Beneath a Starlet Sky

“Ow,” I mumble as I struggle awake, trying to focus my eyes. It feels like there’s a vise grip around my head. I look around the small, white room, trying to get my bearings. This isn’t my room at the Martinez. Where am I? As I lift my arm to wipe the sleep from my eyes, I feel a tug. Why is there an IV in my arm? Why am I wearing a hospital gown? What happened to me?

“Hello?” I call out, feeling a wow of pain as I try to sit upright. “Hello?” I call out again. “Bonjour?”

I look for a call button on my bed but don’t see one. What I do notice are lots of flowers. There must be over a dozen bouquets crammed into my tiny room. Where did they all come from? Are those white carnations? Uh-oh. This must be serious. Don’t they send white flowers when someone dies? What happened to me?

As I gaze at a tall vase of Casablanca lilies, suddenly Nic Knight charging me like a bull in Pamplona flashes in my mind. It plays on a loop over and over and over. I try and wipe the image away but it won’t stop playing. “Hello,” I croak. Ow, my head really hurts.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” a bony, gray-haired nurse says, coming into my room. She has a kind face.

“Do you speak English?” I ask.

“Un petit peu,” she says, pinching her index finger and thumb together.

“Why am I here? What happened to me?”

“Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle?”

“What happened to me?” I repeat, trying to channel Marion Cotillard’s perfect accent.

“Mademoiselle, you have un commotion.”

“A what?” That sounds serious. “What’s a commotion? I mean, um, uh, quel est un commotion?”

“Comment je dire en English?” she asks.

“A concussion,” Kate says, suddenly appearing from behind the hospital curtain. “I can’t believe I fell asleep in that,” she says, looking in confusion at the tiny hospital chair that was her makeshift bed for the night. “I’ve never been so exhausted in my life,” she says, one hand unconsciously resting on her belly, hair disheveled and last night’s makeup smeared beneath her eyes, a rare sight given Kate’s usual airbrushed state. I wonder who looks worse: me or Kate. “Nic Knight gave you a freaking concussion,” she says furiously as she plunks herself down on the end of my hospital bed and places a protective hand on my knee.

“No wonder my head hurts so much,” I say, trying to sit up. “I don’t have time for a concussion. Do you know when I can leave?” I ask the nurse. “I’ve got to get back to my hotel. I need my laptop. I have so much work to do. Julian’s show is in two days and I have to check on the RSVPs and all the fittings and the seating chart and I still need to get Aria out of jail. I need to leave. Please,” I beg. The nurse just blinks at this gush of words.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Julian says, walking into the hospital room with two foam cups of coffee. He hands one to Kate. I wonder if they can add some to my IV. “Thank god you’re awake. We’ve all been so worried about you, Princess,” he says. He sits down on the edge of the bed opposite Kate and grabs my hand.

“Julian, you need to get me out of here,” I say. “Kate, please,” I plead.

“Lola, you took a really hard blow to your head. You’re not going anywhere until the doctors say you can leave,” Kate says.

“Julian, Aria’s supposed to be getting out of jail today. I have to go and make sure that she actually does, and then you need to have a fitting with her. The show is in two days. I need to leave now,” I say, trying to climb out of bed before another wince of pain assaults me. “Ow, my head.”

“Lie back down,” Julian instructs, gently pushing me back on the pillow. “The doctor told us that you need to rest. Chili and I already spoke with the concierge and they’ve talked to the precinct and taken care of all the arrangements. They’re going to let us know the second that Aria is back at the hotel. You just rest.”

“But—” I protest.

“No buts, Lola,” Kate says. “I know how much you want to go to the Four Weddings premiere tonight, so we spoke with your doctors. They said maybe, but only if you stay here for observation for a few more hours. So please, just rest.”

“Chili and I will handle everything today,” Julian adds.

“Julian, I don’t trust Chili to handle anything. I need to do it myself. I’ve worked too hard to let things fall apart because of a stupid concussion. Please,” I beg.

“No,” Julian says.

“At least bring me my laptop,” I plead.

“Fine. But you can only have it for an hour and then I’m confiscating it. I know you don’t trust Chili and neither do I, but you can trust me and I promise that I will hold down the fort today. Lola, you need to rest,” Julian says.

