The It Girls

Mark can’t seem to take his eyes off Andrea. I find myself wishing that someone adored me that way and then am startled to see the cowboy studying me.

I turn and walk behind the bar, thinking surely one little drink of wine wouldn’t be too bad. The cowboy makes me nervous. I shift my attention to Jeremy and find him deep in a discussion with Zoe. It appears heated, with Zoe shaking her head vigorously and Jeremy glowering at her. I forget about the drink and sidle closer, appearing to be searching behind the bar for something as I go.

“I won’t do it!” Zoe says. “It demeans the flavor of the piece. It is antithetical to Belinda’s core motivation.”

“Bullshit, lovey,” Jeremy says, his tone both jocular and dangerous at the same time. “You’re only saying that because it’s what you want, not what the scene needs.”

“Either you believe or you don’t!” Zoe says, and this time her voice carries the length of the bar. “You live the truth or you die in darkness!”

Jeremy laughs at her and I cringe, seeing the depth of emotion Zoe so obviously feels and his callous dismissal of her feelings. I wait for her to explode and am not disappointed. A loud stinging crack suddenly echoes off the walls of the surrounding mansion as Zoe strikes Jeremy across the face, tears streaming down her face.

Jeremy slowly raises one hand to his cheek, touching the rapidly reddening imprint of her hand, his eyes glinting dangerously as he works to control himself.

“That was a mistake,” he says slowly. “One you had best never repeat.”

He is smiling now, looking around at everyone and raising a hand to ward off anyone who might protest or approach.

“The game’s afoot,” he says gaily. “Just rehearsing! Don’t let us disturb you!”

I realize that he doesn’t see me there. I am behind the bar, in near total darkness. When he continues, his voice is pitched low so as not to be overheard by the others.

“If you ever lift a hand to me again, Zoe, I will walk off your picture, contract or not. Fuck the money and fuck you. What happened between us on the last project will not be repeated here, do you understand? It’s over, Zoe—you and I are working on a movie, nothing more, nothing less.”

“But Jeremy, I…”

He lifts his hand to grasp her chin and she winces, letting me know his grip is firm to the point of being painful. He waits until her eyes meet his before he speaks again.

“No buts, Zoe. Either you play by my rules or I walk. If I walk, the picture doesn’t get made and you lose millions.”

Zoe drops her gaze and I barely hear her say, “Of course. I just wanted you to know that I…”

“Let it go. Concentrate on this project and let everything else go.”

“How can I when I know you don’t believe?” Zoe asks with one last bit of rebellion.

Jeremy’s sardonic smirk is back. “I am your leader whether I believe or not,” he says in his regal, commanding tone.

They are back in character and, as I watch, Zoe does her weird genuflection thing and murmurs, “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good girl,” he answers and walks away from her, calling out to Sam in his ranch hand voice, “Hey, buddy, how about we do a triple shot?”

Diane passes me on her way to slip her arm around Zoe. “Bastard,” she says softly to Zoe.

“No. I was wrong,” Zoe whispers. “He knows his place, and now, so do I. Everything will be fine, just fine.”

I roll my eyes and make a mental note to write a book on pursuing the unavailable male. I’ll meet the needs of so many unenlightened women, but of course they won’t believe what I have to say. That’s the trouble with therapy; the patient never listens until they’re ready to hear the truth.

Diane rubs Zoe’s shoulders slowly, her strokes gradually deepening into seductive touches that even I can read from where I stand. Zoe seems to welcome Diane’s touch.

“Let’s go somewhere and…” The rest of Diane’s statement is lost as she nuzzles Zoe’s ear.

Zoe shakes her head, running one finger slowly down Diane’s neck, tracing the bodice of her gown. “Not now,” she murmurs. “Later. We both have things to attend to before we can play. Remember why you’re here—we’ll have our time alone later.”

The two women break apart and each returns to a separate end of the bar. I sigh softly and wander out of the shadows to go stand beside the pool. It shimmers as the underwater lights blink on and night falls. I glance at my watch and think it is nearly 10:00 p.m. in New York and the middle of the night in London, where my mother has gone to accompany my stepfather on business. I am remembering the last conversation—make that argument—I had with her. I was once again confronting her about my biological father and she was once again stonewalling me.

“Why won’t you tell me more about him?” I asked.

My mother, ever the southern belle, tried tears first.

“Muffin,” she sniffed. “It was so painful. I don’t want to relive losing your father.”

“So he’s dead then?” I asked.

“Yes,” she sobbed. “It was awful!”

“How did he die? Where is his death certificate?”

I asked these questions and when she wasn’t sobbing, she was silent, or saying “I don’t know. We were divorced by then. I can’t remember. It was all so long ago and I was heartbroken.” But she never answered me.

