Good Rich People(56)

“That’s wild! That’s just wild!” Peaches says, because she doesn’t understand anything I just said. None of them does. They think it’s overkill. They think it’s too much. But for Graham it might not be enough.

“I’ll be going home straight after dinner,” Mitsi says. The saint. “I don’t want to be around the boys when they get crazy!”

“It sounds a little dangerous,” Sienna says.

“It is a little dangerous,” I say. “That’s what makes it fun.”

“You’re just trying to impress Graham,” Posey snips. She’s entirely correct.

“He is her husband,” Peaches points out. “I think it’s sweet.” She makes a face. “I just wish Henri wasn’t playing. No offense but Graham is kind of a bad influence on him.”

“Graham’s a bad influence on everyone,” Posey says.

It strikes a chord. I’ve never been honest about Graham with Posey. Of course I haven’t. That would be weird. It’s awkward to even acknowledge that you dated the same person as someone else—loved them, pretended they were the only one for you—let alone have an actual conversation about that person with them. But I do wonder if she has some stories that would sound like mine.

I glance at Demi again. She looks uncomfortable. As always.

“You’ll have to play,” I tell her.

“No, thank you.” She swallows, watching the bubbles rise in her untouched champagne. “It’s not my kind of thing.”

“But you must.” She will.

“I don’t like violence,” she says in this sanctimonious thread of a voice.

I scoff. “I saw you punch a homeless guy.” The more she acts like a good girl, the surer I am that she is not. Margo said that she was nasty, that she left a trail of bodies on her rise to the top. This curled-in quiet is all an act. It has to be. A solid act, but still an act.

“You punched a homeless guy?” Peaches snorts. “Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

Sienna starts laughing suddenly, hysterically. I think she’s had too much to drink.

“I’ll play.” Demi’s voice is so quiet, I don’t think the others hear the edge. But I do. She says it again: “I’ll play.”

“Hooray!” I say, toasting her untouched drink. “You won’t regret it! It’s going to be so much fun.” I temporarily forget it won’t end well for her. I’m just glad she capitulated.

“What do I get if I win?”

I sip my champagne, nudge her playfully. “What you always get.” I smile, then quote her own words back to her: “To keep playing.”



* * *





DEMI HATES MY friends more than I do. It’s hard not to like her for it. We have all relocated to a private shopping room at a boutique on Rodeo Drive. My friends are still stuck on the homeless thing.

“My mom says they’re all, like, millionaires,” Peaches says, drunkenly twisting around in front of the full-length mirror in a beige taffeta dress. “That it’s just a lifestyle choice.”

“That’s a lot of fucking millionaires,” Demi grunts. She is slumped on the lounger beside me. I chose our outfits ages ago. Demi seemed perfectly happy for me to buy and pay for everything. She didn’t raise an eyebrow when I said I’d have it sent to our address.

“I once saw a Rothschild busking on the Third Street Promenade.” Peaches scoots in beside Mitsi, wearing the same taffeta dress and looking just as bad in it.

“Oh, my God!” Mitsi clutches her heart. “What were you doing on the Third Street Promenade?”

I nudge Demi’s waist. “Let’s go have a cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I,” I whisper, dragging her up by the elbow.

I take her out to a private terrace at the back looking out over a parking lot. It smells like gasoline.

“Your friends are horrible,” she tells me.

“I know.”

“Why are you even friends with them?”

“You have to be friends with someone.” I look at her and I look at the parking lot and I wish I did smoke. I’m not sure why I brought her out here. It’s not going to help me kill her. I guess I just felt bad for her. I guess I just wanted to help her. Not a wise impulse. “We’re trying to figure out what happened to the dog. Any ideas?”

“No.” Her voice is modulated, not too fast, not too slow. Is it a trick? But Graham is right: She doesn’t have a motive. “Maybe it was a coyote. Or a car.”

“An act of God,” I say.

“Exactly. God’s the worst.”

I laugh once, fast. “Should we go back?”

“No.”

I laugh again, sip my Mo?t. “What are your friends like?”

“I don’t have friends,” she says, which is kind of refreshing. “But I’d rather not have friends than have friends like those.”

I find myself telling her, “I had a really good friend once. We were like the same person in two different bodies. We used to stay up late, sitting by the fountain, just talking about how horrible everyone else was.”

“Why aren’t you friends anymore?”