Early Sunday evening. A good half-hour before sunset. Lori and I had just spent the day with mom and Erica. Starting with lunch at the legendary Pavilion Restaurant inside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in the heart of Downtown L.A., then merely walking across the Plaza to attend the matinee performance of A Doll’s Life, Harold Pinter’s audacious musical sequel to Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. After the matinee, which thrilled mom as Lori had correctly anticipated, we drove back to Sherman Oaks to have an early dinner at Casa Vega, where mom tasted her first authentic Mexican cuisine. Their plan was to drive up to Santa Barbara on Monday morning and have lunch with my dad before motoring up the Pacific Coast Highway to Berkeley, where they would spend a few days with mom’s cousin Shirley and her husband, a sociology professor at the school. Erica and I were standing by their rental Honda Civic in the driveway while we waited for mom to finish her farewell chat with Lori inside the house.

“Did you enjoy the show?” I asked, still uncomfortable in the “boy clothes” I’d had to endure wearing all day.

“I thought Peter Gallagher was really dreamy,” Erica dead panned. “Listen, I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Oh, God, Joey. You’re so thick! You’re living dangerously. You’re going to slip up, and one of these two boys is going to discover you’re a…not what they think you are. Or somehow dad will find out. Your goose will be cooked and not just for the summer. Mom might have you see that psychologist again.”

“I’ve got things under control. Don’t worry your pretty little head about me.” I reached out to tussle her hair, but she slapped my hand away.

“Stop horsing around, you two!” Mom shouted as she approached with Lori a step behind her. “They still act like they did when they were six and four,” she shook her head as she spoke to Lori.

Mom hugged me and planted a soft kiss on my forehead. “Oh, I love your after-shave! It’s very manly smelling. Now, have fun the rest of the summer. Just not too much, okay? Be good.”

“I will, Mom. I promise.”

As she slid into the driver’s seat, I closed the car door. Erica waved to me from the passenger side. A minute later, the little Honda Civic chugged down Beverly Ridge Drive and turned right at Beverly Glen Blvd, vanishing from view.

Tuesday morning. I was finishing my bowl of Froot Loops at the kitchen table, chewing the candy-sweet rings of cereal before they got sodden with milk and managing to yawn at the same time. Lori put down her coffee mug and cleared her throat.

“Mrs. Glover wants to meet with you this morning in her home office.”

“What? Did I do something wrong? Did Blaise tell her about Mateo taking me to the Pier on Saturday? I didn’t think he’d get that worked up about it. I mean, we’re not dating—”

“No, it’s not that. She says she’s very happy with the arrangement she’s made with you. She even told me that Blaise’s whole demeanor has changed in the two weeks you’ve been around him.”

“So, why does she want to meet?” I slurped the remainder of the milk, now tinged with fruity flavors from the cereal.

“We’ll see, won’t we? Now, I’ve picked out that yellow sundress with the floral pattern for you to wear—”

“All the sundresses have floral patterns, Lori.”

“And you can wear your flats instead of sneakers. Don’t wear socks with them!”

“When is the meeting?”

“10:30.”

I almost choked on my milk. “That’s an hour and a half from now. It takes over an hour to drive to Palos Verdes!”

“You have plenty of time to shower, dress and put on some light makeup.”

Lupita, the Glovers’ maid, greeted us at the door. After exchanging pleasantries in Spanish, as Lori is wont to do, being of half-Mexican descent, she guided us to Mrs. Glover’s office. To my surprise, Mr. Glover was standing behind his wife as she was seated at her cluttered desk. He winked at me as Lori and I sat down.

“Well, aren’t you ladies looking lovely this morning,” Mrs. Glover observed. “I believe Joey you’ve met my husband. At the Dodgers game?”

“Oh, yes, and at Emily’s birthday party. He was busy taking polaroids of the girls. We didn’t really cross paths then.”

“You look marvelous in that sundress, Joey,” Mr. Glover interjected. “That look fits you much better than the over-sized Fernando jersey you were wearing at the Stadium.”

“Thank you, Mr. Glover. You’re too kind.”

“You might wonder why I’ve asked you to meet with us today.”

“I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, ma’am.”

“She called me ma’am, Henry,” Mrs. Glover said, grinning. “Oh, Joey, you are a wonderful girl. Just the kind of young lady that will be a good influence of my poor Blaise. You know, the boy is head over heels about you—”

“I’m not trying to lead him on, Mrs. Glover. He’s a nice boy and all but there’s absolutely nothing of that sort between us. At least not on my part.”

“I’m sad to hear that actually. You’ve done nothing wrong. And I don’t expect you to fall for Blaise at all. It’s just…I don’t think he’s ever met a girl with your qualities before. Henry, you agree, don’t you? The girls his age these days, even the ones from good homes and proper parents…they’re horribly…uncouth.”

“Well, I took an elective in couth at school.”

“See what I tell you, Henry? The girl’s a prize.”

“Yes, beautiful with a sense of humor,” nodded Mr. Glover.

“You’ve got Joey blushing, you two,” laughed Lori.

