Beneath a Starlet Sky Page 21

  “Cricket?!” I gasp. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “That’s the point,” she says, giggling.

  “Hey Cricket,” Julian says, hugging her. “You look like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction with that black bobbed wig.”

  “That’s exactly who I was channeling. What do you think?” Cricket asks, shaking her raven wig.

  “Stunning,” Julian says.

  “Very femme fatale,” I say. How she really looks: like she’s fading away under the pressure of all of this. Like she could use a cheeseburger. And her already pale skin has a hint of purple to it.

  “I have a red wig I’m going to try out next,” she says.

  “That’s so Amy Adams of you,” I say. “What’s with all the disguises?”

  “I’m trying to escape the paparazzi,” Cricket says. “I had to hide in a laundry cart just to get out of my room. I figured once I made it on board, I’d be home free—and I don’t want to miss my very first yacht party!”

  “I heard Jennifer Aniston has to be driven out of her house in the trunk of her car,” Julian says.

  “I’ve spent my entire life fantasizing about what it would be like to be famous like Jennifer Aniston, but I never imagined it would be like this,” Cricket says, freeing her signature blond hair from beneath the shackles of that black bob now that she’s clear of the photographers’ prying lenses.

  “It could be a lot worse than this, Cricket,” Julian jokes, throwing open his arms and gesturing around the party that Diddy told my mother is one of his most lavish fetes ever, even more over-the-top than his annual White Party in East Hampton. The man knows how to throw a party that would make even Colin Cowie weep. We’re not just talking vats of caviar, all-you-can-eat lobster, filet mignon, and truffle risotto and champagne that costs more than double my yearly salary. We’re talking Diddy-imported Thai masseuses and Chinese reflexologists, since lifting all that champagne to your lips can be so taxing.

  “Besides, as soon as another Jonas brother loses his virginity or the next season of The Jersey Shore, everyone’s going to forget about this whole Saffron scandal anyway,” I say.

  “Do you think they’re going to forget about me too?” Cricket asks, a little wistfully. What must it feel like to get everything you thought you ever wanted and to realize it wasn’t remotely what you thought it would be—and that it could vanish in a second?

  “Of course not,” I say. “Are you excited about the Four Weddings premiere tomorrow night?” I ask.

  “Kate isn’t letting me do any interviews. Only photos,” she says.

  “Then it’s a good thing you have a fabulous gown picked out,” Julian says.

  “Thanks to you, Julian,” she says.

  “And Lola,” Julian says.

  “I can always count on you two to make me feel better,” she says, pulling us in for a group hug.

  “Who’d you come here with?” I ask.

  “Markus. Tom Cruise loaned him one of the masks that he wore in one of the Mission movies that he sometimes wears when he wants to go out without being hounded by the paparazzi,” Cricket says. “Markus is the nondescript, average Joe-looking guy blending in by the bar.”

  “That’s so creepy,” I say, wondering if I’ve ever been face-to-face with a masked Tom Cruise and not known it. The mask looks so real. “Is Saffron here too?” I ask, looking around the party for a possibly masked Saffron.

  “No, she’s back at the hotel, but Markus needed a break from it all too. He’s been so great. He really understands what I’m going through,” Cricket says. “Listen, I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay? I’m gonna go remind Markus he can take off that mask now.”

  “Yeah, good idea. It’s a little weird,” I say, and give her a quick peck on the cheek before she disappears into the crowd.

  I wind my way through the jam-packed party in search of Kate. Suddenly I feel the boat swaying, which is strange considering it’s docked. Oh god, is it going to sink?

  “Excuse me, sir, do you know why the boat is swaying?” I ask a passing waiter with a tray full of Beluga.

  “Monsieur Diddy has chartered the Christina O for the after-party, and we’re going to meet the yacht in the middle of the Med,” he says.

  “We are?”

  “Don’t worry, Mademoiselle, Monsieur Diddy has also arranged speed boats to meet us at the Christina O so you can leave whenever you want,” the waiter says, somehow sensing my rising sense of dread that I’m going to be stuck on this thing all night long. I wonder if anyone would notice if I slipped into one of the cabins and took a quick nap. I’m sure they’re even nicer than my room at the Martinez.

