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

by Zoey Dean

  Sam had been at Gisella's atelier since early afternoon, and the only things that were making this experience bearable were the skill with which Gisella and her staff were doing their work, the sushi-and-champagne buffet that Dee had ordered in from Sushi Mac, and the gorgeous, fawnlike model type with impossibly long legs and impossibly blue eyes who had stopped by for a half hour and followed Gisella around like a puppy. Not that Sam normally got excited about female models; in fact, she had been known to leave a room simply when one entered rather than risk the unflattering comparison. However, from the way said blue-eyed model was looking at Gisella, and the way Gisella was looking at the model, Sam suspected that both were part of the West Hollywood gay mafia.

  Call it stupid. Call it petty. Call it amazingly reassuring.

  "Just a few minutes more. Your dress is going to be gorgeous," Gisella assured Sam. "And you will be gorgeous as well."

  "You know, I used to hate your guts," Sam confessed. Lipstick lesbian or not, it was still hard to be friendly with her.

  "Only because you're protective of your man. This is a good quality. I imagine that your friend Dee is also protective of her man." Snip, snip, snip went Gisella's scissors. "True?"

  "I guess that's true," Dee agreed, nodding. One of the assistants, a diminutive Brazilian girl named Samanta, with some of the most beautiful dark hair that Sam had ever seen, pushed Dee's hip slightly to one side so she could better pin a piece of fabric in place. "But I think if you hold a guy too close, that's going to make him want to run away. I had that problem in the past, remember?" She turned toward Sam, and the assistant working at the hem of her bridesmaid dress coughed politely, reminding her not to move.

  Sam definitely remembered. Dee had been the queen of short-lived relationships, and she was never the one who ended it. Before the advent of Jack, her boyfriends had always been the ones to dump her. Then they went gay.

  "So now," Dee continued, careful to stay in position, "I give Jack a lot of freedom, and he circles around me like I'm the earth and he's the sun."

  Sam had to bite her lower lip to keep herself from correcting Dee's faulty take on the solar system. So what if science wasn't her strong suit? She was turning out to be a hell of an impromptu wedding planner.

  "Samanta?" Gisella motioned for her assistant to pin Sam's right shoulder seam tighter. "Thank you. Sam, you met Eduardo's family in Peru?"

  Sam nodded. During their trip after graduation, four aunts and uncles had come to an enormous Sunday dinner at his parents' estate in the hills overlooking Lima. There had to have been thirty or forty cousins as well. The feast had gone well into the night.

  "All those aunts and uncles," Gisella began. "They are all married to their original husbands or wives. Can you imagine?" Gisella clucked as she delicately pinned the waist of Sam's gown-to-be. "Peru is not like America, where people change partners like they change outfits, on a whim. I hope that you will be willing to do it the Peruvian way, not the American way. Otherwise, Eduardo will be very disappointed." She studied Sam, then nodded. "Yes. Now have a look."

  Gisella turned Sam around. There was a three-quarter-round mirror directly behind her, and Sam gasped with joy when she saw herself. The wedding gown was off-white and off the shoulders, with bands of sheer, pearl-encrusted chiffon falling gracefully over each upper arm. It was fitted through the bust, and then fell in folds of chiffon and silk dotted with hand-sewn pearls and actual diamonds to the floor.

  "Omigod," Sam breathed.

  "You like?" There was genuine concern in Gisella's voice.

  "I--"

  For the first time in a long time, Sam Sharpe found herself speechless. Finally, the words came. "Gisella, I don't think there's a girl in the world who doesn't imagine what she'll look like in her wedding gown. But this ... this ... this is better than I ever dreamed." Sam gulped hard. "I'm pretty."

  "No, you're beautiful." The designer's dark eyes shone. "You are smart that your maid of honor and bridesmaids dresses are pink, and simpler. All the attention will be on you."

  "And that's the way it should be," Dee chimed in, straining to get a good look at Sam in her gown without causing more work on her own. "Besides, I love my dress," she said, admiring the pink sheath draped over her body.

