On my morning coffee stop the next day I invited her along with me to Beck’s after work that night. I didn’t want her to be there when the dickface moved out. She agreed and she and Beck hit it off immediately. They talked nonstop while I drank my beer and tuned them out. When I was ready to head home, Beck said he’d see to it that she got home safely. He did all right. And they’ve been together ever since. Apparently now I’m a matchmaker—fuck me.
Handsome palm trees loom over the cab as I ride over to the Montage Beverly Hills. I f**king hate having to take a taxi to move around town. I hope to get a new set of wheels over the weekend. I’m actually thinking about a bike. Why not?
Rows of sycamore trees, manicured topiaries, and sculpted metal benches line the driveway. I’ll give it to them—the place has charm. The lobby is simply decorated, but carries such an air of sophistication that even I wouldn’t mind sitting down and having a drink. The elevators are nestled in the corner and I ride one to the tenth floor. The hallways are so nicely decorated that for a minute I forget I’m actually in a hotel.
The door swings open and my muscles tense—fuck, I don’t know if I can do this. But I take a deep breath and then realize my interviewee is standing in front of me. I’m surprised she doesn’t have an assistant doing her dirty work. She’s a little skinnier than she looks in the magazines. A little too skinny. The hotel robe she’s wearing hangs off her and her hair looks like she hasn’t brushed it yet today. Yeah, she’s a disheveled mess. I’d be willing to bet that blow is her drug of choice. I worked with people like her for two years. Looking closely into her eyes, I’m pretty sure she’s straight right now or I’d be gone.
She pats her hair and then tucks a piece behind her ear. “You must be Ben Covington from the LA Times.”
“I am indeed.” I grin at her.
“I’m Sloan Bennett.” She looks down at herself and tugs at her robe to straighten it.
“I didn’t doubt that for a second. Your beauty speaks for itself.” I extend my hand to greet her. “Pleased to meet you.” I make sure the charm is on full force as I try to take this job seriously.
She rubs away some black splotches from under her eyes. “I’m so sorry I’m not dressed. In all honesty I was expecting a Dominick Dunne type, not . . .” She clears her throat. “Never mind. Come on in.”
I laugh and flash her another smile. She leads me to the suite’s main area. The room is large and spacious. Modern chairs and sofas done in monotone colors cluster around a large wooden table.
“Please sit down. Can I get you something to drink?” she asks casually.
I sink back on one of the black cushions of the sofa and open my briefcase to remove my list of questions. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
I look over the list I wrote in my small notebook.
Questions for Sloan Bennett
How did she and Tike meet
Who is designing her gown
Will the vows be traditional or hand written
Who is attending
Where will it be held
She pours herself a glass of white wine out of a crystal decanter from the bar in the corner and has a seat very close to me. She sets her glass down and reaches across me to grab a pack of cigarettes off the table. “So, Ben, how does a guy like you get a job like this?” she asks tapping on the pack.
“If I told you you’d never believe it.”
“Oh, there’s a lot I’d never believe, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen or isn’t true.” She takes one of the cigarettes and lights it up, handing me the pack.
“No, thanks.”
She shrugs and tosses the pack on the table. “You’re a real goody two shoes. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do?”
“Trust me. Goody two shoes, I’m not.” I stand up. “I think I’ll have that drink.”
She nods. “Help yourself.”
The bar is loaded. I survey my choices, soda or alcohol. I opt for the amber colored decanter. I think I’m going to need it to get through this. As I pour the rich colored liquor from the fine crystal bottle, the familiar scent floods my nose.
“I can’t stand the smell of scotch,” she says.
“The scent of Band-Aids doesn’t appeal to you?” I mock.
“That’s exactly how it smells. Oh my God, you’re so right.”
“They’re both made from the same phenols. That’s why they smell the same.” I tell her.
“TMI,” she answers, the tip of her cigarette flaring as she inhales it. “I may never drink that again now.”
I laugh and sit back down. “Are you ready for this?” I ask.
She nods, blowing out a stream of smoke as she does. I press record on my recorder and set it on the table. I used the same Sony version for years until I had to “die.” I wonder for a moment if the old one is anywhere in my shit that’s stored in my mother’s attic. I make a mental note adding it to my list of things to look for. I clear my throat and start asking her the ridiculous interview questions I prepared. Although she answers each one in a rather flirty manner, the matter-of-factness tone of her actual answers makes me question her motive for marriage. Thirty minutes and one drink refill later the interview is complete. Thank f**king God.
