait.” “Let me tell you, Dee. I don’t know if you’ll ever experience it, but karmic payback? It’s a bitch.” “I’m really interested in karma. But what are you talking about?” He grinned the grin that she loved so much. “Trust me. You don’t really want to know.”
“So let me understand this.” Eduardo literally scratched his head. “Poppy is gone. Your father kicked her out after he saw the
Galaxy
.” “Yes, she’s gone. Ding-dong, the witch is gone. That’s the good part.” “But she left the baby behind?” He sounded incredulous. “I can’t imagine any mother leaving her child behind.” “Well, start imagining,” Sam said bluntly.
It was a serene night and they were in a serene place, the outdoor café at the W Hotel practically around the corner from UCLA. Sam couldn’t help but feel extremely pleased about the departure of Poppy Sinclair Sharpe from her father’s Bel-Air estate, to be followed as soon as possible—one could only hope—by the departure of the name Sharpe from that same Poppy Sinclair. It was almost enough to make one believe that the H in the HOLLYWOOD sign stood for “Higher Power,” and that said Higher Power had booted Poppy out on her cheating ass.
The Backyard at the W had recently become one of Sam’s favorite destinations. With its canopied white tenting and white umbrellas, beautiful brown wooden furnishings, and secluded location behind the hotel that shielded it from the vehicular noise of the nearby 405 freeway, the Backyard was one of those few Los Angeles spots that had not yet been overrun by tourists. When Sam had called Eduardo in the aftermath of the Blowout in Bel-Air (as she termed it), she’d been in an ebullient mood. Mostly. In any case, she was upbeat enough to propose taking him to dinner at the Backyard. She told him she had news for him. Big news. The biggest possible news.
“You got a movie to direct?” he’d asked. “Not that big. But almost.”
Now here they were, sitting at Sam’s favorite table closest to the pool, enjoying the Backyard’s signature cucumber martinis, a romaine-lettuce-and-sliced-Portobello-mushroom salad for Sam, a cheeseburger on pita bread with a side of couscous for Eduardo, and a platter of chilled oysters on the half shell for both of them.
She felt so damn happy. Just looking at Eduardo across the table from her was thrilling enough. He was dressed in his typical style, in dark summer-weight gray linen trousers and a white cotton dress shirt so well tailored that it had to have been handmade in London or Hong Kong. His shoes were black Bruno Maglis, and he had on a simple, masculine Peruvian Indian necklace made of bamboo and hemp.
It had been a pleasure to recount the story. Mostly. How quickly she’d gotten over the nausea she felt when she first saw the
Galaxy
. How Poppy had blanched so much when Jackson showed her the tabloid that Sam swore the color drained even from her hair. How Poppy, faced with the evidence in front of her, didn’t deny having the affair with Bodhi, but blamed it on Jackson’s absence. How her father had launched into a staccato monologue that could have been written by David Mamet, recounting the course of their relationship, the many ways in which he’d compromised what he personally wanted in order to make her happy, and slamming the perfidy of the mother of his new infant daughter. How Poppy had dissolved in tears and rushed away. And then, how Jackson had retreated to his downstairs office to call his publicist and draft a statement that would be issued to the press in the morning.
Eduardo took a thoughtful sip of his martini. “How do you feel now?” “Better than I have all year. Since they got married, anyway.” He pursed his lips. “That’s sad, in a way.” “Please, he only married her because she was pregnant. My father is an old-fashioned guy.” The waitress—an Italian girl with a riot of dark curly hair springing free from the bun she clearly had been told to wear to keep her hair out of the food—brought over a fresh basket of homemade bread. Eduardo waited for her to depart before he continued.
“Your happiness is so tied up in what your father does or doesn’t do. You just finished high school. You could have moved out of that house anytime you wanted. Certainly since we came back from Peru. And yet you’ve stayed there and let yourself be irritated by her. Of course, that irritant is now gone, but what’s going to happen with the next young actress your father meets? You told me he has a pattern of this.” Sam hadn’t expected this response. She hadn’t even considered that this would be his response. She actually hadn’t thought about it at all. What was harsh about it was that Eduardo was speaking the truth. She
could
have gotten the hell out of there, if she’d really wanted to.
He smiled. “Perhaps you ought to think about contacting a real estate agent. There are some wonderful condominiums not far from me.” “Okay, you have a point,” she conceded. “However, it’s my home. She was using my father. So it seems to me the one who should leave is her.” Sam felt positively smug. “And she did.” “Your father will be very sad. Have you thought about that?” Not enough, maybe. She finished her martini. There was something else she wanted to talk to him about. It would require fortification, alcohol calories be damned.