  Gisella's dresses for Dee, Cammie, and Anna were indeed far simpler than her own. Dee's maid-of-honor dress was a strapless pale pink sheath. The bridesmaids' dresses were a deeper shade of pink, with halter tops. All of them fell just below the knee, so that Sam wouldn't have to feel like someone else's legs--well, all of her friends' legs--were easier on the eyes than her own. If that fact was true, it was still worth denying on one's wedding day.

  Gisella's cell rang; she excused herself to take the phone call. Sam turned to Dee. "What do you think? She's gone now--you can be brutal."

  "I think it rocks."

  "Good. Has Cammie been in for her fitting?"

  "Negative," Dee answered. "Too busy at the club, probably. If worse comes to worst, Gisella will bring her shop to Cammie. Same thing with Anna. It's all on my checklist."

  "You are amazingly organized."

  "The right meds changed my life," Dee said solemnly, her blue eyes intense. "I think of everything now. I meant to tell you: We'll have a backup bridal gown out on the yacht just in case there's an accident with this one."

  "That is a horrifying thought," Sam shuddered. She turned around in front of the two-hundred-and-seventy-degree mirror, taking in her reflection from every possible angle. If anything, the dress looked even better from the sides and the back than it did from the front.

  Dee got off her wooden block to join her, retrieving her composition notebook on the way. Sam saw that Dee had hand-printed SAM'S WEDDING on the front in girlish black Magic Marker letters. "My motto is, Be prepared," she said as she saw Sam looking. "You'd be amazed how many brides barf while they're waiting to walk down the aisle--I read that on Bridezilla.com. Also, I'll have super-glue for your shoes in case you break a heel. And there's a full cosmetics kit in the stateroom bathroom, in case you hate what the makeup artist does. But she worked on the new Cate Blanchett movie, so I'd be confident if I were you."

  "You are really good at this," Sam marveled.

  "That's my job," Dee said with an easy shrug, scribbling something down in the notebook. She moved to stand behind Sam. "I want to take all the stress of the wedding day off your shoulders."

  Sam smiled at her friend in the mirror. "You know what's funny?"

  "What?"

  "You make me feel calmer than my so-called therapist, Dr. Fred." She turned to face Dee. "Do you ever watch his TV show? He's pimping this whole new magic plan for weight loss. Meanwhile, he lives on Dunkin' Donuts and shops at Rochester Big & Tall. It'll probably be another best-seller."

  "You've complained about him for years," Dee pointed out, running a hand through her shaggy haircut. "Why don't you just stop seeing him? Have you even talked to him about getting married?"

  "No. And I don't plan to."

  "Then call the guy and end it," Dee counseled. "You didn't send him an invitation."

  Sam ran her hands gently down the bodice of her dress as she realized that Dee was right. She didn't need Dr. Fred anymore. She was happy, and she doubted that the television therapist was the reason why.

  Sam's Razr sounded. She'd left it on a small coffee table to the left of the mirrors. "Hello?"

  "Hey, it's Anna. How's the fitting going?"

  "I look so hot, I would do me," Sam quipped, winking at Dee.

  Anna laughed. "Glad to hear that. Sorry I couldn't make it--I wanted to spend some more time with my dad. He's been sleeping a lot, which is a good thing, according to his doctor. But I just kind of want to be here when he wakes up and can talk."

  Sam could understand that. How would she feel if something happened to her own father? She couldn't imagine, since she was so used to thinking of him as ten feet tall and bulletproof; exactly the way America saw him.

  "Is her da
d doing better?" Dee asked, scribbling another note.

  Sam nodded. "Much."

  "That's great. That's really great."

  Sam ended the call and watched Dee flip through her wedding book. "The photographer," Dee explained. "I want to know who's going to do it if he gets sick."

  "You actually have a future in this, Dee."

  Dee looked up from under her fringe of bangs. "What, as a wedding planner?"

  "You're good at it."

  "Yes, she is." Gisella stepped over to them, closing her own Razr as she did. She wore a short blue shift dress, one of her own designs, and looked beautiful, but Sam was surprised to find she didn't feel jealous anymore.

