Authors: Unknown
“You made up her sister, Brenda, yesterday,” Jenkins prompted.
“Brenda is
Simone’s
sister?”
He nodded. “Simone was so impressed at how great Brenda looked, she wanted to meet you.”
“Okay,” I stuttered. “I have to sing tonight at this place called Nick’s. I’m off tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you understand,” he cut in. “She’d like to meet you
now
.”
“I have a job here! I can’t just leave.”
Dwight Jenkins called my boss, Tish, over. “Miss Preston has a job interview with Simone. She’s going with me.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I can’t do that.” And then his words made their way through the filters in my brain. “A job interview?”
“Simone would like you to be her personal makeup artist. The pay will be a bit more than what you’re currently making here.” He cocked an eyebrow.
“What? Is this for real?”
Tish came around the counter and put her arm around me. “You have to go. Something like this is a once in lifetime opportunity. Do it, girl!”
I hugged her goodbye and followed Jenkins. He escorted me to a limo where I found Simone and Brenda waiting inside.
I was speechless as I sat down across from them. Jenkins climbed in the front with the chauffeur, and the car purred to life, smoothly pulling away from the mall. Simone smiled. “Thank you for coming.”
As if I had a choice, right? I studied her in awe. She was a true beauty—long, blonde hair, big, blue eyes, a body men would love to ravish and women would kill for, and a voice that had venues around the country sold out months in advance. She was a cross between a younger Madonna and Mariah Carey, with a dash of Brittney Spears. To be sitting across from her was mind blowing, and my stomach did this swirly, feel-like-I’m-gonna-puke thing that always happens to me when I get nervous.
“You are so genius,” Simone said. She took Brenda’s face in her hands and squeezed, bunching it up so she looked like a fat goldfish trying to breathe. “The hottest guy at this party last night hooked up with my sister. He wanted her, not me! And I was so working it, too. He didn’t even look my way. Usually she looks kind of dorky. Cute, but dorky.” She let go of Brenda’s face and patted her cheeks gently.
Brenda rubbed her face. “Gee, thanks Sis.”
“I asked her who did her face and she told me this chick at the MAC counter at Nordy’s. I’m like, I so have to meet this woman! And, well, here we are. Is it your fucking lucky day or what?” Simone smiled, shiny, bleach-white teeth gleaming in the darkened limo.
“Well, thank you for the compliment.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. I mean, what do you say to someone with a planet-sized ego who has graced the covers of
Vogue
,
Rolling Stone
, and
Vanity Fair
, won a handful of Grammy’s, and talks like a truck driver? I almost had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming, but then the car made a quick turn and Simone spilled her glass of champagne in my lap.
Without an apology, she said, “I need a new make-up assistant. That last one was the shits. Oh, check this out . . .” She rolled down the privacy glass between us and the driver. “Harvey, take us over to Blake’s place so I can show . . .” She glanced at me. “Hon, what the fuck is your name?”
“Evie.”
“Right.” She looked back at the driver. “So I can show Evie her new digs.” She rolled the window back up.
“I’m confused. I thought this was a job interview,” I said. Brenda poured me a glass of champagne, handing it to me. “Thanks, but I don’t drink and definitely not before noon.”
“First, confusion around my sister happens a lot,” Brenda said.
Simone punched Brenda lightly in the arm. “Ha, ha, little sis thinks she’s soooo fucking funny.”
Brenda nodded. “And two . . .” She held up two fingers, “If you’re hanging with us, which you will be, because big sis doesn’t go far without her makeup and the one who puts it on her, you are going to have to learn to party like a rock star.”
“Drink up.” Simone clinked my glass. “Cheers. Here’s to your new home.”
I looked out the window and my jaw dropped. Literally. We’d pulled up to a large gate with a long, winding drive. I sucked back the champagne to calm my nerves. This simply could not be happening. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Edie,” Simone started. “I’m pretty sure you don’t live in a place like this . . .”
“It’s Evie.”
She waved a hand in my face. “My buddy Blake, this big producer guy, is in Europe for, like, a year or something, and he needs a house sitter. I volunteered Brenda, but she says she’s afraid of the house and won’t do it.”
“Place is creepy.” Brenda poured herself another glass of champagne.
“Shut-up,” Simone said. “So if you come on board as my makeup chick, you get to live in luxury, baby. This place is way cool.”
I had to agree with her. Palm trees and an iron gate, with a retro, Spanish mission look going on and, from what I could tell, a view to die for. But what was the catch? I mean, was she serious? I could actually live here?
“Can I bring my dog?”
“You can bring fifty fucking dogs for all I care. What do you say, Edie? You in?”
Evie, Edie, makeup chick, whatever—I didn’t give a damn what she wanted to call me. I was definitely in.
Chapter Six
THREE WEEKS LATER, and I was kind of inclined to agree with Brenda regarding the house (mansion, villa, whatever it was). Blake’s place
was
a little creepy. And any time I asked about Blake, the owner, I got the brush off. The only thing Brenda had added one day when I was prepping to do Simone’s makeup (Brenda was busy looting her sister’s closet while Simone soaked in a tub of goat’s milk and tuberose petals . . . don’t get me started), was she’d heard the place was haunted.
