In the morning, I drive them to LAX. Against my parents protests that it’s too expensive, I park the car in the airport lot and roll Mom’s luggage to the check-in line, which moves slowly and takes twenty-five minutes. The man at security is nice and lets me accompany them to the gate. On the way there, I stop at the newsstand to buy everyone a cheesy souvenir of Los Angeles—an Oscar statuette for Mom, a palm tree snow globe for Carrie and a La Cienega T-shirt for Dad.
When their flight is called, Mom’s eyes well up again and she gives me a bone-crushing hug as she makes me promise to come home soon. “How’s Presidents Day? That’s not a big travel weekend.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Dad seconds the invitation and sweetens the deal by offering me miles. Carrie snorts in disgust. “I went to London for a year and nobody flew me home free.”
They board the plane a few minutes later and I hang out by the window, watching the cargo crew load the bags. Black suitcase after black suitcase disappears into the luggage compartment. The loudspeaker crackles and the flight attendant announces the last call for flight 178 to New York JFK. A few stragglers line up. As soon as they board, the gate closes and the plane taxis down the runway. It’s almost noon and I have a lot to do, but I stand there at the glass, waiting until the plane takes off. Then, feeling oddly bereft, I turn away and walk to the parking lot.
Somehow, I miss them already.
For the next week, I field interview requests from every major law firm in Los Angeles. The first call is a complete shock.
“Ms. Carstone, this is Sari Gavin from Merttleson, Sleazak and Eriks. We have your résumé here and would love to talk to you about a paralegal position. How’s Monday at two? Please call to confirm.”
I assume it’s a one-off but the next day two more calls come in from equally prestigious firms. Torn between horror and amusement, I ring Carrie at work and swear her to secrecy. Mom would open her own headhunting firm if she knew how effective her cover letters are.
At first I delete the voice mails as soon as they come in but as the week progresses, I start to save them. There’s something exhilarating about being wanted, even by an industry you don’t want, and I replay the messages before I go to sleep each night as a sort of meditation exercise. I close my eyes, breathe deeply and repeat, “This is Humphrey Simmons from Grear Associates calling for Ricki Carstone. We’re very impressed with your résumé and are eager to set up an interview. Please call us immediately.”
It’s an ego trip but I enjoy the ride.
Then the Visa bill arrives with all my Christmas shopping and the expenses from my parents’ visit. I don’t know why I insisted on treating everyone to Disneyland but there it is in black-and-white: four 1-Day Park Hopper tickets: $420, plus dinner at the Cajun restaurant overlooking the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. We didn’t even need the fancy tickets. We barely went into the California Adventure park.
Adding the credit card bill to my other expenses—rent, health insurance, car insurance, gas, groceries—I realize my financial picture is far worse than I imagined. My movie money is almost gone and I can barely account for all of it. The screenwriting classes with John are the single biggest drain but that’s not the corner to cut. Those lessons are my future.
Health insurance is much more expendable. As long as I don’t do anything risky like learn how to ski or bungee-jump, I should be fine.
But even as I decide to cancel my policy, I imagine the drive to the supermarket, a supposedly safe journey that now seems full of hazardous obstacles like dodging pedestrians and distracted drivers.
Instead, I contemplate life without a car. A bus ticket costs $1.50; a gallon of gas is more than four dollars. Even in New York the M5 will run you two dollars to go up Sixth Avenue.
People in L.A. like to talk as if their city doesn’t have a vast network of buses crisscrossing the metropolitan area, but in fact there are hundreds of lines. The transit map is a dense spider web of veins and arteries connecting one end of the city to the other. With a little forethought and planning, you can get anywhere you want. Thousands of people pull it off every day.
The least I can do is give it a try.
My pioneering spirit lasts two days. I manage to get to get to the Beverly Center in forty-eight minutes, taking the 780 to the 14. Free transfers aren’t included, so the trip winds up costing twice as much as I expect but I easily fix that with a three-dollar day pass. The return trip takes a half hour longer, not only because there’s traffic but because there are so many people on board the bus stops every two blocks. This is why I always take the subway at home: Giving everyone a say in where they get off is far too democratic and time consuming.
I also take the bus to the Ralph’s on Hollywood, which is much closer than I realize. My arms laden with three overflowing bags of groceries, I walk home, delighted that Los Feliz feels like a city, not a suburban development. The Happy indeed.
