6:40
P.M
., PST
W
hen Anna saw Poppy Sinclair float down the aisle, she gasped. Even many months pregnant, Poppy was a beautiful young woman. But her wedding gown, with its thousands of bugle beads surrounded by sequins and pearls, plus the enormous train, was so over the top that Poppy looked like Barbie interpreted by Roberto Benigni. On acid.
The entire wedding procession was like that. First, two little girls in exact miniatures of Poppy’s bridal gown preceded her, tossing rose petals from gold baskets. Then ten bridesmaids in deeply awful dresses. Considering how incredibly rude Sam had been to her, Anna took some pleasure in seeing how unflattering the dress was on Sam. She looked like a semi-ugly gilded ducking amid nine golden swans. The bridesmaids were escorted by ten gold-vested groomsmen. Jackson Sharpe, who winked and mugged for his friends, followed them. And then finally Poppy, whose twenty-foot bridal train was held off the red carpet by eight young boys wearing Little Lord Fauntleroy knickers and riding jackets.
The ceremony was mercifully brief. Not that Anna could keep her mind on it. After her disastrous second encounter with the charming Rick Resnick, she’d wanted to make a graceful exit. But Ben had insisted they stay, saying that none of those people mattered. Reluctantly she’d agreed.
“I now pronounce you soul mates,” said the minister, a woman she vaguely recognized from a
New York Times
article about New Age religious leaders. With those words, Jackson Sharpe embraced Poppy, the couple shared a long kiss, and the
People
photographers immortalized the moment from every conceivable angle. Then Jackson Sharpe—whose late father had been Jewish—smashed a wineglass under his heel, and the string quartet began “Endless Love.”
“Quite an experience,” Ben said to Anna with a chuckle as the wedding recessional began. He consulted an engraved card that had been handed to him when they’d entered the observatory, which laid out the schedule for the wedding. “It says here that we’ll be having dinner out on the main lawn.”
“But we came from that direction, and there weren’t any tents.”
“Hey, if Poppy wants it, the best party planners in the west can build it. I’d bet on it.” He took Anna’s hand, and they followed the crowd down another of the ubiquitous red carpets. This one stretched from the main rotunda into the night.
Once outside, Anna was amazed at the transformation. Floodlights beamed skyward, like at a movie premiere. A giant circus tent had been erected, with warm-air blowers to keep the temperature balmy. Countless round tables and chairs circled a wooden dance floor. The walls were decorated with floor-to-ceiling posters from Jackson and Poppy’s films, and an orchestra on a raised stage played the love theme from
Romeo and Juliet.
“Aren’t you glad we stayed now?” Ben asked.
Mostly. At least the more stubborn part of Anna was—the part that didn’t want to let those crowing girls win so easily.
“It is amazing,” Anna allowed.
“Amazing,” Ben agreed, smiling down at her. “Dance with me.”
Anna’s lips tugged upward in a smile. “I think protocol is to wait for the bride and groom.”
“Ah, clearly you don’t know about the Hollywood second-or-more-marriage-for-the-groom proviso.”
Ben’s blue eyes twinkled at her. Anna felt as if she could fall into their endless blue. “And what would that be?”
“Protocol isn’t broken unless you’re actually
on
the dance floor. Which, you’ll notice, we aren’t.”
Right there, between tables, Ben put his arms around her, and they began to dance. For Anna everything—the tables, the tacky decor, her lingering concerns about the incredibly rude girls she’d met, her inauspicious afternoon with her father, even obnoxious Rick Resnick—seemed to melt away.
When the band changed songs, Anna and Ben found their seats. To Anna’s dismay, they were seated with Cammie and Dee; Sam was at one of the tables reserved for the wedding party. Except for Anna, everyone at the table knew everyone else, so Ben introduced her around. To her right was Adam Flood, a cute, blue-haired, open-faced guy who seemed like an actual human being. Besides Adam, Cammie, and Dee, there was a Parker, a Skye, a Damian, and a Krishna, who were obviously stoned out of their minds, plus others whose names Anna couldn’t remember.
At each gold place setting was a small wrapped box from Tiffany. Anna opened hers. Inside was a gold charm bracelet with one heart-shaped charm monogrammed with Jackson and Poppy’s names. Ben’s box held a gold money clip with the same monogram.
Krishna dangled the charm bracelet as if it were used tissue. “This is
so
tacky.” Then out of nowhere she added, “So, Anna, I heard you and Ben did the nasty six miles over Denver.”
