"Mood Indigo"
"I love big balls."
Wesley Westcott took his eyes off the road for a moment to
glance over at the tall, thin blonde sitting beside him.
"Oh, stop!" Holly caught his look and laughed. "You know
what I mean," she said, flushing. "Big fund-raising balls.
Banquets. Parties."
"Uh-huh." He turned back to the road, steering his new
white Jaguar S-Type off the freeway and onto Sunset
Boulevard as he doused a smirk.
Holly pointed at where the smirk had made its momentary
appearance and demanded, "Stop it, Wesley."
"I am stopping it," he protested. "Go on, already. Tell me
all about your love of balls."
She laughed. "Tonight, for instance. The music blew me
away. And the dresses. And the caviar. It was all pretty
freakin' faboo."
The Jazz Ball had been a stunning success. Six hundred Los
Angelenos had gathered to celebrate the Woodburn School of
Music and raise funds to support its prestigious Young
Artists Program. The Woodburn, a private institute devoted
to tutoring the West Coast's most gifted musical
prodigies, liked to suggest it was even more selective
than its better-known rival on the other coast, Juilliard.
Once a year, the fund-raising wing of the Woodburn put on
a major social event to lure contributions from its well-
heeled patrons. The Jazz Ball was famous for the star
power of its guest list and the lavishness of the
festivities. And this year, the event-planning firm that
had won the plum prize of creating this รผber-party was
none other than Mad Bean Events, Wes and Holly's own firm.
"I think Madeline outdid herself tonight," Holly said,
referring to their friend and leader. "The black-and-white
newspaper theme was awesome. She has the coolest ideas."
"That she does. It was a beautiful night." Wes turned the
car south on Vine Street and said, "I wish she had come
back with us to my house to celebrate."
"I think she's exhausted," Holly said, finger-combing her
loose platinum wisps as she ran through the obligatory
party postmortem with Wesley. "She doesn't usually leave a
party so early."
"I know," Wes said. "But even Maddie needs a break."
Madeline Bean, the head of one of Hollywood's trendiest
young event-producing companies, had managed to rise
quickly in the world of spectacular parties. She might
only be twenty-nine, but she had become a seasoned veteran
of the ever rising and falling Hollywood social tide in a
short time. And if the clients alone hadn't made her
seasick, she'd managed to weather quite a few ups and
downs of a dicey economy, too. Running a small business
could be treacherous; one way she had found to succeed was
simply to work harder than anyone else. A case in point
had been the Jazz Ball. Madeline had been indefatigable
for the past two weeks. The number of details involved in
pulling off a grand party this grand was enormous. All the
intense attention Maddie had paid to a zillion small
concerns -- the black linen napkins that arrived were, in
actuality, puce; the white peppercorns she had ordered
were, at the last minute, unavailable -- must, by now,
have finally taken its toll.
Wes stopped at a traffic light and looked over at
Holly. "When Maddie and I decided to start the company, I
don't think either of us realized how much real, honest-to-
God work we'd be in for."
"Ah." Holly smiled broadly. "Now I finally understand why
it was you so quickly hired an assistant."
"We were stunned by your talent." Wes was always a
gentleman. And then he added, "You have no idea how hard
it is to find a good schlepper."
Holly had begun as their assistant six years ago and
worked her way up by mastering just about every party job
she encountered. Holly filled in wherever she was needed,
as an extra bartender, or the person to make the emergency
run for more white asparagus, or the one in full-face
clown greasepaint twisting a balloon giraffe for six-year-
old birthday twins. Six feet tall, scrappy, and much more
likely to wear a Day-Glo orange paisley polyester
miniskirt than anyone else you might meet -- ever -- Holly
Nichols was made for parties. And even though she was apt
to gaze upon certain celebrity guests with more dogged
affection than was entirely suitable for a staff member
working a private party, she was in all ways a most
valuable asset to the team.
Holly pushed her white-blond bangs off her forehead and
six rhinestone-encrusted bangle bracelets clacked as they
fell down her wrist.
Wes shot her another glance. "You sure you're up for
coming to my place?"
"Absolutely. I'm wide-awake. And I'm starving."
"You're always hungry."
"True. And you always cook so divinely for me."
"True." Wes looked happy with the arrangement. He loved to
cook and, together with Madeline, devised the menus and
supervised the chefs at their events.
The traffic was thin at this late hour as they got south
of Hollywood. Wes brushed his thick brown hair off of his
forehead and eased his new car southwest toward his house
in Hancock Park. His black leather jacket, he noticed with
the habit of one who takes in every visual detail, looked
not at all bad against the custom white leather seats of
the Jag. It reminded him again of the Black & White Ball.
They'd just pulled off another stunning event. He hummed a
riff of "In the Mood."
"Is that jazz?" Holly asked, perking up. "I'm all about
jazz now. The band that played at the ball was flat-out
awesome. Who knew that kind of music could sound so
groovy?"
"Jazz? You mean you don't listen to jazz, Holly?"
"Well, cha! I am major into Eminem. And Radiohead. And
Vendetta Red. And, well, Mars Volta. And Clay Aiken. You
know me. I dig rap. And rock. And show tunes."
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