by Zoey Dean
"So Dee, now that you're a high school graduate, what are you gonna do with your life?" Cammie had a knack for cutting right to the chase.
Dee smiled beatifically, not at all fazed by the question. "Plan Sam's wedding, duh. After that, who knows? Spend time with Jack."
"Isn't he going back to Princeton?" Sam asked.
Jack Walker, Dee's boyfriend, was a friend of Ben's from Princeton University, who had come out to Los Angeles for the summer to work in the reality TV department at Fox. Sam thought Jack could be a little condescending, but he seemed like a decent enough guy. At the very least, he made Dee happy.
Dee shrugged. "Oh, it'll work out, I'm sure. If we have to do long distance, we'll do long distance."
Cammie laughed as her nail tech went to work on some nonexistent calluses on her heel. "Long distance never works. Unless you're married. And even then, only for a few months at a time. It's why Sam has to decide to go to France, or Eduardo has to decide to stay here in Los Angeles. Not that anyone's listening to me," she added, pulling down on one of, her chandelier earrings with a delicate finger.
Sam sighed and played with one of the pockets of her shift dress. Cammie had a point. She and Eduardo were getting married quickly so they'd be married when he went back to France. She didn't think she was ready to leave Los Angeles. But the idea of not being with her husband during their first year of marriage was even more abhorrent.
"They'll make it work. And so will we," Dee said pointedly. The early afternoon sunlight was streaming through the eight-foot plate glass windows. It gave her blond hair an angelic glow.
"Your optimism is refreshing," Cammie quipped. She brushed aside an errant curl as the nail tech switched files.
"I'm not optimistic," Dee said, shaking her shaggy head. "I'll make it work, like I'm making this wedding work. Tell her what I've done already, Sam."
Dee looked at Sam with her moon-shaped blue eyes for confirmation. "You're not going to believe it," Sam noted to Cammie. Dee had taken over as if she were a professional. Since yesterday, she had arranged for a half-dozen designers to send over an array of wedding dresses for Sam's perusal. That would happen later in the afternoon. Sam's dress would be custom-made, of course, but these would give her an idea of what looked good. (She'd considered using the designs that Eduardo had included in the portfolio, but then opted not to. That would mean that he'd seen her dress before she came down the aisle, and while Sam wasn't exactly superstitious, she did believe in making an entrance.)
After the wedding dress designer was chosen, the head seamstress would race with her staff to create her gown so it would be ready on Friday. Sam could only imagine the number of magical elves that would work round the clock. Dee had also made preliminary inquiries of florists, caterers, musicians, wedding cake bakers, and the like.
Sam sighed and watched as her nail tech buffed her new polish. Thinking about what Dee had accomplished on her behalf made her feel guilty. Cammie hadn't done shit, and she was going to be the maid of honor. How unfair was that?
"Hey, would you mind handing me that notebook? And the pen?" Dee asked her nail tech, who was applying a final topcoat of gold polish to her left big toe. She pointed to an open notebook on the white Persian rug.
"Sure." The nail tech, who sported spiky dark hair and thick eye makeup, handed over the simple black-and-white composition notebook and the gold Cross pen next to it.
"So, let's talk about these gowns," Dee said, opening the notebook to a dog-eared page and peering at what she'd scrawled. "You're trying a vintage lace Alvina Valenta, a fitted Lazaro with amazing beadwork, a Christos washed silk strapless, fitted under the bust, with an A-line skirt--very figure flattering--and an Ulla-Maija original: it's hand-draped silk satin with a twenty-foot cathedral train."
"Didn't your boyfriend mock up a bunch of drawings of you in custom-designed gowns?" Cammie asked.
"Fiancé, not boyfriend," Sam corrected.
"Ah. Yes." Cammie peered down at her toenails, which were now done in a vermilion shade called Shameless. "Fiancé. So?"
"The drawings were nice. But I don't want Eduardo to see my dress before the wedding. And the bitch Peruvian designer who drew them makes me nervous. I don't want her within three miles of my wedding." Sam was emphatic.
"Cool. Then go naked," Cammie quipped. "It's easier, it's hot, and you don't have to worry about anyone else copying you."
