Hollywood Girls Club (21 page)

“Work for me? Who?” Celeste asked.

“Kiki Dee,” Lydia said.

Chapter 21

Mary Anne and Her Anna Molinari Flats

Mary Anne sat in Lydia’s living room, relegated to the role of tissue passer. Mascara trailed from Christina’s long lashes to her chin. Heaving sobs shook her thin frame. Lydia had fled the scene to find Zymar, hoping to prevent a jail sentence for him and bodily harm to Bradford, who wasn’t in the house but was making his absence felt by lighting up the phones (all six lines, including Christina’s cell).

“I feel so silly,” Christina said, and blew her blotchy red nose. “I mean it’s a fling, really.”

Christina glanced at Mary Anne, who interpreted the look as a request for confirmation. She nodded.

“It’s not like we were,” Christina sniffled, “in,” she said, grabbing another tissue, “love,” she wailed, her emotions breaking apart again.

Mary Anne kicked off her Anna Molinari flats. She felt sad for Christina and a little mournful for herself. Images of the afternoon she’d walked in on Viève and Steve flitted through her mind.

“I mean, I know actors. I understand. I’ve been on film sets my entire life. My mother’s an actress—she’s been married three times. I get it,” Christina said, as if trying to convince herself. “It’s just that”—she grabbed yet another tissue—“he seemed different, he seemed different when he was with me.” Her forlorn face implored Mary Anne to spout words of wisdom.

“Maybe he was,” Mary Anne said.

“What?”

“Different when he was with you.”

“Yeah, right, more like just a fucking good actor,” Christina shot back, rubbing the tissue under her eyes.

“No, really. Maybe with you he was the very best he could be, as a man, but …” Mary Anne paused, testing out her next words in her mind.

“But what?” Christina asked and sniffled.

“But that’s just it. When you were around, you helped him to be this really great guy, the Bradford Madison he always wanted to be, but when you weren’t around—”

“He became the self-absorbed, nihilistic prick he always was?”

Mary Anne allowed herself a small smile. “You can’t change someone’s behavior. You can’t love him into being someone he’s not, and you can’t blame yourself for his decisions.”

Christina bit her lower lip. “I know all that. I get it, but it still just absolutely sucks.” She glanced out the window. “What is it with men? Do they ever get any control?”

Mary Anne sighed and shook her head. “So far, I say no.”

In the land of sunshine, community property, silicone, and starter husbands, did marriage even really matter? The longer Mary Anne lived in Los Angeles and worked in Hollywood, the more she was surprised that anyone still married. Everyone, it seemed, traded up every two years.
Why not sign a lease agreement for a relationship instead of entering into a marriage?
Commit for a finite period of time, and then move on; maybe if you knew at the beginning of the relationship that you only had so long together (not open-ended, like until death do you part), it’d be easier for men to keep their dicks in their pants. Perhaps the key to maintaining a relationship was even easier: Never give your heart away. Never be vulnerable. Never fall in love. It seemed to work for Lydia—or it had before Zymar.

“That’s enough of a pity party for me.” Christina took a deep breath. “Besides, I’m back to London in three days, and I don’t want to waste this last little bit of time crying over that bugger.”

Mary Anne admired Christina’s strength. Finding Steve in bed (well, on the couch) with Viève had left her rocking and wailing in Sylvia’s apartment for at least four days, unable to eat or speak. Mitsy had threatened to come out and have Mary Anne committed if she didn’t at least return her calls.

“Okay then, I am going upstairs to destroy every gift Bradford Madison gave me, except the diamond necklace—that I’m keeping. Then I’m going shopping.”

“Retail therapy?” Mary Anne asked. She hadn’t even known the term existed prior to meeting Celeste.

“Exactly,” Christina said, smiling tentatively. “And then we are going out tonight.”

“We?”

“Yes, Nobu first and then to Tantric.”

“The new club in Hollywood?” Mary Anne raised her eyebrows.

“Opened last weekend. Very hot.”

“Hmm, not sure,” Mary Anne hedged, looking down at the red toenail polish chipping off her toes (she’d failed to maintain her pedicure).

“Mary Anne, you have to,” Christina said, her bottom lip quivered. “I asked Cici earlier if she’d go and she promised, but that will be a mob scene. I won’t have anyone to speak to if you’re not there. Besides, what if I run into Bradford, or worse, Brie?”

Mary Anne sighed. “Okay.”

