A-List #10, The: California Dreaming: An A-List Novel (A-List)

by Zoey Dean

  Next Anna called their mother. When she answered the phone at the Hotel Intercontinental in Milan, Jane Cabot Percy was impressively cool. She didn't even sound sleepy. "He's stable, you say, Anna?"

  "Yes, Mother. He's stable."

  "It's not his heart?"

  "Something in his brain, they think."

  Her mother barked a short laugh. "Well, your dad has extra in that department, even if he got shortchanged when it came to judgment, the poor thing. You call me as soon as you know anything. Okay, Anna? I mean it. I want to hear from you in the morning my time, no matter what."

  A foursome of noisy orderlies went past, pushing a couple of gurneys. Anna waited until they were out of sight to answer. "I will," she agreed.

  "My thoughts are with you both." Anna's mother clicked off.

  Anna snapped the phone shut and slouched back in the hard plastic waiting room chair. It had been a long couple of hours.

  "Anna!"

  She turned. Sam was hurrying into the waiting area, a Gucci bag in one hand and a takeout bag from Jerry's Delicatessen, which was right across the street from the hospital, in the other. She wore black boot-cut jeans with a slinky black silk top.

  "What do you know?" Sam demanded, her voice worried. "What's the latest?"

  Anna felt a surge of fear as she considered the possibilities.

  "Anna? I've got some information."

  Coming from the other direction was Dr. Miller. She looked more tired than she had just a few hours ago.

  "We've brought your father into surgery. He has a subdural hematoma."

  "What's that?" Sam asked.

  "And who are you?" Dr. Miller asked sharply, her brown eyes taking Sam in questioningly.

  "My good friend. This is Sam Sharpe. Go on, Dr. Miller," Anna insisted, as another gurney was pushed by them. "Did it have anything to do with those headaches I told you about?"

  "Doubtful. Very doubtful, I'd say."

  Even as the doctor said the words, Anna felt marginally better. At least there wasn't anything that could have been done.

  "So what is this subdural thingie?" Sam prompted.

  Dr. Miller took out a small pad and a pen, and quickly sketched a rough picture. "There are blood vessels between the outer part of the brain, called the dura, and the brain itself. One of his bled out. Right here." She pointed to her own head, a little above her left ear. "That's what caused all the symptoms."

  "Is it treatable?" Anna queried.

  "Yes. Your father is in surgery now. They're drilling into his skull to let the blood drain and relieve the pressure. He wasn't in a major accident, as far as we can tell, so it wasn't caused by a major trauma. That's good. I understand the hematoma is quite substantial, which isn't so good."

  Anna shivered. "When can I see him?"

  "He'll be out in another hour. Then we'll bring him up to intensive care. It's on the fifth floor. He'll still be sedated. But you and your friend should be free to go up there now and wait. I'll try to check in with you as the surgery progresses.

  "Thank you," Anna said dully.

  Two hours later, she and Sam sat together in the intensive care waiting room, which was as different from the emergency room waiting area as two locations in the same hospital could be. While the emergency room was crowded, the intensive care area was empty save for the two of them. The room itself was spacious and white-walled, with a huge picture window facing north toward the Hollywood hills. There were plush gray fabric couches, a flat-screen TV on the wall, all the latest sports and fashion magazines, and low, calm lighting.

  Anna had called Susan and texted her mother with the latest word from Dr. Miller, and she and Sam were making their way through knishes Sam had brought from the deli. They sipped cups of coffee from the coffeemaker on a side table.

  "Anna?" Dr. Miller appeared in the doorway. She smiled broadly. Anna and Sam were on her immediately, but the doctor started in before they could even get their knishes out of their hands. "We're done," she reported. "The surgery was a success. He's in a room here. We'll keep him here for forty-eight hours, then move him to a private room downstairs. Or he might be able to be released even more quickly than that."

  "That's great!" Anna exclaimed, her heart lifting. "He'll be fine?"

  Dr. Miller shook her head. "I won't go that far. We need to evaluate him. Seventy-five percent of patients with his kind of injury make a good or complete recovery. But this isn't like a sprained ankle. This is serious business."

  "Can I see him?" Anna asked.

