All Night Long

by Melody Mayer

  Staci's eyes went wide. “You really lived in the Amazon?”

  “In a mud hut. Of course, before that, I was richer than Paris Hilton. Much. My parents turned into do-gooders and pretty much ruined my life.”

  “Oh my God, you are so cool,” Zona breathed. The three girls exchanged knowing glances.

  “Too true,” Lydia agreed. “So are my friends.” She smiled at Kiley and Esme. Kiley had no idea how Esme was taking this now. Probably not well, judging from her perma-scowl.

  “Okay, so listen, you have to come with us to Up All Night,” Staci gushed to Lydia. “It's an all-night party at a private beach in Malibu. Seniors only. But before we hit the beach we go party. We'll take my dad's car and his chauffeur so we can get wasted and we won't have to drive.”

  Lydia nodded. “Sounds fun. As long as all six of us can go.”

  “Um …” Staci looped some glossy hair behind one ear, revealing giant diamond hoop earrings, which Kiley was pretty sure were real. “I'll have to get back to you on that. Come on, we'll show you the theater. I get the lead in all the school plays.”

  They headed through a portal with the helpful signage TO THE THEATER.

  “What a bitch,” Esme told Kiley, making no effort at all to lower her voice.

  “I heard that!” Staci sang out. She was walking with Lydia in front of them.

  “You want to get out of here?” Kiley whispered to Esme.

  “Desperately. Hey, Lydia? Catch a ride with them!” Esme called, then tugged Kiley's arm. “Come on. Let's go.”

  Instead of leaving, though, they just stood and watched as Lydia and the three seniors walked together down the hall.

  Esme Castaneda

  If only the cholos could see her now.

  In the weeks since Esme had freehanded a tattoo of a Ferris wheel on Jonathan Goldhagen's right bicep, word of her talent with a needle and ink had spread like a firestorm. She'd already been hired by Beverly Baylor, star of the indie film Montgomery (Jonathan was acting in that film; it was in its last days of shooting, and the wrap party was scheduled for the cowboy bar Deep South this coming Monday night), to do a tattoo of her rodeo-star lover at an hourly rate that had left Esme breathless. Her father and mother didn't earn that much money together in a week.

  Beverly, it turned out, had a big mouth. Now all Esme had to do was sit back and enjoy the heat of her own celebrity. That was what she kept telling herself. One part of her— okay, a big part of her—was thrilled to have all these rich people shelling out mucho dinero for her tattoos. Another part of her wanted to tell them all to go to hell.

  She knew she was exotic—a girl from Echo Park who didn't use stencils when she went to work with her needle and ink. The whole exotic thing was amusing. She'd recently heard that Los Angeles had a larger Latino population than white population. Not that you'd know it from the circles in which people like Jonathan and Beverly operated, where, generally speaking, the only Latinos they came in contact with were wearing a uniform or carrying hedge shears.

  It was the day after the orientation, which had been so disheartening. Well, what the hell. It was just school. She'd endured it for years in Echo Park, she could endure it for one year at Bel Air High. At least most of the students would show up for class, she figured. Today, Esme was at the Brentwood Hills Country Club, wearing a red polka-dot bikini with side ties that she'd found in a seventy-five-percent-off bin at a boutique on Melrose because the stitching was ragged under the bust. Esme had easily hidden the frayed stitching with some red thread and her father's hot glue gun.

  Her legs were freshly shaved and she brushed her fingers over her dark skin. She rolled onto her back and bent one knee, relaxing on a chaise under the warm afternoon sun. She'd met up at the club with Lydia so that they could soak up some rays by the adult pool while Martina, Easton, and Weston were at the main clubhouse for makeovers.

  It was hard for Esme to believe that makeovers for children could be part of the country club's children's programming. When she was a girl, makeovers meant getting into her mother's limited supplies of cosmetics and going to town with one of her lipsticks. But that absurd world was now where she lived, where professional makeup artists made house calls and carried around briefcases full of dollars, euros, and dinars, depending on what currency their clients wanted to use. Absurd. Like those girls at the orientation session for school. They were quintessentially absurd. Esme didn't want to care that they'd dissed her and Kiley. But she did care. More than she wanted to admit.

