All Night Long

by Melody Mayer

  Tom came back from the bar with a cardboard tray of Cokes and a couple of Lone Star beer bottles. Lydia immediately took one of the beers and hoisted it in Kiley's direction. “Does your boyfriend know what a good person you are, Kiley?”

  “Yes, I do,” Tom replied. “Sometimes too good.” He lifted a Lone Star of his own to Kiley.

  “Did she tell you she's passing up a hundred thousand bucks for about an hour's work?” Lydia pressed.

  Tom reached for Kiley's hand. “She can tell me all about it while we go dance. Do you know how to two-step, Kiley?”

  Kiley reddened slightly. “Not a clue.”

  “Time to learn. Excuse us.” He led Kiley off in the same direction that Jonathan had departed earlier.

  Lydia sighed. “That boy looks good coming and going.”

  The party was getting truly raucous now, with huge whoops and shouts coming from the main room, and the country band putting enough drive in their music to have it edge dangerously toward rock and roll.

  “I've got a great idea!” Lydia shouted over the pounding beat.

  “What?” Esme said.

  “Let's dance, too!” Lydia grabbed Esme's hand and yanked her toward the dance floor, where they were soon surrounded by the young and the beautiful. Dancing with another girl wasn't at all strange to Esme—when she and her ex-boyfriend, Junior, went to the salsa clubs in east Los Angeles, Esme and her girlfriends would dance all the time—but dancing to twangy country was another thing entirely. The lead singer was singing a song about mixing Southern rock and country, but Esme just couldn't get into the music.

  “What's the matter?” Lydia, who immediately had started boogying to the music as if she'd grown up on it, instead of on Amazonian tribal chants, stopped dancing.

  “These aren't my tunes. I'm taking a break.”

  “Could you go buy me a bottle of real expensive champagne?” Lydia asked over the music.

  “It's an open bar,” Esme pointed out. “It's all free.”

  Lydia bumped her hip into Esme's. “I'm foolin'. But just out of curiosity, rich girl, how much money did Jacqueline pay for her tattoo last night?”

  “Too much. I'll be back.”

  Esme snaked her way through the crowd toward the bar. Truth be told, she'd taken home fifteen hundred dollars the night before for four hours of work, plus a dinner that had been delivered by room service from the kitchen of the Polo Lounge, a landmark of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Fifteen hundred dollars— Jacqueline had been so pleased with the tattoo that she'd tipped extravagantly—was three times what Esme made at the Goldhagens' in a week, for less than a tenth of the time invested. Every time she thought about this, she had to wonder: why in the world was she still a nanny? If her business took off, she could make three hundred thousand dollars a year for creating art.

  Then she thought how disappointed her mother and father would be. “We're not working this hard so you can carve up and paint people's arms,” her father had told her in Spanish when they'd had a family dinner last Saturday night at their tiny bungalow in Echo Park. “You keep this job, you go to that good school so you can be someone someday. Tattoos are for cholos.”

  Esme reached the bar. There were a half dozen people in front of her waiting to place drink orders, including two gorgeous girls who were making out. It was clear to Esme that they were doing this for show, as they kept looking around to see who was looking back. Both girls had visible tattoos. The strawberry blonde with the blunt-cut bob had a dolphin peeking out from the low-cut back of her pink silk shirt, and the brunette had a yin-yang sign on her lower back that dipped into the top of her designer jeans.

  Talk about boring body art. Hell, she could probably talk those two girls into new tattoos right this minute if she wanted to. She would learn about who they were, their hopes and dreams, and design a tattoo for both of them that was one of a kind, utterly unique. Those girls would recommend her to more girls and more guys … and if she was really careful and saved nearly every penny, soon she would have enough money to buy her parents a decent house and get their immigration status regularized. She could always go to school later on. Was she out of her mind not to?

  She felt her cell phone vibrate. Jonathan? No. It was a text from Lydia. She had met up with Billy on the other side of the stage. Did Esme want to join them?

  Well, why not? She wasn't about to take a ride on one of the mechanical bulls—currently an obviously drunk girl whose breasts looked as if they could double as flotation devices was on the one nearest to the bar line. A crowd of guys stood around and watched her appreciatively.

