Dollhouse

by Kim; Khloé Kardashian Kourtney

  “Really.” Benjy stared at her with interest. “I didn’t know you were into acting.”

  “Who says I’m into acting?”

  “You. The way your voice got all intense just now. And the way you used the word texture. You’re a closet thespian, Kyle.”

  “I’m not gay. More like bi. Or bi-curious, anyway.”

  “Thespian, not lesbian. Have you ever considered joining the drama club at school? You should totally check it out, it’s awesome.”

  “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to hang out with you losers and recite Shakespeare or some medieval bullshit.”

  “Our next production is a new play by a twenty-year-old Chilean writer. It’s based on her experiences as a child prostitute in Santiago.”

  Kyle raised her eyebrows. That didn’t sound completely lame. But she wasn’t about to give Benjy the satisfaction. “Booooring,” she said out loud.

  “If you say so.”

  Yawning, Kyle picked up her phone and pretended to check her messages. As weird as it was, her stupid stepbrother was right about her. She was a closet thespian, which she was pretty sure meant a person in the acting profession. From the time she was five or six, when her father began taking her to private screenings of movies he had produced, she had dreamed about becoming an actress someday. Of course, she had never shared this piece of information with anyone, although her father seemed to just know, calling her his “little Audrey Hepburn” and clapping the loudest when she was a sunflower in the elementary school play.

  Her father. She didn’t like thinking about him. It made her too depressed, and besides, it made her want to kill someone. Maybe her mother? So it was best to keep her mind a numb, emotionless blank slate as far as he was concerned, unless she wanted to start something. Which she didn’t.

  “Yeah, they’re kind of looking for someone for the lead right now,” Benjy was saying. “It’s the young prostitute character who’s based on the playwright.”

  “I think you should go for it,” Kyle said lightly. “Some hair extensions, lipstick, the right clothes . . . you’d be perfect!”

  “Fuck you. I think I’ll tell your mom that you didn’t show up today.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  Benjy held up Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. “I won’t tell if you can describe one of the play’s major themes to me. Like, how about the theme of ‘mendacity’?”

  “Men-what?”

  But Kyle knew perfectly well what mendacity was. It was something she was very good at.

  Not being truthful.

  Chapter Nine

  Kamille

  “Okay, baby girl! Let’s have you stretch across the bed and prop yourself up on your elbows,” Heinrich told Kamille. “Stare straight at the camera. That’s it, perfect! Now pout your lips! More! Give me naughty!”

  Kamille pouted her lips and tried to look naughty for the famous German photographer, feeling extremely foolish as she did so. She was starting to ache from posing for so many hours, and in such uncomfortable positions, and with a giant fan blowing her hair this way and that.

  Also, she wasn’t crazy about wearing so little clothing and so much body oil in front of the entire crew and also her mother. Especially her mother. Granted, Kamille wasn’t exactly naked. But she might as well be, in her white cotton nightie. And did they have to flatten her boobs with duct tape? Mario, who was the director of the photo shoot, had actually told her that her breasts were too big, and that the photos required a look that was more consistent with the name of the perfume, Lolita. (Giles had to explain to her, privately, that Lolita was from a famous novel by a Russian writer named Vladimir Nabokov, in which an old guy became sexually obsessed with a twelve-year-old girl. Ew?)

  Right now they were shooting in one of the large penthouse suites at the Chateau Marmont, a gorgeous, glamorous hotel on Sunset Boulevard frequented by celebrities. Earlier in the day, they’d shot out in the garden, with Kamille leaning against a flower-covered stone arch . . . then lying on the ground covered by Barbies and rose petals . . . then standing in front of a palm tree, licking an ice cream cone that kept melting and having to be replaced. Kamille had no idea that photo shoots took so long, and were such hard work. She’d always imagined that the whole thing was superquick: get your makeup done, put on some cool clothes, and take pictures for an hour. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Giles was in one corner of the massive bedroom, checking out the photos of Kamille on a computer monitor. Every once in a while he glanced up and gave Kamille a thumbs-up sign. She couldn’t believe that their chance encounter at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, less than two weeks ago, had resulted in this. The whole thing was beyond amazing, really—a fairy tale come true.

