The A-List (11 page)
“Actually, I’d like to come. I’m always looking for a reason to feel better about myself,” Anna interrupted. Her brows knit together. “You do this every New Year’s Day, you said?”
Sam nodded. “Why?”
“It’s just … I misjudged you, that’s all,” Anna said quietly.
“Yeah, whatever. It happens.” Sam jumped up from the vanity. “You know what I’d really like to do?”
“What?”
“Blow off this wedding. There’s this insane New Year’s Eve bash on the Warner Brothers lot tonight. We oughta go.”
“ ‘We’?”
“The people at your table. My friends.” Sam pulled out her cell. “I’ll call and put us all on the list. It’ll be fun.”
“Sam, I hesitate to point this out, but you’d be walking out on your own father’s wedding.”
“Like I said, he won’t notice. Besides, Poppy is going to sing a medley of Broadway hits. It won’t be pretty.”
Anna hesitated. “Well …”
“Please-please-please-please-please?” Sam wheedled. “We can get wasted and watch the sun rise from the top of the WB water tower. It’ll be fun.”
Anna still didn’t answer. For a nanosecond Sam watched herself from the outside—a pathetic girl desperate for Anna to come partying with her. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Sam thought. She is not your friend. She is your enemy. She stands between you and Ben. You hate her guts. But you still need her to like you.
“I really wasn’t planning to stay out all that late tonight—” Anna began.
Sam snorted dismissively. “What are you, thirty?”
She punched a number into her cell phone. Out in the tent, at table forty-two, a cell phone rang. It belonged to wedding guest Kiki Coors, Jackson Sharpe’s personal assistant. She answered it. It was Sam, wanting a phone number. Kiki looked it up on her PalmPilot and gave it to her boss’s daughter.
“Where are you calling from, Sam?” Kiki asked when she noticed Sam’s empty seat at the head table. But Sam had already hung up.
“Got it,” Sam told Anna, punching another number into her phone. “So you’ll come with me, won’t you?”
“I just really can’t speak for Ben—”
“Look, I know you and I got off on the wrong foot,” Sam interrupted. “I was all freaked about the wedding, and I wasn’t very nice to you. Please come to this party with me so that I can make it up to you. I know Ben will want to.”
Anna said yes. Sam wasn’t surprised, figuring that a girl like Anna was far too kind to decline an invite once she turned on the pathos.
At the party she’d figure out some way to get Ben away from her. Anna might be really nice and all that, but all was fair in love and war. Sam figured this was both.
8:33
P.M
., PST
A
s Anna walked back to the reception, she thought about Sam and was perplexed. Just when she’d been certain that Sam and company had been cast from the same mold as the three witches from
Macbeth,
Jackson Sharpe’s daughter had shown her more-than-human side. Anna almost kind of sort of liked her. And she felt as if Sam almost kind of sort of liked her, too.
Los Angeles was just so bizarre.
Like the Shakespearean crones, Sam proved to be a prescient soothsayer. As predicted, a couple dozen kids were happy to ditch the wedding reception. Also as predicted, Ben was among them, though he expressed a certain disbelief that Anna would voluntarily go someplace in a group that included Cammie Sheppard. But Anna had dealt with bitches before; her private school was full of them. Same shit, different coast, she figured.
There was, however, the issue of couture. The plan was that Ben and Anna would stop at Anna’s father’s house so she could change clothes. But as they drove away from the party, it occurred to Anna that she really didn’t want to stop at her father’s house. He might actually be there, in who knew what kind of state. And Anna didn’t want Ben to see him like that. There was no need for Ben to see all of Anna’s warts in one night.
On the other hand, she was wearing nothing but a skimpy lace chemise and Ben’s jacket, and it wasn’t as if there were a boutique open just for New Year’s Eve shoppers, though she kept her eyes open, anyway, as Ben steered west on Sunset Boulevard.
He rounded a bend and stopped at a red light. That was when Anna realized she’d been wrong. There actually
was
one store open—a large glass-fronted place on their left. The question was, did she have the nerve?
“Pull in there,” Anna said, before the saner portion of her brain could stop her. She nudged her chin in the direction of the store.
Ben’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “There? Are you sure?”
God, no. “Absolutely.”
“But … that’s a sex store,” Ben explained.
“I can see that,” Anna agreed. “The bondage mannequins in the window are a dead giveaway.” She gave him her brightest smile. “Let’s go.”
