SIXTEEN
FIRST AND LAST DATES
Kendall suggested they go to the Getty Center, Jennifer countered with lunch at Papillion in Santa Monica. Kendall was outside leaning on the rail when Jennifer approached wearing a straw hat, Oakleys, dazzling white teeth, hair blowing in the sea breeze.
“Hi!” she said giving him a peck on the cheek. “Let’s go out on the deck, shall we?”
Kendall slipped the maître d’ a twenty. The knife-thin, olive-hued young man led them through the dining room out onto the deck overlooking the beach. The scent of diesel and rotten fish mingled with the smell of the sea. Jennifer ordered a Mimosa. Kendall ordered a Pacifica.
Jennifer shook her hair with a practiced maneuver. “Was that party wild or what? I didn’t get out of there until two! Fortunately, I went with a girlfriend who drove me home. How you doing?”
“Good. I’m still getting oriented. Haven’t finished unpacking.”
Jennifer laid her elegant fingers on his wrist. “I heard you bought a Roark Dexter Smith design. Is that true?”
“Yes. It was built by the producer Frank Wallanda . . . you know . . . Stylin’, The Quinceañera, Prom Queen?”
“I love those movies!” Jennifer said leaning forward, giving Kendall a good view of her cleavage. She wore a V-necked blouse and sharp-creased twill trou. Her small but shapely breasts roamed free. “I hear Nate’s got a couple like that in the hopper. What are you working on?”
The red tide rose out of Kendall’s tan Tori Richards shirt. He took a slug of water and rubbed his throat. “I, uh, signed a non-disclosure agreement.”
Jennifer sat back with a coquettish tilt. “Oh, come on. You can tell me!”
“It’s about a cut-rate assassin named Cheap Shot.”
Jennifer’s jaw hung in a soundless guffaw. “That sounds real bitchin’. Who’s in it?”
Kendall winked and held a finger to his mouth.
Jennifer pouted. “You’re no fun. Anyhow, I have a shot at a speaking part in Sophia Coppola’s next movie. It’s a black comedy about a dysfunctional family getting together for a family reunion.”
“Break a leg,” Kendall said.
Jennifer frowned. “That’s not very nice.”
The waiter brought their drinks. “Have you had an opportunity to look at the menu?”
“Oh, I know what I want,” Jennifer said. “I’ll have the Kobe beef sliders.”
Kendall ordered a club sandwich. “Break a leg is a traditional theatrical salutation meaning good luck.”
“I did not know that,” Jennifer said. They made small talk. She’d never heard of the Marx Brothers. She’d never seen Casablanca, Gone with the Wind, or The Maltese Falcon. Her favorite singer was Ke$ha. She thought she could sing and planned to model her career after J. Lo: the songs, the films, the game shows. She worked out every day at Gold’s. She had a personal trainer, a manager, and an agent. She’d had a walk-on on NCIS: Los Angeles.
Their food came. Jennifer ate like a starving dog. Afterward, they went for a walk on the pier. Jennifer took Kendall’s hand. When asked about past credits Kendall cited Dr. Strange.
“Dr. Strange? Who’s that?”
“You’ve heard of Marvel Comics, right? Spider-Man, the Avengers?”
“I almost had a part in that Avengers movie. So you’re a producer with Marvel?”
“No. I’m a comic book artist. I just drew Doc Strange for a while. They’ve been trying to get a Doc Strange movie off the ground forever, but Robert Downey can’t play everyone.”
Jennifer launched into a gushing tale of meeting Downey at some party.
“Listen!” she said as they walked back. “The Grunions are playing at the Viper Room tonight, and I have two free passes.”
Kendall agreed to pick her up at eight.
Jennifer shared a third-floor walk-up built around a courtyard with a tennis court and a swimming pool in West Hollywood. Kendall parked on the street and took the stairs. Jennifer’s roommate, a lissome blond, opened the door.
“Hi! I’m Rebecca. Jennifer will be ready in a minute. Won’t you come in?”
The frilly, frothing living room was decorated with stuffed animals, inspirational samplers, glamour photos of Jennifer and Rebecca, and a framed, signed photograph of Johnny Depp.
“Would you like a drink?” Rebecca said.
“No thanks.”
“Jennifer tells me you’re a producer.”
“I’m an artist, actually.”
“Well, that too of course.”
Jennifer burst from the corridor in a white and yellow strapless sundress. “Hi!”
The Viper Room had a goth face--black hoodie over a black facade. It looked like a nameless government lab where they conducted unspeakable experiments. There was a line outside. The bouncer—it may have been Bill Goldberg—greeted Jennifer by name and let them in.
The Grunion was a punked-out death metal quartet that wore razor-sliced jeans, mascara, and enough ink to turn their arms blue. The lead singer had tatted his whole face to look like a Māori war mask. They sported enough body jewelry that a giant magnet would snatch them all up. You could have hung them by the loops in their heads.
The music was industrial sludge, way too loud so that Kendall was left with only a thumping bass line coming through the floor. Jennifer grabbed his hand and forced him to dance, which he hated. He gave it an hour and dragged her out.
Kendall stood on the sidewalk pounding his head with the base of his palm. “I can’t hear!”
“They were loud, weren’t they?” Jennifer said laughing. She took his arm. “I’d really love to see your place.”
“I haven’t finished unpacking. It’s a mess. But I promise to have you over as soon as I get things sorted away.”
“I understand. Let’s go back to my place.” Kendall had a stiffie since seeing her in front of the restaurant. He parked a half block away, and they walked back hand in hand. The apartment was empty. Rebecca was spending the night with her boyfriend, a stunt man who moonlighted parking cars at the Spanish Whiskers on Melrose.
As soon as Jennifer shut the door, she turned and gave him the full lip-lock. She ground her pelvis into his and purred like a cat. Kendall was all over her.
She pushed him back, breathless. “Give me a minute, okay?”
Kendall sat with his raging hard-on and wondered if he should go through with this. Well, it was Hollywood. It was practically de rigueur. This was how his relationship with Shirley began. The girl obviously thought he was some kind of producer.
Kendall stood and went to the bedroom door. “Hey, Jennifer.”
“Make yourself a drink. I’ll be right out.”
“Hey, Jennifer. I’m not a producer.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m a storyboard artist. I have absolutely no power in any production. In fact, I’m struggling to hang on to my job.”
Jennifer came to the bedroom door wearing a robe. “Nate said you were a producer.”
“Nate was exaggerating.”
Jennifer bit her lower lip. “You’re not a producer?”
“No.”
“You know,” she said, “maybe this isn’t a very good idea.”