Skinnydipping

by Bethenny Frankel

  Whenever Carol had more than thirty seconds to sit and think about the party, my marching orders changed—a revised guest list every few days, a revised menu every weekend, and constantly evolving opinions on the entertainment. I spent almost two weeks negotiating with top-40 rock bands about playing the party, and when I finally found one who would agree to our price, Carol tore up the contract because she wanted her nephew’s band to play. She finally agreed to locate her nephew’s band in the lobby, and “my” band in the garden. Her obsessiveness and perfectionism were battling with my own, and I wanted to take her by her scrawny shoulders and shake her, saying, “Carol! Just let me do it!” But I knew better. That would be exactly the way to lose this job.

  Fighting her at every step, I had to arrange for everything—the Hearst Castle was booked for the weekend we wanted, but I coaxed and cajoled and name-dropped until I got them to switch things around and give us the entire lobby, patio, and garden. I sent out the invitations in waves, to accommodate Carol’s constant additions. I hired a special-effects company to handle the lights and sound, working in conjunction with a designer who would turn the lobby into a facsimile of one of the movie’s most fantastic sets, complete with an animatronic dragon, and a garden transformed into a magical fairyland.

  I found a caterer who could accommodate both vegans and children, and whose food Carol actually approved of. I hired a company to handle the bar, and when Carol finally left town two weeks before the party, I could really ramp up my efforts without her interference. To get inspiration, I watched Josh’s movie on videotape almost every night.

  “I can’t watch that again. This party is going to be the death of you,” Perry said, leaving the living room when I inserted the movie yet again.

  “No it’s not,” I said, grabbing my binder to write down a new idea—fairy-wing cocktail stirrers. “I’m rocking it. I love doing this!”

  “Well, I don’t love you doing this,” she said from her bedroom.

  “Careful or I’m uninviting you!” I said.

  “As if Carol Kameron would let me come!” she yelled.

  Eight weeks later and three hours before the party, I arrived at the castle feeling like Cinderella in a pink dress with frothy tulle wrapped around the waist and acrylic heels I’d found at a consignment store. Everything looked amazing—better than I could have hoped. Tiny lights twinkled in rows of potted trees that formed a walkway leading into the lobby. The special-effects team had created an artificial drawbridge, and the animatronic dragon in the center of the lobby breathed steam and had flashing eyes. On one side of the lobby, a medieval-style groaning board was set with rough-hewn wooden plates, ready to be filled with the fairytale food, and every fifty feet, there was a portable bar. The bartenders were dressed like knights.

  Outside, the entire garden was webbed and woven with lights and exotic flowers, and tiny fairy figurines with buzzing electric wings hung from the trees. I checked with everyone on my list to make sure they all had what they needed. Apart from a few small disasters—a temporary delay on the delivery of the princess cake, a permit that had been misplaced that I needed to refax—the event was running like a well-oiled machine.

  Then Carol arrived. It was four, and I was feeling pretty good about what I’d done. I’d followed through on all her wishes, and added a good dose of my own creativity. Serving wenches were dressed and ready to wander through the room with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, the bands were tuning up and sounded great, and on the patio, I’d arranged a children’s costume station, where the youngest guests could temporarily don beautiful princess dresses that easily slipped over regular clothes, or knight’s chain-mail vests made from sequined fabric, with scabbards for plastic dragon-slaying swords.

  “What the hell is this?” Carol said, as soon as she found me on the patio.

  “Hi, Carol,” I said, cautiously. “How was your trip?”

  “Don’t ask me about my trip. Explain to me what the hell this is.”

  “What the hell what is?” I said, unable to conceal my annoyance, and crestfallen that she hadn’t immediately been pleased with the impact of walking into the castle and straight into wonderland.

  She waved her hands around vaguely. “This? All this? Oh my God, this is a disaster. My friends are coming to see this? What’s that ridiculous green monster? And swords? Toy swords? Were these a quarter a piece at the Salvation Army? Tacky, tacky, tacky,” she said. “This won’t do. We’re going to have to change everything.”

