Beneath a Starlet Sky Page 25

  “Not yet,” he says as Kate comes up to us.

  “Hey, guys,” she says, giving me a quick peck on the cheek. She glows in a simple white dress that traces the outline of her perfect body. “Lola, you’ll be happy to know that Nic Knight is on a plane to Clean and Sober Detox in California. I’m making Adam fly him there. I told Nic the only way I was going to bail his sorry ass out of jail was if he agreed to go. Thanks again for not telling your father or calling the cops on him last night for violating his parole.”

  “No problem,” I say. “I’m just glad he’s getting some help.”

  “He needed it. He was actually hallucinating. He kept telling me about his new baby! He even said he’d bought actual clothes for it, can you imagine? I almost feel sorry for Adam having to drag him all the way to detox, but I told him that was his penance for blabbing everything to you. I’m just so relieved he’s gone. I don’t have to worry about him crashing the party tonight and pulling some stunt.” Kate looks around the room appreciatively. “Your mom’s in rare form, Lo. I almost got impaled by one of her sword swallowers coming in. And I don’t think your dad’s so happy about those Lipizzaner stallions crapping in the courtyard. Amanda Seyfried just stepped in a big pile of—”

  “Kate—” I blurt. “Lev was on the plane with the Coen brothers. They want him to audition for a part in their next film.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s a great part,” Kate says, turning to Lev. “You’re going to need a good agent. Why don’t you call my office so we can get you set up with the paperwork?”

  I don’t give Lev a chance to respond. “Sweetheart, would you mind getting me a glass of champagne,” I say to him. Once he’s out of sight, I turn to my best friend. “Are you fucking kidding me right now, Kate?” I say. “I already told you you had my blessing to agent him. I just asked you to leave me out of it. Do you really have to throw this in my face tonight of all nights?”

  “Why are you being so touchy about this? Wouldn’t you rather he be with me than someone else? I’ll get him the best deal.”

  “You’re my best friend!” I say between teeth clenched so hard my jaw is aching. “Don’t you understand what’s happening?! I’m losing him—to Hollywood. He’s a doctor, not an actor.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Kate asks.

  Everything seems to come to a screeching halt, as if the pause button on life has been pushed: the fire outside being thrown up in the air by the flamethrowers, my mother with her cameras holding court with Demi and Ashton, my father puffing away on a cigar while holed up in a corner with Julian Schnabel, my brother, giving an interview as Gigi drapes a long arm over his knee. As the voices and music drone in the back of my head, I realize we’re all just putting on the show and hoping the pieces fall together. The room sways back into focus and so do I.

  “Kate, look, what’s it going to take to get Saffron on the cover of Vain in Julian Tennant? Just get me in a room with her. I’m drowning here and I have to do something or this ship is going to sink.”

  “Lo, I wish I could help you. I really do. But with everything that’s happening, Saffron just doesn’t want to do it. I’m sorry. It’s a no,” Kate says simply.

  But I know I can’t take no for an answer. “Kate, no, wait! You can’t just say … I mean, if you want to represent Lev … I mean…” I trail off miserably. When did Fête-ing Santisi become Extortion Night?

  All of a sudden Kate looks worse than I feel. “Kate, you okay?” I ask. Her face has turned pale, and I wonder if she might vomit again right here in the middle of this party. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to … I mean, I understand your position completely. It’s just that—” I trace her eye line to land on my brother and Gigi, still stapled to Chris’s side. Kate’s dark eyes are like lasers trained on my brother.

  “So we hear there’s a bidding war going here at the festival for your movie,” the reporter says to Christopher. “Where do you think it will land?”

  “I can’t speculate at the moment,” he answers, then adds, “but stay tuned. I’m anxiously awaiting the outcome myself.”

  “Are you two an item?” another reporter asks. Christopher demurs, but Gigi bats her eyes like a lovesick doe and coos, “I’m crazy about this guy.”

  “I can’t listen to another second of this,” Kate says, pulling her BlackBerry out of her clutch.

  “Kate, would you just go talk to him, for crying out loud?” I beg. But she just continues to ignore me, pounding so furiously on her BlackBerry I think her thumbs may go into a spasm. I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands. I make a beeline for Gigi.