“Haunted? Really? By who?” I asked.
Brenda shrugged. And then Simone walked in wearing a plush, pink robe.
“What are you doing?!” She snatched a silky-looking shirt out of Brenda’s hands. “Get the hell out of my fucking closet. Go buy your own clothes and leave Edie alone. And no more shit about her place being haunted.” She turned to me, an exasperated look on her face. “You don’t believe in that shit, do you?”
Here’s the thing: I sort of do. When I was a kid, I saw a ghost. Or at least I think I did. I remember waking one night from a deep sleep to see a little girl, pale and, well, ghostly, pad silently past my open bedroom door. She held a candle, and the flame was the only thing with any kind of real color to it—a faint, yellow glow. She turned to face me and, with a smile, brought her free hand up to her face and shushed me with her finger. I wasn’t scared, just surprised. I remembered wanting to talk to my mother about it, but never did. Fact is, ghosts and things that go bump in the night weren’t exactly embraced with open arms in my household. And then, as I got older, a part of me began to wonder if maybe it had all been a dream.
Simone was looking at me expectantly. “Please tell me you don’t believe in that crap. Brenda also thinks we’re descended from space aliens.” She walked past her sister and smacked her lightly on the top of her head. Brenda rolled her eyes.
“Um, no . . . not really,” I stuttered.
Well, what did you expect me to say?
Oh yes, Simone! Not only do I believe in ghosts, but I can also touch people, get a glimpse of their psychological baggage, and help them heal!
Speaking of Simone, when I did, on occasion, touch her face . . . there was nothing overly traumatic about her past that jumped out at me (aside from her fixation on an old magazine article that mentioned her slight weight gain). The only thing I did pick up from her was a deep, aching loneliness—surprising, because she was constantly surrounded by people. Nevertheless, it allowed me to feel some empathy for her, even though she was often incredibly obnoxious.
Whether or not the house was haunted, I had yet to experience anything frightening. I mean, how could I complain? I’d gone from living in my van and sleeping at the bar to staying at a seven thousand square foot mansion overlooking Los Angeles. Simone was paying me good money, too. Oh, and I got to have Cass with me—at the house, that is. Simone wouldn’t allow my dog anywhere near her.
So the house was huge and it made me feel, well, uncomfortable. I figured eventually I would adjust to the size of the place. Even with Cass by my side, it was hard to get used to having all that space . . . all those empty rooms . . . to myself.
The house was tastefully decorated—all in whites, pale yellows, and light greens, with hardwood floors, and lots of bamboo and bougainvillea. There were a handful of Buddha statues and crosses scattered throughout (at least all my spiritual bases were covered, although my daddy would have had a heart attack seeing Jesus hanging with the Buddha, even if only in décor form). It was as if a fancy Mexican hotel lobby had mated with an Asian-themed resort spa.
There was also a boarded up guesthouse on the back forty. Now, that place
really
creeped me out. It looked like a smaller version of the Amityville Horror house (yes, I managed to see that movie one night at a sleepover . . . and I didn’t sleep for about two weeks after that). The property was on two acres, and the guesthouse stood just above the slope of a gentle hill beneath a cluster of pepper trees.
Another thing I’d noticed was the random smell of marijuana. Not that I’ve ever smoked it, but given Brady’s total lack of activities for teens, my high school years were heavily dotted with the pungent scent of weed: smuggled into football games beneath the bleachers, during lunch behind the library, and at informal gatherings in the parking lot of the local pizza joint. The only thing I could figure was maybe the neighbor on the hill below me liked to get high, and the breeze carried the scent up to my house now and then.
Cass absolutely loved our new place, but even she was wary of the guesthouse and tended to keep her distance. She immediately took to the swimming pool, and spent at least an hour or two a day swimming in circles and diving in to retrieve the toys I threw in for her. She was doing just that one afternoon when Simone called to say she didn’t need me for the night. That was a first. In the few weeks I’d been working for her, she needed me pretty much night and day to do her makeup—do it Goth, do it like Garbo, do it like Gaga—you name it, Simone wanted it.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes,” Simone sniffled. “I mean, no. I’m fucking sick! Me! I have a cold. I was going to tell you to bring me some soup, but Bren’s getting it. She said I work you too hard.” She paused for a moment, “Do you think I work you too hard?”
“Um . . . no. I’m good.”
“Okay. Oh! But I do have a photo shoot in the morning and I cannot look like death warmed over,” she said in a congested-sounding voice. “And my nose looks like Rudolph the Red-Nosed fucking Reindeer!”
I cringed. Her constant use of the F-bomb was rapidly becoming my least favorite aspect of her personality. “I can fix that. Don’t worry.”
“Good. Be here by seven, and bring me a double-shot, skinny, pumpkin spice latte and don’t let them give you any shit about how they only sell pumpkin spice lattes during the holidays. They have it and I want it. See you tomorrow!”
I placed the phone back on the cradle and sighed, looking over at Cass. “Early morning tomorrow, but I get tonight off.” Cass wagged her tail in approval. “Let’s go to Nick’s!”