  “Um, excuse me, but could somebody cover up my daughter a little?” Kat called out to a random crew member.

  “Mom! I’m fine!” Kamille said, blushing. She reached back and tugged at the hem of her nightie, whereupon Heinrich stopped shooting and Mario started yelling and half a dozen assistants swarmed around her, rearranging and powdering and fluffing. Great. Why did her mother have to come along today? Kamille was twenty, not two. Besides, she had Giles here to take care of her. She’d wanted Kat to be proud of her and cheer her on from the sidelines—not act all overcontrolling and overprotective.

  “Okay, people, let’s try this again,” Mario ordered. “Heinrich, can you get some shots of her in that chair?”

  “Fine. Somebody please move those lights for me.” Heinrich pointed to a row of large, boxy lamps, then repositioned his tripod and gazed through the viewfinder. “Scheisse, her nose is shiny. Why is her nose shiny? And her breasts got crooked. Where is the damned duct tape?”

  As the assistants continued fussing over her, Kamille closed her eyes and wondered how much longer the shoot was going to take. She would kill for a double cheeseburger and fries, screw the calories; she’d basically been living on carrot juice these past few days, trying to get thin for today. Maybe with Kass later tonight, if she wasn’t doing anything? Kamille hadn’t seen much of her older sister lately, and when she did run into her, at home or the restaurant or the family’s house, Kass was quiet and preoccupied. Why was she acting like this? Maybe she got an A-minus on a test, Kamille thought bitchily.

  The photo shoot was finally over at six o’clock. They had been there since seven that morning. The mood in the room lightened immediately as soon as Mario uttered the words “And that’s a wrap!” The crew cheered and clapped and buzzed excitedly.

  Giles rushed over and hugged her. “Kamille, you were brilliant!”

  Kamille beamed. “Really?”

  “These photos are exactly what we needed,” Mario called out from the computer monitor, where he was in a huddle with Heinrich. “You’re a natural, Kamille!”

  “Ohmigosh, thank you!”

  Kat appeared and thrust a terry-cloth robe at her. “Put this on, doll. How do you feel? Are you okay? Let’s get that makeup off your face, and that . . . that . . . olive oil off your body. God, you look like a salad. Or a hooker. Just kidding, honey, but please, put on this robe.”

  “Mom!”

  “The girls here will take care of Kamille, and we can send her on her way,” Giles said, smiling reassuringly at Kat. “You should be proud of your daughter; she did a super job today.” He turned to Kamille and squeezed her shoulder. “As I mentioned before, this ad is on a rush schedule. It’s going to start appearing in magazines in a few weeks—the October issues. And be prepared, because it’s going to change your life. You’re going to be a star someday, I can feel it!”

  “Really?” Kamille whispered, feeling dazed.

  “Really. Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you . . . I got a call from the Flower Power people today. They want to talk to me about maybe using you for their next campaign.”

  “No way! Flower Power jeans? I love them!”

  “So she’ll be wearing clothes for that one?” Kat inquired hopefully.

  Kamille bit her lip to
keep from screaming. She was going to have to chain her mother to her desk or something for all future shoots.

  But she wasn’t going to let Kat’s psychotic personality ruin her good mood. Giles had said she was going to be a star someday. A star! She couldn’t wait to tell Kass.

  If she would stop being PMS long enough to listen, that is. The real PMS, not the Psychotic Mom PMS.

  Chapter Ten

  Kass

  Kass slid the glass door closed and stepped out into the yard, feeling the dewy grass under her bare feet. The early autumn air was pleasantly cool and fragrant with jasmine. As she lifted her face to the dark sky, a cloud passed, revealing a full moon.

  A full moon! Maybe that was why she was feeling so blue? But that was an old wives’ tale, and Kass didn’t believe in such unscientific nonsense.

