Some Like It Hot (3 page)

The East Coast version of the A-list was demarcated differently, along the lines of old money, relationship to royalty, and/or the arts. You could be A-list if you could trace your lineage back to Peter Stuyvesant; you could be A-list if you were the kid of the first-name partner at a Wall Street law firm; you could be A-list if you were well-reviewed in the
New York Review of Books.

There was one other big difference, now that Anna thought about it. Looks were far less important in New York. You could be ugly as a horned toad in New York and still be on the A-list, if there were other qualifications in your favor. Here in La-La Land, there was a minimum standard of attractiveness.

The whole thing struck her as bordering on the insane. Eduardo had fallen for Sam without caring what list she was on.

Anna sighed. “I was actually thinking that Eduardo and Ben would get along great.”

Sam leaned back in her chair. “You don't
really
think Ben wants to go to prom?”

Excellent question. Would her boyfriend, who had just finished his freshman year at Princeton, find the high school prom unbearable?

“Maybe he would,” Anna ventured.

“And maybe he wouldn't,” Sam insisted. She craned around, looking for the waitress. “Where is she? Probably in the break room reading
Variety.”

“Come on, Sam,” Anna coaxed. “I think you should reconsider. I bet you could get Eduardo to fly in, and the four of us could go together.”

Anna couldn't gauge Sam's reaction because Sam had turned completely around. There was a small bulletin board on the wall directly behind them, one of the informal ones that you found in coffeehouses all over Los Angeles for people who were not ready to turn their self-marketing efforts over to Craigslist. This one was run-of-the-mill, overflowing with hand-scrawled file cards advertising for roommates, cleaning services, and cars for sale.

“I mean it. Ben and Eduardo would really like each other,” Anna prompted, trying to get her friend's attention.

Suddenly, Sam's right arm shot out and ripped a notice off the board. “This is perfect. I can do this!”

“Prom?”

“No,
this.”
She thrust the yellow flyer at Anna.

INTERNATIONAL COMPETITION DOCUMENTARY FILMS BY YOUNG FILMMAKERS

Middle-grade and High school divisions Winning documentaries of no more than twenty minutes will be screened at a variety of festivals. including the Greater Atlanta Film Festival, the Tennessee Film Festival, the Brussels Fete du Cinéma, and the Los Angeles Independent Festival of Moving Picture Arts Submission deadline: June 30, 2006 Sponsored by Cahiers du Cinéma, the National Institute of Film (Canada), the National Institute of Film (USA), and the British Documentarians Association.

There was a ton of fine print at the bottom, specifying length, format, how to enter, and a host of other rules. The most interesting rule that Anna saw was that the judging would be blind. That is, filmmakers would be assigned a number, and only their number could go in the credits.

Anna looked up at Sam, perplexed. “You don't do documentaries.”

“So? I could learn. Look, this is great. It's international. And it's totally fair. No one would know that I'm my father's daughter. I'll be judged on my talent alone. How not Beverly Hills is
that?”

The skinny waitress finally bought them their croissants and espressos; Sam sipped hers thoughtfully as she perused the flyer again.

“Well, what would you make a film about?” Anna asked. She stirred a lump of real sugar into her espresso.

“The muse hasn't hit yet.” Sam bit into her croissant. “Oh my God, is this good. You've got to taste yours.”

Anna took a bite; it was heavenly. “So, what do you think? You, me, Eduardo, Ben?”

“I am
not
asking Eduardo to my high-school prom.”

“Why not?”

Sam wiped crumbs from her lips with her black INSOMNIA napkin. “Fine, you wanna know? Because a film about the
amours
of Eduardo would be longer than all three
Godfather
films put together.”

Bingo.

Finally, it all made sense, which made Anna feel terrible. “Eduardo is seeing other girls?”

Sam shrugged and stared into her dark espresso. “Other girls are definitely seeing him, that's for sure.”

Anna was confused. “Wait, is he or isn't he?”

“Allegedly he isn't. But he showed me around the Latin Quarter last Saturday. It was a freaking parade of gorgeous, skinny girls.
‘Bonjour, Eduardo. Salut, Eduardo, Comment vas-tu mon chebran, Eduardo?’”

“That's
your evidence that he's cheating on you? “That girls were saying
hello
to him?”

“French
girls, Anna. Gorgeous, skinny,
French
girls. French girls who aren't afraid to get naked in his presence.”