  “Gigi,” I say with a big fake smile as I unwrap her arm from my brother. She has a surprisingly strong grip, like Jill Zarin at a J Mendel sample sale. “Can I steal you?” I ask. “Come, come, Patrick has been trying to find you to get a photo,” I say, pulling her toward a Vanity Fair photographer and urgently mouthing to Chris as I do, “Kate wants to talk to you.”

  Just as soon as I deposit Gigi right where she wants to be, in front of the camera, I run into Lev, who hands me my flute of champagne and pulls me toward a private corner beneath a very large, dark painting of a rather stern-looking woman who I have the creepy impression is staring at me

  “I have a confession,” he says. “It wasn’t my work at the hospital that made me late for Cannes yesterday. It was Para-Medic.”

  “Why didn’t you simply tell me that?”

  “I’m not even sure myself,” he says, looking down at his shoes, a pair of John Lobbs whose uppers are so shiny I can practically see the chandeliers reflected in them. Another gift from Dempsey? “I think I knew that it would upset you and that you have so much work to do here. I didn’t want it to distract you from your job. I’m so sorry about everything that’s going on. The Para-Medic thing has been a total fluke,” he says, taking my hand and then dropping it. He starts pacing back and forth in that damn Hugo Boss suit.

  “I wish you could take that thing off,” I say, waving in the general direction of his ensemble. “You just don’t look like you.”

  “That’ll probably have to wait until we get back to the hotel,” he jokes, but I’m not feeling very amused at the moment. “You really don’t like it?” he asks, moving toward an antique gold mirror hanging on the wall and smoothing back his hair before he turns back toward me. Lev is checking himself out in the mirror. I don’t think I’ve ever in the entirety of our relationship seen him do that. “I know, this trip is about you and your work,” he says, coming over to me and resting his hand on my back. “Don’t freak out about this Coen brothers movie. It’s not like they’ve even offered me the part, although it would be so cool if they did,” he says. “I mean, No Country for Old Men was incredible.”

  “I thought you never went to the movies before you met me,” I say.

  “Oh no, I saw it last week with Dempsey. He’s giving me a little lesson in Hollywood 101,” Lev says, taking a sip from the tumbler in his hand.

  “Well, has he given you a lesson in what it’s like to shoot a movie?” I say, wishing we were anywhere but here at this damn party having this conversation. “Twelve-hour shoot days—in Vancouver—or Albania—or Timbuktu. Who’s going to do your surgeries then?”

  “I know, I know, you’re right, it’s totally unrealistic. I’m a doctor first. Forget it. Let’s talk about this when you’ve gotten through with this week. This week is about you,” he says for the second time in this discussion. And for the second time I can’t help but feel that that isn’t close to being true. “I love you and everything’s going to be just fine. Let’s get back to the hotel and get a good night’s rest. You’ve got a big couple of days ahead of you.”

  And as he pulls me into him, I try to feel like everything’s going to be fine. Only three more days and we’ll be back on the plane and this week will be over. And I’ll figure out how to get the Vain cover shoot back on track, even if I have to bend over as far backwards as those gymnasts doing a tableau vivant near Mom
’s oyster buffet. And as the din of the party fades away, my old mantra repeats itself in my ear, Act As If, Act As If, Act As If …

  But when I reluctantly release myself from Lev’s arms, I find that he suddenly doesn’t have eyes for me anymore. Once again, his gaze is fixed on the mirror as he studies his own reflection. He seems to really, really like what he sees there.

  15

  “Julian, everyone’s in their seats, are you ready?” I ask anxiously over my headset from the end of the long runway where I’m stationed next to Sam Ronson, out of everyone’s view. I’ve inspected the models, double-checked their outfits and accessories, directed the makeup artists for final touch-ups, made sure Chili seated and greeted the guests and doled out the programs, and run the sound checks with Lex and the rest of the tech crew. I feel like Kelly Cutrone, except I’m not in head-to-toe black. I’m wearing a gorgeous floaty silk yellow, purple, and fuchsia color-block dress that Julian made especially for me. As I look out at all of the guests and the phalanx of photographers crowding the runway, I know that I’ve done everything in my power to make this show even better than any couture show in Paris. So what if Aria’s not walking in it—or Nano—or Saffron? So what if there were a million more celebrities at my mother’s party last night than here right now? I’d like to see even John Galliano top this venue. Or Vera Wang try and top Julian’s divine gowns.

