Bliss (11 page)

The sexy redhead next to him said, “I read for the alcoholic mother.”

“The
mother
?” asked Sophia. The redhead was in her late twenties. “Aren't you kind of young for that?”

“Once you hit twenty-eight, you read for the mother, even if you're supposed to have an eighteen-year-old kid.”

“That's crazy!”

The three of them shrugged, like
No duh, but whatcha gonna do?

The “mother” said, “Big news. I made an appointment with Dr. Loveglove.”

“Lucky!”

“Who?” asked Sophia.

Urban said, “Celeb diet doc. He's got magic pills that, supposedly, can make you lose, like, ten pounds in two weeks.”

“My friend Blair went to him, and it totally worked.”

“I need his number, like yesterday, bitch!” said the guy.

That launched a debate among them about the merits of bone-broth soup cleanses vs. an old-school coke binge for weight loss. Sophia stood to the side, pretending to be fascinated. She'd always been slim, and worked out (when she could) but never did anything fucking crazy like go to a doctor to prescribe pills, air, and water to fulfill your nutritional needs. The three actors didn't seem aware that she was zoning out. In fact, they were barely aware she was still standing there.

It got awkward, nodding along, as the three of them carried on their chat. She had to melt away, and find another group to pretend to listen to. Better still, she'd strike up a pleasant conversation and make a genuine human connection, which seemed about as likely at this party as finding gold in a bucket of mud. But you had to keep digging. Who knows what can happen?

Sophia got a text from Scott, saving her. “Find me by the pool. I might have a job for you!”

A job! He could have said, “It's true love!” and she wouldn't have felt a thing. But a job! That gave her a jolt. No need to excuse herself, she just walked away, squeezing through the thickening crowd, and spotted Scott by the sushi buffet in a small circle of two other men and one girl.

She joined them and was shocked to find a familiar face among them. “Hey, Renee!” she said, leaning in to give her a hug. “I hoped I'd run into you.”

“Sophia, good to see you,” said Renee, not nearly as excited to see Sophia.

“I left you a message.”

“Oh,” said Renee, not bothering to pretend she didn't receive it. What was wrong with her?

“You two know each other?” asked Scott.

“We work at the same club in Toronto,” said Sophia, smiling.

“Worked. I quit,” said Renee. To the other two men, she said, “That was before I starred in a Skyy vodka ad. We just finished the shoot. The ad should start running internationally in a few months. TV. Bus shelters. Internet. I'll be all over the place.”

Scott paused after Renee's self-promo moment. Then he said, “Sophia, I'd like you to meet Tom and Chuck. They run Rx Studios.”

Chuck was around forty, with a cracked-leather tan, slicked-back hair, and a single diamond stud in his left ear. He was the West Coast equivalent of the jerks in the VIP section at CRUSH.

“What's Rx Studios?” she asked.

“A production company,” said Tom, the shorter version of Chuck. “We produce TV ads. Some are for products. You've heard of Shampow? We did that. Some are for health care products. So if you have pills or drops for dry eyes, or a dry mouth, or a dry vagina, you come to us.”

When Tom said “vagina,” they smirked at each other.

Attn: Demi. Please appear out of thin air!
They'd have a field day with this.
Once a frat boy, always a frat boy
. Sophia said to Renee, “This is so weird, bumping into each other. Who do you know at the party?”

Renee glared at her. “I'm here with a friend.” Then she beamed at Chuck and Tom. “Tell me about the ad campaign you're working on.”

Scott said, “Yes, that's why I called you over, Sophia. I couldn't help overhearing Tom and Chuck talking to … Reba? Renee, yes. They were discussing some of the ads they're currently casting.”

Chuck said, “The big one right now is for a chat line called Hot Links.”

“Chat lines? They still exist?” asked Scott.

Sophia said, “And they advertise on TV?”

The ad guys said, “It's low-budge, late-night stuff. But it's still a big market. We need a girl to hold a phone like it's her boyfriend's dick, and say, ‘Call Hot Links for a Hot Night!'”

Renee nodded, like this was the job opportunity of a lifetime. “Sounds so fun!” Seriously?

Tom (or Chuck?) said to Sophia, “Turn profile, sweetheart. Good. Now the other. Do a spin. You are a gorgeous girl. You don't have a bad side. Including the back side.”

Scott skillfully blocked the ad man from taking a swat at Sophia's butt.

“Can I have my agent send you my reel?” asked Renee.

“We're looking for actors,” said Tom. “The girl will have to read a few lines. Models are better seen, not heard.”

“I have more acting credits than she does,” said Renee petulantly. “Sophia's never been called back for anything.” Turning toward her, Renee added, “But don't get discouraged. You hang in there. Something will come up.”

Sophia's blood boiled, and her smile got bigger. When pissed, she smiled and nodded. It was a defense mechanism.

Renee had been in LA for a few weeks, and the transformation was complete. Not a trace of her Canadian party girl persona remained. She was a shark now, ready to fight to the death over a chat line ad. Sophia wasn't going to take the bait. She was better than that, and preferred the high road. Renee was welcome to Tom and Chuck. She apparently needed them, badly.

Renee smiled at her, eyes telegraphing,
Try me, little girl
.

Scott said, “Now, now. Plenty of hot links to go around.”

Tom pointed at Sophia's strappy sandals. “I couldn't help noticing your feet, Sophia. We're also doing an ad for a toe fungus medication. You'd be a shoe in for it!”

He and Chuck laughed and high-fived each other.

Scott rolled his eyes, and mouthed,
Sorry
.

“I'm auditioning for some TV pilots, so I can't commit to anything else right now,” she said. A graceful rejection. “But Renee seems to be available for any body part you need.” She smiled and tried to steer Scott away from the others.

