Sunset Boulevard (5 page)

move with them and go to school there, but Ash wasn't having it. He had friends at BHH, and

at the time he had Myla. Not to mention her family dinners, where he was a daily guest, and

never felt like an outsider. "Great decision, son, choosing a girl over your family," Gordon had

said. "You can just live here, by yourself, but don't come crawling to me when she dumps

you." Ash had hated his dad for saying it, and from that moment on wanted to prove he didn't

need Gordon for anything. But then Myla went on a three-month trip over the summer and

Ash, with nothing to do, realized how lonely the house could be.

Her trip, at least, was temporary. But now he and Myla were truly over, and the cold reality of

eating takeout alone at a table for six had really started to sink in. He still couldn't sleep right.

Every night, the vision of Myla kissing Lewis fucking Buford refreshed itself in his head.

"Meet me at Spago, at eight, okay?" Gordon said.

Ash toyed with the corner of the stiff place mat. His dad hadn't said, "Meet us," just "Meet

me." Did he really want to have dinner, just the two of them? Ash wondered if his dad had

some kind of birthday surprise in mind, even though he didn't turn eighteen until next week.

"Yeah, sure," Ash said. "Any special reason?"

"We'll talk when you get there," Gordon said. "See you then." Gordon hung up without a

goodbye.

Ash jumped up and tossed his calzone in the trash. He was having a father-son dinner. As he

placed his empty plate in the dishwasher he felt oddly cheered. His dad would never come out

and say he wanted them to be close again. But if Gordon Gilmour was capable of even a minor

reconciliation, then maybe Ash had it in him to forgive and forget.

A few hours later, Ash pulled his 1969 black Camaro up to the front door of Spago, the

incessant beat of The Ooh La Las, his dad's latest musical find, thumping over the sound of

passing cars on Canon Drive. Clicking his iPod off, he checked his hair in the rearview mirror.

Using more gel than he ever had in his entire life, he'd managed to tame his hair off his face, so

it looked a little more dignified. The last time he'd been out with his dad, for a Grammys preparty at the Museum of Modern Art, Ash had worn his hair in its usual floppy style only to

have Gordon chide, right in front of Bruce Springsteen, "Ash, I may work with musicians, but

remember, you're the son of a businessman, not a rock star. Try a little professionalism."

Tonight, he'd made every effort not to let his old man down. He wore a dove gray fitted Hugo

Boss shirt, a gift from Myla that had never left the box, tucked into a pair of charcoal slim-fit

Armani trousers. He slung his jacket, a black narrow blazer with a slight sheen, over his arm as

the valet opened his door and Ash made his way out and into the restaurant.

Spago's interior looked like a geometry lesson gone horribly awry. An obsessive-compulsive

guest could spend hours trying to find all the trapezoids, diamonds, and parallelograms hidden

in the paintings, the furniture, even the ceiling. The décor was mostly unchanged since the

restaurant, historic by L.A. standards, had opened in 1982.

Ash walked directly to the hostess stand, even though he was early. It was seven forty-five, but

he wanted to be here before his father, just to show how important this night was to him.

The hostess, a tall, sharp-featured woman with short, spiky black hair, greeted Ash with a purr.

"May I help you, sir?"

Ash, noticing many men were wearing jackets, slid his on as he answered. "I'm meeting my

father, Gordon Gilmour," he said. "I'm early, though."

The woman checked the giant reservation book spread open atop the hostess stand. "Mr.

Gilmour's party has already been seated, in the private dining area," she corrected him. Ash

nervously checked the time on his phone. He was definitely early. And what was this about

"Mr. Gilmour's party"? She waved one hand for Ash to follow her, and they cut through the

dining room, past a table of harried-looking agent types all tapping e-mails into their

BlackBerries.

The private room was painted the same bright yellow, but the lights were dimmer, and candles

flickered on each of the dozen tables. A long red felt banquette ran along one wall, and Ash

found Gordon sitting here, surrounded by his minions from his label, More Records. Gordon

was laughing at something his lead A&R guy, Lee Winters, was saying. His bellow seemed to

suck all of the air from the room. Gordon's eyes flickered in Ash's direction, but the way his

father's gaze swept right over him, Ash could have been a busboy.

He stood there dumbly. His dad had said, "Meet
me
." Not "Come to some boring business

dinner so I can ignore you in front of my staff."

Ash saw his dad's high forehead crinkle above his raised eyebrows. His eyes, a harder brown

than Ash's, scanned his son's neat hair, jacket, and pressed pants. "Everyone, I think you know

my son, Ash," he said, and immediately, the whole table was at attention, the half-dozen guys

in suits rising to clasp Ash's hand tightly and slap him on the back. The two women competed

with their male counterparts for firmer handshakes. Ash sat down, water and a glass of red

wine materializing before him. Next to him was an empty place setting, the wine drained, traces

of red lipstick smudging the rim of the glass. Maybe Moxie
was
here. He thought he smelled

her heavy rose perfume still swirling in the air.

"How's the car?" Gordon asked, leaning across the table. When he'd moved to Malibu, he'd left

several of his pet cars at the Beverly Hills house, and told Ash he could have one. Ash had

chosen the 1969 Camaro SS not only because its turbo engine took full advantage of rare

openings on Sunset Boulevard but also because his dad used to take him for drives up the PCH

in it. But ever since Ash started driving the Camaro, Gordon had taken a newfound interest in

its health and well-being, as if expecting Ash to total it within months.

