A-List #8, The: Heart of Glass: An A-List Novel (A-List) Page 10

  "What did you do, Dee? Memorize all those motivational posters on the walls at Ojai?" Sam winked at her friend.

  Aaron laughed. "Hey. You can't possibly know how Dee and I feel. You've never been there."

  Marshall ran over to them before Sam could respond. "I'm gonna dance with Sam's friend Skye. But only if this is a trust moment."

  Aaron nodded. "Totally. Dee's on it. Right, Dee?"

  "Right."

  "Sam! Hey!"

  There was someone calling to her--she peered through the torchlit darkness at an approaching toga. "Sam Sharpe?"

  "That's me," she acknowledged. It was a guy in his midtwenties, decent looking enough, with close-cropped brown hair, brown eyes, nice cheekbones, and hornrimmed glasses that didn't exactly go with his toga but worked anyway. He put out his hand for Sam to shake.

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  "I really wanted to meet you. I'm Norman Shnorman."

  Norman Shnorman. Where had she heard that name before.. . ?

  "We've never met," he went on. "But you've read me." Norman smiled winningly.

  "Excuse me?" Sam didn't understand.

  "I'm pretty sure you're writing the coverage on my screenplay. Burnt Toast. Norman Shnorman isn't my real name of course. It's Jonah Jacobson."

  Norman Shnor--oh my God. That piece of shit set in Brokehack country about the bikini model and the sheriff's son? This guy wrote that piece of shit? What a talentless loser. They should take away his keyboard for life.

  But wait. He had the same last name as the third in command at Transnational, Andrea Jacobson, who had funding power on all Transnational pictures. Jackson was in fear of Andrea putting one of her storied size-twelve feet down at any moment.

  "Your mom is Andrea?" Sam asked brightly, just to be sure.

  "Yeah. She encourages me to use my real last name when I'm submitting. But I turned it in as Norman Shnorman. Not that anyone would ever have the name Norman Shnorman. But I hate when people see my real name and then bullshit me because my mom works at Transnational." His eyes bore into Sam's. "So, tell me honestly. What did you think of my screenplay?"

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  Reserved for Bono

  There were times when Jack wished that he had done what his father, a fireman in New Jersey, had wanted him to do: join the Newark Fire Department, become a fireman, maybe work his way up in the department to a stationhouse chief, or maybe even a battalion chief. Then do his twenty years, retire with a nice pension by the time he was forty, and then kick back and enjoy his life.

  Days like the one he'd just had made him wish that he were a firefighter.

  His internship was in the reality television department at Fox. It was a plum gig and there'd been a ton of competition for the position. Little had he known what it would mean in reality to be a Fox intern. Ninety percent of the time, he found himself interviewing contestants for a new reality pilot called Triple Threat, where the idea was to find the most triply-talented person in America. He spent hours watching videos they sent in, or watching them in person during the hours of the Los Angeles auditions. His job, along

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  with six other interns, was to write down the name of anyone who was either in the realm of the possible or so awful as to be amusing.

  Triple Threat made for triple-plus-ungood dreary days. And long ones. He'd left the studio tonight at one in the morning. There'd been no hope of getting to the toga party at Sam Sharpe's house. Though Dee had invited him, the party was to end reasonably early, because the next day was a shooting day on Jackson's movie.

  It wasn't a total disaster. He'd called his friend Ben and suggested a drink. Ben had immediately suggested the Golden Turtle, a former dive bar turned way cool club on West Eighth Street downtown. Would one-thirty be okay? No problem with Ben. He'd be there.

  "What'll you have?" the blond bartender asked. Jack felt lucky to find a bar stool. There were plenty of beautiful people in the darkened interior, which was a maze of semicircular conversation nooks, partially exposed brick walls, and tiger-striped couches.

  "Bourbon. On the rocks." He held up two fingers. "Two of 'em."

  She smiled lazily. Jack thought she was cute, but he wasn't into very short hair or lip piercings, both of which this bartender had in abundance. And besides, he had Dee.

  "Two?" the bartender asked. "One for you and one for--?" She pointed at herself.

  "Meeting a friend," Jack explained.

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  She shrugged. "Maker's Mark'll work?"