“You're obsessing over imagined negatives that don't exist.”

Sam shook her head and giggled. “Every once in a while, you remind me why I like you so much. No one actually says, ‘You are obsessing over imagined negatives that don't exist.’”

“I do, and don't change the subject.” Anna wagged a finger at Sam. “This isn't really about how much you hate prom. It's about Eduardo.”

“Of course it's about Eduardo. He has a fabulous pied-a-terre in the sixth arrondissement, for God's sake. Have you ever
seen
the girls in the sixth arrondissement who go to the Sorbonne?”

Anna, who had been to Europe many times, nodded. “Of course I have, but—”

“Then you know what I'm talking about. And not just French girls, Anna. Polish girls. Czech girls! Do you have any idea how beautiful Czech girls are? A coke 'ho could cut lines with their cheekbones. Eduardo's there. With them. And I'm here. With you. Eating eight thousand calories of chocolate croissant.”

“But he wants
you,”
Anna reminded her.

“When he's with me. How do I know that there isn't a United Nations of girls swinging through his bedroom when I'm not around?”

Anna frowned. “What did he tell you?”

Sam waved a dismissive hand. “He only wants me, blah, blah, blah. Who would buy that crock of shit?”

Whoa. Paranoia. Then Anna had a sudden thought, one that she tried to banish without success.

How do I know that Ben didn't have a different girl every night while he was at Princeton?

No. That was ridiculous. Ben called her often and e-mailed her more than that. The only reason that thought had popped into her mind was because of Sam's rant. Evidently, boyfriend doubts could be contagious.

“You're feeling insecure,” Anna translated, doing her best to erase the notion of Ben with someone else from her mind.

Sam pointed at her. “You'll go far with that astute brain of yours, Anna.”

Anna took a bite of her croissant. Sam's sarcasm didn't bother her. She knew Sam well. When Sam got insecure, her wit got acidic. Even acidic, Sam was the funniest person Anna knew.

“Like I'd ever invite Eduardo to prom,” Sam muttered, savagely stirring the contents of another Equal into her espresso. “Then he could, like,
weigh
offers. Let's see, mack in the Tuileries with sex kitten Ekaterina from Latvia who wears a size nothing and has breasts the size of Estonia, or go to American prom with Sam and her thunder thighs?”

Anna tried to reassure her. “If Eduardo wanted to be with one of those other girls, he would be. He'd be honest about it, too.”

Sam put her head in her hands. “It makes me nuts, okay? I mean, the whole long-distance thing sucked to begin with, and that was
before
I saw the babe parade in Paris. You never felt insecure about Ben while he was at Princeton?”

Anna gulped. How about thirty seconds ago?

“Yeah,” she admitted softly. “But he's coming home this afternoon.” She checked her new Locman Nuovo watch, which featured pave diamonds set in brushed aluminum. Undoubtedly overly expensive, it had been a recent present from her father after he'd closed a deal on the hotel property in Mexico. It made him happy when she wore it, which was pretty much the only reason that she did. She was making an effort to get along with him these days.

“In fact,” Anna continued, “I'm meeting him in an hour at his place. We'll … talk.”

There was certainly plenty to talk about. When they'd gotten back together in Las Vegas, in their new spirit of honesty, Ben had told her about a girl named Blythe he'd been seeing at school. Allegedly, it wasn't serious. Anna recalled that the information hadn't fazed her—the rest of their time together for those few days in Las Vegas had been wonderful. They'd made love until dawn in Ben's room at the Palms, taken a tour out to Lake Powell, and even rented a boat for an afternoon on the lake. It had been open, romantic, and unforgettable.

After Ben returned to Princeton, she'd talked with him by phone every few days—the usual about school and family, since Anna was never one for intimate long-distance conversations—it was strange enough to muster an “I love you” before she said good-bye. Neither of them had ever mentioned Blythe. So how could she be totally sure that he'd dropped her? What if Blythe was the anti-Anna—someone earthy, uninhibited, a party girl with lush curves?

“Hel-lew?” Sam teased, nudging Anna in the ribs. “Are we mentally doing our significant other, or are we sharing like sisters?”

“I was thinking about the girl Ben had been seeing at Princeton,” Anna admitted.

“Aha! If Anna Percy, a girl so regal she apparently has no bodily functions, feels insecure in a long-distance relationship, how do you think
I
feel?”

“It's hard sometimes,” Anna acknowledge, shifting in her seat.