  Ugh.

  Where was Jonathan, anyway? He had to be hobnobbing with the usual Hollywood insiders. Esme had about as much interest in hobnobbing as she had in getting a dolphin tattoo herself.

  I'll bring drinks, Esme texted back to Lydia. Tequila. It took another ten minutes before Esme got to the front of the bar line. When she did, alcohol was the last thing that interested her— because she happened to glance over at the dance floor, and there on the periphery was Jonathan, dancing not with some Hollywood A-list player he needed to impress, but rather with Tarshea. The Jamaican girl looked stunningly beautiful in another outfit that Diane Goldhagen must have bought for her, because there was no way that Esme's co-nanny could have afforded it herself. She wore a fuchsia minidress by Tracy Reese—Esme knew the designer because she'd tried it on herself with Diane on a shopping expedition with the twins to the Beverly Center. But Diane didn't buy it for her, and the four-figure price tag was far too rich for Esme's tastes, tattoo business or no tattoo business.

  The dress looked great. Jonathan looked great. Tarshea and Jonathan looked great together. And from the way that Tarshea was snaking her arms around Jonathan's neck, Tarshea undoubtedly felt great, too.

  What was she doing here? With Esme's boyfriend?

  It must have been the intensity of her stare that made Jonathan and Tarshea look toward her at the exact same time. Esme saw Jonathan lean forward and say something to Tarshea. The Jamaican girl nodded, then Jonathan hurried over to Esme.

  “I bet you're wondering what she's doing here,” he said quickly.

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “Diane texted me, said that it would be good for Tarshea to meet some industry people, and dropped her off. It wasn't my call.”

  “Uh-huh.” Esme didn't know whether to believe him or not. Especially because she could see that Tarshea was staring at the two of them with the biggest shit-eating grin on her lovely heart-shaped face.

  I could deck her, Esme considered. I could kick her ass so easily—

  “You don't believe me,” Jonathan said. “Here. Look at the text.”

  He whipped out his iPhone and with a few practiced flicks of his finger got to a text message that indeed had come from Diane. He stuck the screen in front of Esme's face. “Believe me now?”

  Esme nodded. Not that it made her feel all that much better. Since when was Jonathan Diane's puppet? He didn't even like his stepmother all that much.

  “I was just surprised,” Esme said, covering. No way was she going to play the jealous girlfriend.

  “Well, I hope this is a surprise, too.” Jonathan leaned in and kissed her. “Wait for me in the bar. I'll be there in ten minutes. I promise,” he murmured when the kiss was over.

  That would have been fine with Esme. Except she glanced again at Tarshea, and the girl still had the strangest look on her face, as if she knew something Esme didn't.

  But no, that had to be Esme's imagination. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that Tarshea was after her guy. No, more than that. Tarshea was after her life.

  “Dang, I can't kiss all of you at once!” Lydia exclaimed to the barechested cowboy whose arms were snaked around her waist.

  “You can try,” his friend drawled, elbowing his way in. He nibbled on Lydia's lower lip.

  Lydia smiled. “Well, I—”

  “I look horrible in everything!” a female voice wailed.r />
  Lydia's eyes popped open. The cowboys of her dream were gone. Damn. That was a great dream. Instead, her cousin Martina was standing over Lydia's bed.

  “What's up, sweet pea?” Lydia asked groggily.

  “Are you going to sleep forever?”

  Why was Martina even up? Lydia turned to squint at her digital clock. Nine-thirty. Oops. That would explain Martina. Plus, Billy would be there in an hour to take Jimmy to a Dodgers game. They would get there early, for batting practice. And she was incredibly late.

  She shot up in bed, immediately wishing she hadn't. The herd of stampeding wild boar in her brain was a rude reminder of how much fun she'd had at last night's movie wrap party. Also, how many Lone Stars she'd consumed. She'd been back in Billy's good graces for just a couple of days, and she'd gotten it in her mind to celebrate as though it was a coming-of-age ritual celebration for one of the Amas, complete with potions that the local shaman would blow up her nose. Instead of the potions, she'd substituted beers down her gullet. Now she was paying for it. Nothing left to do but suck it up and get moving.

