The Nannies, page 9
But here in Bel Air, it was absolutely still. No traffic. No sirens. No choppers. Only the occasional chirping of a cricket in the gardens outside. She shuddered. How could she ever sleep in this kind of creepy silence? She rinsed her cereal bowl and put it away. Went back into the living room and wrote a few more notes. When Junior finally called, she would tell him that she was writing damn thank-yous to—
Her cell rang. Esme snapped it open. “Junior?”
A throat cleared. “It’s Mr. Goldhagen, actually. Steve.”
Esme winced. “Yes, sir?”
“I just got back from my office. Diane tells me you were super with the kids today.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well, that’s great, Esme. Listen, I’m up at the main house. I was wondering, there’s this thing tonight at the Santa Monica Pier. An opening party for a new Cosmos film called The Ten, Kirsten Dunst and George Clooney. A courier dropped off a bunch of passes at my office, but Diane and I are staying in tonight. I thought maybe you’d want them. Sort of as a welcome to our family.”
Esme was taken aback. How were passes to a Hollywood party a welcome to his family?
“That’s very nice of you, sir.”
“If you’d like to use them, take the Audi,” Mr. Goldhagen continued. “I’ll put the keys and the passes in the mailbox.”
“Thank you, sir—”
“Steve. Don’t mention it. If you go, eat and drink them out of house and home. I hate those sons of bitches at Cosmos. Hey, Esme?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Ya gotta stop calling me sir. I think you’re talking to my father.” He chuckled and hung up.
Wow. A Hollywood opening-night party. Of course she knew about The Ten. Slated to be this summer’s Cosmos Pictures blockbuster, it was about a mysterious revisitation of the ten biblical plagues on Southern California. In the movie trailer, Kirsten Dunst got her foot caught between loose boards on the Santa Monica Pier and couldn’t escape plague number seven, the hailstorm.
Of course, Esme was sure that by the end of the film, Dunst would be alive. It was always the unknowns who got killed off; the famous actresses lived. Would Kirsten Dunst be at this party? Would George Clooney?
Suddenly, Esme felt excited. She had passes to a Hollywood party and a really expensive car to get there. She considered calling Junior. But he would be extremely uncomfortable at an upscale Hollywood event. Then she thought about the two girls she’d met at the Brentwood Hills Country Club. What were their names? Lydia and Kiley. They were probably long gone by now, out at some fantastic club where the music was rocking and the people were rich and gorgeous and no one from the Echo could get past the bouncers.
I can do this, Esme told herself. Whatever happens, happens. She found Lydia’s number on her cell and pressed the “Send” button.
19
“That’s it. Over there!”
Lydia pointed to a makeshift plywood barrier that blocked the main entrance to the Santa Monica Pier. A line of beautiful people waiting to be ushered into the party extended back nearly a hundred feet.
“I’ve been down here a few times with my home—my friends,” Esme told the other girls. “I’ve never seen it walled off like this, though. How do you know about the pier, Lydia? You’ve never been here before.”
“Italian Vogue, last summer,” Lydia said. “I picked it up in Manaus. There was a photo spread of Heidi Klum in these amazing Vera Wang dresses. It was the only magazine I had for a month, and I couldn’t read Italian.”
The other girls grinned. On the limo ride to the pier, they’d swapped a bit of their histories. Lydia had regaled them with some amazing tales from the Amazon rain forest. Esme had carefully edited her own life story, simply saying that her parents had moved from Fresno to the Echo, and that she’d moved with them.
But she was feeling good. Great, even. When she’d called Lydia and Kiley, they’d been at House of Blues swatting away drunk frat boys from Arizona State who’d bet each other that they’d all get laid on their road trip to Los Angeles. Lydia and Kiley had zero interest in helping them fulfill their fantasy, so they were more than up for Esme’s invitation. In fact, Lydia volunteered to have her aunt’s limo swing by the Goldhagen estate so that no one would have to drive.
