Girls on Film (5 page)

In real life, someone had slipped some high-test Russian vodka into the punch, and Sam had gotten totally wasted. Just to be outrageous, she had kissed Dee in the middle of the stage. To her surprise, she’d kind of liked it.

In Sam’s dream it had been her own sweet sixteen. For a goof the party had an Oscar theme—she’d just received the fictitious Academy Award for best director. Anna had been the presenter. When Anna had handed her the gold statuette, she’d kissed her. Not on the cheek, either. But on the lips.

And … Sam had kissed her back. Like
really
kissed her back, as the theme from
Titanic
had swelled in the background.

Very weird. Because she was certain she wasn’t gay. The lust bunny had jumped into her boy-cut La Perla silk panties many a time for many a guy. She wasn’t as slutty as, say, Cammie Sheppard—who
was?
—but she’d had her share of hookups. So what was up with the dream, then?

Maybe it was because Anna had been with Ben, and Sam had crushed on Ben for so long? Some kind of bizarre brain-wave syntax-firing blip?

It couldn’t
possibly
be because she was gay. No flip-pin’ way.

“Hey, wait up,” Sam called to Anna, who she saw walking toward the high school building. It was another beautiful, sunny L.A. morning. Sam hurried to catch up as quickly as her stiletto heels would permit.

It was three hours later. When she’d dressed, she’d taken a last appraising look at herself in her three-way, floor-length mirror. She loved the Asian-inspired red-and-violet-silk Yohji Yamamoto fitted T-shirt, the cropped red leather Valentino jacket, and the size-eight Gucci jeans, which were surprisingly slimming, considering how low cut they were. Just before breakfast the family limo had arrived with her hair guy, Raymond, so he could do a blowout at home. (Sam couldn’t imagine sitting with the other I’m-getting-a-blowout-before-I-start-my-day types at his brand-new salon, Menage.) As usual, Raymond had done a spectacular job; with the help of his new Raymond’s Genius hair extensions, her hair looked thick and luxurious.

But even with all that, plus makeup applied the way she’d learned at Valerie’s cosmetics emporium, Anna Percy—who wore nothing more elaborate than a long-sleeved black T-shirt, low-slung black pants, and utterly non-trendy Capezio dance flats—made Sam feel like a bloated, painted clown.

“Hi, Sam. What’s up?”

“The party-at-my-place-and-film-it thing is out for this weekend,” Sam told Anna as they entered the building together. “Listen, how many synonyms do you know for stupid?”

Anna looked confused. “Sorry?”

“Dumb, dull, retarded, thick, moronic, dim-witted, imbecilic, pea brained,” Sam answered herself as they cut through the building and out onto the quad. “They all apply to my new—gag me—stepmom, who has decided to redo my home in her image, beginning this weekend. Ergo, no party.”

“Can’t we just shoot it in a club?” Anna suggested. “Someplace decadent?”

“Been there, done that,” Sam replied. “A guy last year did a short film at Au Bar that made it into the L.A. Film Festival. We need something fresh. We really need to get it together by this weekend if we want to—wait. I’ve got it. Veronique’s Maison!”

“Veronica’s house?” Anna translated.

“It’s this incredible spa in Palm Springs,” Sam explained. “I was thinking of going up there later in the month anyway. Here, check it out. Look in the very back.” She pulled the latest edition of
Los Angeles
magazine out of her backpack and handed it to Anna, who flipped to the last page, where she found the tiniest of boxed ads.

It read simply:
VERONIQUE’S MAISON. 2006 waiting list only. E-mail only to [email protected]. NO calls
.

“2006? Impressive,” Anna said.

“They don’t really need the ad; they only place it to be snotty. Like, they don’t even tell you it’s a spa; you just have to know. Trust me, this place is as Daisy Buchanan as you can get. Mixed with a little Deepak Chopra, but whatever. I think we should go this weekend. And film there.”

Anna handed the magazine back to Sam. “I suppose the waiting list doesn’t apply to you.”

“Your point?” Sam asked.

“None. But I really don’t know if I can spend the weekend away.”

“Why not?”

“I might have plans.”

“Change them.”

“Adam and I were talking about going to the San Diego Zoo.”

“Yeah, I saw you two together yesterday.” Sam worked hard not to look at Anna’s mouth. Which was just so sick! The only reason she was even thinking about that was because of her stupid dream, which didn’t mean anything. “Invite him to come out to V’s. So, you and Adam, huh?”