  I pop a blini into my mouth and continue looking for Kate.

  Ke$ha’s and Diddy’s “White Powder,” the theme song to my father’s movie, blares in Surround Sound through the speakers. It’s so clear that it feels like Ke$ha is actually here. It isn’t until I hear, “Nic, get your ass up here and sing with me and Diddy,” that I realize that Ke$ha is in fact on the boat, in the flesh. I swerve through the crowd to get a better view.

  It looks like Picasso painted her face there’s so much makeup on it. Over half of her face is covered in silver sparkly glitter. As she grips the microphone with her chipped black polished hands I notice the giant pavé diamond-letter rings on every finger, thumbs included, that spell, “White Powdr.” She writhes around Diddy in shredded black lace stockings and a sheer white lace bodysuit with a skimpy black lace bra and panties underneath.

  “Diddy, thanks, man, for throwing this amazing party,” Nic slurs slightly as he jumps up onstage and hugs Diddy. Is Nic loaded? Again? “Ke$ha, you’re so f-ing sexy that I want to marry you,” he says, grabbing her wavy untamed blond mane and pulling her in for a kiss. Did he just slip her some tongue? Eeeew. I can’t tell if Ke$ha is turned on or horrified when she finally breaks free from Nic, who reels back and stumbles. I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t tumble to the floor. Thankfully he regains his balance. “Paulie, where are you, man?” Nic asks, looking out into the crowd.

  “He’s right here, Nic darling,” my mother shouts. “Alex,” she hisses to her cameraman. “Make sure you get this.” A spotlight throws her and my father into its blinding glare. She’s grinning so widely I’m certain she’ll be phoning Dr. Novack for an Aquamid booster shot as soon as she’s stateside. My father’s lips, on the other hand, are in a grim straight line. He looks pissed off.

  “Paulie, I just want to say,” Nic says, his Colombian accent back in full effect. “Shit. My agent over there told me to lose the accent so I’m going to try, but this part is so much a part of me that it’s really hard,” Nic says with a strange half-American, half-Colombian accent. “Paulie, I just want to thank you for taking a chance on me and making such a great fucking movie. I love you, Paulie Santisi,” Nic shouts into the microphone. “I’d like to raise my glass to you,” Nic says. “Shit, I don’t have a drink, can someone get me a glass of something, nonalcoholic of course,” Nic says, though it’s obvious he’s already had a glass—or five—of something he’s not supposed to. “I’d like to raise my glass to you, Paulie,” Nic says raising the drink someone’s just handed him. “To our maestro. Salud,” he wails as everyone at the party cheers furiously. Everyone except my father.

  “To Paulie,” Diddy says, clinking glasses with Nic and trying to usher him off stage. Unsuccessfully.

  “You know, Paulie,” Nic continues, wriggling out of Diddy’s grasp. This is turning into a bad, weird drunken best man wedding speech. “I had this amazing gown that I was going to wear tonight. This frothy gold tulle thing with a spray of orchids made out of feathers. And I was going to sing a mash-up of Johnny Cash’s ‘San Quentin,’ and the Beastie Boys ‘Fight for Your Right.’ And I wanted these Robert Palmer ‘Simply Irresistible’ like chicks to back me up in mini-short versions of orange prison jumpsuits but somehow I let my agent convince me not to go through with it. But you all want to hear it, don’t you?” he slurs, waiting f
or the crowd to respond. “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, Nic,” someone shouts.

  “Go for it, man,” someone else shouts as the crowd starts to egg Nic on.

  “Nic, let’s let Ke$ha finish out her set and then maybe you can sing later,” Diddy says, trying again to get Nic off the stage.

  “Let’s all sing together,” Nic says. “Come on, San Quentin, you’ve cut me and burned me,” Nic starts to sing a cappella. “But you got to fight, for your right—”

  “To paarty,” Ke$ha joins in.

  “To paarty,” Nic wails, jumping up and down.

  My father storms away despite my mother’s efforts to stop him.

  I spot Kate in the distance practically hanging off the side of the boat.

  “Are you okay?” I say, rushing up to her side. She looks chartreuse.

