“Oh God, I’m such a
Lifetime
movie. Tough teen finally grieves over the loss of her mother. Who’d play me?” “Keira Knightley?” Dee ventured.
“Too old.” “Hilary Duff?”
“Too—go on to the next.”
“Dakota Fanning?” Dee tried again. “Too annoying.” They both laughed.
Who would have believed it? Cammie owed Dee for this. Big-time. And at the right time and place, Dee was going to be very pleasantly surprised.
“W
ow.”
Sam turned the last page of the script and closed it. Wonder of wonders, she had found a screenplay that she actually liked. A comedy called
Ass Man,
it was about a Hollywood actor who had struggled for years before getting cast in a commercial for a hemorrhoid cream that America fell in love with—the commercial, not the cream. The gig turned out to be the guy’s big break, and he went on to ridiculous fame and fortune.
The script skewered Hollywood, the movie business, and the world of advertising in equal measure, while the hero was a well-drawn, multidimensional, interesting character. It was also insanely funny, which wasn’t surprising, since the screenwriter had worked on the TV show
Arrested Development
before that show had died a premature death. She didn’t know whether this was the right screenplay for her father’s production company, but she was prepared to do something shocking: write a nice coverage. In fact, she wanted to direct it. The producers would want to change the title, of course. She’d fight to keep it. It would be a hell of a battle, even though she’d probably lose.
“So how’s the one you’re reading?” she asked Anna. Anna made a face. “‘
Have You Ever Heard the German Band
’? About an old man who refuses to believe that World War II is over.” “Dreadful, huh?” “You can’t imagine. My lead character just did a three-page monologue in a bunker he dug behind a Starbucks in Albuquerque about his relationship with his dead schnauzer.” “Who wrote it?” Sam joked. “Norman Shnorman?” It was Tuesday afternoon, and the two of them were up in Sam’s room, getting caught up on a huge backlog of screenplays. Tomorrow—the day of the fashion show—would be busy, and Sam hoped to pitch in out of loyalty to her friends. But today was a good day to chill out, read, and write coverages.
Even her father had taken the day off, since there were no
Ben-Hur
scenes involving him and he’d just worked sixteen days straight. She had seen him briefly at breakfast, looking more tired than she could ever remember. He’d eaten a brioche, drunk some orange juice, and gone straight back to bed. All the while, Poppy doted on him like she was a servant girl and he was the lord of the manor. It made Sam sick, knowing what she knew about Poppy and that Poppy could have gotten what was rightly coming to her.
What was weird was that, even though it was over, she couldn’t bring herself to talk about the aborted Parker/ Poppy project with anyone. Not Anna, not Cammie, not even Eduardo.
Anna had been sprawled across the bottom of her king-size copper-frame bed with the custom-made Hypnos mattress and box spring (manufactured by the same company that made all the bedding for the British royal family) since just after lunch, as they plowed through scripts and wrote coverages on their respective laptops. Sam had been leaning against her Martex Brentwood Gold pillows, trying to focus on her reading but feeling totally distracted.
Five different times she’d started to tell Anna about how she had plotted to take Poppy down. Five different times she couldn’t get the first word out of her mouth.
“You need to read the one I just finished.
Ass Man
. It’ll restore your faith in screenwriting.” There was a knock on her closed bedroom door.
“Yeah?” she called, expecting one of the maids. “Come in!” It wasn’t one of the maids. It was Jackson. He was wearing a red silk robe and white pajama pants and looked like he’d just come from the shower. Under his right arm, he carried several movie scripts of his own.
“Hey, now that’s what I like to see. Two smart girls writing coverage. Can I tell Beau in the kitchen to send anything up for you?” “We’re good,” Sam nudged her chin toward the scripts he carried. “Whatcha been reading?”
He pulled over one of the Cojines! Cojines! multi-functional square hassock-pillows that Sam had recently purchased for her room and plopped down on it.
“Funny you should ask. Sam, you wrote the coverage for this thing by Norman Shnorman?
Burnt Toast
?” He flipped to the first page and read aloud. “‘Norman Shnorman deserves to be amongst the pantheon of top film industry writers for life.’” Sam gulped. How had her father gotten this coverage already? Anna had just fudged it a few days ago.