  "Absolutely, if you don't mind that he's asleep. Come with me. One at a time, please," she added, glancing at Sam.

  "I'll wait for you--however long you're in there," Sam promised.

  Anna tried to steel herself for what she was about to see as she stepped through the doorway into the austere hospital room. She'd thought she was prepared, but when she caught sight of her strong father unconscious in an intensive care bed, hooked up to every kind of monitor in the history of medicine, with one side of his head shaved for the surgery and bandaged to catch any drainage from the wound, she felt as nervous and emotional as she had when she was certain her plane was headed for disaster. She willed herself not to cry. Instead, she went to her father's bedside and put her hand atop one of his. "I'm here. I'll be here. I'll be here until you wake up. I love you, Dad."

  That was it. That was all that she could take. She stumbled out of the room and trudged back to the waiting area. He was alive. That was good. But to see him that way was simply too much for her.

  The waiting room was empty. Anna figured that Sam had gone down to the cafeteria. That was good. She could use a break. Maybe while she was gone Anna would take the opportunity to rest for a little while herself, to not talk to anyone, to try not to even think. She moved toward one of the couches, thinking she might even put her feet up.

  "Anna?"

  The male voice behind her was barely perceptible. Logan. How thoughtful. He'd come anyway. She turned. Standing at the entrance to the ICU waiting room in jeans, sneakers, and a blue button-down shirt, was Ben.

  "If you want me to go, I will," he said quickly. "But Sam called me. She thought I'd want to know. I hope you're not angry I came."

  He looked tired and unshaven, his brown hair tousled, slight lines creasing the corners of his blue eyes. Maybe running the club was harder than she'd imagined. Maybe he was upset to be in this place. Or both.

  "No. I'm glad."

  She didn't move toward him. But she didn't move away, either.

  "I'm sorry about your father."

  "He's alive," she said simply, tucking a wisp of blond hair behind her ear. "The surgery went okay. That's what the doctor said. Where's Sam?" She glanced around the empty waiting area.

  "She went downstairs to call Dee. Something about the wedding caterer. She'll be back."

  The gray fabric couches sat invitingly empty, with their view of the Hollywood Hills, but neither made any motion to sit. That would imply a friendship. An intimacy. The only sound was the plasma television's low hum and an audible drip, drip from the coffeemaker in the corner.

  "I mostly came to show support." Ben shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. "I know I have no business being here. But I came anyway."

  "Ben?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm glad you did."

  He smiled wanly and leaned against the white wall by the ICU door. "Really? Because I'm sorry how weird things have gotten between us."

  "I am too," Anna agreed. She was still in her business outfit from meeting Carlie Martin, and wished she'd thought to ask Sam to bring her some more comfortable clothing. Who knew how long she'd be here? Her vintage suede pumps had not been designed with hospital waiting in mind.

  "I hope that will change," Ben offered.

  Anna gave him a small smile. "You know what I think? Maybe it just did."

  Ben smiled back, his blue eyes warm. In an instant, his face went from tired to encouraging, and she felt stra
ngely reassured, even with her father unconscious and his prognosis uncertain. She was glad to have Ben here, she realized. It changed everything.

  And in that same moment, she realized she still hadn't called Logan.

  Faking ItTuesday evening, 8:29 p.m.

  "Cammie, here's what our readers want to know. In a week, you've become L.A.'s teen queen. What can you tell our readers about the view from the top?"Cammie brushed a lock of strawberry-blond hair behind her left ear, cocked her head at the People magazine reporter, and pretended to give the question a lot of thought. But the truth was, she'd already thought about this question today, and she'd already answered it. Twice. These promotional interviews for her club were starting to get awfully repetitious.

  She and the reporter--what was his name? Chuck? Buck?--were seated on a pair of black gunmetal chairs at one of the black tables near Bye, Bye Love's main bar. It was still an hour before opening, and the venue was silent save for the grunts and mutterings of the laborers who were wheeling in bales of hay and a bucking-bronco machine for that night's theme: Ride 'Em, Cowboy.