Sam shook her head with a smile. "You're the one who looks hot naked," she pointed out. "I'm the one who does the wild thing with the lights off. In fact, I'm happiest when there's a power failure and no candles or matches."
Cammie poured herself some more champagne as the nail tech buffed at another rough spot--how on earth had Cammie gotten a rough spot?--of skin on her opposite heel. "Oh, right. Well, then, you'll want to go with the A-line to hide those hips of yours. I'm just telling you as a friend."
"That was rude," Dee said in her breathy little voice.
"I know," Cammie agreed, sounding not at all bothered by Dee's remark. "It's a sickness. No cure. Oh well."
For the next ten minutes, the nail techs worked in silence. Finally, the lead tech, who wore a white uniform--her assistants were in black--announced that they were done. All they had to do was pack their traveling valises. "Should we send the bill to the house?"
"Definitely. Add twenty percent for your tips."
"Thank you, Miss Sharpe. We'll find our way out."
Once the nail techs were gone, Cammie moved to a cluster of genuine 1950s TV dinner trays across the room near Sam's picture window. "How about some food?" A feast prepared by Jackson's weekend chef, the former tour caterer for Faith Hill and Tim McGraw, was set up on the tray tables. His name was Buck, and Buck had had clearly been in a Thai mood today. There was a huge platter of cold peanut noodles laced with slivers of spicy peppers and grilled chicken. Fresh pineapple salad with a savory cilantro and lime dressing. Cold shrimp spring rolls. A hot pot of yellow curry with potatoes--Sam still felt traumatized by Anna's near-crash, which in her mind justified a little carb indulgence--and braised beef. A bottle of Riesling nestled in an ice bucket, and fresh-squeezed orange juice filled a frosted-glass pitcher.
But Sam wasn't hungry. Maybe it was nerves over the wedding, or maybe it was nerves over having both her parents in the same city again. That would traumatize anyone. Jackson had taken Dina to brunch this morning at Shutters on the Beach, and Dina had been brought to the estate by limo before they drove off together in the Jensen. Sam had found them in the outdoor kitchen when she'd come down in her robe for coffee. They were chatting companionably and flipping through various sections of the Los Angeles Times before they departed--for her mother, the book review; her father, the calendar section. Her father had been dressed in his tennis clothes from his regular early-Sunday-morning game at the Riviera Country Club. Her mother had been on the verge of fashionable, in black sandals, long black shorts, and a long-sleeved red T-shirt. She looked almost pretty. Neither had said a word about the wedding. Instead, they'd smiled thinly as they said good morning. There was no need for them to say more. Sam knew what they were thinking: Call it off. Now.
"Miss Sam?"
One of the new maids stuck her head inside the redwood door. She was petite and olive-skinned, with extraordinarily large dark eyes. "April Bloomfield is here to see you. She wants to know if you want to do the menu tasting down in the kitchen?"
Sam turned to Dee. "April Bloomfield?"
Dee smiled broadly. "One of your possible caterers. She just moved here from Chicago to open a restaurant in Santa Monica. April Dawn?"
Sam knew about April Dawn. You couldn't get a reservation at April Dawn less than a month in advance. Well, unless you were Jackson Sharpe's daughter.
"How'd you get April Bloomfield?" Cammie demanded. She was clearly impressed.
"I talked to my dad. He told her he'd do the record launch party for his next big CD at her restaurant. Anyway, we'll see what she can do. There are alw
ays other options."
It was Sam's turn to be impressed. Dee's father was a major music producer, responsible for dozens of platinum records and CDs over his storied career. Every year his clients won the top awards at the AMAs, VMAs, and every other acronymed music award show. In Hollywood terms, he was a player.
"Okay, Dee. You get the gold star for the day." Cammie beat her to the punch with the compliment. Dee beamed.
"The outdoor kitchen, thanks," Sam decided. Her father's soon-to-be ex-wife, Poppy Sinclair, had recently had an outdoor kitchen built adjacent to the indoor one, accessible via a sliding glass door. Sam liked the kitchen a lot better than she'd liked her dumb, cheating, not-much-older-than-Sam, soon-to-be-former stepmother. It was good to have her out of the house, but it would be better to read about the official divorce in Variety. Poppy and Jackson had decided to share custody of their baby, Ruby Hummingbird, and Poppy would get hefty child support.
