Friends & Fauxs Page 3

  Chapter 5

  Imelda swept aboard the Midas Touch with two steamer trunks in tow, wearing a black, oversized floppy hat, a bright Zac Posen shift, handcrafted, crystal-studded stilettos, and a pair of humongous black sunglasses, the kind that celebrities wore when they wanted to be seen not being seen.

  “Brandon, you look amazing!” she lied, effusively kissing the air near his pudgy cheeks three times, back and forth. “I love a man with a big, long—boat,” she teased, before turning her attention to Gillian. “Oh, darling, I am sooooo proud of you.”

  Midsentence she was already scanning the opulent surroundings. Gillian wasn’t sure whether her mother’s pride was related to her Oscar nomination or her apparently inherited ability to marry a rich man. “Thanks, Mom,” Gillian managed through a tight smile.

  “You know, dear,” Imelda started, absently lifting the glass of Champagne offered by Henri, “I’ve been thinking about the intense media scrutiny that we will soon be under.” Imelda spoke as though she were a costar nominated right alongside her daughter. She took a distressed breath, dramatizing the gravity of the statement to come. “The mom thing …” she began, shaking her head before lowering it as though trying hard to comprehend the complex issue that was weighing heavily on her mind. “I think it’s best that you call me Imelda from now on, especially in public.”

  “Mom!” Gillian was genuinely surprised, but not utterly shocked. She knew her mother all too well.

  “Just a thought,” Imelda offered in wide-eyed earnestness. “I was only thinking of you, darling. I wouldn’t want people to think you have a stage mom lurking around.”

  Imelda was actually thinking about being center stage herself, out in front of the world audience, which included thousands of possible ex-husbands in the making, and damned if she wanted to be cast as a mom. There was nothing sexy about that. In fact, the way she saw things, she and Gillian looked more like sisters anyway.

  Sensing the tension between the two women, this seemed as good a time as any for Brandon to manage an exit. “Henri, would you get the porters to direct the Baroness to her quarters?” He turned to Gillian and Imelda, who were facing off like two ornery cats in a dark back alley. “I have some work to do. I’ll see you at dinner, seven-thirty”

  Imelda took the opportunity to escape as well. She’d revisit the mom thing another time. “We’ll talk later,” she promised her daughter before following Henri and the porters to her spacious, luxuriously appointed stateroom.

  Later, sprawled chin-deep in a milky bubble bath, which she had one of the staff draw, Imelda’s mind raced with the intoxicating possibilities offered by Gillian’s new status and Brandon’s hefty loads of money. She’d known that Brandon had money when he and Gillian were dating—his Beverly Hills house and fleet of cars advertised that fact—but she didn’t realize that he had real money. Buying a custom yacht was not for the faint of wallet. She quietly praised her daughter for having the good sense to marry the man, as unappealing as he was. After all, marrying a mere millionaire was hardly enough these days. Hell, it probably cost a million a year just to service this floating paradise, she thought, looking around at the imported tile, solid gold fixtures, and state-of-the-art entertainment system, even in a guest suite! Not to mention the staff of seventeen that included two drivers who met the boat at each port of call with two Mercedes sedans. What a life. It was certainly one that she could, and would, get used to.

  Dinner that evening was a candlelit affair in the yacht’s main dining room. Henri and his staff of servers set the table with the custom china that Brandon had commissioned Colin Cowie to design. An elaborate “R” crest, meant to convey family legacy, nestled in the center of each piece. As appetizers of fresh tomato bisque and mini herb-crusted lamb chops were served, Imelda poured on years of practiced charm and a large dose of feminine wiles, along with a side of wit.

  “When I was in my twenties in Paris I was once approached by Valentino himself on the Champs-Elysées. As flattered as I was—you know I was a beauty—I had to decline his offer to be his muse and model. After all, I was married to my third husband then, and he was a very rich and influential man, so why should I work?” She sighed wistfully. “Though perhaps I should have had a career.”

  Other than marrying rich men, Gillian thought.

