FOURTEEN

After arriving in L.A. the next day, Paulette wasted no time hitting Rodeo Drive with a vengeance. After her spree she walked back to the new bungalow that she and Gillian had moved into, both arms loaded down with shopping bags. When she saw that Gillian wasn’t wearing her usual long face she asked, “What’s up? Did you just win the lottery?”

“No.”

“Why the sexy outfit?”

“Nothing special, just going out.” After her first “official” date with Brandon a few weeks before, and many phone conversations since, she’d realized that he wasn’t such a bad guy. He was courteous, charming, and generally a nice man. And best of all, he didn’t try to hit on her. So, tonight they were going to an exclusive cocktail party given by one of the biggest producers in the business.

“Oh?” Paulette said. “And may I ask with whom?”

Gillian started to lie, but thought better of it. L.A., regardless of its sprawling size, was really a very small town. “Brandon Russell,” she finally said.

Paulette’s expression froze on her pudgy face. “When did you start dating him?”

“We’re not dating,” Gillian retorted. “He’s simply invited me to a cocktail reception.”

“Where is it?”

There was no way that Gillian was going to mention that the cocktail party would be at the home of William Rutherford, the famous film director; she’d have to bind and gag Paulette to keep her from tagging along. “He didn’t say,” Gillian lied. Before Paulette could respond Gillian walked out of the room, heading for the privacy of the bathroom.

Before she reached it the phone rang. She checked the LCD and saw an unfamiliar number and no name.

“Hello?”

“Daaaarling, it’s your mother.” Imelda spoke as if she were a 1920s movie star, a rhythmic blend of long vowels and sharp consonants, a preposterous combination of Zsa Zsa Gabor and Eartha Kitt.

Gillian was accustomed to her mother popping in and out of her life without warning, so a call out of the blue wasn’t a surprise. “I didn’t recognize the number. Where are you?”

“I’m in Rome, daaarling, with Stephan. We’ll be here for a few months and plan to be in the States in October.”

This was a surprise. “Stephan? Who is Stephan?”

“Don’t you worry, sweetie; you’ll meet him soon enough. I just wanted to check in with you to see how things are going with your movie career.”

“I don’t have a movie career, Mother.”

“Well, you will soon, darling. No one is as beautiful and talented as you are; besides, you’re my daughter. You’ll be bigger than Halle Berry.”

Before Gillian could say another work, Imelda had plowed ahead. “All right, darling, see you in a few months. Ciao.” And she was gone.

Gillian stood staring at the phone. The last she knew her mother was married to a baron and was living happily ever after in Barcelona, so what the hell was she doing with a guy named Stephan traipsing around Italy? And why were they coming to the States?

She hung up and finished her makeup. I’ve got my own problems, she thought.

Thirty minutes later the buzzer to the apartment rang. “Miss Tillman, this is Mr. Russell’s driver; we’re parked downstairs.”

“I’ll be right down.” Gillian took one more look in the mirror, blew herself a kiss, and headed for the door.

When she walked out of the building Charles stood like a wooden statue next to the back door of a black Maybach, waiting to open it for her. She slid inside, where Brandon and a chilled flute of Champagne Paul Goerg awaited.

“Hi, babe.” Brandon wore a tailored Armani suit with a bright Nodus shirt open at the neck, and a pair of Italian handmade loafers. Everything about him was crisp and expensive, the very essence of new money. He leaned in for a kiss.

She gave him her cheek. “How are you?” she asked.

The inside of the quarter-of-a-million-dollar car was the epitome of decadent opulence. Tan handcrafted grand napa leather and rich Italian mahogany transformed the backseat into a posh living room on wheels, complete with a well-stocked bar, a humidor, reclining seats, and a state-of-the-art computer and entertainment center.

“I couldn’t be better, but more important, how are you?” He was taking in her appearance, her exotic beauty and quiet confidence. He didn’t drool, but it was clear that what he saw was very appetizing.

“I suppose I could complain, but that’s never very productive,” she deadpanned.

“It depends on who you complain to.” His lips curled into a confident smile. “So, tell me, how are things going with your career?”

“Not exactly according to plan,” she admitted.

“I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

She turned sharply toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Not what you think.” He gave a low chuckle at her reaction. “I really meant that as a compliment.”

“If that’s a compliment, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of one of your insults.” She folded her arms and shot him an icy glare.

“No, Gillian, what I’m trying to say is that you’re different. You don’t fit the mold of the Hollywood starlet, so it doesn’t surprise me that they don’t get it, but I do.” He reached into his humidor and pulled out a Cuban Cohiba, an eighteen-karat-gold cigar cutter, and a diamond-encrusted cigar lighter.

Before she could respond, a phone rang from inside a wooden panel between them. He held up a hand to let her know that it’d be just a moment, then picked up a sleek Bluetooth headphone. “Brandon here.” He listened for a while, and puffed on his cigar, agitated. “Listen, you’re worrying for nothing. Don’t go getting nervous on me. I told you I’d find it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, resting his elbow on the coffee table between them. After another fifteen seconds of listening, he decided he’d had enough. “Listen, Sam, you’re worrying for nothing, okay? Have a drink, and we’ll talk later.” Without another word he removed the earpiece and disconnected the line.

