Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  The silence on the speakerphone is so thick it’s almost a physical presence. Then Kate lays down the coup de grace.

  “And Nic? Kathryn Bigelow is doing a sequel to The Hurt Locker, and there’s a great part in the script for you. She’s going to be at the party tonight and she’s not going to be able to envision you as part of an elite bomb squad if you’re dressed as a woman.”

  There’s another long pause.

  “Is it for the lead?” Nic asks, taking Kate’s bait.

  “Of course,” Kate says.

  “I should have had Jeremy Renner’s part. I would have been great in that role,” Nic says.

  “You could be great in the sequel, but you’re not going to get the part if you wear another gown tonight, okay?”

  “Okay,” Nic finally acquiesces. Man, is Kate good. “But I’m not happy about it. I really love the gown I was going to wear.”

  “You can wear it another night, just as long as it’s not tonight,” Kate says. “And drop the accent. I want everyone to see Nic, the actor who can do any role. I don’t want you to limit yourself.”

  “Fine. Adam and I have to go mentally and emotionally prepare for being in men’s clothing,” Nic says. I wonder what exactly that entails.

  “I’ll pick you up at eight p.m.,” Kate says, clicking off her BlackBerry.

  “How do you do it?” I ask Kate.

  “Despite what a complete and utter prick the guy is, he’s just so talented and I actually really believe in him—and all the money I hope to one day make from him. And that was nothing. That was Nic in a good mood,” Kate says, reaching for a carton of saltines on the bedside table. “Is this nausea ever going to end, because the only thing that seems to help is bread, and the last time I ate a carb was 2002.” I look down at her stomach. It still looks as flat as ever underneath her gray-and-white abstract floral tank dress. “You know if any of the agents from the other agencies find out that I’m pregnant, they’re going to see it as a weakness and start calling all of my clients,” she says.

  “That’s absurd. Who would do that?” I ask, horrified.

  “Me. How do you think I signed Kellan Lutz?”

  “You’re sick, you know that, right?” I say.

  “No, I’m just a damn good agent,” Kate says.

  I take a deep breath. “So … have you told Christopher yet?”

  Kate pops another saltine into her mouth and ignores my question. Finally she manages, “How did you know?”

  “Oh, please. I saw you two sneak into the bathroom the night of my engagement party. I was hoping it meant you were getting back together.”

  “Well, we’re not.”

  “But you still could,” I say. “Especially now that you’re pregnant.”

  “Lola, this isn’t some Sandra Bullock romantic comedy where we’re going to end up together, okay? We tried and failed. Period,” she says.

  “Have you told him about the baby yet?” I ask again.

  “No. And I don’t plan on it.”

  “Kate, you have to tell him,” I say.

  “What’s the point?” Kate asks. “I’m not keeping it and he’s with Gigi now.”

  “He doesn’t love Gigi, he loves you,” I say.

  “Just promise me that you’re not going to tell Christopher.”

  “There is no possible way that I’m not going to tell him if you don’t tell him first. You know you can’t ask me to choose between you.”

  “Fine, okay, I’ll tell him,” she says, although I don’t really believe her.

  “Listen, Kate, I really can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, but whatever happens between you and Christopher, I just want you to know that I’m here for you,” I say, hugging her. And she actually lets me.

  “Thanks, Lo,” she says. “Can you believe I’m fucking pregnant,” she says, and for half of a nanosecond I swear the Great Wall of Kate crumbles. “I … I better go. I don’t trust Adam or Nic. I’ll see you tonight, right?” And just like that the wall is back up.

  “Yeah, see you tonight,” I say, standing up to leave. “Good luck with Nic.”

  * * *

  In the taxi on the way back to my hotel, I can’t help but hold out hope that Kate and Christopher’s story will have a different ending than the version in my brother’s film: Justin Cooper meets a smart, carefree, funny, sexy photographer at the Joshua Tree and Petunia Holt is left with only her clients and a—vibrator. Which is at least better than the version he was thisclose to going with: Justin ends up with the aforementioned photog and on her way to a signing meeting with Jessica Alba, Petunia gets into a near fatal car crash from BlackBerry-ing while driving.