This last time I tell her my therapist says I will never maintain a healthy heterosexual relationship if I don’t come to some closure about my father’s abandonment.

“Muffin, honey, really, can this not wait until I get back?” She didn’t wait for me to answer, just kept on walking toward the door and the car where Victor sat waiting for her.

“No, Mother! It cannot wait another moment! Tell me right now or I’ll hire private detectives and find out for myself!”

She whirled on me then, angry and upset. “I told you we will talk about it when I return! Why does it matter so much? Victor is your father! He’s raised you. He’s sent you to the finest schools, supported you, cared for you! Your father did none of those things and yet you want to search for him and ignore Victor! What kind of gratitude are you showing him with this behavior? Grow up, Porsche!”

With that, my usually mild-mannered mother turned around and stalked off to the waiting limo, without so much as a goodbye, without even looking back in my direction as the limousine pulled away from the drive.

She didn’t hear me say, “How can I appreciate Victor as a father when he never gave me the one thing I really needed?” Love. I could count on one hand the times he’d given me hugs, or more like dry, quick embraces. Why was I so unlovable to him? What had I done that made him keep me at arm’s length? And how could my mother be grateful to a man we both knew was unfaithful to her?

“You contemplating jumping in, or has the jet lag paralyzed your body now?”

I start, spilling my Diet Coke and nearly toppling into the pool at the unexpected sound of the cowboy’s voice. Strong hands grab my arms, pulling me back from the edge, and I am suddenly face-to-face with Sam and way too close for comfort.

“You scared me!”

“Obviously.”

I am mesmerized by the darkness I see in his eyes and the pull I feel from them. It is like standing on the edge of an active volcano. Sam is the first one to break the silence, abruptly turning me loose as he does so.

“I didn’t think you heard Andrea announce that dinner is being served in the dining room.”

“Dinner?” I could slap myself for saying that. It’s like every word he says is in some kind of foreign language that I seem incapable of understanding. He must think I’m an idiot.

Jeremy’s dining room is a lesson in too much money, too little design taste. I look around and for a moment wonder if Jeremy watched reruns of Bonanza as a child. There are, no joke, not one, but three candle-lit wagon-wheel chandeliers above the massive, heavy oak dining table. He has us all drinking out of silver flagons that are set before, I swear, gold-plated chargers. There are black, wrought-iron accents everywhere and a thick, Persian rug on the floor. The only thing missing are pictures of Jeremy’s ancestors lining the walls. It is a designer nightmare, and yet, when I take in the accent pieces, I know Jeremy hired the work. I mean, there is nothing personal in the entire room. Every knickknack is professionally placed and that is just the kiss of death as far as I’m concerned. I mean, you either live in a home or you visit a shrine. Jeremy was living on a movie set.

“Consuela has prepared one of her village specialties,” he says.

“Shut up!” I say under my breath, wondering if he changed the poor woman’s name to fit the tableau.

Sam and I take our places at the long table and I study Jeremy more closely. He’s sniffing and talking nonstop. His face is flushed with the alcohol he’s been drinking, but the tiny traces of white powder around his nose are a giveaway; Jeremy’s been doing cocaine.

I look around the table, searching for his companions in crime and notice two tiny spots of red on Zoe’s high cheekbones. Andrea is sitting on one side of me and Sam on the other. Andrea sips steadily on her wine and watches her husband across the table. Mark is flirting with Diane, who seems fascinated by his every word. She lays a beautifully manicured hand on his arm and smiles up at him, and I find myself wondering what she wants from him. I’m learning. Hollywood’s a stage and we are but the actors.

I turn to say something to Andrea, anything to distract her from the unfolding scene across the table, but a shrill alarm suddenly emanates from a small panel set into the wall near the French doors leading outside. Everyone stops talking, searching for the noise, but Sam is already in motion, pushing his chair back and crossing the room. He opens the panel, pushes a button and the sound stops. Without another word, he opens one of the doors and vanishes outside.

Jeremy stares stupidly after him and laughs. “Well, loveys,” he says, “I suppose my visitor has returned.” He’s drunk and high. What a combination.

I push my chair back slowly and leave the table to head for the open French door. No one seems to notice. They are all talking at once. Zoe sounds frightened. Diane is still telling Mark stories and Andrea is trying to get Mark’s attention. I slip outside and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The crackle of a walkie-talkie startles me. I make out Dave standing poolside.

“I got nothing here,” he says and moves away.

I start to follow after him, moving quietly around the edge of the pool. A rustle in the bushes to my left sends my heart up into my throat. A high, feminine scream from the dining room chills my blood and I turn to run back inside. I’m a fool, I think. The danger wasn’t outside, it was inside.

I start to move and time seems to flow in slow motion. Suddenly there is pain, sharp and nauseating in the back of my skull. I fall forward into darkness.

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