by Zoey Dean
She said goodbye, hung up, and smiled. Danny was definitely the antidote she needed. As it turned out, Hugo’s French toast turned out to be a close second— sizzling golden brown, with fresh California strawberries and homemade whipped cream. During their lunch at least five people stopped by their table to say hello— mostly other writers who knew Danny. But Danny also took her over to meet someone named Dick Wolf, the producer of the Law & Order cop dramas. Anna had never heard of him, but Danny assured her that he was one of the most powerful men in Hollywood.
To everyone Danny said that Anna was “from Apex.” Anna was surprised at how much respect this introduction reaped. No one looked fazed by Anna’s young age.
“This is a young town,” Danny confided as he took out a credit card to pay their check. “Live fast, die young, write your scripts in eight days max.”
“I think I’d prefer to live medium and take a year to write a novel,” Anna confessed.
“Then maybe you haven’t really lived,” Danny said as the waitress took his credit card. “What’s the fastest you’ve ever driven a car?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just curious. How fast?
Anna thought for a moment. When she was seventeen, she’d been in Germany with her mother. One time, on one of the autobahns, she’d cajoled her mother into letting her drive and had gotten the speed up to a hundred forty kilometers—about eighty-four miles an hour.
“Eighty-five. About.”
Danny threw his head back and laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Danny told her. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”
Ninety minutes later the two of them were standing in a sizable garage in Riverside, California, about sixty miles from Los Angeles. More specifically, at the Riverside race course. Danny had explained to Anna on the drive there that Riverside had hosted some of the most important automobile races in the world. Though its heyday had been a few decades before, the track was still open to people who had the nerve—and the money—to pay to use it.
“And this,” Danny said, “is my baby until such time as I have an actual one. At which point I’m confident that my wife will insist that I sell it.” With a huge flourish he grabbed one end of a tarpaulin sheet that covered one of the sports cars in the garage and yanked. The tarp flew off, revealing an open-cockpit, white classic sports car with a roll bar behind the driver’s side. There was a number 8 painted on the door and the words Little Bastard in script just above the number.
Anna, who knew nothing about cars or racing, knew she had to make some suitable comment. “Nice.”
“Nice?” Danny mock-challenged her. “Nice? Lunch at Hugo’s is nice. Hermosa Beach—the town, not the show—is nice. But this? This is an exact replica of the same Porsche Spyder that James Dean owned. And died in on September 30, 1955, right near Paso Robles, on his way to a race in Salinas. But that accident wasn’t his fault.”
Danny took a key out of his pocket and tossed it to her. “It’s all yours.”
“You mean, you want me to drive it?”
“Can you handle a stick?”
“Sure.”
“You’re older than eighteen?”
Anna nodded.
“Then why not?” Danny went to a shelf and took down a couple of crash helmets. “As long as you’re willing to sign a release for the track and wear one of these.”
Five minutes later Anna, having signed the release, was in the driver’s seat with Danny riding shotgun as they tooled out of the garage and onto the track. The starter gave Anna an all-clear signal, meaning that there was no other raceway traffic for her to worry about.
“Go for it,” Danny told her.
Anna put her foot down, and the engine roared. The first time around she drove cautiously, getting the Spyder up to eighty miles an hour or so on the back-stretch but staying well under that through the turns. The second time, though, the sports car seemed to be urging her to go faster and faster. Anna answered its call on the front stretch. Eighty. Ninety. A hundred. A hundred and ten, a hundred and twenty miles an hour!
“That’s it!” Danny encouraged her. “No highway patrol here!”
There was a left-hand curve coming out of the straightaway, and Anna downshifted to handle the turn with ease.
“Nice job there,” said Danny. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Anna smiled, keeping her eyes on the track. “Neither did I. Let’s do it again.”
“Letting an Upper East Side trust fund princess drive my Spyder. My grandfather, may he rest in peace, would turn over in his grave at Mount Sinai Cemetery.”
Anna loved the way Danny made her laugh. The more she got to know him, the more she liked him. She knew it wasn’t the Cyn-would-be-so-proud-of-me kind of extraordinary passion she’d felt with Ben. That had been amazing, and she’d always treasure her memories of Ben.
