“And?”
“And he said I needed to make the first move.”
“Whatever,” Sam responded dismissively. “The question is, do you want to call Ben or not?”
“I miss him,” Anna confessed. “A lot.”
“So take out your cell and call him! What's the BFD?”
Anna sighed. What
was
the BFD? “I just want to be sure,” she finally said.
“Like that's ever gonna happen. You are the most look-before-you-leap chick I have ever known.”
“I know. I hate that about myself. But what if his father is wrong? What if Ben has completely lost interest in me by now? What if I call and he feels pressured to—”
“What if you shut up?” Sam suggested with a smirk. “If you miss Ben, then
do
something about it.”
Anna laughed. “You're right, I'll shut up.”
Sam nodded. “Excellent.” She looped her arm through Anna's. “Come on. Let's go to Morton's and see how many more people tell me my father got robbed and how many more people mistake you for a superstar.”
T
he scene on the street outside the Kodak Theatre was eerie. Four hours ago, the intersection of Highland and Hollywood had been blocked off to traffic for security reasons. Now, as Sam and Anna came outside to find their black stretch limo, it was almost as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. While the ceremonies were going on, crews of workers had dissembled the bleachers and rolled up the red carpet—the fabric covering the seedy storefronts was gone, too. In fact, the only things that gave any clue that the night was special were the rows of remote-reporting television trucks lined up on both curbs and a long line of limousines awaiting their passengers.
Sam squinted up and down Highland, searching for her chauffeur and limo. As she did, she removed her lime-green-and-black pumps and hung them off her right index finger. “How can shoes this expensive kill my feet? And don't worry about my driver. He'll spot us.”
Anna nodded.
“Still thinking about him?” Sam asked. But she didn't even have to wait for an answer. “You know, if I didn't love you, I'd have to hate you,” Sam decreed. “First, Ben Birnbaum, who is an eleven on your basic one-to-ten scale, falls at your feet. Then Adam Flood is ready to cut his heart out for you. Then there was that guy who coproduces
Hermosa Beach
—”
“Danny Bluestone,” Anna filled in. “But we never got much beyond the friend stage.”
“Then the edible surfing instructor down in Mexico. Just once in my life, I'd like to be the girl who can get any guy.” Sam sighed.
“It's not about quantity, Sam.”
“How about if I come to that conclusion after men fling themselves at my hurting feet?”
“Eduardo is
great
,” Anna reminded Sam. Which was absolutely true. “You don't want to mess it up.”
Sam looped some hair behind her ear as a limousine pulled up in front of them. But this one was purple—not theirs—and it moved off again into the night. “Like you messed up with Ben?”
Anna shrugged. “I don't know who messed up, really. Both of us, I guess.”
Sam swung her shoes from her fingers. “So call him and tell him! Or call him and talk dirty to him. Or … oh hell, just call him. Ask him about Vegas. Even
he
went last year instead of going to Washington.”
“He did?” Anna was surprised. Ben had once mentioned to her that he didn't like Las Vegas at all.
“Yep. We all did. I drove over with Cammie, even though we were juniors. He and Cammie barely came out of his room at the Bellagio. The hotels in Vegas don't care who sleeps with who, though I don't think Ben and Cammie did a lot of sleeping. Where the hell is my driver? Wait here.”
Sam slipped back into her shoes and started to march along the sidewalk, peering into each of the identical black limos. Meanwhile, Anna couldn't help thinking about Ben in bed with Cammie in a glitzy Vegas hotel suite. The notion turned her stomach. Cammie was one of Sam's lifelong friends. She was drop-dead gorgeous. She was also, in Anna's opinion, drop-dead evil. Evidently, Cammie and Ben had been quite the hot couple before Ben had broken it off. Now, it often seemed to Anna that Cammie would never forgive her for getting the boy she'd lost. It didn't matter that Ben and Anna were currently three thousand miles apart from each other. Anna had tried, on more than one occasion, to make nice with Cammie. It hadn't worked.
Sam came back, shaking her head angrily. “If you see our driver, tell him he's fired.”
“Do you have his cell?”
“Programmed into my cell, which is in the black quilted Chanel pocketbook that's still on my night-stand. We'll probably run into him at Morton's.”
Anna shook her head. “Your
chauffeur?
”
“He had a supporting role in
Miracles
. They shot it months ago and he hasn't worked since, so he's driving. Gimme your cell—I'll call a cab.”