Before they got five steps, Renee spun her around to face her. “I get it,” she said. “I really do. If I were you, I'd be jealous of me, too. I'm getting work, and you're striking out. When the princess doesn't get what she wants, she has to shit on everyone else.”

“I can't believe I ever thought you were my friend,” said Sophia.

“You always thought you were better than me,” said Renee. “Now we know the truth.”

Damn right! The truth was, Renee hadn't been cheering on and supporting Sophia, like she thought they were for each other. Renee had been rooting for Sophia to fail. The difference between them was suddenly blazingly clear. She wondered what in her manner came off as superior or smug. She had no idea. Sophia didn't look down on Renee, she just believed in herself. They'd talked a few times about Renee's hardscrabble childhood, and she remembered Renee saying, “You can always fall back on your parents, Sophia. I don't have that luxury.” It seemed, at the time, like an observation, not a condemnation. Renee's resentment toward her was scalding. All along Renee had secretly hated her.

“It was great to see you, Renee,” said Sophia diplomatically. “Maybe we'll run into each other again.”

“Now you're going to tell everyone back home that I've turned into an asshole.”

“If the fungus fits,” muttered Scott, which made Sophia laugh, and Renee furious.

“You'll never be a star, Sophia. You don't deserve it. You don't have the talent. In five years, you won't have your looks either.”

Sophia had reached her limit. On pure, angry impulse, she pushed Renee into the pool. When the bartender came sputtering to the surface, she shrieked, “You bitch! I borrowed this dress from the set!”

Scott and Sophia watched her splash around the shallow end. He said, “You just threw her in the pool. On purpose.”

“By accident,” she lied. A girl can only be pushed so far before she has to push back. She wasn't proud of it, but … well, maybe a little.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he said.

“I don't have a bad side, remember?” she said.

 

6

sometimes, destination kicks journey's ass

Leandra received a text from Sophia with a picture of some pool in Hollywood.

She lowered her sunglasses to get a better look at it. “How quaint,” she said to herself. She lifted her delicately pointed chin to take in her own view of an open-air infinity pool on the top floor of the highest building in Bangkok. A waiter in a crisp white jacket had just brought breakfast—croissants, sticky rice, dragon fruit, purple mangosteens, and a steaming porcelain pot of Thai tea—to her private cabana, where she lounged on a cushioned sofa. After she ate, she'd sun herself and then do a few laps. Swimming to the edge of the pool was like gliding straight off the roof and into the clouds. She was on top of the world.

Just goes to show, no matter how hard you tried, you could never predict the ups and downs of life. One day, you're a pathetic victim, crying on the dingy shoulder of a dinky hotel manager in Phuket. The next, you're in a suite at a five-star hotel in Bangkok with a massage scheduled after lunch.

She had only one person to thank for the incredible swing in her circumstances: herself. When Leandra lost everything, including her pride, her first thought was to go crying to her parents, like a little bitch. But she held off. They would have insisted she come home. Leandra couldn't quit after one bad day. She had to keep it going somehow. So she called the only person she sort of knew in the entire country, her mom's friend's son, Charlie Lemming. What a brilliant stroke that turned out to be.

She remembered him vaguely as a roly-poly mouthbreather from New York. She'd made a much better impression on him. “Leandra Hunting,” he said, picking up the phone. “My mom told me you were coming to Thailand! I'm so glad you called. I really hoped you would.”

She told him what had happened. He was so eager to help; it was like she did him a favor by letting him. Three days later, he'd arranged for her to get a replacement passport, and booked her a first-class ticket to Bangkok. Her only complaint: She was forced to stay at the same run-down shack of a hotel until the paperwork was sorted out. The manager bent over backward to make her as comfortable as possible, and he didn't charge her for the room or any of her meals. It was the least he could do! She ate as much food and drank as many mai tais as she could keep down. She left Karon Beach with a radiant tan and an extra five pounds. If she still had any of her old clothes, they wouldn't fit. She'd been living in voluminous sarongs and Thai fisherman pants that tied around the waist and made anyone look like a whale. Fine for the beach, but not in the city. The day before her flight to Bangkok, Charlie wired her some traveling cash. She spent it all on a few new outfits, some makeup, and a suitcase. For the flight, though, she slobbed out in her grubby fisherman pants, flip-flops, and a T-shirt.

At the airport in Bangkok, Leandra was pleasantly surprised to find a black-suited driver waiting to pick her up. The driver didn't speak English. All he could tell her, on repeat, was, “We go see Mr. Charlie.” She could call Charlie and demand to know what was happening, or she could just settle into the buttery leather seats of the limo, have a glass of champagne, and stop worrying. It's not about the destination, she reminded herself, it's about the journey. She would sit back, and enjoy the ride.

Before long, she realized the limo was headed toward a white building that towered over all the others around it. Its roof was a golden, gleaming dome. She recognized the structure from
Hangover III
and her pretrip googling as the Tower Club, one of the architectural jewels of the city. The limo pulled to a stop at the hotel's curb. The driver said, “You go up. Mr. Charlie wait for you.”

“Up there?” she asked.

He bowed and said, “Sky Bar.”

She couldn't go to the most expensive club in Bangkok looking like cat puke. “I need to change.” Her suitcase was in the limo trunk.

“Okay,” said the driver, nodding, not moving.

“My lug-gage,” she spoke slowly.

He smiled and bowed. “Okay.”

She rolled her eyes and banged the trunk door with the palm of her hand, then pantomimed carrying a suitcase. Sometimes Leandra hated how entitled she should be, but if she didn't fend for herself no one else would. The driver finally got it, and opened the trunk. She rummaged through her new things for a no-label silk shirtdress in electric blue and strappy sandals—nowhere near her usual standards, but they'd have to do—and her new makeup kit. After half an hour in the backseat, she was presentable.