I am walking into Larry Flynt’s world-famous
Hustler
sex emporium hand in hand with Ben Birnbaum, Anna thought. I am not self-conscious. I am fine.
Anna hoped that if she kept that litany playing in her mind, she could prevent herself from melting into a puddle of embarrassment.
“That sign says this is the largest store of its kind in America,” Anna pointed out as they entered.
“You’ve never been to anyplace remotely like this before, have you?” Ben guessed.
“Not even close,” she confessed, relieved not to pretend that she was taking all this in stride.
The
Hustler
store sold everything from anatomically correct blow-up dolls to edible massage lotions to leather dominatrix outfits. It was jammed with customers planning to usher in the New Year, each in their own special way.
Anna and Ben dodged around a couple in matching chaps looking through the porn DVDs. Anna tried not to stare as across the aisle, a woman who’d obviously had more plastic surgery than Joan Rivers was heaping rubber goods into the arms of a studly man young enough to be her grandson.
Finally they found the clothing area, such as it was. Mostly see-through nighties with matching crotchless thongs, leather bras with the centers cut out, and a large selection of dominatrix boots.
“Not exactly Bloomingdale’s,” Ben opined. “Not that I’d mind seeing you in any of this stuff, you understand.”
“Hel-lo, I’m Carmen,” said a bass-voiced black clerk as he sauntered over. Carmen’s thigh-high, stiletto-heeled boots below red hot pants made him tower over both of them. He gave Ben a quick once-over. “And you, I’d
love
to help personally.”
“We’re fine,” Anna demurred. After the he-geishas, Anna was starting to feel as if cross-dressing was some kind of Los Angeles motif.
“I can see
that
,” Carmen agreed, his eyes locked on Ben.
Ben scratched his chin. “Okay. Nothing personal, but go away.”
“Well, just scream if you want me, Love Muppet. Kiss-kiss.” He added a wink for Ben’s benefit and sashayed off to assist other customers.
“It must be hard to get help on New Year’s Eve,” Anna said, trying to keep a straight face.
“No shit.”
Ben looked embarrassed, which was so cute that Anna felt emboldened. “I’ll make you a deal: I’ll pick one thing to try if you will, too.”
“I don’t know …”
“Oh, come on,” Anna coaxed, hardly believing her own audacity. She kissed him softly. “It’ll be fun.” She kissed him again, harder this time. One part of her was saying, “What the hell are you doing?” and another part of her was telling the first part to shut up. She felt like a snake, shedding one skin for another.
“How can I possibly say no to that?” Ben asked. “But I draw the line at wearing any of this shit out of the store.”
They shook on it. After much deliberation Anna chose some low-slung, leopard-print vinyl pants that zipped all the way around from the back to the front. She slipped into a dressing room and determined through experience that actually putting them on could be hazardous to a girl’s anatomy. They were very, very tight. On a whim, she rolled up the bottom of her chemise and knotted the material under her bust. Between the bottom of the chemise and the top of the pants, she was exposing more skin than she was covering. But she had to admit: she looked kind of sexy … in an incredibly lowbrow, sleazy sort of way. She could almost hear Cyn’s applause from the other side of America.
All righty, then.
She pulled open the curtain to the dressing room and stepped onto the sales floor. What she saw made her crack up. Ben had traded his tuxedo trousers for black leather chaps. “Where’s a photographer from the Princeton University newspaper when you need one?” Anna said, still laughing.
“Ha ha. I’m changing before Carmen decides to drag me home and make me his love slave. You, by the way, look fantastic.”
Anna looked down at the tacky pants. “This is so not me.”
“That’s what makes it so hot.” He kissed her lightly and returned to the dressing room. When he came out, they found Carmen. Ben paid him for Anna’s pants, then Anna slipped Ben’s tux jacket back over her new “outfit.”
“Buh-bye,” Carmen called as Ben and Anna pushed out of the store. “Hey, girlfriend? At the stroke of midnight, you ring that boy’s chimes for me.”
They stepped out into the brisk night. Anna had never felt so alive, so on the edge of possibility before, in her entire life.
Ring Ben’s chimes, huh? Anna thought. Carmen, I might just do that.
9:47
P.M
., PST
C
ammie was so not impressed.