But then I try to get from my apartment to John’s, and the limitations of the L.A. MTA are suddenly made clear. I’m prepared to suffer the indignity of long wait times and traffic and six bus changes, but his East Avenue 42nd address doesn’t come up on the trip planner. It’s like it doesn’t exist at all.
I go to Google maps just to make sure it’s still there. Yep, it pops up with a little red arrow pointing directly at it. I try entering the street name as it shows up on Google, E Avenue 42, but it makes no difference. I call the information line and am told by two different operators that there isn’t an East 42nd Avenue, maybe I mean West 42nd Street. Frustrated, I hang up.
Since car insurance clearly isn’t the corner to cut, I consider a more drastic measure: paying only the minimum on my Visa.
No Carstone in the history of consumer credit has ever paid just the minimum. Even as the idea flashes through my head, I can hear my dad expounding on its evils. “On a $5,000 balance,” he’d say every year as he handed me and Carrie our new cards, “it would take you a staggering twelve years to pay off the debt, at which point you will have paid a mind-boggling $2,915.66 in interest, 58.3 percent of the original charge.” Then we’d each get an Excel spreadsheet with interest-principal breakdowns, which we had to initial and date as proof we read it.
Even knowing this, I find the thought of paying only the minimum very seductive. Credit is a loan, and loans are paid off over time. A credit card isn’t just the convenience of not carrying cash or protection against theft, it’s a cash advance, money you don’t have at the moment but will soon enough.
It’s really not that big a deal.
And it’s better than cutting into my life savings.
Still, I can’t do it.
Two days later, another law firm calls, Harkness, Zoom and Schneider. I’m home but I don’t answer the phone. I just listen to the message over and over. “Hi, Ms. Carstone, we think you’re an excellent candidate and would make a great addition to our team. Call us at 310-555-8634. We look forward to hearing from you.”
I reach for the phone three times in the next twenty-four hours. Finally, I pick it up and start to dial. Life has its own inevitability, its own built-in plot that we either can’t escape or don’t want to. This is mine.
The phone rings once, twice, then another call beeps in. Happy to avoid the unavoidable for a few minutes more, I click to the other person.
“Ricki, this is Lester,” the voice says, brusque and businesslike and music to my ears. “I just wanted to let you know the script is in. Lloyd loves it.”
I grip the phone tightly. “Really?”
“They’re making a few changes, then submitting it to the studio. I’ll call you when I know more. We should hear something about the option renewal by the end of the month. I’ll be in touch.”
And just like that, my crisis of faith is over.
I hang up, delete the messages from the law firms, pay my full credit card balance and go to sleep.
Moxie stumbles into Raptures at three in the morning. With the help of gal-pal Bella Masters, she commandeers a corner table, evicting several confused mechanics, and orders Jaeger shots and grasshoppers. The strip club doesn’t have crème de menthe or crème de cacao or even double cream, so the bartender mixes a pitcher of Long Island ice tea without the Coke. If the girls aren’t too drunk to notice the difference, they don’t say anything.
According to StripperNation.com, Raptures is a cozy little strip club just off the far south end of the Las Vegas strip, the sort of homey, relaxed spot where you’d want your granddaughter to peel off her clothes to catcalls and drooling men. It’s a low-key hangout with a center tipping stage, a bar and a fair-priced VIP lounge ($100, includes three lap dances). The clientele is mostly local—it gets a good after-work crowd—but in-the-know tourists searching for an alternative to the cold impersonality of the mega clubs along the Strip sometimes drop by. Horny bachelors on the prowl for the ultimate Vegas nudie-bar experience should look elsewhere.
Downing her fourth glass of Long Island ice tea, Moxie jumps up, runs to the stage, trips over the legs of a man in a Stetson, regains her balance and climbs onto the stage. Slowly at first but with growing confidence, she starts writhing around the pole, her head thrown back in wild abandon, her hips gyrating provocatively.
The man in the Stetson yells, “Way to go, honey.”
It’s unclear from reports whether or not he knew Moxie Bernard was Moxie Bernard. He sticks a twenty in her skirt. She winks at him, slides to the floor, rolls around, then stands up again with a wobble.
After two songs, Bella joins her onstage, and the two swing around the pole, their arms around each other as they caress.
The crowd goes wild and calls repeatedly for the girls to take it off.
Moxie opens the top button on her magenta silk top, then the next and the next until the shirt is entirely undone. Underneath, she’s spilling out of a black lace demi cup bra.
Bella follows suit, taking off her camisole and throwing it into the crowd. Less curvaceous than Moxie, her bare chest doesn’t arouse the same response as her friend’s half-bare one.
