Skinnydipping

by Bethenny Frankel

  I was definitely ready for a drink.

  The next week, I felt better than I had in years. I’d lost five pounds and Perry had lost three. I was more tired and wired, especially from the herbal diet pills I was taking. They got me wound up and feeling a little bit high, but they killed my appetite. I felt thinner and more free because I was so much more in control of what I was eating (which was, essentially, nothing). I was a new woman—strict, disciplined, in control. My new confidence prompted me to end it with Meisenburg, too. It just wasn’t me. I’d learned what I needed to know.

  Amazingly, the school bought my fictitious sob story about my father being in the hospital—proof that I really had learned to act—and I was able to get half my tuition refunded. That was a huge relief. I probably should have paid it right back to the credit card, but instead, I went shopping. If I was going to be twenty pounds lighter, I was going to need a new wardrobe. Every day, I spent the time I would have been in acting school obsessively pedaling on the exercise bike at the gym and visiting the Diet Center for weigh-ins—and not following their meal plans because I thought they had too many calories.

  Then, on a random Wednesday afternoon, at the peak of the lunch shift, it finally happened: Vince Beck walked into La Fenice with a big group of corporate suits. He looked even more handsome than I remembered, and I got a little hot and prickly seeing him.

  He was talking with an older man as they came in the door. I didn’t recognize any of them, but they could have been from the network. Vince broke out into a big grin when he spotted me.

  “Darling!” he said, leaving the man he’d been talking to, midsentence. He gave me an L.A. hug and a kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing here? I’ve missed your”—he looked me up and down—“your presence in the office. You look fantastic.”

  “This is my new job,” I said. I waved at the room, a little embarrassed.

  “Sweetheart, we have to go out again!” he said, and he sounded sincere. For the thousandth time, I wondered if he really was the one. There was just something about him. “Here, call me when you’re free, will you?” He handed me his card. As if I didn’t already have his number on speed dial.

  “Sure, Vince,” I said, a little sarcastically. “I’ll call you.”

  “That’s my girl!” he said, and kissed my hand. “Got to go. But seriously, darling. Call me!” As he walked away, he turned and yelled over his shoulder, “I’m at your disposal!”

  “Who was that?” asked one of the waitresses walking by. “He’s hot.”

  “Yes he is,” I agreed. “He certainly is.”

  Through the rest of my shift, I couldn’t help looking over at him, posing, trying to catch his eye. It worked two or three times. He winked at me, but never called me over. When he left, he didn’t look back.

  About a week later, a bone-thin, high-strung movie director’s assistant came into the restaurant to book a screening party. She said she worked for Josh Kameron, one of Hollywood’s biggest directors and screenwriters, behind multiple major box office smashes, and she was freaking out because the date she wanted was booked.

  “Let me see what I can do,” I said. “If you want the smaller private room, you can have it at eleven a.m. You could market it as a screening brunch.”

  “What a great idea,” she said. “I’ll take it. I think it’s the last thing on my list. Oh my God, if I get through this without losing my mind, I might actually make it to Paris.”

  “You’re going to Paris?” I said, envious.

  “Yes, an opportunity I can’t pass up. Now, all I have to do is find my replacement … since the Kamerons don’t even know I’m leaving yet. They’re going to murder me, I swear to God.”

  “What does your job involve?” I asked, trying to sound neutral.

  “Why? Do you want it? Oh God, tell me you want this job.” She looked at me, practically wild-eyed with hope. “A La Fenice hostess is exactly the kind of person Carol would want to be her assistant.”

  “You work for Carol? Josh’s wife?” That sounded a little bit less intimidating than working for Josh Kameron himself. “I might be interested.” My lunch shift at La Fenice definitely wasn’t covering the bills, and I needed something else to do—some other excuse to avoid auditioning.

  “Basically, you do everything Carol tells you to do, which could be picking up her dry-cleaning or planning her parties or walking her dog or making reservations like this one or just listening to her throw a fit about something and nodding and smiling. It’s never boring. Are you good at multitasking?”

