The Accident (31 page)

Jeff knew he needed to make a pass at her, tonight. But all he’d been hoping for was a little kiss.

CHAPTER 39

C
amilla turns away from the party that sprawls across the gently sloping grounds of the Beverly Hills estate, looking out at the lights that have just begun to twinkle in the dusk of the LA basin. She takes a sip of Champagne, her third glass, which is going to have to be her last. Not just because it’s time for her to finally check into the hotel and turn in, but because of the one thing she finds supremely tiresome about Los Angeles: the relentless sobriety. Everybody’s always driving everywhere—sitting around in brutal traffic, where it seems to take an hour to get anywhere. In New York, the only destination that takes an hour is the airport. That is, the big international airport, JFK. Going to LaGuardia or Newark usually takes a half-hour. Here, it can take a half-hour just to cross the fucking 405.

And with all this driving, and the attendant police vigilance, you simply can’t get pissed.

She doesn’t really know anyone here, except the midlevel talent agent who’d invited her. He said hello at one of the bars before promptly disappearing. Which was fine. Preferable, even: she’s almost too excited to engage in everyday small talk, too obsessed to not talk about
The Accident
. She might as well be alone.

Next year, she’ll be at this party again—it’s an annual event, apparently—and she’ll know everyone.

“Hi.” A man is suddenly standing next to her, talking. “I’m Cooper.”

He holds out his hand. She looks at his face, then down at his hand. This, she thinks, is a fantastic-looking man.

“I’m Camilla. Cam.”

“Interesting name, Camilla Cam. Pleased to meet you.”

She turns back to the south, to the lights. “It’s a beautiful night.”

“Yes it is.”

She steals another quick glimpse. He must be an actor, or aspiring. “Are you a client of Janice’s?” Rumor has it that the host Janice has earned twenty million dollars from bonuses generated by commissions from a single client, a comedian for the teen and tween demo, specializing in sophomoric sexual gags punctuated by scatological jokes.

Cooper smiles, a big, broad, confident smile. “No, I’m not an actor,” he says. “I’m a producer.” He moves into her line of vision, with his toothy smile and devastating dimples. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around. What do you do?”

“I dabble.”

He raises an eyebrow, asking for more information, but she doesn’t provide any. They stare at each other.

“Well then, would you prefer to talk about something else?”

She gives a shrug, takes another sip. “For example?”

He smiles, game for the game. In this town, everyone always seems to be glancing over your shoulder, looking for—hoping for—someone more interesting or famous to appear in their line of vision. But not this Cooper. He has the focus of a politician, or a gigolo.

“Is there anything I can do, or say,” he says, eyes locked on hers, “to get you into bed tonight?”

She can see a cocky little smile playing across the corners of his mouth, and she feels her own smile sprouting, uncontrollable really; she can’t stop herself from smiling as she considers her possible responses, ranging from outrage or feigned indignation to noncommittal procrastination and playful challenge. Does this line work on other women? Probably.

“Honestly,” she says, “I’ve never been all that keen about
beds
.”

T
he porcelain feels cool and smooth under her hot palms, and Camilla presses down harder, trying to keep steady, sweat trickling down her forearms, around her wrists, her hands, the sweat now sliding between her skin and the surface of the sink, and the sheen makes one hand slip forward along the plane of the side of the sink, and she loses balance and falls forward. Her stomach gets pressed against the lip of the sink, her rear lifted higher in the air.

“Oh,” he moans, deep and guttural.

She presses into him, harder. Her elbows are now resting on the sink, her hands against the tile wall. She can no longer see him in the mirror; can no longer see herself. Her face is just inches above the bronze water spout. Or is that gold? She wouldn’t be surprised.

She realizes that this is the second time she’s been bent over a bathroom sink at an industry party in Beverly Hills. Has she finally discovered her fetish?

He moans again, a sound like he’s just about done, and so is she, almost there, and she squeezes her eyes shut, harder, biting her lip, tensing every muscle, thrusting onto him, and for once she’s picturing in her mind the exact man who’s actually fucking her, even though she can’t see him. And that is what makes her come, and her coming is what makes him come, and so his own goddamned handsomeness is the thing that gives him an orgasm.

“Whew,” she says. Standing upright again, pushing down her skirt. Neither of them removed a single article of clothing. “That was
lovely
.”

“Agreed,” he says.

She finds his eye in the mirror, holds it, but he looks away, down, fumbling to get himself back into his pants. He zips up.

They sneak through the hall. They’re not supposed to be in the house; the house is strictly off-limits. In the garage, which is large enough to contain a fleet of ten vehicles, are two trailers for mobile restrooms, complete with crown moldings, area rugs, cut flowers, and attendants.

Out a side door, onto a brick-paved path, then around the corner of the house, back onto the lawn.

“I should leave you here,” she says, stopped, standing still.

He looks stricken, injured.

“I’ve a
long
day tomorrow,” she continues, justifying herself to him. To herself. “And I’m on New York time, which means I’ll be waking at three a.m.”

“Can I call you?” There’s something surprisingly desperate about him. It’s sort of touching.

She reaches into her bag, fumbles around for the soft calfskin of her business-card holder. She removes a card, writes her mobile number on the back. “I’m here through the weekend,” she says, wondering whether this is the last she’ll ever see of this man.

“You sure I can’t come with you?”

“Didn’t you already come with me?” She smirks at her own witticism. “I’m quite certain you did. Anyway, I really must get some sleep, now. But it’s been a pleasure indeed. A genuine pleasure.”

