Little Lies

by Cherie Bennett

  “Okay with you, Nat?” Brett did the right thing. He checked with me instead of just bailing. I appreciated it.

  “All good. I’ll catch up with you.”

  “This won’t take long,” Kent assured us. “Five minutes, max.”

  Kent ushered me toward a quieter area of the Craft Service tent.

  What he had to say floored me.

  “Most of all, Natalie, I want you to know how sorry I am for what happened between your mother and me, and between your family and me. Even if I was angry at your mom—and I was very angry at her—I had no right to threaten her. I had even less right to take out that anger on your dad, or your sister, or anyone else.”

  His steely gray eyes bore into mine. If he wasn’t telling the truth, he was doing a really good job of lying.

  “Thank you for that,” I said quietly. “I had a lot of bad feelings about what happened. But the person you need to talk to isn’t me. It’s—”

  “Your mother.” Kent finished the sentence for me.

  “That’s right.”

  He ran a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “I just got off the phone with her. I apologized. Don’t get me wrong. She still should have moved the AA conference. You can hold a meeting anywhere, but weddings belong in churches.”

  “What did my mom have to say?”

  Kent smiled. “I know you’ll be asking her the same question. She accepted my apology … with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. I think I have more work to do.”

  I felt bold. Maybe having been kissed by Brett Goldstein before dawn made me feel that way. “I’m glad you said that, not me.”

  “Look, Natalie. This is a rugged town. A lot of us think there’s no limit to power. You know what I mean?”

  Okay. Here was Kent Stevens, one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, intimating to me, a seventeen-year-old girl, that there were actually limits to how people should act, no matter how rich they were, how powerful they were, or both.

  “Did you share that with her?” I asked.

  Kent nodded. “I even encouraged her to talk about it from the pulpit. Without mentioning any names, of course.”

  That was a sermon I’d like to hear. I thought that might be the sermon that would get my friend Alex to come to church.

  Nah. Alex wasn’t coming to my church. Or any church.

  Maybe Mia could get Big Jam to come sometime.

  Even bigger nah.

  Maybe it’s that the people who mostly go to church are the ones who mostly don’t need to be there. Although it’s probably like my mom says: we all need to be there.

  Kent waved to someone behind me and held up one finger in a “just hang on” gesture. “I know you’ll be talking to her. I hope the report she gives you is just like the report I gave you.” He offered me his hand. I took it. “Thanks for talking to me, Natalie. If your mom lets me make it up to her, I’m willing.”

  “I think she’ll appreciate that,” I told him.

  As he strode away, and Brett, full of questions about the conversation, came back to me, I thought I’d believe it when I saw it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The bartender was friendly and looked like he belonged on one of those posters for Abercrombie & Fitch. That is to say, he was exceptionally tall, exceptionally blond, and exceptionally handsome.

  Still, he was no Brett Goldstein.

  “Have a seat by the window,” the bartender instructed. “Gabriel will be with you in a minute.”

  “Gabriel?” I queried.

  “Our manager. He decides who works here.” The bartender dropped his voice confidentially. “Word to the wise. Don’t call him Gabe, do call him Gabi, and make sure you tell him about a great meal you had here. If you haven’t had a great meal here? Lie.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. “I’ve eaten here, so I won’t have to lie, which is a good thing, ’cause I’m a crappy liar.”

  “Then you’d be a crappy bartender. What did you say your name was, again?” The guy found a cloth and polished an invisible spot on the long white bar.

  “Natalie. Natalie Shelton.”

  “I’m Steven, Natalie.” He kept polishing. “Good luck. You look like you’d fit in fine here. Now can you excuse me? I’ve got some booze to put away.”

  I gave Steven a grateful wave as he moved off, and then sat back to watch the show called Whitehall prepare for another day. Latino busboys filled salt- and pepper shakers, maintenance guys washed and shined the floor, and a small army of kitchen staff was at one long table, peeling fresh vegetables and shelling nuts for salads. There seemed to be a real sense of collective responsibility and pride. When the guy with the floor-buffing machine didn’t get all the way under a table, one of the busboys dropped to his knees and polished the spot with a dish towel. Impressive.