  I wrote down my phone number and gave it to her. “I am very good at multitasking,” I said.

  “Great. You might have just saved my life.” She dashed off and my mind started racing. Me, personal assistant to Carol Kameron? Who might I meet doing a job like that? This could be exactly the opportunity I’d been searching for all along, the one I thought my Hollywood & Highland job would provide. I let myself feel the familiar but always exciting sensation of change. I loved nothing more than casting aside the old and embracing the next big thing.

  As I obsessed, I gazed out the window and noticed a small shaggy dog sitting next to the door outside the restaurant, peering in through the glass. She didn’t seem to have a collar on, and she looked hungry. And she was looking at me.

  chapter ten

  Hey, little muffin,” I said.

  The dog had shaggy gray and white fur and soulful brown eyes. She wagged her tail and barked at me. I knelt down and petted her. She wasn’t wearing a collar and her fur was dirty and matted, like she’d been on the street for a while. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Where did you come from?” I stood up and looked around. Nobody seemed to notice her. “Dogs aren’t allowed in my apartment,” I explained, as if she could understand. She cocked her head at me. “Hmmm. How quiet can you be?”

  She wagged her tail and didn’t make a sound, as if to prove she could do it. I wondered what Perry would think if I brought home a dog. I walked down the street to my car, and she followed me, right at my heels. I opened the passenger side and looked at her. She paused. “Well? Are you coming?” I asked.

  She jumped right into the car. That’s when I knew she was going to be my dog.

  She was such a little muffin, so that’s what I named her: Muffin. After a good bath and a bowl of dog food she gobbled up hungrily, she settled right in, as if she’d been living with me all along. Perry told me I’d better put up posters to find her owner, but I couldn’t believe she had one, and if she did, I didn’t like the way they’d been treating her. She was jumpy and skittish and she’d obviously been neglected. I tried not to think about whether she’d been abused. Still, I made a halfhearted attempt, in case she really was just lost. I called a few local animal shelters and described her, asking if anyone had reported a missing dog like her. I even put up one sign on a post by the restaurant, but nobody called.

  Muffin seemed to know to be quiet. She barked one time when someone came to the door, but not enough to annoy anyone. Unlike a typical small dog, she wasn’t yappy at all. She was protective, though. She didn’t like people coming near me, and while she stopped growling at Perry after the first few days, any visitors had to watch out.

  My landlord was hardly ever around, and my neighbors were so eager to get more of my baked goods that they didn’t report me. When I told Muffin someone was OK, she condescended to let them pet her. She stuck to my side most of the time when I was at home, and every morning I took her on a walk around the neighborhood. Sometimes we drove over to Runyon Canyon, where everybody else walked their dogs.

  Neither of us questioned that we belonged to each other. There was something about the way she looked at me that made me feel like everything was OK in the world.

  “That dog sure likes you,” said Perry one evening, her feet on the coffee table, a glass of white wine in her hand. Muffin was half on the couch next to me and half on my lap with her chin resting on my thigh. “It’s kind of weird.�
�

  “No it’s not,” I protested. “That’s what dogs do. They bond to someone.” I stroked her head. “She’s my girl.”

  About a week after I found Muffin, the phone rang.

  “Faith, it’s Mara Callahan … Carol Kameron’s assistant? Carol would like to meet you.” Muffin was starting to feel like my good-luck charm.

  The Kamerons, it was no surprise, lived in posh Benedict Canyon, near so many other movie stars, directors, and producers. The interview went well. Carol had a crisp British accent and kept a fastidious house. She was dressed in the tastefully understated way of the very rich, and she seemed impressed with my style and efficiency. I was proud of myself for coming across as the person I really felt I was—practical and quick-witted and down-to-business. It was a side I couldn’t show in auditions, where they expected you to be creative and emotional and arty, and a side I couldn’t show enough at La Fenice, where my shift was only a couple of hours long and my duties were limited.

