Vegas Envy (2 page)

The label came at her with harsh new contract clauses limiting recording session costs and promotional expenses, even demanding that she personally absorb the glam-squad bills for television and other live appearances. When she refused, Universal quietly dropped her in what was explained as a ‘strategic reorganization of the artist roster in a challenging industry environment.’

The bleeding did not stop there. Citing years of low sales, Cody fazed out the Envy fragrance line. Perfume was a highly competitive arena with new products from bigger and hotter names always jockeying for counter space. Envy was merely a star. But women like Jennifer Aniston, Sarah Jessica Parker, Beyonce, and Mariah Carey were icons. Game over.

CHAPTER THREE
Green Envy

‘The problem is your expensive lifestyle,’ January was saying. The tone of her voice – an irritating mixture of accusation and condescension – broke Envy out of her rags-to-riches-back-to-rags reverie. ‘Even if you’d been my client ten years ago when you were at your income-producing peak, I still would’ve told you that. Careers like yours are always shorter than anticipated. Cash management is key.’

Envy gave January a polar glare. ‘So this has nothing to do with the fact that a sociopathic criminal stole all my money? Or that greedy Wall Street traders gambled on the foundation of individual investment and fucked up the housing industry? The blame is on me?’

January blanched, her pale cheeks turning a pale pink. There was a certain recognition in her eyes, as if realizing for the first time that Envy was not some stupid model. She had a brain for business. And right now it was being used to make January look like the idiot in the room. ‘Of course not. But you have to make drastic lifestyle changes. Immediately.’

Envy quietly fretted about how drastic those changes would have to be.

‘For example, you can no longer afford hotel rooms like this,’ January went on, sweeping a dramatic hand as if to take in all of the grand, useless space.

Envy sneered. ‘Where do you expect me to stay? At a Days Inn?’

‘Maybe,’ January shot back. ‘And until you start working again even that might be beyond your budget.’

‘I’m trying,’ Envy groaned. ‘I was attached to a new film, but the lead actor and director dropped out, and now the project’s in turnaround.’

‘You’re a singer, too. Go on a concert tour.’ January suggested this as if such a thing could be put together as easily as a small dinner party.

‘Who’s going to back me for a tour?’ Envy asked matter-of-factly. ‘I don’t sing live. I don’t have a touring base. I don’t do well in merchandise sales. The best I could hope for is a string of bookings at gay clubs in the major markets. But I don’t have any new music to promote.’

‘Then I suggest a fire sale – jewelry, furniture, art, clothing. Anything that can be turned into cash.’ January stared at the near-blinding solitaires adorning Envy’s earlobes. ‘The truth about diamonds is that they’re nice to wear.’ She paused a beat. ‘But food and shelter is nicer.’

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

January looked at her strangely. ‘Why would I?’

‘I’ve been on magazine covers, I’ve dated movie stars, and now you get to come here and put the beautiful bitch in her place.’

‘I didn’t drive all the way from Los Angeles to gloat. I did it because this is my job. And as for dating movie stars, a long time ago I dreamed about marrying Mel Gibson. Well, thankfully, that prayer was never answered. I’m happy with my life. Maybe my husband’s a boring research scientist, but he’s stable and doesn’t threaten to burn the house down if I fall asleep before giving him a blow job.’

Envy laughed. Really laughed. For the first time in days.

January managed a smile as she buried her face in her hands. ‘I can’t believe I just said that. It was so unprofessional. Please accept my apology.’

‘No apology necessary,’ Envy assured her.

January began gathering up the papers. ‘I can’t help you liquidate your personal property. That’s not my area. But I can put you in touch with some contacts at auction houses.’

‘Maybe I’ll just have a garage sale in Beverly Hills,’ Envy said wryly.

January stood up and smoothed down her skirt. ‘There’s one certainty when it comes to an entertainer’s career, and that’s dry spells. Call me when you start working. We can rebuild your financial life. I advocate two years of expenses in cash and a portfolio of income-producing assets like dividend-paying stocks and bonds.’ She dropped an embossed business card on the table and shook Envy’s hand. ‘I have another client to see. He’s the most successful poker player on the Strip. It should be interesting.’ She started for the door. ‘I’m available if you have questions about anything.’ And then January Knight walked out.

CHAPTER FOUR
Blue Envy

It was noon in Las Vegas. The heavy curtains were closed, eclipsing the bright sun. Envy drank some of the warm champagne, a gift from the London Hotel’s management. It had been waiting in the suite when she checked in last night.

Maybe they had read the columns and felt sorry for her. Maybe the next delivery would be a bouquet of flowers and a note announcing that the room was being comped. Envy could hope. But the better guess was that the celebrity-friendly fools still thought she was a star with money, a big spender who could make good on a bill sky high with in-room and on-property charges.

