Skinnydipping (17 page)

On my first day working for Carol, she introduced me to her other assistant, Chad, who looked mildly threatened by my presence in the office. Carol said he had to leave most days by three, and I would take over where he left off. First I had to go with the driver to pick up her twin daughters at school and take them ice skating. That was actually pretty fun. Heidi and Hannah, both gorgeous blonde nine-year-olds with high cheekbones and long legs, were interested in me and asked many questions: Was I married? Did I have a boyfriend? Did I want to be an actress? Was my house as big as their house? Did I think Scott Baio was cute? When they saw I could skate backward, they were particularly impressed. I taught them both how to do it.

On day three, I sat down in the office and waited for Carol, who was nowhere to be found. Was there something I could straighten? Nope. The office was far beyond my organizational skills, and I’m pretty OCD when it comes to cleaning. Everything was perfect. Were all the pencils in the pencil jar white, with white erasers, and perfectly sharpened? Yes, they were. I made sure they were all aligned. All the papers were filed, or precisely stacked. The carpet was vacuumed. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant. After about thirty minutes of doing nothing, I was about to burst. I came back out of the office and looked around. I didn’t see anybody but the maid. I walked into the kitchen, where she was cleaning.

“Excuse me, Flora?” Carol had introduced me to all the household staff on my first day. “Do you know where Mrs. Kameron is?”

“Mrs. Kameron’s still sleeping,” she whispered, not looking at me, intent on wiping the counters.

“Oh …” I wondered if she remembered I was supposed to come today. “OK, thanks.” I went back into the office and sat back down. Then the phone rang. Thank God, something to do.

“Kameron residence,” I said in my most businesslike voice.

“Carol, please. This is Trish Copeland.”

Trish Copeland! She had starred in Josh’s most successful TV show and had been on the cover of every entertainment magazine ever published. “Oh, hello Trish,” I said, thrilled that I was calling her by her first name. “I’m sure Carol would love to speak with you, but she’s still sleeping.”

As soon as I said it, a little part of me wondered:
Should I have said that?
But Trish just laughed. “You’re new, right? I suppose you’re not comfortable enough yet to go tell her to get her lazy ass out of bed.”

“No, not really,” I admitted.

“Good answer—no employee should ever be
that
comfortable!” She laughed again, a boisterous laugh that wasn’t entirely benevolent. “Just tell her I called, honey. And good luck!”

About an hour later, after I’d resorted to alphabetizing the mail, Carol came down, fully dressed and looking like she’d been up for hours.

“Hi, Carol,” I said, “I didn’t want to wake you, so I’ve been organizing the office. I hope that’s OK.”

Her smile faded and her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean you didn’t want to wake me? What gave you the impression I was asleep?” Uh oh.

“Flora told me,” I said. “And Trish Copeland called for you.” I was eager to change the subject. Then I thought:
Shit. I’m a dirty rat. Now Flora’s going to get it.

“Trish Copeland? What did you tell her?” she demanded.

“I told her you were …” Suddenly I had a bad feeling. “I told her you were still asleep….” I confessed.

Her face turned pink. “You told her
what
?” she screamed. “No. No, don’t you
ever, ever
tell
anyone
that I’m ever still asleep. Oh my God.” She threw up her hands. “I absolutely hate new employees. Look, as far as you’re concerned, I never sleep. I’m a fucking vampire. Do you understand me? I was not in bed. I was upstairs meditating, not that it’s any of your business. And now that bitch Trish thinks I was sleeping all day.” She looked flustered. “Oh, this is a disaster. I can only imagine what
she’s
going to do with
that
information.”

I couldn’t help thinking that if
my
husband had directed twenty-five blockbuster movies and I had a billion dollars in my bank account, my assistant could tell anybody anything she wanted.
I’m sorry, ma’am, but Ms. Brightstone is currently involved in a three-way with two Calvin Klein models in the hot tub. Can she get back to you?
What the hell did she have to hide?

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think it would—”

“You obviously didn’t think at all!” she said, pointing a finger at me. “That was just stupid. Really, really stupid. If you make another mistake like that, you’re gone.”

“Yes, I understand. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Kameron. It won’t happen again.” Suddenly, it didn’t seem appropriate to call her Carol.

The next day, she seemed to have forgotten all about it, but I’d learned my lesson.

And so the job went.
Every day, I worked the lunch shift at La Fenice, then showed up at the Kamerons’ house at three. I would pick up Heidi and Hannah from school, spend time with them, then take a few hours of abuse from Carol. Afterward, I’d come back home, eat some brown rice or a fat-free frozen yogurt, go to the gym and burn it off, then go out for the night, drink vodka with club soda or a
white wine, and look for my soul mate. Sometime in the early morning, I’d fall into bed, alone or not, before waking up to do it all over again.

It wasn’t my ideal life, but at least it was a regular schedule. And at least I was skinny.

chapter eleven

H
ow attached are you to your current living situation?” Carol asked me. I’d just come in and she met me at the door.

“Not very. Why?” I said, following her into the office.

“We own a beach house in Malibu Colony, and we are having it remodeled. We need someone to live in it while it’s being worked on. Keep the lights on and make sure nothing gets stolen. What do you think? You could even drive our car, if you need it.” Did she mean the Range Rover?

I couldn’t believe my luck. Vince Beck still hadn’t called me. I still didn’t have enough money to quite cover my bills. I wasn’t yet cast in a blockbuster movie, and I still hadn’t found my soul mate. In the meantime, as a consolation, could I tolerate living in a gorgeous Kameron beach home in Malibu?

