by Jan Moran
David shot a look at Scarlett. “Uh, sure, Lucan. But Scarlett’s got the lead on that account, right?” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“What do you need, Lucan? I’ve got room on my calendar.” She didn’t, but she’d find the hours somewhere.
Lucan grinned and waved her off. “Not to worry, Scarlett. David’s got this one, right buddy?”
Scarlett opened her mouth to protest, but the other partners filed in and took their seats. As the meeting progressed, Scarlett contributed to the dialog and Lucan demonstrated his usual ebullience. No one would have suspected a thing.
Afterward, Scarlett had an off-site meeting scheduled to introduce Fleur to High Gloss Cosmetics. She passed an imposing cherry wood reception desk on her way out. A vase with at least three dozen red roses sat on the edge.
The young blond receptionist called to her. “Ms. Sandoval, these flowers arrived for you. Here’s the card. Shall I put them in your office?”
Scarlett opened the little envelope. For last night. LB. Scarlett stuffed it into her pocket. “I’m going to be out for a while. Why don’t you take those flowers home and enjoy them?”
The receptionist beamed, gushing about how gorgeous the flowers were.
Scarlett stalked through the front door. The nerve of that man. Was he teasing her, or was he a threat?
A sleek black limousine was idling in the parking garage. Scarlett got in and rested her eyes until they reached the Chateau Marmont, which was built high on Sunset Boulevard. Like the Rolling Stones, Fleur had taken up residence in suite sixty-four, the two bedroom penthouse suite with a wraparound terrace.
Chateau Marmont was designed after a royal villa in the Loire Valley. For decades it had been the favorite of rock stars and actors. Its reputation as a hedonistic west coast retreat was well deserved.
Scarlett called Fleur, who said she’d be right down.
An hour later, purple hair piled high on her head, Fleur made a dramatic exit, pausing again for paparazzi and angling her face to the side just so, and then swung into the car.
Fleur wore a silver metallic, skintight body suit with a belt slung low on her hips. Circular pieces were cut from each side, and the V-neckline dipped to her navel. One wrong move and she’d have a shocking wardrobe malfunction.
“These are business people, Fleur, we should be mindful of their schedule.”
Fleur gave her smug smile. “I’m the star. They’ll wait for me.”
“My goodness, what happened to your lip?” Fleur’s lip was cut and swollen, and it hadn’t been like that when she’d left her at the airport.
Fleur mumbled something about slipping in the shower. “It hurts. I need a drink. And I hope they shot me from my good side.”
“Looks like you need stitches.”
Fifteen minutes and two vodkas for Fleur later, they arrived at High Gloss Cosmetics on trendy Melrose Avenue in the heart of the fashion district. The corporate office was on nearby Wilshire Boulevard. The design group was still housed in the original shop, where they could keep abreast of fashions and trends.
Scarlett had completed other deals with High Gloss in the past. She’d handled the licensing for a glamorous Academy Award-winning actress and a French couturier. Both deals had been enormously profitable for everyone involved. Scarlett enjoyed representing her clients and handling the legal process. High Gloss wanted an edgy line to appeal to a younger clientele now.
“Good afternoon. Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Scarlett said. She introduced Fleur to Olga Kaminsky, the chic, seemingly ageless granddaughter of the original founder.
“Not at all,” Olga said, as gracious as ever. “Although I’m afraid we won’t have as much time as I’d hoped.”
Scarlett knew Olga ran a fast-paced company, and everyone was expected to keep up with her. High Gloss Cosmetics, Inc. was a Fortune 500 company listed on the New York Stock Exchange.
Olga’s eyes fell to Fleur’s lip. “Oh, dear, you’ve had quite an accident.”
Fleur dropped her gaze and her cheeks flushed. “It’s okay. It was nothing.”
As they walked through the creative studio, Olga turned to Fleur. “My grandfather was a makeup artist who began in Vaudeville. After moving to Los Angeles in the 1920s, he established High Gloss Cosmetics for silent motion picture stars. Actors needed special makeup to withstand the intense heat of the lights used. Now, a century later, High Gloss still maintains its prestige position in the world of color cosmetics.”