  I try and push Kate and my brother out of my mind. With Julian’s show just days away and the Vain shoot hanging on by a teeny tiny thread, I have to focus on work. I pull out my cell. There’s a voice mail from Coz. When she starts talking about wanting to dye the wedding gowns a “pale, pale, pale Tiffany blue” because she’s feeling like “there’s too much white,” I click off my cell. Her list of demands for this shoot so far is even crazier than Lady Gaga’s backstage rider. And now she wants Julian to dye the gowns?! They’re wedding dresses. They have to be white. Don’t they? That woman is going to give me a heart attack. Thank god that Lev is coming tomorrow so if I do have a heart attack at least he’ll be able to resuscitate me. That is, if he can still remember how to actually be a doctor as opposed to just playing one on TV. Still, I can’t wait for him to get here. No more video chat or Skype. Lev is going to be here in the flesh. My stomach flips at just the thought.

  When I walk into my hotel room my stomach flips again. And not in a good way. I expect to find Julian frantically fitting Amazonian stunners for the show and little Chili Lu hunched over his sewing machine while Barbra Streisand’s “The Way We Were” bellows out of Julian’s iPod. Instead, Julian and Chili are seated in silence in front of Chili’s laptop lying open on the brass coffee table in the center of our small living room, and there’s not a single gangly model in sight.

  “What’s going on? And where are all the models?” I ask.

  “O-M-F-G, Lola,” Chili screeches, practically jumping out of his red vintage Air Jordans. “O-M-F-G!”

  “Julian, I need a Chili to English translation please,” I say.

  “Just watch,” Julian says, pointing to the laptop and pressing play on a YouTube video.

  Shaky handheld footage of the inside of an airplane cabin fills the screen. The camera pans around what looks like first class, judging by the plush, spacious seats, and lands on a female passenger eating a hot fudge sundae. As the camera zooms in on the woman’s face my stomach drops. Even without a stitch of makeup and her signature red boyish crop held back by a gray headband, I recognize that otherworldly Sophia Loren-meets-David Bowie face that’s graced every magazine cover in the world and I know what’s coming next. I force myself to keep watching as Aria Fraser polishes off her sundae. Suddenly she realizes that’s she’s being filmed.

  “Are you fucking filming me right now?” she says in a high-pitched Valley Girlesque shriek, all six feet of her climbing out of her seat in black leggings and an oversized tee, her empty sundae dish falling to the floor. “Stop fucking filming me!”

  “Turn it off, Julian. I can’t watch anymore. I know how it ends,” I say.

  “Keep watching,” Julian insists.

  “Give me that fucking iPhone,” Aria demands.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll delete the footage if you want, I’m just such a big fan of yours,” a young girl’s voice says nervously off camera, which is now filming the floor.

  “Give me that phone,” Aria persists, the cell still shooting the floor.

  “Ms. Fraser, you need to return to your seat,” a flight attendant says.

  “This little twat has been filming me,” Aria hollers.

  “Ms. Fraser, please calm down and return to your seat,” the flight attendant says, the camera catching a corner of her fried
peroxide platinum ponytail. “Plea—”

  The footage cuts out and when it starts up again it’s a blur of images: the floor, part of the stewardess’s sun-strewn face, the back of someone’s head, a section of someone’s bright yellow Goyard carry-on, the cabin ceiling.

  “Give me that phone,” Aria screams, the camera zooming in on her plump lips.

  “Ms. Fraser, please calm down,” a second, male flight attendant is saying.

  “I want that fucking ph—” Aria is yelling when the camera cuts out again. And then the moment I knew was coming happens and it’s as though Michael Bay shot it himself. Aria lunges at the young girl and her flailing fist connects with her face.

  I stare at the screen in horror. It’s even worse than I thought. I look at the video’s title: “Aria Fraser Smacks a Girl Down.” There are 700,050 views, and the video has only been up for a few hours. I peruse the comments.

  HAS-BEEN!

  SHE LOOKS LIKE A MESSED-UP DRAG QUEEN!

  SHE NEEDS TO BE IN A MENTAL INSTITUTE.

  IF SHE’S SUCH A DIVA, WHY DOESN’T SHE HAVE A PRIVATE PLANE?

  HMMM … GUESS SHE’S A BROKE DIVA.