“What happened? Did Nic Knight really—” I try to piece together the surreal, fragmented events of last night.

“Honey, it was like an episode of The Cannes Shore. You’re lucky that you’re alive. You totally saved your father’s life, you know,” Julian says.

“I did?” I say.

“Nic was totally bombed off his ass,” Kate says, shaking her head in frustration. “He and your dad were yelling at each other and then your dad hit Nic in the face with a right hook. I thought he was down for the count, but then he jumped up like freaking Rocky and started coming after your dad.”

“That’s when you stepped right in front of him and Nic ended up clocking you on the head by mistake. You went down like a shot. We all thought you were dead,” Julian says.

“Oh my god, is Papa okay?” I ask.

“He’s fine, a little scraped up and totally pissed off, but otherwise fine, thanks to you,” Kate says. “Your parents have been here all night. Your dad just left because he had to go back to the hotel for an interview that he tried to get out of but couldn’t, and we forced your mom to go with him.”

“Papa tried to cancel an interview?” I ask in disbelief.

“You totally took the hit for him, Lo,” Kate says. “He’s been worried sick. We all have,” she adds, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.

“Do you want to see the video?” Julian asks.

“Video?” I mutter.

“Yeah, someone caught the whole thing on video and leaked it to TMZ,” Julian says.

“Jesus, Julian.” Of course there’s video. Will anyone ever have another private moment again?

“You have even more views than Aria going Naomi Campbell on that girl on the plane and almost as many as Nano eating a steak,” Julian says.

I flop back down in bed. I can’t help but wonder if that someone is my mother and her WWW’s camera crew. No, she’d never leak that footage—not when she could save it for Sweeps Week.

“So how did I end up here?” I ask.

“It was so scary. Thank goodness Diddy keeps a doctor on his staff. He totally stabilized you until the paramedics got there and transported you here,” Julian says.

“And all of this is on TMZ?” I ask.

Julian just nods his head yes. I’m totally humiliated. As Banksy says, “In the future, everyone will be anonymous for fifteen minutes.” I can’t wait for mine.

“Did you come in the ambulance with me?” I ask.

“They would only let your mother ride with you, so Diddy’s driver brought me, your dad, Christopher, Cricket, and Kate here,” Julian says.

“Christopher and Cricket were here too?” I ask.

“Yes, but once you were stable, the nurses kicked them out. Technically you’re only supposed to have one visitor,” Julian says.

“Please tell me that Mom didn’t let her cameras film the ambulance ride,” I say.

“I’m not sure,” Julian says, a trifle uneasily.

Oh god. “What if she filmed it for her show?” I yelp.

“She wouldn’t do that, would she?” Julian says.

“Julian we’re talking about my mother.”

“She’s furious it’s all over the Web,” Kate says.

“Yeah, she’s probably furious because it didn’t break on her show,” I say. “What happened to Nic? Are all these flowers from him?” I ask.

“I think he’d send you every flower from the Tuileries if he could,” Kate says. “He refused to break character and now look where he is: in the slammer. He should feel right at home there,” she adds sarcastically.

“Nic’s in jail?” I say.

“Yep,” Kate says. “Same jail as Aria. Your father tried to go after him after he took you down, but Diddy stopped him and Diddy’s bodyguards grabbed Nic. Then your dad called the police. I tried to convince him not to press charges, but he did, and of course TMZ has all the footage of Nic getting carted off to jail.”

“My father’s right. Nic’s a lunatic. I don’t know how you represent him, Kate,” I say.

“Well, he committed career suicide last night, that’s for sure,” she says. “He probably sabotaged any chance he had at any acting awards. I’m sure the judges weren’t too thrilled when this hit the news this morning.”

“Does that mean it’ll kill Papa’s chances for the Palme d’Or too? He’s going to kill Nic. Oh no. He’s going to kill you too, Kate! Julian, where’s my cell? I need to call my father,” I say.

“You need to rest. Seriously, Lola,” Julian says.

“Give me my cell!” I say. “Kate, he’s going to kill you!”

