Nacho Figueras Presents (22 page)

T
he bride and groom rode to their wedding. The bride rode sidesaddle on her favorite black mare and the groom on his beloved white stallion.

The groom dressed in a black cutaway morning suit, complete with a gray ascot, silk kerchief, and dove-gray gloves. He chose to forgo the traditional top hat at his bride's request.

The bride wore thick cream silk, with long lace sleeves and a bateau neckline. There was a subtle hint of the palest pink swirled through her heavy, elegant floor-length gown. At her throat and slim wrists glimmered clusters of large pink diamonds mixed with the tiniest of rubies and seed pearls. Her satin heels were likewise adorned with small bejeweled clips.

She carried her favorite flowers, blowsy red garden roses, in such a state of full bloom that she dripped petals as she walked down the aisle, which was fine since the twin two-year-old flower girls, while very cute, did a haphazard job at best of spreading their bounty.

The bride decided against a veil or any attendants other than the comically distractible flower girls. She walked herself down the aisle, thank you very much. At her advanced age, she was more than capable of giving herself away.

It was autumn in the garden, and there was a bite in the air, but the guests were, for the most part, cozily wrapped in cashmere and velvets and quite comfortable. The bride loathed summer weddings and would, she had previously announced, not risk the slightest chance of perspiring at her own ceremony.

The vows were of the traditional sort and not overlong but spoken in both Spanish and English. The groom, it had to be admitted, had a terrible Spanish accent and could scarcely be understood, but his bride knew that he had tried his hardest and gave him points for effort, nonetheless.

Some of the guests cried. Mainly on the bride's side. Her children were especially prone, though her sons did their manly best to be discreet.

The kiss between the bride and groom was shockingly amorous, and several guests found themselves quite warm, despite the brisk autumn breeze.

The reception was held in the same garden as the ceremony. A large, open tent was provided in case of rain, but the weather stayed dry as was predicted.

The decorative flowers were roses straight from the bride's gardens. Pink, cream and red. Some of the guests later argued over who would get to take the dizzyingly fragrant centerpieces home.

The food was, of course, spectacular, with a sumptuous buffet provided instead of a sit-down dinner, because the bride felt that food too perfectly plated was, perhaps, a bit bourgeoisie.

The cake was a towering affair. A traditional English fruitcake, iced with an achingly sweet white frosting, exactly as the groom had requested. The cake had been made three months in advance in order for it to “mature,” as it needed to be lovingly fed many a teaspoonful of rum every day before it was deemed fit to be consumed.

The children were given fairy cakes of an ordinary vanilla and vanilla sort, though more than one dared try a bite of the rum cake with rather unpleasant results.

The two horses were allowed to stay for the party, tied to a fence post and peacefully grazing on the lawn. There were also multiple dogs at the ceremony. And, at one point, an errant billy goat.

The toasts were given by the bride's sons and granddaughter. They were heartfelt, moving, and in the case of her younger son, perhaps just the tiniest bit ribald.

The band was a multipiece jazz orchestra, as requested by the groom. The first dance was a tango, which was performed with such lusty enthusiasm and grace by the newly married couple that most of the same guests got warm all over again.

The other guests joined in the dancing, and there was particular attention paid to the chemistry between the bride's grown granddaughter, who moved on the floor like the professional dancer that she was, and the young handsome African American polo player who, it was whispered, had come from very rough beginnings.

The alcohol was top shelf; the bar was, of course, wide open; and the champagne was Veuve Clicquot, 1998, La Grande Dame Rosé.

The autumn trees had done as was expected of them—providing an astonishingly colorful canopy that arched over the wedding party and beyond, peaking in their beauty and hue exactly on the day that they were supposed to.

“Well,
of course
the trees cooperated,” Antonia Black-Rivas was heard murmuring to her adoring husband, Enzo, as they whirled blissfully around the dance floor. “Because not even a tree would be so foolish as to deny Pilar Del Campo-Henderson exactly what she asked for on her wedding day.”

N
o!” Georgia laughed. “I have exactly zero interest in polo.”

“Only because you haven't seen it played,” said Billy. “It's actually amazing. The way they fight it out on the field, all snarled together, slamming up against each other, a sweaty, dangerous tangle of heaving chests and pumping legs…”

Georgia shook her head at Billy's handsome, teasing face on the Skype screen. “I can't tell if you're describing the ponies or the players.”