The music shifts, from hard rock to trip hop, and the girls rub their bodies against each other, then kiss long and deep.
The man in the Stetson is beside himself.
One by one, the Rapture strippers leave the stage. It’s almost the end of their shift, and they look at their watches, wondering if they should go home.
The dancing ends when Moxie stumbles to the ground and Bella pokes her in the eye with her big toe.
“Ouch,” she says, giggling and covering her eye.
They leave the stage and the bar without paying their tab. Bella forgets her top and ties a napkin around her chest like it’s a scarf. The patrons watch them climb into a black limo.
Gawker breaks the story with several eye witness accounts of the show. “They didn’t go in for any beaver action, but it was still hot,” reports one customer who had a front-row view. “It was wild. I’m gonna tell my grandchildren about it some day.”
One day later, the
New York Post
prints an e-mail message from Moxie: “The media has misread and misappropriated the fun fey-gey [sic] boogie I did with Bella Masters, and I’m disgusted by how it was carried out.”
Nobody knows what to make of her vaguely incomprehensible statement. Her disgust, clearly not turned inward, seems aimed at a media who—for once—reported an incident without embellishment. They don’t add prurient details because the story already has them: two teenage girls, alcohol, hot lip action, a stripper’s pole, Las Vegas. The editors of Penthouse Letters couldn’t have done better. Even the choice of venue is perfect—an out-of-the-way spot where working stiffs who get off on naked women go to relax after a hard day at work, offering none of the self-conscious irony or the tourism of the glitzy topless emporiums on the Strip.
Moxie sure knows how to pick them.
Her publicist, Jessica Hornet, moves in with the spin immediately, insisting with increasing shrillness that her client was only demonstrating some favorite moves from her cardio strip class at Tighter U Fitness Studio.
“If Moxie got carried away in her enthusiasm to show her friend a new routine, it’s only because she believes that cardio is essential to a healthy lifestyle,” Jessica explains to George Stephanopoulos on
Good Morning, America
before announcing the launch of a line of fitness videos to be produced by Moxie.
But it’s no use. #FeyGeyBoogie is already off and running. In a matter of hours, it trends worldwide. Suddenly, every stupid or embarrassing act is an example. “Stupid Spanx tore along seam and now ass is hanging out. #feygeyboogie.” “Doh! Texted wife name of restaurant, instead of girlfriend. #feygeyboogie.” “Listen up: Drinking bleach isn’t going to help U pass drug test. #feygeyboogie.”
The nine days’ wonder lasts a full three weeks, twice as long as Queen-gate. Moxie keeps a low profile for the duration while Bella continues to turn up on every red carpet on three continents. She has to. Being famous for nothing requires constant effort.
Every day that passes without a Moxie incident, I relax a little more. It seems entirely possible that this time she realizes she’s gone too far, and when she shows up with her mom at the Court Street Baptist church for Sunday morning services in a demure black suit, I’m almost convinced she’s completely reformed.
But I know that’s just wishful thinking.
Even in her Sunday best, Moxie is dangerously close to the edge, and each breath she takes brings her nearer. It’s only a matter of time before she falls into the abyss.
I’m doomed.
When Harry invites me to
In Style
’s Golden Globes after-party, he doesn’t tell me we’re crashing, so when I find myself in the basement of the Beverly Hilton Hotel, I’m surprised. The red floor-length gown I bought especially for the occasion isn’t made for shimmying up elevator shafts.
When I express reluctance, Harry grins at me and asks where’s my sense of adventure. “Anyone can go through the front door,” he says, with as much enthusiasm as a teenage boy getting his first set of wheels, forgetting, I suppose, that anyone
can’t.
That’s the whole point of Hollywood. “Trust me, it’s entirely worth it. This bash is second only to
Vanity Fair
’s Oscar party. I go every year. I have to see and be seen. How else am I going to become famous?”
His logic is irrefutable, and I slide off my three-inch heels and reach for the ladder. We emerge a few minutes later in a dark corridor. Harry waits until I put on my shoes before opening the door. We’re at the back of the ballroom.
“Mission accomplished,” he says.
Overwhelmed by the glamour of the event, the flawless faces and the perfect bodies, I make a beeline for the bathroom to see how much damage crashing did. I feel like there’s a far–from-endearing black smudge on my cheek, even though Harry swears there isn’t.
“I’ll get you a drink,” he says. “What would you like?”