Anna shrugged. “We’re friends.”

“Friends who get naked and do the nasty or the boring kind?”

Anna laughed. “I don’t know yet.”

Sam shook her perfectly streaked locks off her face. “Come on. You know if the vibe is there.”

Anna looked contemplative. “Well, I kissed him last night.”

Sam checked in with herself on how she felt about that, but everything was too jumbled together in her mind. She shrugged. “A kiss is just a kiss.”

“Casablanca.”
Anna smiled.

“Wait, I thought you told me you never went to the movies,” Sam reminded her.

“Come on.
Casablanca
is a classic.”

“And you’re a classics kind of babe,” Sam surmised. Oh God, did she sound
flirtatious?
Because that would be horrible! “So, anyway, how was it?”

“Nice.”

“Translation—no chemistry,” Sam surmised.

“It was a first kiss, not a scorched-earth policy.”

“Chemistry is chemistry,” Sam insisted. “Either you want to jump his bones or you don’t. Hold on, I’ve got a phone call to make.”

Sam pulled her cell from her purse and made a quick call to her father’s executive assistant, telling her to book two suites at V’s for the weekend.

“Done.” Sam dropped the palm-size phone back into her purse with a big smile. “We’ll have a blast.” Her gut told her that the Anna and Adam thing wasn’t exactly torrid. Plus the thought of spending the weekend at a spa with Anna made her feel … happy. “And it’s on me,” she added.

“That’s not necessary, but thanks for the offer. Listen, if we’re going to do a film, won’t we need to write a script?” Anna pointed out.

Sam shook her head. “We’ll just improv and see what we get.”

“I think that’s another way of saying we’ll be unprepared.”

Sam sighed. Why was Anna being difficult? “Fine, I’ll write a—”

“Why don’t I do it?” Anna interrupted. “You’re directing and producing, the least I can do is write.”

Sam was dubious. “Have you ever written a screenplay?”

“No. But we’re only talking about, what, a ten-minute film? Everyone has to start somewhere.”

“Really, Anna, I should—”

“No,
I
should,” Anna insisted. “It’s a co-project, remember?”

“
Fine
,” Sam acquiesced, though she was not happy about it. She checked her new Cartier Tank watch. “Damn, I’m late to meet Cammie. Listen, meet me after school at the Beverly Hills Hotel and we can plan the whole thing.”

“Why the Beverly Hi—”

“Convenient, cool, beats Starbucks. Gotta run. Catch you later.”

Sam took off, her mind buzzing. She was used to giving directions, not taking them. On the other hand, she kind of liked that Anna Percy was no pushover. One could say, Sam found it very … attractive.

Screw Hazelden

“H
i, Sam,” the Angelina Jolie look-alike waitress said as she reached behind her head and pulled a pen out of her ponytail.

“The usual?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Madeline. Anna?”

“Espresso would be great,” Anna said.

The girls were seated in the Polo Lounge, the outdoor café at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Surrounded by a spectacular array of palm trees and flowers in brilliant shades of pink and rose, Anna was reminded of the afternoon teas she’d once had there with her grandparents when she was little.

Though it was early January, all Anna needed to wear over her T-shirt was a denim jacket. Sam leaned her elbows on the table. One of her hands came to rest atop Anna’s. “So, I’ve been thinking about how perfect it is for us to do this project together. It’s like you’re Daisy and I’m Jay.”

Anna tried to figure out what Sam could possibly mean by that remark. In
The Great Gatsby
, Jay Gatsby had a massive crush on the wealthy Daisy Buchanan. He became wealthy himself. But somehow his “new” money wasn’t considered as good as her “old” money. Though Jay did everything he could, he never quite convinced Daisy—or himself—that he was good enough for her.

What was Sam implying? Was it about money? Class? Or something else?

No. It couldn’t be romance. Sam was straight.

But. Just in case. Anna dead-eyed Sam’s hand over her own. “Care to explain?” she asked, casually with-drawing her hand.

“Just kidding. I’m thinking when we get to V’s, we should suss out the social-climbing nouveau faction and ask them if they want to be in a movie. People always say yes, especially when they realize who I am.”

“What if they can’t act?” Anna asked. “Someone has to do the dialogue that I’m going to write.”