Damian, who had dark hair, an indolent face, and blinding diamond studs in both ears, hoisted what looked to be a glass of scotch in Anna’s direction. “My kind of girl.”
Wrong, Anna thought. Horribly and totally wrong. Word had clearly gotten around, and it was all she could do to keep her mouth shut, so badly did she want to correct this misconception. But she knew how she would sound: guilty. Under the table Ben gave her hand a squeeze of solidarity.
The he-geishas had removed their makeup and changed into ordinary tuxedos to serve dinner. They set prawn-and-pear salads before each guest; the stoned kids lit into the food before everyone else at the table had even been served.
“So Anna, how did you and Ben really hook up?” Skye asked, stabbing enthusiastically at a prawn.
Cammie and Dee tittered, which helped Anna decide the best defense was a good offense. “Actually, Ben and I did meet on the plane. Other elements of the story may have gotten exaggerated. Anyway, I know quite a few people here.”
“In the biblical sense?” Cammie asked, ignoring the appetizer and motioning for more champagne.
“Meow,” Skye purred, laughing.
“Give it a rest, Cammie,” Ben instructed.
“Touchy, touchy,” Cammie said, as if the whole conversation was just too, too amusing.
“What Anna and I did or didn’t do, where we met, how we met, or anything else about us is not going to be dinner conversation, so how about if we just change the subject?” Ben looked over at Parker. “How’s showbiz?”
“Oh, you know,” Parker said vaguely. “I’m up for a few things.”
“Parker has the lead in all the school plays,” Dee explained to Anna. “Did you ever hear of a movie called
Killing Spree IV?
He was the mean boyfriend who gets flattened by a runaway Segway.”
“I must have missed it,” Anna said politely.
“Most people did,” Dee said. “It went right to DVD.”
“No offense, dude, but that movie sucked muchly,” Damian opined.
Parker shrugged good-naturedly. “I know. Hey, no one starts in the big time. Gotta pay your dues.” He added a wink in Anna’s direction.
Anna loathed guys who winked. Except for Ben, of course. When he’d winked at her on the plane, he’d raised the gesture to an art form. “God, everyone in this town thinks they’re a future star,” Skye groaned. “It’s so totally boring and predictable.”
“You’re just feeling negative because your moon is in Jupiter,” Dee explained as she nibbled on the tiniest bit of prawn. “I used to do charts,” she added for Anna’s benefit. “What sign are you, Anna?”
“Obviously not a Virgo.” Damian smirked.
“Shut up,” Ben said with a tight smile.
Dee turned to Cammie. “You know, you’re a Scorpio and Ben’s an Aquarius, which pretty much spells disaster. Maybe that was the problem. You know. The reason you guys broke up.”
Cammie smiled coldly and rose. “Anyone else need the ladies’ room? Dee?” she asked pointedly.
“Oh. Okay.” Dee rose, too, and the two girls strode off.
Ben leaned toward Anna. “I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable for you.”
“It’s not a problem.” She was careful to keep her face neutral and took a sip of her wine. She’d already guessed about Ben and Cammie, she reminded herself. There was no need to react.
“I was going to tell you about Cammie—”
“You don’t owe me any explanations, Ben.”
“So Anna,” Parker began as he buttered a roll, “when do classes start again for you guys?”
It took Anna a moment to realize that he thought she went to Princeton with Ben. “I don’t go to Princeton,” she explained. “Actually, I’m still in high school. Or I would be, except … it’s complicated.”
Parker sipped his champagne. “No shit. I thought for sure you were already in college.”
“So are you going to stay and go to school here?” Skye asked.
“Actually, I’ll be doing an internship at Randall Prescott Literary Agency.”
“Are you kidding? My mother is an agent there,” Skye exclaimed. “Wait, you mean you get out of doing senior year?”
“I finished junior year with enough credits to graduate, actually, so—”
“No way,” Skye insisted as she slathered a roll with butter. “God, I’d love to bag the rest of senior year. I am so over Beverly Hills High.” She took a huge bite of the roll.
“Jeez, Skye, why don’t you have a little roll with your butter?” Krishna asked, staring with distaste.
“I’ve got the munchies.” Skye took another bite of her roll. “Besides, it’s not like you couldn’t lose a few 1-b’s.”
“Hel-
lo
, who zipped up size-zero jeans at Barneys last week?”
