Star Power (15 page)

They'd bought all of Erin's must-haves: mineral-based lipstick, plum-colored eyeliner, and purple eye shadow, all of which Erin had expertly applied. Then Mac forced Coco to put the clothes on in the bathroom—with the lights off.

“Say hello to the artist formerly known as Coco Kingsley,” Mac joked, turning Coco toward the mirror.

Coco's jaw dropped as she saw her reflection. She barely recognized herself. She wore a royal blue halter dress that tied around her neck and went all the way down to her cowboy boots. Erin's peacock feather earrings tickled her cheeks and her tastefully subtle highlights were now tinted pink thanks to a heavy dose of Crystal Light.

Erin beamed approvingly at Coco's new look. “You look mad cool. Capital
M
, capital
A
, capital
D
.” Normally an outfit compliment from Erin would have made Coco want to change
immédiatement
, but she reminded herself that today this was a
good
thing.

“Just in case you forgot how to spell
mad
,” Mac teased. She turned to Coco. “Isn't it nice to know that you can rock both Versace and vintage?”

“No offense, but this is
not
vintage,” Coco insisted, touching the polyester. The dress smelled like car garage. “This is OPG.” Coco cringed. “Other People's Germs.”

“It's more like Other People's
Gems
,” Erin insisted.

Coco pivoted her body to examine herself in the mirror. Then she smiled:
Mission accomplished
. But there was one other thing. . . .

“From now on”—Coco paused for dramatic effect—“I'm
Cordelia Rose
.”

She'd come up with the idea this afternoon, in the middle of writing her new song
A Name Ain't Nothing but Letters
. Suddenly it hit her: The only thing better than not
looking
like Cardammon's daughter was not
being
Cardammon's daughter.
No name, no shame.
Besides, she'd told her mom she was done with singing, and now it was true: Coco Kingsley was done with singing. Cordelia Rose was just getting started. And Cardammon didn't need to know a thing about it.

“Cordelia
what
?” Mac made a face like she'd been force-fed supermarket sushi. “You don't need a new name. You have a great name. A famous name. You do want to be famous, don't you?” Mac asked her, although it was more of a statement than a question.

Erin looked back and forth between Coco and Mac like she was watching Wimbledon. She cleared her throat and cleaned her glasses on her Irish wool sweater. “Yeah, I have to go with Mac on this one. What's cuter than Coco K.? Nothing.”

Coco tapped her cowboy boot impatiently. “Don't you get it? No name, no shame?”

“Babe, no.” Mac said firmly. “
No name, no fame
is more like it. Ashlee Simpson didn't go around calling herself Ashlee Daisy.” Mac twirled her wooden Mintee bracelet. “She wanted to
differentiate
herself from Jess, not disown her.”

“And the Jonas Brothers all have the same last name,” Erin added emphatically. “
Jonas
.”

Mac looked at Coco seriously. “You already have fame, and fame is like currency. You gotta be smart about how you spend it. You don't just chuck it like that!” She snapped her fingers.

Coco closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She wondered if she and Mac were just naturally too far apart on this one. Sure, Mac's mother was known in Hollywood circles, but Coco's mother was famous
around the world
. Mac did not know what it was like to show up for Halloween every year and see half the girls in your class dressed as your mother. Mac never had to hold a book at a forty-five-degree angle to hide from paparazzi. Coco shook her head. “I love you, Mac Little-A, but I
have
to do this. I need to know they hate me—or love me—because of who I am, not because of who my mother is.”

Coco—make that Cordelia Rose—stared at herself in the mirror. She was ready to find out if she had talent, once and for all.

mac

M
ac sat at a sleek table at The Hump restaurant in Santa Monica, across from her mother. Located atop the tarmac of the Santa Monica airport, overlooking the private jets and the Pacific Ocean, it was the best view in all of Los Angeles County. Adrienne liked to take Mac there, because she thought watching the planes take off was a reminder of endless possibility. Plus she loved their hamachi. Normally Mac was inspired by the view, but that day she felt confused and drained as she took a bite of her edamame.