  "You have a talent and a passion, Dee," the designer went on, as she repinned the shoulder seam on Sam's gown. "Always choose to do with your life something for which you have a passion. I've done it. You should do it. Eduardo has a passion for Sam. That's why he's marrying her."

  Sam looked around again at the bustling, light-filled studio. Sketches and material covered every surface, and the loft was near bursting with the creative energy of Gisella working out her own passions. Sam hoped she would have a space like this someday. She'd always dreamed of an editing room to call her own, where she'd cut and splice the films she'd always wanted to make. Maybe it could be in Malibu, she mused, so that if difficult cutting-room-floor decisions were getting to her, she could zip outside for a mind-clearing walk on the beach.

  But no, Sam realized. If she moved to Paris with Eduardo, who knew when they'd come back? It could be years before the California coast was her home again. It could be never. They could end up in Lima, for God's sake.

  Dee bit her lower lip. "A wedding planner. I never thought about that."

  "You should," Sam insisted, brought back into the present. She turned and gazed over her shoulder for one last rear view. Damn. Her butt did not look like the state of Texas after all. The dress was amazing. Dee was amazing. In fact, Sam's entire life had become amazing.

  But when she looked down at her left hand--at the immense diamond engagement ring on it--she had the strangest feeling. Like she wanted to take that ring off her finger, fling it out into La Cienega Boulevard, and then get on with the life she was supposed to have. The joy of being eighteen and starting at USC film school with her whole life before her, full of possibility.

  But when she thought about not marrying Eduardo, she felt sick to her stomach. The idea of not marrying him made her even more anxious than the idea of marrying him. She loved him, adored him, would never find another guy like him. You simply did not let such a wonderful guy get away because he had not shown up on your schedule.

  "What's next on the agenda, Dee?" Sam tried to keep her voice casual.

  "I'm going to get my eyebrows done at Valerie's--your appointment is tomorrow morning."

  "I'll come with," Sam offered. She really did not feel like being alone with her thoughts and doubts and anxieties.

  "But you're supposed to stay here, remember?" Dee said, closing her notebook and sticking her pen inside her Kate Spade hobo bag. "Your mom is coming for a fitting."

  "Oh shit. I totally forgot."

  Dina had told her and Dee that she wasn't happy with the dress she'd brought--a plain blue sleeveless number with buttons down the front--because she feared it wouldn't be elegant enough for the event. Dee hadn't hesitated. She'd made the appointment for Dina to be fitted with one of Gisella's creations.

  "Have you talked to your mom and dad any more about the wedding?" Dee asked.

  "Not really," Sam admitted. "But they've been hanging out."

  "Hanging out, or hanging out?"

  Sam shuddered. "The former. I'm just impressed that my dad would be such a gentleman to her."

  "Hey, someone has to set an example in this town. Well, I'm out of here," Dee announced.

  Gisella, who'd moved off to one side to consult with one of her minions, came back to kiss Dee first on one cheek and then on the other. "You are doing a wonderful job for your friend," she said warmly.

  Dee smiled--Sam could see how much the compliment delighted her. She waggled her fingers at Sam. "I'll check in later."

  When Dee was gone, Gisella motioned to Sam. "Go get changed. Ahora. I don't want your mother to see you in your dress almost as much as I don't want Eduardo to see you in it. Let it be a surprise for both of them. And your father, too." Gisella pointed the way to three small changing rooms in her workshop. "Marcia, would you help Sam, please?"

  Marcia, a British girl with multicolored hair and snapping dark eyes, was Gisella's senior assistant. "Come along, Sam. Follow me."

  When Sam reemerged in the all-black outfit she'd worn to Transnational Pictures for her unsuccessful pitch to Marty Martinsen, she found her mother chatting amiably with Gisella by the sushi spread.

  "Hi, Dina," she said stiffly. She tried to muster more enthusiasm, but it was difficult. It was as if her mother's presence made everything more real. Besides, what kind of mom skipped out on her daughter's life and then showed up to play the dewy-eyed mother of the bride?

  Gisella politely said she had something to attend to in her office, which was an obvious maneuver to leave Sam alone with her mother.

