Lethally Blonde

by Nancy Bartholomew

I roll my eyes. Emma is starstruck. Go figure.

  “Zoe is an absolute nutcase. She follows Jeremy around, mooning over him, and all because she believes she has to become her character.”

  Emma frowns, nose wrinkling. “What’s the movie about?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a sequel to some horror thing. They’re witches or vampires or something. I don’t know. I’m not into that sort of film.”

  Emma’s mouth drops open. “Hill People? They’re making a sequel to Hill People?”

  I shrug and stare back out at the little group by the pool. “I guess. They’re wearing black robes and moaning a lot.”

  “Bug, it’s not a horror movie! Hill People was amazing! A schooner leaves England around the same time the Pilgrims leave for America, but they get lost during a storm. They wreck on this island that’s inhabited by this primitive tribe of cave-dwelling cannibals….”

  “And that’s not a horror film?”

  Emma’s eyes are round and huge. “No! They don’t really focus on the eating part. They only eat people during their rituals. It’s about the blending of the two cultures—the development of their new, blended culture and religion. It’s amazing. It’s so…” Emma pauses, struggling for the right word. “Primal,” she says finally. “It’s spiritual and earthy and so, so deep. You know, Zoe actually wrote the script. It won an Academy Award for Best Picture. Anyway, back to the movie. Jeremy is the tribal leader who takes Zoe from the Englishmen. At first she resists him, but the ship’s captain gives her to Jeremy! Oh, my God, when they finally have sex it’s…” Emma stops, falling silent as she once again stares out the window. “He may be short, but he can take me anytime!”

  “Emma! He’s a drug-using nymphomaniac! And I think he’s stopped playing for your team anyway, so give it up! He’s screwing his bodyguard. See the big, no-necked guy standing by the gate? That’s him.”

  “Shut up!” Emma cries. “You’re spoiling it for me!” She watches for another long moment, then bites her lower lip and frowns harder. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she says, turning back to me with a soft sigh. “That’s not why we’re here, is it? Let’s talk about who’s trying to kill him.”

  Oh, God, I think. It’s finally happened, the moment we used to talk about late at night in our dorm room. We are full-fledged grown-ups. No one’s going to ride in and do it for us. We’re in charge of making sure nothing happens to bad boy Jeremy Reins, just the two of us. This is actually sort of thrilling. For the first time in my life, I am really and truly needed.

  I look over at Emma and think, we are invincible. I look back out the window at the group by the pool and think maybe, just maybe, I could even think about getting to know the cowboy a little bit better. I could crack that tough exterior and heal the broken heart I know is somewhere buried inside the man.

  Yep, and right after that I’ll take care of that little world peace issue and maybe even run for president.

  Chapter 11

  Marlena is crushed. She cannot believe she’ll be missing the Oscars. I try to tell her that Emma’s missing them, too, and that they’ll both be attending CeCe Goldberg’s big bash, but she is still hissing and snarling as I prepare to leave.

  “You look simply stunning,” Emma cries when I join her and the others in the living room of Jeremy’s downtown L.A. penthouse.

  I pause in the entryway to the living room and consciously take my moment. I know Sam is watching me. I have already seen him turn away from his conversation with Mark to stare in my direction, but I avoid meeting his eyes. I don’t want him to know that it matters what he thinks.

  “Ralph won,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I just know Vera’s heartbroken,” Emma says, grinning.

  I am wearing a Ralph Lauren beaded black lace strapless gown with a train. It clings to my body just enough to hug my waistline and then billow out into a soft swirl of chiffon and lace. My hair is pulled up in a French twist. I carry a matching black lace and crystal Daniel Swarovski Paris evening bag and wear Fred Leighton simple diamond drop earrings and a matching diamond choker. I have written mental thank you notes to Kristy Burke a thousand times in the past few hours, thanking her for somehow knowing my style better than I ever could.

  “Vera will live,” I say. “You’re wearing her.”

  Emma looks down at her gown and says, “This old thang?” in a deep southern belle accent. “I’m only going to the after-ball. It’s not like I’ll be attending the main event!”

