Blonde Ambition (18 page)
“And … I wish I’d had a big sister to save me from doing some of the stupid shit I did,” Cammie admitted. “But I didn’t.”
“So you’re doing it for Mia,” Adam concluded.
“A little,” Cammie conceded. “But mostly I’m doing it for me. Believe me, that doesn’t mean I like her.”
Adam’s fingers reached under Cammie’s hair to gently massage the back of her neck. “There really is more to Cammie Sheppard than meets the eye,” he said softly.
“Don’t let it get around.”
God, his hand felt so good. He was so gentle and nice and kind. How could a boy so sweet be so hot? But he was. He really was.
“You can help me get her inside,” Cammie said. “And then we can go to my room. My father and stepmother are in a whole other wing of the house.”
“I don’t think that’s a really good idea.” He stopped rubbing her neck.
No, Cammie thought. That can’t be. I don’t get turned down. He’s just nervous. Or maybe he’s … That’s it. He’s a virgin. That’s so sweet, in a way.
“It’s really okay, Adam. I’ve got a lock on my door. And I know you’ll be nervous, which is why—”
“It’s not that… . Well, maybe it is, partly. I like you, Cammie. I’d like to get to know you better. I just have to get over this thing with Anna before I can—”
“Anna?” The name exploded from Cammie’s lips.
“I know we weren’t together that long,” Adam went on. “But I still have feelings for her. And that really wouldn’t be fair to you. So let’s just take it slow, okay?”
Cammie clutched the steering wheel. She had just bared her soul to a boy she wanted and he had turned her down because he was still hung up on Anna Percy.
“Okay,” Cammie said.
What she meant was:
Okay. Anna Percy’s going to ruin everything if I don’t do something. And soon, too.
A
nna awakened on Sunday morning to the sound of an exquisite melody being played on the downstairs piano. She smiled and stretched, then snuggled under her velvet-and-silk quilt. This time she didn’t wonder from where the glorious music was coming. She was just content to listen as Django played. What a terrific time she’d had the night before; she found Danny was so much fun to be with. He’d invited her to the Malibu beach house of one of the producers that afternoon. But the invitation had been extended in a completely casual and friendly way. Beyond that single kiss the night before, Danny hadn’t tried anything or intimated that he was looking for more.
From Anna’s point of view, it was perfect. She wasn’t looking for more, either.
She listened to Django play until her stomach rumbled. Then she rose, put on a silk robe, and padded downstairs. She smelled fresh-brewed coffee and strawberries. Django looked up from the piano and gave her his semi-serious salute.
“Greetings and salutations, Miss Anna,” he drawled. Okay, this guy is great-looking, Anna thought. The bleached spiky hair, the ancient Levi’s—and yes, even the cowboy boots—somehow worked on him.
“I don’t suppose you could arrange this kind of wakeup call every morning,” she said. “What smells so good?”
He rose from the piano bench. “My granny’s top secret recipe for Cajun strawberry waffles. I left out the cottonmouth snake venom, but it’s pretty close to the real thing. You hungry?”
“Starved,” Anna admitted.
The dining room table had been set for two, with a snowy linen cloth. The centerpiece was a single rose from the rear garden in the Ming vase that was usually on the side table in the entryway. Anna had never seen it used before.
“Miss Anna.” Django pulled out a chair for her. “Thank you, sir. But if you call me ‘Miss Anna’ one more time, you’re going to find granny’s waffles flung across the room.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Django replied archly. He forked two strawberry waffles onto Anna’s plate. “If that’s not the best thing you’ve ever tasted, I’ll run naked down Rodeo Drive.”
“Gee, I’m tempted to say I hate them,” Anna teased. She cut into one and put a bite in her mouth. “Oh my God. This is fantastic.”
“Gotcha.” He grinned and cut into his own waffles. “One thing my grandmother can do is cook.”
“Where is she?” Anna asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Louisiana.” He pronounced it “Lou-see-yan-ah.” “It’s a big state.”
“She’s a big woman.”
Anna ate another few bites before she spoke again. “You don’t talk much about your family.”
“You don’t like to talk much about yours, either. So, you have fun last night?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.
“Yes, I did, actually. I went to an over-the-top party on the
Hermosa Beach
set,” Anna explained, forking another waffle onto her plate.