“I just read the whole screenplay. It’s definitely . . . one-of-a-kind,” Jackson acknowledged.
“That’s exactly what I—”
“Execrable shit. Should be used for toilet training small pets. You know who Norman Shnorman is, don’t you? In real life?” “Isn’t he Andrea Jacobson’s son?” Sam ventured.
“Yep. And he needs to find a new career. Maybe as a sanitation engineer. Of course, being who he is, he’ll probably end up becoming a development executive. What’s with this glowing coverage, Sam? And don’t bullshit me. The script doesn’t deserve it.” “Dad, I—” She was shocked when Anna jumped in on her behalf. “It’s my fault, Mr. Sharpe. Sam wrote something like that. But I changed the coverage.” “You
what
?” Jackson looked pissed.
“Changed it. Sam wrote the original, saying that the screenplay was really awful. But I went into your office at the studio late one night and changed it. Once Sam told me who had written the screenplay, I thought it was the right thing to do.” Anna’s tone was even, and Sam realized her friend was prepared to fall on a sword so that she, Sam, would remain blameless.
Jackson looked puzzled. “Why do you think it was the right thing to do, Anna?” “Because I was concerned that it would get back to his mother and reflect badly on your production company.” Sam noted that Anna had been careful not to say “reflect badly on Sam.” “This was all your idea, Anna?” Jackson asked.
She nodded. “Yes. A hundred percent.”
He eyed Sam. “You backing up that story? Where were you when this happened?” “Not there.” Sam knew she was being evasive.
Jackson sighed but didn’t press. “With your boyfriend, probably. And you let
Anna
here do your dirty work for you.” “Sam didn’t. I wanted to do it. If she’d known, she would have stopped me, I’m sure.” Once again, Anna to the rescue.
The story seemed to satisfy Jackson. He rose, then tore Sam/Anna’s coverage off the front page of the script and ripped it to shreds, letting the confetti fall on Sam’s white silk-upholstered Kravet bedspread. “Just this once, I’m going to write coverage of a screenplay. And when I’m done, I want both of you to read it, because you’ll each learn something useful that you might use in the future. It’ll be an exercise in neutrality. Five pages long, and by the end, Andrea Jacobson won’t be able to tell whether I liked it or hated it. Which is absolutely on purpose.” No wonder her father was so successful and made so few enemies in the business.
“Jackson?”
He turned toward the door where his personal assistant, Kiki, now stood, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. A diminutive woman with a pixie haircut, Kiki seemed to be somewhere between glum and horrified.
No, Sam corrected, she looked scared to death. What the hell?
“What’s the matter, Kiki? Did you just read
Burnt Toast,
too?” Kiki seemed to gather her courage as she took a periodical out of her black Kate Spade shoulder bag. “Did anyone call from the
Galaxy
?” “That rag? No. Why?” “They just messengered over an early edition of what’s pubbing tomorrow.” He laughed. “What is it? Did they Photoshop a picture of me kissing Tom Hanks at the toga party? Or put my head on someone else’s body and say I needed to spend more time in the gym?” What little color had been in Kiki’s face drained away. “I think you’d better take a look at this.”
Then she did a very un-Kiki-like thing: she dropped the copy of
Galaxy
on the floor and fled.
Jackson sat back down on the square cushion. “Get that for me, Sam.” Sam did. Once she saw the front page of the
Galaxy
, she did a reasonable imitation of Kiki, her face going white. The headline was a screamer:
ACTION JACKSON’S WIFE
FINDS ACTION OF OWN!
EXCLUSIVE
GALAXY
PIX!
The two front-page photographs on which the headline had been superimposed were utterly damning. One was Poppy at the toga party, passionately kissing her yoga instructor, Bodhi. Despite its poor quality—a cell phone camera had clearly taken it—there was no doubt as to the identity of the subjects or the location.
The other picture had been taken in front of the Vagabond Inn, at the far reaches of Ventura Boulevard at the butt end of the San Fernando Valley. This time Bodhi’s hand was clearly on Poppy’s right breast, and they were sucking face. Much clearer, this photo was of professional quality.
“What is it, Sam?” Jackson’s voice was calm.