  “Carol, the guests are coming in less than two hours.”

  “I don’t care when they’re coming,” she said. “I trusted you to put on a fantastic event, and this is what you give me?”

  I knew better than to say I thought it looked great.

  “Carol, you wanted the dragon,” I said.

  “I wanted a real dragon!” she said, hysterically. “Not some fake plastic dragon with googly eyes!”

  I knew better than to mention that there were no such things as real dragons. Or to suggest that perhaps she was the real dragon.

  “Let me see what I can do,” I said.

  “Good! Yes! Go fix it. I’m going to go change,” she said. “When I come back, I want this to be a real party.”

  She disappeared in a puff of green smoke—or so it seemed to me.

  Carol was crazy. Everything looked fabulous. It was fun and whimsical and beautiful. The caterers were just setting out the food, and it looked perfect—like a banquet hall in a medieval castle. The staff all looked like they came straight out of Josh’s movie. I’d even arranged for the star, a young actress who played the princess, to make an appearance in the first hour. Stay calm, Faith, I reminded myself. She’s just being Carol. She’s upset right now because she’s nervous. The guests are about to come. Keep your head, and everything will be fine. You know you’ve done a great job, so just keep going the way you’re going.

  I walked back into the lobby and stared at the dragon. What else could I possibly do to make him look more real? I found the special-effects guy and pulled him aside. “Carol wants the dragon to look more real,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes, but found some green-and-gold netting that he cut to fit over the dragon’s glowing eyes and draped it around the rest of the dragon to emphasize the moving parts. It looked even better.

  Guests started to arrive shortly after, wandering in and ooh-ing and aah-ing at the dragon and the bridge, the lights and the costumes. They loved it! I felt vindicated and unusually calm. No matter what Carol would dish out, I would handle it. I had this. Perry walked in, and as soon as she saw me, she ran up to me. “Faith, this is amazing! I can’t believe you did all this! Thank you so much for getting me an invitation!”

  Good old Perry, I could always depend on her to make me feel better.

  “Go get a drink,” I said. “I have to get back to work.”

  Carol came back down at six thirty with her two daughters, who were already decked out in their own handmade silk princess outfits, with ruffled crinolines and glittering shoes and tiaras. Carol warmly welcomed her guests, directing them to all the features of the party, as if she’d done it herself. She hugged and double-kissed everyone, smiling her perfect smile, not a pale blonde hair out of place, her legs perfect beneath her white pencil skirt, in her silver high heels.

  Josh showed up about an hour later, already drunk, with a group of his friends. He never drank when he was filming a movie, but as soon as the movie premiered, he would always celebrate pretty intensely. Jeannie, Carol’s niece, was there, and as people poured in, I recognized several people from the L.A. club scene—the TV actress Tammy Moore, a party girl named Katie Swindell who was known for taking off her top in bars and dancing on tables, rock stars, and there was Tony Magnelli, the married actor I’d spent the evening with the night of my car crash, with his beautiful wife and daughter, who must have been visiting from New York. He nodded to me, and I smiled, then directed his daughter to the costume corner. Jake Ma
ndell, the cute actor I met at the industry party with Vince, waved at me across the room, then came over with a pretty girl on his arm. “I thought you were a production assistant. What are you doing here?”

  “Now I’m a Kameron assistant,” I said. “I put this party together for Carol Kameron.”

  “Wow, great job!” he said, impressed. “This must be fun.” He didn’t introduce me to the girl, who looked mildly annoyed.

  “Hardly,” I said. “It’s pretty intense, and everything has to be perfect, so it’s not like I really get to talk to anybody or meet anybody. Speaking of which, I really have to get back to work.”

