Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  “That’s probably the rose point lace you ordered,” I tell Julian. “Listen, I’m running to the door, but I want you in the shower by the time I get back. Quick, quick,” I say, rustling the sheets. “I need to get ready. I don’t need to be worrying about getting you out of bed.” I close the bedroom door behind me.

  I shield myself with the huge stainless door so that I can sign quickly for the delivery.

  “Coz,” I yelp as I fling open the door. She doesn’t bother to wait for me to invite her in, and I’m absolutely humiliated to be found in my skivvies at nine o’clock in the morning.

  “I heard the lingerie look was in, but I didn’t realize you were taking it so literally,” Coz says from behind the mammoth black shades shielding her ice blue eyes. “Is that one of Julian’s?” she asks. Her bone-straight platinum hair, right out of Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface, grazes shoulders any Olympic javelin thrower would kill for.

  I feel about one centimeter tall. I crane my neck to try and meet her gaze, but my head only comes up to her waist. Coz has to be at least seven feet tall with those snake skyscrapers on her feet. I’d give all of my mother’s vintage Alaia for legs as long as hers.

  “Hi Coz,” I say, trying to pull down my nightgown over my tush. “We weren’t expecting you till this afternoon.”

  A loud sigh escapes her red-painted lips. “Ash, you said you moved the appointment to nine a.m.,” Coz says icily to her assistant, a lanky, plaid bow-tied, Kanye West look-alike cowering behind his BlackBerry.

  “I did,” he says, frantically scrolling through his e-mails. “Oh, I’m just seeing now that my e-mail didn’t go through,” he says sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  “Ash, one more screwup and you’re dead to me,” Coz says flatly. “Gone, gonzo, good-bye if you mess up again,” she says, turning away from her shrinking assistant and training her attention back on me with a faraway look in her eyes. “Well, we’re here now, so do you mind if we just have a quick look, Lola,” she says. It’s not a question. She breezes past me in a floor-length white mink coat that’s the same shade as her milky skin. I’d better hide all the red paint or Julian, my die-hard PETA-ite, will go Jackson Pollock on that thing.

  “Just give me a second to get changed and get Julian. The collection is over here if you’d like to start looking at it. Julian’s calling it ‘Bondage Ballet,’” I say, gesturing toward the fall samples, the spiraling lace and violet, caramel, mint, and chartreuse tulle dance dresses cinched in with hip-jutting, fetishistic patent belts to create the perfect hourglass silhouette.

  Julian walks out of his bedroom nearly naked, except for those tighty whities, with Tom Ford in one hand and his sketchbook in the other. “Can I see the lace samples?” he asks, not noticing Coz and Ash hidden behind the racks of gauzy sheer skirts.

  “Hi Julian,” Coz says, stepping into view.

  Julian’s sketchbook and Tom Ford thud to the floor.

  “Wow. This is like one of my recurring nightmares, except it’s real,” Julian says, patting at his messy raven locks. “Coz, honey, you’ve caught me pre-caffeine and clothes. You weren’t supposed to be here for hours.”

  “Ash completely screwed up my schedule. I’m so sorry, Julian,” Coz says, her voice wiped clean of any trace of actual regret. “But believe me, I’ve seen far worse.”

  “Excuse us,” I say, grabbing Julian by the arm and dragging him out of sight and into the bedroom.

  I change faster than Adriana Lima backstage at the Victoria’s Secret show and reappear in a pair of midnight blue, high-waisted flared cords and a cream J. Crew cashmere cardigan.

  “Julian’s playing with the ultrafeminine romanticism and fluidity of ballet in stark opposition to the stiff, structured, binding lace-up corsets,” I say, holding up a breathtaking, floor-grazing, asymmetric, sheer-gauze gown with a trailing train and an intricate interior bustier that Julian’s planning on showing with thigh-high dominatrix boots.

  “Ash, be sure to put the new accessories editor at the top of the call sheet,” Coz says, turning to her assistant. “What’s her name? Whatever,” she says, brushing away the inquiry. “I need to talk to her about the July issue.” Clearly the gown I’m holding in front of her face isn’t having the slightest impact. But I continue anyway.

  “Julian has a flair for making chiffon flow and flutter in a way that defies gravity,” I say, pointing to another gown.