  On my first day working for Carol, she introduced me to her other assistant, Chad, who looked mildly threatened by my presence in the office. Carol said he had to leave most days by three, and I would take over where he left off. First I had to go with the driver to pick up her twin daughters at school and take them ice skating. That was actually pretty fun. Heidi and Hannah, both gorgeous blonde nine-year-olds with high cheekbones and long legs, were interested in me and asked many questions: Was I married? Did I have a boyfriend? Did I want to be an actress? Was my house as big as their house? Did I think Scott Baio was cute? When they saw I could skate backward, they were particularly impressed. I taught them both how to do it.

  On day three, I sat down in the office and waited for Carol, who was nowhere to be found. Was there something I could straighten? Nope. The office was far beyond my organizational skills, and I’m pretty OCD when it comes to cleaning. Everything was perfect. Were all the pencils in the pencil jar white, with white erasers, and perfectly sharpened? Yes, they were. I made sure they were all aligned. All the papers were filed, or precisely stacked. The carpet was vacuumed. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant. After about thirty minutes of doing nothing, I was about to burst. I came back out of the office and looked around. I didn’t see anybody but the maid. I walked into the kitchen, where she was cleaning.

  “Excuse me, Flora?” Carol had introduced me to all the household staff on my first day. “Do you know where Mrs. Kameron is?”

  “Mrs. Kameron’s still sleeping,” she whispered, not looking at me, intent on wiping the counters.

  “Oh …” I wondered if she remembered I was supposed to come today. “OK, thanks.” I went back into the office and sat back down. Then the phone rang. Thank God, something to do.

  “Kameron residence,” I said in my most businesslike voice.

  “Carol, please. This is Trish Copeland.”

  Trish Copeland! She had starred in Josh’s most successful TV show and had been on the cover of every entertainment magazine ever published. “Oh, hello Trish,” I said, thrilled that I was calling her by her first name. “I’m sure Carol would love to speak with you, but she’s still sleeping.”

  As soon as I said it, a little part of me wondered: Should I have said that? But Trish just laughed. “You’re new, right? I suppose you’re not comfortable enough yet to go tell her to get her lazy ass out of bed.”

  “No, not really,” I admitted.

  “Good answer—no employee should ever be that comfortable!” She laughed again, a boisterous laugh that wasn’t entirely benevolent. “Just tell her I called, honey. And good luck!”

  About an hour later, after I’d resorted to alphabetizing the mail, Carol came down, fully dressed and looking like she’d been up for hours.

  “Hi, Carol,” I said, “I didn’t want to wake you, so I’ve been organizing the office. I hope that’s OK.”

  Her smile faded and her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean you didn’t want to wake me? What gave you the impression I was asleep?” Uh oh.

  “Flora told me,” I said. “And Trish Copeland called for you.” I was eager to change the subject. Then I thought: Shit. I’m a dirty rat. Now Flora’s going to get it.

  “Trish Copeland? What did you tell her?” she demanded.

  “I told her you were …” Suddenly I had a bad feeling. “I told her you were still asleep….” I confessed.

  Her face turned pink. “You told her what?” she screamed. “No. No, don’t you ever, ever tell anyone that I’m ever still asleep. Oh my God.” She threw up her hands. “I absolutely hate new employees. Look, as far as you’re concerned, I never sleep. I’m a fucking vampire. Do you understand me? I was not in bed. I was upstairs meditating, not that it’s any of your business. And now that bitch Trish thinks I was sleeping all day.” She looked flustered. “Oh, this is a disaster. I can only imagine what she’s going to do with that information.”

  I couldn’t help thinking that if my husband had directed twenty-five blockbuster movies and I had a billion dollars in my bank account, my assistant could tell anybody anything she wanted. I’m sorry, ma’am, but Ms. Brightstone is currently involved in a three-way with two Calvin Klein models in the hot tub. Can she get back to you? What the hell did she have to hide?

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think it would—”

  “You obviously didn’t think at all!” she said, pointing a finger at me. “That was just stupid. Really, really stupid. If you make another mistake like that, you’re gone.”

  “Yes, I understand. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Kameron. It won’t happen again.” Suddenly, it didn’t seem appropriate to call her Carol.

