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Inhaltsangabe
The New York Times bestselling authors of Celebutantes return with a dazzling new novel set among the star-studded crowds of the Cannes Film Festival, where everyone’s hoping to discover, sign, screw or become the Next Big Thing. And a three-picture deal would be nice.
Lola Santisi—CEO of a struggling fashion line, reformed Actorholic and daughter of Hollywood Royalty—is now not only bicoastal, she’s Bi-Lolar: That is the condition which causes her to swing like a pendulum between the opposing poles of the fashion world in New York and the real world with her Doctor Boyfriend in Los Angeles. She hardly knows which shoe fits her anymore: the Louboutin stiletto or the Croc. As Lola tries to launch Julian Tennant’s new dress line, it looks like they’re about to get their next big break: his wedding dresses have been chosen to feature in the top film at the Cannes Film Festival. And suddenly Lola is staging a full-blown couture show on a yacht – in the middle of the Med. Think those super models had trouble walking down the catwalks at Fashion Week? With an unexpected finale twist, this time it’s Lola who’s tumbling off the runway.
Having recently endured a disastrous break-up with Lola’s brother Christopher, Kate Woods, Lola’s BFF and CAA’s rising star agent, is newly single, and focused 24-7 on her clients. The only thing worse than thinking it was a good idea for Kate to date Lola’s brother, is thinking it was a good idea for Kate to put one of her most loose-cannon clients, Nic Knight, in Lola’s father’s movie. Among Kate’s other mega star clients is Saffron Sykes whose appearance on the cover of Vain magazine in Julian Tennant could be the difference between Julian Tennant, Inc. weathering the economy or going bust.
As Lola fights to survive the Cannes Film Festival, will she get swept into the French Riviera’s riptide of glamour and superficiality? Are real love and couture mutually exclusive? Or can Lola have it all – the good doctor and her Louboutins. With her father and brother vying for the same prize, her mother starring in her new reality show, and one heartbroken girlfriend about to declare motherhood, it’s all on Lola to come up with the answers. And it’s going to take more than one of her mother’s prosperity chants to save the day.
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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
AMANDA GOLDBERG and RUTHANNA KHALIGHI HOPPER are the New York Times bestselling authors of Celebutantes. The authors reside in Hollyweird.
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1
cannes-dy land
The smattering of movie posters that read, FORGETTING PETUNIA HOLT, EVEN THE DOG THOUGHT YOU WERE A BITCH, PETUNIA HOLT, and SATAN COULD BE YOUR SISTER are lit up in an explosion of lights from the cacophony of cameras going off like fireworks on the vertigo-inducing Palais steps, the most famous red carpet in the world. Tonight’s premiere is one of the hottest tickets in town. The town being Cannes. Because this is the Cannes Film Festival, the grand-père of all movie festivals. It’s surreal that my brother Christopher’s first feature film is at the center of this white-hot vortex. I’m about to chuckle at the tag lines—brilliant viral marketing; there are twenty-seven Forgetting Petunia Holt fan clubs on Facebook at last count—until I think of my best friend, Kate Woods, and how she’s going to feel when she sees them here. Bad enough that the promo campaign was already spinning into overdrive back in L.A. I try and push her out of my thoughts and revel in all the attention my brother’s getting.
The wide expanse of the Palais steps is crammed with journalists, photogs, movie execs, and well-wishers, all angling for time with my big brother. As the flashbulbs erupt in Christopher’s face, he seems to be transformed in the bright white glow, his usual mess of hair smoothed back, his traditionally slumped shoulders rolled upright in his tux jacket. Christopher may look like he’s following in the steps of our father, Paulie Santisi, the two-time Academy Award–winning director, but in fact he’s finally stepping out of the very large, dark shadow Papa casts and standing tall on his own two, trademark red Converse high-tops.
Please let Christopher get a positive reception. Please. I suddenly remember how they booed Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette at Cannes—how could they do that to all those delicious Manolo Blahniks and Kirsten Dunst? I have a panicked vision of the crowd booing and the French critics having a field day at my brother’s expense and I feel an instantaneous knot in my stomach. The only thing the public loves more than a Hollywood Kid Of success story is one with a Hollywood Kid Of miserably bombing. These French audiences at Cannes are notoriously harsh—Lars von Trier and Vincent Gallo, sure, but all that Gallic disdain for Wim Wenders … and Pamela Anderson? My stomach drops when a journalist sidles up to Chris with a question.
“So, who is Petunia Holt?” the journalist asks, shoving a mic in my brother’s face. Christopher swore on his Leica that once belonged to François Truffaut that he would never reveal the truth. I hold my breath and wait for his reply.
“You’re about to find out,” Chris says coyly, pointing to the theater where the lights will shortly go down for the screening.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief until I hear, “Darling!” My mother calls from across the Palais steps, her Wristwatch Wives camera crew, all decked out in tuxes, in tow. Yup, that would be my mother joining the ranks of Bethenny and the Countess in her new reality show. How’d she get clearance for her cameras to be here?
