Flirting with Boys

by Abbott, Hailey

  breaths to try to calm herself down. A toilet flushed behind her, and as she dried her hands, she could see a pair of legs dancing around in the booth. Celeste rummaged in her bag to touch up her faded lip stain and the stall door banged open. An impossibly thin woman in skin-tight gold lamé burst out.

  “Ugh!” the woman exclaimed breathlessly as she

  turned the water taps on full force. “Why do these people have such small stalls? How do they expect anyone to do anything in there?” She had buried her ring-encrusted hands in a mound of soapsuds.

  Celeste’s eyes widened. She started to respond but it was obvious the woman didn’t really want an

  answer. Celeste snuck another sidelong glance. She was probably in her midforties and had that leathery, stringy look that came with decades of diets and sun-bathing. She looks like a chicken bone. Celeste bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. But she might have let out the tiniest noise, because the woman fixed her with an intense stare in the mirror.

  Celeste immediately squashed all giggling and gave the woman the most sincere, polite, and demure grin she could summon. It must have done the trick, because the woman actually smiled herself and then, drying her hands on her gold jumpsuit instead of on the fluffy white towels laid out in front of her, she swept from the bathroom.

  Celeste slowly followed and, nodding at the guests she passed, took up her post again at her mother’s side.

  She spied the woman, who was now leaning over the front desk, terrorizing Michelle, the desk clerk. “Mom,”

  she whispered. “Who is that woman?”

  “That’s Mila Rotterdam,” her mother whispered back without changing her friendly expression.

  Celeste’s heart almost stopped. “Oh my God, that’s her?” She dug in her evening bag and pulled out the little guest cheat sheet. The entry for Rotterdams read: Mila and Mason. Powerful Hollywood movie producers. Dislikes: 195

  Chihuahuas. Special Requests: personal trainer visit, villa 2, 7

  a.m. Food: Mila, allergic to pepper.

  “There’s Mason over there,” Mom whispered. Celeste followed her mother’s gaze across the room to a little, wizened old man who looked more like George Burns than a movie executive. He was standing in a corner, staring down at a glass of water.

  “Oh,” Celeste said, making a mental note to make sure Mila Rotterdam had everything her gold-laméd self desired through the course of the festival. This woman was the reason they’d had to deal with creating an hors d’oeuvres menu entirely free of pepper. Which was, it had turned out, an incredibly difficult task. Her phone beeped in her bag.

  She dug it out and turned away from the crowd to take a look. Text from Nick. Celeste flipped it open. SCREEN OKAY.

  ALL QUIET. Celeste smiled and was about to write back when her father leaned over and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Celeste, we need to start moving people into the lounge to start the cocktail party,” he said sotto voce.

  Celeste nodded and turned to the knot of couples standing near her. “Excuse me,” she said with her best Pinyon-employee, daughter-of-the-owners smile. They looked up expectantly. “If you all would like to head into the lounge”—she pointed at the double doors—

  “we’ll be serving drinks and appetizers shortly.”

  Around the lobby, the groups began breaking up and trickling slowly towards the double doors at the opposite end of the room, laughing, the women balancing on their stilettos, everyone talking excitedly. Celeste could see Mila Rotterdam clutching the arm of a guy who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five and tottering toward the lounge. “… better serve some good liquor!” Celeste could hear her trumpeting. “The last place only had Wild Turkey.” Celeste caught her mother’s glance and discreetly rolled her eyes in the direction of Mrs. Rotterdam. Her mother sighed and nodded in agreement.

  The dim, intimate lounge was perfectly laid out with sleek couches and low chairs. The soft lighting illuminated the little cocktail tables and the rich wood of the bar, but left the corners in shadows. A jazz quartet was playing in one corner. Huge potted ferns nodded their feathery heads in the corners, and votive candles flickered on the tables. Waiters in sleek black T-shirts were circulating with trays of Spanish cheeses, olives, feta dip, and lobster on water crackers.

  As she looked around, Celeste felt proud. She lived at the best resort in Palm Springs. This scene belonged in a magazine. The last of the guests trickled in, and Dad shut the doors. The noise in the place swelled, and Celeste could hear laughter echoing above the conversation.

