“Nah. It was simply a bad suggestion. Carlos knew that and challenged him on it.” He turned the car toward the gatehouse as he added, “Don’t worry about it. He’s just blowing off some steam. He’ll come around. The Oscars are in a few more days. Makes everyone crazy.”
I’d been witness to that phenomenon over the past week. Oscar season brought out the jitters in everyone in town. Not just the actors and directors, but the boutique-owners and the salespeople at the jewelry stores. Who was going to wear who? What megastar could best show off the diamonds? It was so weird to me that stuff like that was enough to throw an entire city into such a tailspin. It seemed so… superficial.
But I felt like Patrick’s outburst was due to something bigger than a flipping awards ceremony, for godsakes. I was pretty sure he wasn’t even nominated for anything. Was that it? Had his star gone so dim that he thought he’d simply fade away? It must be a bizarre transition, going from having the world at your feet to being shoved to the background, practically forgotten. It must have been even harder for Patrick to have the younger version of himself sitting right there next to him, knowing Trip’s name would be above his in the credits, the hottest new thing since… well… him. At least it would explain The Bimbo Twins. It probably made Patrick feel like a big man to be nailing not one, but two cheap strippers purely for sport.
Hollywood was glamorous and exciting, but it was also the kind of place that could chew a person up and spit them out. The thought filled me with an unwarranted sense of dread: When he had ultimately aged out of heartthrob status, when the cameras finally stopped flashing in his face, would Trip someday grow into the same, cynical, broken man as Patrick Van Keegan?
Chapter 18
LIPSTICK & DYNAMITE
We’d decided to treat our Academy Awards evening like a date and got ready in separate rooms. I spent most of my prep time in the guest bathroom—the beautiful, decorating-magazine bathroom—while Trip took over the master suite next door. I was anxiety-ridden, sitting at the dressing table, the stylist putting the finishing touches on my makeup, when I heard Trip through our adjoining wall, singing in the shower.
I had to strain to hear what the song was. The evening’s selection was “You Got the Touch” from the Boogie Nights soundtrack, and Trip was belting it out with as much passion and pitchiness as Dirk Diggler. It was enough to make me forget my nerves for a minute, and I started laughing so hard that tears gathered at my eyes, enough so that Betty admonished me for threatening to ruin my eyeliner.
After she’d gone, I checked out her handiwork in the huge mirror over the sink. She did this crazy smoky thing with my eyes which looked really cool. I was sure that if I’d tried to recreate it on my own, I’d end up looking more like a heroin addict instead of a spicy vixen.
But that night, it was sexy.
She’d curled my hair so that it had these great, 1920s-type finger-waves going on, one side pulled up and held with a diamond and brown-topaz comb, on loan from Harry Winston.
That’s right, kids. Harry Effing Winston. I was freaking out about the whole night, but just seeing those famous diamonds at my head pretty much sent me over the edge. I mean, I was going to the goddamn Academy Awards. Me. Layla Warren. On the arm of the biggest movie star on the planet.
Wearing Harry. Winston. Diamonds.
The same flower shapes from the comb were recreated along the delicate necklace in coordinating jewels. I had politely refused the earrings, though. I could totally have seen me losing the things and didn’t want to worry about them all night. It would have been too much sparkle anyway, even for Oscar Night. I opted for my own, simple, diamond studs instead.
Oh. And don’t tell anyone, but I was wearing Club Monaco Glaze on my lips. You know, that Monica Lewinsky shade that was all the rage twenty fashion cycles ago? But it was still the perfect color for my skintone, and if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, you know what I’m saying?
I stripped off my robe and went out into the bedroom to slip into my dress.
Only it wasn’t there.
Hanging in its spot instead was the cream gown I had picked out at Siobhan’s.
It actually took my mind a few seconds to register what was happening. When it did, my only thought was, He didn’t!
Sonofabitch, he did.
I stormed down the hallway to Trip’s room and burst through the door. “Where’s my dress?”
He was standing there in just a white towel, slung low on his perfect hips. If I wasn’t so angry, I would have appreciated the view a bit more. He didn’t even bother to look at me, and continued to debate the neckties in his hands as he answered, “Hanging in your room.”
“That’s not the dress I bought.”
“No, but it’s the one you liked.”
“Trip! I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s very sweet, really. But it costs too much. It’s why I didn’t buy it in the first place! I just can’t in good conscience allow you to spend that kind of money on such a thing.”
He lowered the ties and turned toward me. And when he did, his jaw dropped to the floor and his eyes bugged out of his head like a Looney Toon.