Blind Item(2)

Mystified, she passed the gate and approached the door.

Guest lists always terrified Nicola, even though she’d been making them almost daily since she started at Huerta Hernandez. Gaynor had theatrically instructed her that making the perfect guest list was a lost art, much like dating, taking quaaludes, and mixing the perfect Negroni.

The science of a good celebrity party went beyond normal physics, with an equation so complex that it was like E = mc2 with celebrity and notoriety replacing energy and mass. You needed an exact mix of celebrities, designers, bloggers, and attractive flotsam, while making sure that all the right agencies were feted. Reality stars were a last resort, and you had to reinforce your list against the worst party foul—the desperate past-their-prime crasher.

Being on the list meant you were supposed to be there—that you were essential to the mix. Nicola always dreaded the moment where she gave her own name, and she was still surprised when it was there. This time was no different. When the standard-issue disgruntled intern actually found her name on her first attempt—a rarity—she grunted and handed Nicola a pink elastic wristband without making eye contact. Nicola let out a short, relieved sigh.

Ushered through a huge wooden door bedecked with gaudy brass medieval doorknobs, Nicola stepped through a living room and out into the backyard of a house she’d seen many times on TV and in magazines.

She was immediately submerged in a sea of fairy lights, lasers, and clouds of pink smoke that smelled like perfume and weed. En masse, the crowd around her turned to see if she was a celebrity, and turned away as soon as it realized she wasn’t.

Seamus was nowhere to be seen. The celebrities around her were just a slew of lower-tier teen TV actors. Nicola wondered why A-list Seamus was there at all. If she had confirmed him for a party, Gaynor would have redlined all these CW waiters-who-got-lucky immediately.

Drink. Now, her mind commanded.

A bar made entirely of mirrors and ice, all wet and sharp, was nestled against the ivy-covered wall. Lasers refracted through ice vodka shooters, and a girl who looked fourteen at most, in torn jeans and a bra top, was resting her chin at the bottom while the bartender poured an endless shot down the ice, into the girl’s mouth.

Nicola accepted a whiskey soda from a bartender who in any other city would have been a local news anchor and pushed back through the crowd into the house. The music was an endless remix of the latest hit track sung by tonight’s birthday girl, former child star Amber Bank.

She paused at a long table beside the living room door. It was covered in gaudy gift-wrapped boxes of all sizes. Tiffany boxes were thrown atop larger boxes that clearly contained shoes. Every agent in town must have raided their gift closet, repurposing things they’d been sent by other agencies over the past few months. There were also lots of small, exquisitely wrapped boxes scattered among the haul.

“Looks like Amber’s getting a lot of jewelry,” said Nicola, mostly to herself. But she heard a low chuckle behind her. She spun around to find herself face-to-face with Seamus O’Riordan.

“Why’d you say that, m’dear?” asked Seamus in a Scottish burr, with his eyebrow cocked quizzically. He thinks I’m an idiot, thought Nicola.

“All these small boxes? They’ve got to be jewelry or makeup.”

Seamus burst out laughing. He put one hand on his leg as he doubled over in hysterics. As soon as he could breathe again, he grabbed one of the gifts on the table, a small box wrapped in silver-and-pink paper with an ornate bright pink bow. He held it up to Nicola’s face. He shook it.

“Doesn’t rattle.”

He held it closer to her nose. “Smell it,” he commanded, still smiling.

“Wait—this is pot?” Nicola exclaimed as she inhaled a wave of pungent reefer.

“Yeah, the pot shops here in California make Amber one of the easiest people to buy for.”

Nicola suddenly understood why Gaynor had asked, at her job interview, if she knew if it was cheaper to buy pot from a store or a dealer.

“You wanna know a secret?” He smirked. “Probably twenty people here actually know Amber. The rest were sent here by her agent to make her feel popular. She’s not even here yet. She’ll take one look at this crowd and have a fit and go upstairs and get high. After she checks out the gift table, of course.”

“Oh, SHIT,” said Nicola, wincing. “I was supposed to bring a gift?”

“Well, madam prefers it. She likes getting spoiled. Hey—do you have a pen in your purse?”

Nicola fished out a pen. Seamus started lifting up presents, feeling them like a kid at Christmas, trying to guess what was inside. After inspecting a bunch of them, he selected one that was wrapped in a solid pale-pink brocade paper. He ripped the card off the ribbon and, using Nicola’s pen, scrawled across the entire top of the gift Dearest Amber! Happy birthday! Sorry we forgot your card in the car. Lots of love, Seamus and— He looked over at her. “Nicola,” she told him. He finished writing her name, looked around quickly, and put the gift back on the table, and then moved some larger presents on top of it.