Chuckling sadly, she continued: “I worry about that boy Teddy she got managing her things, y’know. Odd fellow. Gives me the heebie-jeebies. I’m not even sure about Edouard, sometimes. He’s a man, even if he don’t act like it half the time. And real men don’t like to earn less than their wives.”
So this was Bibi’s mom.
I could hardly believe what I’d just heard. It wasn’t much of a surprise that she didn’t trust Teddy, of course—I mean, who did? But Edouard? Her own son-in-law?
As much as I wanted to ask her for an explanation (was Edouard jealous of Bibi’s success?) it didn’t exactly seem like the place or the time. Instead I opted for some generic expression of sympathy. By the time I opened my mouth to speak, however, Bibi’s mom had already wandered off, gin and tonic in hand.
It must have been seven o’clock before I found the courage to leave. Not that I really knew how to leave: I’d arrived in Bibi’s Rolls-Royce, after all. And it didn’t seem right, either. I mean, there I was, at Bibi Vasquez’s house, in her inner-inner circle, doing what presumably millions of her fans would love nothing more to do. And yet I was, well, bored. Bibi wasn’t exactly a terrific conversationalist. She just made statements, with which everyone agreed. And they weren’t even interesting statements. In fact, her commentary on the ShowBiz coverage of Project Icon made me yearn to be home, in bed, reading a long essay in The New Yorker. I felt like one of those foreign military generals you see on the news, pretending to be amused by the latest interminable speech from their beloved dictator. And I suppose that wasn’t too far from the truth. For as long as I worked at Project Icon, Bibi’s power over me would be absolute. Without her—or Joey, for that matter—the show didn’t stand a chance of holding on to last season’s twenty million viewers. And without those twenty million viewers, the advertisers wouldn’t pay to air their commercials during the breaks. And without the commercials… well, the whole thing would fall apart. No show. No job. No chance of me going to Hawaii. No mai tais with Brock. Bibi’s mom was right: Everyone wanted her daughter for the money. Depressingly enough, that included me.
Nevertheless, as it got dark, I had to go home. My hangover had entered the must-sleep phase, and I was no longer able to contain my yawns. Bibi had by now disappeared somewhere, so I found the maid who’d shown me in, and asked her for the address of the house, so I could call for a cab. “Oh, you don’t need to do that, Miss Bill,” she said—she knew my name!—“David is waiting for you outside in the car.”
“David?”
“Your driver.”
I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t delighted by this news.
In the kitchen, I said my good-byes—no one seemed particularly interested—and made my way back to the front door. It troubled me that I hadn’t spoken to Bibi. Had this been my fault? Had I failed some kind of test? And then, in the hallway, a hand grabbed my arm. I turned, and felt a cold trickle of fear; the sensation of a teacher waking you from a classroom daydream with a difficult question to which you don’t know the answer. It was Bibi, wearing pajamas.
“I’m glad you could come over,” she said. Then, laughing: “I hope you like celery. Blame my new nutritionist. She says it’s okay to be famous for a big butt, but not a fat butt. So the cheeseburgers are on hold for now, along with all the other fun stuff.”
“I love celery,” I blurted. “I’d be totally happy as a Wonder Pet.”
I couldn’t believe that I’d just made a Wonder Pet joke. Only teenage stoners with nothing to do all day are familiar with children’s TV shows like Wonder Pets, and therefore know that Linny, the caped Guinea Pig, likes celery. What a hopeless dork.
“Right,” said Bibi, absently. “Anyway: I just wanted to tell you, honey: It’s not true.”
What the hell was she talking about?
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“About you, honey. About you being ‘poison.’ All that stuff that Joey said when he was being mean.”
“Oh, that…”
“It’s pretty rich, coming from him, y’know,” she continued. “I mean, he’s says he’s not in this for the money or anything, but that’s, like, total fuckin’ bullshit. Trust me: He’s more into the money than Sir Harold Killoch. Don’t fall for