Girls on Film (20 page)
She smiled and stopped at a light on Santa Monica Boulevard. He didn’t look very different from how Anna remembered him in New York: short and skinny, with straight dark hair that fell boyishly over one eye, he wore black jeans and a black T-shirt under an oversized black sports jacket and the latest variation of Pumas on his feet. He was quieter, though. And far nicer than she’d remembered.
Anna had chosen her clothes carefully—a simple raw-silk black Chanel sleeveless dress that had belonged to her mother. Her only accessory was a white-gold chain around her neck that had been a sixteenth-birthday gift from Susan. She’d left her hair loose; it fell in a glossy, straight line to her shoulders.
Brock peered out the window. “Think these mansions are close enough together? You could be in the crapper, run out of toilet paper, and call to the next house for a roll.”
“Land is very expensive here,” Anna said as the light turned green.
“These people just want to prove they have the biggest-ass house,” Brock told her. “It’s all so meaningless.”
“I guess,” Anna said diplomatically, discreet enough not to remind him that he’d just dropped three-quarters of a million dollars on an apartment in Chelsea that wasn’t even fifteen hundred square feet.
A few minutes later she pulled her Lexus up in front of the impressive stone mansion. A valet opened her door and helped her out; another opened Brock’s door for him. Brock put his hands together in a prayerful gesture and did a slight bow to thank him. The door to the mansion was open, and they could hear the party in full swing.
“Ready?” Anna asked.
When Brock nodded, they stepped inside and wended their way through the beautiful people to the massive living room. Its cathedral ceiling made the room seem even larger than it was; the furnishings ranged from dark and Gothic to eclectic contemporary. There were teal, hand-carved, trilevel Chinese end tables adorned with carvings of dragons; sofas of deep, lush velvet; and purple tapestry throw pillows. A magnificent saltwater aquarium had been built directly onto an oversized coffee table. In various nooks around the room green and red velvet paisley cushions created conversation areas. There was even a wood fire roaring in the stone fireplace.
Anna looked around for her sister. After the silent drive back to Los Angeles with Sam, they’d dropped Susan at her bungalow. Anna had tried to call her in the early afternoon to make peace, but there was no answer. All she’d been able to do was leave the address of the party on Susan’s voice mail, make a brief apology for her part in their fight, and say that she hoped to see her sister later.
However, Susan was nowhere to be found. But there were plenty of movie-industry people. She even had a couple of celebrity sightings—the ebullient Italian actor-director Roberto Benigni. She recognized him from his Oscar-winning film,
Life Is Beautiful
. The French actor Gerard Depardieu. He’d been in the movie
Roxanne
, a takeoff on
Cyrano de Bergerac
.
“Brock!” A small, balding man in a red baseball jacket pushed through the crowd and joined them. “Kenny Kendall—we spoke on the phone last week. Margaret Cunningham at Apex put us together. I directed
Case Sensitive
. She sent you the DVD. It’s going to be at Sundance this year.”
“Right, right,” Brock said, shaking his hand. “Brilliant work, man.”
“Speaking of, I caught
Uptown / Downtown
in New York last week.” His hands fluttered toward his face. “Hot, hot, hot.
Adored
it.”
“Hey, I just try to put the truth out there,” Brock said.
“That’s why your work spoke to me.” He squeezed Brock’s nonexistent biceps and moved closer. Since Brock hadn’t bothered to introduce Anna, she figured this was her cue.
“Hello, I’m Anna Percy, with Apex.” She held out her hand.
Kenny gave her a dead-carp handshake, his eyes glued to Brock. “Listen, we absolutely have to work together. The German financing for my new film should come through next week.
Double Samurai
. It’s the spiritual quest of a man in pain searching for something to believe in. Harrison is attached to star, but frankly, it needs a top-to-bottom rewrite. I’ll call Margaret. Listen, you want to meet Harrison?”
“Sure,” Brock said. “I’d love to.”
“Cool. Come on!”
Before Anna could open her mouth, Kenny had put his hand on Brock’s elbow and was steering him through the crowd. What was she supposed to do, trot after him? No, that would be ludicrous. Why hadn’t Margaret sent a real agent to this party, someone who would know what to do?
“Hello, Anna.”
Anna turned around. Dee Young stood before her. “What are you doing here?”