Scarlett knew their long affiliation with famous faces kept them in the forefront of fashion. Not a week went by that Fashion News Daily, the industry trade newspaper, didn’t report on High Gloss products and deals. Fleur was lucky to be here. Scarlett hoped she realized it.
Scarlett glanced at Fleur, who was quiet and glassy-eyed. Scarlett made a mental note to have the bar removed from the limousine while Fleur was in town.
Olga stepped into a brightly painted open room that was a funky Mecca for makeup. Products of all colors lined the shelves, zebra-covered slipper chairs and leopard sofas were gathered in the middle of the room, and painted chandeliers brightened a pink ceiling.
“Makeup should be fun,” Olga said. “That’s the feeling we like to convey. Have a seat,” she said to Fleur, who plopped onto a chair. “I look forward to sharing our creative visions and bringing a great new line to market.”
Fleur glanced around. “I’ve changed my mind on the deal.”
Scarlett nearly flew out of her chair. “Olga, I’m sure what Fleur means is that she has some questions. We can discuss those and circle back to you. This is a get-to-know-one-another meeting today.”
Fleur scowled. “I think I’m worth more. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You have quite a following, and that’s why we’re interested.” Olga was blessedly levelheaded. “And we’ll bring the full force of our creative, marketing, and distribution to the table.”
“Let’s look at the line,” Scarlett said, diverting Fleur’s attention. She wanted to throttle her client. Her behavior was wrong on so many levels. The deal had already been struck. Negotiation took place between the attorneys. If they couldn’t work it out, the parties might meet again, but in this case, terms had already been agreed to. Only the final signatures remained outstanding. Since High Gloss was a public company, the licensing agreement was a carefully detailed document that had taken tremendous time to create.
Olga gestured to an array of lipstick, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara on the table. “I had my creative team put together our proposed vision for you.”
Fleur leaned over and began gouging color with her fingernail from tiny purple cases.
Olga quickly moved cleanser and cotton balls toward Fleur. Scarlett wished she could kick her client under the table, but the table top was glass.
“Such vibrant colors, aren’t they?” Olga adjusted a makeup mirror for her.
“Awfully bright,” Fleur said, scrunching her face.
“We welcome your input,” Olga said. “You’ll work with our creative team, who—”
Fleur cut in. “Black and white.”
“You mean colors to go with neutrals?” Scarlett hoped it wasn’t what she thought.
“Makeup in black and white,” Fleur said, waving her hands. “To balance bright colors. The fashion is the focus. Black eyes, black lips, white cheeks. That’s it. Revolutionary. Write that down, Scarlett.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and got up, meandering to the door.
Her lips parted in astonishment, Olga stared at Scarlett.
“I imagine we’ll be in touch later,” Scarlett said. She rose and grabbed Fleur’s arm. “We’re going now,” she said.
Once the car door was closed, Scarlett dropped her bag. “What the hell was that all about? Unless you come to your senses fast, you just lost the deal.”
Fleur hiked her upper lip in disdain. “Lucan said I should make my own line.”
“He what?” Scarlett couldn’t believe w
hat she’d just heard.
“He said I could make a lot more money.” Fleur reached for the bottle of vodka.
“That’s enough.” Scarlett grabbed the bottle and put it back. Fleur’s eyes widened.
The tiny hairs on the back of Scarlett’s neck bristled, as they always did when something wasn’t right. One of her law professors once said she seemed to have a sixth sense for ferreting out the truth. “When did Lucan tell you that?”
“Last night.”
“On the plane, or after we arrived?” Scarlett automatically switched gears and went into a line of questioning.
“After. You know, last night.”
“Where did he tell you this?”
“In bed.”
That wasn’t exactly what she’d meant, but she’d take it. “And where was this bed?”
Fleur looked amused. “Uh, in my room?”