The party at Warner Brothers was a fund-raiser for Artists for Peace. Celebs loved to join because it made them seem political, which made them seem smart. It was good for the image and allayed the guilt they felt over earning obscene amounts of money. Scanning the crowd, Cammie determined that this bash had turned into an event for the Hollywood A-listers (and wannabe A-listers) who, for one reason or another, hadn’t been invited to Jackson Sharpe’s wedding. The party had a circus theme to represent hope, and the event planners had pulled out all the stops. There were clowns, animal handlers, mimes, and even death-defying trapeze artists. In fact, intrepid guests could be harnessed up (to prevent them from falling drunkenly onto other revelers and perhaps taking out someone who might help their career) and join in the aerial act. There was even a functioning fun house.
In the center ring The Giraffes’ lead singer launched the band into what sounded to Cammie like been-there-done-that retro-grunge rock ‘n’ roll. (“Our first single is at number five with a bullet on the R&R college radio charts. Thank you, Los Angeles!”) Couldn’t anyone ever have an original idea?
Lots of people evidently hadn’t merited an invite to the Sharpe-Sinclair nuptials, because the ring was filled with people dancing the night away. Cammie couldn’t have cared less. All she cared about was how she was going to handle things when Ben finally made his entrance with Her. Not that she’d let that show. In fact, she leaned against a tent pole, the picture of femme ennui. Nearby, Sam was staring at the entranceway, biting at a cuticle. Dee was rocking out to the music.
Parker came over to Dee. “Dance, Dee?”
“Say no, Dee,” Cammie counseled.
“Why?”
“Never dance with a boy better looking than you are.”
Dee reddened. “That was a mean thing to say.”
“Don’t pay attention to her, Dee. You’re gorgeous,” Parker assured her over his shoulder as he tugged Skye to the dance floor.
“Sometimes I wonder why I’m even friends with you, Cammie,” Dee complained.
“You’re a masochist?”
“Ha.” Dee listened to the band for a while, checking out the crowd. “Do you think that guy is gay?”
“Parker? He’d do Oliver Stone on President Kennedy’s eternal flame and scream, ‘Conspiracy, conspiracy!’ if he thought it would help his career,” Cammie replied. “I don’t mean Parker.” Dee edged closer. “I mean that guy
behind
you.”
“Is he checking you out?”
“I think so.”
“Is he well dressed?” Cammie asked, still not turning.
“Very.”
“Great hair, great skin?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Gay.” Cammie plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.
“You didn’t even look!” Dee protested.
“I don’t have to. One: Jackson Sharpe is a closet homophobe, so a lot of the Hollywood gay mafia didn’t get invited to his wedding. Two: Gay guys like studio parties—one of their few lapses in good taste. Three: Gay guys know how to dress. Four: Gay guys care about their hair and skin even more than we do. Five, six, seven, and eight: Gay guys love you, even if they haven’t figured out they’re gay yet. Do the math.”
Dee sighed. Obviously Cammie was still irritated that the girl with Ben had pulled off the ripped-dress thing with such aplomb.
“Dance, Sam?” Adam appeared suddenly behind the trio.
“Uh … maybe later.”
Adam headed off with someone else. Cammie eyed her friend. “He likes you, you know. Why didn’t you dance with him?”
Sam shrugged.
“Hey, how come you don’t tell
her
not to dance with a guy who’s better looking than she is?” Dee complained.
“Well, first of all, I was only kidding, and second of all, because you know you’re cute. Sam doesn’t. Why do you keep staring at the door, Sam?”
“I just want to make sure Ben and Anna are on the bouncer’s list. You know how guest lists can get screwed up.”
“Have you noticed how much Anna looks like that nympho in
Sorority Sisters?”
Cammie asked.
Sorority Sisters
was a B movie that Cammie had rented for a sleepover one night. “Maybe it
was
her.”
“It wasn’t,” Sam said bluntly.
Cammie raised her eyebrows. “Are you defending her?”
“Ripping her dress off really sucked, Cammie.”
Dee overheard. “It was an accident!” she insisted. “Cammie didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Right,” Sam muttered, and bit at another cuticle. This whole situation was just nuts. Cammie was her friend, not Anna.
Suddenly Sam saw them at the door with the bouncer, who was scanning the guest list for their names. She took the moment to prepare for battle, sucking in her stomach and tousling (artfully, she hoped) her hair.