“My dad did the music for Krissy Steinberg’s last movie, so we got to be friends. I just want you to know, Anna, I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf.”
“Mm-hm,” Anna mumbled, since she had little comprehension of what Dee was talking about and even less interest.
“My life coach told me that I have the power to reinvent myself.”
“What’s a life coach?”
“She helps me plan my path.” Dee’s hands went to her flat stomach. “She helped me realize that while I was
psychologically
pregnant with Ben’s baby, it wasn’t a physical reality.”
Without a doubt, Dee needed someone a bit better trained psychologically than a “life coach.” But now wasn’t the time for Anna to offer her counsel. She had to find Brock. “Excuse me, I need to use …” Anna pointed toward the powder room.
“All right.” Dee gave Anna a quick hug and waved as Anna walked away. As soon as Dee was out of sight, Anna scurried toward the other end of the house, searching for Brock.
It was perverse, but Sam couldn’t help herself.
She sat in her father’s home theater (which looked like a small art-house theater in every way—twenty rows of plush seats with built-in cup holders, a full-size screen, even an old-fashioned popcorn machine in the back) and watched Monty’s footage of the Anna-Ben showdown at the V Sauna Corral, over and over. The irony was not lost on her. Until very recently it would have been Ben she was staring at with longing. And now the object of her desire was Anna.
Sam bit nervously at a hangnail, ruining the hundred-dollar lavender-oil-and-beeswax-soak manicure she’d gotten at the spa. She knew she wasn’t gay. At least she didn’t
think
she was gay. She’d seen Cammie naked a thousand times, Cammie had the best body on the planet, and all Sam had ever felt was envy.
So why, why, why did she have to be going through this over Anna?
It was just so unfair. Anna would never in a million years be attracted to Sam. Not that Sam wanted her to be. It was just this weird thing about a kiss. Kissing Anna.
By the light of the flickering screen, Sam checked her watch. Time for the Steinbergs’ party. Cammie would be there with Susan, she’d already been informed. Dee would go with her dad. Poor Dee. She was getting stranger by the day. And Anna would be escorting some young playwright/screenwriter wannabe from New York. But up on the screen, twenty-foot-tall Anna was telling off twenty-foot-tall, sweat-drenched Ben. How could Anna look so good in a simple bathing suit, hair slicked back, and no makeup? She was probably lovely even when she cried.
Shit.
Sam turned and shouted to Monty in the projection booth, “Turn it off!”
The screen went black, and the house lights came on. “It’s killer, huh?” Monty said as he stepped into the theater.
Yeah, it was. There was understated Grace Kellyesque Anna, forced into a confrontation by this gorgeous stud, Ben. She could almost hear Anna saying, “This simply is not done!” It was a fabulous illustration of the gulf between old rich and new rich. But Sam had promised Anna that she wouldn’t use any of this footage for their school project. Not that Sam was above breaking a promise. It wouldn’t be the first broken promise of the week or even the weekend.
The film would be so much better with the sauna showdown. And it was so tantalizing, satisfying, even, to think of everyone at school witnessing Anna’s haughty kiss-off to Ben Birnbaum. If you didn’t know the backstory about Ben dumping her on New Year’s Eve—and no one at school knew the backstory—Anna came off like a total bitch. Of course, Anna wasn’t a bitch. She was perhaps the least bitchy girl Sam knew.
But that was beside the point. It would be a simple matter for Sam to edit in this material right before they showed the film in class later in the week. It would seem to everyone like Anna had wanted it to be there—thereby giving it the most important element any work of art could have: plausible deniability. And since it was Anna’s movie as well as Sam’s, well … everyone would assume Anna had gotten cold feet at the last moment if she protested.
But the shame of it was, Sam knew she’d feel guilty as hell. It would be so much easier if she hated Anna.
But I have to go and like her. And it’s not like Anna’s ready to throw her arms around me and swap spit
.
Sam made a decision. Which was not to make a decision. She’d hang on to the footage but hold off using it in the film.
For now.
“S
o I am reading script and crying because they wish me to do shower scene, you understand?”
Justine, the tall, stunningly beautiful former Victoria’s Secret model from Ukraine, droned on in Anna’s ear—there was a jazz trio in one corner of the living room that made it hard for her to hear. Yet she was making all the appropriate noises of interest because Justine was an Apex client. But her mind was really on Brock. She hadn’t seen him for an hour, though she’d made a real effort to find him.