  But she smiles because she knows she looks absolutely radiant in her pale pink Vera Wang off the shoulder satin gown. She is wearing Harry Winston pink diamond chandelier earrings, a matching necklace and a beautiful pink diamond and emerald bracelet. Her auburn shoulder-length hair has been pinned up loosely by the studio hairstylist that Andrea arranged to have sent to the penthouse, and delicate tendrils escape to frame her face and huge green eyes.

  Andrea crosses the room to join us, elegant in her Atelier Versace gold lace over champagne colored chiffon gown. I nod approvingly at her choice of the Fred Leighton diamond briolette necklace and cannot help but stare at the huge diamond ring on her left hand.

  Andrea follows my gaze and murmurs, “Guilt,” quietly. She looks up, meets Mark’s gaze, and smiles at him before turning to take a flute of champagne from the waiter who hovers at her elbow.

  “Love is grand, isn’t it?” she says. Her husband is very much still in the dog house, it seems, and I am surprised. I thought they’d made up after the Diana incident. Has something happened?

  I am distracted by Jeremy’s arrival. He walks into the room and takes my breath with his overwhelming presence. This is “star quality.” It is more than the three piece Dun-hill tuxedo in midnight blue. It is the regal bearing and charismatic élan with which Jeremy moves through his world. He will step out of our limo and own the red carpet. He seems taller somehow but I know he is not. It is all in his manner. He has transformed himself from the bratty, inebriated louse and become the icon.

  He smiles at the three of us, clearly feeling the effect he is having and enjoying it far more than I enjoyed my brief moment with Sam.

  “So, lovey,” he says, voice husky, eyes liquid darkness. “I take it you didn’t expect me to clean up well enough to escort an heiress?”

  I will not be starstruck! Emma is doing enough of that for both of us.

  “No, Jeremy,” I say. “I’m just surprised you were able to knot your bowtie all by yourself.”

  Sam coughs, turns away and busies himself at the bar.

  “Bug!” Emma protests. “He looks simply adorable, don’t you think?” She is looking at Jeremy like he’s a slice of key lime pie and she’s starving. “Bug, I mean Porsche, doesn’t really think that, Jeremy! She thinks you look amazing—don’t you, Bug?”

  “Bug?” Jeremy raises an inquiring eyebrow when he hears Emma’s pet name for me and I am not about to go into it with him.

  “It’s a long story and I’m sure it would bore you,” I say. “Anyway, aren’t we late?”

  Andrea looks at Mark and he fairly leaps into action. “We’d better get moving,” he announces. “The car is waiting downstairs.”

  Sam steps forward, coming into my line of vision so that I am forced to notice him. The high school teacher has been transformed. He is wearing a Billy Martin Western-style black tuxedo. I know this because Val Kilmer wore one to Cannes and I remember talking with him about vintage Billy Martin. Sam is wearing a black satin bolo tie with his white wingtip collar dress shirt and a black vest that hugs the contours of his muscular torso. The crowning touch though are his black ostrich skin boots—elegant, understated and very sexy.

  He knows I’m studying him and is watching me as my gaze travels the length of his body and meets his eyes. He is not at all uncomfortable with my perusal and I find myself suddenly ill at ease. He is smiling, all the way up to his eyes—a mischievous, devil-may-care, challenging smile. The man knows the effect he is having on me and is completely comfo
rtable with that knowledge. Damn, this is exactly the kind of man who could sweep an unaware woman right off her Manolos.

  “Emma will you…” I start to say, but Sam reads my mind and answers the question before it is asked.

  “Emma and I will meet everyone at the Wilshire,” he says, looking at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of Emma and the little weasel.”

  “Ferret,” I correct. “Marlena is a ferret and I have promised CeCe that I’ll be bringing her, so…”

  “You’re taking your ferret to CeCe Goldberg’s party?” Emma asks, clearly incredulous.

  “It’s for the children,” I say. “Marlena loves children and there will be quite a few attending.”

  A tiny muscle in Sam’s jaw begins to twitch. Either he’s irritated or he’s trying not to laugh; I really can’t tell.

  “Oh, all right!” Emma says grudgingly. “I’ll bring her, but you do have a leash, don’t you?”

  I produce the rhinestone encrusted harness and matching leash and hand them to Emma. “Pink. They match your outfit,” I say, hoping this will sweeten the pot a bit.