  Jack nodded and then felt a hand on his shoulder as the bartender put the two drinks in front of him.

  "Hey, buddy. Feels like old times, drinking with you at one-thirty in the morning."

  "Yeah, yeah. Only diff is, we don't have an eight-thirty hourlong calc exam the next morning," Jack quipped.

  Ben hopped onto a bar stool and motioned to the second bourbon. "For me?" Then they clinked glasses. "Howyouse doin'?"

  Jack laughed. That was such a New Jersey thing to say. It was one of the reasons he could actually stand Ben--he wasn't a pretentious richie asshole. Of course, there was only one legitimate response to "How youse doin'?"

  "How youse doin'?"

  They turned simultaneously. Behind them were a couple of truly beautiful girls. One was very much Jack's type, in the Dee Young mold, albeit with red hair and bigger breasts. She wore a barely there slip dress paired with spike-heel dominatrix-style boots. The other reminded Jack of Anna Percy. She was tall, blond, and lithe, almost regal looking, in a sleeveless black sweater and stovepipe jeans.

  "Drinking alone?" The redhead raised her eyebrows. "That's not good."

  Well, this was par for the course. So often back in New Jersey, he and Ben would pick up girls together. Tonight,

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  it didn't seem like there would need to be a Herculean effort. But what about Dee?

  "You know what?" Ben smiled at the girls. "How about we buy you drinks another time?"

  "How about if we make the 'another time' in ten minutes, at our place?" cooed the Anna type.

  "We're very best friends," added the Dee type. "And we like to do everything together."

  The insinuation was hard to miss.

  "Another time," Ben repeated. "We've got some things to work out."

  "Each other?" the Anna type asked pointedly.

  She was clearly disappointed, and probably not used to being turned down. In fact, this might have been the first time.

  It was the strangest thing. Jack couldn't have cared less when the girls slunk away. When he thought "girl" he thought "Dee." Damn. How had this happened?

  "So you're not interested?" Jack asked Ben as the girls slunk away. He knew he was covering his own anxieties about Dee, but what the hell.

  Ben sipped his bourbon. "Anna."

  "What's up with that?"

  Ben shrugged. "She's seeing another dude. Some guy named Caine. It won't last."

  "You're confident."

  "I don't know, man, I can't explain it. There's just something about Anna. . . . Okay, you never hear me say this shit, and you know it. I feel like .. . she's the one."

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  That's how I feel about Dee.

  "Ben, let me just go on the record and say that you're too damn young for 'the one,'" Jack said, speaking to himself at least as much as he was speaking to Ben.

  "Maybe," Ben mused. "But maybe when the real thing comes along, you're a fool to let it get away." He took another sip of Maker's Mark. "Anyway, this guy Caine. He's a suit with tattoos, doesn't know who the hell he is. I'm not losing her to that poser."

  Jack motioned for the bartender to bring another round. "I kind of have this thing myself. With Dee."

  "What? You fell for the girl?" Ben hooted. "Mr. Two-dates-is-a-relationship-and-three-is-Fm-outta-here?"

  "I did not expect to feel this way." Jack grabbed the fresh drink and took a long swallow. "And I don't know what the hell to do about it. We ran into this guy she knows--he was all about her, I co
uld tell--and I was ready to take the guy's head off."

  "What are you talking about? What guy? I know all about Dee and her guys."

  Jack outlined for Ben what had happened with Dee in the basement corridor at the Staples Center, when she'd run into Aaron Steele.

  "Aww, relax. Maybe it's just a rehab thing," Ben suggested. "Like soldiers who go through a war together or something."

  "It's more," Jack insisted. "He was looking at her like she was a cold drink and he was a hot day."

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  Ben laughed. "Hey, I know that feeling."

  "Me too," Jack agreed. "That's why I don't want him having it about Dee."

  "He touch her?" Ben asked.

  Jack shook his head.

  "She touch him?"

  "Not that I remember."

  "What happened right afterward?" Jack felt Ben's eyes bore in on him.

  "Umm ... we went to U2's dressing room. We drank a couple of cold Guinnesses. Then we spread out a blanket on Bono's couch and did it."

  "It doesn't sound like there's a big problem here," Ben concluded. "And even if there was, there ain't shit you can do about it, my friend."