  SHE NEEDS TO RETIRE FOR REAL AND GO AWAY!!

  SHE IS GETTING FAT!

  SOMEONE NEEDS TO SMACK THAT BITCH!

  “O-M-F-G, right?” Chili says, and I suddenly understand his need for abbreviations as there are no words for what I just watched.

  “I seriously hate the Internet,” I finally spit out, slamming Chili’s laptop shut.

  “What are we going to do, Lola?” Julian says.

  “Where are all the models? Aren’t you supposed to be having your final fittings with all of them right now?” I ask.

  “They’re all probably still out partying, it is only noon,” Julian says.

  “Completely unacceptable. I’m going to call the agency,” I say.

  “Lola, stop trying to ignore the supermodel in the room. How can we let Aria walk in the show after seeing that,” Julian says, pointing to the closed laptop, his voice tinged with panic.

  “Julian, do you have any idea how much work it’s taken on my part to even get Aria out of jail in time for your show? I now know the numbers of the American and French consulates by heart,” I say. “She’s walking in the show.”

  “But there’s a new Facebook page already: People for the Ethical Treatment of People by Aria Fraser.”

  “They already have thirty thousand fans,” Chili chimes in.

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “F.R.,” Chili says.

  “Huh?” I say.

  “For reals,” Julian translates.

  “That’s ridiculous. George from W magazine told me they want to put her on the cover in a ‘Free Aria’ T-shirt, so not everyone is against her,” I say. “And that little girl was totally filming her without her consent.”

  “She punched her in the face,” Julian says. “She needed stitches.”

  “I know, I know. It’s horrific,” I say, trying to erase the grimy footage from my mind. “So she has an anger management problem. So what? Naomi’s had one for years, and people toss blood diamonds at her. You can’t believe the number of calls I’ve been getting about wanting to come to the show just to see Aria post prison.”

  “Really?” Julian asks, perking up.

  “F.R.,” I say. “Now I’m going to go call the agency. Fingers crossed that none of the other models are in jail.”

  * * *

  “What size shoe are you, Mademoiselle?” asks a chiseled French man dressed in head-to-toe white. He looks like he belongs on the cover of L’Homme Vogue or a Tom Ford campaign as he holds out his tanned hand to help me climb aboard the steps to Diddy’s gargantuan gold-hued yacht. I wonder if the Titanic was this big? “Monsieur Diddy requires everyone to wear proper deck shoes.”

  “These are my deck shoes,” I say, pointing to my beloved emerald suede strappy sky-high stilettos that I’ve paired with my Julian Tennant long-sleeved sequin camouflage micro minidress. “Look, I even had rubber soles put on.”

  “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, but Monsieur Diddy does not allow anything that has touched the ground to touch the hand-carved Tibetan teak decks. Would you mind wearing a pair of these instead?” he asks, gesturing toward rows upon rows of next season’s neon-colored monogrammed Vuitton leather-and-rubber flip-flops. I think I saw those on Sea of Shoes. No wonder Jane said they’re impossible to find. Did Diddy buy every pair ever made?

  I look down at my gorgeous suede numbers and then over to the Louis flip-flops.

  “Please take good care of these,” I say, handing off my stilettos and slipping into the Vuittons. Ooooh, these feel nice. Would it be weird to ask if I get to keep them?

  “I’m not taking my shoes off.” I spin around to find Nic Knight on what appears to be the brink of a major tantrum. “Can’t you see that my shoes make my entire outfit?” he says, without any trace of his fake Colombian accent, his voice escalating with each word.

  “I wouldn’t want to part with those either,” Julian whispers in my ear, moving in for a closer look at Nic’s size fourteen custom-made orange, turquoise, and black tribal-beaded five-inch Manolos.

  “Me neither, but at least he’s wearing a suit,” I say of Nic’s tailored-to-perfection tan linen suit that will look even better with the Louis flip-flops and not those ridiculous Manolos.

  “Do you even know who I am? This party is for me! Adam! Kate!” Nic screams.

  “Quick, Julian, let’s get out of here,” I say.

  “Heidsieck, Mademoiselle?” a waitress asks once we make our way onto the sacred teak decks and into the party.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask.