  She collected a Perrier from the bar and started moving through the crowd, smiling and nodding. In the back of her mind, she wondered if Nick would change his mind and come over. “Another vodka tonic, sir?” she asked a big, red-faced man brightly. “Matthew would be happy to get you one.” She indicated the waiter who had magically appeared next to her.

  Just then, her father laid his hand on her shoulder.

  His face was calm and benign, but his eyes were

  sparkling dangerously. “Celeste, dear, can I speak to you for a second?” he asked quietly. Uh-oh. She could tell that tone immediately. It was the “you’ve messed up, my dear, but I don’t want the guests to know there’s anything wrong” tone. She knew the drill.

  “Sure, Dad,” she said cheerfully. Still clutching her water glass, she followed her father over to a corner partially masked by the bar.

  “Celeste,” her father said. “You know the next few days are some of the biggest we’ve ever had here at the resort, right?” His forehead looked strained.

  “Yes, Dad.” Celeste nodded. Did she ever.

  “And that our family is going to have to work harder than ever to make sure that everything goes absolutely perfectly this weekend, right?”

  “Yes, Dad,” Celeste said again. She felt like a robot who’d only been programmed with one phrase.

  “Then why,” her father whispered harshly, “are those boys at this party?” He pointed. Celeste followed his hand and felt her stomach plunge into her shoes. Travis and all his buddies were coming through the doors—

  laughing, talking, and most definitely not sober.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Celeste convulsively squeezed her Perrier glass so tightly it was a miracle it didn’t shatter. What the hell were they doing? Travis had promised they’d stay away from the parties! She could hear her father breathing next to her like some sort of bull ready to stampede.

  “Um, I have no idea what they’re doing here, but don’t worry, Dad, I’ll take care of everything,” she said hastily, before he could stride over there and take care of things himself. That could get very ugly—for Travis, at least.

  “You have ten minutes, Celeste,” her father said, fix-ing her with a piercing gaze.

  “Don’t worry about a thing! Look, that dude in the feathers is asking the bartender why we don’t have absinthe. You’d better go rescue him.”

  Her father’s attention was momentarily diverted, and Celeste used the opportunity to slip over to Travis, who had flung himself on one of the sofas. His buddies had lined up at the bar, though she didn’t know why they were bothering. They were obviously already drunk.

  Travis looked up as Celeste approached.

  “Hey, babe,” he said easily, reaching up to pull her into his lap. His face had that slack, red look that she knew very well signaled “Drunk Travis.”

  Celeste stood rigidly in front of him. “Travis,” she said through her teeth. “What are you doing?”

  He looked around. “Nothing much. Just hanging out.

  Why?”

  “Why?” Celeste struggled to keep her voice down.

  “You swore you’d keep your obnoxious friends away.

  Now, I’m in deep shit—my dad is pissed beyond words.”

  She realized she was clenching her fists so hard her fingernails were digging into her palms.

  Travis looked around the room as if surprised to find himsel
f there. “Hey, calm down,” he said, reaching up for her hands. She kept them closed stiffly at her sides.

  “Don’t get so mad. We’re just hanging out. No one’s doing anything,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I can’t believe you’d just completely ignore everything I’m saying like this,” she said. “Get your friends out of here, Travis—I mean it. Like now.” Celeste turned and stalked away.

  She wove through the crowd and went up to the bar.

  She leaned over the smooth dark wood. “Mike,” she murmured. “Can I have a wet towel?”

  The bartender looked at her with concern. “Sure, Celeste, but what’s the matter? You look kind of red.”

  He passed her a small white bar towel dampened with ice water. Celeste pressed it onto her forehead and the back of her neck.

  “I’m okay, thank you. Just trying to cool down.” She handed the towel back and felt a hand on her arm. She whirled around, expecting to see Travis, but instead, Nick stood behind her, wearing a slim gray suit and a big grin. “Hey,” he said brightly as she stared at him. “The pool’s all set up, so I decided to come over to see how everything was going.” He looked around the room.

