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

by Zoey Dean

  Marty held up a meaty hand to interrupt. "Who handles your material, Anna? Who's your agent?"

  Anna colored. Of course that was what he meant. But she didn't have an agent. Or a manager. Or a lawyer. Or anyone else whose job it would be to negotiate a movie deal, because the idea that she would be making a movie deal on the day before her departure to Yale was so remote as to be laughable.

  A name flew into her head.

  "Clark Sheppard," she said smoothly.

  Well, why not? Cammie's father was one of the biggest agents in town; in fact, she'd briefly worked for him as an intern. No way on this planet would he represent a writer as young as she was, someone who had never sold anything. But she needed something to tell Marty--maybe she could ask Clark to recommend her to someone else at his agency, a junior agent or someone--and she could see that the CEO of Transnational was suitably impressed.

  "Clark Sheppard, huh? Well, I shoulda figured it--that I'm not the only one who knows a good script when he reads it." He finished his champagne and poured the remaining drops in his glass over the side of the Look Sharpe for good measure. "Now I have to negotiate with the son of a bitch." He waved a hand in the air. "Fine, fine, I'll have one of my business-affairs people give him a call. Just don't expect the moon."

  Anna nodded. She didn't expect the moon. She'd come to learn during her time in Hollywood that as a new screenwriter on her first film, she could barely expect to be a guest on her own movie set. There was every chance, too, that the studio would bring in another writer to rewrite her, and that she'd be forced to share credit.

  On the other hand, she didn't have to have this movie made. She had plenty of money. She had plans for the fall, and for her future. Which was why she was willing to make an audacious request.

  "This all sounds good. But I'd like to select the director."

  Marty's graying eyebrows went up into his forehead. "You're shitting me."

  Anna's heart pounded, but she stood her ground opposite the powerful executive. "I'm not. I'd like Sam Sharpe to direct. I know you probably think of her as a kid, the daughter of your friend, but she really is brilliant--"

  Marty threw his head back and laughed. "You're good, you." He wagged a finger at her. "You had me going there. Some little birdie told you I was gonna have her direct, am I right? She brought me the screenplay, it's part of the deal."

  It was? "Well, great, then." Anna held out her hand. "My people look forward to hearing from your people," she finished, feeling like she might laugh out loud hearing those words come out of her mouth.

  Marty shook her outstretched hand, a bemused look on his face. "Congratulations, Anna. You wrote a fine script. We'll talk soon." He moved off, nabbing one more flute of champagne from a passing waiter as he did.

  Anna felt faint, her knees actually weak. She wanted to sit, to breathe, to play over again in her mind what had just transpired with Marty.

  She spotted a single empty rattan deck chair and made for it. Just as she did, Sam appeared from the steps to the upper deck and blocked her path. She wore a beautiful pink Chloé sundress; Anna knew she would be changing clothes very soon.

  "Hi," her friend said with studied nonchalance. "What's new?"

  "I just got the shock of my life. You gave my screenplay to Marty Martinsen! Why didn't you tell me?" Anna demanded.

  Sam grinned, her brown eyes gleaming with excitement. "Come on. And ruin the surprise? Besides, I only found out he wanted to buy the script this afternoon. I thought he'd passed. If he had, I wasn't going to say a word. Call it kindness by omission."

  Anna made a face. "Marty says that kindness is a highly overrated quality."

  "If you're a studio chief, it probably is," Sam acknowledged. "But I have a confession. Marty had me standing on the upper deck right above you so I could listen in."

  Sam pointed. Right above where Anna and Marty had been discussing the movie, the second level of the Look Sharpe dipped a bit. It would have been easy for Sam to stand there and hear everything.

  "Isn't that against the law?" Anna mock-chided.

  Sam laughed. "This is the movie business It's the law of the jungle. What I want to know is, you got an offer from a huge producer to make the very first movie you ever wrote. And you were going to turn the deal down unless I got to direct?"

  "Yes," Anna confirmed.

  "You are either a total idiot or the best friend I ever had, or both," Sam said, the emotion clear in her voice.

  "You gave him my screenplay without telling me," Anna pointed out. "I'd say it was a fair trade."

