Beneath a Starlet Sky Page 23

  Cricket, Saffron, and Markus appear at the top of the steps and are swiftly engulfed by reporters and paparazzi.

  “Is it true?” one of the reporters begs as the lights of the paps’ cameras blare on Saffron’s face. Cricket is blinking rapidly next to her in the sudden glare.

  “Saffron Sykes, are you really gay?” a reporter asks.

  “Are you in love with your costar Cricket Curtis?” another reporter demands. “Is your relationship with Markus just a beard? Have all of your relationships with men been a cover? What about Clooney? Was that a front? Is Clooney gay? Have you been lying to your fans? How long have you known you’re gay?”

  The questions are rapid-fire. I’m surprised not to see gun wounds. Or blood. The only explosion is the blinding lights and my friend caught in the middle of it all.

  “Cricket, can we get a shot of you kissing Saffron?” another reporter wants to know as Cricket stands there frozen in front of the blinding glare.

  “Cricket, over here!”

  “No, over here!”

  “Cricket!”

  “Cricket!”

  “Cricket!”

  Jesus. You’d think she was Angelina Jolie. This is nuts.

  I attempt to make my way through the throng surrounding Cricket, Saffron, and Markus, but it’s no use. I get an elbow to the ribs for my trouble from the mosh pit of yelling reporters and paparazzi I’m now stuck in. These people are piranhas. I’ve got to get out of here. Someone’s going to get hurt. And I don’t want it to be me. I’ve already had one concussion on this trip.

  As I struggle to break free, the reporters and paparazzi continue to swarm my BAF.

  “Cricket, are you gay?”

  “Are you a lesbian?”

  “Are you in love with Saffron?”

  “Cricket, over here!”

  “Cricket!”

  “Cricket!”

  “Cricket!”

  My BAF just stands there like a deer in headlights. Someone needs to save her before she gets run over. How can anyone live like this? She’s not ready for it.

  Meanwhile Saffron and Markus, who are used to the paparazzi’s glare, seem to thrive in its blinding light. It’s like they have on magic shields that prevent the reporters’ invasive and inappropriate questions from penetrating their souls. The reporters keep the barrage of questions coming as Markus and Saffron stand there smiling for the photogs, arms wrapped around each other, acting every bit the golden couple they’re pretending to be. But when I look closely, really look, I can see beneath that smile plastered on Saffron’s face that she’s looking like the wax replica of herself in the Museum on Hollywood Boulevard.

  “Markus, over here!”

  “Saffron, over here!”

  “Markus, what did you think of watching your girlfriend kiss Cricket Curtis?”

  “Saffron, what was it like kissing a girl?”

  “Saffron, are you gay? Have you ever been with Ellen DeGeneres? Have you spoken to Ellen?”

  “Saffron, over here!”

  “Saffron, can we get a shot of you kissing Markus?”

  “Saffron, Cricket, Markus, how about a shot all together?”

  I finally tear myself free as Cricket, Markus, and Saffron are whisked away by bodyguards to an awaiting limo. And just like that, it seems they’ve made their escape. For now. But I can’t help wonder if Cricket’s life will ever be the same again. Will my BAF ever be able to go the grocery store again without being hounded by the paps? Is this really what she wants?

  Kate materializes from amid the scrum and threads her arm through mine. “Let’s go. You can ride with me,” she says.

  “Sorry, I can’t. I have to go back to the hotel and try and clean up our latest disasters,” I tell her.

  “You have to come. Cricket really needs our support. Did you hear what those asshole reporters were yelling at her? She needs us,” Kate says.

  “I’m sorry, I really can’t. I’ve got to work. Will you give Cricket my love and explain why I couldn’t be there?”

  “Fine.” Kate jerks a thumb toward the Petunia Holt billboards. “Those posters are every fifteen fucking feet. I still can’t believe Christopher did that to me. I can’t believe you let your own brother do that to me!”

  “Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry. You have to believe me. I just didn’t know. He didn’t do it to hurt you. He still loves you. Have you told him about the baby yet?”

  “Lola, when are you going to realize that he’s with Gigi and he loves her?” Kate snaps. “I’ve got to go. The whole thing makes me sick to my stomach. I need to puke before I get on yet another boat. See you later.”