She waited for her mother's head to pop up from her BlackBerry. It was Mac's first full week of being an agent, and she had more questions than a newbie watching
Lost
.

“Ciao for now darling,” Adrienne said into her phone. Then she hit a button and tossed her BlackBerry into her Birkin bag like it was a cheap toy. It was a signal that, at least, for now, Mac had her mother's full attention. Adrienne tweaked her rectangular Armani glasses straight across her nose and swooshed her reddish-brown bob to face Mac. She was ready.

“So give me an update. How are things?” Adrienne asked. She turned her call sheet over so she would be less tempted to look at the long list of people whose phone calls she had to return.

“Everything seems to be going well,” Mac said carefully. She didn't want to tell her mom about the tension with Emily, the fact that Becks was needier than a newborn bird, or that Coco seemed to be in the middle of a full-on identity crisis. And she especially didn't want to get into her Daveydrama. Because, Mac told herself, there
was
no drama. It was over. Fini. She'd taken care of it. Though as Mac stared out at the endless blue of the Pacific Ocean, she just felt . . . sad. “But I have my doubts,” she added as she took a sip of her miso soup.

Adrienne sighed. “Of course you do. You're a woman. We're always doubting ourselves. Terrible habit.”

“It's not just that,” Mac said quickly. She knew her mother's
women doubt themselves too much
speech by heart.

Mac looked down at the last remains of her nails, which were chewed down to the cuticles. Between being a life coach, career advisor, stylist, and shrink to her friends, she hadn't had time for a manicure. Mac knew she couldn't keep living like this. It was barbaric. “How do I know if I'm really cut out to be an agent?”

“What do you mean,
how
?” Adrienne looked at Mac impatiently. Adrienne firmly believed that there
were
stupid questions. “Either you get great joy from seeing them succeed—and you treat their success as your own—or you find something else to do.” Adrienne took a bite of her yellowtail hamachi. She closed her eyes blissfully.

“Most of what we do is cheerleading,” Adrienne added. “You have to love cheering your clients on, making their dreams come true. There is no greater reward than that in this business.”

Mac thought of Emily, and how all she really wanted was Davey. Sure, she wanted to be an actress too, but Davey was her real dream. And Emily was Mac's client. So technically, Mac was supposed to want Emily to end up with Davey . . . except that she
didn't
. It was hard enough to see them act together on a movie set, but to imagine them together in real life? No way. But maybe, Mac thought, she would in time?

“Are you making your clients happy, kitten?” Adrienne asked.

Mac thought of Becks being flustered by a little thing like beach accessories, Coco changing her name, Emily spewing mints on Davey. “I'm not so sure I am,” she admitted.

Adrienne tilted her head to the side, thinking. “If your friends are feeling down, give them something to feel good about.” She straightened her glasses and stared at Mac. “Moping like this isn't going to help anyone.”

Mac tapped her ragged fingers on the table as she tried to think of what would make them happy. These days, she had no time for shopping or slumber parties or advance movie screenings or brunch at La Conversation or any of the Inner Circle's usual standbys. The only block of free time she had was Saturday night—which gave her an idea.

“Hey Mom,” Mac said, sweetly. “Could I have a party at our house? On Saturday? To celebrate how everyone is doing?”

Adrienne paused to consider the idea. Adrienne never said anything unless she meant it; it was a good sign that she hadn't yet said
no
. But she hadn't said yes yet, either. Mac tried not to cringe, waiting for the answer.

She pointed her chopstick at Mac. “Okay, but one caveat: Don't spread yourself too thin, Mackenzie. Remember our deal. Your word is—”

“—your honor,” Mac finished obediently.

“And you have given me your word that you will get good grades, keep up your family obligations, and generally not become as crazy as everyone else in this business,” Adrienne reminded her.

Mac smiled—that was simple. Hollywood was so bananas, it was easy to look sane. She took a last slurp of her miso soup and noticed that it tasted good again.

becks