Anna handed over her phone.
Sam began furiously pressing the buttons. “Shit. Can you believe it? Arriving at Morton's in a taxicab on Oscar night. They probably won't let us in the door.”
“Y
ou're kidding, right?” Sam asked the burly security guy outside Morton's on Melrose. Those who were on the list but not so famous that the doorman recognized them were waiting at the velvet rope to enter. Sam had been trying to skip the line. Across the street—one of the main shopping areas between the West Hollywood and Hancock Park sections, famous for its scores of exclusive boutiques, restaurants, bars, and clubs—dozens of movie fans who knew about the
Vanity Fair
bash were cordoned off behind police barricades, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars. A bevy of police officers made sure they stayed where they were supposed to be.
Sam had told Anna on the way over that just as many people had mistakenly showed up outside Morton's steakhouse on La Cienega, where absolutely nothing was happening. But the two restaurants had nothing to do with one another. Morton's on Melrose was happening. Morton's on La Cienega was nothing. That was just the way it was.
There were plenty of celebrities to keep the ravenous fans happy. Sam and Anna had fallen in just behind Gwen Stefani, who wore a very short Jennifer Nicholson blue skirt held up by sapphire suspenders. But an asshole guard who looked like the Rock on steroids had stepped between them and the entrance.
“Need to see if your name's on the list,” he grunted. Then he eased Sam out of the way to allow Courteney Cox-Arquette and Lisa Kudrow through the door. They were chattering happily to each other.
“Ever read
Vanity Fair?
” Sam snapped, once the two actresses were safely inside. “I was in it two months ago.”
This was true. The magazine had done an Oscars preview story, and there'd been a family portrait of Jackson, Poppy, and Sam that accompanied the article. But the guard didn't look impressed. Sam realized that half the people inside Morton's at that very moment had also been in
Vanity Fair
in the last few months.
“Name?” the guy asked.
“Sam Sharpe,” she sputtered through gritted teeth, then groaned as she spotted the E! television van roll to a stop in front of the restaurant. Sam knew she was about to be treated to another round of the ever-charming Marilyn Haskell.
The guard eyed Anna. “And you are?”
“She's Hollywood's hottest new young star,” Sam answered for Anna, desperate to get inside before Marilyn cornered her again. “What difference does it make? Check your goddamn list. I'm plus one!”
The guard smiled mirthlessly at her. “Sharp. Is that with one
p
or two?”
“Sharpe,” Sam snapped, with one eye on the E! van. Marilyn Haskell had just gotten out and was making a beeline to Morton's front door. “As in Jackson.”
“Oh yeah, he lost.” The guard scanned his clipboard. “Here you are. Samantha Sharpe plus one. Go on in.”
“Thank God,” Sam declared, stepping inside. As they did, the reporter from
Inside Access
shouted to her.
“Sam! How do you feel about your father's losing—”
Sam quickly closed the door behind her. “God, I can't stand Oscar night.”
They made their way to the open bar through an intense crush of people. On any other night of the year, Morton's was merely another popular restaurant known as a good place for stargazing in a town filled with popular restaurants known as good places for stargazing. The interior lines were clean and elegant, the tables separated enough so that conversation was possible. But tonight the staff had cleared space to handle the crowd, and the classic rock and roll playing over the enhanced sound system was at earsplitting volume.
As Sam and Anna tried to get drinks, celebrity after celebrity—Nicolas Cage, Halle Berry, Kirsten Dunst, even Clint Eastwood—stopped Sam to offer their opinion: that she looked great in her dress and that her father had been robbed of the Oscar he so richly deserved.
A passing waiter carried a tray of champagne flutes. Sam snared two of them and handed one to Anna. “Well, we're here.” She touched her glass to Anna's in a toast. “Let's get drunk.”
“Yes, let's,” a voice behind them piped in. Sam and Anna turned—it was Cammie Sheppard herself. Sam took in how incredible Cammie looked: sooty eyelashes and MAC Pinkarat Lustreglass lip gloss on her pouty lips. A shrunken white tank top, 7 For All Mankind jeans, and lilac Judith Leiber pumps with a pointed toe.