  “We’re ready,” Julian says with a shaky voice. “Father in Heaven, thank you for this runway show. Bless the hands that prepared it and please let it be a huge success. Amen.”

  “Amen,” I echo, although I’m a bit puzzled. The only gods I’ve ever seen Julian worship are Robert Pattinson and Tom Ford. And please, please, please let me keep my job, I think. “John, we’re good to go,” I say into my headset, cueing Crimini’s pilot.

  “Copy that,” John says.

  It feels like there’s an army of butterflies in my stomach as Crimini’s G-550 swoops through the air like an eagle and touches down on the tarmac just beyond the catwalk. There are audible gasps over the plane’s engines as Crimini’s plane taxis along the tarmac until it reaches the runway on the flight deck of the aircraft carrier. I nod at Sam Ronson, who fires up a techno, trance mix of “Here Comes the Bride” as the door to the plane opens and Alexandra Crimini steps out like an ethereal angel in dreamy white satin that’s been whipped into a masterful ball gown dusted with crystal. It makes Princess Diana’s wedding dress look like something off the clearance rack at Loehmann’s.

  Everyone in the audience rises to their feet and cheers wildly as Alexandra seems to float down the runway that is actually a people mover. I’m certain no one has ever seen an entrance like this before. I look over to Stefano from LVMH, who’s grinning ear-to-ear as he stands there applauding voraciously next to Charlotte Casiraghi, Princess Caroline’s daughter, standing on her Roger Viviers in the front row. I kept the models’ entrance a secret from everyone, including Stefano, which wasn’t that hard considering I only just thought of it yesterday. I can’t believe we actually pulled it off. Alexandra poses as expertly as Giselle at the end of the runway, looking absolutely magnificent and as if Julian hadn’t given her walking lessons late into the night.

  One by one the models step off of the plane and glide down the runway, each wedding confection more beautiful than the next. The catwalk is an orgy of hundreds of yards of beaded and swagged white lace, organza, tulle, silk, and duchess satin. My breath catches in my throat at the sheer beauty. Say “Yes to That Dress,” Vera Wang. And Monique Lhuillier. And Pnina Tornai. Every bride from this day forward is going to want to wear Julian Tennant.

  Finally the moment arrives that has my heart pounding against my chest. “Hit it, Lex,” I say into my headset. “Here Comes the Bride” slowly fades out as U2’s “Beautiful Day” begins to play. An enormous screen is erected in front of the plane at the beginning of the catwalk. Scenes of Cricket in Four Weddings and a Bris play behind her as Cricket herself steps out on the runway in the finale gown, a long-sleeved, backless Chantilly lace number embroidered with scads of pearls that bustle in the back. It’s the very gown she’s wearing in the scene playing up there on the giant screen, with Saffron beside her, who looks absolutely resplendent up there in her Julian Tennant bridal gown. If we couldn’t have Saffron here in person walking in the show, at least we can project her larger-than-life image for everyone to see how smashing she looks in her JT creation. The sight of Cricket in that dress makes my heart pitter-patter. She looks even more magnificent than at her final fitting. As she strides down the catwalk she’s doused in a meteor shower of flashes.

  Suddenly the footage from Four Weddings cuts out. Damn it! “Lex, what’s going on?” I bark into my headset.

  Then just as suddenly grainy footage of Cricket kissing Markus Livingston fills the screen. What’s going on? Terror washes over me. I don’t remember that scene from the movie. But I do remember that unforgettable yacht in the background. Why is she kissing Markus? And on Diddy’s boat, out in public?

  “Lex, turn it off! Turn it off!” I shout through my headset, feeling the blood rush to my face.

  “We’re trying,” Lex barks back at me.

  “What’s going on?” Julian shrieks from inside the plane.

