Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew
Hollywood.
It’s jet lag, I tell myself. It’s getting dark and you’re imagining things. But it doesn’t help and when Zoe walks slowly out of the main house, dressed in a long, flowing black gown, accompanied by another woman dressed identically. Both look like wraiths. Their skin is pale, their eyes dark and rimmed in black, their lips painted a vivid, deep red. Andrea gasps when she looks up and spots them silently walking toward us. Jeremy follows her gaze and I hear him swear under his breath.
“Jesus, will you give it a rest, Zoe!”
Zoe’s friend marches right past Jeremy, heading for the bar, and ignoring anything and anyone in her path. She is tiny compared to the lanky Zoe—a blonde with curves and a bad attitude if the scowl on her face is any indication. But when she reaches Sam, the frown is replaced by a wide, toothy grin.
“Hey there, Sam. They got you tending bar now?”
Sam’s expression doesn’t change. He looks at her, slides a shot glass in her direction and pours tequila into her glass.
“Lime?” he asks.
“And salt,” she says, nodding. “I bet you don’t even remember my name.” Now she’s pouting, flirting with the cowboy, and I figure she likes unavailable men, too.
“Bet I do,” Sam says, placing the lime and salt shaker in front of her, but he turns away without saying it and walks toward Andrea, who has now moved to a spot beneath a giant hibiscus tree.
I look at the blonde and smile inwardly as I note her following the cowboy with her eyes and practically salivating. Life is so predictable.
Mark edges closer to the blonde, reaches past her for the tequila and pours himself another shot.
“Zoe rope you into dinner, Diane?” he asks the blonde.
Diane gives a little start, turns her back on Sam and gives Mark a thorough appraisal.
“She says it’s important for the main characters to bond,” she says with an inviting smile.
Mark is looking over Diane’s shoulder, past her to the spot where Andrea stands, joined by Sam and a small, dark-haired woman in a white chef’s uniform. Sam is watching as Andrea appears to be giving the woman instructions, gesturing with her hands and becoming very animated as she and the chef break into laughter that carries across the lawn.
Mark can’t seem to take his eyes off Andrea. I find myself wishing that someone adored me that way and then am startled to see the cowboy studying me.
I turn and walk behind the bar, thinking surely one little drink of wine wouldn’t be too bad. The cowboy makes me nervous. I shift my attention to Jeremy and find him deep in a discussion with Zoe. It appears heated, with Zoe shaking her head vigorously and Jeremy glowering at her. I forget about the drink and sidle closer, appearing to be searching behind the bar for something as I go.
“I won’t do it!” Zoe says. “It demeans the flavor of the piece. It is antithetical to Belinda’s core motivation.”
“Bullshit, lovey,” Jeremy says, his tone both jocular and dangerous at the same time. “You’re only saying that because it’s what you want, not what the scene needs.”
“Either you believe or you don’t!” Zoe says, and this time her voice carries the length of the bar. “You live the truth or you die in darkness!”
Jeremy laughs at her and I cringe, seeing the depth of emotion Zoe so obviously feels and his callous dismissal of her feelings. I wait for her to explode and am not disappointed. A loud stinging crack suddenly echoes off the walls of the surrounding mansion as Zoe strikes Jeremy across the face, tears streaming down her face.
Jeremy slowly raises one hand to his cheek, touching the rapidly reddening imprint of her hand, his eyes glinting dangerously as he works to control himself.
“That was a mistake,” he says slowly. “One you had best never repeat.”
He is smiling now, looking around at everyone and raising a hand to ward off anyone who might protest or approach.
“The game’s afoot,” he says gaily. “Just rehearsing! Don’t let us disturb you!”
I realize that he doesn’t see me there. I am behind the bar, in near total darkness. When he continues, his voice is pitched low so as not to be overheard by the others.
“If you ever lift a hand to me again, Zoe, I will walk off your picture, contract or not. Fuck the money and fuck you. What happened between us on the last project will not be repeated here, do you understand? It’s over, Zoe—you and I are working on a movie, nothing more, nothing less.”
“But Jeremy, I…”
He lifts his hand to grasp her chin and she winces, letting me know his grip is firm to the point of being painful. He waits until her eyes meet his before he speaks again.
“No buts, Zoe. Either you play by my rules or I walk. If I walk, the picture doesn’t get made and you lose millions.”
Zoe drops her gaze and I barely hear her say, “Of course. I just wanted you to know that I…”
“Let it go. Concentrate on this project and let everything else go.”
“How can I when I know you don’t believe?” Zoe asks with one last bit of rebellion.
Jeremy’s sardonic smirk is back. “I am your leader whether I believe or not,” he says in his regal, commanding tone.
They are back in character and, as I watch, Zoe does her weird genuflection thing and murmurs, “Yes, my Lord.”
“Good girl,” he answers and walks away from her, calling out to Sam in his ranch hand voice, “Hey, buddy, how about we do a triple shot?”
Diane passes me on her way to slip her arm around Zoe. “Bastard,” she says softly to Zoe.
“No. I was wrong,” Zoe whispers. “He knows his place, and now, so do I. Everything will be fine, just fine.”
I roll my eyes and make a mental note to write a book on pursuing the unavailable male. I’ll meet the needs of so many unenlightened women, but of course they won’t believe what I have to say. That’s the trouble with therapy; the patient never listens until they’re ready to hear the truth.
Diane rubs Zoe’s shoulders slowly, her strokes gradually deepening into seductive touches that even I can read from where I stand. Zoe seems to welcome Diane’s touch.
“Let’s go somewhere and…” The rest of Diane’s statement is lost as she nuzzles Zoe’s ear.
Zoe shakes her head, running one finger slowly down Diane’s neck, tracing the bodice of her gown. “Not now,” she murmurs. “Later. We both have things to attend to before we can play. Remember why you’re here—we’ll have our time alone later.”
The two women break apart and each returns to a separate end of the bar. I sigh softly and wander out of the shadows to go stand beside the pool. It shimmers as the underwater lights blink on and night falls. I glance at my watch and think it is nearly 10:00 p.m. in New York and the middle of the night in London, where my mother has gone to accompany my stepfather on business. I am remembering the last conversation—make that argument—I had with her. I was once again confronting her about my biological father and she was once again stonewalling me.
“Why won’t you tell me more about him?” I asked.
My mother, ever the southern belle, tried tears first.
“Muffin,” she sniffed. “It was so painful. I don’t want to relive losing your father.”
“So he’s dead then?” I asked.
“Yes,” she sobbed. “It was awful!”
“How did he die? Where is his death certificate?”
I asked these questions