  Jack felt his fingers tighten around the tumbler of bourbon. The idea of that asshole touching Dee . . . Aw, jeez. He had it bad. Really, really bad.

  Ben drank down the last of his bourbon. "Look, in the end, she either wants you or she doesn't. Same thing with me and Anna."

  "I don't know," Jack mused. "Maybe you need to fight for love. How long you willing to wait?"

  "Five months, three weeks, four days, seven hours, and eleven minutes--don't know." Ben stretched. "But if she is the one, then in the long run, that wait won't mean a damn thing."

  "Gotcha." Well, great if that worked for him. But no

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  way would Jack stand by while some other guy--and certainly not a head case from Ojai--moved in on his woman. Jack had fought for everything good he had in his life. If it came down to it, he would damn sure fight for Dee, too.

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  Wax On, Wax Off

  "Try this on." Cammie offered Champagne a black satin Bebe dress, cut very narrow through the hips, with a neckline that plunged nearly to her navel. "It's you."

  "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Champagne gasped.

  "Then stop gawking and get your ass in the changing room," Cammie ordered. "It doesn't cost anything to try something on."

  Then, on a wooden hook behind her, she spotted a pair of black leather gloves long enough to reach past the elbow and halfway up the bicep. You had to be a certain kind of girl to pull off the dress-gloves combination, but Cammie had a hunch that Champagne was exactly that kind of girl. She tossed Champagne the gloves. "Let's see it with these. Or I'll send Anna after you with an ice princess stick."

  "Go ahead, Champagne," Anna urged. "I want to see you in the dress, too."

  It was late the next afternoon; they were ransacking the Anastasia boutique at the Beverly Center, before

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  heading toward the Bloomingdale's wing. When Anna and Cammie were driving Champagne home to the valley after yet another meeting with Mrs. Vanderleer and Mrs. Chesterfield--this one about selecting the music that would accompany the runway models--Champagne had politely begged for a window-shopping expedition to the Beverly Center. She claimed she'd never been there. Considering what the girl had told them about her background, Cammie believed it.

  "My prediction: She's going to sizzle in that," Cammie told Anna.

  "She's a beautiful girl. And she's smart. We should steer her toward using her brains to get somewhere."

  "Please, Anna, spare me the modeling-is-so-superficial speech."

  Anna shrugged. "Well, it is. Besides, Champagne's been through a lot. Think what a great social worker she'd make."

  "If she isn't a thief," Cammie joked.

  "I don't think she took that dress, Cammie."

  "Of course she didn't. But it's so easy to make assumptions." Cammie tossed the hair off her face. "She was at PacCoast with us. She wants to be a model like that. It's a new dream. Why shouldn't a person go after a dream if that's what she wants to do?"

  "Because a person isn't tall enough," Anna reminded. "Why follow a dream that's impossible for you? Isn't that a huge waste of time? Isn't she setting herself up for a big disappointment?"

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  "Fuck that kind of negative thinking," Cammie decreed. "Following rules is boring. Champagne could be the exception--a successful model who's on the short side."

  Anna smiled as she flipped through a rack of ivory lace shirts. "You know, I actually agree with you. If you can't try to be exceptional when you're sixteen, I don't know when you would."

  "Exactly."

  Huh. Maybe Anna had more sense than she'd figured. Or maybe being away from Ben Birnbaum was actually good for her.

  "Didn't you ever have a crazy dream, Anna?"

  Anna held up an ivory lace shirt. It had lovely eyelets instead of nasty buttons. "Coming out here in the middle of my senior year was pretty crazy."

  "Oh yeah, that's wild. Dream bigger," Cammie ordered. "Life's short."

  Cammie knew how true that really was.

  Life was too damn short sometimes.

  "What do you think?"

  Champagne. She'd poured herself into the Bebe dress and the gloves, and somehow had matched them with a pair of electric blue suede stiletto-heeled open-toe pumps that elevated her from five-foot six to almost five-ten. The dress clung to every curve; no evidence of a panty line spoiled the view.

  "Champagne ..."

  Anna could barely form a sentence, so Cammie did it for her.