  She and Lydia had ordered lunch from the luxurious clubhouse restaurant—lobster salad, pâté with fresh-baked French bread, a huge fruit salad, and two bottles of Perrier. Lydia kept trying to talk to Esme about her strategy for winning back her boyfriend, Billy, who had recently dumped her—not without reason, Esme thought. But the conversation sputtered because tattoo customers— or at least, potential tattoo customers—kept interrupting.

  “Pardon me, miss, but is your name Esme?”

  A fortyish woman with her hair tucked under a straw hat with a massive brim, oversized white sunglasses, and a body overflowing from a black Gottex bikini peered down at her. An impatient foot in a white Anne Klein matte-and-metallic-leather slide tapped next to her chair.

  Before Esme could respond, Lydia sat up on her chaise lounge. She was in Chanel sunglasses and a white crocheted string bikini, which set off her golden tan and pale hair. Esme knew that the bathing suit, as was true of so much of Lydia's wardrobe, had formerly belonged to her aunt Kat. There was only so far one could go on a nanny's salary.

  “That depends on who you're asking for,” Lydia said. “Would that be Esme Castaneda, nanny extraordinaire? Or Esme Castaneda, tattoo artist to the stars?”

  The woman smiled, displaying Chiclet-white teeth. “I suppose that my Esme is the latter. I'm Jacqueline Grace, you may have heard of me?”

  Esme mulled the name over and came up with zip. Why did everyone in Hollywood think that everyone who wasn't connected to Hollywood should instantly recognize them?

  She looked at Lydia, who shrugged, meaning she couldn't place her, either.

  Jacqueline sighed. “We documentary producers get no respect. I was nominated for an Oscar last year. The one about the wheelchair athletes? That was mine.”

  “Congrats on the nomination,” Lydia offered. “Where I come from, we didn't get movies, much less documentaries.”

  “Goodness!” Jacqueline exclaimed.

  Lydia nodded solemnly. “Entertainment was watching monkeys mate. Which, if you've never seen it, can be very—”

  “What can I do for you?” Esme interrupted.

  Jacqueline turned and pointed to the back of her long, slender neck. “Ever do a tattoo here?”

  Esme nodded. “Can't say I have. But it's doable. Skin is skin.”

  “I'm here for meetings and going back to New York on Monday, so I wondered if on Sunday you could come by the Beverly Hills Hotel and do me.”

  “She's totally straight, but she appreciates the offer,” Lydia told her without blinking.

  Jacqueline laughed. “You're quick, I like that. If I do something on young women in Bel Air, you'll have to be in it. Anyway, I'd like a dove there. That's my favorite bird. A white dove. Outlined maybe in magenta, or black. Eight-fifty flat fee sound good? I know it's short notice. But I have my fortieth birthday party a week from tonight at Jubilee in Manhattan, and I want to wow my friends. I hear you're an artist, Esme.”

  Esme was about to accede when Lydia cut in. “Sorry, but it's just not possible. Esme's schedule is completely booked for at least four weeks.” She blithely squirted a generous dose of SPF 15 on her forearms and worked it in.

  Esme shot Lydia a look that she hoped said Shut the hell up.

  Jacqueline cleared her throat. “If money is the issue, I could pay double that, or even—”

  “Double is fine. I'll move some things, clear my schedule, it's a deal,” Esme said quickly, removing her sunglasses and squinting at the
woman in the bright overhead sunlight.

  “Perfect! Here's my card. I'll be working in my bungalow all day on Sunday. Just call in the morning and tell me when you're coming.” Jacqueline extracted a business card from the oversized white leather bag on her arm and pressed it into Esme's outstretched hand.

  “Cash,” Lydia told her. “Esme takes cash only. No credit cards. No check.”

  That wasn't exactly true. She'd taken checks on more than one occasion. But cash would be good, if Jacqueline—

  “Of course. Is there anything else?”

  “How'd you get my name?” Esme wondered aloud.

  “Beverly Baylor. She's a friend of my husband's.” Making the motion of holding a phone by her ear as a signal for Esme to call her, Jacqueline flounced happily away toward the far end of the crowded pool deck.

  When she was out of earshot, Lydia plucked the business card from Esme's hand. “Are you crazy? You could have asked for triple. She was ready to pay it. You just released the catch of the day.”