  Emma grins. “You are so nuts!”

  “But you love me anyway!”

  “Are you coming, lovey?” Jeremy says from the doorway, and we’re off. My first Oscar ceremony and I’ll be front and center with an actor destined to walk away with at least one of the little icons.

  Once we’re settled in the limo, sipping champagne, Mark takes over, becoming “The Agent.”

  “Porsche,” he begins. “This is your first time attending the Oscars, isn’t it?”

  When I nod, Jeremy laughs. “A virgin,” he crows. “I didn’t think there were any left!”

  Mark ignores this and begins his lecture. “This is a very important night for Jeremy. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that you will be in the public eye and in front of the camera every second…”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mark,” Andrea murmurs. “This is Porsche Rothschild you’re talking to. She certainly knows…”

  I lean forward and put one hand on Mark’s knee. “Don’t worry,” I say. “There isn’t going to be one wasted frame. Jeremy and I are so-o-o into each other, isn’t that right, baby?” I move back in my seat, snuggling into the warm crux of Jeremy’s ready embrace.

  “Oh, you are the player, aren’t you, lovey,” Jeremy whispers in my ear.

  The limo eases to a stop, the back door opens and we are blinded by the lights of a thousand cameras all swinging into action. Jeremy hops out easily, turns back and extends a hand to help me out onto the red carpet. For just one moment, I am completely overwhelmed and frozen in place.

  I don’t know how Jeremy senses this, but he does. He grins at me, slides one arm around my waist, and when I don’t move, bends to kiss me tenderly.

  “Just follow my lead until you feel comfortable,” he whispers.

  He never lets go of my hand, but I manage to hang back just enough to allow him his showcase interviews. Gradually, I remember who I am and where we are and the importance of becoming Jeremy Reins’s girlfriend.

  When I link my fingers with his and move into his body, he reads the signal and says, “Perhaps Porsche would be the best one to answer that.”

  The blonde in front of us sticks the microphone in front of my mouth and says, “So, how did you two meet?”

  The carefully rehearsed answer pops into my head and out of my mouth without hesitation.

  “In Greece,” I say casually. I look at Jeremy adoringly. “On the Onassis yacht, wasn’t it? I believe Danni was hosting a little get-together, and well, we just saw each other…”

  “Across a crowded boat,” he finishes, laughing. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.” He gives me a brief peck, smiles, and we’re past that hurdle and on to the next.

  It is amazingly easy, and by the time we enter the Kodak Theater lobby, I am enjoying myself. The lobby walls sparkle with a thousand beads of twinkling light, but they go almost unnoticed due to the glitz and glamour of the attendees and the celebratory pageantry.

  We step inside the auditorium and I catch my breath. Boxes line the walls, jutting out like balconies, complementing a tiaralike silver-leafed oval and smaller ovals that crisscross the ceiling of the three-story theater and stage. Techs are everywhere, moving around the perimeter of the huge room, dangling from catwalks, adjusting lighting and preparing to bring the ceremony live to millions of starstruck viewers.

  I sneak a peek at Jeremy and realize that he is completely in his element among these people and in this larger-than-life pomp and ceremony. Clint Eastwood sits behind us with his entourage. Sofia Coppola is three rows back, talking animatedly to Gwyneth Paltrow. Kate Hudson waves at Jeremy as she walks past us, taking her seat directly behind Tom Cruise. I take a deep breath and feel momentarily out-of-place and talentless.

  Jeremy has his arm resting across my shoulders as the house lights begin to flicker, signaling the final approach to the beginning of the ceremony. Sarah Jessica Parker is rushing in, but sees me and waves. Finally, someone who knows me, even if our friendship is a casual one born of living, at least part of the year, in the same city and attending all the same parties and events. I feel better now.

  Finally the lights go down, the music begins and I am completely swept up in the flood of excitement and magic that is all-consuming now that I am actually in the audience. It is affecting Jeremy, too. His hand tightens on my shoulder, his body tenses and I feel how much this evening means to him. It is not pretense that makes me turn my head and kiss him on the cheek.

  “Do you have a speech prepared?” I murmur.

