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“Celia, we can’t do that.”
“You said this would be so effective that no one would ever mention us.”
The thing is, I wanted us to move in together, too. I wanted it very much. “OK,” I said. “When it’s over, we’ll talk about moving in together.”
“OK,” she said. “Then we have a deal.”
I put my hand out to shake hers, but she waved it away. She didn’t want to shake on something that sad, that vulgar.
“And if it doesn’t work with Mick Riva?” she asked.
“It’s gonna work.”
Celia finally looked up at me. She was half smiling. “You think you’re so gorgeous that no one can possibly resist your charms?”
“Yes, actually.”
“All right,” she said, rising slightly on her toes to kiss me. “I suppose that’s true.”
I WORE A CREAM-COLORED COCKTAIL dress with heavy gold beading and a plunging neckline. I pulled my long blond hair into a high ponytail. I wore diamond earrings.
I glowed.
* * *
THE FIRST THING you need to do to get a man to elope with you is to challenge him to go to Las Vegas.
You do this by being out at an L.A. club and having a few drinks together. You ignore the impulse to roll your eyes at how eager he is to have his picture taken with you. You recognize that everyone is playing everyone else. It’s only fair that he’s playing you at the same time as you’re playing him. You reconcile these facts by realizing that what you both want from each other is complementary.
You want a scandal.
He wants the world to know he screwed you.
The two things are one and the same.
You consider laying it out for him, explaining what you want, explaining what you’re willing to give him. But you’ve been famous long enough to know that you never tell anyone anything more than you have to.
So instead of saying I’d like us to make tomorrow’s papers, you say, “Mick, have you ever been to Vegas?”
When he scoffs, as if he can’t believe you’re asking him if he’s ever been to Vegas, you know this will be easier than you thought.
“Sometimes I just get in the mood to roll dice, you know?” you say. Sexual implications are better when they are gradual, when they snowball over time.
“You want to roll dice, baby?” he says, and you nod.
“But it’s probably too late,” you say. “And we’re already here. And here’s OK, I suppose. I’m having a fine time.”
“My guys can call a plane and have us there like that.” He snaps his fingers.
“No,” you say. “That’s too much.”
“Not for you,” he says. “Nothing is too much for you.”
You know what he really means is Nothing is too much for me.
“You could really do that?” you say.
An hour and a half later, you’re on a plane.