  “How did this happen?” she says. “I gave Adam one goddam job while I was in the bathroom puking: Do NOT let Nic near the champagne, tequila, or vodka. Looks like he’s hit on all three. We’ll be lucky if Diddy doesn’t make us swim to shore. I don’t even know where to start damage control on this one. Jesus, I’m gonna be sick again.”

  She promptly pukes over the side of the boat.

  I grab her hair and rub her back.

  “Please tell me that Javier Bardem didn’t just see that,” she says, sheepishly wiping her mouth.

  “I think you’re in the clear,” I lie because I’m not sure how he could have missed it.

  I follow Kate’s gaze across the floor where I spot Gigi clinging to Christopher like a handbag. “Oh no, I can’t handle this right now,” Kate says. “Do I have vomit on my face?”

  “No, you’re good,” I say. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says, her voice on the verge of cracking as she watches my brother and Gigi deep in a lip-lock. I look back at Kate, but it’s as though she’s left the party. I recognize that leaving-your-body look, although it’s not one I’ve ever seen on my best friend before. My heart sinks. I feel like I may hurl off the side of the boat too.

  “Now do you get why I’m not going to tell him, Lo?” she asks. Before I can answer, she pivots away. “I’ve gotta get out of here,” she says, but suddenly my father is blocking her escape route.

  “How could you let this happen?” my father yells.

  “I’m so sorry, Paulie,” Kate says.

  “Papa, it’s not her fault,” I insist. “She got him to wear a suit but you know Nic, he’s totally unmanageable.”

  “Stay out of this, Lola,” my father shouts.

  “Paulie, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Nic says, charging up to my father. “Did you love it? I killed up there, right? I think we should do a San Quentin Cartel musical. I’ve got a lot of ideas I want to discuss with you. What’d you think?”

  “A musical?! Are you out of your fucking mind? This isn’t The Sound of Music, Nic. Francis didn’t make a fucking musical of The Godfather. You’re making a mockery of my film,” my father bellows.

  “Didn’t you hear everyone cheering, Paulie?” Nic says. “They loved me.” He runs up to the side of the boat and hangs off of the railing, shouting, “I’m the king of the world.”

  “You’re a fucking lunatic,” my father shouts.

  “Nic, get down,” Kate insists. “I’m sorry, Paulie, I’ll handle Nic.”

  “It’s clear you’re not capable, Kate,” my father says. “Anyone could have played that part, Nic. You’d be nothing without me.”

  “Papa, let’s go,” I say when I realize that all of the guests are starting to stare. And then I notice something even worse: my mother and her camera crew. Oh god. Oh no.

  “Get those fucking cameras out of my face, Blanca,” my father shouts, batting away my mother’s camera crew with the fury of a scorned Sean Penn.

  “Mom! Stop filming,” I yell. As I stare into her azure eyes it’s like she’s forgotten that this is our life. All she can see is the potential ratings bonanza. “Mom, stop. Please.”

  “Paulie Santisi, I hate every inch of you. You’ve cut me and you’ve scarred me thru an’ thru,” Nic starts singing at the top of his lungs.

  “Nic, stop!” Kate shouts.

  My father doesn’t say a word. He lets his fist speak for him. I watch in horror as it connects with Nic’s face. As Nic reels back, I jump in front of my father.

  “Stop!” I scream, trying to restrain him.

  “Let go of me!” my father hollers. “You’re finished in Hollywood,” he yells at Nic. “Do you hear me? Finished! Someone stop this fucking boat! I want to get off right now!” That makes two of us.

  And before I know it, suddenly Nic is charging my father and the fact that I’m standing between them doesn’t seem to faze Nic. And then everything goes black.

  13

  “Ow,” I mumble as I struggle awake, trying to focus my eyes. It feels like there’s a vise grip around my head. I look around the small, white room, trying to get my bearings. This isn’t my room at the Martinez. Where am I? As I lift my arm to wipe the sleep from my eyes, I feel a tug. Why is there an IV in my arm? Why am I wearing a hospital gown? What happened to me?

  “Hello?” I call out, feeling a wow of pain as I try to sit upright. “Hello?” I call out again. “Bonjour?”