  “This looks awesome. Everyone looks like they’re having a good time—even my mother.” He pointed at Mrs.

  Saunders, who was in a corner stuffing feta dip into her mouth. “I need a drink—can I get a vodka and cran-berry?” he asked Mike.

  Celeste scanned the room rapidly. She couldn’t spot Travis in the crowd, but that didn’t mean he had left. She took Nick’s arm and marched him away from the bar.

  “Hey,” Nick protested. “I was just going to get my drink—”

  “Look, Travis and his friends just crashed the party,”

  Celeste told him. “My dad’s really mad, so don’t make anything worse, okay?”

  “Wow, okay,” Nick said, looking her up and down

  carefully. “You look incredible, by the way.”

  Celeste could feel herself blush in spite of her irritation. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  “Look, I’ll go talk to them, okay? Maybe try to distract them or something,” Nick said.

  “Okay,” Celeste replied doubtfully. “I’m not sure that’ll work, but you can try.”

  “Trust me,” Nick said, winking at her. He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and strolled away.

  The guys were all clustered in a corner by now, laughing hysterically about something and downing Stella Artois like it was the last beer on earth. Already some of the guests near them were turning to stare at Kevin, who was six five and topped two fifty. His face was beet red above his yellow polo shirt, and he had already spilled some beer down the front. Celeste could see her father eyeing her from across the room. She sent him a sickly smile, trying hard to ignore the sense of impending disaster that was growing like a seed in her chest.

  Her mother floated by, carrying a glass of champagne and looking as if she’d never thought about a thing in her life except picking out the perfect cocktail dress.

  “Celeste,” she murmured out of the corner of her mouth. “I’ve just spent the last half hour reshelving the seafood that idiot of a sous-chef left sitting out on the counter. Hopefully, we won’t wind up with three hundred festival guests with food poisoning. Would you mind scanning the kitchen to make sure everything else is properly put away?”

  “Sure, Mom,” Celeste said, eager to escape for a minute. She pushed open the swinging doors to the little prep kitchen just off the lounge. It just had couple of stainless steel counters, an industrial microwave, a mini oven, and a big refrigerator and freezer. Someone had stuck some lettuce in the sink, where it was rapidly wilt-ing. Celeste wrapped it up in plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge, and then started dismantling a tower of dirty appetizer plates to be taken over to the dish room in the main kitchen later. Suddenly, over the clank of china, she heard a woman’s shrieking in the next room.

  Oh no. She wiped her hands on the front of her dress and rushed through the double doors.

  The music was still playing but a group had gathered around Mila Rotterdam, who was standing up next to her seat, clutching the tablecloth. Something was wrong with her face. “I should sue every person in this place!”

  she was shouting. “I gave specific instructions!” Dad stood next to her, patting her arm and trying to get her to sit down. All the guests near her were whispering and talking.

  What the hell happened now? Celeste thought as she rushed toward the group. Mr. and Mrs. Saunders stood off to one side, their faces white. Nick, Travis, and Travis’s buddies were standing on the outskirts of the group, looking curious. Mila’s face had an odd, lumpy appearance. Her eyes were almost squished in pockets of puffy flesh, and her lips were grotesquely swollen to twice their size, as though she’d received collagen injec-tions that had gone very wrong.

  “I gave specific instructions that no pepper was to be used in any of my food!” Mila shouted again. Her skin looked like raw meat, but her vocal cords were unaf-fected. Celeste’s eyes flew to the salt and pepper shakers sitting in the middle of the table. Except the salt shaker was alone. She frantically scanned the area around the table and spotted the mostly empty pepper shaker laying on its side beneath the table. Shit.

  “I have never, never been so poorly treated in my life!” Mila trilled at the top of her voice. She shook off Mr. Tippen’s consoling hand and fished a giant

  burgundy handbag out from underneath the table.

  “Mason and I only came up here as a favor to the Saunderses. But I can see that was obviously a mistake!”

  she declared. “You can be sure I will never, ever be setting foot in this place again.” She turned and marched toward the door.