Billy quirked an eyebrow. “Well, both, actually. Anyway, Peaches, please. For me. One week in Wellington. It will be so much fun! We'll do it right. And, okay, full disclosure, I've met someone, and I desperately need your opinion.”

“Of course you do,” said Georgia. Ever since they met at Cornell, there had been a never-ending series of inappropriate men Billy desperately needed her opinion on. “What's his name?”

“Beau.”

“No. Seriously?”

“I know. It's a Virginia thing. He rides to hounds. Don't you love how that sounds? I think he might be The One.”

She laughed. “Because he rides to hounds?”

“No, because he's cute, and sweet, and a little bit rich, and he does this thing with his tongue that makes my—”

Georgia threw up her hands. “Okay, okay, spare me the details.”

“Honest, Georgie, this is not just about me. You'd love this place. It's sunshine and high fashion, perfect beaches, gorgeous people, million-dollar ponies, oh, and the wildest and most decadent parties you can imagine!”

“Yes, well, I sunburn on sight,” she said, “and as for fashion, I believe that you once told me that I dress like last season's bag lady. Even the idea of a Palm Beach party makes me break out in hives, and besides”—she glanced out the window at the snowy, moonlit, upstate New York farm—“I have horses that need me here.”

Since graduating with her degree in veterinary medicine, Georgia had been helping her dad on the farm and assisting in the village animal hospital. It wasn't exactly a challenge—basically she was handing out tick medicine and checking for worms, with the occasional trip to a stable in the case of a colic false alarm—but she knew she was lucky to have found work that let her be where she was needed.

The farm consisted of a dilapidated stone cottage and a sagging barn set on ten acres of meadow at the edge of the Catskills. The place was so ancient that it was practically open to the elements, and cost a fortune to heat. Without her help, Georgia knew her dad would sell, and she couldn't stand the idea of losing their home.

There were definitely days when Georgia wondered if she'd parked all her ambition the moment she had arrived back home, but her father had gone into debt to finance her education, and helping him now was payback. If she sometimes found herself daydreaming about missed opportunities and other, perhaps bigger, lives, she quickly shook it off. She loved the farm and she loved her father, and they both needed her. That was enough.

Billy rolled his dark brown eyes in frustration, visibly filtering a retort about what he obviously considered to be Georgia's sad-ass life. “Georgia. All respect. But there are horses, and then there are
horses
. The team that Beau is down here with are, like, among the top ten polo players in the world.”

“Are there even ten people who play?”

Billy sighed in exasperation. “There are tens of thousands, probably. And you are absolutely missing the point. It's a sexy, savage game, and I'm telling you, you will love it. Plus, it's totally trending.”

“Right,” Georgia said. “Among the one percent.”

“Don't be snarky just because you're stuck in the snowy wasteland not getting any. Please, Peaches. I really like this guy. And I think he really likes me. But you know how bad I am at this. Every time I fall for someone, he ends up sleeping with my cousin, or emptying my bank account…”

“Or stealing your car,” snorted Georgia.

“Oh God, I can't believe that actually happened twice,” he groaned, “but you see! That's exactly what I'm talking about. I need your unbiased opinion. You're the only one I can trust.”

“Billy, I'm sorry, I just can't.”

“Georgia, who was there for you when you found out that skinny hipster you called a boyfriend was secretly banging that waitress with the uni-boob?”

Georgia rolled her eyes and sighed. “You were.”

“And who sat up with you all night drinking cheap wine and watching
Downton Abbey
until you felt better?”

She shifted reluctantly in her seat. “You did.”

“And so, who is going to get her narrow ass down to Florida and make sure her BFF isn't making another colossal romantic mistake?”

Georgia gave a groan of defeat. “All right,” she said. “Four days. That's it.”

“Yay!” Billy cheered. “You're going to love it! Cocktails. Scandal. Strappy dresses. Trust me. It will be everything you need. I'll text directions.”

Georgia snapped her laptop shut and fed the woodstove. As she climbed the stairs to bed, her shadow was animated by the flare of the fire.

