as the spectacled bald guy in the diaphanous robes went from corner to corner of the hallway, shaking a silver beacon filled with smoking incense. “He looks like he knows what he’s doing.”
“Excuse me,” said an older man in workman’s coveralls. “Coming through!”
Sam and Dee had to edge against the wall to make way for him and his helper, who were carrying a ten-foot-high framed photo of naked Poppy, in profile. Sam saw the photo as it went by: Poppy’s head was turned toward the camera, her arms wrapped around her very pregnant belly. A single ruby-throated hummingbird flew overhead.
“Um . . . whose idea was that?”
“Mine,” Dee said proudly. “What, you don’t like it?”
Sam gritted her teeth and ignored Dee’s question. “Look. I’m going to have the cook make me a soy shake and a salad. You hungry?”
Dee patted her nonexistent stomach. “Nah. I just had half a sweet potato and I’m superstuffed. I’m only eating orange food today.”
Whatever. Sam wandered into the kitchen and gave her instructions to the cook but then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored refrigerator. The mirror was a dieting ploy of her father’s—in an interview with
People
he’d explained how every time he went to the refrigerator to get something to eat, his reflection would guilt-jerk him into leading man shape.
I am so not leading lady shape,
Sam thought.
I’m still fucking fat.
She told the cook to cancel her order. Then two more workers came into the kitchen and started moving around furniture. It gave Sam an instant headache, and she knew she had to escape. The alternative was homicide.
Sam dug her new cell phone out of her jeans pocket—platinum coated, with her initials encrusted in diamonds. It had been delivered last week from Tiffany, courtesy of her father. She pressed speed dial.
Cammie was having a crisis.
No one could tell by looking, of course. She sat at the bar of the Spider Club in Hollywood, sipping her cranberry martini and awaiting Sam’s arrival. She knew she looked fantastic in her Gucci denim miniskirt and Boy Scout shirt that looked like it belonged to her little brother—if she had a little brother. But it had been designed, in fact, by a former porn star named Lydia Cherry, who made mock scouting and bowling shirts for a boutique on Beverly Boulevard. Cammie had chosen it to match the interior of the club: a striking red lighting scheme, oversized Chinese lanterns suspended from the ceiling, and Spanish-Moorish tiling on the floor and around the doorways. Acid green walls, golden bar stools, a huge mirror from the 1950s behind the bar, and an arachnid theme in the artwork. And that was just the dance area—there was an indoor smoking patio as well.
Spider Club was private, but Cammie had been offered a free membership the week the club had opened, on the theory that hot girls hanging out would help ensure that the club was a hit. The club concierge tracked her favorite drink; the cranberry martini had arrived without her having to ask for it.
Cammie took a sip—perfect—and watched a hot young model-turned-actor whose last movie had tanked slip out the door with an older actress. It was rumored that she had had so much work done by Dr. Birnbaum, plastic surgeon to the stars (Ben Birnbaum’s father—formerly
her
Ben, then for about a millisecond
Anna’s
Ben, and now probably doing-half-the-girls-at-Princeton Ben), that she had a zipper all the way from her butt to her neck, due to the massive removal of hanging skin.
Cammie figured the couple was going next door to Avalon, where they would pretend they wanted privacy while in actuality they’d put on a spectacle. First they’d make out on the dance floor. Then she’d give him a topless lap dance and hope it would make the rumor rags because they were both desperate for publicity.
Cammie took another sip of her drink. Sam had called that afternoon to ask Cammie if she wanted to go clubbing. It had been a
“Excuse me,” said an older man in workman’s coveralls. “Coming through!”
Sam and Dee had to edge against the wall to make way for him and his helper, who were carrying a ten-foot-high framed photo of naked Poppy, in profile. Sam saw the photo as it went by: Poppy’s head was turned toward the camera, her arms wrapped around her very pregnant belly. A single ruby-throated hummingbird flew overhead.
“Um . . . whose idea was that?”
“Mine,” Dee said proudly. “What, you don’t like it?”
Sam gritted her teeth and ignored Dee’s question. “Look. I’m going to have the cook make me a soy shake and a salad. You hungry?”
Dee patted her nonexistent stomach. “Nah. I just had half a sweet potato and I’m superstuffed. I’m only eating orange food today.”
Whatever. Sam wandered into the kitchen and gave her instructions to the cook but then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored refrigerator. The mirror was a dieting ploy of her father’s—in an interview with
People
he’d explained how every time he went to the refrigerator to get something to eat, his reflection would guilt-jerk him into leading man shape.
I am so not leading lady shape,
Sam thought.
I’m still fucking fat.
She told the cook to cancel her order. Then two more workers came into the kitchen and started moving around furniture. It gave Sam an instant headache, and she knew she had to escape. The alternative was homicide.
Sam dug her new cell phone out of her jeans pocket—platinum coated, with her initials encrusted in diamonds. It had been delivered last week from Tiffany, courtesy of her father. She pressed speed dial.
Cammie was having a crisis.
No one could tell by looking, of course. She sat at the bar of the Spider Club in Hollywood, sipping her cranberry martini and awaiting Sam’s arrival. She knew she looked fantastic in her Gucci denim miniskirt and Boy Scout shirt that looked like it belonged to her little brother—if she had a little brother. But it had been designed, in fact, by a former porn star named Lydia Cherry, who made mock scouting and bowling shirts for a boutique on Beverly Boulevard. Cammie had chosen it to match the interior of the club: a striking red lighting scheme, oversized Chinese lanterns suspended from the ceiling, and Spanish-Moorish tiling on the floor and around the doorways. Acid green walls, golden bar stools, a huge mirror from the 1950s behind the bar, and an arachnid theme in the artwork. And that was just the dance area—there was an indoor smoking patio as well.
Spider Club was private, but Cammie had been offered a free membership the week the club had opened, on the theory that hot girls hanging out would help ensure that the club was a hit. The club concierge tracked her favorite drink; the cranberry martini had arrived without her having to ask for it.
Cammie took a sip—perfect—and watched a hot young model-turned-actor whose last movie had tanked slip out the door with an older actress. It was rumored that she had had so much work done by Dr. Birnbaum, plastic surgeon to the stars (Ben Birnbaum’s father—formerly
her
Ben, then for about a millisecond
Anna’s
Ben, and now probably doing-half-the-girls-at-Princeton Ben), that she had a zipper all the way from her butt to her neck, due to the massive removal of hanging skin.
Cammie figured the couple was going next door to Avalon, where they would pretend they wanted privacy while in actuality they’d put on a spectacle. First they’d make out on the dance floor. Then she’d give him a topless lap dance and hope it would make the rumor rags because they were both desperate for publicity.
Cammie took another sip of her drink. Sam had called that afternoon to ask Cammie if she wanted to go clubbing. It had been a
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