Esme had wanted to ask Lydia and Kiley what to wear, but didn’t have the nerve. So she tried on everything she owned, then panicked when she realized she was standing in the midst of a sea of obviously cheap clothes. Finally, she pulled on some low-slung black pants and a very fitted red Lycra T-shirt, then stepped into a pair of mile-high strappy red sandals she’d bought at the “All Shoes $9.99” store. She added a slick of red lip gloss and left her hair loose and wild. It would have to do.
She looked at Kiley and Lydia as they joined the line. Kiley tugged self-consciously on a beautiful green camisole, purchased for her by Platinum Nanny. She wore it with her Levi’s and a pair of Dr. Scholl’s sandals, saying it was either the sandals or her Cons. Lydia, on the other hand, was decked out in a vintage Gucci print minishift with the middle cut out and borrowed Manolo Blahnik heels she said were called the Hourisan: silver gray leather heels with intricate chain ankle straps. Evidently, Naomi Campbell had worn them to the MTV Video Awards—or at least that’s what Lydia said she’d read in In Style. Both dress and shoes had been borrowed from her aunt. Her celery-colored eyes were outlined in smudgy kohl black; there was some kind of styling stuff in her white blond hair that made it look choppy and hip.
Esme thought, If ever there were three girls who looked like they do not belong together, it’s us.
Each arriving partygoer had to flash their invitation to security multiple times. First at the check-in table, where they also had to show ID. Then again, as they stepped through a metal detector. And one more time, at the temporary door to the pier itself.
“Metal detectors?” Lydia asked. “What are they afraid of?”
A guard overheard her. “Standard procedure, in case a stalker tries to get through. Just ask Letterman or Zeta-Jones. On second thought, I think they’re inside. Don’t ask them.” He swung the door open, and the girls were in.
They were surprised to find their end of the pier practically empty, except for a knot of twenty or thirty people waiting just inside the door. From the far end of the pier came pounding rock music; they could see the Ferris wheel and roller coaster at that end in full operation, as two searchlights crisscrossed the sky. Obviously, the party was way down there.
A San Francisco–style trolley car, equipped with wheels instead of riding on a metal track, rolled up to them. A conductor called out over a loudspeaker, “Step back for departing passengers. Then, all aboard for the The Ten party. Next stop, West Pier! All aboard!”
A bunch of people got off the trolley; the girls climbed on. They stood at the rear, grasping a vertical metal bar as the conductor whooshed them along. It was a short ride, not more than two minutes. But they rolled straight into an amazing party. Not only were the floorboards packed with gorgeous people who all seemed to know each other, but both sides of the trolley-way were lined with carnival-style sideshows—fire eaters, jugglers, contortionists, and the like.
“Welcome to the The Ten opening-night party,” the conductor announced as his trolley slowed. “We’ve re-created the moments from the movie just before the seventh plague. Minus Kirsten and her broken ankle, of course.”
All around the three girls, people laughed as if at an inside joke.
“Have a great time,” the conductor continued. “I’ll be here every ten minutes to bring you back to Ocean Avenue. Please watch your step as you exit the trolley.”
People piled off. Esme, Kiley, and Lydia were swept along by the crowd. Most people were heading for a sixty-feet-high movie screen that had been erected at the far end of the pier. Below it, a huge crowd watched in awe as the enormous hailstorm featured in The Ten swept up the coast from Long Beach, heading for Los Angeles. Jump cuts from the movie followed, set to heart-pumping music.
“Oh my God, it’s us!” Kiley cried.
Esme and Lydia turned to see what Kiley was talking about. To their left was another enormous movie screen. The girls’ images were on it. It was the weirdest thing: when they laughed in reaction to their projected image, they could see themselves laughing on the giant screen.
“There must be cameras mounted somewhere,” Esme said. As if on cue, one zoomed in; her face appeared in close-up—the lips pouty, the eyes enormous. “I’m not sure I like it.”
The image shifted over to Lydia, who posed and blew kisses the way she’d seen Paris Hilton work a crowd that afternoon on a TV show called Access Hollywood. Hilton’s picture had been in every recent magazine that Lydia got in the Amazon.