Django’s eyebrows lifted. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”
“A new TV show. I forgot that you don’t watch TV.”
“As I recall, neither do you,” Django reminded her. “Ben have fun, too?”
“He went back to school. And …” Anna hesitated. “It’s over. We’re not together anymore.”
“Well, aren’t you the heartbreaker of Beverly Hills.” He took a sip of black coffee. “I knew he wasn’t right for you.”
Anna laughed. “Oh, you did, did you? How about if it’s my turn to change the subject? Who taught you piano?”
“My piano teacher.”
“Seriously. I’d like to know,” Anna pressed.
“Well, hell, if I’m so good at being an enigma, why change now?” he drawled.
Anna put down her fork. “You gave me a jazz tape. You play classical enough to concertize. But you’re working for my dad and living in his guesthouse. It doesn’t make sense.”
Django fiddled with the last piece of waffle left on his plate. “Didn’t you ever want to reinvent yourself?”
“That’s what brought me to Los Angeles,” Anna confessed.
“Well, that’s what brought me here, too.”
“How did you meet my father in the first place?” Django rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “He made a few investments for me. Index funds, put options, that sort of thing.”
Curiouser and curiouser. Anna knew her father only managed the funds of corporations or the super-wealthy. But if Django had that kind of money, why wouldn’t he just get his own place? And why would he have to work?
“Does my father know your mysterious story?” Anna pressed.
“Some of it,” Django admitted.
She folded her arms. “You’re making me insane.” Django’s eyes seemed to linger on her lips for a moment. “You’re makin’ me insane, too.”
Did he mean … ? Or was that just her imagination working overtime? God, what was wrong with her? Ben had just gone back to school. Last night she’d kissed Danny. There’d been Adam in between. And here she was, wondering if Django wanted to kiss her. When had she turned into such a—
Anna stopped her own train of thought. She suddenly realized: this was so Cyn-esque. Anna had wanted to be more like her daring best friend back in New York; now it was actually happening. If Jane Percy knew anything of her younger daughter’s newly wicked ways, she’d probably hire well-bred men in Saville Row suits to have her deprogrammed. Because this behavior was anything but
This Is How We Do Things
Big Book, East Coast WASP edition.
“What are you smilin’ about?” Django asked. “Nothing. What were you were playing when I came downstairs?”
“Dunno.” He shrugged. “I haven’t given it a name yet.” “You wrote it?”
He scratched behind one ear. “Last I heard.”
“You are so talented. You should be out there letting people hear what you—” Anna halted midsentence. “Look. I just got a great idea. I’d like to take your demo to the music supervisor of
Hermosa Beach.
Maybe they could use it on the show.”
“Nice thought,” Django said. “But I don’t need your connections.”
“Yes, you do. Or you wouldn’t be living in a guest-house.”
Django pushed his chair back and began to clear the table. “Thanks for the offer. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts,’ Miss Anna,” Django said.
She gathered up the silverware and coffee cups and followed him into the kitchen. “Are you sure?”
He put his things into the dishwasher, and she followed suit. “Yep,” he said. “I’m sure. So let’s not talk about it again.”
Anna and Danny walked into the opulent living room of Arnold and Illyse Pink’s beachfront home, where a bartender was serving up pitchers of Sex on the Beach, or, for those in AA—a goodly percentage of the television industry—Virgins on the Beach. A Persian rug was centered over the bleached wood floor. There was a white Ascherberg grand piano in the corner and next to it a music stand that held Bach sheet music. And a magnificent cello. There were platters of food everywhere—ribs and chicken wings and pigs-without-blankets, a sure sign that the Pinks were both on Atkins.
Arnold Pink was one of the producers on
Hermosa Beach.
He also produced three or four other network series and because of that rarely ventured to the set. Arnold had been a TV success story for two decades, and with that success came every luxury that money could buy, including his wife, Illyse, a
Maxim
model twenty-five years his junior.
At the moment the
Maxim
model was clad in a baby blue crocheted bikini and chatting up two of the male
Hermosa Beach
writers, who were having a hard time keeping their tongues in their mouths.
Anna and Danny took their drinks (Danny’s was Sex, Anna’s was Virgin) out to the star-shaped pool behind the mansion. Beyond that was the beach and then the endless ocean. “This is lovely,” she told him as they stood at the edge of the pool deck, sipping their drinks.
