“Wanna grab a late lunch?”
I shrug. “Sure. Edward will be here at six to get us, so we want to leave time to come back and change.”
“In the limo?” Jamie perks up.
“I don’t know,” I say, tossing her a sponge. “But if you go wipe down the bathroom counters, I’ll text Damien and tell him that’s what we want.”
And that, I think as she trots off to clean, is how to manage a roommate.
“Holy architecture, Batman,” Jamie says as one of the staff that Damien hired for the party opens the door for us.
I follow her inside, and stop just over the threshold. Apparently Damien has house elves, because the huge room that was bare just yesterday is now furnished in a manner that is both welcoming and opulent. The white marble tiles, which extend through the entrance hall all the way to the back of the house, gleam, a perfect stage for the equally white furniture that now fills the space, the only color provided by the vibrant artwork decorating the two walls to the left and right. The far wall is glass and is constructed like the door to the third-floor balcony so that the panels can be thrust aside and the room opened to the pool deck and the negative-edge pool that extends beyond. The ceiling extends up all four floors to a glass skylight, giving the room an atrium-like feel.
The two focal points—the pool outside and the massive marble staircase—complement each other, as if each is beckoning the visitor to come exploring, promising all sorts of delights no matter which direction the guest chooses to go.
“This place is fabulous,” Jamie continues in a stage whisper that probably carries all the way to the third floor.
“I know,” I say as a kind of proprietary pride swells through me. I have had nothing to do with building or decorating this house, and yet there is no denying the simple truth that it feels like home. “Want a tour?”
“Drink first,” she says. “Tour later.”
“Come on, then.” I lead her to the marble stairs and we climb up to the third floor. The second floor is really more of a balcony or mezzanine and has no enclosed rooms. Instead, it is an area that is accessed from either a set of stairs near the kitchen or from the small service elevator. What makes the floor unique is that it serves as a library, and as our climb takes us even with that level, I hear Jamie suck in air. “Wow,” she says.
“Amazing, huh? The workers just finished the shelving a few days ago. I have no idea where Damien was storing all those books.” From our perspective on the stairs we appear to be completely surrounded by cherrywood bookshelves filled top to bottom with every volume imaginable, ranging from rare first editions to spine-broken sci-fi paperbacks that Damien has read over and over again.
Like the rest of the house, one entire wall is made of glass and looks out over the ocean. This glass, however, is especially designed to block damaging rays that could harm the books. Four leather armchairs make up the focal point of the reading area. They are a deep, chocolate brown and they are covered with a buttery soft leather that I happen to know feels wonderful against naked skin.
Even with no enhancements, the library would be awe-inspiring. Tonight, though, it is magical. Damien must have had a crew working all day, because the intricate iron railing now sparkles with strings of white lights. They glow softly, invitingly, and when we ascend the stairs and pass by them, the twinkle of lights gives the illusion that we are passing by the stars and entering heaven.
I’ve brought my Leica tonight, despite the fact that my camera bag does nothing for the stunning blue dress that Damien bought me, and I pause on the stairs long enough to take a photo of Jamie with the lights shining behind her.
I tuck the camera back into the bag and we continue up to the third floor, then step out onto the landing. Beside me, Jamie gasps. I do, too.
Because the first thing I see is me, my naked body, standing strong and bound for the world.
“Not a bad way to greet visitors, eh, Texas?” Evelyn smiles broadly as she hurries over to envelop me in a very un-LA-like bear hug. Evelyn is not an air kiss kind of woman. “You are as gorgeous in that painting as you are in real life,” she says, adding another squeeze to the hug.
She releases me and turns to face Jamie. “And you must be Jamie.”
“I guess I must be.”
“Well, then, turn around and let me have a look at you.”
I’ve never seen Jamie intimidated, but I think she’s a little bowled over by Evelyn because Jamie spins without complaint, showing off the red sheath dress she purchased for the party.
“Good ass, nice tits. Definitely got the face and the hair.”
“What?” Jamie asks, deadpan. “Is there something wrong with my legs?”
Evelyn snorts and looks at me. “I like her.” She turns back to Jamie. “Texas tells me you’re an actress.”