“Wow, look at that,” Kiley said, nudging Lydia’s attention back to the The Ten trailer. It was another scene from the movie, this one on a Los Angeles freeway. The locust swarm of the eighth plague was rushing east. A family was stuck in their SUV, a terrified little girl in the backseat cranking up the windows against the huge cloud of marauding insects.
“That’s sick,” Lydia declared. “Why would anyone want to watch other people die?”
“Umm . . . because it isn’t real?” Kiley queried, amazed that Lydia was having such a strong reaction. “Because it’s a movie? Like, say, Titanic?”
“I didn’t see Titanic,” Lydia admitted. “But I’ve watched six people really die. Two from snakebite. One from malaria. Two from dengue fever. And one sliced his heel on a rock in the Rio Negro and was eaten by piranhas before he could get to shore. How about you?”
“None,” Kiley admitted, chastised. “I didn’t think of it like that.”
I’ve seen plenty of people die, Esme thought. But when she took in Kiley’s stunned face, she decided to keep her mouth shut.
“Oh, ignore me,” Lydia said, waving away the disagreement. “I’m still suffering from culture shock. Hey, y’all think we can get a drink out here?”
No sooner did she pose the question than a waiter in a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball uniform smoothly appeared, carrying a tray. On it were flutes of champagne, cans of beer, and plastic bottles of springwater.
“What’s with the uniform?” Lydia asked him. She took a champagne glass for herself, while Kiley and Esme both opted for bottled water.
“Dodger Stadium gets invaded by lice during a doubleheader with the Giants,” the waiter reported. “World’s biggest itchfest. Barry Bonds can’t even get to the plate. Keep watching. They may show it on the big screen.” The waiter moved off into the crowd.
“Esme?”
Esme froze. A deep male voice had come from behind her. Who could possibly know her in this place?
She turned to see the Goldhagens’ handsome son a few feet from her, smiling broadly. What was his name? She didn’t remember. She didn’t want to remember. What she did remember was that when she’d met him, her feet had just been drenched by a wave of shit.
“Jonathan Goldhagen,” he reminded her. “We met yesterday?”
“I know who you are,” she said, sounding cross.
He grinned and cocked his head toward the smaller of the two movie screens. “I recognized you. You looked great.”
Esme clamped her jaw. She was not about to thank him for his cheap compliment. He was rich, handsome, and so sure of himself, standing there in faded jeans and a white linen shirt that probably cost more than Junior made in a week. He was undoubtedly used to girls throwing themselves at his feet. Well, she did not intend to be one of them. But she didn’t want to be impolite, so she introduced him to her friends.
Lydia wagged a playful finger at him. “I know who you are. You’re a movie star. Right?”
Jonathan scratched his head sheepishly. “I don’t know about that.”
“Your first movie came out last winter,” Lydia went on. “Some indie thing that no one saw but got a really good review in Cosmopolitan. They said you were going to be the next Jake Gyllenhaal. Esme, don’t you know who this guy is?”
Esme shrugged, guarded.
“It’s no biggie, Esme,” Jonathan said. “Like she said, no one saw the movie.”
Esme didn’t respond to that, because what could she possibly say?
“I’m not into the whole movie-star thing, anyway,” Jonathan continued. “That’s my dad’s world, not mine.”
“You probably got your big break because of him,” Esme commented coolly.
Jonathan nodded. “I’d say no, but I’d be lying. Yeah, his name got me through the door. But I’m the one who played the role.”
“Lots of people can act,” Esme insisted, a bit surprised at her own venom toward this guy.
Jonathan held his hands up. “Hold on. Did I miss the part where you decided you hate me?”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Lydia assured him. “Most likely she’s attracted to you and feels conflicted about it.”
Heat rushed to Esme’s face. “Since you know so much about him, Lydia, why don’t you two go off together and yak about how wonderful he is?”
“He is very hot,” Lydia said, quite serious. “But he likes you.”
“You heard the girl,” Jonathan added playfully.
He was just so smug, so sure of himself. She didn’t want to look at him. Instead, Esme glanced back up at the big screen again, where the locust cloud was threatening Las Vegas. She was sorry she’d ever called Lydia and Kiley.