“Lo, please, don’t worry about me right now. I’m fine. We managed here all night together. I’m a big girl. Besides, Nic’s safely behind bars. And you need to relax now,” Kate says matter-of-factly.

“What about my laptop? You promised I could have it,” I say to Julian. “Where’s my laptop?”

“I’ll call Chili and have him bring it over, but you really need some quiet now. I promise I’ll handle everything with Aria today and I already told Chili to start calling about the RSVPs,” Julian says.

“I already told you that I don’t trust him,” I say.

“Enough, Lola. If you don’t get cleared by the doctors, no premiere tonight and I really, really need you for the show, so will you please just take it easy? I promise you that I will have Chili bring over your laptop and I’ll go check with the doctors now about when you can get out of here,” Julian says.

“Fine, okay, fine. Thank you, Julian,” I say.

“Now please relax,” Kate says. “We’ll come check on you in a couple of hours.”

“Okay, don’t forget to have Chili bring my laptop,” I say.

“Rest,” they say in unison as they walk out of the door.

* * *

“Leave me alone, I’ve got to resht!” wails Aria, as she trails an arm languidly from the Doyer hydrotherapy bathtub in the Spa Givenchy. Her face is slathered with some thick gold-white cream. “They treated me like an animal in that jail. I’m filthy … and exhausted. I need to relax!”

“Please, Aria,” I say. “We’re two hours late for the fitting!” I wince as the esthetician flips a switch and 180 jets start churning the water furiously around Aria’s very, very naked body. Her famously long, olive legs and arms are spilling over the side of the tub and the hair she changes as often as most people change their underwear is now a cropped bleached blond. Maybe one of the other inmates was a hair stylist? Without a speck of makeup on, her pouty lips are a perfect shade of rose and her infamous Bowie eyes—one dark green and one hazel brown—are stunning.

“Mademoiselle,” the esthetician says to me sternly, “I am telling you for the last time, you must go! You do not have an appointment here!”

I wish I did. My head is throbbing. There’s nothing I’d like more than to be one of the lucky ladies enjoying the Slimming Massage or No Surgetic facials on the tres exclusive seventh “Prestige” floor of the Hotel Martinez. I can hear the tinkling of Hawaiian music, muffled behind closed doors, as some lucky starlet avails herself of the Lomi Lomi massage. If I had a spare 160 euros, I’d treat myself to the “Exclusively Givenchy” spa treatment—two hours of utter, hydrating bliss—but after making Aria’s bail, I can’t even afford a copy of Le Monde to find out what the Obamas are up to. Maybe I could just lie down for five minutes on the gleaming cream granite floor glowing softly beneath the oh-so-flattering lights. Just five minutes. I’m so tired. But I’ve got a job to do. I didn’t browbeat those doctors to release me from the hospital only to fail now.

“Aria, we’ve got to go—this instant!” I tell the supermodel, who simply closes her startlingly mysterious eyes and sinks deeper into the bubbles.

“C’est imposible. Mademoiselle cannot leave now,” the esthetician tells me. “Now I must remove the gold and calf placenta. It is ze most important part of the treatment.”

“The … what?” I ask in dismay.

“It’sh the Golden Calf treatment,” says Aria. God, is she slurring? Has Aria been drinking? “I absolutely require it if you wan’ me to walk your little show. Don’ worry, darling, I charged it to your suite.”

“H-how much is it?” I ask.

“It is only three hundred euros,” says the esthetician. “With gold at a thousand euros an ounce, it is a steal!”

“But we can’t af—” I start to say, then stop. Why bother? When will this end? This is the woman who wants the models to wear her hideous vegan shoes on Julian’s runway, and she’s smearing calf placenta on her face? “Aria, enough. I paid your bail. Now I need you at the fitting. Right now!”

“Fine, fine,” Aria mutters, rising out of her bubbles like a tipsy Venus on the half-shell. I look away while the esthetician finishes wiping her face clean and wraps her in a plush, pristine, white robe. “I’ll do it for Chili. I simply adore his designs!”

Is she kidding me! “Aria, you’re walking for Julian. Julian Tennant. Remember, you did his graduation show? At Central Saint Martins?”

“Yesh, right, right,” she says, swishing away this pesky detail with a flick of her slender hand. “I simply adore him too.”