  “And Derek Lam,” Coz interrupts me and turns back to her assistant, “to set a meeting to go by their studio for the July feature piece.” Clearly this nightmare woman would like to be anywhere but here. Unabashedly, I press on, despite my face, which I can feel has turned a deep crimson.

  “I think some of the dresses could be perfect for your ‘Fashionista to Recessionista’ story since the bondage is really a metaphor for how we’re all bound by the failing economy while the dreaminess of ballet suggests hope for the future,” I offer. Okay. I know I’m really reaching. But I’m desperate here.

  “Mm-hmm,” Coz says absently from behind her giant sunglasses that she has yet to lower while checking her iPhone. “Yeah, you know, I don’t think they’re going to work, but maybe there’ll be something next month,” she says, her focus still trained on the screen as she scrolls and taps. Funny. That’s what she said last month when I’d been given a two-minute phone audition to discuss the JPEGs of some other Julian inspirations. And the month before. And the month before that. I thought her visit would change everything.

  “Oh,” I say, deflated. “Listen, I also wanted to talk about Cut-Throat Couture. I think Julian would be a perfect guest judge for the show.”

  “Everyone wants to get on the show,” Coz says. “We’ve got Zac Posen, Stella McCartney, Erin Wasson. The slate’s already full.”

  Sure it is. I’m sure if Marc Jacobs wanted to be a guest judge, she wouldn’t tell him that the slate was already full. What is with this woman? What does she have against Julian and me?

  “Did you know that Naomi Campbell modeled in Julian’s student fashion show at Central Saint Martins?” I say of Cut-Throat Couture’s infamous host. Her dust-ups with fellow judge Donatella Versace have been getting all of the big buzz on the show. In their latest run-in, with one million YouTube hits and counting, Campbell removed a six-inch stiletto from her arched foot and threw it at Donatella’s head, nearly taking out her bleached blond extensions as it grazed her temple.

  “Naomi’s never mentioned it to me,” Coz says flatly.

  “They became friends when Julian interned for Oscar de la Renta. It was a big deal when she walked in his show,” I say.

  “I guess they’re no longer close since she hasn’t walked for him in years,” Coz says. Just as I’m fantasizing about grabbing the red paint from Julian’s closet myself, Julian resurfaces in a pair of dark denim jeans with a charcoal gray, square-shouldered blazer, a white button-down, and a pair of chunky oxblood saddle shoes. Tom Ford has on a miniature hand-tied bowtie.

  “Julian, darling, the collection is gorge,” Coz tells him, still swiping at her iPhone. Too bad there isn’t a “Bitchitor” App on there that would make her mink coat instantaneously go up in flames—or at least alert PETA of her whereabouts. “I wish I could stay longer but I’m off to meet Mrs. Herrera and I can’t keep her waiting.”

  As Coz heads for the front door, she pauses to pick up Julian’s sketchbook, which he’d left in a heap on the floor. “I didn’t realize you were designing wedding gowns now,” Coz says, flipping page after page of Julian’s sublime sketches for Four Weddings and a Bris. Uh-oh.

  “Coz, that’s a personal sketchbook,” I say, trying to stop her. But it’s too late.

  “These are nothing,” Julian says, rushing over to take the sketches from Coz.

  “Really?” Coz says. If she removed those sunglasses, I’m certain I would see one of her albino brows raised. Oh god. This is bad. She totally knows that Julian is in the running to replace little Chili Lu. “Frankly, Julian, those sketches are sophom
oric. You’re better than that,” she says, her already translucent skin turning an odd shade of purple-white. Did those monster shoulders just deflate a bit or am I imagining things?

  “You don’t want to keep Mrs. Herrera waiting,” I say. “You should really go,” I say, practically pushing her out the front door, with Ash trailing behind her.

  We wait until the sound of footsteps retreats. “That was a complete disaster,” Julian says, flopping onto the sofa. “You didn’t even get the chance to pitch Nic in drag for the cover.”

  “I’ll call her tomorrow, once the smell of brimstone dissipates. That woman is awful,” I say, plunking down beside him. “I feel like we need to sage the entire loft.”

  “You get the sage. Tom Ford and I are going back to bed.”

  “No, Julian. You can’t. We have our conference call with LVMH and you need to finish Nic Knight’s gown so I can take it on the plane with me tonight.”