  A little later in the evening, Ian McGinnis, the older producer I used to see, tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and gave him a hug and he asked me how I’d been. “We had some good times,” he said. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too, Ian.” I wondered how old he was. Surely nearing sixty, if not already there. His nose was even redder than when I last saw him—probably from the large amount of Scotch he drank every night after working out. “It’s great to see you, too,” I said. “But I’m afraid I have to go, I’m working for Carol Kameron.”

  “Of course, my dear, off you go. Off to work!”

  When the bands started to play, I heard a commotion in the bar area I’d set up and roped off. I was on duty, so I was constantly making the rounds, never spending too much time talking to anyone, always making sure the party was progressing as it should. I walked quickly into the bar area and saw Josh on the floor, fighting with another man. Carol stood over them, shrieking: “Stop it! Stop it right now! Stop it this instant!” As soon as she saw me, she turned on me. “You! Faith! What have you done? I told you not to open the bar until eight, when the children left. What were you thinking?”

  “Carol, I don’t recall anything about—”

  “I don’t need your excuses. The party is ruined. I’m the laughingstock,” she said, turning red. I noticed one stray hair working its way out of her perfect up-do. I couldn’t help watching it wave back and forth on top of her head as she screamed at me. “Fix this, do you understand me? Fix this! We’ve got food spilled on the floor and children trying to climb that horrible dragon and … and… and drunkenness! I’ve got to find the girls and make sure they don’t see what their father has become!” She stormed out of the room.

  I looked at Josh, who by now was lying on his back, laughing, as the man he’d been fighting scrambled to his feet. It was Josh’s business partner, Peter Jarrell. He and Peter had cowritten several big projects, including several successful television series and something like fifteen movies. Peter was known to be brilliantly creative, a genius at fixing scripts, but he was also one of those middle-aged Hollywood extremists. He was the kind of guy who would stay up for days at a time, madly writing, then after he finished, he would go on infamous drug/alcohol/sex benders. He came to the house a lot, so I’d seen him, but I’d never actually spoken to him.

  “OK, boys, time to pull it together,” I said, good-naturedly. I whispered to Peter, “Hey, do me a favor—keep an eye on that girl by the bar, will you? She’s trouble.” I winked. Peter Jarrell sidled over to the bar, where party girl Katie Swindell was lounging, her hip jutted out, her midriff and most of her upper thighs exposed.

  “Sorry about that, Faith,” said Josh, as Carol’s other assistant, Chad, came dashing into the bar. Obviously, he’d just been screamed at, too. “Got a little carried away.”

  “No problem,” I said, astounded and flattered that Josh Kameron actually knew my name. “Just trying to keep things running smoothly.”

  “I’m glad someone knows how to keep her head on,” he said. “Bartender, another shot for me, and one for the lady here.”

  “No, no, it’s all right, thanks, I’ve still got lots to do,” I said. I could just imagine what Carol would say if she walked in and saw me doing shots with her husband—tempting as it sounded. “Gotta keep the head on,” I said, tapping my temple. Josh grinned and tapped his temple, then drank his shot. I turned to Chad. “It’s all under control,” I said.

  “She hates the band!” he said.

  “Her nephew’s band?” I said.

  He nodded, looking miserable.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said.

  And I did. I took care of everything. I’d planned for this. I told the nephew’s band that we only needed them for one set, and drinks were on the house. I had a DJ service on reserve, so they stepped in immediately.

  All night, I kept an eye out for Vince Beck, but he never showed up. I regretted not sending him a quick note, or giving him a quick call, mentioning I’d seen his name on the guest list, and telling him I looked forward to seeing him. But it was too late. And I was too busy, distributing the gift bags the movie studio had provided, keeping the caterers informed when plates were less than half full, and soothing Carol. Every thirty minutes or so, I’d walk by her and whisper something reassuring in her ear. “It’s going so well, everyone is raving,” or “Your daughters are the belles of the ball,” or “I keep overhearing people talking about how fabulous you look.” It was a shallow, obvious ploy, but it worked. Carol slowly calmed down, unwrinkled her brow, and smiled. After a few hours and a few bottles of wine, she was as raucous as her husband, all the children had gone to bed, and half the remaining guests were in the swimming pool, including Carol.