She undressed, shivering at the window, staring up at the milky indigo sky and full moon. Slipping under the covers, she wrapped her arms around herself as she waited for her bed to warm. She started thinking about all she'd need to do before she left, what she'd need to pack…It was one of the hard parts about traveling—the way it made her so restless. The minute a plan was in place, everywhere her mind fell, there was something that needed to be done.

She closed her eyes, trying not to think, willing herself to relax while wondering why this little trip felt like something so much bigger, a kind of seismic shift. The bed slowly warmed but she couldn't let go. She lay there in the dark, a thousand thoughts flickering through her mind like so many fireflies on an inky summer night, each one determined to keep her awake and unsettled.

K
atherine Ann Parker looked in the bathroom mirror and carefully applied a layer of dark red lipstick.

And then, just as carefully, she wiped it back off.

Too much. The last thing she wanted was to look like she was desperate.

She dug some ChapStick out of her bag and slicked it on, trying to ignore the Silver Lake hipster breathing behind her, impatiently waiting to wash her hands.

Yes, that was better. And everything else seemed to be working—her black hair, pulled back into a sleek chignon; the crisp white fitted button-down showing just a hint of cleavage; the modest gold hoops in her ears; the dark wash jeans that were tailored just so, the six-inch-heeled ankle boots…

She frowned. She knew her manager, Honey Kimmelman, would nix the boots. As a general rule, the men in Hollywood were short and didn't like to be reminded of that fact. And Kat was already tall, even without the heels. The boots pushed her up over six feet.

“Well, too damned bad,” she said out loud. “This is a job, not a date.”

“Um, excuse me?” said the hipster.

Kat blinked, embarrassed. She had forgotten she was not alone. “Sorry. Personal pep talk,” she mumbled, and she moved aside so the girl could use the sink.

The girl washed her hands and left, shooting one last quizzical look at Kat as the door swung shut behind her.

Kat lingered at the window, looking out over the panorama of West Hollywood. She sighed dreamily. Even the bathroom at Soho House had an amazing view.

She checked her watch—it was time. She smoothed her hair, almost went for the lipstick again, and then stilled her hand and forced a deep breath. It was just a meeting, she told herself. She'd been to a million meetings. She could do this.

As Kat eased her way to the back of the restaurant, she made a point of pretending not to notice the multitude of celebrities and A-listers scattered around the private club. Soho House was, above all, discreet. A place where even the biggest stars could have lunch, take meetings, gossip, and relax, and be sure to go unbothered. Kat had reluctantly let her membership lapse when she could no longer afford the annual fees, but she was always happy to come back as a guest.

The movie exec, Dee Yang, rose from her seat, smiling, as Kat approached the table. Dee was younger than Kat, dark haired and pretty, wearing a navy sheath that showed off her toned arms. Kat liked her at once, could see the intelligence written all over face, and recognized her warm smile as genuine.

“Kat, so great to finally meet you,” said Dee as they shook hands. “I'm such a huge fan.”

Kat waved the compliment off, smiling. “Thank you. It's so good to meet you, too.”

“And this is Steve Meyers,” said Dee as she and Kat sat down. “He's producing the project.”

A fiftyish man with graying hair, in jeans and a baseball cap, nodded but did not look up from his phone. “Hang on. Just one second,” he said, texting away.

Kat glanced at Dee, who raised her eyebrows apologetically and passed her a menu. “Have you had the burrata?” she said. “I can't resist it.”

“And ooookay,” said Steve, putting down his phone at last. “Sorry about that. Couldn't wait.” He gave Kat an obvious head-to-toe once-over before he stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Kay.”

“Kat,” Dee corrected.

“Right, sorry. Kat.”

Kat's heart sank as she watched his eyes dart right back to his phone. It wasn't hard to read the room. He didn't want to be here. Dee had obviously talked him into this meeting. He probably already had someone else lined up for the job.

She forced herself to look at her menu, trying not to let the disappointment show on her face.

“So, Kat,” said Dee, “I notice a little Southern accent. Where are you from?”

Kat smiled. “My folks are originally from Georgia, but I grew up in Wellington, Florida.”

“Wellington?” Steve said, momentarily interested, “I think my first wife went down there once for some expensive thing she had to buy a crazy hat for. Tennis? Cricket?”

“Polo, probably,” said Kat. “Or some other horse-related activity. It's pretty much all horses all the time in Wellington.”