This was something else. And it felt really, really good.
Long Red Talons
Three hours later, Anna was on the set of Hermosa Beach while Danny was laboring away in the writers’ room. While they were in Riverside, the call from Clark had come, ordering them both to come to work. Never mind that Saturday had been declared a day off for the staff, who had worked for fifteen straight days, and that no one was supposed to come in until that evening. Clark had decided the show was behind schedule, so the scenes that were to have been taped on Sunday were being shot today. No questions asked.
Today’s filming was on a small stretch of Hermosa Beach that had been closed to the general public. Nonetheless, a thick ring of tourists had gathered around the roped-off, heavily guarded perimeter, snapping photos to take back home to Boise or Duluth or Edinburgh, where their tale of having watched a television show being filmed was a very big deal. (The only people who hated the filming were the Hermosa Beach locals, who were certain that their multi-million-dollar beach homes came with an inalienable right to the entire beachfront all the time. This despite the fact that half of them earned sizable livings in that very same entertainment industry.)
Anna stood near the director—a short man in a Dodgers baseball cap and sunglasses who seemed pathologically opposed to smiling. She held a script plus a sheaf of papers that listed everyone’s attire down to the last detail. With some of the production aides sidelined with a stomach bug, Anna’s job today was to check and recheck every character’s hair, wardrobe, and accessories for continuity. Basically it was her responsibility to make sure that if a character had her hair parted on the right, it stayed on the right.
The scene they were currently shooting came after a party in the hotel ballroom. In that sequence Chyme had run crying from the party after seeing Cruise kissing Alexandra. Now Alexandra would confront Chyme; they’d argue for a while, then Chyme would storm off down the beach. And then Cruise would come outside to look for her, only to be seduced by the ever-scheming Alexandra.
Anna ran down her detailed list. Chyme’s hair was entwined with a rope of pearls—check. The pearls were the same delicate oyster shade as her elegant Atelier Versace lace gown—check. Tiffany white gold “Anastasia Diva” chandelier earrings set with diamonds—check. Shoes, cosmetics—everything matched the previous shot.
She moved on to Alexandra, who wore a red Gucci corset dress. (Bad choice, Anna thought. The dress was another one far too obvious for a girl of Alexandra’s background.) Gunmetal leather-and-crystal T-strap Spaulding & Gublo sandals—check. Tiffany diamond hoop earrings that Anna also thought were wrong since Alexandra would never wear such large earrings— check. Short nails with no polish—
Shit.
Somehow Alexandra’s nails had morphed once again into long red talons that could do bodily harm to lower life-forms. Anna checked and rechecked her detail sheet. Short nails, clear nail polish. It was plain as day.
“Set up for the kiss, please!” called the director.
The kiss. Meaning the moment where Cruise ran out t
o the beach and Alexandra kissed him. Which most likely meant a close-up of those killer crimson talons curled into Cruise’s thick, dark hair.
Anna looked around for the designer in charge of hair and makeup, but he was nowhere to be found. Neither was Danny. So she took a deep breath and hurried over to the director himself, who was huddled in a conference with two of his assistants.
“Sir?” Anna asked.
“What?” the director barked. “And who are you?” “An intern,” Anna explained. “Sorry to interrupt, but …” She showed him that her detail sheet called for Alexandra to have short, clear nails. “I don’t think that’s what she has.”
The director stared at Alexandra. “You’re right.
Of all the childish— She knows better than that,” he said with disgust. “’Scuse me. We’re on hold, people! Take ten!”
The director tracked down the makeup artist, who’d miraculously reappeared with her bag of cosmetic tricks. She trotted over to Pegasus to give her a nail redo. Pegasus shot a lethal look in Anna’s direction.
“Hey, nice catch on the nail thing,” the first AD called to Anna.
Anna smiled. It was good to feel useful for a change.
“So can I be in it?” Mia asked Clark.
Mia had managed to wedge herself between Cammie and Clark when they’d all gotten into his limo to go to the set of Hermosa Beach.
