“And the award goes to …”
“Please, please, please,” Sam chanted under her breath. “My father. But if not, anyone but the kid—”
“Alan Bosworth in
Miracles
!”
The crowd roared. Then, as Bosworth ascended the stage, led by his German shepherd seeing-eye dog, everyone jumped to their feet for a standing ovation. It was so loud that Anna could barely make out the strains of the movie's theme, which had already won the award for Best Original Song.
Anna and Sam had no choice—they rose to their feet along with everyone else.
“Shit,” Sam muttered. Anna could hear the sincere disappointment in her voice. It was touching. “I really thought this was my dad's year. Check him out, he's such a pro.”
Anna craned her neck so that she could see Jackson, who was standing in the aisle, beaming and applauding as if the teen actor were his own child. Anna was touched, both by Jackson's magnanimous response and Sam's empathy for her dad. It wasn't like Jackson was a model father. Most of the time, Sam and her father weren't close. In fact, Jackson Sharpe pretty much ignored her—save for the one time several weeks earlier that he'd come to her rescue when she and Anna had gotten lost in the Mexican desert. Anna had hoped that incident would mark the start of a better relationship between Sam and Jackson. Sadly, it hadn't. They'd come home, and Jackson had reverted right back to his previous pattern of placing his daughter Sam as number eleven on a list of ten. He hadn't even come to school to see her student film when it was presented to her English class. And now that his new baby, Ruby Hummingbird Sharpe, had arrived, Jackson was more distracted than ever. Sam tried to act like she didn't care. But Anna could see how much it hurt her.
There was only one more award, for Best Picture.
Snow Job
had been nominated here, but Sam declared that it was a lost cause. She was right: It was the year of
Miracles
. Another mandatory standing ovation, and then the evening was over.
“What now?” Anna asked as the lights came up in the theater and people rushed for the exits.
“What now?” Sam repeated. “That's simple. Vodka.”
T
he Governor's Ball was the traditional sit-down dinner and reception for the Oscar winners, nominees, and sixteen hundred of their best friends. Catered by the famous restaurateur Wolfgang Puck and held in a lavishly decorated exhibition hall housed in the same building as the Kodak Theatre itself, it was the first stop on what would be for many Oscar attendees a long night of parties. This year's theme was “Classic Hollywood,” and as Sam and Anna followed the thick crowd toward the banquet room, they passed enormous movie posters of Oscar-winning films from thirty, forty, and even fifty years ago.
Sam had told Anna that everyone made an appearance at the Governor's Ball, even if half the room cleared out before dinner was served in order to attend one of the many hipper parties held at various clubs, restaurants, and private homes across the city, away from the watchful eye of the Los Angeles Police Department. Those parties didn't start until an hour or so after the ceremony, so the Governor's Ball was a good way to kill some time. Anna and Sam joined an endless line by one of the bars that was serving the evening's signature drink, a rum-and-grenadine concoction that had been hastily renamed the “Miracle.”
“Fucking British wankers,” a silver-haired man in front of Anna groused to his date—or maybe it was his wife—about the
Miracles
sweep. She was at least twenty years younger than he was, with a cascade of diamonds dripping into her saline-assisted cleavage. “I hate those sons of bitches. Americans still have an inferiority complex about that shit. Fucking members of the fucking Academy. In fact, what the hell are we doing at this party? Let's go home.”
As the man dragged the woman away toward the main doors, Sam nodded knowingly. “That's Peter Marx. He wrote
A Heart Divided
.”
Anna nodded. She recalled that
A Heart Divided
, taken from a young-adult novel about a Confederate flag controversy at a Southern high school, had lost out for Best Adapted Screenplay.
“Notice how he reeks of loser now,” Sam observed as they watched Marx and the blonde depart, without a single other guest taking notice. “He's not going home; he knows he has to show his face tonight or some studio exec will mention it in an anonymous blog in the morning. He'll go to some after party and pretend to be thrilled to be nominated. Then he'll go home and post anonymously on some Web site about how he got robbed. Speaking of after parties, you still want to do Morton's?”
The Governor's Ball was the official Oscars after party—appearances were mandatory. But the
Vanity Fair
bash at Morton's restaurant on Melrose Avenue was the most exclusive of all the post-Oscar festivities—it was where the Hollywood A-list ended up after they'd hung out sufficiently at the Governor's Ball and at least made it through the coconut-shrimp appetizer. Sam and Anna had planned to go to Morton's, but that had been when Jackson was still an Oscar contender.