  “She's already paying too much,” Esme protested.

  Lydia gave a long-suffering sigh. “You really should hire me as your business manager. I could make you a fortune.”

  Esme was not about to take Lydia up on that offer. Not long after they'd met, Lydia had come up with a brilliant can't-miss scheme to start a nanny placement business. That had turned out to be far more trouble than it was worth, and Lydia hadn't even talked about it in a long time. Of the three friends, Esme was making by far the most money. Tattoo artistry was definitely not a team sport. “I don't need anyone. In fact, before we were so rudely interrupted, we were talking about how much you need me.”

  Lydia sighed. “It's killing me, but it's true. Look around.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Esme did. Brentwood Hills was the most exclusive country club in Los Angeles—it regularly turned down members of Riviera—and the adult pool deck was a paparazzo's dream … as if any photographer could hope to gain admission. Surrounding the adult pool (there was a separate pool for the kids) were wicker chaise lounges and hefty sun umbrellas at discreet intervals around the white pool deck. Stretched out on those lounges was a decent cross section of Hollywood's rich and famous. Esme spotted two of the younger stars of Heroes and another from The Young and the Restless, while Tom Hanks and his wife were huddled with Martin Scorsese twenty or thirty feet away. Directly across the pool from them was a cluster of guys who had to be male models. The incredibly hot bodies and shaved chests were a dead giveaway.

  “What do you see?” Lydia demanded.

  “Same thing you see. Overprivileged buffdom.”

  “Yes, but none of the buffs are Billy Martin.”

  Esme squinted at her friend. Lydia wanted Esme to do her a favor, which had to do with Lydia winning back her boyfriend.

  “Maybe I should charge you for what you want me to do,” she teased.

  “You'll do it because you love me,” Lydia said sweetly. “And because you don't want me to suffer for one teeny tiny momentary lapse of judgment. Here. Taste the lobster. It's to die for.”

  Lydia forked a buttery chunk of lobster and popped it into Esme's mouth. It was delicious, melting in her mouth and sliding down her throat, just as advertised. The crustacean was awesome. What Lydia was asking her to do wasn't.

  The week before, Lydia had made a horrendous mistake. She'd cheated on Billy. Well, it wasn't exactly cheating, because Billy and Lydia hadn't had sex yet. Trust Lydia, who'd been dying to find the perfect boy and jettison her virginity, to fall for the only guy in Southern California who wanted a Real Relationship before sex. Lydia said many times that if the Ama tribesmen in the Amazon had been more attractive— over five feet tall, say, or with teeth that lasted past age thirty—she might well have lost said virginity in a mud hut.

  Instead, Lydia had done something supremely stupid: she'd gotten drunk and hooked up with a golf pro here at the club. His name was Luis. He was a college student at nearby Pepper-dine. Then, to make matters worse, Luis would not accept the fact that Lydia wasn't interested in a relationship with him. He was so pissed off that he'd tracked Lydia down and returned to her the T-shirt she had forgotten at his bungalow. That wouldn't have been so bad, except that Lydia had been with Billy at the time. Hello, Hanes. Bye-bye, Billy.

  Which led to the favor Lydia was now requesting. She wanted Esme to assure Billy that Lydia had never cheated on him. That Luis was just pissed at Lydia because she'd shot him down, and this was merely his petty act of revenge.

  “You could see him tonight,” Lydia coaxed. “I know where he'll be.”

  “Where?” Esme took a long swallow of Perrier.

  “He and his friend X are going to the Derby in Los Feliz. Maybe you could by-mistake-on-purpose run into them.”

  Esme noted the desperate look on Lydia's face, though Lydia never seemed to feel desperate about anything.

  “Maybe,” Esme agreed.

  Impulsively, Lydia reached across the space between them and hugged Esme hard. “Thanks. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  “Actually, I do. But you don't have to owe me one.” She stood, stretching her sun-warmed limbs, and reached a hand down to her friend. “Come on. Let's walk to the clubhouse and see what the kids look like made over.”

  Lydia laughed. “Better than we do, I'm sure.”