  Watching the party unfold, from a rated-G fairytale to a rated-R boozefest, was supremely satisfying. At the end of the night, Perry found me and gave me a big hug. “You did it,” she whispered. “Was it worth all the work?”

  “It’s the best time I’ve had since I’ve been in this city,” I said.

  chapter twelve

  Carol was so pleased with the party that the next morning, she actually told me I’d done a good job. A first. That night, to celebrate my success, and our new fancy beach house that I was finally going to get to enjoy now that I could stop obsessing about planning Carol’s party, Perry and I went for after-hours cocktails at The Cathouse. We dressed up in our skimpiest clothes and highest heels, congratulating each other on even more weight loss, and drove over to Hollywood. The club was packed and sweaty. We heard that somebody cool was going to show up for a surprise show, but nobody seemed to know who it was. Perry and I pushed through the crowd to the bar.

  “Are you stalking me?” I heard a voice behind me. I turned and it was Jake Mandell, the handsome actor I’d just seen again at Carol’s party.

  “That’s what all the stalkers say to shift the suspicion,” I said.

  “Are you still seeing that producer guy?” he asked me, leaning toward my ear so I could hear him.

  “Nope, I haven’t heard from him in a while. I don’t work at that job anymore,” I said with a pang.

  “If he hasn’t called you, he’s an idiot,” he said. “Do you want to dance?”

  “Sure!”

  Just then, the lights on the stage went dark. A guitar began to wail, and then the lights went up. “No way!” Jake yelled, raising a fist. “Rock on!” It was Guns N’ Roses!

  The crowd went crazy as the sound of Slash’s guitar vibrated through the room and Axl Rose joined in with that long scream that kicks off “Welcome to the Jungle.” When the drums joined in, we all started jumping up and down to the beat. After the first few songs, we were drenched in sweat and ready for another drink. Perry was dancing with someone she’d just met, so Jake and I went back to the bar.

  “I see you on TV all the time now!” I yelled over the music.

  He shrugged. “It’s a living,” he said. “But what about you? Have you been in anything?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I’m working a lot—hostessing at La Fenice and working for the Kamerons.”

  “Wow, that’s cool,” he said. “Maybe you’ll get into one of Josh’s movies.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s the problem with being an assistant in Hollywood. They always see you as an assistant.” This I’d realized after only a few we
eks working for the Kamerons. “Note to self: Don’t take any more assistant jobs!”

  Jake laughed. “Good advice.” I found his southern accent even more charming than I had the first time I met him.

  He had such a handsome, boyish manner about him that I couldn’t help flirting. He went for the kiss and it was soft and exciting. He brushed his fingers along my jawline.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I met you,” he said.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to do it, too.” It wasn’t totally true, but somehow in retrospect it seemed true.

  We danced all night, and drank, and danced more, and drank more. When the bar closed, we all piled into Jake’s car for either a very late or very early party in Hollywood. It was at a humongous loft owned by a middle-aged gay couple, a costume designer and a very wealthy producer. At the door, a spectacularly tall drag queen in heavy makeup and a blonde wig greeted everyone. “Hi, honey,” she said as I walked in. “Welcome to the headquarters of the gay mafia. We run Hollywood, and don’t you forget it!”

  “Thanks,” I said, laughing. “But I thought the Jews ran Hollywood.”

  “The Jewish gays run Hollywood, honey,” she said loudly. “There’s more crossover than you think!”

  Inside, Jake and I got a drink from the huge polished wood bar along the edge of the sunken living room, then snuck out to the back porch. He pulled out a joint. “You want to share?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We smoked in amiable silence and I started to feel dizzy in a really nice way. I leaned into him and he put his arm around me. “Hey,” he said, looking down at me. “You know what? I really want you to come home with me tonight. But I’m not going to ask you. Instead, I’m going to ask you if you want to have breakfast with me tomorrow.”