  "True," Sam acknowledged. She glanced at the antique gold watch that she'd acquired at a Sotheby's auction a couple of years before. "I don't have much time. I needed to change like five minutes ago. But listen. I've been thinking about the title. The Big Palm sucks ass."

  "You have a better idea?" Anna asked.

  "Definitely. The A-List."

  "The A-List." Anna considered the title. "I like it." Then another thought occurred to her. "I wonder if Yale will let me start late. What if they won't? That is, if you even want me on the set."Sam howled with laughter. "See, your problem, Anna, is that you write about the A-list but then you don't act like you're part of it. I talked to the dean of the film school at USC. They'll give me credit to direct. Call Yale. Don't ask them. Tell them you've written a studio picture, that it's shooting in the fall, and that they have to make some accommodation for you. If you don't want to do it yourself, let Cammie's father do it. He went to Yale too."

  "He did?" Anna was astonished. "I didn't know that."

  "You probably never asked."

  Anna gazed out at the coastline. It was all just so overwhelming. Just when she thought her life would never really change, it did. Simple as that.

  Sam took her arm for a moment, and they stared out to sea together. The darkness had fully descended and the sky was now a gorgeous midnight blue, the ocean a few shades darker. They stood in silence, joined only at the elbow, Sam's skin warming Anna's own against the stiff ocean breeze.

  Finally Sam pulled away, glancing at her watch. "Well, I gotta get changed for the main event. Ready to watch me make a fool of myself?"

  Anna smiled back at her. "Always."

  "Cool. Wish me luck. And pray I don't trip walking up the aisle."

  "Why the fuck not?" Cammie asked herself rhetorically. There was a first time for everything.

  Adam was standing on the bridge of the Look Sharpe, talking quietly with the black-uniformed captain, a gentleman straight out of central casting for a remake of The Poseidon Adventure, with his chiseled chin, silver moustache, gold brocade on his shoulders, and white captain's hat.

  Cammie Sheppard never approached guys, and she never, ever approached guys who had dissed her. She always waited for them to approach her, because they always did. Even the ones who were foolish enough to get on her shit list.

  But dammit, here they were. She, here on the top deck outside the bridge, and Adam inside with the captain. She had nothing to lose--Adam would be leaving for the University of Michigan in a few days. The thought of that made her heart clutch.

  "Adam?"

  The captain grinned as Adam turned to face her. A slow smile slid across his face. He'd worn a black Ralph Lauren tux, with a typical Adam-like touch: a violet polka-dotted bow tie and matching cummerbund.

  Adam touched the captain lightly on the shoulder. "You'll excuse me. I've got something important to attend to."

  "I don't blame you one bit. You want to help me bring her--this ship, not the girl--back to harbor, come up here later."

  "I'd like that."

  Cammie watched as Adam and the captain shook hands, and Adam stepped out of the bridge to join her on the uppermost deck. From down below, on the first level, they could hear Django playing the Steinway grand piano that Dee had arranged for the boat, along with the low buzz of conversation as the guests assembled for the actual nuptials. Cammie knew she didn't have much time. Ten minutes, maybe.
But it would be enough to say what had to be said.

  "So," Adam said when he reached Cammie's side.

  "So. There's a few minutes until the ceremony starts. We need to talk."

  "There are some deck chairs in front of the bridge," Adam pointed out. "No one's there."

  "Works for me."

  They skirted the bridge via a narrow walkway to its left, on the ocean side of the vessel. Just as Adam had promised, there was a pair of white deck chairs with a low gleaming white table in between. Adam sat in one of them; Cammie dropped into the other. She looked out at the open expanse of sea, pitch black except for the glittering light that reflected off the water. The night was unusually clear for Los Angeles, and the stars were out in force, filling the sky.

  Adam scratched at the star tattoo behind his ear while he waited for her to speak. That was a good sign; a typical nervous gesture. Nervous was good. She didn't want to be the only one who was nervous in this conversation.

  "I'm glad we got a chance to talk at the rehearsal," she began.

  "He raised his eyebrows. "Instead of throwing things at each other? That would have been fun. But messy."