  He chuckles. “No. I’ve been nominated three times and never won. I wrote out speeches then and I think it jinxed me. So, no speech for Time Apart, just…” He doesn’t finish and the unspoken wish floats between us as we watch and wait for the Best Actor category to come up.

  Later, in the limousine riding from our obligatory fifteen-minute appearance at the Governor’s Ball to CeCe Goldberg’s gala, I toast him with my champagne flute.

  “I did not know it was possible to hold one’s breath for longer than three minutes,” I say. “But I swear, you didn’t breathe throughout the reading of the nominees.”

  Jeremy smiles and I want to say, “Remember this feeling. Your stupid white powder can’t touch this.” But of course, he must know that. He holds the heavy statuette in one hand and beams at the little figure.

  “I don’t recall breathing, or walking up the steps to the stage, or even taking the statue in my hand. I remember Clint saying, ‘Congratulations,’ but nothing until then.”

  “Well, your speech was brilliant. Lovely and touching. I, for one, am very thankful you didn’t read it off an index card!”

  Andrea’s smile seems to reflect the way I am feeling about Jeremy at this moment. It is a tender smile, full of warmth and genuine fond regard for the man who is so often an immature brat of a boy. But right now, in this moment, he is realizing his potential and aware of the possibilities before him. It is a beautiful, golden moment and I, for one, am hoping he seizes the opportunity to grow beyond his bad behavior.

  I catch myself thinking these things and wonder what in the world has come over me? Perhaps it’s all the psychology coursework.

  I take a big swig of Cristal and try to adjust the settings in my obviously screwy brain. Sure, I need to be on the lookout for any threat to Jeremy, but let’s get real here, this is the party night of the Hollywood year. The town is swarming with rent-a-cops as well as the real deal. Scott’s brought in an elite team just for the evening. What am I worried about? Let’s have some fun!

  We pull up to the Wilshire hotel, host to CeCe Goldberg’s extravaganza, and I realize I have only adjusted my interior thermostat down a couple of notches, from prison guard to hall monitor. An overactive superego is terribly hard to tame, that is, until I walk into the ballroom of the Beverly Wilshire and see Emma Bosworth in Sam the cowboy’s arms.

  A
ndrea misses this because she is doing her job. She has my elbow in a death grip and is forcefully steering us through the crowd to the receiving line. CeCe Goldberg and a host of luminaries all involved with the fund-raising for Miller Children’s Home are standing in front of me, fake smiles plastered across their faces as they greet each arriving guest. I am quite sure they’re putting the benevolent pinch on each newcomer for a deep pocket donation. I know that’s what I would do and will be doing just as soon as Andrea’s deposited me at CeCe’s side.

  “Porsche!” CeCe cries, seeing me for the first time. “I thought you were lost!”

  CeCe Goldberg is thinking no such thing. She is issuing a reprimand for my late arrival and I am ignoring it. CeCe didn’t work her way up the network ladder to become the Goddess of Investigative News Reporting by being unaware of anyone important’s comings and goings. She knew Jeremy had won Best Actor and she knew it would mean he had interviews and stops to make first before arriving at the gala. CeCe Goldberg was also savvy enough not to raise a stink because Jeremy Reins’s presence at her party would more than make up for my arrival in both donations and goodwill.

  However, now that CeCe has set the snippy tone for the evening, I am disinclined to think kindly of her. I take my place beside her, noting the unmistakable signs of yet another face-lift and the careful way in which she’d applied makeup to disguise the imperfections of her almost seventy-year-old face. At least she is tastefully attired in an Armani midnight blue silk gown and Harry Winston jewels. Overdressing always screams insecurity, I think.

  But enough about her; I am craning my neck to try and see Emma and Sam on the dance floor and failing miserably because of the huge, fat man standing right in front of me.

  “Ms. Rothschild,” CeCe’s assistant coos ingratiatingly, “this is Harry Bonds from…”

  I take my cue, smile warmly at the man in the Gucci tuxedo, and launch right into my pitch about the needy children served at the Miller Home. I know I will do this until the bulk of the guests have arrived, and while I am totally aware of what a good cause it is, I could just scream from wanting to find out what that damned Emma has up her sleeve with my cowboy!