  “You have a hangover,” Martina said knowingly as Lydia slid out of bed and staggered to her closet.

  Lydia couldn't decide whether to admit it or deny it. Frankly, either choice took too much work. She blindly plucked a yellow boatnecked Marc Jacobs babydoll and the first jeans she reached for from her closet and pulled them on.

  “I wish I had your figure,” Martina said, sighing.

  “Sweetie, you are a beautiful girl,” Lydia told her. “Especially after your makeover.”

  She pushed into some white leather Burberry sandals, plundered from an overlooked corner of a Beverly Hills consignment store at a price she'd haggled down from the cheap to the ridiculous.

  “No I'm not. I'm still fat.”

  “Where I come from they'd call you bony,” Lydia pointed out. “Don't get hung up on this whole Hollywood skinny thing. It isn't real.”

  “You can't be cool if you aren't skinny,” Martina insisted.

  Lydia padded to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face, slam two extra-strength Tylenol, and brush her teeth. Martina watched her every move.

  “How come you always look so perfect?” Martina asked.

  Her cousin had a serious case of hero worship. If Lydia's head didn't feel as if someone was drilling into it without benefit of anesthesia, she might be flattered.

  She coaxed the little girl back to the main house and headed into the kitchen, where, thankfully, a fresh pot of French roast coffee was just waiting. After she'd drained half a cup, feeling slightly more human, she let Martina drag her up to her room.

  When she pushed the door open, she was assaulted by a mountain of clothing. On the floor.

  “Martina? What in the heck are you doing? You need a machete just to get through this stuff.”

  Martina had emptied the contents of every closet, armoire, and dresser in her room onto the floor, if the floor even existed somewhere beneath the pile.

  The girl anxiously twisted the material of her baggy Adidas sweatshirt. “I don't look good in any of these things. But you look really good even though you just woke up. I couldn't do that if I had all day.”

  Lydia knew where this was going. Martina had had body issues for quite a while now. Not that anything was wrong with her body, especially with all the exercise she'd been getting lately. It was just that the girl was naturally large boned. And she had a fully developed figure. She was never going to be a cute little wisp, and she was never going to look like the little girl she really was.

  “I want to go shopping,” Martina said. “I want new clothes. Cute clothes.”

  Lydia was wary. “You know they have to be age appropriate.”

  “That's okay!” Martina agreed quickly.

  “Tell you what. Get yourself dressed, do your Russian, do your abs, and then meet me in the kitchen. I'll be waiting. If the moms say it's okay, maybe I'll take you shopping.”

  Martina threw her arms around Lydia, much like the way the Amas said thank you, Lydia realized. Which was kind of ironic when you thought about it.

  She went down to the kitchen, poured herself a second cup of coffee, and got some sliced papaya and mango from the fridge. For once, there was no list on the kitchen table giving a moment-by-moment, blow-by-blow preview of how she should occupy the kids' time for the day. Of course, Anya knew that Billy was coming to take Jimmy to the Dodgers game. And Martina was old enough to know what she had to do without being told. For the next forty-five minutes, Lydia luxuriated in the freedom of the morning Los Angeles Times, last week's People, and Kat's (not Anya's) Vogue. She was deep into an article about the coming winter's fashions when the doorbell rang.

  Billy. She realized her headache was gone.

  She hustled to the door, but found she'd been beaten by someone even more excited to see Billy than she was. Jimmy. Either he was quaking with excitement or that boy really had to pee.

  Lydia guessed it might be both. Excitement did that to a person, and Jimmy had been anticipating today's Dodgers game with every passing minute since he'd learned he was going. When she reached the door, Billy—dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a Dodgers cap—was deep in conversation with Jimmy about today's starting pitchers, the expected crowd at Dodger Stadium, how many Dodger Dogs Jimmy would be permitted to eat and to watch batting practice in order to have the best chance of snaring a major league baseball.

  Jimmy thrust something the size and shape of a hairless squirrel monkey at her. “Look what Billy got me!”

  As Lydia looked at the baseball glove, Billy leaned over and gave her a soft kiss on the mouth. “And good morning to you.”