I yank on the arm of my Best Gay Forever (BGF). “Quick, Julian, let’s get out of here. I can’t deal with her freaking cameras right now.”
“Too late,” he says as my mother comes bounding toward me, a painterly floral print, ruffled Chanel shrugging off of one of her slender shoulders. Her blond hair is in a tousled Bardot beehive.
“Hi, Blanca,” Julian says, giving my mother double air kisses. “You look absolutely ravishing.”
“Thank you. Isn’t Karl an absolute genius,” my mother says, fanning out the billowy skirt of her gown for Julian. “I promise that I’ll be wearing one of your designs, Julian darling, the night of Fête-ing Santisi.”
“Fête-ing Santisi?!” I repeat.
“I was going to call the party the Santisi Cannes-Cannes or the Santisis Conquer Cannes but Fête-ing Santisi just feels more all-encompassing with my TV show, your debut bridal collection, Julian, and Paulie and Christopher competing to win the Palme d’Or,” Mom says.
“I think Fête-ing Santisi is perfect, Blanca,” Julian says. What a suck-up. Or maybe he’s just angling for more publicity for the bridal couture line our company’s about to debut, with Mom’s camera crew ten feet away.
Wristwatch Wives is Mom’s latest reinvention. She was on a meditation retreat hanging off the side of a cliff at Esalen on her 108th chant of So-hum when it came to her. She realized that she’d been supporting others (read my father) in their creative pursuits for long enough. She was tired of Hollywood women being treated as nothing more than expensive accessories. And Wristwatch Wives was born—the show that showcases the famous Wives Of, the Powers Behind the Throne.
“Did you get the script, Lola?” my mother whispers out of her cameramen’s earshot.
“Script?” I ask. “What script, Mom?”
“For the party, darling,” my mother says in a low voice.
“You have got to be kidding. You don’t actually expect us to follow a script, do you?” I say. “Mom, what part of ‘reality TV’ do you not get?”
Mom draws me into a tighter huddle. “Lola, I’ve been working my bum off on this party, not to mention all the money I’m spending, which your father doesn’t even know about, so it has to perfect. And the only way for it to be perfect is to script it. I got one of the writers from Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”
“Ooooooh, I love Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” Julian says. “Did they tell you what’s going to happen next season?” I shoot Julian one of my infamous death daggers.
“Lola, please, this is important to me. I’ve even been editing old family movies together for the party. They’re just so wonderful. They’re such a beautiful expression of our closeness,” Mom says.
“Closeness to what, Mom? The Hollywood sign?” I say.
“Oh, please, Lola, this party is going to be not only a celebration of our family, but a celebration for all families. In these difficult economic times, family is all that we have,” she says. She delivers this last line while beaming at Alex, her lead cameraman. I can’t tell if she’s speaking to me, or to the camera.
“Did you come up with that on your own or did your new scribe write that for you?” I ask, when I find myself being dragged out of earshot again, stage left.
“Okay, look, Lola, this episode is going to air during sweeps and I just found out that one of the other wives is letting the cameras film the delivery of her surrogate’s twins who, it turns out, has been having an affair with her husband,” my mother pleads. “And I’m sure the footage of Christine and her husband and their team of lawyers signing the paperwork for a trial separation is sure to be a big ratings bonanza. And Francesca has footage of her sixteen-year-old daughter getting more than just the standard post-op nose job visit with hermarried plastic surgeon. That’s why I really need this party to be perfect.”
“Oh, great, Mom, so...
cannes-dy land
The smattering of movie posters that read, FORGETTING PETUNIA HOLT, EVEN THE DOG THOUGHT YOU WERE A BITCH, PETUNIA HOLT, and SATAN COULD BE YOUR SISTER are lit up in an explosion of lights from the cacophony of cameras going off like fireworks on the vertigo-inducing Palais steps, the most famous red carpet in the world. Tonight’s premiere is one of the hottest tickets in town. The town being Cannes. Because this is the Cannes Film Festival, the grand-père of all movie festivals. It’s surreal that my brother Christopher’s first feature film is at the center of this white-hot vortex. I’m about to chuckle at the tag lines—brilliant viral marketing; there are twenty-seven Forgetting Petunia Holt fan clubs on Facebook at last count—until I think of my best friend, Kate Woods, and how she’s going to feel when she sees them here. Bad enough that the promo campaign was already spinning into overdrive back in L.A. I try and push her out of my thoughts and revel in all the attention my brother’s getting.
The wide expanse of the Palais steps is crammed with journalists, photogs, movie execs, and well-wishers, all angling for time with my big brother. As the flashbulbs erupt in Christopher’s face, he seems to be transformed in the bright white glow, his usual mess of hair smoothed back, his traditionally slumped shoulders rolled upright in his tux jacket. Christopher may look like he’s following in the steps of our father, Paulie Santisi, the two-time Academy Award–winning director, but in fact he’s finally stepping out of the very large, dark shadow Papa casts and standing tall on his own two, trademark red Converse high-tops.
