Party Girl (13 page)

Chapter ELEVEN

It takes me only twenty minutes to get to Beverly Hills because LA is surprisingly dead on this holiday. I pull up to the little silver intercom box next to the front gate and press the button.

“Are you Brinkley?” a woman demands through the speaker.

“Yes ma’am—” But before I can even finish the sentence, a loud series of beeps blare from the box, and the gate starts to roll open.

OK.

I follow the little drive and pull up in front of a modern white house that looks straight out of
Architectural Digest
. I jump out of the car and hustle up the driveway in the jeans and sweater I’ve pulled on quickly before rushing out of the apartment. Before I can even get to the gigantic front door, it swings open. Kira Glen is standing in the doorframe, inhaling the last miniscule centimeters of a cigarette. She’s not wearing any makeup and has on the most basic black workout clothes Lululemon makes, but she’s unbelievably gorgeous. Her shoulder-length brown hair looks like it’s been blown out professionally, or maybe actresses just have naturally perfect hair. I have no idea. I bite my tongue to keep myself from telling her what a huge fan I am.
I can’t believe I’m standing this close to her.

“It’s a fucking disaster is what it is!” She flicks the cigarette butt out her front door into the planter bed. Her British accent is so charming that even the cussword sounds adorable.

“Did something happen with your flowers or the caterer? I had them set delivery for a different address but I can—”

“No, no, they’re fine!” She grabs my hand impatiently and pulls me into the house.

Ohmylordkiraglenisholdingmyhand!

I follow her mutely and stare around her house in wide-eyed wonder as she drags me through it. It’s one big open space with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the backyard. The furniture is all sharp, industrial-looking pieces that don’t look very comfortable, and the decor is modern art and weird sculptures that are no discernable form I can name. All of a sudden she stops us both, and we’re standing in the gigantic kitchen. All around me are the remains of what was clearly a valiantly fought battle between a bag of flour and one of
People’s
“Fifty Most Beautiful” women.

“It’s a—” I gape.

“Supposed to be a cake. A bloody marmalade cake and I’ve destroyed it, haven’t I?” She looks at me in desperation.

I don’t even know how to tell her the
cake
isn’t destroyed because I’m not even sure the lump of orange goo splattered across the counter got anywhere near “cake” status.

“Do you need
this particular
cake?” I eyeball the mess.

“Shit. I’ve ruined it. Just tell me, I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”

“I think—” I start delicately.

“Wait. Hold on!” She throws up a hand and starts looking around the kitchen. She moves around a bowl, a collection of measuring cups, and finally a dirty kitchen towel before finding a pack of cigarettes hidden underneath. She lights one quickly and takes a deep inhale.

“OK. Now tell me. Did I destroy the bloody cake?”

A dollop of batter drips from the edge of a mixing bowl and falls onto the cigarette lighter she’s just put down. I look into her anxious face.

“You destroyed the bloody cake,” I say gently.

“Fuck me,” she groans, “what can I do?”

I push up the sleeves of my sweater and start dropping dirty baking dishes into the sink.

“Maybe you can tell me what exactly you need it for.”

“Jake’s hosting Thanksgiving at his house. It’s like thirty-two people and most of them from the Midwest.” She uses her current cigarette to light another one and starts pacing around the large center island. “I volunteered to do the dessert, and Meg, she told me not to, she said,
Don’t offer to bake Kir, you don’t know a bloody thing about the kitchen.
But did I listen to her?” She looks at me.

“No?”

“No! I didn’t bloody listen! And his mum hates me already—”

“I’m sure she doesn’t—” I try to soothe her while carefully removing eggshells from the countertop.

“She absolutely does! I tried cooking for them all once and I burnt everything! She’s this good little housewife, and I’m just the ridiculous, whorey actress who’s stolen her perfect golden boy!”

Is “whorey” even a word?

“I’m from Roehampton. I’ve never even been to a Thanksgiving! But I’m
trying
, I really am. Even though she’s a nightmare, she’s still his mum, and he loves her, and I just wanted to do this one thing right.” She keeps circling the island like an angry terrier. “What am I going to do now?”

It’s a little odd to have a person you’ve only just met tell you such private details about her life. When you factor in the idea that she’s hugely famous, it really starts to boggle the mind. But I shake that thought aside because, either way, she needs help. And in the grand scheme of things, this is a fairly simple problem to fix.

“What time do you need to leave for your lunch?” I sweep the last bit of flour off the counter and into my hand.

“In about two hours,” she says, glancing at the clock on the oven. “Why? Do you know how to make marmalade cake?”

“No, but I know how to make a Dr. Pepper cake,” I tell her confidently.

“Is that a dessert?” she asks nervously.

“It is where I come from.”

“So you baked her a cake?” Max asks as she pulls up her Prius to the stop sign.

“Actually, I baked her two cakes. Then I texted her just enough detail so when they ask about the process she can tell them how she made them.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Not really. If you think about it, she’ll probably be pretty convincing. She is an actress after all.” I hold on tight to the perfect chocolate cream pie in my lap and hope it’s not getting anything sticky on my skirt.

Max takes another left off the main road, and I realize we’re actually not that far from Kira’s house. Palm trees flank the wide street on either side of us, and all the houses I can see look like the opening credits of
Real Housewives
.

“Did you grow up around here?” I’m in awe.

