SEVEN

“Hello, may I speak to Brandon Russell?” Paulette stood just inches from Gillian like an eager puppy, hanging on to her every word. If she could have gotten away with placing her ear right alongside Gillian’s next to the phone’s receiver, she would have done it. Paulette was one of those sadly desperate women who jump full-throttle at any opportunity—real or imagined—and the chance to meet Brandon Russell was definitely an opportunity that she could not let pass. She hadn’t built a successful public relations firm on two coasts by being passive or bashful.

A man with a stuffy British accent answered the phone. “And who may I say is calling?” He stretched the word who out several seconds, turning the question into an accusation. Gillian automatically envisioned an English butler with a stiff upper lip, an upturned nose, and bad teeth.

“This is Gillian. Gillian Tillman.”

“And may I ask the nature of your call?”

This man was really getting on her nerves. She was barely able to swallow her irritation at having lost her luggage after suffering such a horrible flight. All she really wanted was a hot bath, a cold glass of wine, and a long nap. Gillian had to bite her tongue to keep from saying, “No, you may not.” Instead, she remembered her luggage full of pricey designer gear, so she checked her attitude and gave him an answer. “There was a mix-up at the airport. I have Mr. Russell’s luggage, and I hope he has mine.”

“Oh, dear,” the man murmured. “Mind if I place you on hold?”

Before she could respond one way or the other, a click ensued, followed by chords of classical music. Gillian sighed impatiently and wondered, What black music industry executive programs classical music for his home phone line?

“Brandon Russell here.” His voice was pretentiously rich and melodic, smoothing over a distant twang of country. As an actress, Gillian had a keen ear for those who were cultivating an accent. Given his huffy British manservant and clearly pretentious tone, someone less exposed might believe that Brandon Russell was to the manor born, but Gillian could sniff out a fake from miles away, even through phone lines. After all, she was her mother’s child.

“I’m Gillian Tillman. I must have been on your flight from New York earlier today, and somehow I accidentally picked up your luggage. I have the same bag.” Next to her, Paulette looked gleeful, as though she might actually clap her hands together, jump up, and click her heels like Dorothy.

“I just walked in the door, and hadn’t even realized there’d been a mix-up,” Brandon said.

“So, you do have my bag?”

“I do,” he answered. Unlike Paulette, Gillian didn’t care if he was Prince Charles; her bag was all that mattered. Between Paulette and Reese she wasn’t sure who was the bigger opportunist.

Gillian breathed a sigh of relief, happy that her designer garbs were indeed within reach.

“Let me have your address and I’ll be right over,” Brandon suggested. “I’m in Beverly Hills.”

“If you don’t mind, let’s meet somewhere public.” The man could have been an ax murderer, for all she knew, but her real reason for not letting him come near Paulette’s apartment had less to do with fear for her personal safety than it did with not being embarrassed by her fawning friend, who would no doubt use the opportunity to do some shameless social climbing. There was no way that Paulette would miss an opportunity to place a couple of well-placed footholds in Brandon Russell.

“Why don’t we meet at the Ivy in, say, thirty minutes?” Brandon proposed.

“I’ll be there.”

Before Gillian put the phone down, Paulette was inches from her face. “So where are you meeting him? What did he say? Does he have your bag?”

“The Ivy. Nothing really, and yes.” This was truly annoying.

“Perfect!” Paulette was effervescent as she rubbed her palms together like a devilish child plotting to hold up Santa Claus. “So, what are you wearing?” she asked, turning her nose up at Gillian’s stained shirt.

“Who cares?” Gillian asked, exasperated. “I’m exchanging bags with him, not bodily fluids.”

“Maybe not yet.” Paulette gave Gillian a sly look, and when she didn’t get a favorable response she grabbed Gillian’s hand and dragged her into the bedroom. “You just never know how he could help you, so at the very least please change tops,” she insisted, opening up her closet as though it were Fort Knox.

Only her sense of decorum kept Gillian from turning her nose up at the predictably trendy and tacky garments that hung in Paulette’s closet. In New York, where style was a way of life, tacky Paulette was certainly challenged enough, but now that she was spending half her time in L.A. with no barometer, her lack of fashion sense was even worse. There was something about living in L.A. that triggered serious style maladies for those who were so prone. In Paulette’s mind she was a size six, only trapped in a size-twelve body, so she was oblivious to the long list of fashion don’ts she continually violated. While Gillian flipped through the hangers as if they were contaminated with the Ebola virus, Paulette disappeared into the living room.

Minutes later Gillian found a top that was marginally suitable to wear in this pinch. The fabric looked okay from afar, but up close—particularly when worn—it was only a few grades above industrial burlap. Fortunately, Gillian’s Prada mules would upgrade the overall look, so she wouldn’t have to stoop to wearing the atrocious Payless quality of shoes that littered the floor of Paulette’s closet.

“You find anything?” Paulette yelled from the living room.

“Yep,” Gillian replied as she fluffed her hair in front of the vanity’s mirror. Now she was anxious to get going, pick up her bag, and get back, so she could yank off Paulette’s shirt before she suffered a severe allergic reaction to it.