Morton's was full of famous and gorgeous women. But by being underdressed, Cammie stood out. Damn. Somehow she always knew exactly what to do, exactly what to wear. Just standing next to Cammie made Sam feel fat, even in her carefully-purchased-to-conceal-pounds dress. Involuntarily, she immediately started to calculate how many calories she'd consumed in the last forty-eight hours.
“Hey, Sam, how's it going?” Cammie asked nonchalantly, as if running into her best friend at an Oscars party was an annual ritual. In a way, it was. “Hi, Anna.”
“Hi. Were you there?” Anna asked politely.
Cammie shook her head, her perfect strawberry blond curls cascading to and fro as she did. “Nah. Been there, done that. Got tired of Hilary Swank. But I can see why you would want to be there, being new here and all. So how'd it go? Did your father win?”
Sam gulped down her hurt. She couldn't believe that Cammie hadn't bothered to find out if her dad had won. Jackson had been so good to Cammie over the years.
And he'd been good to Cammie's dad, too. Back when Clark Sheppard had been struggling as an agent—before he'd catapulted into the big time—Jackson had graciously steered some work in his direction. Cammie's attitude was so … ungrateful.
“He got robbed,” Anna put in by way of an answer.
Sam smiled. Coming from Anna, the overused phrase had a certain wonderful irony.
“That sucks,” Cammie replied, oozing sincerity. Sam couldn't decide if it was real or not. Cammie took a swig of the Corona beer she was holding. It was just like her. Everyone else was having a cocktail? She'd have a beer. And look great doing it, too.
“No Adam?” Anna asked her coolly.
“Nah,” Cammie reported. “He has a cold. Before you jump to the conclusion that I couldn't have gotten him to come with me if I really wanted to, I decided to look out for his health.”
“Hey, Sam.” The famous magician David Copperfield waved to Sam as he edged by.
“I've got a great idea. When we're in Vegas, let's
not
see his show,” Cammie suggested. She arched one of her perfect eyebrows at Anna. “You're not coming to Vegas, are you?”
“I haven't decided.”
“Of course she's coming,” Sam told Cammie. “You know, we thought about sharing the MTV suite at the Palms but thought you'd be happier in your own suite with Adam.”
“How thoughtful,” Cammie purred. “But the MTV suite has a pool table in the living room, doesn't it? I wonder if anyone has ever tried it out.” Her wink made it clear that she wasn't discussing nine-ball.
“I'm pretty sure I've already seen you do the nasty on a pool table,” Sam reminded Cammie, since she was feeling none too charitable toward her at the moment. “Last year, after Ben broke up with you, at Krishna's party, when you got drunk off your ass?”
Cammie shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, right, that film major from UCLA. What was his name … Chuck or Buck, something like that. Not exactly memorable.”
“I think Parker still has the photos he took, if you need any incriminating evidence,” Sam reminded her through a smile she didn't feel. Sometimes Cammie was just too over-the-top.
Suddenly, the crowd around them parted like the Red Sea for Moses. But instead of Moses, Jackson Sharpe appeared. He strode over as soon as he saw his daughter.
“Hey, there's my girl and her best friends,” Jackson declared as he approached. He put out his arms for a hug, and Sam embraced him. A
Vanity Fair
photographer snapped off a quick photo. Sam didn't even mind.
“You got robbed,” Sam found herself saying. “And by the way, the whole town thinks so. Where's Poppy?”
“She wanted to get home to the baby.”
Sam knew this was for the benefit of anyone within earshot, since she was well aware that Jackson and Poppy had arranged for all-night child care for the damned baby. The only reason Poppy didn't want to come to the party was because her husband had failed to win his first Oscar. Again.
“When they announced the award, I threw something at the TV,” Cammie declared. Which pissed Sam off all over again, since Cammie hadn't even known until Anna had told her. Cammie was supposed to be one of her best friends. Self-serving lies fell from Cammie's lips as easily as Paris Hilton's clothes fell from her bony-ass butt.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Jackson replied humbly. “My actioners are too commercial and my low-budget ones too thoughtful. I swear, if they shut me out and then present me with a Lifetime Achievement award when I'm eighty, I'm giving it to Jim Carrey—they don't appreciate him, either. Anyway, I'm on my way out. Sam, you need a lift?”
“Yes, but not in the gold monstrosity.”
Jackson laughed. “No worries. I had the driver take Poppy home in it and come back in the Beemer. Black. Very low key. We can drop Anna on the way.”