India's Summer by Thérèse Read Free Book Online Page A

somewhere lovely … start again. I’m so sorry.”
    Refocusing with a smile, Annie seemed more energetic. “I’d suggest the The Ivy, but last time, they gave me a table up front and it ruined the whole meal. God! How I loathe that pack of paparazzi!”
    She paused for a second. “But there is this great Argentinean place in West Hollywood. It’s sort of off the beaten track. Joss loves it. Shall I have Tess call and book it? How ’bout one o’clock? I might even be able to fit in a swim in my own pool.”
    “Brilliant, Annie. You have a swim and I’ll soak up the sun for a bit.”
    “Oh! And I nearly forgot,” Annabelle said over her shoulder. “There’s an art show tomorrow night at the Raw Warehouse. Mr. Brainwash – he’s a graffiti artist, a friend of Banksy’s. You might enjoy it. I’ll fill you in over lunch.”

C’EST LA VIE NOTE – Nobody in the Polo Lounge plays polo.
    Annie had said the words “warehouse” and “graffiti,” so India had dressed appropriately: in a pair of old cargo pants and a Mr. Rogers–like cardigan. One look at the hip scene around her and she wanted to vaporize. So this is “rock star casual,” she thought, checking out the parade of characters: the bleached denim, the bed-head hair, the Afghan coats (in this heat?).
    “Annie, this is incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She gasped as they were ushered into a dark, cavernous space by two bald and heavily muscled armed security guards, and “Mr. Brainwash” himself came up and kissed Annie smack on the lips.
    “Enchanté,” he shouted to India over the din of electronic disco.
    “Moi aussi,” she shouted back, proudly, at this short, disheveled looking Frenchman. He had his foot in a cast, which, far from slowing him down, only seemed to make him more wired and hyped up.
    “I fall off the ladder,” he said, grinning, lifting up his cast before zipping off with Annie in tow.
    India just stood there looking around, grateful for the darkness. Thank God no one knows me! she thought. Glancing over at a knot of people clustering around a giant silver rocket, she recognized the Olsen twins deep in conversation with Sharon Osbourne. What could they possibly have to say to each other? she wondered.
    Suddenly India’s mouth went dry. She felt her throat tighten. It was him. It was Adam Brooks leaning up, lazily, against a white pillar, arms folded across his chest. Turning her back to him, she tried to recover her equilibrium. Where the hell was Annie? And why, oh why, did he have to show up on a night when she was dressed like this? Maybe he hasn’t seen me, she prayed, swinging around toward the nearest wall, where she bumped into an image of a gun-toting Elvis.
    “Hey! India! Are you avoiding me?”
    “Adam,” she squeaked, “of course not. I’m delighted to see you.”
    “So what do you think of ‘Mr. Brainwash?’ They say he’s a genius, you know.”
    “Yes, but I’m struggling a bit with some of it,” she said, pointing to Elvis. “What’s with the gun? What does it mean?”
    “Forget the meaning,” Adam yelled across the din. “Meaning is meaningless in the case of ‘Mr. Brainwash.’”
    India’s chest was pounding. The physical presence of this man made her feel totally giddy. As they wandered through what seemed acres of space, India berated herself. Get a grip, girl. You’re almost forty years old. Yes, he’s good looking. OK, better than good looking. But it’s the intensity you really like. Half an hour later, as they toured the vast spaces, she was still waiting for him to shake her hand and vanish into the beckoning arms of some impatient starlet – maybe that Cynthia girl was about to appear any moment.
    India stopped at an installation. “What’s that?” she said.
    “That,” replied Adam with a straight face, “is a junkyard police car covered in graffiti on a plinth.”
    “In London, if we see a police car covered in graffiti, we tend not to put it on a