  Panic rising within her, Celeste rushed after Mila.

  This was a disaster. Would the other guests follow her lead?

  “Mrs. Rotterdam!” she called, hurrying after the rapidly retreating gold lamé. “Please wait!” Mila ignored her and barreled through the lobby, attracting stares from a few guests checking in at the front desk. She pushed through the glass doors to the curb. “Wait, please!”

  Celeste called again, wishing she’d worn lower heels. But how could she have known she’d be chasing down a swollen-faced woman in a jumpsuit tonight?

  Celeste reached the curb and panted for a minute, trying to catch her breath. Mila was rummaging in her purse. “I know it’s here, just a minute,” she muttered to the valet.

  “Um, ma’am?” Celeste tried again. Mila ignored her.

  “Ah, here it is!” She held up a yellow ticket in triumph. “Villa Two. It’s the white Rolls-Royce.” She handed the ticket to the valet.

  “No!” Celeste shouted involuntarily. Mila turned and fixed her with an icy gaze.

  “So, you’re going to put pepper in my food and now you’re going to shout at me?” She turned away in disgust. “Let’s hope the Four Seasons has rooms tonight.”

  Celeste lowered her voice. All her training as a Pinyon guest-soother had prepared her for this moment. “I apologize, ma’am, for my outburst and for the pepper in your food,” she said sincerely. “We try to take very good care of all of our guests. Whoever is responsible for the pepper will be punished, I promise.”

  Mila’s face still looked like it was cut from oak. Clearly, this was going take some more work. “Furthermore—”

  Just then, the valet pulled up with the Rolls. Damn it, why did they always have to be so fast? He hopped out and opened the door. To Celeste’s horror, Mila threw her handbag on the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel.

  “Wait!” Celeste said hastily. Mila started to shut the door. Celeste clutched at it. “We’d like to offer you a free stay here—for as long as you like! And an upgrade—to the exclusive Desert Sun guesthouse!” Mila tugged at the door, but Celeste didn’t let go.

  “Let go of my door!” Mila said, still tugging.

  “I-I can’t!” Celeste said. What?

  “Let go
!”

  “I can’t! Er—my finger is stuck in the handle!” Celeste said. Quickly she jammed her hand into the door handle so hard she heard her knuckles crack. “Just give me a minute, my ring is stuck.” She jiggled her hand around.

  Luckily, Mila couldn’t see what she was doing on the other side of the door. “You know …” Celeste said, as she worked her hand around. It occurred to her that she had no idea what she was going to say to this lady to get her to stay, but she just kept talking. “This festival is going to be one of the most innovative film venues in southern California—at least that’s what the Los Angeles Times said.”

  “That may have been very true,” Mrs. Rotterdam

  said, jerking at the door. “And now it will be simply that much less innovative, since my husband and I will not be attending.”

  “That’s right!” Celeste said. Huh? “Er—that’s also what the Times said.”

  “What?” Mrs. Rotterdam stopped tugging at the door and stared at Celeste. “What are you talking about, young lady?”

  Yeah, Celeste, what are you talking about? She had no idea. She just kept babbling. “Right! The Times said that you and your husband would never attend such a new, fresh festival. They said you were old guard and that this stuff would be too edgy for you.” Celeste gestured around Pinyon. At least Mila had stopped trying to bang her car door shut, so Celeste just took a deep breath and kept on talking. “Yeah, that’s why we were so thrilled when you and Mr. Rotterdam showed up. We knew you weren’t dinosaurs, like the Times said.” Celeste pretended she didn’t hear Mila’s outraged squawk. “We knew you had the foresight to believe in one of the hippest new film festivals in California.” She turned the full force of her intense gaze on the woman now sitting motionless behind the steering wheel.

  Celeste held her breath. Then Mila’s hand slowly moved to her seat belt. She unfastened it and reached for her handbag on the seat next to her. Celeste hardly dared to breathe as Mila stiffly unfolded herself from the car.

  She stood up and fixed Celeste with a rapier-like stare.

  “I will have a double vodka tonic,” she said coldly and, turning, marched back into the lobby.