Gold Diggers Page 14

“Thank you. Though I’m sure it’s a far cry from all that you’re accustomed to.”

  “Which is what makes it so interesting,” she countered.

  “Oh, I get it. You’re down here slumming for the day. To see how the other ninety-nine percent live, huh?” he teased.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t; you’re much too polite.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that you’re making fun of me?”

  “It’s not that. Really, I think you’re cute. You’re an interesting…” He paused and held up his finger. “There’s that word again. An interesting study in contrasts, and you realize that photography is really a visual representation of contrasts. You know, light versus dark, soft versus gritty. It’s almost impossible to show one element without contrasting it with another.” He looked at her as though his deepest desire were to penetrate a layer of her skin, to see her more clearly.

  She took a sip from her glass, fully enjoying the wine, the environment, the conversation, and the man. It was intriguing to her that he was so intellectual, yet not the least bit stuffy. “So what contrasts do you see in me?” She propped another pillow behind her, and reclined to hear his explanation.

  He leaned in and lowered his voice. “In you, I see a range of personal conflicts.”

  She shifted slightly, suddenly feeling exposed, as though he really could see through her. Oddly enough, she subconsciously hoped that he could, and then maybe he could tell her what was there.

  “You have it all, but you aren’t sure you deserve or want it; you’re gorgeous, but you’d rather people didn’t see it; you are strong and independent, but you like to keep that to yourself as well.” His gaze never wavered as he read her like an open book.

  She took another sip of her wine, unnerved by his insight into her personality. She doubted that her own husband or mother, understood her as well. “So, what are you, some kind of psychiatric photographer?” she asked, hoping to lighten the conversation.

  “Take a look at that photograph.” He gestured to a black-and-white shot of an elderly West African man. “The etches carved into his face, the very subtle dilation of his pupils, and the set of his jaw all tell a story that no screenplay writer could come close to creating. It’s impossible to capture the raw essence of a person in a photograph without gazing into his soul.”

  Again, contradictions prevailed; Lauren was as comfortable as she’d been in years, but at the same time she felt precariously on edge, as though she too were at a precipice, but not quite sure if the slide would take her down or help her to escape. “What if you don’t like what you see there?”

  He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders, sighed, and said, “People are who they are. None of us is perfect. I mean, look at that lame excuse for a striptease I pulled off.” He laughed at himself, and then became serious again. “But, perfect or not, it doesn’t matter. We are all the sum of our imperfections, and we are who we are as a result of them, for better or worse. What matters most is how we grow as people, and what we do individually to make the world better.”

  Lauren took a thoughtful sip of the wine, absorbing his simple but profound words, along with the grapes from a country she’d yet to visit. She didn’t reply; no words were necessary. She just nestled more deeply in the pillows that surrounded her, feeling better than she had in years—more centered, more understood, and more interested in what the next moment might bring.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I am.”

  “Can I get anything for you?”

  “No, I’m just fine.” She felt oddly at peace, as if she could stay in this moment for hours.

  Without comment he wrapped his arm around her, and she fit perfectly against his chest. The gesture was an easy one, with no pressure or expectations attached to it; nor was it an overtly sexual move; however, it did reveal an intimacy that her husband would never have been capable of. Suddenly, Martha’s Vineyard, Westchester, and the Upper East Side all felt worlds away.

  EIGHTEEN

  Imelda descended on L.A. like a blustery nor’easter. Gillian could easily imagine her mother’s grand entrance, blowing into the Four Seasons lobby, dripping in sable—even in sunny California—with a barrage of Louis Vuitton steamer trunks following in her wake, and a trail of bellmen nipping at her heels. Though you could pick your friends, you weren’t as fortunate where family was concerned, so she dutifully placed the call to the hotel to speak with her mother.

  “Hello, daaahling,” Imelda’s affected effervescence reverberated through the phone line, making her sound bigger than life. She was the quintessential drama queen. Gillian often thought that her mother should have been the actress in the family.

  “How was your trip?”

  “First-class travel just isn’t what it used to be, unless you’re on Virgin Atlantic. But, boy, do I miss the Concorde! These days any old yokel with enough frequent-flier miles can get a first-class seat.” She blew an appalled gust of air aimed at the ill-fated airline industry. “I remember a time when they served French estate wines with dinner; now you’re lucky if you get a regional Californian.” It was telling how drastically different her sentimental reverie was from those of most women her age, who might just as fondly remember the low price of bread.

  “How long are you planning to stay?” The answer Gillian really wanted was to the question, When exactly are you leaving?

  “Oh, we aren’t really sure, maybe a week or two, or perhaps a month.” Since Imelda had never had a job, she also didn’t appreciate the context of time that most people conformed to.

  “Speaking of ‘we,’ who is this guy you’re traveling with, and what happened to your latest husband?”

  “We’ll get into all of that later. Right now I’m a bit jet-lagged, but I’ve made a reservation for the three of us at Spago at eight o’clock. Okay, darling?”