  On a normal day, the kids' play area in the main clubhouse was heaven on earth for anyone under the age of twelve. Every game and toy in the universe; multiple wall-mounted plasma TVs with Xboxes, PS-whatevers, and Wiis up the wazoo; a soft, matted floor for roughhousing; and fridges and freezers full of snacks and drinks. Sometimes, no matter how much fun was planned for the kids on the rest of the club's expansive grounds, it was hard to get the children out of the playroom, even though most of them had playrooms of their own at their respective mansions and estates.

  Today, though, the play area had been transformed. All the boys had been bused off to Will Rogers State Park on the way to Malibu for a surfing/boogie board experience. That left all the girls in the Nanny and Me program—upward of twenty or twenty-five girls—in the hands of a small army of stylists, makeup artists, haircutters, and their many assistants, equipped with the most expensive products and tools straight off the runway. It cost a small fortune, but the clientele of the club could afford it.

  When Esme and Lydia arrived, they saw many of the other nannies they knew standing in a cluster at the west end of the room, since a large red curtain had been drawn dividing the room in half. Though they didn't do a lot of socializing with these nannies away from the club, they said hello to Claudette from Cameroon, Judith from Quebec City, Marielle from France, Sophie from Montreal, and Françoise from Belgium. Esme realized there was a real prejudice at the club toward francophone nannies.

  Suddenly, rock music began to pound, and the head of the Nanny and Me program, an aggressively enthusiastic African American woman named Sandra with beautifully relaxed hair and bright red lipstick, stepped out onto the mat. “Welcome, nannies and parents! To the first annual Nanny and Me makeover day!”

  The nannies applauded politely. Esme checked the crowd— no mothers in sight. Typical. Just like Diane Goldhagen, the woman for whom she worked, most of the country club mothers were content to let their nannies drive their kids to the club while they shopped, primped, or did volunteer work.

  “We've brought in makeup artists from Warner Brothers, stylists from Fred Segal, and the entire haircutting crew from Alexander Paisan in Beverly Hills. Just wait till you see the little darlings. Modeling could just be in their futures!” Sandra swept a well-toned arm outward without a hint of tricep waddle. “Pull back the curtain! Show this crowd their made-over kids!”

  The red curtain opened with a flourish, revealing an assortment of girls ranging from the Goldhagen twins at age six to a couple of girls Françoise took care of who were allegedly fourteen but could easily have passed for nineteen (d
espite a maturity level somewhere closer to ten). In the middle of the pack was ten-year-old Martina. Martina was one of those unfortunate girls who'd reached puberty before her time and tried to hide her conspicuous breasts under baggy, inconspicuous clothing.

  Esme spotted Easton and Weston Goldhagen immediately, but she had to do a double take to be sure it was them. At the start of the morning, they'd had long, lush hair. Now, Easton had a trendy razor-cut bob, and Weston's hair had been crimped, with red and gold streaks added on the sides.

  “Holy shit. What will Diane say about their hair?” Esme was incredulous.

  But Lydia wasn't even paying attention. “Get a load of my niece. They've turned Martina into a babe.”

  Lydia pointed, and Esme literally gasped. Martina's normally limp brown hair, which she habitually shook over her dark eyes so that she could hide from the world, had been moussed into tousled waves. Her eyebrows had obviously been plucked; she wore a touch of mascara and clear lip gloss. Gone were the baggy clothes in which she'd begun the day, replaced by a cute purple-polka-dotted peasant shirt over white capri leggings with lace bottoms. In these new clothes, it was clear that formerly pudgy Martina had lost a lot of weight on her summer exercise program. With her new look, and clothes that didn't approximate a circus tent, it was easy to see the results.

  Lydia cupped her hands. “Martina, you cutie! Woo-hoo! C'mere and gimme a hug!”

  Martina broke into a wide grin and ran toward Lydia behind the velvet rope. Esme took that as her cue to duck under the barrier and talk to the twins, who were already halfway toward her when Esme heard a lilting voice with a Jamaican accent call to them from the other side of the room.

  “Easton! Weston! Come to Tarshea and your mother!”

  The kids instantly did a ninety-degree turn, forgetting about Esme and bolting toward their mother. Diane Goldhagen was blond, thin, and beautiful, and must have come straight from the gym, since she wore a jet-black Adidas warm-up suit. Even in sweats, she looked as if she'd stepped out of an advertisement for the Southern California good life.