“It's only May,” Anna murmured. The prospect of the summer made her lightheaded with happiness.
Ben kissed her forehead. “Um-hmm.”
“May, June, July, August,” Anna ticked off the months on her fingers. “We'll have four months together, and no school.”
“I have to work, though. I told you that on the phone, right?”
He had. “At the Riviera place?” He'd mentioned that he'd possibly be working in the pro shop at the Riviera Country Club.
“Got a better offer. Have you heard about this new club in Hollywood, Trieste?”
Amused, Anna craned around to look at him. “This is me we're talking about.”
Ben chuckled. “Right. You're club-challenged. Golf club
and
nightclub.”
“I have, however, read all the classics,” she teased. “In three languages.”
He laughed again. “Let me fill you in, Miss Trilingual. Trieste is the hip place of the moment; fashionistas, young Hollywood wanna-be suck-ups, very
Day of the Locust.
Dad got me a job there.” He paused. “Correction: Dad's skills in the OR in the form of an extremely successful tummy tuck got me a job there. Kind of a management-trainee thing. To see if I like the business.”
Ben's father was the foremost plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills, known to one and all as the “Plastic Surgeon to the Stars.” He likely earned more in a week than many Americans earned in a decade. However, Dr. Birnbaum had recently joined a twelve-step program to deal with his gambling addiction, and Anna hoped that maybe while Ben was home, he and his dad would have a chance to repair their strained relationship. She knew all about parental estrangement; she'd lived with it her whole life.
“Maddy will want you to sneak her in,” Anna joked.
“Believe me, she already asked.” He shook his head. “Poor kid. She's this innocent girl with a new body; she doesn't know how to deal. Her mom and my mom are friends from high school; I've watched her grow up— and out. The kid suffered. It really sucked.”
“She showed me her ‘before’ picture.”
“Pretty shocking, huh?” Ben kissed her forehead again. “I'd ask you to be nice to her, but I know you will be. Because that's just … you.”
“Yep, that's me. Anna of Sunnybrook Farm,” she quipped.
“To the world maybe. But with me, alone … definitely not.”
He kissed her again—the kind of kiss that proved how well he knew her, the secret her who didn't overan-alyze or worry or … or anything. She adored it.
T
he Bel Air Grand Hotel was located in a private wooded eucalyptus and palm grove just to the north of Sunset Boulevard, not far from UCLA. The exterior of the place was beautifully designed in the style of the Spanish and Italian Renaissance, with eight huge ivory columns sweeping up from the ground to support an arched entryway nearly fifty feet above the valet area.
“You're going to love this, Sam, I swear,” Fee gushed as they sat in the front of Fee's cherry-red Audi, waiting for the valet to open their doors. Jazz sat in the back-seat.
An Audi. Trust Fee to have a B-list car, too.
Sam had a plan: Let the weenies talk her into a tour of the prom site; play it cool so they thought there was no way that she and her A-list friends would attend the prom; then turn the tables on them so that she could not just make her documentary but also have some artistic control over the party. Once everything was set, she'd tell Cammie and the others. Loyalty counted for something in Hollywood—she was confident they'd participate. Who knew when they might need favors of their own? As for Anna, there was definitely a bit of a rift—Anna thought that the idea of
The B-List
was mean. Sam, though, knew Anna wanted to go to prom. Ultimately, the idea of a double date of her and Ben with Sam and Eduardo would certainly prove too enticing to pass up.
The obvious thing for her to do, of course, was just to tell the prom weenies that she would come and ask them to be in her movie. If she did that, though, Fee and Jazz would instantly be suspicious of her intentions. That was not the way the Beverly Hills High School elite operated.
“Good afternoon,” the two uniformed valets—both college age, both sporting crew cuts (they looked like Mormon missionaries in their starched white shirts and dark trousers)—said simultaneously, as they opened the Audi doors and helped the girls out. “Are you checking in?” the shorter blond one asked.
“Gawd, no.” Sam was aghast. “Does anyone actually
stay
here anymore?”
Jazz blushed. “We're here to meet with—”
Before Jazz could finish her sentence, a today little man in his late fifties with black hair swirled atop his head like soft-serve ice cream, to cover an orbital-size bald spot, burst through the glass front doors, arms open wide. He wore a black suit, white dress shirt, and yellow power tie, circa 1985 which, Sam figured, was the last year anyone actually
breathing
had held a hip event at this hotel.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome to the Bel Air Grand Hotel. I'm Donald Plummage, hotel manager.” He nodded vigorously to the valets. “These lovely ladies are my special guests.”