  “Lola, I adore Lev, but how long can you keep flying back and forth to L.A.? At some point you’re going to have to choose.”

  “Julian, don’t start with this. Please. Not now.”

  * * *

  Seven exhausting hours later, as I plop myself into the standard-issue smelly taxi en route to JFK, I stop to ponder Julian’s question. Do I really have to choose? Just when I finally found a real man in Tinseltown, I had to move to Manhattan to become the CEO of Julian Tennant Inc. Why are the gods of career and love conspiring against me? Why don’t they want me to have it at all—or at least all on the same coast? Screw that. I’m not about to let three thousand miles stand in my way.

  I’ve had to fly back to L.A. from NYC every other weekend for the past thirty-something weeks just to see Lev. I’ve got more frequent flyer miles than Phil Keoghan. Or Hillary Clinton. But I’ve never been happier. Or more dead tired.

  I reach into my black nylon overnight bag for a pair of Lev’s old scrubs and his ratty Harvard sweatshirt to change into. Julian would go into anaphylactic fashion shock if he saw me in Lev’s clothes, which is why I have to change in the back of a dirty taxi every other Friday. I’m fairly certain every taxi driver in Manhattan has seen me in my underwear at this point. But the thing is, I’m really happy in his ratty sweatshirt and scrubs. If Anna Wintour saw me in this she’d seriously regret ever putting me on her Best Dressed list a couple of years ago. But all the designer duds and Louboutins in the world couldn’t rival this kind of happiness.

  Next I slip off my knee-high, lace-up, tobacco, high-heeled boots and put on a pair of navy—Crocs. Yes, Crocs. I almost had a shoe seizure when Lev gave them to me. When Julian saw them, he almost fainted onto his copy of Women’s Wear Daily. But the thing is, they’re actually really comfortable. Something I never knew footwear could be. And they’re not that ugly. Okay, they are that ugly, but it’s not like I’m parading down any red carpets in them. The only carpets I tend to walk on when I’m in Los Angeles these days are the ones in Lev’s house that he brought back from Africa when he was volunteering with Doctors Without Borders. He has mementos from every country he volunteered in with DWB scattered around the house—a laid-back, mismatched, eco-friendly place in L.A. where all of my belongings are stored in his garage. (I gave up my rented Spanish jewel box across from the Chateau Marmont.) Lev’s reupholstered hemp sofas from the salvage yard, reclaimed wood coffee table, navy canvas beanbags, and bedside tables made from recycled tires may be totally unchic by Julian’s standards, but his place feels like a home instead of a museum.

  I shove my boots deep into the bottom of my carry-on where Lev won’t find them. He still has no idea that I’ve jumped back on the stiletto wagon, something I’m not so sure he would be thrilled about given my newly healed broken ankle. And Julian believes that I ceremoniously torched the Crocs months ago. So here I am again, a double agent in the worlds of fashion and love.

  I dial Lev’s cell.

  “Hey babe,” Lev says.

  “You can’t believe the day I’ve had,” I say as I launch into a full-throttle diatribe about my dressing down by the money-crunchers at LVMH, the awkward pas-de-deux with the Personal Shopper department at Saks after Julian asked if they could remove all the leather and fur from the floor during his personal appearance, a battle royale with my Excel spreadsheet, an argument over piecework with my favorite subcontractor, and more. “Lev, I’m just not sure we can pull this off. I’m getting squeezed on the prices like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “You’re going to find a way to sort everything out, just like you always do. I know how hard you’ve been working and I’m really proud of you, Lola,” Lev says when I’m done with my rant.

  I’ve never been with a man who’s believed in me the way Lev does or been proud of me. Heck, I just learned to be proud of myself—after ten-plus years on Dr. Gilmore’s chintz couch. I let his words pulse through me. “Thank you,” I finally say.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Do you think you could slip me just a teensy overdose of Ativan for Coz? Sorry, I know that was mean. I’ll figure out something,” I say, hoping I really will. “I haven’t even asked about your day. How’s it going?”

  Lev lets out a groan. “There was a drive-by shooting on the 405 and we had four GSWs. I stabilized three of them, but I had to do an open thoracotomy on one of them.”

