Have to Have It (6 page)

“Just call the woman, Kiley. Get it over with.”

Kiley was so nervous she felt as if she could have a panic attack worse than any of her mother's. She sat with Tom in his old pickup truck, which Tom had pulled up to the valet stand at the Velvet Margarita Cantina restaurant in Hollywood. He'd picked her up at the country club gate an hour before, and she'd babbled out the story of her amazing day—Evelyn Bowers homing in on her at the country club, their walk-and-talk interview around the grounds, and the conclusion of that interview at a white-tablecloth table on the rear brick patio of the huge country club restaurant, over caviar and toast points cut into perfect isosceles triangles.

“Golden
caviar,” Kiley had explained. “Evelyn said it's from the Arabian Sea and costs a mint. But she claimed that nothing was too good for the girl who was probably about to become her
new nanny, because she considered the nanny a ‘real member of the Bowers family.’”

The interview had ended successfully. Evelyn had offered Kiley the job and asked her to start the next morning. Kiley had been honest—she'd have to talk to her parents about it before she and Evelyn called them together, which Evelyn had found quaint but also a point in Kiley's favor. It indicated stability of personality, unlike Kiley's “so-called friend who shall go nameless.” In fact, Evelyn had made it a condition of employment that Lydia not set foot on her property, nor telephone on the main house line, nor should Kiley speak to her on her cell phone from within the four walls of Evelyn's house. Kiley had acceded to these conditions. She really needed the job.

All of which was a dream come true, but for two things.

One, Lydia had filled her in on Evelyn and her children. They all belonged in a nuthouse. Two, there was no assurance at all that Jeanne McCann would give in. In fact, Kiley half-expected her mother to order her home—which was part of the reason they were sitting in Tom's pickup instead of heading into the restaurant. Kiley didn't know whether this would be their last meal together or something to truly celebrate.

Kiley looked down at her old Nokia cell phone. She'd already decided what she'd do if the answer was no—go back to Jorge's and spend her final night there. There had been a momentary thought about sleeping at Tom's, but Kiley had pushed it out of her mind. What if they ended up in bed together? That would confuse her too much, which was why she'd left her luggage at Jorge's.

“Okay, you're right, I just have to … do it,” Kiley agreed. “Here goes.”

She had the number at Vicki's (the diner/truck stop where her mom waitressed) on speed dial, because Jeanne McCann couldn't justify the cost of owning a cell. Remembering that made Kiley feel guilty all over again. Her mom had made so many sacrifices for her. It would make it so much easier if Kiley just went home, got a job for the rest of the summer, finished senior year at La Crosse High School, and then—

“Vicki's,” a throaty voice answered.

Kiley recognized the voice of her mom's friend Angela, who'd twice had precancerous polyps removed from her throat yet still smoked a pack and a half a day. In the background, she could hear the din of the restaurant and the Toby Keith music that the owner liked to play over and over. Vicki's served a dinner special of roast beef, baked potatoes, corn and carrots, soup, and dessert for $7.95, and it was always jammed between four and eight in the evening.

“Hi, Angela, it's Kiley.”

“Kiley, sweetheart!” Angela boomed. “Hey, I saw a thing about Platinum on the news, sweetie. We all did. She didn't force you to take drugs, did she?”

“No, Angela, nothing like that,” Kiley assured her. “Is my mom there?”

“So what happened to her kids?” Angela pressed.

“Uh, I don't know yet for sure.”

“I heard they took the kids away, Kiley. So Platinum is in rehab now? How well did you get to know her? What does she like to eat for breakfast?”

“I don't know, Angela, I never actually saw her at breakfast.” Kiley shrugged helplessly at Tom. It was amazing. Everyone was fascinated by celebrities; that Kiley had actually lived with one for a while made her fascinating to Angela. “So … my mom? Is she around?”

“Oh, sure, honey. Hey, heard you're coming home. Hollywood ain't the place for a girl like you, sweetie. Hold on.” Then Kiley heard Angela bellow, “Hey, Jeannie! It's Kiley! I'll get your tables!”

A few moments later, Kiley's mom's high-pitched voice came over the phone. “Kiley, sweetheart, are you okay? What's wrong?”

