Some like it hot: an A-list novel Read online

  The helipad had been roped off with a red-velvet barrier; security guards from the movie studio were stationed every ten feet. As the pilot gently touched down, Cammie saw the early prom arrivals gather to see who was making such a spectacular entrance.

  Like there'd ever been any question.

  Jackson Sharpe's remake of Ben-Hur was already the buzz of Hollywood, mostly because of accounting figures leaked from the production office--the budget had already escalated from a hundred and twenty million to a hundred and forty million dollars, and that was before publicity and advertising were taken into account. Word was that dialogue was disappearing from the script in

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  favor of more and more action, on the theory that overseas territories cared little for the nuances of English language. They mostly wanted to see shit blow up. Since serious pyrotechnics had been an impossibility in the first century, in their place was a grossly inflated, very bloody body count.

  Jackson was playing the title role of Ben-Hur, which in the famous 1959 version (the story had already been filmed twice in the very early days of Tinseltown) had been brought to life by Charlton Heston. The story was an epic tale of a boyhood friendship between Ben-Hur and his former friend Messala. The action culminated in a chariot race between them in the Colosseum.

  Once the helicopter blades stopped, the pilot opened the passenger doors and helped everyone down. Sam had specified that a red carpet lead from the helipad to the entrance to the Colosseum, and the prom weenies had done their job well. Monty Pinelli--Parker's younger brother who was nowhere as cute as Parker, with his stocky build, big nose, and somewhat unkempt appearance despite a Ralph Lauren tuxedo that Sam had rented for him--was stationed at the far end of the red carpet to film their arrival. Krishna gave him a kiss as they passed; Monty blushed happily.

  The producers of Ben-Hur had spared no expense in building a Colosseum for the seminal chariot-race scene, except to construct the structure of wood with false fronts instead of the original marble used two thousand years ago. The exterior wasn't much to look at, since it wouldn't be seen in the film--any exterior shots would

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  be done with a miniature model in the studio. The interior, though, was dazzling from the moment Cammie stepped inside, and that was without considering any of the prom decorations.

  The floor of the Colosseum was some sort of brown synthetic substance mixed with tiny silicon balls (the better to reflect movie lights and to absorb any stray moisture--chariot racing in mud was not what Jackson had in mind). It covered the length of two football fields. One half of the building was given over to camera towers, a production office, and all the various and sundry spaces that were necessary to produce an action epic: makeup trailers, a commissary that was doubling for the evening as the caterers' headquarters, costume headquarters, even a stable in which the teams of horses used in the race could be kept.

  The opposite side of the building, though, was a meticulously crafted vision of a first-century Roman stadium. There was tiered seating that could hold thirty thousand extras, columns by the hundreds, and arches by the dozens, with a marble royal reviewing stand that covered a quarter of the bottom tier of seats. At the far end of the structure were two matching sets of columned arches through which the chariot race would start, while the center of the racetrack was dominated by a long and narrow formal garden containing enormous statues of Roman leaders, generals, and caesars. The gardens served the same purpose as the infield at the thoroughbred track Hollywood Park.

  The entire arena was lit by an array of steel football-

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  stadium lighting towers. There was also a concert-quality sound system that had been erected for the band. After having nixed any number of possibilities, Sam had suggested that they bring in Slick Willy, a new British band that was reviving Beatles haircuts along with a good-time party sound; their first CD, Manchester Disunited , was number one in Britain but just beginning to cross over into America. Cammie had called Dee's father, the record producer. He was so happy that his daughter was mentally healthy enough to attend prom that he twisted arms, pulled strings, arranged for a private jet to fly the band over, and it was a done deal. The band was playing its heart out on a stage erected at the opposite end of the track from where the chariot racers would enter.

  "You rock, girl!" Cammie heard Jack tell Sam, as the group--trailed by Monty--got past the last phalanx of security and joined the throng already inside the arena. At the front gate, ordinary promgoers parted like the Red Sea to let the A-listers pass.