“The washcloths are in the bathroom closet; why don’t you go ahead and freshen up.”

I’m just exchanging a bag, not going to the prom. “Sure, but I’ve gotta hurry.”

When she emerged five minutes later, Paulette had her handbag tossed over her shoulder and was standing by Brandon’s now-closed suitcase, idling by the door. She was ready to go.

This was not good. “You don’t have to go with me; it’s not far. Plus, I thought you’d want to get ready for the party later?” Gillian prompted.

“I have to drive you there.” At this point a barreling freight train couldn’t have kept her from meeting Brandon, and it quietly infuriated Paulette that Gillian, like Lauren, could be so blasé about such things. But she supposed that a life of privilege resulted in such a dismissive attitude.

“Paulette, I have my driver’s license, and I probably know L.A better than you do.” As an actress and model, she’d been hanging out on the West Coast for many years. Besides, Paulette’s driving skills left much to be desired.

“I’d rather drive you.” Paulette wasn’t budging; this was her only reasonable excuse to horn in on the opportunity to meet Brandon.

Gillian knew right away that this living arrangement wasn’t going to work for long. She was accustomed to her independence, coming and going as she pleased, even as a child. Imelda was usually too busy chasing the next rich husband to keep up with her. “Okay, but just drop me off. I’ll call a taxi to get back.”

This appeared to stump Paulette. “If you insist, but it’s a waste of money,” she said, as if she gave a damn about anyone else’s financial situation. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll drop you off in front and run down the street to pick up a sundress I have on hold. You can call me on my cell whenever you’re ready.”

“Whatever.” Gillian grabbed her bag and Brandon’s luggage and headed out the door.

         

After more than fifteen years, the Ivy was still the premier place to see and be seen in L.A. Along with great food, it offered some of the best people-watching in the world, especially at the choice tables that sat along the white picket fence, only a sidewalk away from ritzy Robertson Boulevard.

Gillian hopped out of Paulette’s car in front of the restaurant’s valet stand. She walked around to the trunk to retrieve the luggage, and, of course, Paulette hadn’t pulled the latch to open it. As onlookers surveyed the new arrivals, Gillian hurried around to the driver’s window, motioning for Paulette to open the trunk. Instead of simply pushing the little button that sat conveniently located within arm’s reach, Paulette made an orchestrated show of hopping out of the car, busts bouncing buoyantly, to open it by hand with her key. Gillian smirked, and now knew why Paulette had also changed tops to simply run an errand. She now wore a plunging, bright lime green, paper-thin cotton T-shirt that was three times too small and read, I SWALLOW. The skimpy fabric hoisted and uplifted every plump centimeter of her thirty-eight-D-size chest. It was quite a sight. To make the most of her wardrobe change, after opening the trunk she proceeded to bend over deeply to help lift the large bag out of it, bringing the twin mountains ever closer to spilling out of the tight, flimsy material. Leaving the apartment only minutes earlier, she hadn’t lifted a finger to help Gillian put the bag in. Now, having pushed the envelope as far as she could, she flashed a smile to those seated on the terrace, hoping to spy Brandon, in which case she would force an introduction. When that ploy fizzled, she teetered back behind the wheel, leaving Gillian to pull the behemoth-sized suitcase up the brick stairs to the hostess stand, which also sat outside. She felt like a rank, tacky tourist every laborious step of the way. But at least the luggage was Louis Vuitton.

“I’m Gillian. I’m here to meet Brandon Russell.” The über-cool, L.A.-blond hostess assessed her and her luggage with a question mark on her deeply tanned face. Somehow, despite the tacky khaki green blouse from Paulette’s closet, and the fact that she was rolling up pulling a piece of luggage, Gillian still managed to pass muster.

“Mr. Russell called and should be here shortly, but if you’d like I’ll seat you now,” she said, eyeing the luggage distastefully, as if its tackiness were contagious. “Would you like to check that?” Without waiting for a reply, she gave Gillian a claim check and led her back sans luggage, in the direction from which Gillian had just come, to the premier tables that sat along the fence. With every step Gillian regretted meeting him here. Now that she had time to think about it, it made no sense whatsoever. Why meet at the Ivy to exchange bags? The Ivy was a destination in and of itself, not exactly the place for a quick rendezvous. Halfway through her mojito, Gillian’s phone rang. She checked caller ID, and predictably it was Paulette.

“Hey, girl!”

Gillian fought to keep the annoyance from her voice. “What’s up?”

“Well, is he there yet?” Paulette was breathless with anticipation.

“No, and if he’s not here in two minutes I’m out.” This was getting very old very quickly.

“What about your luggage?” And more important, what about my introduction to Brandon Russell?

“I’m sure he wants his luggage as much as I want mine, so we can always do an airport dropoff.”

“Don’t be so hasty. Besides, we don’t have time to go to the airport and still make the party tonight in Brentwood.”

Gillian began looking around for a waitress to settle the tab for the drink she’d ordered, when she noticed every head on the patio turn to the valet stand, where a taupe chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow had rolled up. From the regal look of it, she’d have expected Queen Elizabeth to disembark, waving stiffly to her subjects. Gillian’s mouth dropped to the floor when the driver hopped out to open the door for Brandon Russell, whom she recognized immediately from party shots in Vibe and Uptown magazines.