  The concept had been Cammie's idea--she'd gotten it when she'd read about Willie Nelson playing a concert later in the week at the Hollywood Bowl--and they were going all out. They'd borrowed several life-size cowboy statues from the Saddle Ranch Chop House on the Sunset Strip and placed them strategically outside by Venice Boulevard to set the mood as guests waited in line. As for the interior, everything was Western, from the cowboy waiters who would carry trays of hors d'oeuvres--miniature flap jacks, biscuits and gravy, bite-size steaks--to the specialty drink list, which included cocktails like the Midwestern Margarita, Texan Tequila Sunrise, and Ranch-Lover's Rum & Coke. There was even an authentic lasso near the bar, which would be put to use at hourly intervals. Anyone who managed to rope either Ben or Cammie on the first attempt would drink free for the rest of the night.

  Out back, in the alley behind the club, they had transformed the smokers' patio into a campfire area, with a dug-in-the-ground stone barbecue pit, where tired club-goers could take a break from riding the electric bull to roast their own s'mores, eat baked beans à la Blazing Saddles, and listen to a Montana cowboy musician who'd once been part of the legendary Chris Ledoux's band play old Western songs.

  Ever since the theme had been announced this morning, the office phone had been ringing nonstop with celebs and their entourages clamoring to get on the night's guest list. Willie Nelson's tour bus had pulled into town early, and he'd been invited. Someone had even called from the national campaign headquarters of a presidential candidate interested in making a guest DJ appearance. Cammie had turned the offer down. Not because she didn't like the candidate, but because she wasn't a fan of Fleetwood Mac.

  The word was out. Cammie and Ben's club was it.

  Which was great. Except that being it meant instead of free time, Cammie now had interview time; interview after interview after interview. She felt like a movie star doing a junket for a film that wasn't particularly interesting.

  The People reporter had ears that stuck out and a distracting gap-toothed smile. He wore khakis and a crumpled Hawaiian shirt from Old Navy. He had a nice voice and a pleasant manner, and the chat wouldn't have been so bad but for the fact that this was her sixth interview of the day. She'd started with the Star at lunch. On to In Touch at two. New Woman--that baffled her, until she decided that the reporter wanted to be comped, so she gave her one just to be nice--at three-thirty. And so forth. The questions ranged from repetitious to dumb. New Woman had asked where she would be interested in retiring someday. Cammie just smiled and said, "Next question."

  "What's it like to be the queen?" Cammie repeated. "Oh, it's great being queen, especially since my partner and co-owner is Ben. As in Ben Birnbaum. The king. My king." Cammie oozed sincerity as she watched Ben out of the corner of her eye. He was just now arriving at the club--he'd called and said he'd be late--crossing from the front door of the club to the office. That figured. He hated doing interviews, and left that part of the job of running the club to Cammie. She was fine with it. Except when there were six of them in one day.

  "What made the queen want to join forces with the king?" the reporter asked, playing along. "And why rule this kingdom? The clubbing industry, that is."

  "Simple," she explained, knowing Buck-Chuck would lap up whatever spilled from her mouth. "We're kindred spirits. Life is short; you have to take risks--big risks, big gains. That's what it's all about. Life is a party and there's nothing I'd rather be doing, so why not make a business out of what I love?"

  Cammie flipped her strawberry-blond curls playfully. Her smile and exuberance were automatic and perfectly timed.

  But for reasons she couldn't fathom, what Adam would say if he were here right now flew into her mind: It's not like you cured cancer, Cam. Is this really how you want to spend all your time?

  "And it's not all about money. I love that we're giving so much to charity," Cammie added, for imaginary Adam's benefit.

  "Do you have a favorite cause?" Buck-Chuck queried.

  "New Visions." She glanced at the bartender, a beautiful Cuban woman named Alita with long, lustrous hair, who doubled as a model. She was doing her prep for the evening, wiping the bar down with a wet cloth. "It's a program that helps teen girls who get into trouble find a different path. The fashion and beauty industries are really involved in helping these girls. When you look great, you feel great, and that's a start."

  Buck-Chuck eyed her dress. "And who are you wearing? My readers will want to know."

  "Pucci," she replied. Her bubble dress was pink-and-brown paisley. It had been sent over by her personal shopper at Fred Segal. "Thanks so much for the interview, but we're going to open soon, and there's a lot to do. But it was great to meet you ... Ch-buck."