“No, you can’t be in it,” Clark chided her gently. “Why not?” Mia shot back. “I can act.”
Clark chuckled. “Were you in school plays or something?”
“No, but I know I can act,” Mia insisted. “So can I be in it?”
Cammie stared out the window and watched Los Angeles pass by. The only reason she’d come on this outing was to ensure that her father and Mia wouldn’t bond in her absence. But she still tried to put Mia out of her mind, preferring to think about, say, Adam.
He couldn’t get over his amazing luck the night before at being treated to a private concert by Beck and Willie Nelson—Cammie had joined him for the last halfhour of it—and he was exceedingly grateful to Cammie for having brought him to the after party. Naturally he’d happily accepted her invitation to her birthday bash on Tuesday night. He had not, however, suggested that he drive her home and hadn’t offered more than a warm hug when they parted. Well, Cammie was sure that in Adam’s mind, a hug was the gentlemanly thing to do. He was the kind of guy who probably didn’t French-kiss until a third date. At that rate she calculated that Adam’s intro to down and dirty wouldn’t happen until graduation. However American Pie that might be, Cammie planned to accelerate the learning curves.
The limo stopped by the beach; Clark hopped out without waiting for his driver to open the door. Mia and Cammie scrambled after him as he strode across the sand toward the roped-off area where Hermosa Beach was filming. The gawkers began taking photos of Cammie, certain she was Somebody. She ignored them, scanning the area for the enemy.
She found her—Anna—with a short guy who wore jeans and a T-shirt and carried a small steno-style notebook. Obviously a writer. So Cammie slapped a big smile on her face and marched over to join them. “Hi, Anna,” she said, oozing sweetness. “I guess Dad has you working on a Saturday, huh?”
“That’s all right,” Anna said coolly. “Do you know Danny Bluestone?”
“You mean the guy with the notebook?” Cammie asked.
Anna introduced them. Like Cammie cared. But she gave The Notebook a sexy smile just the same. What the hell, maybe he’d turn out to be important one day. In the meantime Mia bopped over to join them, her arm looped through Clark’s.
“Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like Gwyneth Paltrow?” Mia asked Anna, wide-eyed. “Swear to God.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Anna said graciously. “So what part do you play?” Mia asked.
“I’m not an actress; I’m Mr. Sheppard’s intern.” “I’m his daughter!” Mia exclaimed.
Daughter? Cammie’s eyebrows headed for the sky. Stepdaughter. But Clark didn’t correct Mia. Instead he grinned.
“We’re a big happy family, that’s for sure. So, everything all set for Jackson?”
The Notebook nodded. “We should be able to shoot his scene right after sunset. Then Hollywood Tonight is coming to cover the beach party.”
Clark looked nervously at a bank of clouds on the western horizon. “If the damn weather doesn’t fuck us. I promised Jackson we could do him in under an hour. Then an hour of partying for the press and he’s back to his pregnant wife.”
Cammie could think of only one “Jackson” who would merit that much concern from her father. “Are you talking about Jackson Sharpe?”
“I’m sure as hell not talking about Michael Jackson.” Her father snorted, looking through some papers The Notebook handed him.
“Jackson Sharpe is shooting a scene tonight for Hermosa Beach?” Cammie clarified.
Her father looked up from the papers. “Yeah, so?” So? Cammie’s supposed best friend’s dad was doing a cameo on Cammie’s father’s show and Sam hadn’t even mentioned it?
“How’s our schedule?” Clark barked at The Notebook. “We’re one scene behind,” Danny reported. “But Anna saved our ass today.” He explained the continuity problem with Alexandra’s nails.
“Good job, Anna.” Clark grunted, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.
Danny nudged a playful elbow into Anna’s side. “From Clark Sheppard, that’s tantamount to a coronation.”
Cammie knew she should be seething but actually just felt morose and lonely. Here was Anna, getting compliments from her dad, flirting with The Notebook, and Ben Birnbaum was probably at home at the top of Stone Canyon, waiting for her. After that, Anna would probably call Sam and meet her—and probably Dee, too—for dinner at the Hotel Bel Air and then drive down to Encounter at the airport for after-dinner drinks.
