Part of me wants to skip Rich’s party and go home.
“What’s wrong,” Kara asks me.
“I’m very happy right now.”
She giggles.
“That’s a bad thing?”
I take a sip of the champagne. Very spritzy. I look at Kara, her short blond hair pulled behind her ears except for a few wisps which hang down over her eyes. I brush them back for her.
“I don’t see how it could get any better,” I say.
“That’s so sweet.”
She leans forward and kisses me and puts her head on my shoulder.
But I wasn’t trying to be sweet. I understand that she thinks I was implying that being here with her is a surreal experience (and it is) but that’s not what I really meant. I genuinely don’t think this night can get any better, and as such, I’d rather not go to Rich’s party.
I finish my champagne and set the flute down and caress Kara’s shoulder.
“Sure you’re up for this party?” I say. “We could just go back to my place.”
“That’s sweet of you, but I think I can handle it now. Maybe I’ll even let you stray three or four feet away from me this time.” She laughs again and pinches my arm. I laugh, too, but it’s forced.
I am so uneasy.
The sun is halfway into the ocean. Then three quarters. Then only a sliver remains. Then it’s gone.
We sit for awhile in the dark.
Rich’s mansion is on top of this hill that overlooks the sea. We cruise by the house at 10:15, but through the gate, it looks as though only several limos are parked in the huge circular drive.
So Rex drives us up and down the Pacific Coast Highway, and at a quarter past eleven, we re-arrive at the Haneline’s. Now, there’s a line to get through the gate, and we feel confident the party is in full swing.
As Rex pulls into the line of cars dropping off guests at the front door, I count thirty-six limos. When it’s our turn, Rex opens our door, and I help Kara out of the backseat. I can smell the ocean, hear the assault of waves in the darkness below the hill.
Rich and Margot stand by the massive, intricately-carved door (I read somewhere that the front door alone cost half a million dollars) to their 17,000 square-foot home (a reported $29,000,000), beneath the porch light, greeting their guests. Rich looks almost stately in his tuxedo. His wife, Margot, can’t be more than thirty. She’s stunning. Perhaps the first trophy wife I’ve seen in real life.
“Jim!” he smiles when we reach the top of the steps. We embrace, do some good old fashioned back-slapping, and then pull back to look at each other, arms still entwined.
“I am so glad you could make it,” he tells me.
“Can I make a prediction?” I say. “Oscar nom.” I poke his chest. “You were brilliant, Rich. You’ve outdone yourself this time.”
“I appreciate that. And who is this?” he gestures to Kara.
“Rich, meet Kara.”
“Kara,” he takes her hand, “it is such a pleasure to meet you. I’m thrilled you could come. This is Margot.”
Margot smiles and steps forward in a glittering white evening dress. She shakes Kara’s hand, then looks at me. This may sound crazy, but from the way she looks at me, I think we may have something going on.
“Jim,” she extends her hand, and I take it, exactly like Rich took Kara’s, “does he have to make a movie for you to come to our house?”
”Of course not.” I smile. “But it helps.” Winning smile. Laughs all around.
Rich tells us to go on in and he’ll be along shortly.
As Kara and I step through the monstrous front door, I get the feeling that Rich and I used to be very close. I wish I could remember what happened. I should probably tell my doctor about this awful amnesia.
You wouldn’t believe that someone actually lives in this palace. You walk through the front door into this gardened atrium. Whole trees are growing out of the floor, and up above, these skylights let moonlight in.
We pass through the atrium, where guests mingle, sipping drinks by candlelight and moonlight. Staircases curve up on either side and meet at the second floor, where four large oil paintings adorn the wall. They each have their own lighting system, so even though the hallway is dark, they seem to glow.
Beyond the atrium, we enter a long family room with fireplaces on either end so tall I could stand up inside them. The kitchen shines beneath inlay lighting—steel appliances, black marble countertops, and a brick oven that puts mine to shame.
We hear the music as we approach French doors leading out onto the veranda. A server opens the door for us, and placing my palm on the small of her back, I lead Kara out into the eye of the party.
When she sees the view, she whispers, “My God.”
The veranda of Rich’s mansion is like nothing I’ve ever seen. It runs the length of the house, and at fifty feet wide, it’s crowded with partygoers, a jazz band, three bars, a life-size bull made out of butter, a chocolate fountain, and several tables of exquisite hors d’oeuvre.
Kara practically drags me over to the stone railing. It comes to our waists, and we lean against it and look straight down seventy-five feet to a rocky beach. The moon has just begun to silver the inky sea, and we stand watching the waves far below, and gazing up and down the Malibu coast, at the lights of other cliff-top mansions.
It’s kind of funny. No one else at the party seems even halfway enchanted with the extraordinary view. I mean, this is one of the most beautiful things Kara and I have ever seen, and no one really cares.
“No one else even sees this,” I whisper.
“What?” The sea breeze stirs her hair.
“This view. They might as well be in some stuffy room. Do you see it?”
“I see it. And I see you.”
I stare into her eyes, dark jewels.
“You want to dance?” I ask her.
“No.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Go home with you.”
“That can be arranged.” We laugh, and touch noses, and kiss.
“I’m going to get a drink,” I tell her. “Can I bring you back something?”
“Glass of white wine would be nice.”
“Okay. You’ll be here?”
“Right here.”
I make my way toward the nearest bar, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I order my specialty and a glass of white for Kara, and while the bartender fixes the drinks, I survey the crowd, not recognizing as many faces as I thought I might. Jan Bollinger, the actress, is dancing with a tall, Italian man who can’t be more than twenty-two. She’s fifty-five, by the way. She does a little finger-wave to me. I finger-wave back.
“Here you are, sir.” The bartender hands me my drinks.
I try to tip him, but he won’t accept my money.
As I start to walk away, someone grabs my arm, and I nearly drop the glasses.
A youngish man, maybe twenty-five, stares angrily into my eyes. He’s still holding my arm. He wears a black, silk shirt and leather pants, similar to what I might sport when I go clubbing with the commoners.
“There a problem?” I say.
He gets right up into my face, whispers, “Least you can do is mail it back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes. His face is tan, angular.
“I’ll bet. What are you afraid I’ll spill it here? That ain’t going to happen.”
“If you don’t let go of my arm, I’m going to throw you over the fucking cliff.”
He lets go of my arm.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t…I let my temper get away from me.” He fixes his collar, takes a deep breath. Smoothes his hair. “I guess should just be thrilled that the great James Jansen let me suck him off in a prop closet,” he says, a little loud for comfort. “You didn’t have to feign interest in my script, you know.”
Now I step into the young man’s face.
“I don’t know how you got in to this party, but if you ever speak to me again, I’ll have you run out of this town.”
He looks pretty scared when I say this, so I must’ve played it right. I turn and walk toward Kara without looking back, though I can feel his eyes on me, and my heart going like mad.
Chapter 23