"Good, drove it here today," Ash said, taking a gulp of the dry wine, letting its warmth course

through his chest.

Waiters came to the table, adding seared tuna, pan-roasted chicken, and braised veal to each

plate, alongside baby artichokes, fresh cavatelli pasta with pine nuts, and oversize mushrooms

bursting with goat cheese. Once everyone had food, Gordon clinked his glass with his fork.

"You all know why we're here," he boomed, as his staff clung to every word.
Not me,
Ash

thought. Gordon rarely mixed family and business. "We have an auspicious new addition to the

talent roster at More Records, even if she has been in the bathroom an awfully long time."

Light giggles burst out around the table.

"Honestly, I hate the work that goes into scouting England for the States' next pop stars, but

More Records has built a legacy of finding the best of those and bringing them across the

pond." He chuckled before his staff caught on that he expected them to laugh. "She's, as you

know, a bit of a handful. We haven't had someone like this on our hands since our little role in

Keith Richards's solo career. But I'm daring to say that..."

Gordon's voice trailed off as all eyes turned toward the far corner of the room. Daisy Morton,

Britain's latest sensation and Gordon's newest client, stumbled in, toting a half-drunk bottle of

wine in one fist.

Applause broke out around the table, and Gordon's flock stood with wineglasses raised. Ash

gulped down his stuffed mushroom in surprise. Daisy Morton?
Crazy
Daisy Morton? With the

boyfriend she'd met through a prison pen pal program? Who'd drunkenly pushed down one of

the stoic guards at Buckingham Palace? What was his dad
thinking
?

The words
hot mess
weren't quite strong enough to describe her. Daisy's hair, dyed violet with

roots the color of wet sand, was clasped to the sides of her head in two sagging buns. Her

pretty face had been attacked by her makeup bag with a faint line of fuchsia lipstick running

across her cheek, Joker style. Her eyes, twinkling mischievously under the dim lights,

resembled two full silvery moons, but her ravaged black and blue eye makeup bruised the

effect. She was all chaos and drama with--Ash had to admit--a few really catchy woe-is-me

songs. But even the occasional good song wasn't enough to convince Ash that fans followed

Daisy for her great music, and not for her train wreck of a life.

"Oi, Mr. Gilmour," Daisy shouted, in a nasal voice too loud for the room. "What're you

banging on about?"

"Just toasting you, Daisy," Gordon said, beaming at his new find like she didn't resemble

someone who'd just survived nuclear Armageddon. A thick layer of powder made Daisy's face

look pasty, but healthy-looking olive skin peeked out from the straps of her long black

American Apparel tank top, which she wore over a fluffy purple tutu, a trademark of hers, and

a pair of red Converse high-tops.

"Love a toast, love," she said, in her Cockney slur. She raised the wine bottle victoriously as

she ambled to the table. She caught Ash staring and smiled, displaying a set of surprisingly

white and nearly straight English teeth. Her left incisor overlapped her front teeth by a

centimeter, which Ash might have found cute if not for the rest of her. She tipped the wine

bottle back, swigging greedily, as she fumbled her way toward the table. Slamming the nearly

empty bottle down at the seat next to Ash, she asked, "And who's this bloke?"

"Ah, someone finally asks," Gordon said, gesturing for everyone to sit again. Daisy plopped

down in her chair, her hand flopping lazily onto Ash's leg. "This is my son, Ash. He's about

your age and, since I'm in Malibu most of the time, we thought he could be your right-hand

man while you're in Beverly Hills," Gordon said, winking at Daisy.

"I'd prefer if he used both hands on me, if you don't mind," Daisy teased, her hand sliding

dangerously close to Ash's zipper.

Ash felt his jaw turn to stone, his teeth fighting each other in their involuntary grinding.
What.

The. Fuck.
His dad wanted him to play assistant to some crazy-train English broad who

thought he was man meat? His eyes cut to the emergency exit, and he imagined darting for the

door, jumping into the car, and driving to Mexico. He'd change his identity, start fresh. His

new name could be Quentin McQueen. Or Jack Plant Page.

Gordon laughed, his mouth still full of veal. The rest of the table followed suit, except for Ash,

who was still in shock. Shouldn't they be horrified? His dad had basically sold him off to some

wrecked, horny freak.

"Don't worry, birdie. We're going to have some fun," Daisy whispered wetly in his ear, her

breath warm and winey against his neck.

Gordon rose, nodding to Ash. "Come with me to the bar for a second? I need something

stronger."

Ash followed his dad to the bar in the main restaurant area. The other patrons stole glances at

them, knowing the back room of Spago was sure to conceal boldface-name types. The

bartender, an Amazonian girl with mahogany hair that swished like it was animated by Disney,

purred, "What would you like?" Her velvety brown eyes never left Ash's dad.

Gordon squared his shoulders, leaning against the bar. "Surprise me."

Watching as she poured several shots of Grey Goose into a silver cocktail shaker, Gordon

muttered to Ash, "So, I noticed you looked upset back there."

Relief washed over Ash. So his dad wasn't so dense, after all. "Yeah, I was just a little