  Cricket continues to swan down the runway, oblivious to the footage behind her and the weird stares and whispers of everyone in the audience. The photographers’ flashes are blinding, and it looks like everyone is getting their own footage on their cell phones. I’m sure everyone from Harvey Levin to the AP will have them in seconds. This is a disaster.

  “What’s taking so long? Cut the film,” I scream into my headset.

  “Jesus, I’m trying! What the—”

  “What’s happening?” Julian squawks over his headset.

  What is happening? Where on earth did this footage come from? Oh god. Oh no. Please don’t let it be my mother’s cameras. Please. But why would she play the footage here and not on her show, for the ratings? She’s not even here; she’s too busy bidding for a kiss from Clooney. It can’t be her, it just can’t. Besides, there’s no way Mom would want to sabotage Cricket’s career; she loves Cricket as much as I do.

  But … what if this isn’t about Cricket? What if Cricket isn’t the target? What if someone’s trying to sabotage Julian? Or me? Who would do that?

  It can only be two people: little Chili Lu and Coz. But how did they get the footage?

  I scan the first row until I find Coz’s seat. I can’t help but notice that she looks exactly like the devil in her body-hugging, lipstick-red cotton suit, red platform pumps, and matching stupid smirk on her red painted lips.

  “Lex, get somebody to pull down the screen,” I shout. “Hurry! Please!”

  Cricket reaches the end of the runway, poses for the photogs, and then spins around. I can’t see her face as she turns, but I’m certain it’s ashen as she sees the footage and stiffens in midstride. I half expect her to crumple to the ground but she continues walking with her head held high.

  “Got it,” Lex wails into my ear as the footage of Markus and Cricket is stopped and scenes from the movie start to play again.

  “Julian, get ready, that’s your cue. Show’s over. You have to go out and take your bow,” I say.

  “No way, not after that,” he says, his voice full of panic.

  “Julian, get out there,” I insist.

  “No, they’re going to boo me!” Julian shrills.

  “No they’re not, just get out there,” I say. “Don’t make me have someone push you out.”

  “Fine, fine,” Julian says and seconds later he’s on the runway hand in hand with Alexandra Crimini. They’re met with modest applause amid a low murmur as everyone seems too busy gossiping about Cricket and Markus to give Julian the recognition he really deserves. The applause he would have gotten if someone—Cozili—hadn’t leaked that footage. I wonder if Stefano is going to fire me right here in front of everyone. I have to go talk to him and try and expl
ain. But first I have to find Cricket and Julian.

  As I maneuver through the dispersing crowd, trying to make my way to one of Crimini’s vast drawing rooms that we’re using as the backstage area, it’s clear that the guests have only one thing on their minds.

  “Is that chick gay or not?”

  “So what’s the deal with Saffron and Markus?”

  “I’m confused. So the fashion show’s just a big publicity stunt for Four Weddings and a Bris?”

  “I heard Saffron was supposed to be in the show. Guess she chickened out.”

  I don’t know whom I feel worse for: me and Julian or Cricket. Julian killed himself over those gowns, and no one’s saying a word about them. Cricket didn’t even really want to walk in the show today, but she did it for us.

  When I finally find Cricket in the hallway behind the makeshift stage, she looks like a teeny tiny bird that’s broken its wings.

  “Lo, I’m so sorry. I ruined everything. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. What have I done? I’m so sorry,” she says, falling into my arms amid a puddle of lace. I hold her in my arms as she cries. As the crying turns to sobbing, I continue holding her.

  “Cricket Curtis, was this whole relationship with Saffron a sham?” a journalist shouts, trying to shove a mic in Cricket’s face as a photog starts snapping photos of her. How did they get in here? Suddenly there’s a swarm of journalists surrounding us and they’re all yelling at Cricket.

  “Are you straight or are you gay?”

  “Was this just a publicity stunt?”

  “Are you in love with Markus?”

  “Does Saffron know about this?”

  “You need to leave, Cricket has no comment,” I shout, shrouding Cricket protectively in my arms. “Security!”

  Where the hell are all of Crimini’s security people? I feel Cricket shaking in my arms and continue to try and protect her from the piranhas that are still yelling questions at her. I’ve got to get her out of here.