Ten minutes later I’ve deposited her on the sofa of our suite and drag Julian into the bedroom. “Julian, I wish I could stay and babysit, but I’ve got to get to the premiere. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Make sure you’ve got Chili for backup. And don’t let Aria out of your sight and do not let her order anything else to drink!”

“Darling, we need some champagne—now!” Aria trills from the living room.

* * *

Above the faint coos of turtledoves, the gentle whoosh of Kleenex being pulled out of Bottega clutches, and the whir of cameras flashing, is the sound of Sting himself singing “Every Breath You Take.” His ivory embroidered tunic seems to glow as he stands flanked by a thousand flickering candles and a twelve-piece orchestra. I tuck a rogue lock of blond hair behind my ear and smooth out the skirt of my little ombré fringe Julian Tennant number. I just can’t believe this is really happening. I’ve waited so long for this moment. And to think I almost missed it.

There’s a stirring at the back of the cathedral. The guests in white dinner jackets and designer gowns spin on their white chairs trimmed with alabaster satin bows, craning for a closer look. There are audible gasps as all eyes fall upon Saffron Sykes resplendent in a Julian Tennant antique Valenciennes rose point lace wedding gown. It’s even more magnificent than the gorgeous gown Grace Kelly wore on her wedding day. Saffron seems to float up the aisle strewn with white rose petals. She looks out from beneath a tulle veil that’s covered with appliquéd lace lovebirds and thousands of seed pearls. Saffron pauses when she reaches the front row of chairs to hand off her bouquet—a simple yet elegant spray of calla lilies and white roses wrapped in antique silk ribbon—to her maid of honor: my BAF, Cricket.

Every woman who’s been forced to wear a hideous peach bridesmaid pouf (me at Posh and Becks’s wedding, in a rare Vera Wang face plant) is currently salivating at the sight of Cricket, who is rivaling Saffron’s radiance in a flowing, blue-gray georgette Julian Tennant gown. Her blond hair is twisted in a chignon and her flawless pale skin is practically luminous. Her eyes glisten with tears as she watches Saffron stride toward Markus Livingston, where he waits for her beneath the chuppah in his own JT creation—a yarmulke appliquéd with lovebirds and ivy.

Saffron lifts her veil and there’s another audible gasp. Those startling Aegean blue eyes. A modest blush staining those sky-high cheekbones. Those perfect pillowy lips that even Angelina would kill for. But it’s not just that she’s breathtaking; it’s that mystery behind her eyes, the depth there, the intrigue. Saffron’s face tells stories that the world wants to lose itself in.

How I wish that Julian were by my side now like he was supposed to be instead of back at the Martinez with Aria, to see how this internationally beloved superstar bride has made his wedding gown seem even more sensational. Tears well in my eyes despite the fact that I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. I feel like such a sap as I dab at my eyes with a tissue, wishing I had worn waterproof mascara.

The sound of clacking beside me breaks me out of my Saffron reverie. I glance over to my left to Kate in a black tuxedo jumpsuit with a plunging neckline, chestnut hair slicked back in a low ponytail, red painted lips pursed, unabashedly typing on her BlackBerry. I throw her an “Are you for real?” look, but she doesn’t even have the decency to look repentant.

“Are you seriously crying?” Kate whispers, rolling her blue eyes at me.

“It’s just…” I sniffle. “The gown looks so good.”

I sink into my red velvet seat and dab my eyes again as I think back on everything it took to get Saffron into that gown. Then I turn my attention back to the big screen. Markus Livingston’s groom lovingly strokes the radiant cheek of Saffron Sykes’s bride. Other than totally thrilled to see that our gowns are absolutely spectacular up there in mega-pixel splendor, and that my BAF has finally become the next Cameron Diaz instead of parking her Prius, I’m feeling like a complete cliché. How can I watch this movie wedding and not picture myself and Lev under that same chuppah?

The sound of a soft snore to my right distracts me from mooning like a twelve-year-old. I peer to my right at a reporter who’s fallen fast asleep atop her notebook. This is probably her third or fourth screening of the day, not to mention umpteen press conferences and the requisite dinner party or two, but dead asleep? No, no, no, no. Not during this movie. I give the slumbering reporter a not-so-gentle nudge.