“The car will get you at eight.”

*

Mary Anne sat in a semicircular booth in the VIP section of Tantric, watching as Cici gyrated on the dance floor below with a gorgeous man-child who couldn’t have been older than twenty. Cici turned and slid her ass against the man-boy’s privates, proudly displaying a white Vivienne Westwood shirt with a neckline that plunged to her belly and showed off not only her perky breasts, but her chiseled abs and tiny belly button. Enough friction to start a forest fire.

“Time to make a friend,” Christina picked up her mojito and gestured toward the bar. “That’s Boom Boom, Cici’s publicist’s assistant. She’ll love this dirt on Brie.” Christina gave Mary Anne a wicked grin and walked to the red VIP rope. Christina nodded at the bouncer, who quickly unfastened the barrier as he ogled Christina in her Jean Paul Gaultier boots and Emanuel Ungaro short shorts.

Mary Anne scanned the club. She’d now participated in “the scene” a half dozen times, but she was always surprised to see the same faces flitting about: Vilmer, Zach, Jessica, Nikki and Paris—always out, always at a new club, and always drinking.

Mary Anne wasn’t surprised, however, when she and the girls quickly attracted two gadflies and a hanger-on. They magically appeared everywhere, and tonight, as soon as the waitress started the bottle service (at $750 for Cristal), the three ladies had company. One was a “baby” celebrity with a show on Fox—or was it CW? The girl either had a massive crush on Cici or a tendency for stalking. She’d practically plopped herself on Cici’s lap trying to get close. A second hanger-on (or maybe working man) was the dirty dancer now running his hands across Cici’s ass and thighs. And finally, next to the actress sat a celebutante with nothing much for talent other than her sparkling blue eyes, her father’s name, and her immense bank account. Those attributes, thus far, had been enough to get her four films and two television shows.

Mary Anne glanced toward the table on her left, where one A-lister sat surrounded by his well-paid sycophants, who for a fee would kiss his ass, suck his dick, and spend his money.

“Isn’t that Holden Humphrey?” Christina asked, walking back to the table and nodding toward a booth two down from their own.

Mary Anne glanced past the A-lister and his entourage. She remembered watching Holden in
Purple Racer
and thinking that he must have the world’s most pleasing ass.

“That’s him,” said the tiny sitcom actress. “He’s with Maurice Banks.”

Mary Anne looked at the two action stars and the two girls with them, one a blonde and the other a redhead.
Wait, was that …?
Mary Anne squinted her eyes. The room was dark, but she could just make out the person sitting on Holden’s lap like a pet pup.
Viève
.

“Who’s the ugly redhead?” Christina asked, sliding into the booth.

“Viève,” Mary Anne breathed, unable to tear her eyes away from Holden.

“Do I know her?” Christina asked. “What’s she done?”

“My ex-boyfriend,” Mary Anne said, sipping her champagne.

“Really?” Christina looked at Mary Anne with new

appreciation. “So you know firsthand.”

Mary Anne glanced at Christina. “Intimately. This is why I am convinced men have absolutely no dick control. Look at her. No tits, she’s odd-looking, kind of like a Chihuahua, and still she was not only able to fuck my boyfriend, but now she’s being groped by one of the finest-looking men in America. And why?”

“Because it’s easy,” Christina said.

“Exactly. The only dick control they get is when they’re old—”

“Usually fat.”

“And bald,” the tiny sitcom star chirped.

“And just too lazy to put up a chase,” Mary Anne said. “That isn’t really dick control, just loss of your game.”

Cici strolled up to the table. “What are we staring at?”

“Holden Humphrey,” Mary Anne said.

“And Mary Anne’s former neighbor who fucked Steve,” Christina added.

“That’s Viève?” Cici asked, scrunching her nose.

“Yes.” Mary Anne glowered.

“Want some payback?” Cici smiled.

Mary Anne considered it. She’d never before participated in the type of female games Cici seemed to have mastered—giggling, hair tossing, collecting men as baubles. But she felt scorned, and the idea of getting even felt empowering.

“Yes.” Mary Anne looked from Cici to Christina.

Cici sat next to Mary Anne and waved her hand. A waitress in a red silk bustier approached the table, carrying their fifth bottle of Cristal.

“Will you please ask Mr. Humphrey to come over?” Cici asked, slipping the waitress a hundred-dollar bill.

“Of course, Ms. Solange.” She eyed Celeste.