  "You pissed me off last month. When you were in Michigan. And didn't want to come back here."

  He shrugged. "I was conflicted. You've never been conflicted?"

  "Never," Cammie insisted, proudly tossing her strawberry-blond curls over her shoulder. She looked at Adam's open, honest face. "Okay. That was bullshit. I felt conflicted when Sam asked me to wear this goddamn pink bridesmaid's dress. Okay, that's bullshit too. I feel conflicted almost all the time."

  "Nice to hear you admit it." He crossed one leg over another, and Cammie saw he'd added another typical Adam touch: instead of black patent leather tux shoes, he'd worn black-and-white sneakers.

  "Fine. I admit it." She couldn't quite look at him as she continued. "I have a few other things to admit, too. I wasn't just pissed off. I was hurt. I admit that the only bad thing about working on the new club with Ben was that I wasn't working on it with you. I admit that no matter how much I tried to kick you out of my brain, you kept sneaking back in. I admit that I like myself a lot better when I'm with you, and I admit that the idea of you going back to Michigan and me staying here in Los Angeles makes me feel like I can't breathe. I admit that--"

  He held up one finger to his lips. "Stop. That's enough for one session on the witness stand."

  "But I'm not done."

  "Actually, you are." He leaned toward her and pressed his lips against hers. Slowly, gently, then more insistently. She couldn't speak. She could hardly breathe.

  When she came up from the sizzling kiss, she cautioned, "There is more to discuss."

  "There is, is there?" A smiled played across Adam's lips as he pulled back. He leaned against the table, and she stood in front of him. "Then spill."

  "Fine." She paced a few steps away before turning back to him. "I need to know: what's the weather like in Michigan this time of year?"

  Adam's face was clouded with confusion.

  "I need to know what to pack." She hoped that clarified it for him, because it was too embarrassing to repeat.

  "Who said anything about Michigan?"

  "Don't joke, this isn't funny. I, Cammie Sheppard, have just offered to accompany you to what I can only imagine is the armpit of America--"

  "Michigan happens to be wonderful, and you are an unadulterated snob," Adam corrected. There was no malice in his voice.

  "Fine. It's wonderful. I'm sure I'll love it," Cammie said sweetly.

  "Great," Adam agreed. "But I don't know why you're going there."

  Did she have to spell everything out?

  "For you, asshole."

  He ran a hand through his short dark hair. "Well, that's going to be a helluva commute, since I'm going to Pomona."

  "What?" Cammie put her hands on her pink-clad hips and stared at him. "Pomona College? As in, like, fifty miles away in Claremont?"

  "Yep. I was thinking about changing schools. I told you that. But I finally decided to stick around here. I figured you'd come to your senses eventually." He stood with a devilish smile and stepped over to her. "I was right."

  "Adam Flood, you did not say one word about Pomona!" she cried, batting him lightly with a manicured hand.

  "Cammie Sheppard, we're not always going to play everything your way."

  For the briefest moment, she felt her temper flare. But then she realized: if he had been willing to play everything her way, he wouldn't be the guy he was, the guy she wanted.

  "Okay."

  His eyebrows rose. "You agree with me?"

  "I do. So, want to come with me to look at some commercial space tomorrow? For my modeling agency? I'm meeting a broker."

  He entwined his fingers with hers. "Want to look at apartments in Pomona with me?"

  Cammie flipped her golden curls. "I don't do apartments. But I do do helicopters, which happen to fly from my dad's helipad at Apex out to Pomona. And I do do you. Given proper motivation, of course."

  "I'm going to kiss you again," he murmured, bringing her face close to his with one hand on her chin.

  "Don't say it, Adam. Just do it."

  And he did.

  City of AngelsFriday night, 8:20 p.m.