"Wait. Let's just finish with this list before we go down," Dee suggested.
"Fair enough." Sam smiled at the maid. "Please ask her to wait."
"Fine, Miss Sam."
The housekeeper departed; Sam made a mental note to ask for her name next time, as Dee flipped a page in her notebook.
"Let me help," Cammie declared. She punctuated her announcement with a sip of the Riesling. "Here's what you need to cover. Hair."
Dee looked down her list. "Raymond. No other option. He's taking the day off from his new salon to do you. His treat. Enjoy."
"Venue?" Cammie asked. "It's short notice. You can always use Bye, Bye Love. First wedding ever there. Would get a ton of press. I'd close the club for you if you wanted. It's not my call alone, but I'm sure Ben would agree."
"Tempting. Very tempting," Sam agreed. If she had her wedding there, it'd be on Entertainment Tonight. And in People.
"I thought of that. But decided against it. Too much chance that someone could sneak in." Dee shook her blond head, adamant.
"Are you crazy? We have great security." Cammie put a hand on her slender hip, obviously taking Dee's decision personally.
"One asshole and the whole night is ruined," Dee pronounced. "Besides, I've got the perfect location."
"What?" Cammie challenged, as she put down her wine and turned sharply toward Dee.
"A wedding at sea. That is, on the Look Sharpe II. Your dad just bought a new yacht, Sam. It's perfect. There's a helipad in the back to bring people to and from; we can charter some cigarette boats to shuttle people back and forth from the harbor at Malibu; and if the chop is bad--it won't be since it's August, but just in case--the captain can anchor by the Channel Islands."
Sam hadn't seen the new vessel, but it was supposed to be truly over the top. Jackson had bought it from Laurel Limoges, the cosmetics titan, who lived in Palm Beach, Florida. It had arrived with a full crew and had to be sailed from south Florida through the Panama Canal. Sam had overheard her father talking about it, but she hadn't had a chance to ride up to the yacht club in Malibu where it was anchored to get a firsthand look. Jackson claimed it was twice as large as the previous version of the Look Sharpe, and that vessel had handled seventy-five people with ease. This one could comfortably do a hundred and fifty. Dee had talked about a hundred guests, and a waitstaff of fifty. That would be the perfect size.
She nodded approvingly. "I like it. But my dad is against the wedding. My mom too."
"We'll work that out," Dee said easily. "Or shall I say, I'll work that out. He's a movie star. He has a public to please. He won't want bad press, so he'll cave."
"When did you find the time to do all this?" Cammie asked. She forked a chunk of pineapple salad into her mouth.
"It was a busy morning," Dee quipped.
"I think it's amazing. And I really, really appreciate it." Sam reached over to squeeze Dee's slender hand.
"I'm having a blast," Dee confided, snapping her notebook shut in a businesslike manner that was very un-Dee. "Planning your wedding. I always thought I'd be first. Not that I'm ready to get married now. But you know."
"Yeah." Sam twirled some caramel-streaked hair around one finger absentmindedly. Wedding. Her wedding. They were talking about her wedding. It all felt so unreal. Or surreal. Or something.
Everything was going really well, Sam thought, as she and her friends padded downstairs in their terry cloth pedicure sandals with the individual toe separators. In a matter of days, she'd be walking down the aisle in a beautiful white dress toward her beautiful, loving fiancé. She had everything she wanted. So why did she feel so jittery?
It must be cold feet, she reasoned with herself. Even terry cloth sandals couldn't fix that.
Champagne, Anyone?Sunday night, 11:15 p.m.
Cammie slid gracefully up to Champagne and linked arms with her protégée as they stood near the barricades that separated the rest of Venice Boulevard from the area in front of Bye, Bye Love. The younger girl was wearing a black satin halter mini-dress with straps that crisscrossed in the front, wrapped around her neck, and tied in the back. She looked absolutely stunning. Her dress had been designed by Martin Rittenhouse, a prototype for his petite collection. Cammie reminded herself to tell Martin about the interview she'd done with Entertainment Tonight--and how on the spur of the moment she'd announced that the new line would be called Martinette."This is ... amazing." Champagne was breathless. Her emerald eyes sparkled with admiration as she took in the crowd of A-list and almost-A-list celebrities who made up the clientele of the sizzling new club, in only its third night of operation.