Write about the wedding gown, I will her as she struggles awake and poises her pen over her pad. Check out the workmanship on that bridesmaid’s dress! That’s Tennant. T-E-N-N-A-N-T.

The reporter scrawls something on her pad. Please let it be something about the gowns. Please! Or at the very least how wonderful Cricket is as Saffron’s wisecracking sidekick. I crane my neck to see what she’s written. Pick up script. Dry cleaning. Drinks at Hotel du Cap. Oh god. Oh no. Screw telepathic communication. “Isn’t that gown amazing?” I burble at her. “I heard it’s a Julian Tennant. You know, that designer everyone’s talking about. Aren’t you going to write about the—”

“Shhhh!” Someone behind me cuts off my desperate plea.

What I want to say: “Please. You have no idea how important this movie is to my career. Could you please just write a little something about the world’s most talented but still unknown designer? Please?” Instead I bite my tongue so hard the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I murmur an apology. I look around the massive theater at all of the reporters frantically scrawling notes and pray that at least one of them is writing about Julian’s divine wedding gown. My attention is snapped back to the screen. “Is there anyone here who has a reason why this marriage should not go forward?” the rabbi asks as he surveys the guests from behind Saffron and Markus. “If so, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Cricket suddenly steps forward. “I object!”

Markus looks at her, shocked, then smiles slowly, broadly.

The audience starts buzzing frantically at the sudden plot twist. And so does my cell phone. It’s a text from Julian: “Disaster. Call immediately!”

What now?! The word “disaster” reverberates over and over and over in my head.

“I’ve got to go,” I whisper to Kate, whose focus is still trained on her BlackBerry. She doesn’t even bother to look up as I stumble over approximately ten reporters who give me the hairy eyeball despite the fact that their own BlackBerrys are casting the theater in an eerie Day-Glo white. “Write about the wedding gown. Please write about the wedding gown,” I beg each reporter in turn in a final, desperate whisper as I make my way over them. But my words seem to fall on deaf ears and scowling mouths.

I rush up the aisle, throw open the theater lobby doors, and make my way outside and onto the top of the red-carpeted steps of the Palais des Festivals.

Movie posters are splattered everywhere, and so are the yachts as they bob gently on the French Riviera just beyond. I take in a huge gulp of the sultry Mediterranean air and dial Julian’s cell.

“Julian, what’s happening?” I bark as soon as he picks up. “Is everything okay with Aria?”

“That damn Chili sent the LVMH yacht to the wrong place, and they’re not going to hold the slip for us much longer.” I can picture Julian raking long fingers with chewed nails through his glossy black hair. “Apparently Paul Allen’s superyacht screwed Geffen and Ellison’s super-superyacht, and they need to find room for the little baby yacht, because Harvey Weinstein has suddenly decided to have yet another party. Which means we’ve got a huge show in two days and nowhere to hold it. Not that it matters; no one’s coming anyway.”

“Yes, they are, Julian, of course they are,” I say, in an attempt to talk both Julian and myself off the cliff. That damn Chili. How is it humanly possible for one assistant to screw up as much as he does?

“Julian, everything is going to be fine, I promise.” I say it emphatically because I don’t really mean it.

“You always say that,” Julian mutters.

“And we always are. We’re always fine,” I say in yet another attempt to convince myself as much as Julian.

I contemplate hurling myself down the Palais steps, but decide against it. The last thing I want is another concussion. Or another video of me all over TMZ.

“Julian,” I say, forcing myself not to hyperventilate. “I’ll deal with the yacht. Is there anything else? You just made me miss Cricket’s big scene where her character gets to profess her love for Saffron’s character.”

“Anything else?” Julian shrieks. “Lola, we might have no venue.”

“I think I know who can help us with the yacht. We’re going to make this work, don’t worry,” I say soothingly. “I just had a great idea. I’m going to hang up now—I’ve got a phone call to make.”

“Thanks, Lola,” Julian says. “You really are amazing.”

“Just get back to work and I’ll see you soon. Movie’s getting out, I gotta go.”

I slip my cell back into my purse and hear a commotion behind me as the doors of the theater burst open.