  “Ugh, I'm never kissing,” Jimmy stated.

  “Yeah, well, I'll check in on that sentiment in five or six years,” Billy said, chuckling. “I'm guessing you'll change your mind.”

  “Nope.” Jimmy folded his arms.

  Billy smiled at Lydia. “I got him a catcher's mitt. It's not for the game; hard to catch a foul ball with it. I'll bring another glove—a fielder's glove. But this one's signed by Mike Piazza.”

  “Who's Mike Piazza?” Lydia asked.

  Jimmy looked incredulous. “He's only the best hitter and catcher the Dodgers ever had, 1992 to 1998. Jeez. Don't you know anything?”

  “I guess not,” Lydia replied, because anything at which Jimmy felt as if he was an authority could only be good for the kid.

  Just then, Martina vaulted down the stairs, uncharacteristically sporty in a black tank top that was only one size too big instead of three, and jeans that were not, in fact, swimming on her. “Hi, Billy! Do you think—”

  Unfortunately, her grand entrance was snuffed out by an audio fireworks display that erupted in the kitchen. Judging by the volume, there was trouble in paradise between the moms.

  “For you is completely different situation,” Anya ranted in her Muscovite accent. “You go from tennis match to tennis match. Always on road. Different city, different people. Is never any problem.”

  “You don't think I'd stay home if I could? You know how much I hate traveling. Don't try and confuse the issue.”

  “We take this to bedroom!”

  “Fine. That's the only thing you seem to be taking to the bedroom these days.”

  Lydia exchanged a pained look with Billy. She put a comforting hand on Martina's back and could feel the little girl stiffen. Jimmy was staring at the slate floor. Having your parents fight, whether it was Mom and Dad or Mom and Mom, was a painful thing. Didn't Kat and Anya realize how their fighting made the kids feel? Lydia might have had to play the moderator, but that didn't make her impartial. She was on her aunt's side a hundred percent. She reminded herself to have that conversation with Anya. It wouldn't do any good to put it off any longer.

  “Ready to go to the game?” Billy asked Jimmy.

  “Totally.”

  Lydia made a quick decision. Martina could do the rest of her Russian and everything el
se on her morning schedule later. “Ready to go shopping?” Lydia asked her cousin.

  Martina smiled gratefully. Lydia was happy she could give her that much, at least.

  Escorting Martina down the boutique-lined sidewalks of Montana Avenue in Santa Monica was doubly thrilling. Not only was it a new experience for Lydia (on her tight budget, except for the occasional supersale, Montana Avenue was a forbidden zone). But watching Martina rubberneck as she passed each shop window was as cool as watching a newborn capybara open its eyes for the first time.

  “Ooh. Let's go in this one.” Martina pointed to a shop called Swank. Two writer types—five o'clock shadows, T-shirts, torn jeans, and baseball caps—the only visible difference between them and street people was the telltale laptop cases slung over their shoulders—flanked the door on competing cell phone calls.

  Lydia hesitated, because the clothes in Swank's window were much too sexy for her cousin. Besides, after reaching Kat on her phone and getting permission to use her ATM code to withdraw some serious cash for their shopping extravaganza, they'd already arranged to have half a dozen shopping bags full of new clothes delivered to the house so that they wouldn't have to lug them around. She could just say no. But the look on Martina's face was so hopeful.

  “Well, we can look,” Lydia decided.

  They had scarcely opened the door when they were approached by a blond salesgirl in three-inch-heeled orange suede boots and a yellow crocheted minidress that barely covered the thong panties the girl might or might not have been wearing. Lydia loved the dress—she would definitely wear it herself. But on her ten-year-old cousin? She glanced over at Martina, who was eyeing the girl's dress pretty much the way Lydia figured Juliet must have looked at Romeo.

  “Hi, welcome to Swank! My name's Melanie. But you can just call me Mel.” Her voice had a throaty, sexy quality. “So you guys are sisters, right?” she guessed. “Which sister are we looking for?”

  “Cousin,” Lydia corrected. Martina had already gravitated to a rack of leather miniskirts in Day-Glo colors.

  “She's ten,” Lydia added for Mel's benefit.