Camilla turns and walks across the lawn, regretting this path immediately as her spiked heels sink into the grass, threatening to stick and eject her foot and send her sprawling. But she knows it would be humiliating to retreat, as ever. So with great concentration and balance and, she hopes, poise, she manages to cross the wide lawn without hideous incident, past the couches that have been arranged on carpets en plein air, past the fountains filled with sparkling wine, past the sushi bar and the caviar bar, past the liquor bar and the wine bar, and finally to the well-groomed lip of the driveway, where she hands a boy her ticket.

“Two minutes, ma’am,” he says, and literally sprints away, down the drive, in search of her Mustang rental, parked safely out of sight, so the Rollses and Ferraris and Maybachs can occupy the more visible positions up here, by the house, by the guests.

Camilla is pretty sure it’s Demi Moore who walks by, coming while she’s going. She watches the elegant woman saunter effortlessly across the grass.

She wonders if her life will become elegant and effortless, once she turns this manuscript into an international blockbuster. If other people will envy her, for a change.

T
he driveway winds down the mountain, past other massive houses surrounded by meticulous landscaping, and then a US-embassy-in-Africa-style gate that opens to release her out of the private community, into the public world, where anyone is free to drive around.

The street continues to spill down the Beverly hills, twisting, switchbacks appearing out of the dark night with alarming frequency. Camilla realizes she’s been riding the brake pedal, and shifts into low gear. The car complains briefly, then slows, and the transmission’s noise sounds more normal.

Camilla can hear her phone ringing, muffled within her handbag. This is no time to be searching for a phone; that’s how people die. But then again, this could be important; it could be Stan.

She notices another car behind her, the reflection of its headlights momentarily blinding her, until she swings around another switchback. After the curve, her hand rummages through her bag, finds the phone, pulls it out.

The road levels out at an intersection, and she allows herself to look away from the windshield, to glance down at the device’s screen: it is indeed Stan.

Now the road is curving and dropping again, and the car behind is following nearer, closing in, tailgating. She can’t answer the phone at this moment. Plus, if Stan is calling already, that means he’s interested. It wouldn’t be bad to make him sweat, if only a little.

In her rearview, the other car’s high beams are blinding. “Bugger off,” she mutters.

She leans toward her door, averting her eyes from the reflection. She’s beginning to worry that the turn she took was wrong. And this other car is practically upon her. She’s getting nervous.

Her tires skid on the gravel of the shoulder. She shifts out of low gear, and the car lurches forward, then steadies, approaching another hairpin turn.

“Fucker!”

After the turn she accelerates on the straightaway, but then has to ease off again as she takes another curve, the tires kicking up gravel. Her heart races, and she barrels through an intersection, barely slowing through the stop sign, rushing to get out in front of this arsehole. She’s not merely anxious anymore; she’s terrified.

The road levels but takes a long turn around a rock outcropping. Camilla notices a street off to the right that drops down into dark nothingness. She glances in the rearview but doesn’t see the lights; the other car hasn’t yet made it around the outcropping. So in a moment of panic or clarity or irrationality or brilliance, she yanks the wheel to the side and bumps over the precipice and bounces down this unlit street, under cover of trees, away from the main road, out of sight.

Camilla brings the car to a screeching, skidding halt and turns off the lights and grips the wheel with both hands. She’s panting.

She spins around, looks over her shoulder. She watches that maniac speed around the curve on the main road, the sound of the car receding, then gone. Thank bloody God.

Camilla sits behind the wheel, her chest heaving, catching her breath. She’s still high up in the hills, looking down at the city, which just a minute ago was a terrifying view; now it’s pretty again. She knows that if she keeps descending, sooner or later she’ll end up in the flats. She’ll be able to find her way once the terrain is level.

She descends this secondary street, past vine-covered stucco walls, past palm trees and orange trees, painted metal gates at the tops of steep driveways. She finds a major intersection with a familiar name, a street that she knows will take her to the bottom of Beverly Hills. She takes a long, deep breath of relief, and turns onto the thoroughfare.

Camilla moves her right foot off the brake and onto the gas. She brings the convertible up to fifty, then what the hell sixty, the wind flowing through her hair.

She never even glances in the rearview to see the other car that reappears behind her, because now its headlights aren’t on.

CHAPTER 40

T
he two-tone wail of an ambulance siren grows nearer for a few seconds, then farther, then is distant and quiet for a long time, the sound waves bouncing off Lake Zurich, before disappearing entirely. The author takes a drink of water, and recommences staring at the ceiling.

He’d met the potential witness again the following week for a proper date, a desirable table at a popular restaurant, a difficult reservation to procure; she claimed to know the chef from business, though she was vague about the specifics, and it seemed marginally unlikely. Plus she was calling herself Anne, which he knew was not her real name, or at least it hadn’t been her name back in college. She didn’t seem to be particularly trustworthy. Or maybe she wasn’t particularly trusting.

Regardless of the lies this woman was telling, she was definitely entertaining, and undeniably good-looking, and smarter than he’d expected, and funnier. She was a good date. Great. And she clearly didn’t recognize him from anywhere.

But he couldn’t prevent himself from thinking, every few minutes, that he might end up killing her. It wouldn’t be a tragic burst of violence in a passionate moment, nor the reckless disregard for life in a vehicular manslaughter. It would be premeditated, purposeful, cold-blooded killing. First-degree murder.

Every time this horrific thought intruded, he forced himself to smile. She must’ve thought he was an idiot. Or uncontrollably smitten, helplessly amused at every little thing she said.

When dessert was on the table they both started at the sound of a man’s voice, booming beside them. “Well, hello!” Charlie Wolfe was standing there, grinning down. “Funny finding you here.”