Sam waved dismissively. “Think of the guests as wallpaper. We’ll definitely have your basic filthy-rich snooty types from back east. You might even know some of them. Any luck, some filthy-rich guy who made his money in Internet porn will be visiting from Texas. That’ll add some, ahem, color. Cut and paste, mix and match, splice them in around the script, and voila: we’ve got a visual commentary on the modern American aristocracy that would make F. Scott proud. So, what about your script?”

“What about it?” Anna said, hoping she sounded confident.

“You’ve thought about it?”

“Sure,” Anna improvised. That was true. She
had
thought about it. She just hadn’t come to any conclusions.

“Main characters, at least?” Sam prompted.

“A Gatsby type, of course. And … a Daisy type. And probably another girl.” Anna was making it up as she went along. “Maybe Parker Pinelli could play Gatsby?” She’d met Parker at the wedding, too. He was a stunningly handsome BHH senior who allegedly was an actor.

“Why, are you interested in Parker now?” Sam asked.

Anna noticed a sharpness to Sam’s tone. “Not at all. But he can act, right?”

“Using the term loosely,” Sam allowed. “Yeah, he’ll do in a heartbeat. We’ll get his brother, Monty, to help out, too. I’ll give some thought to the Daisy character and get back to you. Unless you want to be Daisy.”

“
Definitely
not. And there’s only one other casting absolute: No Cammie Sheppard.”

“You have my word,” Sam said with a chuckle. Anna wasn’t sure what the chuckle was meant to imply. And she didn’t really care, quite frankly. If Anna’s low opinion of Cammie Sheppard was comical to Sam, so be it. As long as Cammie stayed far away from the set.

“Here you go, Sam.” The waitress set a cup of coffee and an iced crystal goblet of fresh raspberries in front of her. “Hey, I got a callback for your dad’s new film.”

“Good for you,” Sam said.

“It’s just one scene—I’d be a go-go dancer at the Limelight who has information your dad’s character needs to find his kidnapped lover. But it’s killer.”

“Great, Madeline. Hope you get it.”

Madeline held up crossed fingers, then went on to the next table. Sam tore open a packet of Equal and shook it into her coffee. “I swear, everyone in this town is delusional. I’ve seen her reel. She sucks.”

“Why doesn’t someone tell her the truth, then?”

“You’re in La La Land now, Anna. The truth is always relative.” Sam plucked a raspberry from her goblet with French-manicured fingers and popped it into her mouth. “Lots of girls who can’t act make it. If she makes it, you don’t want to be the one who dissed her. Or she could be sleeping with someone really important. You dis her, she tells him …
or her
… you’re screwed. And other variations on that theme.” Sam chewed another raspberry, then lowered her voice. “They use girls like her for the ‘box’ scene.”

“Which is … ?” Anna asked.

“You know how there’s always a still photo of a babe in a bikini or her underwear on the box of every DVD movie? It’s supposed to attract buyers and renters to the film, even if it has nothing to do with the picture. Want one?” She pushed the berries toward Anna.

“No thanks. Actually, I think I’ll head back to my dad’s and start writing. Any ideas for a plot?”

“Pound away, we’ll see what you come up with,” Sam said, sipping her coffee. “But don’t go yet. Let’s hang out awhile.”

Unfortunately, Anna really was itching to start writing. She’d been accused many a time of living with her nose in a book but had never thought about actually becoming a writer. Maybe it would turn out that she had talent. That is, if she could come up with an actual story for their film. “I read somewhere that Fitzgerald came out here to be a screenwriter,” she recalled.

“And failed miserably,” Sam added. “It only
seemed
easy.”

“Well, then I really better get started,” Anna said as she rose to gather her things. Progress was definitely being made. A few days ago she would have felt guilty leaving Sam alone. But Sam could fend for herself.

And so could Anna.

A half hour later, when Anna pulled her car into the circular driveway, there was a red Saleen Mustang parked close to the front walkway. Her first thought was:
Ben
. Her second thought was to tell her first thought to shut up.

First, she knew Ben drove a Maserati. Second, just because he’d sent her balloons the day before didn’t mean he’d try to stand in for those balloons today. Third, Anna knew he had to get back to New Jersey for the start of classes at Princeton. Chances were good he was already there. But even if by some fluke he was still in town and it was his car, that did not mean—fourth—that she would talk to him.

“Anna?” The car door opened. It wasn’t Ben. It was her sister.

“Susan?”

“Got a hug for your big sis?” Susan came over to her with outstretched arms.