  I’m about to resume Mission Charlize when I get a text from Saffron:

  LOLA, HELP! IT’S ALL A BIG LIE. I’M SORRY I CAN’T GO THROUGH WITH THE VAIN SHOOT.

  No. No. No no no no no no. I cannot lose this.

  I’m about to tap out a reply when a hand clasps my shoulder and spins me around. It’s Papa, in a volcanic fury.

  “Where’s Kate?” he hisses, his voice quaking.

  “You just missed her,” I say. “She just left.”

  “I heard she posted bail for that fucker. How could she do that? How could she do that to us? I’m gonna—Blanca, dammit, turn those goddam things off!”

  I don’t know what’s worse, my father yelling or my mother by his side with her camera crew. It’s like a hall of mirrors—the camera crew shooting me, shooting my father, shooting us. Are we in Cannes or Versailles?

  Suddenly the paps, drawn like moths to the bank of lights behind Mom’s crew, come streaming toward us. They’ve lost their big celeb quarry, but sniff blood in the water with Papa’s screaming fit.

  “Mom, please, turn those things off! Can’t you see what’s happening?”

  But she’s too busy adjusting her tissue-fine silvery pink lamé couture Chanel and fluffing her blond hair to pay attention.

  “Mom, stop!” I shout.

  “Oh, Lola, what’s the big deal?” she says.

  And that’s when I realize my mother’s officially become Madonna. It’s like Warren Beatty said in Truth or Dare: “She doesn’t want to live off-camera.” Is it any coincidence that Warren dated Mom and the Material Girl?

  As the paps descend, my phone buzzes yet again. Oh thank god, it’s a text from Lev. His plane must have just landed in nearby Nice. In just a few hours he’ll be in my hotel room. I close my eyes and picture putting all the cares of Cannes—Julian’s show, the Vain shoot, Nic Knight and my concussion, Saffron’s meltdown, Papa’s tantrum—on hold while I dissolve in his arms. Lev. I want Lev. Lev will make it all better. I’m practically on the verge of tears as I open the text.

  STUCK IN L.A. DISASTER IN ER. HOPE TO FLY OUT SOON. SO SORRY. LOVE YOU LOTS. LEV.

  Breathe. Breathe. Do. Not. Cry. I bet DVF and Donna Karan don’t collapse at the sight of a few glitches. I can handle this. I am the CEO of Julian Tennant Inc., and I’m not here for romance anyway. I’m here to make my company work, dammit! Focus, Lola, focus!

  My phone buzzes again. Dammit! It’s all I can do to force myself to look at the screen: Julian again. Turning my back on the boil of paps engulfing Mom and Papa, I press the phone to my ear. “What is it now, Julian?”

  Julian’s voice is so high and pinched I’m amazed that it hasn’t summoned every poodle within a ten-mile radius. “Why is Coz on the phone telling me that they’re pulling the Vain cover? Why? Why? Lola, you’ve got to fix this!”

  * * *

  I rush inside the lobby of the Martinez and beeline for the elevator when something stops me dead in my tracks: Nic Knight standing on top of one of the marble and wrought-iron coffee tables. The image of him charging toward me like a bull in Pamplona immediately flashes in my mind. I push the image away and try to steady myself on my stilettos.

  “Take it off!” a raucous, drunk man shouts at Nic. He’s one in a small crowd that’s gathered around Nic.

  “Come on!” a young blond Victoria’s Secret mod
el type in a barely there hot-pink slinky number squeals, springing up and down on her five-inch strappy sandals.

  “Show us what you’ve got!” someone else hollers.

  “For fuck’s sake, take it off already,” a woman screams. I know that voice. I crane my neck and stand on my tippy toes but it’s no use, I can’t see her face. There are too many people blocking my view. “Come on!” That voice. I know that voice. Oh my god, it’s Aria!

  The small crowd cheers wildly as Nic slowly strips off his light blue shirt, taunting them button by button. At least he’s wearing men’s clothing, I can’t help but think. Once his sweat-drenched shirt is off, he swings it around and around in the air like he’s at freaking Chippendale’s and then flings it into the air, where it lands on Blake Lively.