  “Heidsieck champagne, Mademoiselle,” the waitress says. “Bottled in 1907. Salvaged from a shipwreck off the coast of Finland. They rescued only two hundred bottles.” She leans in. “It’s two hundred seventy-five thousand dollars a bottle!”

  “No, merci,” I say.

  “Oui, merci,” Julian says, plucking a flute from the waitress’s tray. “There’s Rihanna. Go invite her to the show,” Julian says, nudging me with his elbow toward the barefoot Barbadian beauty bedecked in a Balmain nautical sequin number and standing next to our host, resplendent in a spotless white dinner jacket. I watch as she playfully tries on his diamond pinky ring. It’s so big Evan Lysacek could skate on it.

  “I already did and she can’t come. Her publicist told me she just signed a huge contract with Dior so she’s totally exclusive to them,” I reply.

  “What about Anna Paquin?” Julian asks, surveying the sea of guests.

  “She’s flying out tomorrow morning,” I say of the actress lounging on one of the white tufted sofas with a chinchilla throw strewn across it. “She was only in town for two days to promote the True Blood movie.”

  “Did you invite Julianne Moore?” Julian asks of the flawless screen siren in a beaded platinum sheath deep in conversation with my father, who’s puffing away on his contraband cigar underneath his straw fedora.

  “She’s on the jury, and there’s a screening during your show.”

  “Should I just throw myself overboard now?” Julian asks, his shoulders slumped in his seersucker suit. “Is anyone coming?”

  “So far it’s mostly industry folks, but those are the ones we really need,” I say. “And the latest winner of Croatia’s Next Top Model confirmed today, and Rachel Zoe said she was going to try and come. I’m still trying to convince Baz to stay in Cannes a few days longer so that he can attend.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better, because it doesn’t,” Julian says.

  “Look, Julian, you’re the one who told me that you don’t need gimmicks to promote your line. Well, you don’t need celebrities either,” I say.

  “You’re only saying that because we don’t have any,” Julian says. “We should have had the show here. Everyone is here. Your mother would have made an amazing publicist.”

  “I’m doing the best I can
, Julian, and I still have calls out to a ton of publicists,” I say. “Don’t panic. Aria is bringing in a lot of the magazines and photographers, and they’re the ones that really matter.”

  “Is your mother at least confirmed?” Julian asks as we watch Mom maneuvering through the crowd of megawatts like she’s freaking MObama in a breathtaking cream Grecian draped-column gown with hand-beaded black lace down the left side. Her WWW cameras are never more than a few inches from her expertly madeup face.

  “Her and her cameras will be there,” I lie because I don’t have the heart to tell Julian the truth. I can’t even believe it myself. My own mother is considering missing Julian’s show because George Clooney is auctioning off a kiss to raise money for Pakistan at the same time as the show. Mom is desperate to be the highest bidder, because she believes kissing Clooney in front of her cameras will be the ultimate Wristwatch Wives coup d’état.

  My mother sandwiches herself between Madonna and God—and I don’t mean her Majesty’s erstwhile boy toy Jesus. I mean the great, white, ponytailed, fingerless gloved one himself: Karl Lagerfeld. The ex-Imelda Marcos of fans is a vision in purple.

  “Ohmygod,” Julian shrieks breathlessly. “I didn’t know that Karl was going to be here. Do I look okay? Do you think I should have worn my black linen suit instead?”

  “No, I love the seersucker,” I say.

  “Let’s go say hi,” Julian says. “Do you think he’ll remember us from when we interned for him? What if he doesn’t? Maybe your mom can get him to come to the show.”

  “Whoa, Julian, calm down,” I say as we watch Madge, Mom, and Karl playing musical necklaces with Karl’s multiple strands of Chanel crucifixes. Too bad Chanel doesn’t make Jewish stars. Not that I’ve seen Mom ever again wear the gold Star of David she claimed to never take off at that crazy staged Shabbat dinner. As I watch my mother puffing out her chest like a show poodle for her cameras I know she’s thinking that there’s no way any of the other Wristwatch Wives will top this moment. But I can’t help but wonder if Madonna is actually going to sign the release form for the show.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Lola, hi. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’m so glad I finally found you.” A woman in a sculpted nude bustier dress with an electric-lime-green ribbon belt smiles at me.