Trust her mom to assume that something was wrong.

“I'm fine, Mom.”

“Did you lose your plane ticket? Is that it? I'll call La Crosse Travel and have them issue another one.”

“No, Mom, I didn't lose my plane ticket, it's electronic. All I have to do is go to the airport,” she said patiently. She could feel her hand sweating on the phone and wiped her right palm on her jeans. “I just wanted to tell you that something amazing happened.”

She quickly filled her mother in on Evelyn Bowers, her quickie job interview, and the subsequent offer for a nanny job, starting the very next day. Then she spun the hell out of the situation—Evelyn Bowers was a “highly respected publicist” who “wasn't even in show business” and she'd “heard from numerous people” how “lovely” Evelyn's home was, and how “well-mannered” her kids were and couldn't she please, please,
please
stay and take the job?

Her mother sighed heavily. “Oh, Kiley, I don't know. Your plane ticket is nonrefundable. The whole time out there has been so aggravating for you. One thing after another after another. Maybe you just ought to cut your losses and come home.”

“Don't worry at all about the ticket. Mrs. Bowers has already given me a check for that,” Kiley said quickly. “That's how much she wants me to work for her.”

Another sigh from her mom's end as the Toby Keith song ended.

“I just don't like the idea, Kiley.”

If it called for groveling, fine. Kiley was prepared to grovel.

She tightened her grip on the phone. “Please, Mom. I want this so much. Mrs. Bowers said she'd call you herself tomorrow morning, you know, to introduce herself. I'll be on that call, too. She wants to make sure you're comfortable with this whole arrangement.”

“But… what if it doesn't work out? What will you do then?”

“It
will
work out, Mom. I know it will.”

“I don't know, Kiley. What if she turns out to be as weird as Platinum, or even weirder? So many things could go wrong. When I think of you all alone out there, working for some woman I've never met… I just don't know about this.”

Kiley could hear her mother's voice soaring upward through the octaves, a sure sign that she was rounding the bend to a fullblown panic attack.

“It's okay Mom,” she soothed. “Really. It'll be fine. Remember when you said that you trusted me and that was why you were letting me stay in L.A. even though I'm still a minor?”

“Yes …”

Kiley could hear the doubt in her mother's voice. She pressed on.

“Remember how you told me you don't want me to be like you, scared of things?”

Silence. Then: “I did say that,” her mother admitted softly.

“I know you meant it,” Kiley insisted. “Well, I'm asking you to trust me, Mom. Just like you said you would. I'll do everything I can to make you comfortable with this. Mrs. Bowers is a publicist. Maybe … you can even meet her through a video hookup or something. Or … I know—maybe she'll pay for you to come out here to meet her!”

More silence. Kiley knew that this last suggestion was a shot in the dark and highly unlikely, but she crossed her fingers and sent up a silent prayer to whatever higher power might be involved in this sort of fateful decision anyway.
Please
, she prayed, knowing how stupid and even selfish it was to pray for this when she didn't pray for anything else, but doing it anyway.
Please, please, please. I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this, I de—

“All right, Kiley.”

Kiley's heart jumped.

“Did you just say … all right?”

“Yes, honey, I did. But Kiley, please have Mrs. Bowers call me in the morning. I won't rest easy until I hear her voice.”

Kiley punched the air with glee. Tom rewarded this positive gesture with a huge smile.

“Absolutely, Mom,” Kiley promised. “Thank you so much—”

“Kiley?”

Something about her mom's voice made Kiley feel as if she was seven years old again.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Sweetheart, if you pull another stunt like the one you pulled with Platinum—and I know you know what I'm talking about—”

Kiley did. She'd lied terribly to her mother. She felt terrible about it, too.

“I'll be completely honest this time, Mom. Whatever happens. But nothing is going to happen,” Kiley added hastily. “I swear it. This time things are going to work out.”

“Yes. Well, life has a way of fouling up the best-laid plans, Kiley.” Another heavy sigh as Toby Keith started singing again in the background. “I just hope I'm doing the right thing.”

“You are, Mom. You definitely are!”