  Gross. Nic’s so caught up gyrating his pelvic bone in front of his hooting friends that he hasn’t bothered to see where his shirt landed or even notice me at all. He seems so blitzed I’m not sure he’s aware of anything at all.

  “Your turn, baby,” Nic says, pulling Aria, barely clad in a super-short lace ruffled skirt and little camisole, up onto the coffee table with him. Oh god. Oh no.

  “To freedom,” Aria bellows, holding up a magnum of champagne. Where did she get that? And how did she get out of our suite?

  “To freedom!” Nic echoes as Aria takes a long swig from the bottle and then opens up Nic’s mouth and pours some bubbly down his throat. Doesn’t she know he’s supposed to be sober? What the hell is going on? I have to do something.

  I shove my way through to them.

  “I’m sorry to break up this little get-out-of-jail party, but what the hell is going on?” I ask once I’m standing in front of them.

  “Lola, holy shit, are you okay? I’m really sorry about last night,” Nic blubbers. “But I can’t believe your dad had me thrown in fucking jail. That was totally uncool.”

  I look at him standing up there on that coffee table in the middle of the Martinez in the middle of the night, a sweaty, drunken mess. I want to feel sorry for him, he looks so pathetic, but then I remember last night and the hell he’s put Kate and my father through despite everything they’ve done to help him. And you know what? He doesn’t deserve their help anymore. Or my pity. For the first time in forever, I actually agree with my father. I feel my cheeks flush.

  “What’s uncool, Nic, is your behavior. What the hell are you doing? Last night should have been a wake-up call. I spent the night in the hospital because of you. I have a concussion. You need help. You need to go back to rehab—or jail,” I say.

  “No way, man, I’ve got it all under control,” Nic says.

  “Shtop being such a party pooper, Lola,” Aria says. “Here, have a shwig,” she says, shoving the magnum in my face. “To freedom!”

  “No thanks—and it seems like you’ve had enough already,” I say, trying to take the bottle from her.

  “Give that back,” Aria says, grabbing the bottle from my hands and taking a hefty swig.

  “Aria, Julian’s show is in two days and you just got out of jail. Don’t you think you should be resting and keeping a low profile? The last thing you need is another incident,” I say. I wonder how many cell phone photos have already been snapped tonight.

  “Lola, I’ve been locked up like a caged animal, I need to spread my wings and fly. We’re just having a little harmless fun!” Aria says. “Woohoo,” she wails, taking another swig. “To freedom,” she squeals, taking off her top—and bottom—to reveal the teeniest tiniest pink lace bra and matching thong. This cannot be happening. This is a nightmare.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” I say, forcibly prying the bottle from her grasp. I pour out the remaining champagne on the marble floor.

  She jumps down off the coffee table and onto the floor where she proceeds to lie down and roll in the puddle, pausing to lap some up with her tongue. I try and pick her up, but she’s so slippery that she manages to kick me away.

  “Champagne Slip-n-Slide!” Nic screams in approval. He grabs another bottle of champagne out of someone’s hand and pours it all over the floor next to Aria. What the hell is he doing? What? No, no, no, no, no, no. What have I done?

  Nic stands behind Aria and gives her a hearty push. I watch in abject horror as Aria shimmies across the lobby in a pool of champagne in her bra and panties.

  “Ahh!!” Aria’s scream is piercing as she nose-dives straight into a marble wall.

  The room starts spinning and I try to steady myself. Do not pass out. Do not pass out, I urge myself as a pool of blood starts to puddle around Aria.

  When Aria finally lifts her head, it’s immediately clear from the gush of blood and her already purpling eyes that our star model has just broken her nose.

  14

  My ringing cell phone startles me awake, and for a suspended moment I’ve forgotten everything: that Lev’s not here, that Aria’s nose is broken—it’s a miracle that no footage has appeared yet on YouTube—that we have no venue for the show, that Saffron has called off the Vain shoot, and that I’m probably going to lose my job.

  “Hello,” I say, jolted back into my bleak reality as I sit up in bed.