  It was Saturday morning at ten o’clock. I’d been up since seven, determined to use that morning to follow up on my job applications. I had a secret goal: earn enough money to take Brett out to a really great dinner.

  After a light breakfast on the back deck, I prepped to go down the hill to West Hollywood, where I would make in-person visits to the restaurants I’d applied to by fax. I showered, blow-dried my hair, and did a careful job with my makeup. Then I put on one of my Threads outfits: the butt-friendly jeans I’d tried on under my friends’ watchful eyes, a dark scarlet silk blouse with a V-neckline, a scarlet choker, and two-inch blue Manolo sandals. I was pleased with how I looked, but it sure felt closer to casual-sexy than to businesslike.

  I waited briefly at one of the front window tables before a very thin, medium-height gentleman approached me. “Natalie Shelton? I’m Gabriel Johnson, the restaurant manager. You look wonderful. Which do you prefer, Natalie or Nat?”

  Gabriel—Gabi—was older than I’d expected, but well preserved in that inimitable Los Angeles way. With a forehead frozen by Botox and gleaming capped teeth, the only hints of his age were his somewhat weathered hands and a touch of gray at his temples. He was British, with the accent to match.

  “Either one is fine, thank you.” I looked wonderful? Score one for Magenta’s clothing taste.

  I stood and extended a hand, remembering what Steven had told me. “It’s good to meet you. May I call you Gabi?”

  He grinned and shook my hand and didn’t ask me to sit. “I’d love if you would call me Gabi. I’m so glad you’ve stopped in. That shows initiative. We’ve been so understaffed. I was actually out last night, serving. Can you do me a favor, love?”

  “Sure,” I responded, though I couldn’t imagine what it could be. We’d just met.

  “Go ask Steven at the bar for a few glasses of water? He’s the—”

  “Tall bartender with the blond hair,” I finished. “We just met.”

  Gabi nodded approvingly. “If you know his name, he’s given you the official Steven-of-Whitehall seal of approval. Good for you. Go on. Off you go.”

  I quickly understood what was happening. Gabriel had just ordered me, in the nicest possible way, to take a walk. He wanted to see me the way customers would see me. It had everything to do with how I looked and moved, and nothing to do with who I was as a person.

  At first, the concept was off-putting, until I realized that of all the waiters and waitresses who’d served me in my life, I didn’t know any of them as people. I never would, either. Their job was to take care of me and represent the restaurant. That was all. And that was all I would be if I worked here at Whitehall.

  Mind you, I thought all this during my first two steps across the gleaming white Whitehall floor. My mind can be a scary place.

  At the bar, I found Steven waiting with not a few, but eight brimful glasses of water on a service tray. “Don’t spill. You’re auditioning.”

  “I know.” I flushed slightly.

  “And you’re doing fine. I’ve seen this drill a dozen times. Most of the time, he doesn’t even ask for the water. Make it back without spilling and he’s going to ask about your availability. One han
d. Above your shoulder. Spread your fingers for stability. Good luck.”

  He went back to polishing the bar. I hoisted the serving tray as carefully as I could, spread my fingers wide as Steven had instructed—it helped!—and returned to Gabi. There I set the tray on a stand near our table.

  Yay me. Not a drop spilled.

  “Well done,” Gabriel acknowledged. “We filter our water, you know. Remember that.”

  “I do know. I had dinner here a week or so ago.”

  Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Who were you with, and what did you order?”

  “I was here with Brett Goldstein—”

  “The young actor, yes? I know his father. Give him my regards, will you?”

  “Absolutely. And we had the—”

  Gabriel cut me off with a wave of his hand. “It doesn’t matter. Everything is good. So I’d like you to begin tonight. Wear white, of course. We’ll give you your white fedora so our guests—guests, Natalie, never customers, guests—can find you amidst the rest of the white. Arrive at four. I’ll email a staff policy work sheet to you. It covers pay, tip sharing, paperwork, et cetera. Welcome to Whitehall.”