“Screw you,” Skye said. But she put the roll down.
That there was competition to be the thinnest was nothing new to Anna—so many of her friends in Manhattan had the same obsession. Anna knew how fortunate she was to be naturally slender. She’d taken ballet for years because she loved it; it was her main form of exercise.
Anna was glad when Adam began asking her questions about her move to Beverly Hills, since people kept coming over to their table to chat up Ben about Princeton. Obviously Ben had a lot of friends. Anna didn’t mind that. She wouldn’t even have been upset by an encounter with Ben’s ex-girlfriend. That is, if Ben’s ex-girlfriend had been something other than Medusa in stilettos. If only Anna could have done what Athena had done and turned Cammie’s gorgeous hair into writhing snakes. Well, she couldn’t, so she’d just have to put up with the girl.
One thing was for sure: Having Cammie Sheppard as an ex didn’t say anything good about Ben at all.
7:17
P.M
., PST
“I
thought we were going to the ladies’ room,” Dee reminded Cammie, practically trotting to keep up with Cammie’s long stride.
“Well, we’re not.” Cammie pushed out a door with a large red Exit sign above it. Fortunately, no alarms went off. The girls were behind the observatory, where there was nothing but a patch of grass that led into dense woods.
Cammie opened her purse and rummaged around until she came up with half a joint. “Light?”
Dee found some matches in her purse and handed them to Cammie.
Cammie read the cover. “Art’s Delicatessen in Studio City?”
“My father eats there,” Dee said defensively.
Cammie shrugged, lit the joint, and held it out to Dee.
“No thanks. There’s all kind of chemicals in weed these days. I don’t smoke unless I know who grew it.”
Cammie took another hit. “More for me. So, what do you think of her?”
“Who her? Oh,
her,
her. Ben’s her.”
“Ben’s her, my ass. They just met, Dee,” Cammie reminded her friend. “So, I’m hotter, right?”
“Maybe Ben cares about more than surface appearances.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Well, she’s classic, in a certain way.”
“Classic colorless, cold bitch. She looks like she’s wearing a chastity belt.” Cammie snubbed out the joint and carefully put it back in her purse. “Ben will get sick of her in about five minutes.”
“I don’t think so,” Dee said. “He seems to be really, really into her and—”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, of course,” Dee replied. Letting Cammie know how she felt about Ben was even more dangerous than letting Sam know. But Dee was used to covering up how she really felt about things. She just made her voice a little breathier and her eyes go really wide. Which was exactly what she did now.
“I’m not saying she’s any real comp for you, Cammie,” Dee added, hedging her bets. “You know that.”
“Right,” Cammie agreed. She giggled as the pot hit her. “Oh, yeah. I feel so much better.”
“Let’s go in—I really have to pee,” Dee said.
“I’m not ready. Pretend you’re Bambi. Go in the woods.”
“That wouldn’t be very sanitary, Cammie.”
Cammie laughed. “You are too funny. You’re worried about ‘sanitary’ after your last so-called boyfriend? Wasn’t he the one who never wore underwear?”
“It wasn’t his fault; his cleaning lady was deported.”
Cammie took out her compact and looked in the mirror, fluffing up her mass of curls. “How can that washed-out blonde compare to
this
? Answer: She can’t.” She put her compact back in her purse. “I think it’s time for a little divine intervention.”
“Prayer can be really helpful, Cammie,” Dee said, crossing her legs, she had to go so badly. “And I swear to God, I really have to pee.”
Cammie shot her friend a withering look. “Not
prayer
,” she spat. “There are three things that are truly divine, Dee: that fat transvestite who starred in all the John Waters movies; forgiveness—although that one is highly overrated—and me, when I take Ben’s bitch down.”
“Everything is
so
nice,” Cammie said, smiling at her tablemates. “Nice, nice, nice.”
Anna felt certain that Cammie had gotten stoned in the ladies’ room. Her pupils were the size of pennies, and she had a really stupid grin on her face. Of course, there was an upside: Cammie was no longer being bitchy. Frankly, Anna was happy for the respite.
“Here comes the daughter of the groom,” Cammie sang out to the tune of “Here Comes the Bride.” “She looks so-o-o-o pretty.”
Sure enough, Sam was heading for their table, now sporting the figure-flattering black dress.
Dee smiled. “I found that dress for her. It’s a size
ten,”
she added significantly.