I grabbed my guitar, promising Cass some fish tacos once we got there. It didn’t take much to convince her. She flew into the back of the VW and we headed toward La Cienega.
At Nick’s, the usual crowd was there, including Becky, who had become a frequent flier, and one who constantly fawned over Nick. I had the impression Nick liked Becky fine, but Becky was
way
into Nick. Meanwhile, Candace seethed every time Becky came in.
Mumbles was on his forty-fifth gin and tonic, and Candace was happily nursing a “Candace Special,” which as far as I can tell, has Midori and pineapple rum in it. At least that’s what I put in when I made them for her and she hadn’t complained yet. I shuddered to think about the state of her liver.
Becky, on the other hand, never strayed far from her chilled Chardonnay.
I noticed Jackson back in his corner booth, his laptop propped open on the table. He glanced up at me and waved briefly, his eyes almost immediately dropping back down to the screen in front of him. He was definitely distracted.
I thought it was kind of odd Jackson had never really made good on the rain check after our first conversation. In fact, as good looking as the guy was, he was pretty moody. One night he’d be pleasant and sort of flirtatious. The next, he’d be cold and act like I wasn’t there. I didn’t know what to make of him. I had never been one to make the first move, and honestly, with him being so wishy-washy, I’d pretty much lost interest in him as a prospect. Not that I was prospecting. I had to steer away from hand holding for a long time with someone and try to get to really know them before I took a good look at their most painful life experience. It made me shy of dating.
“Evie, g’see you. Got black eye.” Mumbles pointed to his good eye.
Whoa! So he did. “How did you do that?” I asked, staring at the huge shiner spanning his eye.
“Oh, he fell off the stool last night. We missed you,” Candace said.
I shook my head and sighed. “Someone really needs to check you two into rehab.”
“Ouch! That hurts.” Candace waved a hand in front of her face. “But know what, honey? You may be right, but what’s the point? Ain’t nobody out there who’d care one way or another.”
“Oh, Candace, that’s not true. I think you just like to be the victim.”
“Damn girl. Don’t talk to Auntie Candace that way! Be nice and pour me another Special.” She lowered her voice suddenly and sidled over. “You know what, sweet pea? That boy over in the corner has it bad for you.”
“He’s weird,” Mumbles mumbled. “Questions. Movie. Dunno ‘bout him.”
“Huh?” I said.
“He’s not weird,” Candace slurred. “He’s an artist. A filmmaker. I think Nick is being an idiot for not helping him out.”
“Creeps,” Mumbles mumbled.
I was definitely getting interested in this conversation.
“Slow down you two. First you.” I pointed at Candace while I stepped behind the bar to fix her a drink. ”You think he likes me?” I tilted my head toward Jackson.
“Oh yeah. He has the hots, big time.”
“Creep,” Mumbles said a bit more clearly than usual.
I leaned in closer to him. “What’s the problem, Mumbles?”
“Dunno. Feeling. Looks at you. Don’t like it.” He glared down into his glass.
“Oh, Mumbles, you’re a softy.”
“Youse a kid. He’s . . . not right.”
“Evie, honey, don’t listen to him. He’s an old drunk,” Candace said.
“What are you?” Becky butted in from her seat a few stools down the bar.
Candace pulled herself upright and nearly launched herself at Becky. “You know what, bimbo? I’ve had about enough of you. In fact, I had enough of you twenty-five goddamned years ago.”
Whoa! This was getting good.
Becky narrowed her eyes to angry slits, her mouth pressed into a thin line across her face. “I can say the same thing about you, you lush. And it’s been almost thirty years!”
“Ladies, please!” Nick rushed out from the kitchen, his arms spread wide. “Can we please leave all of that in the past? Just let it go and let’s move on.”
“You mean like how we let Roger go?” Candace asked, her voice dripping with hostility.
Becky rolled her eyes and looked away, sullenly sipping her wine.
Nick leaned in close to Candace and lowered his voice. “I warned you, Candy. I have told you time and again to let that shit go. It’s done and buried. I don’t need any problems. You and I are friends now. All cool, right?” He glanced quickly over to where Jackson sat, his dark eyes trained on the entire scene. He looked the way a dog does when it’s got an injured squirrel in its sights. For a split second, I understood Mumbles’ comments about Jackson, and a shiver spun its way down my spine.
Candace sat back and crossed her arms. She eyed Nick for a long second and to me, it looked like a warning. I might just be a small town girl from Brady, Texas, but even I could tell things were heating up good, as my mama would say. And that’s when a really big dude walked in.
When Nick spotted him, he recoiled.
Big Guy didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “Hey, you skinny, stupid fuck! We need to talk,” he pointed a thick, meaty finger at Nick.
“Whoa . . .” I stepped out from behind the bar. I know I probably should have stayed put, but where I come from, that kind of talk is just plain rude. “You can’t come in here talking to people like that. You need to leave.”
He eyed me and started laughing. “She your bouncer, Nick? You’re cute, sweetie. Stick around for a little while and maybe we can have a drink after I’m done chatting with your boss here. The name’s Pietro SanGiacomo.” He reached out to shake my hand. I quickly shoved my hands in my back pockets and kept them there.