Some Like It Hot (13 page)

Anna folded her arms. “I am not going in there.”

His face was the picture of innocence. “What's wrong?”

Her hand gripped the armrest even as the black uniformed valet came to open her side door. “You know exactly what's wrong, and you have the nerve to call
Jack
a dog?”

Ben shrugged, his face an odd mix of confusion and bemusement. “Well, we can leave if you really want to. I just thought it would be fun if we had a chance to swing dance together before your prom Friday night.”

Swingers. As in swing dancing.

She hauled off and punched his right bicep. “Very funny!”

Ben threw his head back, laughing so hard he was practically crying. “I wish you could see yourself right now.”

“You … you …!” she sputtered.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” He managed to catch his breath.

She wasn't mad. Now that she knew it was just a prank, she found it quite hilarious.

“Just wait, Ben Birnbaum,” she told him, with her most serene smile. “I will
definitely
get you back.”

Ben stepped out of the shower and turned off the water, still laughing to himself over Anna's reaction when he'd pulled up to Swingers. There was something so self-contained and ladylike about her; it was fun to break through that façade. He knew another side of Anna, one that hardly anyone—hell, maybe no one—but him ever saw. He'd seen her in moments when she'd given herself up to passion, moments when she'd turned the tables on him and made him lose control. Afterward, she was the same proper beauty.

It was much more than that, too. There was her depth, her intellectual sophistication, her sensitivity. Both of them found their parent of the same sex to be shallow. Both of them wanted to protect people they cared about. It was amazing, really, that on the deepest level they had so much in common. And then there was the fun of being with her. She was full of surprises, even now. As it turned out, Anna already knew how to jitterbug. She'd had dance lessons in seventh grade as part of cotillion, where old-money rich kids were sent to learn how to behave in polite society. Anna kept him entertained with stories about all the trouble she—and especially her best friend, Cyn—had gotten into there.

He reached for his white terry cloth robe on the hook behind the bathroom door. No robe.
Huh.
That was where he always put it. Whatever. He wrapped the over-sized towel around his waist and padded down the hall to his bedroom. Usher was wailing from Maddy's room. Her door was open. Ben saw that she wasn't alone. She was slow dancing in there, with Jack. Their bodies were as close as two bodies could be without actually touching.

The mystery of Ben's misplaced bathrobe was solved: Maddy was wearing it.

“Hey,” Ben called.

They turned to him. “Hey, man, how's it going?” Jack greeted him. “Maddy wanted to practice her dancing for prom.”

Ben wasn't sure how to play this. Yes, they were dancing, but Maddy was in his bathrobe. “Uh-huh.”

“See, Jack came by to talk to you, but you weren't around,” Maddy explained hastily as she turned down the CD player. “Then I thought, I mean, I haven't done much dancing, you know, like when no one could get their arms around me. I wanted to practice, really. Yeah.”

“Um, that's my bathrobe you're wearing.”

“I'm so sorry,” Maddy replied earnestly. “I was freezing after I showered and mine is in the laundry and I was sure you wouldn't mind.” She reached for the sash. You want it back?”

“No, that's cool. So, you about ready to pack it in, Jack?” he added pointedly. He wanted a chance to talk to him.

“Sure.” He pecked Maddy on the cheek. “I'll call you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Ben walked Jack downstairs to the new foyer but stepped in front of the door before either of them could open it.

“What is up with you and her, man?”

Jack held his hands up. “Whoa, easy does it. There's nothing up.”

“That didn't look like nothing.”

“How about you don't get all bent out of shape over nothing?”

“Look, Maddy has the social maturity of a chick who is maybe fourteen. Don't run your game on her, Jack. I mean it.”

“Is that what you think I'm doing?” His friend's eyebrows rose.

Ben shot him a jaded look. “This is me, remember? I know exactly how you are with girls.”

“What, you don't think it's possible that we're just friends?”

“Seriously, man. Leave the girl alone.”

“Uh-huh.” He shook his head.

“What?” Ben demanded.

Jack waved a hand in the air. “Forget it. Believe what you want to believe. I'm outta here.”

When he was gone, Ben stood by the door, mulling his options. He thought about stopping at Maddy's room to talk to her and set the record straight but decided it would be better if he just left things alone. Tomorrow, he'd figure out some way to explain the unfortunate facts of life to her. Or wait. Maybe it would be better coming from a girl. Maybe Anna could talk to her.