  Gillian hung up the telephone with an unsettling feeling of foreboding. She was the only person she knew who had more cause to worry about her mother’s judgment than the other way around. Long before Gillian had ever even heard the term gold digger, she’d recognized the color of her mother’s stripes. All of her life she’d seen the way Imelda had masterfully manipulated, cajoled, and used any means necessary to get what she wanted from men, and once she got it—or something better came along—they became instantly disposable, like last year’s news. Gillian had hoped that Imelda’s last marriage would have been enough for her, and that she would finally settle down like a normal person, instead of flitting around the world selling her wares—which, by the way, were getting a bit worn. Though her mother seemed oblivious to it, quite a few of the petals had fallen from Imelda’s bloom, so she was not the beauty she was when she began trading up husbands the way some people did their automobiles.

  Gillian shook her head as her thoughts centered on the father she never knew, the first of many men to be sucked into the tsunami known as her mother. For years, Gillian had tried to persuade Imelda to tell her who her father was, and how she might find him. She secretly hoped that he would ride in on a white horse, scoop her up in his arms and rescue her from never-never land. Even though she knew exactly who Gillian’s father was, Imelda ignored her pleas, telling her daughter one story after another, denying Gillian the right to know him, simply because she had no desire ever to face her past, once she’d left it behind. What Gillian got instead was one “uncle” after another, and a history of issues dealing with men that prevented her from forming lasting relationships.

  “What’s your mom doing in town?” Paulette asked as she breezed into the room. She’d just returned to L.A. for two weeks—just long enough to have liposuction and a breast-lift. Though Gillian had been living with Paulette for six months now, dealing with her cloying personality had not gotten any easier. Actually, it had gotten worse since Paulette had come into her inheritance. Modesty and humilit
y were two words that had never been introduced to the woman, so she bragged incessantly about her pricey New York loft, her big, buldging bank account, and lately about her hot new man, who she swore was God’s gift wrapped in organza and silk bows. She never revealed his name, explaining that she wanted to keep the relationship private for now, which was a first for Paulette. Whenever she’d managed to trap a man in the past, she promptly put the poor man on display like a caged white Bengal tiger. Whatever, Gillian thought, she couldn’t care less which schmuck would be stupid enough to hook up with Paulette. She had her own—and her mother’s—problems to deal with.

  “How long is she staying?”

  “Who knows? The woman is—”

  “—my hero,” Paulette interrupted. “Any black woman who can travel around the world marrying one rich man after another is the shit, as far as I am concerned.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “So, what’s going on with you and Brandon?” Paulette asked. “I saw from the phone’s ID that he’s been calling.”

  It was just like Paulette to come home and immediately go trawling through the caller ID log. She was insufferably nosy. “Nothing, really.” In truth, she and Brandon had been spending a lot more time together, but there was no way she’d divulge that to Paulette.

  “A friend told me he saw you two at Jerry’s Deli having lunch.” Paulette raised her brows and fixed her eyes on Gillian, hoping to pry away something gossipworthy.

  Gillian was not about to be baited. “And…?”

  “Nothing, just curious, that’s all, though I did hear some interesting industry gossip about Sunset Records.” Paulette waited for Gillian to now pry the gossip from her loose lips, but Gillian wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation.

  “I’m gonna take a nap. I’ll need my energy for dinner tonight with my mom.”

  When Imelda made her grand entrance into the famed Spago, Gillian was already seated at the prime center table that her mother had reserved, sipping a dirty martini with Grey Goose. She was just about to check voice mail on her cell phone when she felt her mother’s presence before she even turned to see her enter the restaurant. Imelda didn’t just walk into a room, ever. She conquered all four walls, making sure that every head turned and that all eyes tracked her like heat-seeking missiles. At the age of fifty-five, she was five feet, ten inches tall, and in excellent shape. Her complexion was honey brown, and she wore a sassy short haircut that was dyed a warm platinum blond. Package that with the tight, bright red Versace dress, and she was impossible to miss. Trailing behind her was a dark-haired, handsome young Italian with a rich olive complexion. He appeared to be at least half her age, if a day.

  “Daaahling, you look fabulous.” She made a show of kissing both of Gillian’s cheeks, then holding her at arm’s length to get a good look.

  “And, of course, so do you,” Gillian said. And she did; even with the hint of crow’s-feet that were creeping from the corners of her eyes, and a few other telltale signs of age, she was a handsome, elegant woman who knew all too well how to work her assets.

  “Oh, thank you, sweetie.” She turned to introduce the Italian stud into their conversation. “Gillian, this is my fiancé, Stephan. Stephan, this is my beautiful daughter, the actress, Gillian.” This exchange started another set of air kisses from him, but didn’t stop there. Gallantly Stephan bent at the waist and kissed the back of Gillian’s hand, while his eyes remained locked with hers.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Gillian said.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” And he looked like a man who really meant that. Stephan had that oozing sexuality that many Italian men possessed, which could turn a mere gaze into an intense sexual encounter.

  Gillian was nearly speechless. Fiancé? Just when she didn’t think it was possible, her mother managed to shock her again.