“Yeah,” Max says, clearly unwilling to offer more detail. She stops the car in front of a big iron gate and presses a button on her console. The gate swings wide, and she pulls up the driveway before parking her car next to a long row of vehicles too expensive for me to even know what they are. I lean forward to take in the mansion in front of me.

“Your parents live here?” I squeak.

“Yep,” she says, and cuts the engine.

“And you don’t want to live here too? It’s, like, seven minutes from your school!”

“And?”

“And our apartment smells like cabbage,” I sputter.

I look around at the fountain in the courtyard, the perfectly manicured grounds, and the windows spilling warm light into the evening. It’s a fairy tale.

Max gets out and slams her door before coming over to take the pie from my hands. The maroon blouse and black leggings she’s got on are designer; they’re the nicest things I’ve ever seen her wear.

“Of course I don’t want to live here; don’t be ridiculous.” She turns and starts walking up the front steps.

I smooth my hands down the front of my long-sleeved blue babydoll dress, give my curls one last fluff, and walk up the steps after her.

“One more thing,” she says, glaring at me over her shoulder. “If you mention anything that happens today as any sort of future ammunition, I will murder you in cold blood.”

She’s giving me her best scowl, but I can’t help it; I laugh right in her face.

“All right, Dexter, open the door. This I’ve got to see.”

“Mackenzie!” A gorgeous blonde woman comes shrieking towards us the second our boots hit the marble entryway. One of her hands is clutching a rather massive pour of white wine, and I’m amazed that she doesn’t spill it in her hurry towards us. She’s holding out both arms before she’s even within striking distance and uses her one empty hand to pull Max into a ferocious hug. She forces them both into that little hug-sway-back-and-forth thing that always feels awkward, and Max, despite her general dislike for the human race, sways right along with her while holding the pie out to one side.

“Mom, this is Landon,” she says, sounding more polite than I thought capable.

Mom?

I’d thought at first that this woman was closer to our age. Her clothes are perfect, her boobs are so perky they’re nearly touching her chin, and her body is way better than mine. But on closer inspection I can see that she’s just a very well-preserved older woman, maybe a little younger than my own mom but not by much.

“Mrs.—” I reach my hand out.

“Don’t you dare! It’s Vivian; calling me ‘Mrs.’ makes me feel old. Now get in here for the real thing!” She reaches for me and before I know it I’m caught up in her bosomy embrace. She holds me out at arm’s length and gives me a head-to-toe perusal.

“Well, you’re just gorgeous, aren’t you?” she says sweetly, and I smile back at her.

“Thank you, ma’am—”

“Tsk, tsk.” She chides me for the formality, but it goes against everything I know to use her first name.

“Now then.” Vivian starts ushering us through the massive entryway and down a hallway beyond it. “You two come right in! You’re the last ones here, and you’re way behind on drinks.” She says the last line to us in a singsong.

“Clearly,” Max says, eyeing her mother’s wine. Her usual sarcasm is there, but there’s no heat in it.

“Oh, don’t you start with me, Mackenzie.” Vivian playfully swats Max’s butt. “It’s a holiday, and Daddy brought up the good wine from the cellar.”

Max reaches out for the wine glass and takes a sip.

“And did he see you adding
ice
to the good wine?” she says, handing back the glass.

Vivian giggles and continues down the hallway “No! And you don’t tell him either.”

Usually when you meet someone’s family you understand them a little better, but as I follow these two women down the hallway I feel the opposite. If you’d offered me a million dollars and a hundred guesses, I wouldn’t ever have come up with this vivacious, bubbly woman as Max’s mom.

We head first into a kitchen where a crew of caterers is busy making dinner. Max sets down her pie on a countertop with a bunch of other desserts and then grabs us both a glass of wine from a backup stash in the kitchen. She takes a big gulp of hers and looks at the swinging kitchen door speculatively. On the other side of the door the loud murmur of a big crowd can be heard.

“You ready for this?” Max asks me, serious.

“Your mom seems really sweet, actually. Why do you seem so nervous?” I ask.

“Because there are at least fifty people on the other side of that door, and once they spot us we won’t stop talking again until we leave tonight.” She takes another drink.

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with your family—talk?”

“
Ugh!
I guess. Come on!” Max says, and I follow her through the swinging door.

The beautifully designed living room is full of clusters of people having loud, boisterous conversations. They’re all variations of “LA pretty,” but while their looks might be intimidating they seem, at least at first glance, nice enough.

Vivian spies us through the crowd and waves us over, and I follow Max to the corner where people are concentrated around a bar chatting and grabbing drinks. She walks me to her mother and the handsome older blonde man next to her. Max leans up and kisses his cheek sweetly.

“Daddy, this is Landon,” she says to him in a sweet tone I didn’t even know she possessed.

Now I know why she’s promised murder if I made fun of her, because I totally would have. Under that grouchy, mean exterior, she’s a total sweetie . . . At least with her family.

“So nice to meet you, Landon. I’m Charlie.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “Mackenzie’s told us so much about you.”

I’m shocked to hear it, but I don’t let it show. I reach out and grab his hand with a smile.

“It’s nice to meet you both. Thank you so much for inviting me over.”

“No, we’re glad to meet you. We worry so much about Kenzie in that apartment, all alone. But God forbid she let us help her—”