  “Have you ever seen a Vain cover with no one on it?” demands a frosty female voice I don’t recognize.

  “Huh?” I say, confused.

  “Have you ever seen a Vain cover with no one on it?” The British accent has taken on an even more arctic tinge. I’m surprised my ear doesn’t have instantaneous frostbite.

  “Um, uh, no,” I mutter.

  “Neither have I and I don’t plan on it,” the voice pronounces. And then it hits me. Oh god. Oh no. It’s Grace Frost herself. Holy editor-in-chief.

  “Ms. Frost,” I choke out, “I—”

  “What’s going on with the Saffron Sykes and Markus Livingston cover? Are they in or are they out?”

  My voice catches in my throat. Fear courses through my veins.

  “Hello?” Grace Frost says in a tone so cutting that I’m not certain I’ll ever be able to hear the word again without shuddering. “You do understand that we have a contract, correct? And the advertisers took ad space based on Saffron Sykes and Markus Livingston being on the cover. And what this will mean to Julian Tennant Inc., and most especially your career if Saffron Sykes and Markus Livingston aren’t on the cover as planned.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” she asks as though I’m mentally handicapped.

  Cricket’s old mantra to me, Act As If, surges through my mind. Act As If everything is fine. Act As If I will figure out a way to get Saffron and Markus back on that cover. Act As If I’m not utterly and completely screwed.

  “I don’t know what Coz said to you, but everything is fine, and we realize what a tremendous honor it is to be on the cover of Vain and how valuable it is to our company. I apologize that you even had to make this call,” I say, hoping that I can somehow will it to be true.

  “Good. Marc Jacobs is holding on the other line, I have to go,” she says, and the line goes dead just as the cell is about to slip through my hands from the slick of flop sweat.

  I stare at my cell in my glistening palm. The career that I’ve worked so hard for, the career that I so dearly love, is hanging in the balance, and I don’t know how to save it. But I’m going to try. I’ve got to figure out a way to convince Saffron that she has to do the Vain cover, but first I have to find a new venue for our show tomorrow. I furiously start dialing.

  * * *

  “I think we land it here,” Sergei Crimini says to the pilot as he points down to the flight deck of the aircraft carrier he’s converted into a floating mansion for the duration of Cannes. From the caramel calfskin seats of Crimini’s custom McDonnell Douglas helicopter high above the Mediterranean, his vessel looks like a whale among the guppies floating at the old port next to the Palais des Festivals. It makes David Geffen’s mega yacht look like a dinghy.

  “Sergei, I can’t thank you enough for this,” I tell the Russian financie
r. “First you bailed out Chris’s movie, and now you’ve just saved our show. If anything, Julian’s show is going to make even more of a splash on your ship than on the LVMH yacht! What would we have done without you?” I’ve already made all of the arrangements to have everything moved here. Chili’s calling everyone to tell them about the new venue now.

  “It is my pleasure, Lola,” says Sergei. “After all, it is thanks to you that I am now a Hollywood producer. And thanks to your brother that my daughter is going to be a big movie star.”

  “Well, I know that Chris was absolutely thrilled to cast her.” Who wouldn’t be? Alexandra Crimini, age fourteen, is already six feet tall and stunning. Chris would have been happy to give her that small but pivotal role in Forgetting Petunia Holt even if her father hadn’t shelled out several million dollars to underwrite the movie. “And of course, Julian was more than happy to make Alexandra a special gown for the premiere, weren’t you, Julian?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” pants Julian, “I hope she was pleased with it!” Julian releases his death grip around my thigh only long enough to swipe the sweat dripping down the side of his face. “Just tell me when we land,” he whispers, sinking into his seat and clenching his eyes closed.

  Moments later, the helicopter alights gracefully on Crimini’s flight deck. Julian stumbles out, his tan Gucci cigarette pants shaking vigorously. He grabs my arm to steady himself. “Don’t make me get back on that thing ever again,” Julian hisses. “I’d rather swim back to the hotel.”

  I pinch his hand to shut him up and throw him a warning glare. “Behave!” I hiss back.

  “Welcome to my home away from home,” Sergei says. “Of course my personal chef will take care of all the food and drinks.”