“I wish to be serious artist,” Justine insisted in her thick accent.
Anna couldn’t quite figure out how Justine could be “serious artist” unless the role called for someone with an incomplete command of the English language, but she kept the patented pleasant smile on her face.
“So I am meeting wonderful writer at my gym,” Justine went on. “He say he write part for me. Action part. Like Lara Croft, only taller.”
At that moment, Anna saw Margaret step into the living room. She wore an impeccably cut, custom-fit beige Dolce and Gabbana suit. Margaret’s eyes scanned the room; Anna knew who she was looking for. Anna. Or, more correctly, Anna and Brock Franklin.
“Oh, this is Margaret Cunningham!” Justine exclaimed, waving. Since she was six foot three in her Charles David stiletto high heels, people in Fresno could have seen the wave.
Naturally, Margaret waved back.
“She is old and still has looks, you know?” Justine told Anna as Margaret gracefully worked her way toward them. “She has face-lift, you think?”
“Justine, what a pleasure to see you,” Margaret said, air kissing the actress. “And our darling Anna.”
Anna plastered an even more pleasant smile on her face. “Nice to see you, Margaret.”
“Where’s Brock?” Margaret asked.
Good question. “He’ll be right back,” Anna assured her.
“Yes, I suppose you couldn’t very well follow him into the bathroom, could you,” Margaret said agreeably. “Is he having a good time?”
“He seems to be,” Anna hedged.
“Well, I’m sure you’re doing a splendid job, Anna. I have complete confidence in you.” Margaret gave Anna’s hand a little squeeze. “I thought I’d stop by so that I could introduce Brock to some of the important people here he doesn’t know. Take the pressure off you a bit, dear.”
“How thoughtful,” Anna managed.
“It’s such a fabulous coincidence that your sister used to date him,” Margaret said. “Is she here yet? I’ve been looking forward to meeting her, too.”
“Not yet.”
“She hasn’t been having any … problems?” Margaret asked brightly.
Anna knew Margaret was referring to her sister’s aborted rehab stint. “She’s doing great,” Anna assured Margaret.
“Excellent,” Margaret said, beaming. “I’m sure this is a whole new start for her.”
“She’s coming with Cammie Sheppard, actually,” Anna said, grateful that Margaret was being so discreet about Susan.
Margaret gave a tinkling laugh. “Clark’s daughter? My, what a small world. I didn’t know you girls were friends.”
“We met at Jackson Sharpe’s wedding.” Anna offered the minimum of information necessary. “Sam Sharpe introduced us.”
“Oh, I am knowing Sam!” Justine cried happily. “She is nice girl!”
Great. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone was peachy. Except for Anna, who knew she had to find Brock Franklin in the next five minutes or face the wrath of her boss. So she alluded to freshening up and headed in the direction of where a bathroom might be. As quickly as she dared, she dashed down the hallway that led to the rear grounds of the mansion, hoping against hope that she’d encounter Brock somewhere along the way.
Out back, the party had a different atmosphere: People stood around a large stone fountain, listening and dancing to live reggae music and drinking tropical beverages from half coconuts. Long tables covered in snowy white linen overflowed with Jamaican food—jerk chicken, grilled grouper, and ackee. Beautiful people mingled, laughed, talked, and tried to attract attention while at the same time pretending not to. Brock Franklin was not among them.
Just as she was about to return to the mansion, though, Anna saw her sister, Susan, in the crowd with Cammie.
Anna felt instant relief. Susan would definitely be able to help her find Brock. All she’d have to do was pull Susan off to the side, apologize again and explain the situation, and—
Susan spotted her.
“Anna! It’s Anna!” she cried in a shrill voice. She threw her arms wide and ran toward her like an airplane coming in for a landing. “My baby sister!”
Anna caught her as she stumbled into her arms. The truth was on Susan’s breath: her sister was drunk.
“I’m so sorry about our fight. I felt ashamed, tha’s all, you know I fuckin’ love you,” Susan slurred, gripping Anna tight. “Hey! You having fun, Anna? Let’s have some fun!”
Cammie sidled over to them. “As you can see, Anna, your big sister is in a happy mood.”
“Are you responsible for this?” Anna asked rhetorically. She pictured her hands around Cammie’s neck, squeezing against her windpipe.