Chapter 3. Isabel, the Rising Star
Isabel, the Rising Star
TEN YEARS EARLIER, THE CHRISTMAS PARTY
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 to how 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 behavior was over 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 is not what 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?”
I studied the men so intently that I almost shrieked when something brushed my ear.
Brooks’s voice was deep. “Sizing up your conquests?”
I slapped his shoulder, and he kissed my cheek.
“Not now, Brooks!” Scout hit his shoulder next. “You’re cockblocking.”
“Look.” I redirected her with my hand, pointing. “At your sister.”
Georgia and Alden had reached the back of the room, where Alden wasted no time introducing her to his dad. If Georgia was nervous to meet the mighty Easton, she didn’t show it. She looked graceful and poised shaking his hand, and he grinned back at her.
“She fits in better than we do.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized it. But they were true. We had to rehearse; Georgia was effortless.
Scout’s mouth lifted at the corners, the hint of a resigned smile. “I bet she gets it all, Iz. The rich husband, the stable of horses, becomes a cultural—whatever.”
“Anthropologist.” That was what Georgia was going to school for.
“Exactly. She’s so smart.” Scout’s tentative smile turned broad. “She won’t have to hustle.”
I knew what she meant—Georgia wouldn’t have to hustle like us—but I was okay with it. That was how it worked with Georgia. She was the one person we wanted better for than we wanted for ourselves. Maybe it was a big-sister thing.
We watched her a moment longer, my chest warming at how classy she looked shaking Reese Griffin’s hand, and then I noticed something. “What’s with Alden? His face is making my skin itch.”
Alden was watching Georgia introduce herself with a strangely hungry look, his eyes darting back and forth between Georgia and his dad, like he was trying to lick up every last detail.
Even from afar, I could see the vein in his neck pumping fast, his dark eyes aglow at his father’s obvious approval.
“I doubt he’s ever introduced a girl to his dad before,” Scout said. “He’s probably getting off on how normal Georgia makes him seem.”
I shook my head. “I will never understand what Georgia sees in him.”
Scout turned to me with wide eyes, and waved her hand around, as if to say, The mansion. Duh.
A bored voice interrupted. “I guess my dad’s letting in Z-listers these days. Sad to see.”
We turned to find Dakota and Emmy. I suppressed a groan.
They both held crystal tumblers—heavy, ornate glasses, not the kind you used at a party.
They must’ve taken them from the Banks’ private cupboards.
I could smell the peaty scent of booze from here, see the signs of their intoxication.
Dakota’s pale cheeks were flushed, Emmy’s blond hair stringy.
Emmy wore a sequined dress the same shade of green as Scout’s, as if they’d planned to match.
They definitely hadn’t. The only difference between them was—as an actress once remarked of Marilyn Monroe—Emmy was “eminently braless.”
I eyed Dakota’s glass. “Your dad doesn’t care that you’re drinking in public?”
She rolled her eyes. “As if that man has ever told me no.”
In my opinion, Dakota was as weird as Alden, only more abrasive.
“Speaking of your dad, who are those guys with him?” Scout nodded at the back of the room. “The ones Georgia and Alden are talking to. Are they important?”
Well played—if we had to suffer Dakota, we might as well get some intel out of her.
She snickered. “What, the Rat Pack?”
“They’re Easton’s besties.” Emmy tried to imitate Dakota’s disaffected tone, but the eager way she held herself betrayed her. Unfortunately for her, she wasn’t a good actress.
Dakota rolled her eyes again, her signature move. “They usually hole up in my dad’s study and drink their special scotch during these parties.”
“Where’s your mom?” I asked.
Emmy raised an eyebrow. “Nosy much?”
Dakota swirled her drink. “She already medicated herself to sleep. She hates these things.”
Emmy giggled.
“Scout, is that you?” Deirdre Cole, our director on The Weird World of Wenda Word, walked by and did a double take. “Girl!” She sloshed her champagne. “How did you get into this party?” Before Scout could answer, Deirdre wrapped her in a hug.
I met Scout’s eyes over Deirdre’s shoulder. On set, our director was buttoned up, scolding us if we made even the slightest flub. Tonight, she seemed wasted.
“And you.” Deirdre waved a hand at me. “I know you, too.”
“Isabel Cruz,” I reminded her, trying not to feel wounded. “I’m another one of your actors.”
Brooks thrust out his hand. “And I’m Brooks, president of Isabel’s fan club. I’m here as part of a Make-A-Wish date.”
Deirdre blinked, trying to gauge whether Brooks was joking, then gave up and turned back to Scout.
“You have to tell me how two itty-bitty actresses scored invites to this party when Wenda herself wasn’t invited.
” Wenda Word was our show’s star. “I had to talk her off a cliff. She’s convinced it means she’s getting fired.
She’s going to be so pissed when she hears you were here.
” Deirdre sighed. “Seriously, whose dicks did you suck?”
Brooks coughed, but Scout and I gave her our best innocent smiles.
“You know what? You’re going to tell me over shots.” Deirdre waved us toward the bar. “In exchange, I’ll introduce you to my DGA friends, and that bitch who’s headlining CBS’s new procedural. She’s young and skinny, so I hate her, but don’t breathe a word. We’re not allowed to hate women anymore.”
“Well, she sounds terrible to me,” Scout said. As soon as Deirdre took off, she turned to me and squealed. “Izzy, it’s happening!”
I linked my arm through hers. “The beginning of the rest of our lives.” On a whim, I grabbed Brooks’s chin and kissed him. “Tell me to break a leg, fanboy.”
He grinned. “Break a leg. Or preferably that woman’s.”
The three of us strode toward the bar, grateful to be plucked out of obscurity and to leave Dakota and Emmy, the depressing wonder twins, behind.
A thrill surged through me. From our high school Us Weekly sessions to this glamorous Hollywood Hills mansion, destiny itself was at work, the Fates spinning the threads of our lives into a glorious tapestry.
Scout had been right, as always: Tonight would change everything.