  The next day, she seemed to have forgotten all about it, but I’d learned my lesson.

  And so the job went. Every day, I worked the lunch shift at La Fenice, then showed up at the Kamerons’ house at three. I would pick up Heidi and Hannah from school, spend time with them, then take a few hours of abuse from Carol. Afterward, I’d come back home, eat some brown rice or a fat-free frozen yogurt, go to the gym and burn it off, then go out for the night, drink vodka with club soda or a white wine, and look for my soul mate. Sometime in the early morning, I’d fall into bed, alone or not, before waking up to do it all over again.

  It wasn’t my ideal life, but at least it was a regular schedule. And at least I was skinny.

  chapter eleven

  How attached are you to your current living situation?” Carol asked me. I’d just come in and she met me at the door.

  “Not very. Why?” I said, following her into the office.

  “We own a beach house in Malibu Colony, and we are having it remodeled. We need someone to live in it while it’s being worked on. Keep the lights on and make sure nothing gets stolen. What do you think? You could even drive our car, if you need it.” Did she mean the Range Rover?

  I couldn’t believe my luck. Vince Beck still hadn’t called me. I still didn’t have enough money to quite cover my bills. I wasn’t yet cast in a blockbuster movie, and I still hadn’t found my soul mate. In the meantime, as a consolation, could I tolerate living in a gorgeous Kameron beach home in Malibu?

  “I think that would work,” I said, feigning indifference. “Could my roommate move in with me? She’s very responsible.” I figured I wouldn’t mention the dog.

  “Yes, but no parties,” said Carol. “The more often someone’s home to let the workers in and make sure they don’t steal anything, the better.”

  “No problem,” I said. Well, except for the part about the beer-swilling, shot-guzzling, tassled-titties, celebrity-packed parties I intended to throw. I’d just have to be sure Carol never heard about them.

  “We’d like you there as soon as possible, so feel free to make any calls you need to make today so this can happen.” She paused. “Oh, and Faith? Don’t screw this up.”

  “Of course not, Carol. Never. I will be a model citizen.” With any luck, the citizens at my parties would be models, too—male models, who would be req
uired to lounge naked in the hot tub.

  “And another thing. I need you to plan a party for me. I’m going to be out of town until the day before.”

  I swallowed. Carol had always been incredibly fastidious about her parties—about everything, but especially her parties. She was notorious for planning every detail herself, and torturing everyone else involved. She wouldn’t say she exactly liked throwing parties, but I would say she was addicted to throwing parties. I’d helped her plan several already, and I’d been on the receiving end of some of her rants, yet hadn’t suffered like the caterers, decorators, and entertainers who had really been the focus of her wrath. Carol’s niece and my new friend, Jeannie Klein, who came by the house occasionally and whom I’d befriended because I liked her wicked sense of humor, had filled me in on the horror stories about some of Carol’s most notorious past parties. And she wanted me to be in charge?

  “Sure, Carol,” I said. “I can do that.” I said it with confidence I didn’t feel, but it also sounded like an opportunity. I had a good idea of what needed to be done, and if Carol was going to be out of town, maybe I’d be able to do it with a minimum of abuse.

  “The party is for the opening of Josh’s new movie—it’s a sweeping, epic sort of fairytale thing he dedicated to the girls,” she said, waving her hands as if to dismiss the entire project. The rumor around town was that it cost nearly $300 million to make. Carol continued, “I want it to be big, impressive, memorable. I’ll need a venue, catering, music, all of it. Think princesses and kings and dragons and that sort of thing.” She waved her hand again. “I just don’t have time to do it. It’s in eight weeks, so get started.”

  Eight weeks?

  I spent the next eight weeks in a frenzy.

  At home, Perry and I got ready to move into the beach house, but all I thought about was party planning. Carol was very specific about one thing: the party would have to be dramatic. The studio was throwing a party, too, but this was the private event, and Carol wanted it to be more memorable than the studio’s event—even though that opening was going to be at Disneyland. “I don’t care if they have it at the fucking Buckingham Palace, I want my party to be the one they talk about,” she said.