Georgia snickered. “Please. They’re more like thirsty Romy and Michelle.”
Brooks’s smile dropped when he realized Scout and I weren’t laughing. He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you just give Easton your album?”
I winced. Scout had released her debut album six months ago, after sinking her savings into it. She’d thought the fact that we’d landed our first TV roles—sassy cheerleaders on the young adult showThe Weird World of Wenda Word—meant the record would sell. It didn’t. I’m pretty sure the only people who purchased it were related to her.
“We do not mention the album,” she said firmly. “Toanyone.”
“Girls,” Georgia hissed, “tits up and hats on.” And as we bent over and hurriedly shoved our chests higher in our tube tops, a greeter at the door swiveled to us with his tray of champagne.Showtime.
Chapter 3Isabel, the Rising Star
TEN YEARS EARLIER, THE CHRISTMAS PARTY
“Ho ho ho! Have we got some beautiful Santas,” the greeter boomed, grinning at us. “Happy holidays, ladies. Mr. and Mrs. Banks would like to welcome you with a glass of 2013 Dom Perignon.”
“Oh, thank god.” Georgia’s Santa cap fell over one of her eyes. “If it’s not the 2013, why bother, I always say.”
I elbowed her. “Thank you,” I told the greeter, and he chuckled. Georgia was usually shy and reserved, but she really came out of her shell whenever she sensed an opportunity to embarrass Scout or me.
Inside the house, a cavernous foyer led to a sweeping staircase, which was lined with a red carpet—either part of tonight’s festivities, or the Banks family walked their own red carpet every night when they got home. From what I’d heard about Easton’s personality, I wouldn’t put it past him.
A huge room stretched below us, filled wall to wall with people, the buzz of conversations competing with the pianist playing valiantly in the corner. My mouth went dry. It wasn’t the grand architecture or the crystal chandeliers or even the size of the space that impressed me. It was the people. Scout and I both stood frozen, too awed to execute what we’d rehearsed.
Anyone who claimed America had no aristocracy had never tried to break into Hollywood. The hierarchy of who was up and who was down was nuanced and exacting here, and there didn’t seem to be a single person, from top to bottom, who wasn’t aware of where they stood. I’d naively imagined the celebrities on top, the power players, might be immune, but it turned out they were the most attuned tohow they were being treated, whether they were getting their due. I’d seen it in my brief interactions with the studio execs and lead actors on our show.
There were dozens of faces here I recognized from the trades: CAA talent agents, a record label owner, a famous director, the star of an NBC sitcom, and that was just one corner. This party was an aspiring actor’s wet dream. Watching from the top of the stairs reminded me of a nature documentary. The party had all the high-wire tension of the Sahara, animals carefully surveying each other, calculating their moves and positions. In this ecosystem, Scout and I were decidedly at the bottom.
I bit my lip and tried to yank down the hem of my dress, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Strange,” Scout said. “I don’t see Easton.”
I pulled off my Santa hat. I was wearing four-inch heels, my dark hair teased higher than Scout’s, and I’d smeared vanilla-scented glitter lotion all over my body, so my limbs sparkled in the light. “Scout,” I hissed. “Why are we dressed a thousand times sluttier than everyone else?”
When we went out to bars in West Hollywood, the girls dressed like us—skyscraper shoes, stage makeup, generous servings of sequins and cleavage. But tonight, most of the women had opted for longer, more conservative dresses, as if they were at an Oscar party. It was like one of those nightmares where you showed up to school naked.
Scout shrugged. “How better to network than by looking hot?”
I was about to accuse her of setting me up when a shout stole my attention.
“Georgia!”
Alden Banks pushed his way through the crowded room, trailed by two younger girls—Dakota Banks, his seventeen-year-old sister, and Emmy Nolan, her best friend. That wasn’t a surprise—as much as Alden followed Georgia around like a puppy, the two girls followed him. Emmy was a year older than Dakota and enrolled in community college, but, like us, her real dream was to be an actress. Unfortunately, she was a competitive try-hard who attempted to mask it under a layer of bubbliness, sucking up to me and Scout to ferret out information about our auditions. Dakota was hardly better,one of those rebellious rich girls who dressed in all black and acted chronically bored, a young Morticia Addams. The girls stopped at the bottom of the stairs while Alden bounded up to us two at a time. Dakota rolled her eyes.
God forbid I agree with Dakota, but Alden’s behaviorwasover the top. It was probably innocent social awkwardness, but on the occasions he’d come out to bars with us, I’d noticed his eyes stayed glued to Georgia even when she left to go to the bathroom. The way he hovered seemed possessive. And his appearance didn’t help. Like his younger sister, Alden was tall and gangly with a mop of black hair that fell over his eyes, a mop he sometimes hid behind. It was as if he were playing a stock character in one of his dad’s TV shows: the obsessive creep.
Georgia met Alden halfway and threw out her arms. He hugged her, then dragged her down the stairs, his expression unusually animated.
“Um, hello?” Scout called after them. “Georgia, did you forget something?” She grabbed my arm, muttering, “This isnotwhat we rehearsed,” and it was all I could do to wave at Brooks before she pulled me to follow.
“Scout,” I whispered, while trying to smile invitingly at the people we passed. “Look who just showed up. Back of the room.”
Easton Banks appeared in the arched doorway, emerging from some deeper part of his house. He was joined by a group of men in suit jackets who strode in with a similar swagger. The party instantly parted for Easton; he pumped hands and gave exuberant one-armed hugs. He was tall and not bad-looking for his fifties, that age when women became invisible and men turned presidential, at least according to the scripts I’d read. Tanned and muscular in the way of a country club athlete, he seemed to have nothing in common with his kids but dark hair. While they were most likely to haunt the periphery of a party, he was a gregarious host. The only thing out of place about Easton was his smile. Like the men he’d walked in with, he wore a whiskey smile: a little too wide, a few too many teeth.
“Showing up late to your own party,” Scout said under her breath. “Power move.”
“That’s Reese Griffin next to him,” I whispered. “We can’t leave without introducing ourselves.” Reese was the head of a major production company that turned out Oscar-winning films.
“Recognize any of the others?”