Sam polished off the rest of her croissant. “It's this town. This town is insane. It's like you're never good enough, gorgeous enough …
enough
enough. There's always some other bitch who has it going on more than you do.” Sam crumpled up her napkin and threw it on the table. “Paris was that, squared.”

Anna thought for a moment, running a slender ballet-pink-polished fingernail over the rim of her espresso cup. “It has to be about your relationship, Sam. It can't be about a certain town or … or comparing yourself to other girls.”

“You are so full of it,” Sam insisted smugly. “Cammie gets to you. When you think about her with Ben, it makes you insane. Admit it.”

Anna flushed. “I just tell myself that was before I knew him.”

The knowing look on Sam's face didn't change.

“Besides, I'm going to do everything right with Ben this summer,” Anna continued. “We're both going to be completely honest—that's what we agreed on. In the past, it's been dishonesty that always messed us up.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, Ben wasn't honest with me about what happened on the boat, and that hurt us. And then I wasn't honest with him about some of the other guys I was seeing after he went back to Princeton, and that hurt us, too. And then he wasn't honest with me about his feelings for me, and … well, you know. So that's why you need to be honest with Eduardo.”

“That may be the least articulate thing you've ever said.” Sam stood. “I'll be back in a sec. Excuse me.”

As Sam headed for the ladies' room, Anna drained the last of her espresso. Sam was right; she was in no position to lecture anyone about relationships. The truth was, she was woefully inexperienced. Love was something she knew so little about. Her feelings for Ben felt … overwhelming sometimes.

She sat alone for several moments, watching the scene in Insomnia. Most of the writers were either reading newspapers, chatting with friends or on their cell phones, or checking their e-mail via Wi-Fi. There was little actual writing getting done. It made Anna remember something that her seventh-grade teacher at Trinity used to say: Luck is the residue of determination. If only—

“Omigod, I'm so brilliant.” Sam slid back into her seat, brown eyes shining. “I've got it.
The B-List.”

“Sorry?”

“Keep up with me here, Anna. The documentary. The Beverly Hills High School B-list. The pathetic B-list, for whom prom is the defining moment of their lives. I'll do my documentary about that. It's perfect. A documentarian has to know her subject matter. What do I know better than the Hollywood social structure?”

Anna shook her head. “Think about it, Sam. Jazz and Fee are not about to agree to you filming them as ‘the pathetic B-List.’”

“That won't be the title. I'll think of something else.
It Happened One Night.
Naw. Already taken … I just have to figure out a way. …” Sam snapped her fingers. “I've got it! I tell the prom weenies that I'm making a documentary called
Beverly Hills Prom.”
She used her hand to mime a marquee. “They'll be the stars. We'll all go to prom. I'll even invite Eduardo, because I'll have an excuse—my movie. It's brilliant!”

“Why do you think you need an excuse to—?”

Sam raised a hand to silence Anna. “Please, I'm on a roll. I can see it now. I'll take the audience step by step through prom. The shopping, the makeovers, the food, the prep, the makeup. Maybe I'll even contrast it with some proms in the valley, so the audience can see how the other half lives. What if I focus on a girl at a prom in Sylmar who has to buy her dress secondhand, and on the weenies who have an unlimited budget? The weenies will
weep
with gratitude at their good fortune. I'll win the contest; they'll show my movie at all these festivals; no one will know it's me until after I win—maybe I'll even make it under a pseudonym!—and everyone can take their assumptions about Jackson Sharpe's daughter and shove them you-know-where. And then my brilliant career begins. I've got only one question.”

“What's that?” Anna asked warily. She wasn't thrilled with this notion of Sam's documentary. Some of it sounded good, but some of it sounded … mean.

“What time is it in Paris? I've got to call Eduardo.”

An hour later, Anna pulled her silver Lexus into the circular driveway of Ben's family home—a mansion, really—on Foothill Drive in Beverly Hills, five blocks from her father's estate. It was a huge and imposing two-story structure, painted brown and white, intelligently made out of a wooden frame so it would bend and not break when the Big One struck the San Andreas fault line. The front of the house featured picture windows that covered both floors. Ben's parents had recently had it repainted and reroofed—the roof was now covered in terra-cotta shingles that gleamed in the afternoon sun. The grounds had been redone, too, with the lush grass replaced by rock gardens and cacti, and a sandstone walkway replacing the old gravel one from the driveway to the imposing redwood front door.