Blind Item(33)
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Nicola dramatically. “I have a date with Seamus on Saturday.”
Kara and Billy tossed their cards down on the table.
“YOU WIN!” they both yelled.
CHAPTER 10
AN AMBLING CROWD OF SELF-ABSORBED jaywalkers risked death as Gaynor guided her Mercedes carefully along the congestion of Robertson Boulevard, the midday sun blinding her. When her phone rang, the dash display told her it was Billy. She hit the talk button on her steering wheel, and Billy’s voice replaced the constant beat of seventies disco that was the soundtrack to her life.
“Morning, publicist,” he chirped.
“Morning, charity case.” She half-smiled.
“Oooh, someone’s cranky.”
“No, pendejo, I’m not cranky, I want to commit a murder. I’m trying to drive down Robertson and these fucking heiress coños are wandering the streets like the fucking cows of India. I want to hear their tiny bones break under my wheels.”
“And you haven’t even met with Crystal yet, right?”
“Sí, and if I’m late, I’ll never hear the end of it. Abuela likes to pretend-eat early, so I have to get there fast.”
“Okay—I just wanted to check that you don’t want me to be there.”
“Didn’t Nicola tell you I never change my mind? Billy, this is one for the big guns. You didn’t do anything wrong, and Crystal wants to destroy you. I will not only save your life, but I will help your stupid career. And in the process I will school that vieja basura in a few things. If you came, you’d just get covered in blood spatter. I will call you after this, okay?”
Gaynor pulled her vintage Mercedes into the valet line outside The Ivy. The festering sea of agents, managers, and publicists was Crystal’s favorite place on earth.
The valet opened her door. Gaynor smiled when she saw that he was a spectacularly handsome young Mexican guy, with the full lips she had never been able to resist. His dark beard accentuated his bright chocolate eyes. She was wearing the neon-blue metallic vintage Courrèges ensemble she had road-tested yesterday on Nicola. He winked at her as he took her keys. She showed him some thigh.
“Gracias, guapito,” she purred.
“De nada, bella,” he smiled back.
Gaynor paused for a moment, staring him down. He stared back and bit his pillowy bottom lip with his teeth. He handed her the valet stub.
“Make sure you bring me my car when I leave,” she said, only breaking eye contact when the car behind them began honking its horn madly. Gaynor was not startled to see Crystal’s plastic-surgery-disaster face at the wheel of her hulking black Bentley.
“Enjoy your lunch, beautiful,” the valet said, sliding into her driver seat and pulling away from the curb.
“Gaynor!” brayed Crystal from her car window. “Please stop eye-fucking the help so I can park this beast.”
Gaynor flipped her a perfectly manicured bird, pulled the neon-blue fur of her collar tighter around her neck, and walked slowly and defiantly to the sidewalk, where she waited patiently. As the valet opened Crystal’s door, she smoothly stepped from the car and began walking away, leaving the valet waving her receipt behind her.
Crystal was known for her stark fashion, and today was no exception. She loped along the sidewalk in her trademark black tailored man’s suit and low patent heels. Her hair was pulled back severely into a single ponytail that hung down like a short, motionless stick. Her only jewelry was a blinding single diamond at her lapel.
It wasn’t like this when we met, mused Gaynor, watching her approach. Thirty-five years ago, they’d been two junior agency publicists meeting on the dance floor at a Malibu summer beach party. Gaynor’s first marriage had just ended, and she was alone in LA for the first time in her life. Crystal had been dressed in hippie chic, reeking of patchouli. She still had her original face. She had spun Gaynor around to the Bee Gees. They’d gone home together, but Gaynor had never been much of a bisexual when push came to shove. She’d broken Crystal’s heart, and hell hath no fury like a shattered Crystal.
They walked toward each other like prizefighters entering a ring. Instead of punches, they traded absent air kisses, and Crystal strode up the steps to the patio of The Ivy. She bypassed the maître d’ and walked directly to the corner table known in town as the Cone of Silence due to the waterfall beside it that prevented eavesdropping from other tables.
In a fluid move, Crystal slid into the chair that faced the street, whipped the napkin from the table, folded it across her lap, and produced coal-black sunglasses from her purse. She pushed them onto her expressionless face, and stared as Gaynor took the seat opposite her.