Sloan reaches into the seat cushion and pulls out a small baggie. “Okay, Goody-two-shoes. Time to prove you’re not Dorothy.”
Handsome palm trees loom over the cab as I ride over to the Montage Beverly Hills. I f**king hate having to take a taxi to move around town. I hope to get a new set of wheels over the weekend. I’m actually thinking about a bike. Why not?
Rows of sycamore trees, manicured topiaries, and sculpted metal benches line the driveway. I’ll give it to them—the place has charm. The lobby is simply decorated, but carries such an air of sophistication that even I wouldn’t mind sitting down and having a drink. The elevators are nestled in the corner and I ride one to the tenth floor. The hallways are so nicely decorated that for a minute I forget I’m actually in a hotel.
The door swings open and my muscles tense—fuck, I don’t know if I can do this. But I take a deep breath and then realize my interviewee is standing in front of me. I’m surprised she doesn’t have an assistant doing her dirty work. She’s a little skinnier than she looks in the magazines. A little too skinny. The hotel robe she’s wearing hangs off her and her hair looks like she hasn’t brushed it yet today. Yeah, she’s a disheveled mess. I’d be willing to bet that blow is her drug of choice. I worked with people like her for two years. Looking closely into her eyes, I’m pretty sure she’s straight right now or I’d be gone.
She pats her hair and then tucks a piece behind her ear. “You must be Ben Covington from the LA Times.”
“I am indeed.” I grin at her.
“I’m Sloan Bennett.” She looks down at herself and tugs at her robe to straighten it.
“I didn’t doubt that for a second. Your beauty speaks for itself.” I extend my hand to greet her. “Pleased to meet you.” I make sure the charm is on full force as I try to take this job seriously.
She rubs away some black splotches from under her eyes. “I’m so sorry I’m not dressed. In all honesty I was expecting a Dominick Dunne type, not . . .” She clears her throat. “Never mind. Come on in.”
I laugh and flash her another smile. She leads me to the suite’s main area. The room is large and spacious. Modern chairs and sofas done in monotone colors cluster around a large wooden table.
“Please sit down. Can I get you something to drink?” she asks casually.
I sink back on one of the black cushions of the sofa and open my briefcase to remove my list of questions. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
I look over the list I wrote in my small notebook.
Questions for Sloan Bennett
How did she and Tike meet
Who is designing her gown
Will the vows be traditional or hand written
Who is attending
Where will it be held
She pours herself a glass of white wine out of a crystal decanter from the bar in the corner and has a seat very close to me. She sets her glass down and reaches across me to grab a pack of cigarettes off the table. “So, Ben, how does a guy like you get a job like this?” she asks tapping on the pack.
“If I told you you’d never believe it.”
“Oh, there’s a lot I’d never believe, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen or isn’t true.” She takes one of the cigarettes and lights it up, handing me the pack.
“No, thanks.”
She shrugs and tosses the pack on the table. “You’re a real goody two shoes. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do?”
“Trust me. Goody two shoes, I’m not.” I stand up. “I think I’ll have that drink.”
She nods. “Help yourself.”
The bar is loaded. I survey my choices, soda or alcohol. I opt for the amber colored decanter. I think I’m going to need it to get through this. As I pour the rich colored liquor from the fine crystal bottle, the familiar scent floods my nose.
“I can’t stand the smell of scotch,” she says.
“The scent of Band-Aids doesn’t appeal to you?” I mock.
“That’s exactly how it smells. Oh my God, you’re so right.”
“They’re both made from the same phenols. That’s why they smell the same.” I tell her.
“TMI,” she answers, the tip of her cigarette flaring as she inhales it. “I may never drink that again now.”
I laugh and sit back down. “Are you ready for this?” I ask.
She nods, blowing out a stream of smoke as she does. I press record on my recorder and set it on the table. I used the same Sony version for years until I had to “die.” I wonder for a moment if the old one is anywhere in my shit that’s stored in my mother’s attic. I make a mental note adding it to my list of things to look for. I clear my throat and start asking her the ridiculous interview questions I prepared. Although she answers each one in a rather flirty manner, the matter-of-factness tone of her actual answers makes me question her motive for marriage. Thirty minutes and one drink refill later the interview is complete. Thank f**king God.
Sloan reaches into the seat cushion and pulls out a small baggie. “Okay, Goody-two-shoes. Time to prove you’re not Dorothy.”