Yeah. That was a good idea.

The Prom Weenies

T
hat Sam had never before invited Jazz or Fee, or any of their B-list friends for that matter, to her home was a given. However, she'd decided that her home was the perfect locale to begin the interviews for her documentary. She wanted her subjects to be dazzled and intimidated. They'd try too hard and look even more pathetic on screen, she figured. Yes, it would be mean, but she wanted this documentary to be a critical darling. That meant making it as snarky as possible. Critics loved snarky, audiences loved snarky, and studios loved snarky. That was why a movie like, say,
The Opposite of Sex
got the kudos and
A Walk to Remember
got dissed, even though Mandy Moore's film made a ton more money than Christina Ricci's. She did feel a little guilty about using the prom weenies in this way, but what the hell. No one ever said art was easy. Besides, acclaimed documentaries dissed their subjects all the time. Just ask Michael Moore.

Parker Pinelli had been the obvious person to help her with the project. Bearing a striking resemblance to the late, great James Dean, only taller, Parker was easily the best-looking guy at Beverly Hills High. He'd also played small film roles, most of them utterly forgettable, unless you counted an on-screen kiss he'd shared with a certain overexposed, talent-free blond heiress before she was run over by a bus. In the movie, that is.

Anyway, Parker was definitely an A-list guy. Sam was the only one who knew that, contrary to assumptions, Parker did not have A-list money. He didn't even have B-list money. In fact, he was broke. She'd learned the truth on their alternative senior trip to Vegas and pledged that she'd keep her mouth shut. Learning the truth about Parker had made Sam view him in a whole new light. Before, she'd dismissed him as just another talent-free wanna-be, albeit with money and great looks. Not hardly. He'd proven to her in Las Vegas that he had real acting ability, when he'd carried off a scam that would have made DiCaprio in
Catch Me If You Can
jealous. He was a complex, talented guy.

The Jackson Sharpe estate in Bel Air covered ten acres. Sam's father had paid seven million dollars for the property alone (his fee for doing
Blue Raider,
in which he'd played a benevolent Robin Hood-type who freed a village in Mexico from evil conquistadors, had been twenty-two mil, with action on the back end, too).

The property had once been owned by William Shatner, who had sold it post-
Star Trek
and pre-Priceline. Jackson's first act as owner had been to turn a wrecking ball on Shatner's eight-bedroom mansion and erect one twice the size, with an exterior taken directly from a Swiss château that had captured his fancy while he was filming a Swiss action thriller called
The Zurich Way
. The original chateau had boasted a cobblestone driveway that wended through lush stands of cedar trees, so Jackson had brought in thousands of cedar trees from Lebanon. There were hedgerows separating the chateau from the road; Jackson had hedgerows planted with such fast-growing shrubbery that the view of any tourist who hoped for a glimpse of “America's Most Beloved Action Hero” was hopelessly blocked.

While the front of the estate boasted massive hand-hewn granite blocks, soaring two-story windows, and a driveway that circled a fountain designed by the architect I. M. Pei, the true glory of the place could be seen from the back. The grounds were spectacular. During his “golf” phase, Jackson had installed three full par-four golf holes, each with three tee boxes, so he could play a full nine holes without leaving the premises. There were two tennis courts, one grass and one clay, plus an Olympic-size swimming pool. Recently, the pool had been drained and the bottom tiled with a giant hummingbird design in honor of the birth of Jackson's new daughter (and Sam's stepsister), Ruby Hummingbird Sharpe. There were also three guesthouses and a grove of fruit trees.

Sam prepared carefully for Fee and Jazz's arrival. They arrived in Fee's red Audi; Sam had a white-jacketed parking attendant, who doubled as Jackson's hitting partner when Jackson was in the mood for tennis, take their car in front of the estate. Then the girls were greeted by Roger, the new butler, a tall, cadaverous Englishman whose claim to fame was having worked for a certain famous British fantasy writer who'd struck platinum with a series of novels about a boy wizard. Rather than take them through the mansion, Roger had followed Sam's strict instruction to bring the girls around to the rear and then up the stone staircase to the second-floor bar, with its ultramodern steel furnishings by O'Malley and Clarkson and primo sound system. The bar was attached to the indoor pool house, which housed both a pool and an indoor waterfall; any stray whiffs of chlorine that might penetrate to the bar were eliminated by an ionic air purifier system recessed in the ceiling. The picture windows looked south over Beverly Hills.