“Champagne,” I say without pausing. Only one thing will do at a party like this. “But stay right there. I’m afraid I won’t be able to find you again.”
I’m also afraid of being identified as an interloper and thrown out, but I don’t mention that.
The bathroom is crowded with regular women and a smattering of celebrities, and as I sit down at the vanity, I have the very surreal experience of watching Meryl Streep wait for the toilet. It’s impossible to look away, and I observe her discreetly in the mirror until she disappears into a stall. I hear a faint tinkling sound and a chill runs up my spine.
If only you could sell experiences on eBay.
While Meryl washes her hands, I examine my face for damage. My makeup seems relatively unharmed by our little escapade, but my hair, piled high on my head in ringlets—yes, I paid an obscene amount of money to a woman at Frédéric Fekkai to create the effect—is starting to come down. I stare at myself, exasperated by my normalcy. Why can’t I be perfect like everyone around me?
Although not clever enough to bring emergency pins, I spy a basket of products on the ledge and I dig through the collection of hairspray bottles, lip glosses, pantyhose and needles.
“Can I help you?” a soft voice asks.
I freeze, convinced that “can I help you” is only prelude to “find the door because you obviously don’t belong here.” I glance up guiltily at my accuser, a petite woman in a raspberry-colored ruched dress. “I’m looking for pins,” I say hesitantly.
Far from tossing me out, she smiles, puts a briefcase on the counter and opens it with a quick snap. In her bag, she has the entire contents of a Macy’s cosmetic counter. “Here,” she says, giving me a handful of glittering bobby pins. I know the stones aren’t real, but they’re so sparkly and beautiful I almost turn them down.
“Thank you,” I say, a little breathlessly as I close my fist around them. Whatever she discovers about me, she’s not getting them back.
“Is there something else I can help you with?” she asks.
I look at her and then again at the contents of her case, grappling with my conscience. It’s wrong to take free stuff at a party you weren’t even invited to. I’m not so hard up that I can’t afford to buy myself a new tube of Great Lash. But the selection of high-end brands is humbling. The Sisley Phyto-Proteine mascara alone costs more than any bra I own.
“Um, mascara?” I say.
The woman gives me a tube of the Sisley in black. “Have you tried their eyeliner?”
Amazed, I shake my head.
“Here”—she hands me a dark-brown pencil—“you’ll love it.”
“All right,” I say, baffled. I can’t imagine who she thinks I am. Although I took some pains getting ready, I couldn’t hide my average-girl provenance. My dress is nice but off the rack and my makeup is total amateur hour. I actually sat with a copy of
Glamour
magazine open, copying the illustrations as I tried to trace the ridge of my brow line.
Still, I go with it, taking one of everything she offers, even a little sample of Narciso Rodriguez’s new perfume. The makeup stash barely fits in my purse, and I have to throw away some recent receipts to make room for it. Feeling like a superstar for getting away with something—what, exactly, I’m not really sure—I return to the ballroom.
Giddy, I find Harry just where I left him. He’s holding two flutes of champagne and surveying the crowd. In his black tuxedo, he seems right at home among the glittering and the elite. Nothing about his golden blond hair, handsome face and impeccable surfer-dude body says gate crasher.
He smiles as soon as he sees me. “That was quick.”
I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or sincere. One loses all sense of time in the presence of free makeup. “At the risk of sounding like a yokel, I have to say this: I heard Meryl Streep pee.”
“Not at all,” he says, handing me champagne. “That why we’re here.” He holds the flute in the air. “To Meryl Streep’s toilet. May it always flush.”
It’s the perfect toast, and I raise my glass high. “Hear, hear.”
A waiter breezes by with a tray of caviar-topped blinis and I realize that I have to eat something, not just because I skipped lunch to get my hair done but because this might be my only chance to eat Golden Globe after-party food.
“There’s a table of hors d’ouevres to the right of the bar,” I say. “How do you feel if we make our way toward it?”
“I was about to suggest it myself.”
Having never crashed a party before, I never realized how easy it is to feel welcomed in a place you don’t belong. But Harry is so confident and comfortable that I find myself relaxing despite my nerves. Standing next to him, I feel the same sense of entitlement he does and snag yet another crostini with fois gras.
It’s all just a game, seeing what you can get away with.