“You have a very outspoken friend,” Jonathan told Esme.
“She’s not my friend,” Esme snapped.
“Oh, I am, too,” Lydia insisted easily.
Jonathan scanned the crowd. “I’m looking for a waiter, but they seem to have disappeared.” He put a hand on Esme’s arm. “Want to take a walk? Let me get you something better than that water to drink.” He nodded to Lydia and Kiley. “Will you excuse us?”
“It’s not up to them,” Esme pointed out. “And I don’t feel like going anywhere with you.”
“You’re a big ol’ liar,” Lydia told Esme. “You know you want him.”
How humiliating. “I don’t—I’m not—” Esme sputtered.
“Go with him,” Kiley suggested kindly. “He seems nice.”
“You should listen to your friends,” Jonathan put in.
“We’ll meet up at the Ferris wheel. In an hour,” Kiley said. “How’s that?”
“Oh, I can get her home,” Jonathan said easily, lightly touching Esme’s back. He smiled. “After all, I know where she lives.”
20
“Here you go, sir. Two Arnolds, spiked.” The bartender in the Dodgers uniform handed Jonathan two tall frosty glasses.
“Thanks.” Jonathan stuffed a five-dollar bill into the tip jar, picked up the drinks, and handed one to Esme.
“It’s called an Arnold?” she asked, dubious.
“Arnold Palmer, actually,” Jonathan explained. “Named after the legendary. Try it.”
Esme didn’t raise the glass to her lips. “The legendary what?”
“Golfer.” Jonathan looked incredulous. “You never heard of Arnold Palmer?”
Esme shook her head. “Golf looks boring.”
Jonathan laughed. “Yeah, some people think so. But I like it.” He nudged his chin toward her drink and she put the straw to her lips. “Taste it. Half lemonade and half iced tea, spiked with vodka.”
She did. “You’re right. It’s delicious.”
She sipped more of the drink and glanced around. They were at a bar near the arcade; when Jonathan had taken Esme’s elbow and guided her through the masses, the crowd had seemed to part like the Red Sea for Moses. Esme admitted—if only to herself—that she had liked the feel of his strong fingers on her, the authority with which he led the way. It was a different kind of authority than Junior had. Junior had earned it. Jonathan was born to it.
“So, how goes the nanny gig?” Jonathan asked. He waved at someone who recognized him, then immediately returned his gaze to Esme.
“I just started. I don’t really know yet.”
“They’re sweet kids. But Easton and Weston? Whatever possessed Diane to name them that?”
In spite of her raised guard, Esme smiled. “I wondered the same thing myself.”
“She meant well, I guess. Wanted them to fit in. But it just makes it harder on the kids, seems to me.”
“I agree with you.”
Jonathan smiled into her eyes. “Well, well, we seem to have a meeting of the minds on two things.” He hoisted his drink. “A good drink named after a golfer you’ve never heard of, and the idiocy of renaming my new siblings. At least she didn’t name them after fruit. Apple, Pear, Cantaloupe . . .”
Esme chuckled despite her best intentions.
He pointed a playful finger at her. “I heard that. Soon you’ll have to admit that you actually like me.”
“I don’t dislike you,” Esme said carefully.
“That’s progress.”
“Look, I’m sorry if I was rude before. I just . . . I work for your parents.”
“Rudeness forgiven, and why would I care that you work for my parents?” Jonathan asked. “That would be like saying I can’t be friends with the daughter of my director or my producer.”
Esme looked out to the dark ocean. “It’s not exactly the same.”
“Sure it is.” He put his hand on her arm. “Hey, no need to be so serious. We’re at a hot shit Hollywood premiere party. Let’s have fun. So, what says big fun to you?”
“Um . . . the Ferris wheel?” she asked. She’d always loved Ferris wheels and carousels, the tinny music and the simple pleasure of going round and round, always knowing you would end up safely where you started.
“As my lady wishes.” He gave her a courtly bow and put their nearly finished drinks on the bar. Then he extended an elbow. She was about to take it when he grabbed her hand, yelled “Come on!” and they made a headlong dash for the giant wheel.