  My head was spinning. Had Gabi just offered me a job? He hadn’t asked about my experience or talked about scheduling. I’d never had a job where I had to work more than a couple of days a week. Would they want me for more than that?

  I’d never—oh, never mind. Did I want the gig or not?

  I did.

  “I’m excited.”

  “We’re glad to have you,” Gabriel declared. “If you can make it through the first week, you’ll do great.”

  With that, the interview, such as it was, was over. Gabi stood; I did, too. Beyond him, I could see Steven give me a quick thumbs-up.

  I’d done it. I’d found a job. Now I needed to keep it.

  Chad must have seen the Saturn coming up the driveway, because the front door swung open even as I parked next to a car that wasn’t ours—a black Humvee. He rushed out to the car right after I texted Alex and Mia about my new job.

  “You won’t believe who’s in the kitchen with Mom!” He wore gym shorts, a T-shirt, and his ever-present Xbox 360 headset.

  “I got a job, thank you for inquiring, and who?” I stepped out of the Saturn and kicked out of my new Manolos. They might be stylish, but they were not made for walking.

  “Congrats and Kent Stevens,” Chad told me.

  “Really.” I retrieved my shoes, grateful to be barefoot.

  “Affirmative. I haven’t heard anyone throwing anything, either.”

  We went inside; I kept my voice low, knowing that my mom was with Kent, somewhere. “Is Dad with them? The Subaru is gone.”

  “Negative. Out food shopping. Which is probably a good thing,” Chad allowed.

  Sure enough, I could hear my mom and Kent talking quietly in the living room. The night before, at dinner, my mother had confirmed that Kent had called to apologize for his boorish behavior, and I’d related my encounter at the studio.

  Chad was happy for my mom but again said it didn’t matter much to him. He’d lost interest in Lisa Stevens. Or rather, she’d lost interest in him.

  Gemma had been neutral. It wouldn’t matter to her unless Lisa ended her social freeze-out.

  My dad was a skeptic. He’d warned my mother to be alert, said that he didn’t trust Kent any further than he could drop-kick him, which was what he still wanted to do after how Kent had treated us.

  My mother’s reaction had been measured. She would be cautious, but she would not reject his apology. How would she feel if a congregant rejected an apology that she offered?

  I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “I guess I should say hello to him.”

  Chad nodded. “Sounds good. I did. Come up to my room when you’re done. I want to hear about your job.” He grinned slyly. “And now I return to Call of Duty.”

  I made a face. “Don’t you ever get sick of it?”

  “Do you ever get sick of breathing?” he asked rhetorically before bounding up the stairs two at a time. I watched him with a smile. Pain in the ass or not, I liked him.

  My mother and Kent had moved out onto the deck. Instead of listening in surreptitiously, I stepped to the open sliding glass doors and conspicuously cleared my throat. Both of them heard me. Kent smiled. My mother was impossible to read.

  “Hi, Nat,” she said. “We’re just finishing up. I’ll be inside in a minute. Put some water on for tea?”

  “It was good seeing you yesterday,” Kent added. “He’s a fine young man, Brett Goldstein. I’m glad he’s your friend.”

  “Start that water, Natalie,” my mother repeated.

  I knew what that meant:

  “Leave us alone, thank you very much.”

  I went to the kitchen and started the tea, with very little expectation that it would indeed be consumed. To my surprise, my mother joined me before the kettle even had a chance to whistle.

  “How goes the job hunt?” she asked.

  It was as if Kent Stevens wasn’t sitting outside on our deck at that very moment. I played along. “I start today at four.”

  “Good for you!” my mom said approvingly. “Where?”

  “Whitehall. On Melrose, in West Hollywood. It’s pretty snazzy.”

  I was sure she’d never heard of it. I was right.

  “I’ll have to look it up.” She stepped to the ceramic container where we kept the tea bags, plopped one into a cup, and poured steaming water over the top.

  “You want?”

