“I was never popular in school, like Brightie,” Milan said, with an earnest sigh. “I guess that’s why I work so hard to get noticed, now.” She wiped nervously at an unseen tear and looked at the camera with a fragile smile.
She held the smile until she felt they had enough to cover a voice edit cutaway if needed.
“How was that?” she asked the director, the vulnerable Milan gone. “Are we good? I’ve got a . . . Where am I supposed to be?”
“You’ve got an appearance at Walmart for the new fragrance . . .” Cat answered from well out of Milan’s eyeline.
“And this is Cody Stetzen,” Milan went on, ignoring Cat. “Cody this is Robert . . .”
“Richard,” the director corrected her.
“. . .Banner . . .”
“Bonner.”
“Our director and a very dear friend of mine,” Milan said without a note of irony as she took Cody’s delicate, well-manicured hand in hers. “Richard, this is Cody.”
“Great admirer of your work,” Richard said, with enough sincerity to bury the nastiness of the remark. The only work of Cody’s anyone had seen was A Night In Milan, the best selling sex tape they’d made while he was still dating her sister Brighton.
“And I yours, Robert,” Cody said with a mean smile, not missing the insult and happy to offer one in return. Richard’s only work had been other reality shows. Most notably, the last two seasons of Reel Life, the show Milan had “starred” in with her now “F” BFF Cissy. Their FF and the series had endured for three years until Milan slept with Cissy’s soon-to-be-former husband in a sort of season finale.
“Let’s play nice, a least while the cameras are off,” Milan said in a conspiratorial tone.
“Speaking of which,” Richard said. “Have you told Brighton about Cody being on the show, yet?”
“Are you kidding?” Milan laughed coarsely as the three made their way through the still largely empty condo. “We wanted her to do the show, right?”
“So, when’s the reveal?”
“Not until it’s too late for her to get out of it,” Milan said. “Once we start shooting, Cody can hide at my assistant’s place across the street until we need him. She won’t suspect a thing.”
“This is your sister, right?” Richard asked, a little chilled.
“So, this place is going to be ready by next week?” Milan asked, bored with the topic and looking around at the empty, unfinished condo.
“We’ve got a decorator coming . . .” Richard began.
“It had better be Fab Fads,” Milan said emphatically, wheeling on him and shaking a finger in his face.
“Darling, it will be the latest, the hottest . . .”
“No,” she shouted. “I mean the designer, Fabio Fads. I’ll be damned if I’ll take hind tit to that Kardashian bitch again. I discovered him and now I hear she’s talking about hiring him . . .”
“All right, all right,” Richard said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll get his number from Cat and we’ll get him over here.”
“Chill, babe,” Cody said, looking up from his iPhone. “You’re harshing my tweets.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m just sick of that woman nipping at my heels, no matter how fast I run,” Milan said with her Cher-iest hair toss of her long bleached locks. It was true. Milan had been the first to make a brand out of being “The” Rich-Spoiled-LA-Party-Bitch and the pack had been after her ever since.
Her Manolos echoed as she stalked down the stairs of the empty building. It was one of many abandoned new condo projects that dotted the West Hollywood landscape, thanks to the real estate bust. The uber-luxe buildings had been slotted into the places of single family teardowns all over the little town like fat women into size zeros. At the height of the boom people were making a living trading homes and properties, heedless of the inevitable next crash in the regular California boom-and-bust real estate cycle. The current collapse was the second in less than 20 years. Milan was already trying to create a market for location leases on the scores of empties for film and TV shoots. She’d gotten partial financing for the show from a real estate developer pitching it as advertising for the idea.
Just inside the main door she paused and turned to Cody, who was ignoring her again. She snapped her fingers, but he didn’t look up from his texting. “Cat,” she said wheeling on her assistant who was also texting as she caught up to the pair. Milan made an exasperated noise.
“Yes?” Cat said, looking up with a tight smile. “Just getting Fab’s contact details to the production office. He should be here later today. Do you want a meet?”
“Don’t we have to go sell Hot?”
“Haute.”
“What?”
“Your signature fragrance. It’s called Haute,” Cat said.
“What’s the difference?”
“One means high. The other is kind of the opposite.”
“I’m in, who’s holding?” Cody asked, looking up.
“How do I look? Camera ready?” Milan asked spinning before her audience.
“Weren’t you just on camera, babe?”
With a petulant harrumph, Milan hit the crash bar. She flung the big doors open and quick marched to the black SUV idling by the curb burning premium at three mpg.
A couple of paparazzi stepped up and snapped a few weary shots of her. At the sound of cameras, Cody sprang instinctively into action, grabbed her under one arm and push through to the car, though in truth no one actually got in their way.
Cat shut their door and hurried around to hop in front with the driver.
“What the hell was that?” Milan shrieked at Cat as they made their getaway unpursued.
“I’m sorry,” Cat said.
“I’ve seen more photographers at a CIA mixer,” Milan ranted.
“I called. I faxed your itinerary,” Cat explained over her shoulder from the front seat. “But it’s a big day. A-Rod and Cameron are hanging out together on Sunset. Lindsey’s back in court. And god only knows what Charlie Sheen’s up to.”
“What does a girl have to do to get a little coverage in this town?” Milan demanded, slipping her underwear off and into her purse. “Maybe this will get us some snaps at the Hot appearance.”
“Haute.” Cat shrugged and turned around, returning to her Blackberry.
The little party rode in silence for a bit.
“Babe?” Cody said, looking up from his iPhone game of Bird Brains.
“Yeah,” Milan answered, not looking up from her email.
“Were you really unpopular at school,” he asked, concerned.
“What?” she said, looking up, shocked.
“Well, back at the shoot you said . . .”
“Oh, that,” she laughed. “That’s just for the show. No, I was the richest so I was the most popular at school. This is still America . . .”
“What about Brighton?”
“What about her?”
“Was she popular?”
“Of course,” Milan shrugged. “She was just jealous of the people who weren’t. She’s always wanted what she didn’t have.”
. . . to be continued.
Eric Shaw Quinn 
Could I tell you some L.A. gentrification stories! So many families were dislocated just a few years ago it caused a huge mass exodus of school age children out the city creating a larger teacher to student ratio than the system could handle. Teachers were let go, and the Los Angeles substitute teacher system all by closed off just to support the teachers they already had in the system. The superintendent said it was the first time in the history of L.A. there were more teachers than students to teach them. So much for progress.
Let me just say, if someone were to search for “THE First LA Party Bitch”, they’d be looking for a very long time.