A cool ocean breeze caresses my bare shoulders, and I
shiver, wishing I'd taken my roommate's advice and brought a
shawl with me tonight. I arrived in Los Angeles only four
days ago, and I haven't yet adjusted to the concept of
summer temperatures changing with the setting of the sun. In
Dallas, June is hot, July is hotter, and August is hell.
Not so in California, at least not by the beach. LA Lesson
Number One: Always carry a sweater if you'll be out after dark.
Of course, I could leave the balcony and go back inside to
the party. Mingle with the millionaires. Chat up the
celebrities. Gaze dutifully at the paintings. It is a gala
art opening, after all, and my boss brought me here to meet
and greet and charm and chat. Not to lust over the panorama
that is coming alive in front of me. Bloodred clouds
bursting against the pale orange sky. Blue- gray waves
shimmering with dappled gold.
I press my hands against the balcony rail and lean forward,
drawn to the intense, unreachable beauty of the setting sun.
I regret that I didn't bring the battered Nikon I've had
since high school. Not that it would have fit in my
itty-bitty beaded purse. And a bulky camera bag paired with
a little black dress is a big, fat fashion no-no.
But this is my very first Pacific Ocean sunset, and I'm
determined to document the moment. I pull out my iPhone and
snap a picture.
"Almost makes the paintings inside seem redundant, doesn't
it?" I recognize the throaty, feminine voice and turn to
face Evelyn Dodge, retired actress turned agent turned
patron of the arts—and my hostess for the evening.
"I'm so sorry. I know I must look like a giddy tourist, but
we don't have sunsets like that in Dallas."
"Don't apologize," she says. "I pay for that view every
month when I write the mortgage check. It damn well better
be spectacular."
I laugh, immediately more at ease.
"Hiding out?"
"Excuse me?"
"You're Carl's new assistant, right?" she asks, referring to
my boss of three days.
"Nikki Fairchild."
"I remember now. Nikki from Texas." She looks me up and
down, and I wonder if she's disappointed that I don't have
big hair and cowboy boots. "So who does he want you to charm?"
"Charm?" I repeat, as if I don't know exactly what she means.
She cocks a single brow. "Honey, the man would rather walk
on burning coals than come to an art show. He's fishing for
investors and you're the bait." She makes a rough noise in
the back of her throat. "Don't worry. I won't press you to
tell me who. And I don't blame you for hiding out. Carl's
brilliant, but he's a bit of a prick."
"It's the brilliant part I signed on for," I say, and she
barks out a laugh.
The truth is that she's right about me being the bait. "Wear
a cocktail dress," Carl had said. "Something flirty."
Seriously? I mean, Seriously?
I should have told him to wear his own damn cocktail dress.
But I didn't. Because I want this job. I fought to get this
job. Carl's company, C-Squared Technologies, successfully
launched three web-based products in the last eighteen
months. That track record had caught the industry's eye, and
Carl had been hailed as a man to watch.
More important from my perspective, that meant he was a man
to learn from, and I'd prepared for the job interview with
an intensity bordering on obsession. Landing the position
had been a huge coup for me. So what if he wanted me to wear
something flirty? It was a small price to pay.
Shit.
"I need to get back to being the bait," I say.
"Oh, hell. Now I've gone and made you feel either guilty or
self-conscious. Don't be. Let them get liquored up in there
first. You catch more flies with alcohol anyway. Trust me. I
know."
She's holding a pack of cigarettes, and now she taps one
out, then extends the pack to me. I shake my head. I love
the smell of tobacco—it reminds me of my
grandfather—but actually inhaling the smoke does
nothing for me.
"I'm too old and set in my ways to quit," she says. "But God
forbid I smoke in my own damn house. I swear, the mob would
burn me in effigy. You're not going to start lecturing me on
the dangers of secondhand smoke, are you?"
"No," I promise.
"Then how about a light?"
I hold up the itty-bitty purse. "One lipstick, a credit
card, my driver's license, and my phone."
"No condom?"
"I didn't think it was that kind of party," I say dryly.