  "This is totally off the hook," Adam chuckled, surveying the Colosseum. All the parts that weren't being used had been draped in blue and white fabric, the BHHS school colors. "Back in Michigan, they had prom in the gym with a disco ball."

  "I thought that kind of thing was only urban legend," Cammie teased.

  He grinned at her. "For a girl who wasn't into prom, you sure look happy."

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  For some reason, Cammie now felt determined to be on her best behavior and mend things. It was prom night, for God's sake. She slid her arms around his neck. "Because I'm with you."

  Such a simple, declarative statement and yet so hard for her to say. Why did it all get so complicated? Why couldn't a girl just love a boy and have the boy love her back? She so wanted to believe that she wasn't too fucked up to have that, for the first time in her life--to have it with Adam. Before she could summon up her nerve to tackle the pile of unspoken shit that still stood between her and Adam, Jack found her.

  "Listen, I'm feeling your girl, Dee," he confided, thumping his chest with his fist.

  "Excellent."

  "But what's up with Napoleon D over there?" Jack cocked his head toward Marshall, who stood with Dee on the parameter of the parquet dance floor near the band.

  "Her mental-health bodyguard," Cammie quipped.

  "No, really. The girl's in an institution?"

  "Something like that. Temporarily."

  "Well, I like a woman with a past. How do we ditch him?"

  "I'll leave that in your capable hands," Cammie replied. "Let's see how motivated you are. And how well you treat her."

  "Very to both," Jack replied easily.

  "Dee's been through some tough stuff," Adam put in. "Go easy, huh?"

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  "Hey, easy is my middle name." Jack winked and headed back toward Dee.

  "Yeah, I bet." Adam frowned as Jack walked away. "You trust that guy?"

  Cammie took his arm. "No need to worry. Jack will make Dee feel desirable and hot, and Marshall won't let Dee out of his sight. It's a win-win." She took a deep breath. "Want to go up to the bleachers for a minute? I think we need to talk."

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  A-List-worthy

  "Sam. wow. This is the most killer prom ever!"

  "You rock, Sam. Thank you so much for making this prom so special!"

  "Sam, you built a Roman bath! That was so smart!" "One for the guys and one for the girls. And one that's coed!"

  "And chariot rides outside for everyone! Way cool." "I always thought you didn't even have any school spirit, Sam, but I was totally wrong. This rocks!"

  Sam Sharpe had nothing if not a great appreciation of irony, and that appreciation was certainly kicking in. Classmates with whom she'd never had a conversation, whom she'd never normally deign to speak to, and who knew better than to start a conversation with her were rushing up to her to gush no more than two sentences of praise--all they probably thought they could get away with--to thank her for saving the prom. No, not just saving it--making it into a true A-list-worthy extravaganza.

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  To the south of the arena, Sam had had a full-fledged Roman bathhouse constructed by the movie's production designers, complete with showers, hot tubs, and portable swimming pools, along with individual terry cloth robes personalized with each prom attendee's name and BHHS Prom in Roman-style calligraphy. Promgoers could indeed choose the guys', gi
rls', or coed facilities. Outside of the arena, horse-drawn chariots piloted by Italian models (some male, some female) in skimpy togas were squiring couples and quartets on a mile-long path through the hills. Meanwhile, all the food was being cooked on enormous open pits, in keeping with the Ben-Hur theme.

  "Big smile, Sam Sharpe!" crowed one of the event photographers, a tuxedoed older woman with a shaved head. Sam smiled as Old Baldy popped off a few shots before Fee and Jazz edged their way into the viewfinder. They each still carried their videocams, identical Sony models to Sam's.

  "How'd the filming go?" Sam asked them.

  "Fantastic!" Jazz gushed. "We had a bunch of friends come over to do our prom prep--we even had a makeup artist! We got the whole thing on film."

  "I'm sorry I ever thought you were a snob," Fee told Sam earnestly.

  "Me too," Jazz added. "I hate judgmental people and then I totally judged you. I'd just like to apologize."