Who could cheer her up? Her thoughts returned to Adam. Even though that first kiss she gave him was just to make Sam jealous, now she thought about him a lot. His tenderness. His humor. He was just so … so decent. And under that good-boy facade, she knew there had to be a very bad boy in all the ways that counted; she could tell by the way he’d kissed her back. Funny, though. When she pictured them together, they weren’t doing the nasty. Instead her head rested on his shoulder while he stroked her hair.
For once Cammie didn’t want to prove to a guy how hot she was. Instead she just wanted the guy.
Comedy
Sam piled her plate with broiled lobster tails, prawns wrapped in bacon, smoked salmon, and the kind of pomme frites that were only made in Paris bistros or by a chef hired away from one. After a few days of Power Eating, Sam had chucked in the towel. Yes, she wanted to be skinny, but not at the price of food that tasted like it had already been digested. She couldn’t quite decide if her own unwillingness to suffer for beauty meant that she was a hopeless sloth or that she was showing a new maturity. Maybe she’d have to ask her psychiatrist, Dr. Fred. Of course, she’d once looked up from the couch to see him nibbling on an Atkins bar.
As she took a bite of delicious aged Brie cheese, she mused how the Hermosa Beach festivities hadn’t turned out to be much of a beach party. The skies had opened up right after her father had completed his scene, where he played himself as an arriving guest at the hotel. This was called “stunt casting,” and Jackson had done it as a favor to Clark Sheppard. What Jackson was paying Clark back for Sam could only imagine.
In any case, the beach party had been moved into the hotel lobby. Sam watched her father hold court in his easy way on an aqua velvet couch as the camera crew from Hollywood Tonight set up to interview him. When he wasn’t with her pregnant bimbo of a stepmother, Sam quite liked her father, despite the fact that they rarely spent time together. But Sam had high hopes that the new movie she was going to make with Anna would change all that. She reminded herself to talk to Anna again about writing a script for it.
Hoisting her very f
ull plate, still chewing on the Brie, Sam walked past the bar, where muscled bartenders dressed as lifeguards served up red apple martinis in glasses rimmed with crushed peppermint candy. And then past the dessert tables, piled with miniature versions of every Viennese torte known to mankind. Across the lobby she saw Anna with a young guy with glasses and Clark with a young teen. She cast her eyes around for Cammie, surprised she wasn’t there. Now that she thought about it, though, she and Cammie hadn’t talked about this party. In fact, she realized, recently she and Cammie hadn’t done a lot of talking at—
“Mind if I join you?”
Sam looked up into the marine eyes of a guy so handsome he took her breath away. Or maybe she was just choking on the cheese. She gasped for breath, coughing hoarsely.
The guy hit her on the back. “You okay? Need a Heimlich maneuver?”
Sam managed to shake her head. The guy found an apple martini and gave it to Sam, who sipped gratefully. “Sorry. Went down the wrong pipe.”
“Hey, it happens.” He sat down and held out his hand, indicating that Sam should sit in the empty seat next to it. “I’m Shayne Weston.”
“Sam,” she said, leaving off the Sharpe. Usually she played up her famous name. But for some reason, at this moment, she didn’t. Now that he was sitting down, she could get a read on this guy: Brad Pitt circa Thelma and Louise crossed with Chris Klein circa Election. “You must be an actor.”
“That obvious, huh?” He grinned disarmingly.
“Are you on the show?” Sam asked.
“Three episodes. I’m a lifeguard who saves Chyme’s life. She cries on my shoulder over Cruise’s engagement to Alexandra and we fall into each other’s arms until she finds out that I’m only getting close to her so that I can discover the combination to her father’s safe.”
“Oh, you’re the lifeguard who’s really a burglar,” Sam said, laughing. “Now, that’s innovative writing.”
“I hear it came from Clark Sheppard, not the writers’ room. Anyway, my agent says it might become a continuing role. You never know.”