“Problems in paradise?”

Without humor he said. “There’s no such thing as paradise, only temporary respites from purgatory.”

         

Fifteen minutes later they drove through a ten-foot-hedge-surrounded gate that proceeded ceremoniously up a winding curved driveway to a mansion nestled in Beverly Hills. An unrivaled collection of Rollses, Bentleys, Porches, and Mercedeses snaked along the incline, and a staff of white-jacketed valets stood at the ready. When Charles pulled up, two butlers dressed in black tuxedos opened each side of the car for Gillian and Brandon to disembark.

When they met along the walkway, Gillian whispered, “A small cocktail party, huh?” She suddenly felt a craving for a cigarette, and she did have a pack in her bag. She thought about sneaking away somewhere, perhaps the ladies’ room, for a quick fix, but knew that it could ruin her image in Tofu Land if she were caught. So she sucked it up and kept moving.

“As you’ll see, with me, Gillian, everything is relative.”

Upon entering the palatial home, Gillian crossed the threshold into a habitat populated by one percent of society; the women wore diamonds the size of small fruit, and were nipped and tucked so tightly that smiling risked a rupture. The home was owned by William Rutherford, one of the most commercially successful, if not critically acclaimed, film producers in Hollywood. He strolled through the crowd, looking quite dashing in an Asprey silk ascot, sipping a dirty martini. He was of the old-Hollywood school of style, believing in glamour above all else.

When Brandon and Gillian entered the room, since they were the only black people in attendance, their DNA seemed to alter the very chemical balance of the elite gathering. Scapel-perfect noses immediately picked up the whiff of a foreign scent.

Gillian looked stunning and wore her dark beauty with casual grace, and Brandon reeked of money. Though his face was not one readily known by the readers of People magazine, or the National Enquirer, people in the know, knew. The sight of the two of them at this exclusive enclave brought about all sorts of conjecture as to who they were. Of course, the easy money would have bet that he was an athlete (football, not tall enough for basketball) and that she was his trophy girlfriend, though some might have guessed an entertainer, perhaps some new breed of rapper, and his model girlfriend.

“Brandon, glad you could make it,” Rutherford bellowed, swirling his martini. The only accoutrement missing was a smoking jacket, though he probably owned a few.

“Thanks for the invite, William. I’d like you to meet Gillian Tillman, the actress I mentioned to you.”

Gillian took note of his statement, but registered nothing. When would he have mentioned her to William? And why?

William peered at her thoughtfully, “You’re right; she is absolutely stunning.”

Gillian extended her hand and pretended that he’d not spoken as though she were an object instead of a person. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She even managed a smile.

He shook her hand, his pinkie ring glittering like the North Star. “The pleasure is all mine.” Slipping his arm about her waist, he guided her through the grand room out to a bar at the poolside terrace where more of L.A.’s power players were gathered like a thirsty herd of cattle. “What would you like to drink, my dear?” He turned to Brandon, who trailed behind them. “I’m afraid you’ll have to fend for yourself,” he teased.

Brandon laughed lightly and turned to Gillian. “I have to warn you, he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

“She’s a big girl, and I’m sure that she can take care of herself.” William smiled. “So,” he said, turning away from Brandon to focus his complete attention on Gillian, “what can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll have a French martini,” Gillian said, keeping her ice-princess cool.

After returning with her cocktail, he asked, “How long have you been in L.A.?”

“A few months now.”

“Are you working on any projects?”

This was the part she hated, when she had to admit failure. “I can’t say that I am,” she reluctantly admitted. Happy for the distraction, she took a sip, enjoying the champagne’s rich effervescence.

“Brandon and I are planning to do a film together,” he said, watching carefully for her reaction.

“I thought he was in the music business,” she replied nonchalantly. She didn’t want this guy or anyone else thinking that she was so familiar with Brandon that she would audition on his casting couch.

“True, he is, but he and a group of investors are interested in putting some money into a film project.”

She took a sip of champagne and glanced around the room, as if the conversation were of only marginal interest to her. “Uhmmm.”

“It’s really an exciting project. It’s an urban drama, but with a breezy mainstream story line. I think it could be big, just the sort of project to completely legitimize urban films.”

Gillian wasn’t exactly sure what that last phrase meant. “Sounds interesting,” she said.

“What are you two talking about?” Brandon walked up carrying a small plate of Petrossian caviar and toast points, which he offered to Gillian.

Gillian took one and popped it into her mouth, which put the onus of answering the question squarely on William. “Our project and Ms. Tillman’s acting career, two perfectly compatible subjects, the way I see it.” Again William was looking at her as though she were an object rather than a living person. Clearly, at this juncture Gillian didn’t care about his lack of manners.

Though she managed to remain cool on the outside, on the inside she throbbed with a renewed energy and purpose. She could hardly wait to get home and call Lauren. Finally, something positive had happened.