“I think that would work,” I said, feigning indifference. “Could my roommate move in with me? She’s very responsible.” I figured I wouldn’t mention the dog.

“Yes, but no parties,” said Carol. “The more often someone’s home to let the workers in and make sure they don’t steal anything, the better.”

“No problem,” I said. Well, except for the part about the beer-swilling, shot-guzzling, tassled-titties, celebrity-packed parties I intended to throw. I’d just have to be sure Carol never heard about them.

“We’d like you there as soon as possible, so feel free to make any calls you need to make today so this can happen.” She paused. “Oh, and Faith? Don’t screw this up.”

“Of course not, Carol. Never. I will be a model citizen.” With any luck, the citizens at my parties would be models, too—male models, who would be required to lounge naked in the hot tub.

“And another thing. I need you to plan a party for me. I’m going to be out of town until the day before.”

I swallowed. Carol had always been incredibly fastidious about her parties—about everything, but especially her parties. She was notorious for planning every detail herself, and torturing everyone else involved. She wouldn’t say she exactly liked throwing parties, but I would say she was addicted to throwing parties. I’d helped her plan several already, and I’d been on the receiving end of some of her rants, yet hadn’t suffered like the caterers, decorators, and entertainers who had really been the focus of her wrath. Carol’s niece and my new friend, Jeannie Klein, who came by the house occasionally and whom I’d befriended because I liked her wicked sense of humor, had filled me in on the horror stories about some of Carol’s most notorious past parties. And she wanted me to be in charge?

“Sure, Carol,” I said. “I can do that.” I said it with confidence I didn’t feel, but it also sounded like an opportunity. I had a good idea of what needed to be done, and if Carol was going to be out of town, maybe I’d be able to do it with a minimum of abuse.

“The party is for the opening of Josh’s new movie—it’s a sweeping, epic sort of fairytale thing he dedicated to the girls,” she said, waving her hands as if to dismiss the entire project. The rumor around town was that it cost nearly $300 million to make. Carol continued, “I want it to be big, impressive, memorable. I’ll need a venue, catering, music, all of it. Think princesses and kings and dragons and that sort of
thing.” She waved her hand again. “I just don’t have time to do it. It’s in eight weeks, so get started.”

Eight weeks?

I spent the next eight weeks in a frenzy.

At home, Perry and I got ready to move into the beach house, but all I thought about was party planning. Carol was very specific about one thing: the party would have to be dramatic. The studio was throwing a party, too, but this was the private event, and Carol wanted it to be more memorable than the studio’s event—even though that opening was going to be at Disneyland. “I don’t care if they have it at the fucking Buckingham Palace, I want my party to be the one they talk about,” she said.

Whenever Carol had more than thirty seconds to sit and think about the party, my marching orders changed—a revised guest list every few days, a revised menu every weekend, and constantly evolving opinions on the entertainment. I spent almost two weeks negotiating with top-40 rock bands about playing the party, and when I finally found one who would agree to our price, Carol tore up the contract because she wanted her nephew’s band to play. She finally agreed to locate her nephew’s band in the lobby, and “my” band in the garden. Her obsessiveness and perfectionism were battling with my own, and I wanted to take her by her scrawny shoulders and shake her, saying, “Carol! Just let me do it!” But I knew better. That would be exactly the way to lose this job.

Fighting her at every step, I had to arrange for everything—the Hearst Castle was booked for the weekend we wanted, but I coaxed and cajoled and name-dropped until I got them to switch things around and give us the entire lobby, patio, and garden. I sent out the invitations in waves, to accommodate Carol’s constant additions. I hired a special-effects company to handle the lights and sound, working in conjunction with a designer who would turn the lobby into a facsimile of one of the movie’s most fantastic sets, complete with an animatronic dragon, and a garden transformed into a magical fairyland.

I found a caterer who could accommodate both vegans and children, and whose food Carol actually approved of. I hired a company to handle the bar, and when Carol finally left town two weeks before the party, I could really ramp up my efforts without her interference. To get inspiration, I watched Josh’s movie on videotape almost every night.

“I can’t watch that again. This party is going to be the death of you,” Perry said, leaving the living room when I inserted the movie yet again.

“No it’s not,” I said, grabbing my binder to write down a new idea—fairy-wing cocktail stirrers. “I’m rocking it. I love doing this!”

“Well, I don’t love you doing this,” she said from her bedroom.

“Careful or I’m uninviting you!” I said.

“As if Carol Kameron would let me come!” she yelled.

Eight weeks later and three
hours before the party, I arrived at the castle feeling like Cinderella in a pink dress with frothy tulle wrapped around the waist and acrylic heels I’d found at a consignment store. Everything looked amazing—better than I could have hoped. Tiny lights twinkled in rows of potted trees that formed a walkway leading into the lobby. The special-effects team had created an artificial drawbridge, and the animatronic dragon in the center of the lobby breathed steam and had flashing eyes. On one side of the lobby, a medieval-style groaning board was set with rough-hewn wooden plates, ready to be filled with the fairytale food, and every fifty feet, there was a portable bar. The bartenders were dressed like knights.

Outside, the entire garden was webbed and woven with lights and exotic flowers, and tiny fairy figurines with buzzing electric wings hung from the trees. I checked with everyone on my list to make sure they all had what they needed. Apart from a few small disasters—a temporary delay on the delivery of the princess cake, a permit that had been misplaced that I needed to refax—the event was running like a well-oiled machine.