  She kind of mumbled that last part into her hand as she stood, knowing that reporters loved it when you remembered their names. At least she had 75 percent of this guy's name under control.

  "Mind if I hang around and watch the action?" Ch-buck asked.

  "Enjoy. Here, take these."

  She pressed a couple of drink coupons on him, which he gallantly refused--something about ethics--and then bid him goodbye as she moved off toward the rear of the club, dodging more workers wheelbarrowing in more hay. She stopped to check her watch. Was there time to call Sam? She hadn't spoken to her since Sam had fired her as maid of honor.

  Truth was, Cammie did feel guilty that she'd neglected Sam's wedding. If she had to be honest with herself, she was not ecstatic that Sam was thinking about leaving her life in Los Angeles for Paris with Eduardo. No matter how much they fought, Sam was still her best friend; more like a sister than that bitch of a half-sister, Mia, who, no matter how many times Cammie warned her, simply did not know the meaning of the simple five-word sentence "Stay out of my closet."

  Call her, she told herself. She'll forgive you.Cammie decided she'd call Sam after she checked in with Ben. Usually at this time of the night he was in the club office, double-checking the guest list and making sure that everyone who was supposed to report to work was actually on the premises. People in the nightclub business were notoriously flaky.

  Cammie decided to lend him a helping hand. Or maybe two. Sex in the office didn't appeal to her. However, appetizers were always appropriate before the main course. Sometimes even hours before.

  She found Ben in the office, hunched over a spreadsheet. He wore Diesel jeans and a blue James Perse button-up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was focused so intently he didn't even hear her come in.

  "Hello, there, hard worker."

  He looked up, and a slow smile spread over his face. "I'm in here doing the grunt work, you're out there doing the glamour work. Tell me what's fair about that."

  "Sounds fair to me. Where were you before?"

  He looked away. "Out. Had an errand."

  She moved toward him a step. "Let me make it up to you," she said coyly. "Maybe you'll be convinced t
o come to the club on time next time."

  There was a knock, and Ben's eyes looked behind Cammie toward the office door behind her. "Can you get that?" he asked.

  "Sure." Awful timing, whoever it was. Cammie opened the door to find the photographer from People who'd come along with Buck-Chuck, a tall, blond, long-haired Swede named Sven. A portrait camera was slung around his neck, and he wore a white Marc Jacobs T-shirt with Seven jeans

  "Sorry to bother you guys. Ready for your close-up? I thought one shot of the two of you in here, where all the behind-the-scenes action happens, would be something different." Sven's English was impeccable, and he exuded confidence in a way that Buck-Chuck never could.

  "Sure," Ben agreed. "You good with that, Cammie?"

  "Of course."

  She offered Sven a radiant smile as Ben sidled up next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him. They looked darling, this much she knew. Because they'd struck this pose for all the other press photographers and they'd looked darling in every photo she'd seen.

  "Give me something fresh," Sven urged them. Oops. Maybe he'd seen the earlier photos.

  "How's this?" Cammie said. She turned to Ben and wrapped both arms around his neck, then kissed him on the cheek.

  "Love it!" Sven cried as he snapped away. "More, more, more!"

  Cammie moved this way and that--in front of Ben with his arms around her from behind, back-to-back, whatever. As she draped herself over him in various positions, Cammie kept thinking about how great they looked together. They acted like a couple. They seemed like a couple. They worked together the way most couples could only dream. So why was it that they weren't together again as a couple for real?

  "Maybe we can wrap up with this photographer," she told Ben under her breath, so Sven couldn't hear.

  "Nah. We need the press. Let him do his thing," Ben replied, not breaking his camera-ready smile.

  She let Sven do his thing, and he stuck around for five more minutes, shooting them from various angles. "These are great," he noted of a shot of Ben leaning on the desk, holding Cammie in his arms. "You're the king and queen of the nightclub scene," he added. Cammie knew Sven was just trying to get a good picture out of them--the confident, radiant smiles you always saw in magazines had less to do with the subject and more with the photographer's smooth prodding. "You're a publicist's dream."