“At the Marmont?”
“Yeah, so?” She crossed her arms indignantly.
“So I’d appreciate it if you told me the truth from now on. I’m actually on your side, Fleur.” As they crept along Sunset Boulevard in traffic, Scarlett gazed out the window.
Was Lucan harassing her because of her denial of his advances, or was there something more to this? She rubbed her neck. What was Lucan up to?
3
“READY TO GO?” Johnny leaned against the doorjamb and straightened his printed bow-tie. Scents of garlic, oregano, and rosemary swirled in the kitchen.
“Sure, just a minute.” Lance finished his recipe calculations. When he looked up from his desk, he started to laugh. “Is that what I think it is? Come closer.”
Johnny grinned and stepped into Lance’s office.
“Bacon, I love it. I have to have one,” Lance said. “And I don’t even wear bow-ties.”
Johnny’s bow-tie had bacon silk-screened onto it. He’d collected more than a hundred bow-ties, but now he was making his own. “This one took a long time to get just right.” Crisp-looking bacon strips flared from the center, and the knot appeared to be another strip wrapped around the bunch.
Bow-ties were a sort of trademark for Johnny, who started wearing them when he went to work for the Beverly Hills Hotel. Once he ascended to the position of maître d’, regular clients began recognizing him by his bow-ties. They even surprised him with ties, and he’d wear those gifts when he saw their reservation in the book. Dahlia’s grandmother, Camille Dubois, was particularly keen on giving him exotic bow-ties she found in her travels.
Lance removed his white chef jacket. He wore a black T-shirt, checked chef pants, and rubber-soled clogs. “Where’s this restaurant we’re looking at?”
“Beverly Hills.”
“Can we afford it?”
“It’s a small place.” Johnny kept a close eye on expenses. They could always grow into a larger space, and a small restaurant was intimate and easier to run. He didn’t want to risk the mistakes he’d seen other restaurateurs make.
He and Lance had looked at a lot of restaurants, but something was always missing.
“Good location? That’s the most important thing.” Lance ran his hands through his thick hair.
“Great location. Come on, let’s go.” Johnny punched him in the arm, and the two men left through the back door.
They took Johnny’s vintage Mustang convertible and cruised south from the Beverly Hills Hotel across Sunset Boulevard, past Will Rogers Park to a six-way intersection, where cars bolted from stop signs into the chaotic center.
“Whoa, there,” Lance said, as a determined blond in a Bentley nearly side-swiped the car. “This is madness. You need the skill of a French cabbie negotiating the Arc de Triomphe roundabout in Paris.”
“Was that the scene of the crime?” Johnny swerved again, and then continued through a sunny, tree-lined residential neighborhood known as the flats, or the blocks between Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevards. Each street featured a different type of tree. Towering palms lined one, overarching maples grew together on another, and jacarandas blazed springtime purple on still another.
Lance grinned. “Verena’s sly grandmother, Mia, orchestrated our meeting there, and we wandered the streets of Paris late one night. It was romantic, but nothing happened. Not until we returned to L.A., that is.” He nodded at Johnny. “We have a special bungalow at the hotel.”
“You’re one lucky guy,” Johnny said.
“Verena is great,” Lance said. “That’s one reason I’m determined to make this restaurant of ours a success. I want to build something for our future.”
Johnny grew silent, thinking about Scarlett. He’d known her for years, ever since they were kids in the barrio. Their lives had traversed such different paths. She had gone to college and law school, graduated top of her class, and left for New York. He had gone to work, washing dishes and moving up the ranks. Some men were intimidated by Scarlett, but he knew her well. Did he know her too well?
“Lance, do you think Verena is the one?”
Lance stared from the window, and then nodded slowly. “If we keep on like this, I think so.”
“How did you know?” Johnny wheeled into a parking place in the commercial village of Beverly Hills. “I mean, was it like a lightning bolt from the sky?”
“Sure, at first. She’s pretty hot. But then there’s this feeling that grows. It’s like you know you’re home, but it’s still exciting. Does that make sense?”
