Kamille
Kamille opened her closet door and ran her fingers over the row of dresses. The cucumber mask on her face was dry, and the thirty minutes were almost up on her teeth-whitening strips. She sipped her glass of champagne—one of her standard pre-glam rituals—and bobbed her head to Beyoncé’s “Beautiful Liar,” which was playing on her CD player.
Hmm, should she go with the Azzedine Alaïa? Or the Chanel? Giles had mentioned that tonight’s movie premiere, at Mann’s Chinese Theatre, would be especially celebrity studded, and there was going to be a reporter from Vogue there who’d asked to meet her. She finally settled on the Chanel, which she’d spent a small fortune on.
She plucked the filmy wine-red dress off its hanger and draped it across her king-size bed. She loved her new apartment on Westmount Drive, which was spacious in every way—big, airy rooms, massive closets, tall ceilings. It was so much better than the overcrowded family house in Los Feliz. Or the cramped little bungalow she’d shared with the sister-who-shall-not-be-named, until two months ago.
Or Chase’s place. That was probably her favorite thing about this apartment. There was no Chase in it. No assholes, period.
For a while after that disastrous day in June, Chase had actually tried to get in touch with her, wanting to “explain things.” What a jerk. Kamille had ignored the countless messages, texts, and e-mails, and she’d tossed the three dozen cream roses with their pathetic “I’m sorry” note into the trash compactor.
Giles had come to the rescue, lining her up with a publicist to deal with the media aftermath. Including the humiliating Happily Ever After episode that had aired last month on the Life Network, showing absolutely everything.
And somehow, miraculously, Kamille had come out on top. The magazines had portrayed her (rightly) as the innocent victim. The glut of publicity even ended up helping her professionally because suddenly, overnight, everyone in the country knew who she was. Giles had even managed to book her first cover, for Mademoiselle, as well as a guest spot on a wildly popular reality dance contest on one of the major networks. So really, her career was better than ever now.
As for Kass . . . they hadn’t spoken since the wedding. The nonwedding. Kamille had arranged through her mother and Beau to come to Sunday Night Dinner every other week, and insisted that Kass be there on the alternate Sundays only. Kat had tried to play peacemaker, among other things informing Kamille that Chase had actually committed a crime against Kass because she had been too drunk to give consent. She said she’d even tried to convince Kass to press charges for date rape, but that Kass had refused because she wanted to “move on.” Whatever. It was Kass’s fault for getting so wasted to begin with. She knew she couldn’t handle alcohol; she shouldn’t have put herself in that position. Kamille had zero sympathy. And why was her mother being so understanding about it, instead of disowning Kass’s sorry ass?
But enough about Kass. Kamille had to get ready for the party. Really, her life had less and less to do with her family these days, which was just fine with her. She, too, was moving on.
Kamille wandered into the bathroom, which was brand-new and all white with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The dressing-room-style lighting was at once flattering and precise, which meant that she could apply her makeup perfectly—and also scrutinize back zits, excess body hair, and so forth without feeling too ugly.
She scrutinized herself now. Perfect.
The phone rang just as Kamille was spraying herself with J’Adore perfume. She glanced at the screen; it was her mother.
She almost let it go to voice mail, then changed her mind at the last second and picked up. “Hi, Mommy, I really can’t talk right now, I’m getting ready for that big movie premiere I told you about,” she said quickly. “At Mann’s Chinese?” She ran a clean washcloth under warm water and started removing her cucumber mask, hoping her mother would be suitably impressed by her very glamorous plans.
“Hi, doll. I won’t keep you. I just . . . listen, could Kyle come stay with you for a few days?”
“Excuse me?”
“We had an incident tonight. I can explain more later, but long story short, she broke into the liquor cabinet and helped herself to some vodka. But the worst part is, she left the house without locking it back up again, and Bree ended up, well, helping herself to the vodka, too. And getting sick.”
“Ohmigod, are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is Bree okay?”
“It depends on what you mean by okay, but yes, she’s fine.”
Kyle! What an idiot. Kamille flashed back to when Kyle had been busted for showing Bree how to roll a joint. Kamille wasn’t exactly a saint herself, and she’d done some pretty stupid stuff when she was a teenager, too.
But not that stupid. All her drinking (and occasional pot smoking, and that one time she’d tried E with Jeremy Weinstein) had taken place at her friends’ houses, with parents safely out of town (or better yet, out of the country) and the nanny cams on the off position. And she’d never, ever exposed any of her younger sibs to that kind of behavior.
“Beau and I need some alone time with Bree so we can talk to her, get her back to normal,” her mother was saying. “I promise, it’ll just be a few days. Or a week or two, tops. Once school starts, we’ll be back to our usual routine here, anyway. Kyle will be too busy with homework to get into trouble, and same with Bree.”
Kamille wasn’t so sure about the “too busy” part, especially with respect to Kyle. “But, Mommy, I’ve got a big shoot coming up,” she complained. “Remember that bathing-suit ad I told you about? And Giles has me going to all these events at night. I can’t babysit Kyle twenty-four/seven!”
“I’m not asking you to do that, sweetheart. Just let her crash on your lovely new sofa bed that Beau and I bought for you. And if you have any liquor there, please lock it up! Double lock it!”
“But, Mommy—”
“Oops, that’s . . . uh, that’s my other line. I’ve gotta go, doll. I’ll call you back later, okay?”
“But, Mommy, I—”
The connection went dead.
“Shit!” Her superspacious apartment was about to get a lot less spacious.
Kamille went back to removing her cucumber mask, muttering in annoyance to herself. A couple of minutes later, the phone rang again. It was her mother, again. This time, she decided to let it go to voice mail. She didn’t want to hear about any more family drama, and she really did have to get out the door . . .
A box popped up on the screen, letting her know that she had a new voice-mail message. A second later, a text popped up below it. From her mother.
It said:
KASS JUST CALLED SHES AT THE HOSPITAL SHES IN LABOR
For a moment Kamille just stood there frozen in place, staring at the text message. Then the shock turned into something else: the old rage, stirring up inside of her and making her want to throw things. Kass was finally going to have her baby. Chase’s baby. A child that would remind Kamille forever of just how low people could go, how no one could be trusted.
Not even family.
But enough of the pity party. She had a real party to get ready for. Kamille took a deep breath, then reached into her makeup box and grabbed her favorite red YSL lipstick.