“Yes sir,” the taller, skinnier valet said dutifully, and slipped into Fee's car to park it.
“You are the lovely Miss Samantha Sharpe, are you not?” the Donald inquired. “I've seen your photo in various publications and might I say that you're even lovelier in person. I am a great fan of your father's work.”
Fee and Jazz beamed—clearly, they'd hoped for just such a reaction when they'd cajoled Sam into taking the tour.
“How fresh,” Sam chirped. “You and twenty million other people.”
The Donald bellowed as if Sam had just said the funniest thing on record. She was used to this kind of sucking up. Sometimes she said or did the most horrid things just to see how far a suck-up would go in pretending that she was scintillating or sweet or sexy. It was a fascinating exercise, in a sick kind of way. The really crazy thing was, Fee and Jazz had stumbled onto a decent idea in thinking this would be a cool prom location. A new place could become hip, but then the tourists and wanna-bes would hear about it and flock to it, rendering the death knell of post hip, and then it was on to the next. The idea that a famous locale gone to seed could be made hip again by a soon-to-be-A-list event was … well, near genius. Not that Sam was about to let on to that logic.
“Welcome to our lobby, ladies,” Donald intoned, as they entered the cavernous hall.
The lobby walls were dark mahogany, the lighting provided by antique crystal chandeliers. Ornate red velvet furniture was arranged in various conversation areas, flanked by priceless hand-tied Oriental rugs. Black marble pedestals held massive white vases filled with long-stemmed blossoms. Though the furniture was ancient and the carpets showed some shiny spots, the lobby had a certain
Casablanca
air to it, a whiff of the grandeur of days past.
“Isn't it fabulous?” Jazz gushed. She pointed to the couches nestled near a giant stone fireplace. “Right over there, Mae West got drunk and did a striptease for Montgomery Clift by firelight—or at least, that's what Donald told us.”
“True, true, it's all true,” Donald assured them. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, putting fingertips on both his eyelids. “When I do this, I can still feel her presence.”
“It's empty in here,” Sam sniffed. There were perhaps a dozen extremely low-key guests scattered about the lobby. “Why is that, Donald?”
“It's two in the afternoon,” Fee pointed out nervously. “I'm sure it'll be more crowded later.”
“Doubtful,” Sam declared, playing her snotty role for all it was worth. “All the biggest clients are busy pushing up daisies at Forest Lawn Cemetery.”
The Donald laughed his hysterical laugh anew. “Aren't you witty, Miss Sharpe! Actually, it's a little-known fact that Swifty Lazar gave his first post-Oscar party here.”
“He's
so
twentieth century,” Sam intoned, and then shook her head. “You know, I just don't think my friends are going to get behind this. Where's your valet ticket, Fee?”
Fee grasped Sam's arm. “Let us show you around, at least.”
“Right, I mean, this is just the lobby!” Jazz added, a half-octave higher than normal.
Sam feigned reluctance, but the hotel manager cajoled her. For the next fifteen minutes or so, the Donald, Jasmine, and Fee led her on a tour. They took her to the grand suite on the tenth floor, which would be reserved as part of their prom package. Though Sam sniffed, it was quaintly lovely. There were two spacious bedrooms with white, eggshell-and-ochre quilts from Marks & Spencer on the beds; a large, long bathroom with a charming blue porcelain tub perched on claw feet; and a cozy living room with a faux-bearskin rug before a red flagstone fireplace. The balcony just off the living room facing south and west was airy and elegant, with marble railings and comfortable rattan furniture.
“It's the original marble from 1919, Miss Sharpe,” the Donald explained, his voice just so proud. “We've tried to retain as much of its historicity as possible and still make it modern and luxurious for our guests.”
The elevator to the Grand Ballroom was claustrophobic and slow—two facts Sam delighted in pointing out—but the banquet room itself was massive: it could easily hold five hundred people. Sam found as much fault with it as possible, from the yellow-toned color scheme to the Italian and Spanish coats of arms in the corner, and especially the priceless knights' metal suits in Plexiglas display cases in the rear.
“We're going to go with a renaissance theme,” Jazz blurted. “In keeping with the surroundings.”