"I knew I liked you." She glances around the balcony. "What
the hell kind of party am I throwing if I don't even have
one goddamn candle on one goddamn table? Well, fuck it." She
puts the unlit cigarette to her mouth and inhales, her eyes
closed and her expression rapturous. I can't help but like
her. She wears hardly any makeup, in stark contrast to all
the other women here tonight, myself included, and her dress
is more of a caftan, the batik pattern as interesting as the
woman herself.
She's what my mother would call a brassy broad—loud,
large, opinionated, and self-confident. My mother would
hate her. I think she's awesome.
She drops the unlit cigarette onto the tile and grinds it
with the toe of her shoe. Then she signals to one of the
catering staff, a girl dressed all in black and carrying a
tray of champagne glasses.
The girl fumbles for a minute with the sliding door that
opens onto the balcony, and I imagine those flutes tumbling
off, breaking against the hard tile, the scattered shards
glittering like a wash of diamonds.
I picture myself bending to snatch up a broken stem. I see
the raw edge cutting into the soft flesh at the base of my
thumb as I squeeze. I watch myself clutching it tighter,
drawing strength from the pain, the way some people might
try to extract luck from a rabbit's foot.
The fantasy blurs with memory, jarring me with its potency.
It's fast and powerful, and a little disturbing because I
haven't needed the pain in a long time, and I don't
understand why I'm thinking about it now, when I feel steady
and in control.
I am fine, I think. I am fine, I am fine, I am fine.
"Take one, honey," Evelyn says easily, holding a flute out
to me.
I hesitate, searching her face for signs that my mask has
slipped and she's caught a glimpse of my rawness. But her
face is clear and genial.
"No, don't you argue," she adds, misinterpreting my
hesitation. "I bought a dozen cases and I hate to see good
alcohol go to waste. Hell no," she adds when the girl tries
to hand her a flute. "I hate the stuff. Get me a vodka.
Straight up. Chilled. Four olives. Hurry up, now. Do you
want me to dry up like a leaf and float away?"
The girl shakes her head, looking a bit like a twitchy,
frightened rabbit. Possibly one that had sacrificed his foot
for someone else's good luck.
Evelyn's attention returns to me. "So how do you like LA?
What have you seen? Where have you been? Have you bought a
map of the stars yet? Dear God, tell me you're not getting
sucked into all that tourist bullshit."
"Mostly I've seen miles of freeway and the inside of my
apartment."
"Well, that's just sad. Makes me even more glad that Carl
dragged your skinny ass all the way out here tonight."
I've put on fifteen welcome pounds since the years when my
mother monitored every tiny thing that went in my mouth, and
while I'm perfectly happy with my size-eight ass, I
wouldn't describe it as skinny. I know Evelyn means it as a
compliment, though, and so I smile. "I'm glad he brought me,
too. The paintings really are amazing."
"Now don't do that—don't you go sliding into the
polite-conversation routine. No, no," she says before I can
protest. "I'm sure you mean it. Hell, the paintings are
wonderful. But you're getting the flat-eyed look of a girl
on her best behavior, and we can't have that. Not when I was
getting to know the real you."
"Sorry," I say. "I swear I'm not fading away on you."
Because I genuinely like her, I don't tell her that she's
wrong—she hasn't met the real Nikki Fairchild. She's
met Social Nikki who, much like Malibu Barbie, comes with a
complete set of accessories. In my case, it's not a bikini
and a convertible. Instead, I have the Elizabeth Fairchild
Guide for Social Gatherings.
My mother's big on rules. She claims it's her Southern
upbringing. In my weaker moments, I agree. Mostly, I just
think she's a controlling bitch. Since the first time she
took me for tea at the Mansion at Turtle Creek in Dallas at
age three, I have had the rules drilled into my head. How to
walk, how to talk, how to dress. What to eat, how much to
drink, what kinds of jokes to tell.
I have it all down, every trick, every nuance, and I wear my
practiced pageant smile like armor against the world. The
result being that I don't think I could truly be myself at a
party even if my life depended on it.
This, however, is not something Evelyn needs to know.
"Where exactly are you living?" she asks.
"Studio City. I'm sharing a condo with my best friend from
high school."