  I shook my head. “Since when did you start drinking tea?”

  “Since my stomach couldn’t take even one more cup of coffee.”

  With a rueful smile, she swished the tea bag around in the cup, then dunked it a few times before depositing it in the trash. She sipped without adding sugar, then mused aloud, “I can see why Kent Stevens is such a successful producer.”

  “He’s gone?”

  She nodded.

  “What did he want? Did he make a new offer for Dad’s book?”

  Okay. That was mean. But in case you think I didn’t realize the coincidence of the renewed Hollywood interest in my father’s book and Kent’s renewed interest in good relations with my family, I’m all over it.

  My mother shook her head. “Nope. He said he was aware of what was going on, but that it would be unseemly for him to pursue the project now. He wished your dad every success.”

  “Ha!” I barked a laugh. “Did he apologize again?” There was a container of peanut butter cookies next to the tea. I dug one out and nibbled it.

  She nodded. “He did. Said that no one should only say sorry over the phone. You need to do it face to face. It’s good advice. I might preach on it sometime.”

  I was still suspicious. “That was it? He didn’t bring anything with him? Like a giant check for the church?”

  My mother sat down and rested her head in her hands, then sighed. “No donation. Something else.”

  “What?”

  “Thanks to Kent and the board, I’m going back on the radio. Next Friday night. A tryout for the Southern California version of Minister Marsha.”

  Wow. When my mom had accepted the job, the church leaders had promised to do their utmost to get her on the radio here, and maybe even syndicate her show nationally. I figured with the Kent Stevens falling-out, that would never happen.

  Kent had said he’d make it up to her. Was this his way of making it up to her, or was it a bribe?

  “That’s … that’s quite a surprise.”

  “It’s a huge opportunity. The board asked Kent to bring me the news.”

  I still felt cynical. “Maybe he volunteered himself.”

  My mother laughed a little. “Same difference.”

  It was a huge opportunity, but I could see my mother’s dilemma. She wanted to do her radio show, but she was wary of Kent.

  I was wary of Kent, too. But as usual, I worried about all the wrong things. What I should have been worried
about was that my mom’s first radio show was the night before our first Wait/Great public meeting.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Welcome to Whitehall. May I start you with a cocktail?”

  There. I’d said the magic sentence to my very first customers at my very first job in Los Angeles.

  My first table was a party of four, and this party of four happened to include one of my very favorite young singer-songwriters in the world, Lucy Wainwright Roche. I don’t know if you know her, but she’s the daughter of Loudon Wainwright III and Suzzy Roche, one of the Roche sisters. She has the most amazing voice, and her version of Paul Simon’s song “America” gives me chills. In my opinion, she’s going to be the next Suzanne Vega.

  Yes. My first customer at Whitehall was one of my idols. If I hadn’t been so nervous, I could have died and gone to the great coffeehouse in the sky.

  Lucy wore a long white cotton dress with a high collar and long sleeves. Her dinner companions were a scruffy-bearded guy her age and a pair of fiftyish men, who I guessed were music company execs. As for me, I wore white raw-silk pants and a matching silk blouse from my Threads experience and the official Whitehall fedora.

  One of the agent/exec types glanced at me. He had wire-rimmed glasses and his head was shaved to disguise male-pattern baldness. “No cocktails. But can you send over the sommelier? And before that, tell us the specials?”

  I tried not to stare at Lucy as I rattled off the four entrée specials from memory and recommended the seven-course prix fixe dinner at $175, with an accompanying optional wine flight.

  As I talked, I felt my nerves calm. They had no idea I was a rookie. I knew I looked my part. Just before the doors had opened, Steven had advised me to take my time, use my white pad and white ballpoint pen if necessary, and speak clearly. If I had any questions, he could help me if Gabi was busy.

  “I’ve been working here for eighteen months. I’ve seen it all. There’s nothing I can’t help you with,” he told me with a grin. “Nothing.”

  I’d blushed. Was he hitting on me? He was twenty-one; I was seventeen. Wasn’t that some kind of crime?