  I look for a call button on my bed but don’t see one. What I do notice are lots of flowers. There must be over a dozen bouquets crammed into my tiny room. Where did they all come from? Are those white carnations? Uh-oh. This must be serious. Don’t they send white flowers when someone dies? What happened to me?

  As I gaze at a tall vase of Casablanca lilies, suddenly Nic Knight charging me like a bull in Pamplona flashes in my mind. It plays on a loop over and over and over. I try and wipe the image away but it won’t stop playing. “Hello,” I croak. Ow, my head really hurts.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” a bony, gray-haired nurse says, coming into my room. She has a kind face.

  “Do you speak English?” I ask.

  “Un petit peu,” she says, pinching her index finger and thumb together.

  “Why am I here? What happened to me?”

  “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle?”

  “What happened to me?” I repeat, trying to channel Marion Cotillard’s perfect accent.

  “Mademoiselle, you have un commotion.”

  “A what?” That sounds serious. “What’s a commotion? I mean, um, uh, quel est un commotion?”

  “Comment je dire en English?” she asks.

  “A concussion,” Kate says, suddenly appearing from behind the hospital curtain. “I can’t believe I fell asleep in that,” she says, looking in confusion at the tiny hospital chair that was her makeshift bed for the night. “I’ve never been so exhausted in my life,” she says, one hand unconsciously resting on her belly, hair disheveled and last night’s makeup smeared beneath her eyes, a rare sight given Kate’s usual airbrushed state. I wonder who looks worse: me or Kate. “Nic Knight gave you a freaking concussion,” she says furiously as she plunks herself down on the end of my hospital bed and places a protective hand on my knee.

  “No wonder my head hurts so much,” I say, trying to sit up. “I don’t have time for a concussion. Do you know when I can leave?” I ask the nurse. “I’ve got to get back to my hotel. I need my laptop. I have so much work to do. Julian’s show is in two days and I have to check on the RSVPs and all the fittings and the seating chart and I still need to get Aria out of jail. I need to leave. Please,” I beg. The nurse just blinks at this gush of words.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Julian says, walking into the hospital room with two foam cups of coffee. He hands one to Kate. I wonder if they can add some to my IV. “Thank god you’re awake. We’ve all been so worried about you, Princess,” he says. He sits down on the edge of the bed opposite Kate and grabs my hand.

  “Julian, you need to get me out of here,” I say. “Kate, please,” I plead.

  “Lola, you took a really hard blow to
your head. You’re not going anywhere until the doctors say you can leave,” Kate says.

  “Julian, Aria’s supposed to be getting out of jail today. I have to go and make sure that she actually does, and then you need to have a fitting with her. The show is in two days. I need to leave now,” I say, trying to climb out of bed before another wince of pain assaults me. “Ow, my head.”

  “Lie back down,” Julian instructs, gently pushing me back on the pillow. “The doctor told us that you need to rest. Chili and I already spoke with the concierge and they’ve talked to the precinct and taken care of all the arrangements. They’re going to let us know the second that Aria is back at the hotel. You just rest.”

  “But—” I protest.

  “No buts, Lola,” Kate says. “I know how much you want to go to the Four Weddings premiere tonight, so we spoke with your doctors. They said maybe, but only if you stay here for observation for a few more hours. So please, just rest.”

  “Chili and I will handle everything today,” Julian adds.

  “Julian, I don’t trust Chili to handle anything. I need to do it myself. I’ve worked too hard to let things fall apart because of a stupid concussion. Please,” I beg.

  “No,” Julian says.

  “At least bring me my laptop,” I plead.

  “Fine. But you can only have it for an hour and then I’m confiscating it. I know you don’t trust Chili and neither do I, but you can trust me and I promise that I will hold down the fort today. Lola, you need to rest,” Julian says.

  “What happened? Did Nic Knight really—” I try to piece together the surreal, fragmented events of last night.

  “Honey, it was like an episode of The Cannes Shore. You’re lucky that you’re alive. You totally saved your father’s life, you know,” Julian says.

  “I did?” I say.

  “Nic was totally bombed off his ass,” Kate says, shaking her head in frustration. “He and your dad were yelling at each other and then your dad hit Nic in the face with a right hook. I thought he was down for the count, but then he jumped up like freaking Rocky and started coming after your dad.”