  "Ditto," Fee agreed.

  "What can I tell you, girls, I was just overcome with

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  school spirit," Sam responded, managing to sound suitably sincere. A pang of something close to shame hit her. Jazz and Fee were actually very sweet--not so different from Sam and her friends, except economically. She was glad all over again that she'd changed the thrust of her documentary. It would have been unfair to bash Fee and Jazz.

  Twenty feet away, Monty had the camera trained on the three of them. Sam's instructions had been clear: Focus on other people, not herself. She didn't want any more footage of herself at the actual event and detested documentarians like Michael Moore and Morgan Spurlock who insisted on making themselves the center of their work. Who did they think they were, Jonas Salk? That was why she'd asked Monty to troll around with the other camera for a while, to try to record some candid moments of the crowd.

  "Students, students!" The acerbic voice of Mr. Vorhees, their vice principal, boomed out over the public address system, getting their attention. "Students, be sure to drop your vote for prom queen into the ballot box within the next half hour!"

  Behind Mr. Vorhees, the band smirked. Vorhees was a tall man who looked about eight months pregnant; the belt to his tux pants lost somewhere underneath his stomach. "We'll count the ballots and announce your prom court at eleven o'clock. Good luck to one and all!"

  Fee and Jazz both looked thrilled at the mention of the prom court; it actually meant something to them. Sam scrutinized the two girls. Fee wore an off-the-rack

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  Armani strapless royal-blue matte jersey gown--there was also a blue flower Sam couldn't name in the center of her wrist corsage. Evidently some serious color-coordination planning had taken place. Her hair was done in curls; Sam supposed that she'd been looking for sexy and messy. She'd almost gotten there.

  As for Jazz, she'd chosen a diagonal pastel rainbow-striped Chloe knockoff; Sam had seen the cocktail-length designer version on Kate Hudson at Koi the week before. The dress did nothing for Jazz, though, other than emphasize her lack of bust. Though Jazz's hair was freshly streaked and flatironed, new bangs only drew attention to the fact that her nose was a little too long for her face. She needed Raymond of Beverly Hills for a consultation and a style, and Gillian to shop for her.

  "Do you think you have a shot at prom queen?" Sam asked Fee.

  "Oh, I'd never get voted to the court," Fee insisted. "Jazz, maybe."

  "That's totally not true," Jazz countered. "Everyone is totally going to vote for you for court!"

  "You!"

  "No, you !"

  Sam sighed. It was B-list de rigueur for girls to insist that they couldn't possibly get voted to prom court, because they shared some kind of unwritten rule that they weren't supposed to appear to have egos. Sam's own friends, though, would be the first to say that while

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  they deserved to be prom queen--after all, they were the cutest, hottest, and coolest girls in the school--they would never actually be prom queen because they were above such drivel and everyone knew it.

  After a few more questions, Fee's and Jazz's dates drifted over to try to join the conversation. Fee had ended up coming with Miles Goldstein, who had pitched a hissy fit in the principal's office when he found out that he was on track merely to be salutatorian instead of valedictorian, while Jazz's date was Roman Hoopes, an aspiring white rap promoter whose original name was Richard but who'd changed it to Roman because he thought that sounded more dope.

  The arrival of the two guys was Sam and Parker's signal to depart--they drifted over to the production side of the arena without even thinking about voting. Sam settled into the Barcalounger reserved for her father and happily put her feet up. Meanwhile, Parker sat in the director's chair, pulled out his flask of Chivas, and passed it to Sam. She threw back a long swallow; it burned going down, but in a good way.

  "Your film is going to rock," he told her, then took the flask and swallowed lustily. "Chivas. Better than mead."

  "Let me be the judge of that," she teased, taking the flask back and drinking some more.

  Parker gave Sam a serious look. "You know, Sam, you look really hot tonight."

  Sam would never admit it, but hearing Parker say that

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  gave her a little thrill. From a purely physical point of view, he was easily the best-looking guy at prom. If only he could magically morph into Eduardo.