The bubbly made her drowsy. It dawned on her that she had only sipped half a cup of green tea for breakfast. The alcohol was going straight to her brain. She crawled into bed wearing her diamonds and the Celine dress of the season. It was nice here, cocooned in the darkness, vaguely buzzing, lost in her private little world.

People were so strange about money. The news of Marc Cohen’s arrest and the list of his bilked clients – at least the famous ones – had generated enough coverage to get passed around the Hollywood playground: the stars, managers, agents, publicists, lawyers, therapists, life coaches, assistants, nannies, stylists, makeup artists, personal trainers, even housekeepers and gardeners. They were all talking about it. And yet nobody was calling her.

Of course, she had heard from Cinnamon, a friend from her 90s era modeling days. Tall, lean and as black as coal, Cinnamon worked a wild, dangerous strut that brought to mind a panther on amphetamines. She had been sought after for runway work but struggled to land the bigger editorial assignments and product endorsements, a set of circumstances that led to a notoriously bad attitude and a serious cocaine addiction. For a long period she just dropped out of sight, then re-emerged as Cinnamon Foster, the wife of the New York Knicks star forward Damien Foster. Now she was an NBA wife, raising children, working for charities, and keeping a killer eye on the man-eating groupies who dared to go after her husband.

Cinnamon had been like the few others who reached out upon hearing the news – sympathetic (Oh, you poor thing), judgmental (How could you trust this man with everything?), and quick to point out that all of her funds were tied up in long-term conservative investments (Don’t ask me for a loan).

It stung that Envy had not heard from Him. Mr. Movie Star. Her one real love and longest romantic relationship. But he was probably too busy with his young starlet bride, their fashion-plate tabloid toddler, and his crazy religion. After seven years together, he had left Envy for a gorgeous British ice queen, and then he left her for a television actress from the moronic CW teen soap, Senior Year. Apparently, being 22 years old and having a blank Stepford-like countenance were qualities that soothed his anxieties about marriage. That would explain why he had proposed to the insipid girl within six weeks.

He had long ago promised that he would always be there for anything Envy needed. All she had to do was call. That was the sentiment on the card accompanying the pink roses that arrived on her birthday each year. And so she finally had. In fact, she had called him three times. The first voicemail was tearful, the second was calm, and the vodka-fueled third one – the message she wished she could take back – was full of hurt, anger, and old resentments.

Envy pushed away thoughts of her most significant ex and began ruminating over all the beautiful and treasured possessions she would have to part with. The situation made for a quiet sadness, and she cried softly into the pillow until she drifted off to sleep. When she woke up, it took a moment to get properly oriented. What time was it? What day was it?

She stretched out for her BlackBerry. There were no missed calls and no texts. A stab of loneliness pierced her heart. Coming to Las Vegas for a change of scenery was hardly the magical answer. She felt worse than ever. All she had done was add to the mountain of bills she could not pay. It stunned her that she had slept for ten hours straight. Who knew that going broke could be so goddamn exhausting?

Envy ventured into the living area and noticed an envelope slipped under the door. At first, she feared it might be some kind of eviction notice. But it was just the opposite – another gift from management, this one with a personal letter attached.

Dear Envy,

I hope that you are enjoying your stay at the London Hotel. It is indeed a privilege to have you as our guest. We are pleased to present this exclusive lifetime membership to Tramp Las Vegas as our gift to you. If you have any special requests, please ask for the nightclub manager, Jab Hunter. He stands at the ready to assist you in any way possible.

With All Best Wishes,

Hart Fox, London Hotel Group CEO

Envy ran her fingertip over the sleek black card. She knew the Tramp in London well. Its legendary club impresario, Johnny Gold, had taken her under his protective wing when she was a naïve, starry-eyed, underage model. His strict rules: No more than two drinks in a six-hour period; avoid drugs of any kind; stay away from rock stars. Those were tenets she still lived by.

Envy smiled. This was an invitation she could not pass up. After all, it was her last night in Vegas, a place she would not be returning to anytime soon. Why not enjoy a little fun? She took her time getting ready, then trundled down to the lobby looking every bit the million dollars she was no longer worth.

Envy knew she was leg-alicious in a pair of glam-rock gold snakeskin pants so tight that saying they appeared painted on would be a gross understatement. There were overstatements too, like the heavy metal jewelry (literally weighing her down) and the Elie Tahari fur vest (sure to guarantee her a spot on PETA’s shit list). Add the vicious Roberto Cavalli spike-heeled booties and her trademark hair – at its blondest and most voluminous ever. She was 40-is-the-new-30 personified, a tip-top goddess who truly lived up to her single moniker . . . Envy.

CHAPTER FIVE
Pink Envy

The clock flirted with midnight by the time she arrived. Tramp Las Vegas was already a mob scene. But it was still early. The real chaos would begin in two to three hours. Throngs of please-let-us-in types were harassing the muscled bald bouncer and getting nowhere fast. He looked like the kind of beast whose idea of relaxation was training in Krav Maga, the Israeli army’s combat method.