  She plopped down on a green-and-purple Adirondack chair—she’d painted it herself soon after her father died, because green was his favorite color and purple was hers—and hugged her knees to her chest. She could hear the faint chatter and laughter coming from the dining room inside.

  Another Sunday Night Dinner. And another not-so-subtle attempt by her mother to fix her up with Mr. Right. Likely, that was what was making her feel so moody and edgy, not the moon.

  Tonight, it was Kat’s accountant’s nephew Dwight, who liked to talk with his mouth full. (Really attractive, watching bits of lasagna flying across the table while he pontificated about the merits of Bud versus Heine.) Last week, it was Kat’s favorite salesclerk from Saks, who was nice enough but obviously gay. (Could her mom be more clueless?) And before that, there was Pippa’s boring, pretentious son, Parker. He and Kass hadn’t gotten along when they were five. Why would they get along now?

  And could Kamille shut up already about being a supermodel or whatever? Her agent, Giles, had gotten her an early draft of her perfume ad, and she had passed it around at dinner like it was an Oscar or Nobel Prize or something. Granted, the Annie Leibovitz–style shot was stunning: Kamille sitting in a blue velvet antique chair, one leg draped provocatively over the armrest, her indigo eyes wide and childlike as she gazed straight on at the camera. The caption simply said: Innocence in a bottle. Lolita. Kamille did have that perfect combination of sweetness and sensuality.

  Still . . . couldn’t she handle her good fortune with humility and grace? Instead, she had to go on and on about it . . . and oh, did she happen to mention that a paparazzo had taken a picture of her this morning as she was leaving Giles’s office with him? And did she also happen to mention the hot date she had tomorrow night with a hot music producer—okay, music producer’s assistant—she met at some sick party at the Thompson Hotel that Giles invited her to? Blah, blah, blah . . .

  “Kassie!”

  Kass glanced up, startled. Kamille was walking across the lawn toward her. Oops. Hopefully her sister hadn’t suddenly developed telepathic abilities.

  “I thought you might need this,” Kamille said, holding up a bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses.

  Kass smiled, relieved. “Thanks, that’s nice of you,” she said.

  Kamille sat down next to her. She poured two glasses and handed one to Kass. “What’s wrong, doll? Everyone’s worried about you,” she said gently.

  Kass took a sip. “What do you mean? I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not fine. I’m your sister and your best friend, remember? I know you better than you know yourself.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. What can I do to help? You wanna talk? Or go out? Or, hey! Maybe we should take a few days off and do a road trip! When was the last time we did that?”

  Kass tried to remember. “Santa Barbara, when you dragged me to that spa,” she said after a moment. “No, that was in June! It was July, when we went to Vegas for my twenty-first birthday. Mom and Beau were not happy that we snuck off without the rest of the family.”

  “Yeah, I remember. They figured out where we were and surprised us. I think we were a little out of it when they found us.”

  “Yeah, just a little.” Kass winced at the memory of their mother, Beau, Kyle, Benjy, and Bree walking into their suite at the Bellagio—a suite that Kamille had somehow talked the manager into comping them—and finding the two girls semi-passed-out on the floor like a couple of winos. Kass had never been able to handle liquor well, and Kamille had drunk enough for four people.

  “It’s Mom, isn’t it?” Kamille said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “All those lame guys she’s been inviting to the Sunday Night Dinners, trying to hook you up. That’s what’s depressing you. I would be depressed, too.”

  And you haven’t helped with your celebrity princess attitude, Kass thought wryly. “Mom’s just being Mom. But yeah, those guys are pretty awful,” she said out loud.

  “Hey, I know!” Kamille reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She began typing. “We need to do this ourselves!”

  “Do what ourselves?”

  Kamille didn’t reply. After a moment she held the phone out to Kass. “What do you think of him?”

  Kass stared at the screen, at a head shot of an attractive blond guy in a turquoise polo. “Cute, I guess? Who is he?”

  “I have no idea!” Kamille giggled.

  “Huh? Kam, are you wasted?”

  “Not yet! Kassie, this is the website for one of those online dating services. We’ve gotta sign you up so you can meet him—and other guys like him, too!”