  “A career like Gillian’s.” Imelda gazed at her daughter longingly. Time was a vicious, nasty bitch, she thought. How wholly unfair that her daughter sat casually wearing her beauty without a second thought. She wasn’t even wearing a bra, yet her perky young breasts stood up, anxious to be noticed. Without a hint of makeup, her Mediterranean tan lit up the room, nor was there one wrinkle, sag, or shadow lurking beneath her eyes. For sure, Imelda was very well put together for a woman of a certain age, but it wasn’t without the aid of Wonderbras, miracle creams, and the occasional nip and tuck.

  “So, Baroness, how long will you be visiting with us?” Brandon asked. He loved calling his mother-in-law Baroness. Regardless of the fact that her last ex-husband purchased his title, and that it essentially meant nothing, it nonetheless elevated Brandon’s stature merely to be in close proximity to a royal title.

  “Oh, I’m not sure. There’s nothing for me to rush back to, so I’m prepared to stay as long as necessary.”

  Her statement, combined with the steamer trunks, spelled trouble to Gillian. It was one thing for her mother to just pop up in France and then invite herself back to the States, but it was another not to offer a departure date. Besides, she knew that if her mother smelled money and/or power that she would be relentless in her quest for her share, and unfortunately she and Brandon now reeked of both.

  “I think we have things under control, so you really don’t have to bother coming out to L.A.” Gillian tried valiantly to ward off the inevitable, though she knew that her weak effort was for naught.

  Imelda was not to be diverted. She placed her knife and fork down and adopted a serious, maternal expression. “Honey, you’re going to need all of the support you can get right now, and I’d be less of a mother if I weren’t there to help you at this critical time.”

  Gillian was baffled by the way Imelda was able to give that little speech with a straight face, particularly when only hours ago, she’d asked not to even be called mom. Amid her puzzlement, for the first time in her life, Gillian also felt a tinge of sympathy. There was an air of desperation clinging to her mother that she’d never detected before. She suddenly seemed older and much more vulnerable.

  As though sensing this opening, Imelda smoothly played the sympathy card. “Life is short, and I’ve already missed enough of yours while living abroad. I want to make up for that, and spend whatever time I have left focusing on you.” She reached across the table and gently grabbed her daughter’s hand in a very touching Oscar-worthy gesture. Before Gillian could react, Imelda sealed the deal. She turned to Brandon with imploring eyes. “Unless of course your handsome husband objects to my being around.”

  There was no graceful way to object, so Brandon followed Imelda’s script. “Of course not. We’d love to have you stay.”

  “Well, it’s settled,” Imelda proclaimed, as though Brandon had finally managed to talk her into an extended stay. “I’ll send for more things once we’re back in the States.”

  Great, Gillian thought, just what I need. Suddenly, that creepy feeling of foreboding was ratcheted up another notch.

  Chapter 6

  The years since Reese’s tragic auto accident had been understandably rough on her, but she counted her many blessings every day namely the number of zeros included in the balance of her well-endowed investment account, and her equally handsomely funded bank account (courtesy of Chris’s more than generous child support payments), not to mention her stately five-bedroom, midcentury estate, which sat nestled in a pristine perch above Beverly Hills. She reigned over her manor like Imelda Marcos lording over her vast collection of shoes.

  Situated behind a gated motor court, the c
lassic eleven-and-a-half-million-dollar lair boasted an Olympic-size pool, a luxury cabana, immaculate gardens, and a separate guesthouse. Best of all, for Reese, were the commanding views from the glass-walled open floor plan of Century City, the mountains, and the ocean. Queens, New York, was nowhere in sight.

  She’d fought long and hard and sold her soul at a discount to get to where she was. Accident, death, and destruction aside, she would probably do it all over again in order to have the financial security she now enjoyed. Even so, her victory was a somewhat hollow one.

  Together she and Paulette had devised a scheme to have Chris followed, and uncovered photographic proof that he was on the down low. They then threatened to expose him, effectively ending his NBA career, if he didn’t agree to her outrageous settlement demands, which were far outside of the prenup they’d both signed. Reese got what she wanted: Chris’s money. Their cutthroat tactics and his visceral anger were both viable motives for murder, thus Chris was also snared into the net of suspects for Paulette’s murder.

