Free One of Those Malibu Nights by Elizabeth Adler Page A

posts Ron had constantly complained about, after getting up in the night to go to the bathroom and cracking his head on them.
    “Why can’t we have a regular bed? Y’know the kind, with a mattress, box springs, some sheets and a blanket?” he’d yelled. “Why must we have this … this
glamazon
of a bed?”
    Glamazon
was the right word to describe the bed’s size and flowing draperies. Silk of course. What wasn’t silk in this house? If it wasn’t expensive limestone or fossil granite or zebrawood. In fact it was champagne-colored silk with a voile inner lining run through with threads of gold. All inexcellent taste, naturally. Ron having chosen the “best” decorator. If you liked that sort of thing. And having finished the house, neither Allie nor Ron had ever admitted to the other that they did not really care for all the opulence.
    What the three-thousand-square-foot bedroom suite did have though, were the best closets in the world. His and Hers. They were enormous. Ditto the bathrooms. Hers larger than His, of course, with golden faucets that spilled long flat streams of water into a jetted tub and with towels thicker than Allie could handle. Secretly, disguised in a dark wig and glasses, she and Ampara, the housekeeper, had slipped into Costco and bought a dozen of their super-sale ones so she could dry herself properly. The “good” ones were just for show. Actually, Allie had been pleased to find that the brown wig and glasses were an effective cover. No one had even glanced twice at her.
    Today, Fussy, the Maltese, had as usual parked herself right in the middle of the bed. Her favorite place. She had always slept between them, Allie’s legs on one side, Ron’s on the other. Anyhow, Fussy just sat there now, barking snappily to let Allie know she was bored and that anyhow she’d rather be in the kitchen with Ampara.
    The long room with its floor-to-ceiling windows letting in streams of strong California light was filled with people. There was the stylist who’d brought a rack of gowns from which Allie would choose the ones for her Cannes Film Festival appearances, along with the sexy four-inch-heelshoes neatly laid out in a row, and the expensive little bags, and of course the jewelry that came along with a bodyguard, provided, as were the jewels, by Chopard. A seamstress from the design house waited to pin, a hairstylist hovered, and the makeup girl waited to see what she would choose so they could then decide on a “look.” Plus there were a couple of gofers, ready to run to the stores or whatever.
    The housekeeper had set up a table with coffee, bottled water and soft drinks, as well as her home-baked cookies and chocolate cake, the smell of which was driving Allie crazy. It reminded her of those rare childhood occasions when, with her mother, she had stirred the Betty Crocker chocolate-fudge cake mix then waited, almost dying with anxiety until the oven door was finally opened and the always-sunken cake removed. She had never been able to wait for it to cool, devouring a chunk smiling her pleasure through warm chocolaty lips. It was one of the few highlights of her youth.
    She took a large piece now. The stylist frowned. “Every extra ounce will show in this dress,” she warned.
    Allie shrugged, uncaring. This was the best she had felt in weeks. Cake was her answer, and maybe about half a pound of M&M’s, and how about Starbucks java chip ice cream? Yes! That’s exactly what she would have for dinner tonight and the hell with sparkling couture gowns from Valentino and Versace. She needed comfort food.
    “Try it,” she offered generously. “Ampara makes the best cake you’ve ever tasted.” She put a piece on a plate and gave it to the slender young stylist, who ate it, complaining guiltily she hadn’t been this “wicked” in years.
    “Go to the gym tonight,” Allie said, laughing. “And why should we think it’s wicked to enjoy a piece of cake every now and then?”
    “I guess