  “What? Oh my god. I feel like such an asshole. Here I am going on and on about fashion and you’re talking about gunshot wounds and slicing someone’s chest open.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that people kill for fashion? I’ve gone to enough events with you to see firsthand how bloody things can get,” Lev says.

  “Is everyone going to live?” I ask nervously.

  “Yes, looks like it.”

  “And here I thought mine was the only life you’d saved.” As I say the words I can hear Dr. Gilmore’s voice in my head, “You saved yourself. You conquered your Career Deficit Disorder and your Actorholism. You stood on your own two Louboutins.” I know that she’s right and that there are no Doctors in Shining Armor in real life, but when I went flying off those four-inch stilettos, it sure was nice to have Dr. Levin help me up. “I can’t wait to see you,” I say.

  “Me too,” he says. “Shoot, I’ve got to run, I’m being paged.”

  “I love you,” I say.

  “I love you too,” Lev says. “I’ll be the guy waiting for you at the airport.”

  Click.

  Screw you, geography. I’m determined to have it all: the Doctor Boyfriend and the career. It’s official. I’m not only bicoastal, I’m Bi-Lolar: The condition by which I swing like a pendulum between the diametrically opposing poles of the fashion world with my Best Gay Forever and the real world with my Doctor Boyfriend. The strong gravitational pull between these two converse worlds on opposite coasts resulting in a major identity crisis to the point that I don’t know which shoe fits me anymore: the Louboutin stiletto or the Croc.

  3

  “You know, it’s not like my mom gave us any warning. I just picked up her message when the plane landed. It’s so last minute. I can totally get us out of it,” I say, begging. I’m changing in the bedroom while Lev is sprawled out on the couch in the living room. We just got the news that Mom wants us to go to their house for dinner.

  “Lo, I’m going to have to meet them sooner or later,” he says. “I say we go.”

  Lev and I have been together for almost a year now and my parents have never even asked to meet him. But it’s not like Lev’s crazy residency schedule gives him much spare time, either. Not to mention, I can’t remember the last time the Santisis ate together as a family. Actually, I think it was probably when I was five for Swifty Lazar’s Oscar Night Party at Spago? Or maybe it was when I was seven at the old Morton’s after my father’s premiere of The Assassination. No, no, it was Christopher’s bar mitzvah.

  “I just don’t understand why the urgency tonight,” I call out as I slip into my dress and reach for a box I’ve stashed deep i
nside the closet. “I mean, after all this time, why the sudden command performance of Meet the Parents? Maybe we should call and say we can’t make it. I mean, you’re exhausted, I’m exhausted. It’s not easy being bi-Lolar.”

  “I know it’s a lot for you having to travel out here every other weekend,” he says, “but this is where my life’s work is. This residency is getting me for all it’s worth. But let’s just do this. I’ll finally get to see where you come from. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

  “Let’s see if you still feel that way after you meet my folks,” I say, stepping out into the living room. I twirl in front of Lev in my new white crepe shift. “What do you think? It’s one of Julian’s.”

  Lev whistles in appreciation. “You look just as beautiful all dressed up as you do in my old scrubs,” he says.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” I say. “And here’s the thing,” I add, opening up the box I’ve hidden behind my back. “A dress like this really doesn’t go with Crocs. It needs something like these.” I show him the sky-high stilettos. His face clouds. “I know you don’t like high heels, Lev, but just think! We never would have met without them. And the truth is … as much as I love my Crocs, I love my Louboutins too.” Don’t make me choose, I think. Don’t make me choose.

  Lev rolls his eyes and grins. “Lola, I just want what makes you happy. If wearing ridiculously high heels makes you happy, then I’m fine with it. Just promise me that if you do another face plant in them, I’m the only one you get to play doctor with.”

  “It’s a deal,” I say, slipping on my shoes. Maybe being bi-Lolar won’t always be so awful.

  * * *

  “Careful, you could get a nose bleed from the change of altitude,” Lev teases me as we drive in his ten-year-old Volvo over the hill from the Valley to Hollywood. I’ve deliberately avoided going anywhere near Hollyweird when I’m in L.A. these days. A recovered Actorholic doesn’t need to visit the bar. “I don’t know that I’ve actually ever driven through these gates,” he says as we make our way into Bel Air for dinner at Chez Santisi.