  "She's lovely," Dina commented. She was dressed in typical Dina clothes: too-baggy blue pants and a style-free beige blouse. Fashion was not Sam's mother's long suit. Thank God it wasn't an inherited trait.

  "She is," Sam agreed, feeling generous after having met Gisella's possible lesbian lover.

  They stood in silence for a few moments, Sam unwilling to make the effort of small talk. Her mother scanned the sushi spread.

  "So, which of these do you recommend? I'm afraid we don't get much sushi in western North Carolina. Catfish is better fried," she added with a smile.

  Sam had never tasted catfish, fried or otherwise, and didn't feel like chatting about raw fish.

  "The ahi is pretty good," Sam finally said, her tone flat. "The California sea urchin rolls are okay. As for the house special fire rolls--those are the ones with the orange stuff dripped on top--unless you want your tongue to go radioactive, I'd stay away."

  Dina went right for the house special fire rolls, which were tuna wrapped in rice wrapped in seaweed with the ultrahot topping. She ate two, and chased them with half a glassful of Taittinger champagne.

  "Fabulous," she pronounced. "Not fabulous enough to move back here tomorrow, but still very fabulous. I've missed it. This place." She put down her champagne glass to look at her daughter. "You."

  Sam bristled. She started to reach for the champagne bottle to pour herself a glass, but then realized she didn't need the calories. "What a crock. You haven't stayed in touch. You haven't even tried."

  "Samantha," Dina said slowly, swirling her champagne in her glass, "I know this may be strange for you to hear, but just because I've been out of touch doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about you, following your life. Do you want to know how many Google hits you'll come up with if you search the words Sam Sharpe in quotes? Thirty-seven thousand, five hundred. A year ago? Sixteen thousand, three hundred. Nine years ago, when everyone used AltaVista? Three thousand. And I think I've read every one of the links."

  Sam raised her eyebrows. This was unexpected. Was her mom making this shit up?

  Dina seemed to sense Sam's skepticism. She wiped her lips with a white cloth napkin. "When you were in fifth grade, Sam," she continued, "there was an article about you and Camilla in Los Angeles magazine. It was about how savvy showbiz kids are. They put you two in a movie trivia contest against a pair of entertainment reporters. You and Cammie crushed them."

  "That's right," Sam said slowly. She remembered that contest. She hadn't thought about that in years. There'd been some crazy talk afterward about putting her and Cammie on a TV game show, which, now that Sam thought about it, was pretty funny when you thought about the success of Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?

  "You've always been smart," Dina continued. "And you'
ve always known what you want and how you feel." She took another sip of champagne. "Which is why I think you know how you really feel about this wedding."

  Heat came to Sam's face. "I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped.

  Dina stepped over to the window and looked out at West Hollywood, peering between two newsprint sheets of Gisella's personal designs. "Some things change, Samantha. Some things don't. When you were a girl--this was in nursery school--and you were upset or agitated about something, you'd scuff your toes against the floor. Look at your shoes."

  Sam scuffed her black suede Jimmy Choo platform pumps against the floor just for something to do. The toes on both were a mess. It was better to focus on the shoes than on whether her mom was right. "You talk about what I did in nursery school like you're the doting mother who was always there," she said hotly. "But you weren't. You were a missing-in-action joke."

  Her mother nodded, turning back from the window to face her daughter. "You're right. As a mother, I've been terrible."

  Sam folded her arms. "At least you're being honest."

  "Do you want to know why?" Dina asked.

  Sam did want to know. Desperately. But she wasn't about to admit it to the woman who had abandoned her. She sipped her champagne and eyed her mother coolly over the rim of her crystal flute. "Does it matter?"

  "Maybe not, but I'll tell you anyway," Dina said. "It doesn't paint a very pretty portrait of me, but at least you'll know the truth." She twirled the stem of the champagne flute between her fingers nervously. "When your dad and I got married, I was so in love with him, I couldn't see straight. He was a struggling actor. I was a struggling writer."

  "Can we fast-forward this?" Sam said. It came out more harshly than she intended, but these memories were painful to hear.