She could just imagine Steve's first wife, tan and toned, her face a mask of Botox, taking out her frustrations about her jerk of a husband as she violently stomped divots on the field in her Chanel suit and oversized hat.

“That's right,” said Steve, “polo. You ride?”

Kat shook her head. “Nope. I am not what you would call a horsey person.”

Steve nodded. His phone pinged. “Oh man, it's a text from Michael.” His voice sank to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know,
Bay
. I have to answer this.”

As he turned away from the table, Kat tried to push down a rising wave of annoyance.

“So anyway,” said Dee hurriedly, “I absolutely love
Winter's Passing
. It's one of my all-time favorites. I cry every time I watch it. And you were practically still in school when you made it, right?”

“About a year out,” said Kat.

“It was a crime that it lost the Oscar,” said Dee.

Kat smiled ruefully. “Well, you know what they say, just an honor to be nominated.”

Steve looked up from his phone again, smirking. “But then…
Red Hawk
.”

Kat felt the smile freeze on her face. “Yes.
Red Hawk.
”

Steve made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Man, how much money did that one lose? It was some kind of record, wasn't it?”

Kat met his beady eyes defiantly. “Came this close to making the Guinness book.”

Dee laughed. Steve didn't even crack a smile.

“Hell of a thing to be remembered for,” he said. “And didn't you have a fling with Jack Hayes while you were filming? He dumped you right after the box office numbers came in, right?”

Kat fought the urge to stab him with her fork. “Something like that.”

“Well, they should have known better, really. Talk about ruining the source material. I mean, what little boy was going to want to see a girly version of
Red Hawk
comics?”

Kat stiffened. “And what Hollywood producer is so out of touch that he still thinks a bunch of little boys are driving the box office?”

Steve sniffed. “Yeah, because stunt-casting a female director obviously brought the audience out in droves.”

Kat slowly counted to ten in her head before speaking again. “You know, I made a lot of mistakes on that film, but I'm pretty sure that being born female wasn't one of them.”

He shook his head. “Shoulda stuck with what you know.”

She cocked her head. “Oh? And what, exactly, do I know?”

“Rom-coms. Princess movies. Fifty Shades of Crap.”

She stared at him. “You're kidding, right?”

He shrugged and looked back at his phone. “Your movie tanked. That says it all.”

Kat felt her face flush, and some very choice words rose to her lips, but Dee hurriedly interrupted. “But that was all years ago,” she said in a placating tone. “I'm sure you've done a ton since then, right?”

Kat took a deep breath and forced herself to turn away from Steve so she could give Dee her usual spiel about having some work in development, about how she was working on a new spec—but before she could even really start, Steve's phone pinged again.

“Oh, yep, gotta take this one, too,” he interrupted.

That was it. She'd had enough.

She put her hand on his wrist and gave him her sweetest smile. “You know, Steve, I feel like we kind of got off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?”

He looked back at her, suspicious at first, but she just kept smiling until she saw the exact moment when he relaxed and a new kind of interest kindled in his eyes. His gaze slid down to her chest.

Bingo. She licked her lips in anticipation.

“It's cool,” he finally said. “But I seriously gotta answer this text.”

“Oh, is that Michael Bay again? Are you really friends with him?” Her Southern accent was suddenly thicker.

He smirked. “Played tennis with him just last week.”

She looked up at him from under her lashes. “That is so amazing. I heard he only works with the best. You must be really good at what you do.”

He straightened his shoulders. “I think it's fair to say that I know what I'm doing.”

“I can see that.” She smiled again, squeezing his arm. “I bet there's a lot you could teach me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I bet you're right.”

She giggled. “Oh, hey, is that the latest iPhone? So neat. Do you mind if I take a look at it for just one little second?”

Steve chuckled. “Haven't seen it yet, eh? I had my assistant stand in line for twelve hours to get this thing.” He passed it over.

Kat stood up, dropped the phone on the floor, and ground it under her heel.

“What the hell?” yelled Steve, his face going beet red.

Kat looked him in the face. “Oops. I'm so sorry,” she said, deadpan. She stomped down again. “It must have slipped.”

She smiled blissfully as she leaned even harder, enjoying the satisfying crunch of metal against metal.