“It's going to be so fabulous!” Fee rushed to join her. “We contacted those people who do those renaissance fair thingies? We've hired them for jousting and Tarot readings, and, um, wenches, you know?”
“Right,” Jazz agreed. “Total debauchery.”
Sam folded her arms. Not bad at all. But if you were going to have those kinds of out-of-the-ordinary entertainers, you needed to hire an actual party planner, like Fleur Abra, who had done her father's wedding.
“Let me ask you girls something. Have you ever gone to one of those lame ren fairs?”
“No,” Fee admitted, shifting uncomfortably, “but my cousin works for the one in Santa Fe Springs. That's how I knew who to contact.”
“I think you can do better.”
Both girls were silent. For a nanosecond, Sam wondered if she'd carried her act too far. She changed the subject. “What about the band?”
“The stage will go up over there.” The Donald pointed to the far corner of the room.
“The band?” Sam asked.
Jasmine and Fee exchanged a fearful look.
“We've got the Roadsters,” Fee offered tentatively. Sam threw them a bone. “Good choice.”
The wattage in the girls' grins could have powered a third-world nation for a year.
“Ladies?” The ever-jovial Donald got their attention. “Time for the pièce de résistance—the food. A table has been set up for you ladies in the main dining room.”
“Sam, you're going to like this,” Fee declared. “I know it.”
The dining room's décor leaned heavily toward its Old Hollywood connection—the walls were adorned with posters of classic films from the thirties and forties, ranging from
Mrs. Miniver
to
The Third Man
to
How Green Was My Valley?
The tables had white table-cloths, the lights were kept dim, and the waiters all apparently had been working since the Bel Air's heyday judging by their age. The sound of old show tunes from movie musicals trickled in from the grand piano next door.
The Donald led the three girls to their table and held Sam's chair for her. “Bon appétit, ladies,” he wished, with a little bow. “I leave you to dine.”
Sam read the white card at the center of the table as the Donald departed. “Beverly Hills High School Anniversary Prom Menu,” she read aloud. “Bagaduce oysters and osetra caviar. Fresh Mendocino champignons with truffles, marlin niçoise, and whole roasted lobster.
Délice au chocolat et caramel,
or homemade Cold Stone Creamery ice cream hand-mixed on the premises. Accompanied by assorted beverages.”
Sam's mouth was watering just reading the menu; she hadn't eaten lunch. But she shook her head. “Not good.”
“You haven't even tasted it yet!” Jazz protested.
“We—you—need a vegetarian alternative.” Oops. Almost a slip.
“You're so right,” Jazz agreed. “We need to talk to the kitchen.”
Great. She had them where she wanted them. Time to shift gears.
“I was thinking about some other things that could make this prom special,” Sam mused.
Both girls' faces lit up as if Orlando Bloom had just asked them to dance. “We'd love to hear them,” Fee exulted.
“Here's my thought.” Sam tapped a forefinger against her lips. “I help
refine
your prom concept, all of my nearest and dearest friends come to prom, and … what say I film the transformation? Sort of a … prom makeover movie. What do you two think?”
Fee and Jazz turned into happy bobble-head dolls.
“Excellent.” Sam shook Fee's hand, then Jazz's. “It's settled, then. We have a lot of work to do while we eat. Someone make a list. By the way, once we've got a vegetarian option, the menu will be outstanding.”
Fee beamed and instantly whipped a small notebook out of her purse.
Sam smiled. In the end, it had been as easy as giving candy to Kirstie Alley.
A
s Ben piloted his parents' yacht, the new
Nip 'n' Tuck,
out of the harbor—at forty feet, it was longer than its predecessor, with brass fixtures gleaming and the scent of new paint mixing with the glorious smell of the ocean—Anna stood at the bow and flashed back to a moment when she'd been in seventh grade.
She and her best friend, Cynthia Baltres, had let themselves into Cyn's brownstone one afternoon after school. Cyn had gone to the kitchen to find some chips and Cokes, and Anna had wandered into her father's home office, a small room off the library that held a black steel desk and chair, a laptop, stacks of papers, and several shelves of books. Cyn's father, though a businessman, was at work on a novel. Right by the computer was a copy of a book that Anna had never heard of before, Kahlil Gibran's
The Prophet.
Anna idly flipped it open and began to read one of the short poems.