“I don't know. I don't suppose your father can be happy with the it-was-an-honor-just-to-be-nominated point of view?”
“Politically correct horseshit,” Sam decreed as the drinks line edged forward. “No one really feels that way. My father and Poppy will stop there for like ten minutes so that he looks like a gracious loser; then they'll head home and cry into their low-carb beer.”
Anna smiled. “You may be the last honest girl in Hollywood.”
“Please. I'm only honest with you.”
“Anna? Is that you?”
Anna swung around and recognized the slicked-back silver hair and chiseled features of Dr. Dan Birnbaum, Hollywood's most renowned cosmetic surgeon. Also, father to Ben Birnbaum.
Her
Ben. Well, at least he'd been her Ben for a while. Just thinking about him caused a pain in the area of her heart. She'd never, ever felt about a boy the way she'd felt about Ben.
Still
felt about Ben. Admitting that, if only to herself, caused the pain to deepen.
“Nice to see you again, Dr. Birnbaum,” Anna said politely. She'd met him at the wedding where Jackson Sharpe had married Sam's stepmother, Poppy, and a few other times, too. He looked better now—his hair, which he'd allowed to gray perfectly at the temples, was neatly swept back, and he'd clearly been working out. Ben had told her that his father had nearly killed himself back in January due to gambling debts. She hoped that those problems were long over. But Ben had intimated that his father wasn't all that stable, so she was a bit wary. “This is my friend—”
“Sam Sharpe,” Dr. Birnbaum filled in. “Come on, I've known Sam for years. She and my son grew up together.”
Anna felt momentarily embarrassed, telling herself she should have remembered that.
He leaned over and kissed Sam's cheek. “Sorry your dad lost, Sam. I thought he was fantastic in that movie.”
“Me too,” Sam replied. “Thanks.”
“Hey, what do those idiots know?” Dr. Birnbaum asked dismissively. “Every year I come to this thing to support my friends; every year some other guy wins. What can I say? I've got broad shoulders for them to cry on.”
“Come on, Dr. Birnbaum,” Sam chided. “The truth is, you did half the faces and boobs here, and you wanted to see how they look in comparison to one another.”
Dr. Birnbaum wagged a finger at her. “I don't discuss my clientele.”
“Please. They're all in the
Star
,” Sam kidded. “‘Knife Styles of the Rich and Famous.’ You ought to autograph your work. A little Dr. B tattoo on a well-lifted butt. Everyone will want one.”
Dr. Birnbaum smiled at her. “Funny girl.”
Sam peered around. “Where's your wife?”
“She never comes to these things.” He touched Anna's arm. “Anna, dear, could I speak with you a moment? Privately?”
Anna was slightly taken aback. She'd never had a one-on-one with Ben's father before. What was this about?
“Uh, sure. Sam, you excuse us?”
“No problem,” Sam nodded. “I'll go mingle. It'll take a half hour before we can get a cocktail, anyway.” Anna watched as she moved off into the dense crowds gathered by the bars—she didn't get more than twenty feet before she was approached by a young man in a white Stetson and a jacket and string tie. The guy looked like he'd just stepped out of the O.K. Corral.
“You have good taste,” Dr. Birnbaum observed to Anna. “Samantha Sharpe was always the brightest of my son's friends. I'm glad I ran into you. Ben sends his regards.”
Anna was confused. “How did he know you'd run into me?”
Dr. Birnbaum smiled. “You're right. He didn't. But whenever we talk on the phone, he asks if I've seen you.” The doctor waved to someone over Anna's shoulder.
“You look fabulous, Tom!” Then he turned back to Anna. “My son told me recently that he shared with you some of my past … challenges.”
The gambling, Anna thought. And the lying. And Dr. Birnbaum's nearly killing himself in a hotel room because he was so deeply in debt.
“Yes,” she admitted. “He did.”
Dr. Birnbaum pursed his lips. “I'm glad he did, actually—much as it pains me to say so. I've been in Gamblers Anonymous for three months. I'm committed to a life of total honesty as discussed in what I like to call their Big Book.”