Please let Christopher get a positive reception. Please. I suddenly remember how they booed Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette at Cannes—how could they do that to all those delicious Manolo Blahniks and Kirsten Dunst? I have a panicked vision of the crowd booing and the French critics having a field day at my brother’s expense and I feel an instantaneous knot in my stomach. The only thing the public loves more than a Hollywood Kid Of success story is one with a Hollywood Kid Of miserably bombing. These French audiences at Cannes are notoriously harsh—Lars von Trier and Vincent Gallo, sure, but all that Gallic disdain for Wim Wenders … and Pamela Anderson? My stomach drops when a journalist sidles up to Chris with a question.
“So, who is Petunia Holt?” the journalist asks, shoving a mic in my brother’s face. Christopher swore on his Leica that once belonged to François Truffaut that he would never reveal the truth. I hold my breath and wait for his reply.
“You’re about to find out,” Chris says coyly, pointing to the theater where the lights will shortly go down for the screening.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief until I hear, “Darling!” My mother calls from across the Palais steps, her Wristwatch Wives camera crew, all decked out in tuxes, in tow. Yup, that would be my mother joining the ranks of Bethenny and the Countess in her new reality show. How’d she get clearance for her cameras to be here?
I yank on the arm of my Best Gay Forever (BGF). “Quick, Julian, let’s get out of here. I can’t deal with her freaking cameras right now.”
“Too late,” he says as my mother comes bounding toward me, a painterly floral print, ruffled Chanel shrugging off of one of her slender shoulders. Her blond hair is in a tousled Bardot beehive.
“Hi, Blanca,” Julian says, giving my mother double air kisses. “You look absolutely ravishing.”
“Thank you. Isn’t Karl an absolute genius,” my mother says, fanning out the billowy skirt of her gown for Julian. “I promise that I’ll be wearing one of your designs, Julian darling, the night of Fête-ing Santisi.”
“Fête-ing Santisi?!” I repeat.
“I was going to call the party the Santisi Cannes-Cannes or the Santisis Conquer Cannes but Fête-ing Santisi just feels more all-encompassing with my TV show, your debut bridal collection, Julian, and Paulie and Christopher competing to win the Palme d’Or,” Mom says.
“I think Fête-ing Santisi is perfect, Blanca,” Julian says. What a suck-up. Or maybe he’s just angling for more publicity for the bridal couture line our company’s about to debut, with Mom’s camera crew ten feet away.
Wristwatch Wives is Mom’s latest reinvention. She was on a meditation retreat hanging off the side of a cliff at Esalen on her 108th chant of So-hum when it came to her. She realized that she’d been supporting others (read my father) in their creative pursuits for long enough. She was tired of Hollywood women being treated as nothing more than expensive accessories. And Wristwatch Wives was born—the show that showcases the famous Wives Of, the Powers Behind the Throne.
“Did you get the script, Lola?” my mother whispers out of her cameramen’s earshot.
“Script?” I ask. “What script, Mom?”
“For the party, darling,” my mother says in a low voice.
“You have got to be kidding. You don’t actually expect us to follow a script, do you?” I say. “Mom, what part of ‘reality TV’ do you not get?”
Mom draws me into a tighter huddle. “Lola, I’ve been working my bum off on this party, not to mention all the money I’m spending, which your father doesn’t even know about, so it has to perfect. And the only way for it to be perfect is to script it. I got one of the writers from Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”
“Ooooooh, I love Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” Julian says. “Did they tell you what’s going to happen next season?” I shoot Julian one of my infamous death daggers.
“Lola, please, this is important to me. I’ve even been editing old family movies together for the party. They’re just so wonderful. They’re such a beautiful expression of our closeness,” Mom says.
“Closeness to what, Mom? The Hollywood sign?” I say.
“Oh, please, Lola, this party is going to be not only a celebration of our family, but a celebration for all families. In these difficult economic times, family is all that we have,” she says. She delivers this last line while beaming at Alex, her lead cameraman. I can’t tell if she’s speaking to me, or to the camera.
“Did you come up with that on your own or did your new scribe write that for you?” I ask, when I find myself being dragged out of earshot again, stage left.
“Okay, look, Lola, this episode is going to air during sweeps and I just found out that one of the other wives is letting the cameras film the delivery of her surrogate’s twins who, it turns out, has been having an affair with her husband,” my mother pleads. “And I’m sure the footage of Christine and her husband and their team of lawyers signing the paperwork for a trial separation is sure to be a big ratings bonanza. And Francesca has footage of her sixteen-year-old daughter getting more than just the standard post-op nose job visit with hermarried plastic surgeon. That’s why I really need this party to be perfect.”
“Oh, great, Mom, so...
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