  Anna stood to the left side of the ten-foot arch of exotic flowers--candy pink anthuriums, crimson heliconias, and birds-of-paradise in every hue--and looked back toward the one hundred and fifty guests who were seated on both sides of the aisle. Dee had pulled it off. The wedding was going to happen. The sun had gone down completely, and tiny lights outlined the yacht. Others, recessed and subtle, washed the throng of people in a rich, golden ochre. The ocean lay inky beyond the confines of the boat. When Anna tilted her head back to look, she saw a sky full of stars.To her left and right stood Dee and Cammie, each in a pink bridesmaid's gown identical to Anna's. Back in January, she would never in a million years have imagined herself at another wedding with these girls, much less being members of the same wedding party together. Now, here they were in August--if not exactly friends, something much less than enemies. The thought pleased her. In fact, it pleased her a lot.

  The chief justice of the state Supreme Court stood directly in front of Anna. Like the ship's captain, he looked the way a judge was supposed to look. Tall and regal in his black robes, with thick silvery hair and intense dark eyes. He held up one hand for quiet. The audience hushed. Then he gave Django--who was sitting at the grand piano--a little nod. Django started to play an old love song Anna vaguely recognized. And then it came to her. It was "As Time Goes By," from the movie Casablanca. Anna smiled. How apt. How fitting. How perfect.

  "Here comes Sam," Dee whispered.

  Right on cue, Sam stepped out of the Look Sharpe's cabin as everyone beamed at her. Her face shone above her beautiful white dress. Anna didn't think she'd ever seen her friend look quite so luminous. There were actual shouts of, "Bravo, Sam!" as she took confident steps down the aisle toward the wedding party. Then, along with everyone else in attendance, she turned to face the main cabin as Django segued into, "Here Comes the Bride."

  Here she came. As the assembled guests rose as one, Dina--dressed in a simple pale blue evening dress designed by Gisella--walked alone down the aisle, tossing red and pink roses to cheers from the crowd. And making a movie star's entrance was her former husband, Jackson. He sneaked out from behind the wedding canopy to more cheers from the crowd, wearing a black Ted Lapidus tux with a pale blue cummerbund. Dina's former husband ... who was about to become her husband again.

  Sam had given Anna the shorthand version of what had happened. Evidently Jackson and Dina had been seeing each other. Sam knew they'd gotten friendly. But she had no idea that they'd gotten this friendly, until the night of the rehearsal dinner. Even then, neither of them had made a big deal of their reconnection, since they didn't know if anything would come of it.

  Well, something had come of it. The love they'd shared when they were young and str
uggling had bloomed again. They were older. Definitely wiser. Evidently, Jackson's type did go beyond vacuous young lollipop blondes with fake pneumatic breasts.

  Anna had to smile at the irony of it all. Did people ever really change, or did they all just run in circles only to end up where they'd been at the start? Or maybe the truth was more like in The Wizard of Oz. You could go on the longest journey only to discover that what you wanted was something you had all along.

  It took a long time for the cheers to die and the judge to begin.

  "We are gathered here this evening for a very special occasion," he declared.

  The ceremony was short, the vows traditional. Sam stood between Anna and Cammie, with her parents just in front of her. When the judge pronounced them husband and wife and said Jackson could kiss his bride, Anna saw tears in her friend's eyes, and realized that she was looking through some tears of her own.

  "Don't ever tell anyone I'm this sentimental," Sam whispered.

  Anna playfully nudged her hip into Sam's. "Your secret is safe with me."

  The ceremony ended with Django playing Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll." As the tuxedoed waitstaff whisked the chairs away and began setting up for dinner, guests crowded around Dina and Jackson, offering congratulations.

  Anna and Sam got champagne from a passing waiter and toasted each other.

  "Here's to the power of my father," Sam proposed. "Getting a divorce from Poppy through the courts of California in record time. It helps to have a friend who's on the Supreme Court."

  "But what about your mother?" Anna asked. "Wasn't she married too?"

  Sam shook her head. "Nope. Just had a boyfriend back in North Carolina. Emphasis on the past tense. Had."

  Sam clinked her champagne flute against Anna's. "Here's to us, Anna Percy. You have changed my life. Thanks."

  The clink of their glasses was lost to the growing whup-whup of a helicopter approaching the yacht.

  Sam cursed. "I bet the captain radioed in our coordinates. How much do you think the tabloids are paying him?"

  This, however, was no mere photographer's helicopter. From the way it hovered over the floodlit helipad on the yacht, it was clear that its intent was to touch down.