I’m met with a tsunami of indecipherable French phrases and the crème de la crème of Cannes on the Palais steps, all flanked by international reporters with notepads and digital recorders. As I take in the scene I can’t help but wonder: Is there anyone even left in Hollywood? I turn around and am just about to abandon my last shred of dignity and ask (read beg, plead, bribe) Charlize Theron to come to Julian’s show when I’m accosted by two 20′ × 20′ billboards that are surrounded by the other Cannes movie posters splattered along the Palais steps: FORGET YOU, PETUNIA HOLT and YOU WERE NEVER THAT GOOD IN BED, PETUNIA HOLT. I shudder at the sight of them. I’d like to blame it on the ocean air, but it’s a spectacular May night on the French Riviera and 70 degrees at 9:00 P.M. It’s those damn movie posters of Christopher’s that send a chill down my spine. They’re everywhere.

Cricket, Saffron, and Markus appear at the top of the steps and are swiftly engulfed by reporters and paparazzi.

“Is it true?” one of the reporters begs as the lights of the paps’ cameras blare on Saffron’s face. Cricket is blinking rapidly next to her in the sudden glare.

“Saffron Sykes, are you really gay?” a reporter asks.

“Are you in love with your costar Cricket Curtis?” another reporter demands. “Is your relationship with Markus just a beard? Have all of your relationships with men been a cover? What about Clooney? Was that a front? Is Clooney gay? Have you been lying to your fans? How long have you known you’re gay?”

The questions are rapid-fire. I’m surprised not to see gun wounds. Or blood. The only explosion is the blinding lights and my friend caught in the middle of it all.

“Cricket, can we get a shot of you kissing Saffron?” another reporter wants to know as Cricket stands there frozen in front of the blinding glare.

“Cricket, over here!”

“No, over here!”

“Cricket!”

Jesus. You’d think she was Angelina Jolie. This is nuts.

I attempt to make my way through the throng surrounding Cricket, Saffron, and Markus, but it’s no use. I get an elbow to the ribs for my trouble from the mosh pit of yelling reporters and paparazzi I’m now stuck in. These people are piranhas. I’ve got to get out of here. Someone’s going to get hurt. And I don’t want it to be me. I’ve already had one concussion on this trip.

As I struggle to break free, the reporters and paparazzi continue to swarm my BAF.

“Cricket, are you gay?”

“Are you a lesbian?”

“Are you in love with Saffron?”

“Cricket, over here!”

“Cricket!”

My BAF just stands there like a deer in headlights. Someone needs to save her before she gets run over. How can anyone live like this? She’s not ready for it.

Meanwhile Saffron and Markus, who are used to the paparazzi’s glare, seem to thrive in its blinding light. It’s like they have on magic shields that prevent the reporters’ invasive and inappropriate questions from penetrating their souls. The reporters keep the barrage of questions coming as Markus and Saffron stand there smiling for the photogs, arms wrapped around each other, acting every bit the golden couple they’re pretending to be. But when I look closely, really look, I can see beneath that smile plastered on Saffron’s face that she’s looking like the wax replica of herself in the Museum on Hollywood Boulevard.

“Markus, over here!”

“Saffron, over here!”

“Markus, what did you think of watching your girlfriend kiss Cricket Curtis?”

“Saffron, what was it like kissing a girl?”

“Saffron, are you gay? Have you ever been with Ellen DeGeneres? Have you spoken to Ellen?”

“Saffron, over here!”

“Saffron, can we get a shot of you kissing Markus?”

“Saffron, Cricket, Markus, how about a shot all together?”

I finally tear myself free as Cricket, Markus, and Saffron are whisked away by bodyguards to an awaiting limo. And just like that, it seems they’ve made their escape. For now. But I can’t help wonder if Cricket’s life will ever be the same again. Will my BAF ever be able to go the grocery store again without being hounded by the paps? Is this really what she wants?

Kate materializes from amid the scrum and threads her arm through mine. “Let’s go. You can ride with me,” she says.

“Sorry, I can’t. I have to go back to the hotel and try and clean up our latest disasters,” I tell her.

“You have to come. Cricket really needs our support. Did you hear what those asshole reporters were yelling at her? She needs us,” Kate says.