  After the fawn-fest concluded, with a rapt audience, they sat down for dinner with Imelda, of course, in the power seat, perfectly positioned so that as many people in the restaurant as possible could see her. In fact, she took the seat that Gillian previously had, gingerly moving her daughter’s cocktail aside.

  “So, how are things going for you here, dear?” What she really meant was, Have you gotten any acting jobs yet? She was totally enamored of the idea of her daughter being a Hollywood actress. The way Imelda spoke of Gillian’s career to friends in Europe, her daughter was bigger than Julia Roberts.

  Gillian felt a strong desire to down the other half of her martini, but took a tame sip instead. “Let’s just say that I’m learning patience.”

  “As beautiful as you are, you shouldn’t have any trouble at all getting work. You must be doing something wrong. Are you getting out, meeting people? Maybe I should meet with that agent of yours. He obviously isn’t doing his job.”

  The last thing Gillian wanted was to discuss her teetering career on an empty stomach with her mother and her boy toy. Fortunately, before she had to respond, the waiter came to take drink orders from Imelda and Stephan. Imelda ordered an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon, so obviously the new husband-to-be must be doing well.

  When the waiter left the table, Imelda turned back to Gillian. “You were saying?”

  “Mom, I do have some things in the works, but it does take time,” Gillian patiently explained.

  “Some things like what?”

  Gillian was hoping that she could just keep the conversation moving in another direction, but leave it to her mother to be relentless. “Brandon Russell and William Rutherford are producing a film called Gold Diggers, and they’re talking to me about a starring role.” She really hadn’t planned to divulge this to her mother, but hoped that this little tidbit might temporarily satiate her ravenous appetite.

  “That’s wonderful!” Imelda beamed, turning to look at Stephan as if to make sure the he too understood how important this was, namely for Imelda. The wine steward walked over with the champagne and went through the uncorking, and pouring ritual, after which Imelda went through the swirling, smelling, tasting, and approving ritual. After all glasses were filled, she raised hers for the others to join. “Here’s to my gorgeous daughter and her sensational film career.”

  After taking a sip, Gillian said, “Mom, remember nothing’s final.”

  “But it will be.” Now Imelda picked up the menu and changed the subject. “Everything looks divine, especially after those pitiful meals they serve on airplanes these days.”

  “Excuse me.” Gillian got up to go to the ladies’ room, not ready for another discourse on the horrid state of first-class travel.

  Once in the ladies’ room she powdered her nose, fluffed her hair, and thought of anything else she could do to kill time. That was when she remembered her cell phone, which she’d left at the table. Brandon’s record label was having a fancy album release party for Sweet Cakes, one of the biggest female rap artists in the world. Her last album had gone triple platinum, and she had endorsements with everybody from Chanel to Lancôme. He’d insisted that Gillian come for the exposure, to beef up her profile before her film debut. He’d promised to make sure that she walked the red carpet and was photographed for print media, but Gillian had forgotten to find out where the party was being held. She’d just call after dinner. She took one last look in the mirror and left to rejoin her mother and Stephan.

  When she got back to the table, her mother handed her the cell phone. “Dear, a call came through while you were in the ladies’ room.”

  Gillian took the phone, but didn’t see a missed call or a new-message indicator.

  “I went ahead and answered it for you, knowing that it might be important.”

  “Mother!”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I did, because it was Brandon Russell, calling about tonight’s party.”

  “You spoke to him?” This was the last thing that Gillian wanted—for Brandon, w
hom she wasn’t sure about to begin with, to meet her mother.

  “Of course, darling, and he’s such a nice man. He invited Stephan and me to be his guests this evening. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “Mother, this is business!”

  “I know, sweetie. We won’t be in the way, and in fact I may even be able to help you.”

  “Did he say where the party was?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s at the Four Seasons, which is perfect. We’ll finish up here, I’ll go back to the hotel, change clothes, and we’ll go to the party.”

  As usual, it was all about Imelda.

  NINETEEN

  Sweet Cakes’s album release party was held in the spacious but cozy roof garden atop the Four Seasons. It was a must-attend for hip celebrities. Brandon spared no expense entertaining his high-profile guests, including the top executives in the entertainment business. He hired the renowned event planner extraordinaire, Colin Cowie, to transform the rooftop into the Garden of Eden, with apple trees and waiters dressed only in fig leaves as they served Champagne Paul Goerg, and a host of other delicacies, starting with caviar on apple crisps. At the moment Sweet Cakes was the glittering jewel in Sunset Records’ shining crown, and Brandon was pulling out every stop to milk her for all she was worth.

  Legend had it that Brandon started Sunset Records in Mississippi fifteen years earlier with less than two thousand dollars cash and one marginally talented wannabe rapper. Sheer determination and a really good ear for hit records enabled him to parlay his meager, struggling basement operation into a thriving $100-million business. Over time he carefully groomed himself by meticulously emulating those executives and moguls he admired. He copied their way of dress, the cars they drove, their mannerisms, and the way they spoke. He’d all but lost his Mississippi twang, and hadn’t been back to his hometown since he left for New York after his first big hit—not even to see his eighty-year-old mother, even though he made sure that she was well taken care of.