He was a short, barely average-looking guy, so it took a Rolls and lots of money for him to turn heads. He reveled in it, while simultaneously pretending not to notice the undue attention.

“Gillian? Did you hear me?” Paulette squawked.

“I’ll call you back.”

“Gillian? Gillian? Is he there? Is he—”

Gillian hung up the phone, turned off the ringer, and slipped it into her bag before the roving fanfare known as Brandon Russell approached her table.

“You must be Gillian.” She was surprised, since he hadn’t been escorted by the hostess; he’d simply walked right up to the table. He extended his hand, playing the part of distinguished gentleman to the hilt. He had a medium-chocolate complexion with wide-set eyes, a round, nearly pudgy face, and a mouth that was attractive because it didn’t draw any attention. To be blunt, his best feature was his money. Though he wore it unabashedly, he did attempt some restraint. His shirt was a simple cream-colored Nodus linen with fine burgundy pinstripes, but Gillian knew haberdashery; it had probably set him back at least six hundred dollars. He tried for the casually elegant look with a pair of kid-glove Italian loafers that she knew were handmade and cost no less than a grand. And the watch: Audemars Piguet, another seventy grand in accessories.

“And you must be Brandon Russell?”

“I am,” he said, smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”

She had no recollection of ever meeting him, but before she could question his comment, Brandon was seated across from her ordering a dirty martini with Grey Goose from the solicitous hostess, who’d miraculously appeared at his side. It was clear from the gleaming smile she put on display that she was one of those white chicks who would date Mike Tyson if he kept her wrapped in Gucci.

“Do we know each other?” She finally asked.

“Not as well as I’d like us to.” His average appearance and humble beginnings were polished to a high gloss; only a mild trace of the skinny, gold-tooth-wearing homeboy from Mississippi remained. Like a cat analyzing trapped prey, he studied her reaction, which was to pull back and study him as well.

In seconds flat she summoned up his game. He was one of the newly but outrageously rich and semifamous people who believed in using both assets to get from point A to point B as swiftly as possible.

To put her at ease, he said, “Let’s just say that I’ve seen your work and recognized your name. And trust me, I never forget a beautiful face.” By now he was leaned back in his chair with his hand to his chin, taking her in. His mack mode was fully operational.

However, it did not work. “It’s nice to have met you, Mr. Russell,” she said, gathering her bag. “Do you have my luggage?” she asked, looking in the direction of the insanely expensive car. With men like Brandon, it was best to give them a taste of rejection to cleanse the palate for any subsequent encounters, not that she had an appetite for him at all. He was simply not her type.

Now he shifted in his chair. “Of course, it’s in the car. But, I was hoping that we could at least have a drink?” He leaned forward. “And I do believe in fate, so there must be some reason we ended up with each other’s bags.”

Only good manners kept her in her seat. There was something about him that just didn’t sit well with her.

“So, what brings you to L.A.?” He hoped a quick change of subject—to her—would get them past his trite mack lines that ordinarily would have worked. In fact, by now he should have tagged first base and be rounding the corner, making his way to second, but he shifted his game plan and settled down for his next pitch, hoping that it too wasn’t a strike.

“I’m looking for film or TV work. Just needing a change.” She shrugged nonchalantly, betraying none of the anxiety she felt about her relocation.

“Anything promising?” he asked.

“I’ve just gotten here. Besides, I know that it does take time.”

“I saw you in Chicago about six months ago. I thought you were brilliant. A real talent. The direction needed some work, but your performance was flawless.” He nodded his head thoughtfully. It occurred to him how to reel her in—not that he was even sure he wanted her, but at this point she was a challenge. He had to treat her like a vocal artist, and he was well known for his mike-side manner with his female singers. He had perfected the art of flattering, cajoling, and doing whatever was needed to tap into the emotion needed to produce a hit record. Rumor had it that one of his superstars hit a legendary note on her double-platinum single while he gave her a sample of his own oral skills right there in the studio, proving that he was from the school of By Any Means Necessary.

“Thank you.” Though Gillian managed not to reveal it, she was impressed—not only that he’d seen one of her performances, but that he also understood the nuances of its production, and was accurate with his assessment.

“Your next step should be a feature film,” he sat back and proclaimed as if he were Cecil B. DeMille. The only thing missing was a smoldering cigar.

“Of course, who wouldn’t rather do a feature film?” she answered, ignoring his bravado.

“My thoughts exactly.” He was equally undeterred by her nonchalance.

Gillian looked up to see Paulette’s boobs, then Paulette herself, hovering over them like a vulture who’s spotted fresh kill.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” she asked, never taking her eyes off Brandon.

“Brandon, this is Paulette; Paulette, Brandon.” Paulette bent over unnecessarily to shake his hand, her ample bosom spilling forth.

“Hi, Paulette. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Before he got the words out of his mouth, she was pivoting to find a spare chair to pull up to the table that had previously been set just for two.