"Amazing, remarkable, and very Champagne-friendly," Cammie agreed. "And whose inspired idea was it to make night three at Bye, Bye Love a street party? Mine."
It was later that night, and Bye, Bye Love was in full swing. She and Ben had decided that they'd be closed on just one night a week--Monday--during their first month, which meant a lot more work for both of them. But it was worth it.
For this night's theme, Cammie had the idea to take Bye, Bye Love outside. They'd scrambled to get the necessary permits from the city, and had been able to get Venice Boulevard closed in front of the club. A wooden stage had been erected at the south end of the closed-off street; in front of it was an expansive portable parquet dance floor. Drinks and food stations were set up directly in front of the club for easy access by the staff, and simple Costco-special plastic tables and chairs placed along the perimeter. The kicker was that Cammie had purchased three dozen superking Aero-style beds, had them inflated and then covered in brightly colored Indian silk blankets and oversize raw-silk pillows. Large potted palms had been placed around the beds, right in the middle of Venice Boulevard. Then Ben and Cammie had had the workers paint Moroccan-style tribal rugs on the asphalt, giving the party a mysterious casbah feel.
She'd dressed for it, too, in a sleeveless red silk Dior tent top and Miu Miu houndstooth skirt that barely cleared her lacy La Perla thong.
For a city as dominated by car culture as Los Angeles, the idea of a nighttime party in the middle of Venice Boulevard, a major thoroughfare, was intriguing. The execution of it, on a gloriously cool starry night, with a slight sea breeze coming in off the Pacific a few miles away, was even better.
Oh, there were block parties and street fairs all the time around the city. Cammie knew that. But those were open to the unwashed masses, who inevitably came en masse. Tonight was exclusive. No riffraff. Just fifteen thousand square feet of Venice Boulevard populated by the rich, the famous, the powerful, the beautiful, and the young--almost all of them a combination of at least three of the above. They'd messengered out five hundred invitations, scented with amber and jasmine, as befitted the Middle Eastern party theme, printed on fine gold parchment paper, rolled up and sealed in wax.
"Cammie! Cammie! Over here."
Cammie turned to see the rusty gold hair and grayish-blue eyes of Dash, the reporter from Entertainment Tonight, once again trailed by his cameraman. He was front and center of a gaggle of print and TV reporters. He was look
ing even hotter tonight than he had yesterday, wearing a gray Ralph Lauren Black Label cashmere T-shirt and worn Levi's, which were so out they were in. She waggled her fingers in his direction.
"Let him in," Cammie told one of the members of the club security force, an imposing young Russian named Igor, very blond with ice-blue eyes and the square jaw of an action hero. "And his cameraman."
"Will do," Igor told her. He had the cutest accent.
"Cammie?" Champagne reached for Cammie's arm and looked anxious. "Isn't that going to piss off the other reporters?"
"That's the whole point. We make Dash really happy, he gives us what we want. That's how you play these suckers." She smiled impishly. "Besides, he's hot."
Cammie told Igor that they were going to the outdoor VIP area on the west side of the building, and to bring Dash and the camera guy over there. She led Champagne by the hand. "Just follow my lead and don't talk much."
"But--"
"Starting now would be good, 'kay?"
Five minutes later, she and Champagne were ensconced in the club's VIP area, which took the casbah theme a step further. Cammie and Ben had erected an outdoor tented pavilion with authentic tribal rugs placed over a floor that had been covered in sparkling white sand, and low antique tables imported from Tangier surrounded by silk pillows. There was a central circular bar with light blond wooden bar stools, and the bartenders were shirtless with full pants that gathered in around the ankle, complete with a sash and boots. The waitresses wore long, heavily embroidered jewel-tone dresses in the lightest of silk, slit up to the waist on either side. Of course, the notion of a VIP area was a bit of an oxymoron, because the only people allowed in Bye, Bye Love would be on VIP lists at any other place in town. But even here, there had to be some sense of hierarchy. L.A. clubs were nothing without it.