“There’s something else I need to tell you.”
Shit.
Why
did she need to tell him? That was the question. She wasn’t responsible for the photos in the
Galaxy
. It would be so easy to keep what she and
Parker had done a secret; Eduardo would never find out. Parker would never tell. So what was with this, this
compulsion
to tell him? It could ruin everything. Yet she plunged ahead toward the abyss. “There were other pictures taken. Of Poppy.” “Of course there were. The tabloids don’t print them all.” “That’s not what I meant.” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his soulful dark eyes.
“Okay, then. So what
do
you mean?” “I was involved.”
Eduardo seemed to take in the implications of this. “Sam, you mean
you
are responsible for the photos in the
Galaxy
?” “No, not those. Others.” “Explain.” She did, starting with her suspicions of Poppy and Bodhi at the Peruvian meal Eduardo had cooked the day when that designer, Gisella, had come over, right through what she’d helped instigate between Parker and Poppy at the Ritz-Carlton in Pasadena.
“There was a PI in the Lobby Lounge,” she continued hoarsely. “The same detective who found out where my mother was living in North Carolina. She was dressed like an old woman. She took pictures of Poppy kissing this guy I hired. Right there in the lounge.” No way was she going to admit it was Parker. Eduardo knew him. He knew Eduardo. She had to leave Parker out of this.
“You still have those photographs,” Eduardo surmised.
“No.”
“No?” He raised his eyebrows.
“I destroyed them. Actually, she destroyed them for me. I couldn’t go through with it.” His eyebrows stayed high. “Why not?” Why not, indeed? She didn’t know. There’d been a dozen times when she’d been ready to leak the envelope to the
Galaxy
. It was stamped and ready in her night-stand. No return address. No way to trace it to her. Yet she hadn’t done it. The question was: Why not?
“I don’t know.”
He smiled. “‘How beautiful it is to do nothing, and then rest afterward.’” “What’s that?” “An old Spanish proverb. It sounds better in the native tongue, but it means the same thing. I’m proud of you. You did the right thing.” “By having those pictures taken?” “No.” He broke off a piece of one of the rolls, buttered it, and handed it to her across the table. “By destroying them. Bravo. And then Poppy got caught anyway. I don’t believe much in karma, but this could make me change my mind.” She cocked her head slightly sideways. “Wait. You’re not mad at me?” “For what? Doing the right thing? Let’s eat. I have a surprise for you, which you’ll have to see after dinner.”
“A surprise?” Sam said coquettishly. “I like surprises.” Eduardo grinned and then extracted a key card from his wallet. “Penthouse. How hungry are you, really? Or perhaps the better question is: What are you hungry for?”
L
izbette had an arm around Champagne’s naturally well-defined shoulder as they strolled through the fashion and costumes gallery at the LACMA, which Anna considered to be a very good sign. She and Cammie were following a discreet distance behind, doing everything they could to make it look like they were taking in the exhibit instead of straining to catch every word that the Greek princess was saying to their young friend—and now, Cammie’s protégé.
Anna watched them stop in front of a mannequin in a Plexiglas cube. The mannequin was garbed in a stunning olive green silk jacket, very fitted, with a flounced peplum and matching skirt. Lizbette pointed at the outfit and explained how it was designed in 1945 and that the color corresponded to what American soldiers were wearing in the war at the time. Champagne nodded, rapt with attention.
Anna checked her watch. Four-thirty. They’d been walking through the museum for close to an hour. She knew they’d have to wrap this up reasonably soon if they were to make it back to the Lichtenstein gallery to prep for the fashion show.
She and Cammie—all the girls in the show, in fact— had been at the museum since nine that morning for last-minute fittings and to clean, arrange, and decorate, along with a small army of New Visions participants and adult volunteers. Mrs. Vanderleer miraculously granted everyone a couple of hours of freedom between three and five, on the proviso that they were not to leave the museum.
Luckily, Lizbette had agreed to come to LACMA to meet Champagne. As usual, the princess was dressed immaculately, in a spectacular gray Fendi minidress, black Donna Karan tights, Christian Louboutin wedges with tiger stripes, and an incredible custom-made tiger-striped belt. Cammie had on a beautiful vintage pale pink shirt and skirt with inverted pleats, while Anna had chosen a simple black eyelet starlet dress by Burberry. They’d only told Champagne about Lizbette’s visit fifteen or twenty minutes before the princess’s arrival, and their instincts had been right. Champagne had been surprised, but there hadn’t been enough time for her to get truly nervous. That she was wearing her black Bebe outfit from the Beverly Center made her feel more confident.