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  "What Anna meant to say is, 'Go back in the changing room and put the dress on a hanger. The gloves too. Box up the shoes.' Where did you get them? They don't sell shoes here."

  "The salesgirl saw me in the dressing room and ran across to Ferragamo so I could try them on with the dress. I think she knows the manager."

  "The whole thing looks fantastic on you!" Anna exclaimed.

  "Really?" The girl's voice was small, almost dazed.

  Suddenly, Cammie knew what she wanted to do. She stepped over to Champagne and put her hands on the girl's shoulders, not saying a word until the younger girl looked her in the eye. "Listen to me. I know what you want. And I think I can help you. But you have to do everything I say. Wax on, wax off. Wax on, wax off."

  Champagne grinned. "Like the Karate Kid? I love that old movie. You want me to be like Daniel-san? He lived in the valley, too. But I don't understand."

  "And I'm the teacher, whatever his name was."

  "Mr. Miyagi," Champagne reported. "How are you going to help me?"

  "Here's how you start. Bring that stuff to the counter. Then we're going to pick out some simpler outfits for everyday. If you're going to be seen in public, you need to have something decent. Then we're going to Ferragamo and buying the shoes, too."

  Champagne shook her head. "That's incredibly nice of you, but I can't let you buy me this stuff."

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  "Well, 'buying' might be a bit of an exaggeration," Cammie admitted. "I'm investing. In you. Consider this an advance against your future earnings as a model. And 'no' is not an option."

  Champagne stood there, stunned. "But . . . everyone says I'm too short. How would I ever pay you back?"

  "Champagne?" Cammie asked.

  "Yeah?"

  "Wax on, wax off. Move your ass. Now."

  "Adam! It's me." Cammie laid back on her bed wearing just a satin La Perla thong, her feet arched against the wall behind her headboard, her head propped up on a massive pile of plush rose pillows, and her curls spread out on the luxurious cotton summer bedspread below. Her enormous bedroom was immaculate--not that Cammie ever cleaned it herself--the windows flung open to capture the last rays of sunshine of this gorgeous Los Angeles summer evening.

  "Hey, Cammie. How goes it back there in La La Land?"

&
nbsp; "Well, let's see," Cammie purred. "I'm on my bed. No one else is home. I'm not wearing anything but a thong." She smiled, knowing what that mental image would do to him. "When are you coming back?"

  Silence at the other end of the line.

  "Adam?"

  "Well, I'm not sure, exactly," came his voice.

  "Meaning, I've tempted you to come back early? Great idea. Just steal your parents' canoe, paddle it to

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  the bottom of the lake, hitchhike to Detroit, catch a plane to LAX, and we'll do a rerun of my current state of undress tomorrow," she suggested. "Same time, same place. The front door will be open. Don't knock."

  "Hard to resist," Adam admitted. "But the thing is, I might stay a little longer here in Michigan."

  Longer? What was he talking about?

  "How much longer?"

  "Dunno, exactly. You know, it's just that . . . well, this place is, like, sacred to me. I've come every summer with my parents since I was in grade school. Now that I'm starting college in the fall, everything is gonna change. My parents said maybe they'd try to rent the place on the lake for an extra month, seeing as how it might be our last time."

  It was more of a battle to stay calm this time. "That would mean you wouldn't be in Los Angeles until August?" Fuck. What about how she was supposed to be so irresistible? "That's a long time, Adam."

  "I know. I'd miss you a ton."

  "Well, you don't have to stay an extra month."

  Cammie tried not to let irritation color her voice, but really, look at his choices. Blackflies and bullfrogs versus naked and boyfriend-deprived her? What guy in his right mind could resist?

  She swung her feet around and found herself facing the wall of her room that had been moved in its entirety from their old house in Beverly Hills when that house had been sold. Back when Cammie was in elementary

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  school, her mother had painted a mural on it of the characters from Charlotte's Web. Cammie had refused to move to her father's new mansion unless the mural came with them. Workmen from the Getty Center had orchestrated the move as if the mural had been painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

  "Hey, here's a plan," Adam offered. "Why don't you come here? We've got plenty of room."

  Her? Come there? To Michigan?

  "Are you on drugs? I consider maid and/or room service basic human needs."