Kiley thanked her mother profusely, told her how much she loved her, and hung up. Then she threw herself into Tom's arms.

The sandy-haired valet shot them a dirty look when Tom, casually clad in Diesel denim, a Le Tigre polo, and chocolate brown suede Pumas, finally handed over the car keys. But since he also handed over a ten-dollar tip, the guy was somewhat mollified.

They pushed through the front door of the Velvet Margarita and were greeted by Mexican-tinged sights, sounds, and smells. Mariachis draped in fringed serapes milled around the red velvet booths, where the young, hip, and beautiful noshed on enchiladas and chimichangas. On the black velvet walls hung gaudy sombreros and candlelit caricatures of iconic celebrities: Elvis, Selena, and Madonna were the ones Kiley could instantly identify. Meanwhile, a deejay in a pink Day-Glo booth suspended from the two-story-high ceiling spun Mexican hip-hop—David Rolas, Crooked Stilo, Control Machete. Tom picked out a
number of the tunes for Kiley as they waited for the maitre d' to seat them.

“How do you know Mexican hip-hop?” Kiley asked over the music.

“My friend La Daga,” Tom explained, a protective hand on the small of Kiley's back, as a raucous, drunken group of guys made their way out of the restaurant. “The Dagger.”

“That's a name?” Kiley asked.

“Exactly,” Tom said. “His real name is Emmanuel, but he models under La Daga. We have the same agent. He's got that hot Latin thing going on; does lots of romance novel covers for Harlequin. Stuff like that. Great guy. Anyway, he does that for the bucks but really he's a rap artist. He's played all this stuff for me. In fact, he's the one who turned me on to this restaur—”

“Tom!”

Kiley squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that the voice she'd just heard calling to her date did not belong to the person she thought it belonged to.

“Tom, sweetheart!”

Damn.
Her ears weren't lying.

Marym was making her way through the crowd toward them. The famous eighteen-year-old, raven-haired Israeli model wore a sandy wraparound sleeveless top over a floor-grazing BCBG cream skirt littered with embroidered golden leaves and looked, as usual, perfect. Kiley felt utterly provincial in her generic jeans and one of the few garments she'd acquired in L.A., a Forever 21 black-and-white-striped scoop-neck tee. She had met Marym when Tom had taken her to Marym's birthday party at her new place right on the beach in Malibu. Then Kiley had definitely gotten on the model's bad side when she'd
joined a protest because Marym was not allowing the public access to the beach. Only it had turned out that since Marym had just purchased the house, she hadn't even known she was required to provide access via a path on her property. The protesters, including Kiley had been both premature and wrong.

Even that wouldn't have been so bad if Kiley hadn't known that Marym had been involved with Tom before Kiley had met him. Kiley suspected that they'd had a torrid affair, and that Marym had an interest in picking up wherever it was that she and Tom had left off.

“Imagine running into you!” Marym exclaimed in husky, Israeli-accented English. She kissed Tom softly on the lips, then her gaze went to Kiley. “Oh. Hello, Kiley,” she added coolly. “Nice to see you, too.”

Tom put a protective arm around Kiley's shoulders. “We're celebrating,” he explained. “Kiley thought she was going to have to go back to Wisconsin, but she just found out she's staying in L.A.”

Marym smiled. “Great news. I'm happy for you.”

Kiley tried to smile back, because Marym seemed to mean what she said. Kiley could never quite be sure if the problem between them actually existed, or if she was simply insecure and jealous around the gorgeous It Girl of the moment—the It Girl who knew Tom very, very well.

“Thanks,” she replied. “I'm looking forward to it.”

Marym tugged on Tom's hand. “There's no need for you two to wait. Come sit with us. We're in our booth in back with La Daga”—she put an ironic twist on the name—“and some other models, dishing about FAB. It was insane, wasn't it?”

Tom and Marym had both modeled in FAB and had shared a
table at the charity dinner aboard the
Queen Mary
ocean liner that had ended the FAB week festivities. That dinner had been organized by Esme's bosses, Diane in particular. After that dinner, Kiley reminded herself, Tom had come to find
her.
They'd kissed for the very first time on the deck of the vessel.