“I’m sorry, I really can’t. I’ve got to work. Will you give Cricket my love and explain why I couldn’t be there?”

“Fine.” Kate jerks a thumb toward the Petunia Holt billboards. “Those posters are every fifteen fucking feet. I still can’t believe Christopher did that to me. I can’t believe you let your own brother do that to me!”

“Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry. You have to believe me. I just didn’t know. He didn’t do it to hurt you. He still loves you. Have you told him about the baby yet?”

“Lola, when are you going to realize that he’s with Gigi and he loves her?” Kate snaps. “I’ve got to go. The whole thing makes me sick to my stomach. I need to puke before I get on yet another boat. See you later.”

I’m about to resume Mission Charlize when I get a text from Saffron:

LOLA, HELP! IT’S ALL A BIG LIE. I’M SORRY I CAN’T GO THROUGH WITH THE VAIN SHOOT.

No. No. No no no no no no. I cannot lose this.

I’m about to tap out a reply when a hand clasps my shoulder and spins me around. It’s Papa, in a volcanic fury.

“Where’s Kate?” he hisses, his voice quaking.

“You just missed her,” I say. “She just left.”

“I heard she posted bail for that fucker. How could she do that? How could she do that to us? I’m gonna—Blanca, dammit, turn those goddam things off!”

I don’t know what’s worse, my father yelling or my mother by his side with her camera crew. It’s like a hall of mirrors—the camera crew shooting me, shooting my father, shooting us. Are we in Cannes or Versailles?

Suddenly the paps, drawn like moths to the bank of lights behind Mom’s crew, come streaming toward us. They’ve lost their big celeb quarry, but sniff blood in the water with Papa’s screaming fit.

“Mom, please, turn those things off! Can’t you see what’s happening?”

But she’s too busy adjusting her tissue-fine silvery pink lamé couture Chanel and fluffing her blond hair to pay attention.

“Mom, stop!” I shout.

“Oh, Lola, what’s the big deal?” she says.

And that’s when I realize my mother’s officially become Madonna. It’s like Warren Beatty said in Truth or Dare: “She doesn’t want to live off-camera.” Is it any coincidence that Warren dated Mom and the Material Girl?

As the paps descend, my phone buzzes yet again. Oh thank god, it’s a text from Lev. His plane must have just landed in nearby Nice. In just a few hours he’ll be in my hotel room. I close my eyes and picture putting all the cares of Cannes—Julian’s show, the Vain shoot, Nic Knight and my concussion, Saffron’s meltdown, Papa’s tantrum—on hold while I dissolve in his arms. Lev. I want Lev. Lev will make it all better. I’m practically on the verge of tears as I open the text.

STUCK IN L.A. DISASTER IN ER. HOPE TO FLY OUT SOON. SO SORRY. LOVE YOU LOTS. LEV.

Breathe. Breathe. Do. Not. Cry. I bet DVF and Donna Karan don’t collapse at the sight of a few glitches. I can handle this. I am the CEO of Julian Tennant Inc., and I’m not here for romance anyway. I’m here to make my company work, dammit! Focus, Lola, focus!

My phone buzzes again. Dammit! It’s all I can do to force myself to look at the screen: Julian again. Turning my back on the boil of paps engulfing Mom and Papa, I press the phone to my ear. “What is it now, Julian?”

Julian’s voice is so high and pinched I’m amazed that it hasn’t summoned every poodle within a ten-mile radius. “Why is Coz on the phone telling me that they’re pulling the Vain cover? Why? Why? Lola, you’ve got to fix this!”

* * *

I rush inside the lobby of the Martinez and beeline for the elevator when something stops me dead in my tracks: Nic Knight standing on top of one of the marble and wrought-iron coffee tables. The image of him charging toward me like a bull in Pamplona immediately flashes in my mind. I push the image away and try to steady myself on my stilettos.

“Take it off!” a raucous, drunk man shouts at Nic. He’s one in a small crowd that’s gathered around Nic.

“Come on!” a young blond Victoria’s Secret model type in a barely there hot-pink slinky number squeals, springing up and down on her five-inch strappy sandals.