“Streisand two houses to the right, Spielberg two houses to the left. One minute I tell myself it’s worth putting up with all the crap to live between them someday,” Danny mused. “Then I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like a total sellout who’s never going to write his novel. And then I think I write TV because I know the novel will be … average. It won’t suck, but it won’t be great. It’ll be just good enough to get some nice rejection letters. And I’ll watch two years of work go down the drain.”
“You’re being a little hard on yourself.”
“You’re right,” Danny cheerfully decided. “Nothing worse than an overprivileged guy whining about his overprivilege, huh?”
“Oh, I can think of a few things,” Anna teased. “Such as—”
She was cut off by the ringing of Danny’s cell. “Excuse me,” he said, and plucked it out of his pocket. “Hello? … Yeah … Yeah … Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Danny hung up. A dark cloud had settled over his features. “What’s wrong?” Anna asked.
“That was Clark, master and commander, summoning me back to the set.”
“Now? You can’t even have lunch?”
“Like I said, I’m a slave to TV.” Danny sighed. “He’s pissed about something or other. Just be glad he didn’t ask for you, too.”
C
ammie had slept until noon, when Dee called to invite her and Mia to lunch at the Polo Lounge. Cammie took the opportunity to ream out the largely unapologetic Dee for having brought Mia to the rave in east L.A. Then she’d agreed to go to lunch but decided to stick it further to Dee by ordering a slew of expensive things and then nibbling at a bagel.
Now they were indoors at the Polo Lounge, enjoying the famous Sunday lunch. Mia showed no wear or tear from the night before. She’d polished off a smoked salmon omelet and three glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice before declaring that she wanted to look at the shops on the downstairs promenade.
As for Cammie, she’d relented and merely ordered poached eggs. As Mia departed, she sat, assessing the lunchtime crowd—the mayor of Los Angeles sat at a rear table with Governor Schwarzenegger and his wife. Meanwhile Dee prattled on about a guy from Pasadena she’d met at the rave, a guy “way cooler” than Stevie, the guitarist with Border Crossing. As for Stevie, he’d returned to Brooklyn without even a “Thanks for the memories.”
Cammie barely listened—she had a lot on her mind. Mostly Adam and his declaration that he couldn’t or wouldn’t be with Cammie until he was over Anna. Fuck Anna Percy. Revenge was going to be sweet.
“… So I hope you accept my apology,” Dee concluded. Cammie focused on Dee’s saucer-sized eyes. “What?” “I said I’m really,
really
sorry I brought Mia last night. I guess I didn’t think it through.”
“You’re forgiven,” Cammie told her, feeling empowered. “Don’t do anything that stupid again.”
Dee nodded solemnly. “Cross my heart. I’ll apologize to Mia, too.”
“Are you kidding? She had a good time. Something to talk about with her friends in Valley Village.”
“Yeah,” Dee agreed. She opened her pink Hello Kitty purse—Cammie would have considered the purse an ironic statement except that Dee had no concept of irony—and handed something to Cammie. “A present. For you.”
Cammie stared at the red, knotted Kabbalah bracelet. Kabbalah—the study and practice of Jewish mysticism— was all the rage in Hollywood. Thoroughly gentile Dee was taking classes with Madonna and Britney and had evidently decided she was a spiritual sage.
“Thanks, Dee. That’s extremely … thoughtful.” Cammie stuck the bracelet into her purse. The waitress brought the check and Dee put down one of her many credit cards. She glanced at the entryway to the Polo Lounge. “Mia’s been downstairs too long.”
“Maybe her stomach’s upset from last night,” Dee suggested.
“To quote the worst line in the history of Hollywood, ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’” Cammie said. “Be back.”
She slid out of the booth, left the Polo Lounge, and went downstairs to the promenade. There was no sign of Mia in any of the shops. She checked the downstairs bathroom, too.
“Mia?”
Nothing. Cammie peered at shoes under the stall doors. What the hell was Mia wearing on her feet? Delman white leather ballet flats under stall one: no. Knockoff Steve Madden platforms and fat ankles in stall two: definitely not. Stall three was Jimmy Choo stilettos in at least a size twelve—an obvious transsexual. Stall four was empty.
Damn
her. Cammie marched back upstairs to the Polo Lounge, where Dee had just signed the credit card slip. “No go,” she reported to Dee. “Let’s check outside.”