Shit
. These were completely different photos, taken by someone else. Even though they were about to do to her father and Poppy exactly what Sam had wanted to do with her own pictures, she still felt like throwing up.
“Sam? Bring me the damn
Galaxy
. Please.”
She shuffled across the hardwood floor, handed the tabloid over, and sat on her bed next to Anna. Then she went to work chewing her Nails by Margie magenta manicure, as her father looked at the front page and then turned to the centerfold spread. There were more photographs there, equally damning. She had to read upside down, but she got the gist of the article: Bodhi was a yoga teacher who liked to step out, though he preached abstinence as the key to long life and happiness. One of the other guests at the toga party had been having an affair with him, too. When she saw Poppy and Bodhi kissing, she’d snapped the cell phone picture. Then she’d sent it to the
Galaxy
, which had put a tail on the yoga teacher. The photographer had caught Bodhi and Poppy at the Vagabond Inn and had even followed them to room 301.
The rest was history. In black, and white, and color.
Jackson came to the end of the story and then started again at the beginning. His face was inscrutable. Finally, he closed the magazine, took his BlackBerry out of the pocket of his dressing gown, and pressed a number into speed dial. When he spoke, his voice was as smooth and melodious as in an appearance on Leno.
“Poppy? . . . Yeah, I know you’re downstairs. Can you come up to Sam’s room . . . ? No, leave the baby, I’ll see her later. I’ll be waiting for you, sweetheart.” He disconnected the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
Sam thought about summoning all of the maids in the house and putting them on standby outside her room. That would be prudent. Because the shit that was her stepmother was about to hit the fan.
S
ushi & Kushi IMAI was located in a strip mall on Wilshire near San Vicente Boulevard in Beverly Hills. It was utterly unpretentious, with a red lacquered interior, but every single seat at the tables and booths was full during the dinner rush, as well as at the seven-seat sushi bar. As Dee waited for a table there with Jack, she heard him explain how his boss at Fox had not only recommended this particular restaurant but had personally put in a call to the head sushi chef on their behalf.
Within minutes, they were whisked past the waiting throng that spilled out the front door, to a secluded table in the far reaches of the restaurant that had mysteriously opened up.
“I heard the sushi-kushi combination is the way to go.” Jack reached across the small wooden table and took her hand. “
Kushi
means ‘happiness’ in Hindi. So it seems appropriate. Not that I have any idea why a sushi place would be talking about kushi.” “Me neither. That’s really sweet. But didn’t you once tell me that you hate sushi because fish poo in the water?”
“I did. But people change, Dee. Sometimes, anyway. If they find someone worth changing for.
“Hey, I was thinking maybe we could go away next weekend,” Jack proposed, after they’d ordered the house special sushi-kushi, a pot of green tea, and some sake. “Up the coast, maybe. Santa Barbara or Carpinteria. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s fantastic. What do you think?” Dee groaned inwardly. She was already heading in that direction, but for a far different reason. Aaron was going to be released from Ojai on Saturday. He’d sent her approved e-mail—outbound e-mails from Ojai were all censored—mentioning that fact. Dee had volunteered to come up and meet him. She didn’t want to tell Jack, though. It would probably hurt his feelings.
“But . . . you always work on the weekends,” she pointed out.
“Only because my priorities have been fucked up.” A sweet-faced waitress brought their tea, poured some into tiny white cups, and departed. As she sipped, Dee tried to figure out just what it was she wanted to say to Jack. How had things changed so much? Where was the guy who wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, who wanted to take over Twentieth Century–Fox and then possibly the world? That was the guy she’d fallen for. But to be fair, hadn’t she changed a lot, too?
Dee sighed. Why was being mentally healthy so much more complicated than being nuts?
“That was quite the sigh,” Jack noted. “Something up?” She couldn’t very well deny it.
“I love you.”
No, wait. That wasn’t how she had intended to start this conversation.
“And I love you too, Dee. Now and forever. Man. I’ve never said that to another girl in my life. I always thought it would make me feel suffocated. But instead, now I know what all those lame love songs are talking about.” She tried to smile. This was terrible. This conversation had already veered in a completely wrong direction. Okay, what had they told her at Ojai? You were allowed to call do-over, as long as you did it right away. As long as you told the truth.