  Reese’s biggest regret was how she’d initially used Rowe. Having a baby had originally only been a tactic to ensure that Chris was safely snared, along with his tens of millions, but at her lowest point, ironically, it had been Rowe’s love that sustained her. Aside from Rowe, whose unconditional love was a source of immense comfort, there was very little love in her life. Sure, Gillian and Lauren were both great friends and would be there in a heartbeat if she needed them, but they had their own full lives that otherwise didn’t really include her. Her remaining family, her mother and a brother, both only came calling when they needed something, namely, money. And Chris, though he sent his child support faithfully each month, and made every effort to see and be in touch with Rowe (even though they lived a continent apart), wanted nothing to do with Reese. She couldn’t really blame him after all that she’d put him through.

  Which was why she sat alone overlooking her gardens while having a light lunch. At least she had Gillian’s celebration later to look forward to.

  “Mrs. Nolan, you have a call,” Gretchen, Reese’s housekeeper said, as she hustled down the cobblestoned path to where Reese sat sipping a flute of Cristal.

  “Take a message.” It was probably someone else calling to gloat over Gillian’s nomination. Since Gillian’s Oscar nomination, Reese must have gotten a zillion calls from so-called friends, fauxs, and simple nosy Nellies all wanting to talk to someone who knew Gillian Tillman-Russell personally, as though the glitz and glamour might rub off on them merely through association. She couldn’t take another minute of being reminded of just how fabulous Gillian was, not when she only had to look in the mirror or at the empty pillow next to hers to be reminded of just how not fabulous she was.

  It certainly wasn’t for lack of effort. Over the last year, she’d had multiple plastic surgeries to repair the damage from the car accident; a face-lift in an attempt to pull it all together; a nose job, just because; liposuction to suck away some of the fat that had gathered when she couldn’t hit the gym like she used to; breast augmentation; a toe tuck to trim down excess from her left pinky toe (a deal-breaker when sporting Jimmy Choos); and last but not least, vagioplasty to tighten and tone her punany After all of that she still lacked the magic that she once wielded effortlessly. Regardless, tonight she planned to put her best Manolo forward.

  “Ma’am, they say it’s an emergency. It’s Master Rowe’s school.” Gretchen looked embarrassed to insist on having Reese take the call, but like everyone else who came into contact with Rowe, she’d grown extremely close to him over the last three years, and was alarmed by the phone call.

  Reese raised her brow, which wasn’t so easy given the regularly scheduled injections of Botox, and took the phone; concern took root before she even answered it. The elite Harvard-Westlake private school that Rowe attended never called midday with any sort of emergency. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Nolan, this is Mrs. Owens, the head nurse at Harvard-Westlake, there’s been a problem with Rowe and we need you to come right away.”

  The concern that had taken root seconds before was now in full bloom. “What kind of problem? Where is he?” Reese jumped up from the chair, spilling her glass of wine.

  “Please calm down, Mrs. Nolan, Rowe is stable now. He’s in the nurse’s station, but he probably needs to see a doctor.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” Reese shouted. “What happened to my baby?”

  “He went out for recess and suddenly he became short of breath and a bit listless. We immediately brought him into the nurse’s station, where he began vomiting. We took his temperature and it was a hundred and one.”

  “Why didn’t someone call me?” Reese demanded.

  “This all just happened, and of course our first concern was to make sure that Rowe was stabilized. Now that he is, you should call his pediatrician and head over right away.”

  Two minutes later Reese was snapping her seat belt into place as she floored her chocolate Aston Martin, spewing pebbles along the driveway. On her panicked drive down the hills of Bel Air she couldn’t help but relive those last frantic moments along the mountainous terrain before she and Paulette crashed that fateful night. A sinking feeling settled over her, as she thought of and prayed for Paulette.