  "Too bad your guy crapped out on you," Parker went on, as if reading her mind.

  How irritating. It wasn't like she wasn't already thinking about just that.

  "Eduardo didn't 'crap out on me.' He had a family engagement."

  Parker shrugged and reached for the vodka. "He's missing something great. Look out there, Sam. Look."

  She looked. The party was in full swing, with hundreds of her classmates dancing to the band. Most were in for-malwear, some were in bathrobes from the Roman baths. They were laughing, smoking, eating, having the time of their lives. Though Monty and the prom weenies were out there shooting, she got her handheld and took some more footage. The more she looked through the lens, the more she felt that she had the makings of a great documentary on her hands. Still, she felt the loss of Eduardo so much that she belted down another huge shot.

  "You did this, Sam. If you were my girlfriend, I'd figure out a way to do whatever I needed to do to be here for you."

  Please. She knew how good Parker was at acting-- witness the fact that he'd passed himself off as a rich kid for so long without anyone figuring it out but her.

  "Don't bother sucking up, Parker."

  Parker shook his head. "Man, you always think everyone is using you."

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  "Because they usually are."

  Out near the gardens at the center of the track, Sam spotted Anna wandering around, alone. Strange. Why hadn't Ben shown up yet?

  "You're right," Parker acknowledged. "They are. Look, I'm gonna go get something to eat and find Damian. Then I'll do some more filming. Okay?"

  "Okay," she told him, reminding herself to keep her eye on the prize. Her cell rang as Parker loped away.

  "Yeah?" she answered.

  "How's prom?" The voice was lightly accented, deep, and sexy.

  Eduardo.

  "Not as good as if you were here," Sam responded, thrilled that he had called her. "You can't imagine what that voice does to me."

  "Alas, I'm stuck in Mexico with the family. Miss me?"

  Sam nodded, even though Eduardo couldn't see her. "Yup. Definitely."

  "Is it fun anyway?"

  "Sure." Sam watched Parker talk for a moment with his brother. "There's the afterparty on the beach; it's the set of Hermosa Beach ."

  "Ah yes, I know where Hermosa Beach is," Eduardo said.

  "Someone will probably have sex with someone and regret it afterward, some longtime couple will break up badly, and a lot of someones will have way too much to drink," Sam quipped. "Prom with all its trimmings is an American institution, after all. How's your part
y?"

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  "Very large," Eduardo replied. "Maybe three hundred people. I am related to half of them--I have a very large family--and every lady over the age of sixty wants to pinch my cheek and tell me what a handsome young man I've grown into."

  Sam laughed. "Sounds deadly."

  "It's all right. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I was thinking of you and I'll see you when I get back to Los Angeles for work. I'm really looking forward to the summer."

  His words were perfect; they brought myriad images to her mind: being in bed with him at the hotel. Making love. Making love again. No image was as strong, though, as the dozen tulips in the vase. That he'd remembered her favorite flower when she'd only mentioned it once seemed to encapsulate everything that she adored about him.

  Which was why she responded, "Me too."

  Anna had been drifting around the Colosseum for the past hour, watching prom unfold but not really feeling a part of it. The guy she loved was at a different party with a different girl. She told herself it didn't matter, that having Ben put in an appearance with Maddy had been her own idea, but she wondered now whether she had been more stupid than selfless. Ben was a guy, after all. She'd seen how Maddy had looked after her prom makeover. God . She'd been partly responsible for that, too.

  Mr. Vorhees had just made what he'd claimed to be

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  his last announcement for prom court voting. Anna figured she might as well cast her ballot. The voting area was below the twin arches at the north end of the Colosseum; she wended her way through the crowd, found a ballot and looked it over.

  Who to vote for? On a whim, she scrawled in Dee's name and stuffed the paper in a ballot box watched over by Fee and Jazz. The new and improved Dee was someone Anna actually liked--at least, could possibly like, if she had a chance to get to know her better.