“Show us what you’ve got!” someone else hollers.

“For fuck’s sake, take it off already,” a woman screams. I know that voice. I crane my neck and stand on my tippy toes but it’s no use, I can’t see her face. There are too many people blocking my view. “Come on!” That voice. I know that voice. Oh my god, it’s Aria!

The small crowd cheers wildly as Nic slowly strips off his light blue shirt, taunting them button by button. At least he’s wearing men’s clothing, I can’t help but think. Once his sweat-drenched shirt is off, he swings it around and around in the air like he’s at freaking Chippendale’s and then flings it into the air, where it lands on Blake Lively.

Gross. Nic’s so caught up gyrating his pelvic bone in front of his hooting friends that he hasn’t bothered to see where his shirt landed or even notice me at all. He seems so blitzed I’m not sure he’s aware of anything at all.

“Your turn, baby,” Nic says, pulling Aria, barely clad in a super-short lace ruffled skirt and little camisole, up onto the coffee table with him. Oh god. Oh no.

“To freedom,” Aria bellows, holding up a magnum of champagne. Where did she get that? And how did she get out of our suite?

“To freedom!” Nic echoes as Aria takes a long swig from the bottle and then opens up Nic’s mouth and pours some bubbly down his throat. Doesn’t she know he’s supposed to be sober? What the hell is going on? I have to do something.

I shove my way through to them.

“I’m sorry to break up this little get-out-of-jail party, but what the hell is going on?” I ask once I’m standing in front of them.

“Lola, holy shit, are you okay? I’m really sorry about last night,” Nic blubbers. “But I can’t believe your dad had me thrown in fucking jail. That was totally uncool.”

I look at him standing up there on that coffee table in the middle of the Martinez in the middle of the night, a sweaty, drunken mess. I want to feel sorry for him, he looks so pathetic, but then I remember last night and the hell he’s put Kate and my father through despite everything they’ve done to help him. And you know what? He doesn’t deserve their help anymore. Or my pity. For the first time in forever, I actually agree with my father. I feel my cheeks flush.

“What’s uncool, Nic, is your behavior. What the hell are you doing? Last night should have been a wake-up call. I spent the night in the hospital because of you. I have a concussion. You need help. You need to go back to rehab—or jail,” I say.

“No way, man, I’ve got it all under control,” Nic says.

“Shtop being such a party pooper, Lola,” Aria says. “Here, have a shwig,” she says, shoving the magnum in my face. “To freedom!”

“No thanks—and it seems like you’ve had enough already,” I say, trying to take the bottle from her.

“Give that back,” Aria says, grabbing the bottle from my hands and taking a hefty swig.

“Aria, Julian’s show is in two days and you just got out of jail. Don’t you think you should be resting and keeping a low profile? The last thing you need is another incident,” I say. I wonder how many cell phone photos have already been snapped tonight.

“Lola, I’ve been locked up like a caged animal, I need to spread my wings and fly. We’re just having a little harmless fun!” Aria says. “Woohoo,” she wails, taking another swig. “To freedom,” she squeals, taking off her top—and bottom—to reveal the teeniest tiniest pink lace bra and matching thong. This cannot be happening. This is a nightmare.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, forcibly prying the bottle from her grasp. I pour out the remaining champagne on the marble floor.

She jumps down off the coffee table and onto the floor where she proceeds to lie down and roll in the puddle, pausing to lap some up with her tongue. I try and pick her up, but she’s so slippery that she manages to kick me away.

“Champagne Slip-n-Slide!” Nic screams in approval. He grabs another bottle of champagne out of someone’s hand and pours it all over the floor next to Aria. What the hell is he doing? What? No, no, no, no, no, no. What have I done?

Nic stands behind Aria and gives her a hearty push. I watch in abject horror as Aria shimmies across the lobby in a pool of champagne in her bra and panties.

“Ahh!!” Aria’s scream is piercing as she nose-dives straight into a marble wall.

The room starts spinning and I try to steady myself. Do not pass out. Do not pass out, I urge myself as a pool of blood starts to puddle around Aria.

When Aria finally lifts her head, it’s immediately clear from the gush of blood and her already purpling eyes that our star model has just broken her nose.