  Ten minutes later she skidded to a halt in front of the immaculately constructed learning haven for the rich and richer. She raced through the doors in search of her son. After navigating the sprawling school, with the help of a custodian who was very busy polishing the marble floors to the highest shine humanly possible, she located the movie set-ready nurses station.

  “Where is he?” Reese demanded from the starched white-clad receptionist. “Rowe Nolan. Where is he?”

  Recognizing an out-of-control parent, the receptionist calmly stood up and said in her most soothing voice, “If you’ll just have a seat, I’ll get the head nurse here right away. It shouldn’t take her more than a couple of minutes.”

  “I don’t want a seat, or to see the head nurse, what I want right now is my son!” The polish that lots of green (the monetary type) had buffed to a shine on Reese was all gone. There was nothing left but the scrappy, scruffy, ready-to-rumble little girl from Queens. The one who would sooner fight than look at you twice.

  “Mrs. Nolan,” another calm voice said, “Rowe is just back here, resting. Follow me.”

  Reese hiked her Hermès bag higher up on her shoulder and followed the voice that belonged to a heavyset woman with unnaturally orange hair and thighs that rubbed together loudly with each step. They arrived at Rowe’s room where he lay with covers up to his chin, the mischievous gleam missing from his big brown eyes.

  “Honey,” Reese leaned over to whisper, “are you okay?

  He shook his head listlessly, as if the effort alone were too much for his small body to bear.

  “Tell Mommy where it hurts.”

  He shrugged his small shoulders and said, “All over.”

  “We took Nolan’s temperature about ten minutes ago and it was one hundred and three. He’s unusually listless and lethargic, and seems pale. It could very well be an infection of some kind, but I would strongly recommend that you get him to his pediatrician right away.”

  It broke Reese’s heart to see her son lying there so helpless, her strong, vibrant son who fancied himself the “man of the house.” He watched every game his father played, often with a running commentary more specific than any coach or network announcer, and tried to mimic his father’s famous moves on his miniature basketball court out back.

  An hour later Reese and Rowe were in one of Dr. Young’s patient rooms; Reese was as nervous as a whore in church, while little Rowe lay on the examination table barely able to keep his eyes open.

  “What seems to be the problem, big guy?” Dr. Young asked, tussling Rowe’s tight dark curls. His adorable little face was twisted in pain and his eyes looked like two empty windows to a tired soul.

  “I don’t feeeeel good.” It took the no
rmally loquacious seven-year-old just about all the energy he had to say those four words.

  “Well, let’s take a look and see if we can figure out what’s going on. We can’t have our next star forward not feeling good.” Dr. Young’s well-known bedside manner brought a small smile to Rowe’s face, and calmed Reese, as well.

  He busied himself taking Rowe’s temperature and blood pressure, all the while maintaining an animated one-sided banter about the Eastern versus Western Conference.

  When he left the room, he asked Reese to follow. “I’m going to order some routine blood work, a complete blood cell count, and a monospot.”

  “A mono what?”

  “A test to check for mononucleosis.”

  “Isn’t he a little young for that?” Her only frame of reference was that this was the “kissing disease.”

  “No, it’s a virus that he could easily have caught at school, sharing utensils.” He paused. “I’m not saying that’s what he has; my job is to rule out as many causes as possible, and hone in on the one real problem, and then take care of it.”

  He motioned for one of his nurses to come over and rattled off a list of instructions to her, while Reese stood by dumbfounded.

  “Mrs. Nolan, try not to worry, it could be a simple virus.”

  “I know, I know. Take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”

  “Close, but not quite,” Dr. Young joked. “I’ll have some test results tomorrow morning and I’ll call you. Until then, I’ll give you something for his fever. Tuck him in and make sure that he gets lots of fluids and a good night’s rest.”

  Chapter 7

  The sleek black Bentley glided to a stop in front of the red carpet at the W Hotel, L.A.’s hottest hotspot. The velvet ropes were lined with the hip, the famous, and those who desperately craved to be one or the other. Many would still be there hours from now with their noses pressed longingly against the window. L.A. was a ruthless town—definitely not for the socially weak, or the personally humble.