“Actually, it does.”
“Verena’s grandmother calls it kismet.” Lance raised a brow. “Why do you ask?”
Johnny got out and slammed the door, dodging his friend’s question. “Here we are.” He waved his hand toward a small stone cottage, a solitary holdout from the shops that lined the street. The front yard was been turned into an outdoor dining patio.
“I’ve always wondered about this place,” Lance said. “Looks like the owner held out against progress.”
“That’s exactly what happened. It was built in the 1920s. They sold the surrounding land and kept their house.” Johnny strolled along a stone path that wove through the patio. Ivy climbed a low rock wall. Hummingbirds zipped past, and white tablecloths fluttered in the light breeze. Johnny walked inside.
“What a great place,” Lance said. “We could do a lot with this.” The hardwood floors needed refinishing, and the fireplaces needed a good cleaning, but he was most concerned about the kitchen.
The owner met them at the bar and explained the restaurateurs renting it were relocating to a larger place. They were closed, and cleaning out their furnishings and fixtures.
“May I see the kitchen?” asked Lance.
Johnny and Lance followed the owner to the kitchen, which was situated in the center of the cottage. Gleaming stainless steel equipment shone under bright lights. There was plenty of workspace for the staff they’d need.
Johnny walked around, but this was really Lance’s domain. “What do you think, buddy?”
Lance ran a hand over the cool counters and grinned. “I think it’s kismet.”
“So what’s kismet?”
“Mia says that’s when something is meant to be.”
After they left, they walked down the street for coffee. It was sunny, so they sat outside. Johnny whipped out a notepad. “Let’s figure out what we’ll need to open the doors, and to survive until we break even.”
Lance started ticking off items he’d need in the kitchen. They put in costs for professional services such as accounting and legal work, though Johnny thought Scarlett could help them some, or at least advise them. They mapped out a plan to renovate and open the restaurant, and worked out a time table to do it all in. They’d have a lot more to do, but it was a beginning.
Johnny scribbled estimates for signage, advertising, a launch party, press, and kitchen and wait staff.
“Now pad those by at least thirty percent,” Lance said.
“For what?”
“I don’t want any surprises. When you’re starting a business, everything se
ems to cost more than anticipated. Let’s plan on it from the beginning.”
They continued working on their business plan. When they finished their coffee, Lance got up to get refills for them. Johnny added a few more items to the list, and then he tallied the numbers again. He leaned back in his chair and pushed a hand through his hair.
“What’s the damage?” Lance placed a steaming cup in front of Johnny.
“More than we’ve got.”
“It usually is. We’ll need investors,” Lance said. “I’ve got a couple of clients from the hotel who expressed interest in backing us.” Lance grinned. “Between my food and your good looks at the door, they think we’ve got a winning combination.”
“How much are they willing to invest?”
Lance named a figure. “I know it’s not enough, but we’ll raise the money. How about you? Anyone you know?” He sipped his coffee.
Johnny stirred his coffee and grew thoughtful. “I’ll make a few calls. You know how it is, people talk and promise things, but when you actually call them on it, usually turns out few of them were serious.”
“I’ve noticed that here in L.A. Not so much when I worked in New York and Europe.”
“Maybe it’s the sunshine.” Johnny chuckled. He met hundreds of people a day, and sorting out the genuine from the flaky was always a challenge. Though his aim was to provide excellent service for all who visited the Polo Lounge, he made sure the regulars were given extra special care. Regular customers kept the restaurant full. They brought their friends and referred new people to him. Word of mouth could make or break a restaurant fast, particularly in the village of Beverly Hills. They weren’t in a large city like New York or London, and their reputation was paramount.
“Well, my friend, I think we’ve found our location.” Lance gulped his coffee and studied the numbers Johnny had written down. “But there’s one huge item missing.”
Johnny frowned. “What’s that?” They’d covered of all the major items and needs.
“What’s the name of our restaurant going to be?”