An expert player, Harry strikes up conversations with people left and right. Some he actually knows from previous parties; others are complete strangers. His manners are perfect, appreciative but not gushy, and everyone responds. Watching, I’m amazed he’s not already rich and famous. Ninety percent of success is networking and making sure you know the right people. Whatever the remaining ten percent is, I’m sure he has it. Harry is unusually well-rounded and informed. He knows something about everything. With a vice president of Imagine Entertainment, he discusses Spain’s chances in the World Cup; with a reporter from the
Times,
he talks about the new production of Begonya Plaza’s
Theresa’s Ecstasy
at the Cherry Lane Theatre in the West Village.
Although I try to stay discreetly in the background, Harry introduces me to everyone he talks to as the author of
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
. Inconceivably, some people recognize the name.
“Moxie Bernard, right?” a producer for Focus Features says.
“Yes,” I reply.
She pats me on the shoulder. “Poor you. She seems to be off the rails at the moment. Although to be honest, we’d all like to have your troubles. It’s when the coked-out star of the moment won’t attach her name to your project that you’re in trouble.”
One guy, a freelance reporter
,
actually lights up when he hears my name. “I loved
Jarndyce,
” he says, before launching into a brief plot description for his date. She laughs politely several times but doesn’t seem genuinely amused. I try not to hold it against her. “It’s all about the insanity of office politics. I work at home, so, sadly, I’m not exposed to that stuff. The scene with the photocopiers made me devastated that I don’t work in an office with crazy people. Your life is so much more fun than mine.”
As he is a legitimate guest of
In Style,
I’m not so sure about that, but I accept the compliment with a high blush. It’s beyond anything to be standing in the same room with Helen Mirren and George Clooney and every hot young thing in Hollywood and find myself a fan.
And I thought listening to Meryl Streep urinate was surreal.
At eleven, the crowd starts to thin as the glamorous go to their after-after-parties. The superglamorous are long since gone, and Harry suggests we take off too. You never want to be the last guest at a party. “And this is the best part,” he says, directing me toward the exit with a hand on the small of my back. “We get to leave through the front door.”
We’re passing the dessert table and I grab one last cream puff. They’re not as decadent as the caviar and fois gras but still feel like wonderful, ill-gotten gains. “Yeah, but anyone can leave through the front door. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Harry laughs and instantly changes directions. We’re walking back toward the elevator shaft. I stop midstride. “Nope. Just kidding.”
He turns us around again. “All right, but only if you’re sure.…”
I smile and snag a chocolate-covered strawberry. I don’t really need it but it’s mere inches from my hand. “Positive. I’m the kind of girl who likes to use doors.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for the Oscars.”
The hint of a future date thrills me, but I try to keep my expectations in check. Unfortunately, Harry’s schedule keeps him very busy. This is only the second time I’ve seen him since our Ivy outing and the first one doesn’t really count, since it was a coincidental meeting at John Vholes’s office. We grabbed dinner afterward but it was at a diner down the street, a far cry from Spago.
Limos line the drive in front of the hotel, and we weave through the madness to get to Harry’s car, which is parked across the street and down the block. My feet are killing by the time we get there and as soon as I sit down, I take off my shoes. I wiggle my toes, lean back and sigh. “I had a wonderful evening. Thank you for inviting me.”
Harry links his fingers through mine and lifts my hand to his mouth. “The evening’s not over yet,” he says, kissing my knuckles.
My stomach does a backflip.
Half the point of putting on a beautiful red dress is having someone else take it off, and I don’t hesitate a moment in inviting Harry up to my apartment. I make the usual noises about another drink or coffee but as soon as we’re in the elevator, I lean forward, press my body against his and kiss him. Neither one of us realizes when the doors open, and it takes an embarrassed, “Excuse me,” from the Griffith Observatory curator across the hall for us to notice.
I jump back but Harry holds steady. He leads me from the elevator, then waits for me to indicate the way. We walk slowly toward my door like in a dream. My hands are shaking slightly, so I can’t open my door. I try once, twice; the third time’s a charm.
Harry says, “Nice apartment” as soon as I shut the door and pulls me into his arms. The kiss is long, deep and mindless. A few seconds later, we’re in the bedroom, falling onto the comforter, pushing the pillows to the floor. He moves the strap of my red gown to the side and trails kisses along my shoulder. Every moment from the night whirls together in a kaleidoscope of impressions, and I feel powerful like a sex goddess: irresistible, invincible, famous, successful.
Whispering something against my skin, he brushes the second strap aside and reveals my breasts. Harry moans in delight and I feel another surge of emotion as liberating as it is wild jut through me.
Clearly, I’m in love.