“He can bring Maurice, but not the Chihuahua.” Cici handed her another hundred. “Understand?” Cici asked.

“Of course,” the waitress said, already moving toward Holden and his table.

Mary Anne watched as the waitress tilted her head and whispered in Holden’s ear. First confusion, then a smile crossed Holden’s face as he glanced over and gave Cici a small wave. Then he leaned over Viève and whispered to Maurice. Mary Anne felt a burst of vindictive pleasure flood through her as she watched a baffled Viève stare at Holden and Maurice as they got up and walked away. Just as Holden arrived next to Mary Anne (he was a million times better looking than Steve), Viève’s eyes focused on her. First amazement, then horror registered on the Chihuahua’s face. Mary Anne gave Viève a sweet smile and a quick wave just as Holden Humphrey plopped his gorgeous ass on the seat next to her.

*

 Sure, Holden Humphrey was as dumb as a post, but he
was
Mary Anne’s first one-night stand and an amazing fuck. She glanced at her watch: 3:35 A.M. The golden god slept to her left. She could still feel the heat of his kisses across her chest. Which was still bare.

Where were her clothes?

He’d tossed her bra over his shoulder when he carried her to his bed, but her jeans and thong, she believed, were tangled in the mess of pillows and blankets. She smiled. She knew she should feel slutty, but she couldn’t muster up any guilt or remorse. Just victory. She came, she saw, she conquered (not in that order, and she’d come at least three times). She wished she had a camera phone. Nobody would believe this—she barely did. She’d just had sex with
People
magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. And it was hot sex. Hot, upsidedown, sideways, spank-him-on-the-ass (she’d never done that before) sex.

She slid out from under the covers and tiptoed around the room, picking her jeans out of the blankets and her bra from a far corner. She quietly shimmied into her thong and reached for her shirt on the chair next to Holden’s side of the bed.

“Hey, baby.” A groggy Holden reached out his hand and smiled a sleepy smile. “You gotta go?”

“Yeah, I need to get home,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Okay, I can take you.”

“No, stay,” Mary Anne insisted. “It’s good. I’ll call a car.”

“Sure?” His lids drifted down over his eyes.

Mary Anne smiled. “I’m sure.”

She leaned forward and kissed Holden Humphrey’s lips. “Okay, you got my number?” Holden mumbled.

Mary Anne stuck her hand in her jeans pocket for the wadded-up cocktail napkin. “Sure do,” she said. “But, Holden, I don’t think I’ll call.”

“Huh?” Holden opened his bright blue eyes.

“This was fun, but I’m not really looking for a relationship right now,” Mary Anne said, glancing around the room for her purse. She had a vague memory of tossing it as Holden dropped her onto the bed.

“Oh.” Holden looked befuddled.

“Ah.” Mary Anne spotted her bag under the night table and grabbed it. “This was so much fun, and I’m sure we’ll see each other out somewhere again, but really, this number, not ready to use it.” Mary Anne dropped the cocktail napkin onto the night table.

“Wasn’t it”—Holden paused, looking away from Mary Anne—“good for you?”

“What?” Mary Anne smiled. “Are you kidding? It was the absolute best. You are the man. It’s not the sex, really. It’s just, guys right now for me, I’m not in the right mind-set.”

Holden smiled, presumably relieved, Mary Anne thought, that her mental instability was to blame and not his sexual performance.

“Got it. Well, babe, you know where I am,” he reached out and rubbed Mary Anne’s thigh.

“Yes,” Mary Anne said, “yes, I do.”

Chapter 22

Celeste Solange and Her Lara Bohinc Shades

People had a hard time guessing Kiki Dee’s age. A ballet dancer before answering the call to celebrate stars by ensuring the best coverage in
People
,
Star
, or
Us Weekly
, Kiki kept her body lithe and firm. She was living proof of Dr. Charles Melnick’s skill with the scalpel (his best customer and an A-plus referral service). In return for referring all her clients for lips, micro-derm, Botox, breast enhancement, and any other service the best cosmetic surgeon in Beverly Hills could supply, Kiki received a thirty percent discount. A kickback if you will, and Kiki chose to take the kickbacks out in trade. No, you couldn’t guess Kiki’s age, but Celeste would bet her quote that Kiki had a recent battle scar to complement her signature Louis Vuitton eyeglasses (which matched her Louis Vuitton shoes) and Bettie Page haircut.