  Kass shook her head so hard that she spilled half her wine on her skirt. “Oh, no! No way! I am not doing online dating!” she protested.

  “Why not? Would you rather go out with Mr. Beer Gut inside? Oh, and what about Parker Ashton-Gould? Yeah, I could tell you were really into him when he and Pippa came over. The sparks were flyyyy-ing!” Kamille waved her hands in the air, cracking up.

  Kass made a face. Grrr. Why did her sister have to be right? “Fine! God! Let me see that phone,” she mumbled.

  Kamille beamed and scooted her chair closer to Kass’s. She scrolled through the website. “Check him out. And him! Oooh, he’s a hottie! It says that he’s a . . . huh? . . . lin-guis-tics major at UCLA. What in the hell is that? Does that have something to do with linguine?”

  “No, you idiot. Linguistics is the study of language. Really? Where does it say that?”

  The two girls continued scanning the website. Kamille polished off the rest of the bottle of wine while Kass stuck to what remained of her glass. Still, she must have gotten a wee bit buzzed, because by the time they went back inside, she had let Kamille talk her into signing up for a thirty-day trial membership to Lovematch.com.

  Was she nuts? Probably. But it was definitely better than putting up with another Sunday Night Dinner with another Dwight or Parker . . . or worse.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kamille

  “Milo, let’s have a smile!”

  “Who’s your new girlfriend, Milo?”

  “Hey, honey, aren’t you that model?”

  Kamille blinked as the paparazzi’s cameras flashed brightly in her face, disorienting her. Making her way down the red carpet, she instinctively reached for the arm of Milo Donovan, the model—well, not just any model, but the hunky underwear model whose latest ads, which were this close to being porn, were all the rage now—and tried not to wobble on her six-inch stilettos.

  Milo jerked around. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he said under his breath.

  “I’m Kamille. Kamille Romero. Giles introduced us like a minute ago.”

  “Giles who?”

  “Your agent and my agent?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Hey, Milo! How long have you guys been together?” a paparazzo called out.

  “How about a kiss?” yet another shouted.

  Milo waved at the reporters and hurried into the club, leaving Kamille standing there alone. Okay, that wasn’t too humiliating. And did the reporters think she was his girlfriend? Weird. She headed into the club as
well, wishing she had brought a date. Since she’d broken up with Finn (his reaction to Simone’s cell-phone pix of him with the red-haired slore had told her everything she needed to know), she hadn’t been seeing anyone seriously. But even Kass or Simone would have been better than coming here alone.

  Although she hadn’t technically come alone. Giles had picked her up in his awesome silver Rolls and brought her to this event, which was a launch party for a new clothing line by the fourteen-year-old daughter of an aging pop star. Kamille had never been to a launch party before. She had barely even known what a launch party was, before Giles.

  Really, she owed him so much. In less than six weeks, she had gone from having exactly zero job prospects, unless she counted working at her mom’s restaurant, to being a famous model. (Well, maybe more like “on her way to becoming famous.”) And in addition to starting a real career and making real money, she was enjoying a total lifestyle upgrade as well, hanging out at fabulous restaurants, fabulous clubs, fabulous parties. She wasn’t exactly a fixture in the scene, and she didn’t know many celebrities—yet. But she was getting there. It was what she had always dreamed of, ever since her father’s death and the subsequent upheaval. Soon Kamille wouldn’t have to worry about maxed-out credit cards or having to shop at consignment stores ever again.

  Speaking of Giles . . . where was he, anyway? He had introduced her to the completely rude (but insanely hot) Milo out front and then disappeared to take a call, leaving her to trail behind the male model on the red carpet like a stray puppy. Kamille tried to remember if she had ever been on a red carpet before. Maybe just once, when she was three or four, when her father had been nominated for an Oscar. She barely remembered her brief, confusing foray past the noisy gauntlet of reporters as her father held her tightly in his arms. She recalled blinking sleepily at the flashbulbs—she’d skipped her nap that day—and feeling so uncomfortable in her crinkly gold taffeta dress.