“Hi,” Sam called to the girls from the white Pampas sofa, as Roger ushered them inside. Parker, who sat next to her with his feet up on the Louis XVI antique coffee table, raised a drink in greeting. The video equipment was ready, prepointed at a pair of 1950s-era barstools about five feet away.

“Hi,” Fee responded, looking extremely nervous. “Oh wow, hi, Parker, we didn't know you'd be here.”

“This place is awesome,” Jazz added, fidgeting nervously with the rings on her left hand.

Sam offered a cool look in response, knowing she'd succeeded in making them feel the three
I
's: impressed, intimidated, and insecure.

“You girls look amazing,” Parker told them as he idly swirled the ice cubes around in his drink. It was the perfect thing to say. Both girls preened. In actuality, Sam could see that both had tried way too hard without any real clue as to what actually looked good on them. This was a fashion failure that Sam knew well—it was an easy pit to tumble into. Jazz wore supertight, white Earl jeans and a Chloé cotton peasant shirt that exposed an obviously faux tanned stomach the color of rust. Plus she'd doubled her usual too-much-makeup; you could have ice skated on the layers of LipFusion lip gloss she'd slathered on. Meanwhile, Fee sported an APC aqua Indian-style minishift adorned with beads and tiny mirrors that hung shapelessly on her straight-up-and-down figure and was so short that Sam desperately hoped she hadn't forgotten her sporting underwear. She'd piled on a dozen necklaces, far too much for the dress to handle.

“What can I have Roger get you to drink?” Sam asked, motioning the girls to the two bar stools. “Manhattans? Cuban rum and Coke? Or maybe a Chassagne-Montrachet '82? It's chilled to thirty-eight degrees, which should be perfect.”

“Uh, champagne, I guess,” Jazz chirped. “This is just
amazing
.”

“Roger, two mimosas,” Sam ordered, then smiled at the girls. “And a Diet Coke for me. I'm working, after all.”

“Very good, Miss Sharpe,” the butler intoned, and moved off to fix the drinks.

“Wow, Jazz, Check out the view.” Fee pointed at the vista of Los Angeles.

“You should see it at night,” Sam commented. “Mind if I start the cameras?”

“No, it's fine. Right, Jazz?”

“Right!”

“Great.” Sam didn't have to budge an inch. As Roger brought the girls their drinks and placed them on coasters on the table, Sam took the remote control from the same table and aimed it at the cameras. They started automatically.

“That's really cool,” Jazz said, then took a sip of her drink. “This rocks.”

Sam shrugged. “So, you're up to speed on our change of venue?”

Fee's eyes shone. “I was so bummed out when I read that the Bel Air Grand burned down. I started crying at the breakfast table.”

“Me too,” Jazz chimed in. “She called me right away. We thought we were ruined!”

“I still can't believe you got the Colosseum set from
Ben-Hur
.” Fee shook her head in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Sam said modestly, “but it adds a whole level of complication. Have you talked to the caterer? They're going to have to bring in their own kitchen. Bus companies? There are going to be kids who'll want to head over there in a charter. You'll want to do an after party someplace else, too. Chateau Marmont, Breakers on the Beach would be good.
Not
the Century Plaza. Drop my name, it'll help. So?”

For the next ten minutes, Fee and Jazz—they were almost like one person, the way they finished each other's sentences—gave Sam the rundown on the adjustments they'd already made due to the new location of prom. Though Sam didn't let on, she was impressed with the girls' efficiency. What she didn't understand as well was who these two girls really were. She knew her film would suck hard unless she got inside their heads.

“So, Jazz, Fee,” Sam began, looking to refocus their discussion. “All of that is great. Have you been looking forward to prom, like, forever?”

“For sure,” Jazz said. “I started cutting out photos of prom dresses when I was in middle school, to tell you the truth. I keep them in a little folder.”

“She cuts out wedding gowns she likes, too,” Fee added helpfully.

Jazz twirled a lock of hair nervously around one finger. “I just like to be prepared for things, you know? My mom grew up on a commune. She never went to prom, and she eloped with my dad wearing torn jeans. I want something different.”