Anna went for a polite smile. She was happy that Ben's father was getting his act together, but she didn't understand why a life of total honesty meant that he had to share this information with her. It wasn't like they were friends. And unfortunately, she was no longer involved with his son.
Anna's to-the-manor-born mother had a sort of mental Big Book of her own. Anna had mentally dubbed it the
This Is How We Do Things
Big Book (East Coast WASP edition). If that book had taught her anything, it was to keep skeletons in the palatial walk-in closet with the revolving shoe rack, where they belonged.
“You think this is oversharing, me telling you all this. Especially in public,” Dr. Birnbaum observed. “I see it on your face. But the thing is …” He moved closer, his voice dropping. “Confidentially, I've never seen Ben as hung up on a girl as he is on you.”
“
Was
,” Anna corrected.
Dr. Birnbaum shook his head. “Still is, Anna. I know my kid.”
Still? Anna's heart leapfrogged. Could that possibly be true? They'd parted badly when Ben had gone back to college at Princeton several weeks after they'd met. It had been very emotional then, and it felt the same way now. Anna was surprised that Ben would have shared those feelings with his father. In fact, Ben had once mentioned his father as an example of everything he did not want to be.
“We broke up, Dr. Birnbaum,” Anna explained. “I'm sure he doesn't feel that way anymore.”
“I believe he does,” Ben's father insisted. “Look, Ben is doing great. Grades are top notch, varsity crew—it's all good.”
“Except,” Dr. Birnbaum continued, “that he's missing you. Look, I haven't always been there for my son in the past. Been too busy chasing the golden calf, you know? But I want to be there for him now. I know what he needs; I hear it in his voice every time he says your name. He needs you. Call him sometime.” He put a hand on her arm. “Soon.”
“He could call me.” Anna paused, then gulped.
“Nah. He thinks he messed it up with you. Which means it's your move, if you want to make it.” Dr. Birnbaum flashed a grin that could well have been the result of a dental-work-for-chin-implant swap. “My kid is the best, Anna, and he really misses you. That's for real, my hand to God.” He held his palm up. “So do it, okay?”
“Yes, all right,” Anna said nodding. She still wasn't sure what she would or should do. But she couldn't very well refuse. Not after Ben's father had bared his very soul to her.
“That's great, Anna. I won't mention this to Ben. I'll just let you take it from here. Have a terrific night. If you see Jackson Sharpe, tell him he got robbed, okay?”
As Dr. Birnbaum moved off into the crowd, Anna recalled the day she'd met Ben on the flight to Los Angeles, the day before New Year's Eve. Their romance had seemed magical at the time. They'd met on the plane, when Ben had saved her from the Seatmate from Hell by pretending to be a guy she knew and making the guy change seats with him. Ben was tall and broad-chested, with dark hair and the most amazing blue eyes.
She'd flirted with him—her,
flirting!
—something she'd always sworn she had no clue how to do! But up there flying high next to Ben, it had been so easy, so fun, romantic, sexy, exciting, like something out of her most girly fantasies.
Not long afterward, they were furiously making out in the plane's minuscule bathroom. She blushed just remembering it, amazed at her own daring. And yet, it had happened. She had done it.
When the plane had landed, the magic hadn't. Ben had invited her to be his date at Jackson Sharpe's wedding that night. Then there'd been the private midnight cruise on his father's yacht. A few weeks later, Anna had made love for the first time, with Ben. Looking back, that night seemed most magical of all.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she quickly brushed them away. Somehow after that, everything had gone wrong. They'd both been surprised by their feelings: Ben, that he'd fallen so hard for her, and Anna, that intimacy could be as scary as it was sweet. How could she be in this new Los Angeles life, where she wanted to experience everything, when she had so quickly become part of a couple? How could she want it yet not want it at the same time?
“Hey,” Sam beckoned smoothly as she appeared in front of Anna holding two drinks. She gave one to Anna and tugged her out of the line. “Vodka tonics. Drink up. I've heard ‘Your father got robbed’ ten times in the past ten minutes. It's crap, though. This is a schadenfreude town. It's not enough that these people should succeed: Everyone else should fail. So what did Dr. Nose Job want?”
“He wants me to call Ben at Princeton.” Anna took a sip of her cocktail. The conversation with Dr. Birnbaum had put her brain into overdrive. Again.
“Why doesn't Ben just call you?”
“That's exactly what I asked him.”