“Just keep on doing what you’ve been doing, Joey,” Mrs. Glover advised. “Since you’ve been such a roaring success in a short two weeks already, I’ve decided to double your pay. Retroactively as well. Here’s a check for $200.” She handed the check to Lori. “Lori’s very wise to open an account for you so you won’t be tempted to waste it on trivialities like most teenagers would. You’ll be able to use it when you’re at school this Fall, for important things like books.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Glover. You’re very generous. Considering I’m not doing anything outside of being taken to see the sights of Los Angeles…”

“You’re providing Blaise with the opportunity to act like a mature adult, Joey. Something he sorely needs to learn.” Mr. Glover placed his hands on the desk, nodding his head and looking directly at me.

“Now to the point. I’m having Blaise take you shopping tomorrow on Rodeo Drive. Even if you don’t end up buying anything, I want to introduce you to the finer things in life. What the best people wear. And, afterwards, I’ve made dinner reservations for the two of you at The Bistro. You’ve heard of The Bistro, my dear?”

“No, not really.” I shook my head.

“It’s an iconic restaurant. A watering hole as they say for Hollywood legends and industry elites. Frank Sinatra dines there almost weekly. Name a star of stage and screen. Any that come to mind.”

“Peter Gallagher?”

“Who? Henry, do you know a Peter Gallagher?” Mr. Glover looked stumped.

“We just saw him at The Ahmanson in that new musical, A Doll’s Life,” Lori said.

“Oh, Henry and I were going to take a special trip to New York in September when it opens on Broadway, weren’t we, dear?”

“I think I have some important business to attend to that entire month,” he said.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll see the cream of Hollywood and society there tomorrow night. You will heed proper etiquette not to bother them for autographs, I presume, Joey. Dreadful how the teeming millions act in the presence of celebrities.”

“Is Blaise alright with this? It can’t be something a teenage boy wouldn’t be bored silly doing. Accompanying a woman shopping for clothes.”

“Yes, but you…you, my dear…will be absolutely thrilled. He has to learn about pleasing others rather than just himself.”

“It’s a rite of passage for any young man who’s in love,” Mr. Glover said, winking at me again.

“But…really…Mrs. Glover. I’m not looking to get involved with boys. Any boy. I won’t be here past August anyway.”

“That can change,” Mrs. Glover said with a twinkle in her eyes.

“A girl who looks like you can’t help being pursued. The hunter and the game. That’s life.” Mr. Glover crossed his arms, smiling.

“Forgive my Henry. He’s an avid outdoorsman. Hunting, fishing. He thinks in those terms about everything. Even in matters of the heart,” Mrs. Glover explained, apologetically. “Blaise will pick you up around noon tomorrow. Dress appropriately. I’m sure you will.”

In Lori’s new Ford Escort, returning home, I sighed. “Why do I get the feeling I’m being set up for a Fall wedding with Blaise?”

“Don’t be silly,” Lori replied. “Mrs. Glover gets carried away sometimes. She knows very well that you’re here temporarily. And Blaise is predictably unpredictable. I mean, 6 months ago he swore that Iron Maiden was the best band in the world. Now he thinks they’re garbage. It’s The Stones all day and all night. He’s overly dramatic just like Mrs. Glover.”

“Well, you know them better than I do. I’ll take your word for it. But I told you how he and Mateo almost got into a fist fight on Saturday. I think it was over me. Little ol’ me.”

“Maybe being a girl isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Now that I won’t agree with.”

We had debated what I should wear for my dual adventure on Rodeo Drive and dinner at The Bistro. It had to be something appropriate, as Mrs. Glover had reminded me, for walking through high-priced, high fashion shops as well as dining among celebrities and elites in a formal setting. Lori nixed my idea – a potato sack. So, we settled on a crisp, optical white Fiorucci shirt and Calvin Klein designer jeans. Also, a pair of black kitten heels. Topped off with a preppy, cable-knit dark blue pullover. Lori loaned me her convertible clutch bag.

With my right shoe dangling off my toes, I settled into the couch, flipping through the pages of Lori’s fashion magazines, as I waited for Blaise to pick me up at noon. There was an interesting article on how to handle the sticky dilemma of having competing admirers. I must admit I skimmed the article with more than cursory attention.

The doorbell rang, bursting my reverie of a Fall wedding by the sea.

“I’ll get it,” Lori said, rushing to the front door.

It was Blaise, of course. Right on time. Dressed in a charcoal gray Armani suit. His white shirt was open at the collar, fashionably bereft of a tie. On his feet were matching Italian-made black, calf-skinned, cap-toe Oxfords. And his hair was perfect. Suddenly, I felt inferior. Like the scullery maid trying to walk arm in arm with the prince of the manor.

“You look wonderful, Joey. Very hip. I like the touch of wrapping your sweater over your shoulders.”

“It’s called a pullover and thank you. You look mah-velous yourself.”

“Let’s get going. I think you’ll like where I’m taking you for lunch.”

The Beverly Center was a new shopping mall on the corner of Beverly and San Vicente, having opened that March, a short ten-minute drive from Rodeo Drive. Blaise drove up to the valet stand on the San Vicente side of the building. On the street level was our destination for lunch – The Hard Rock Café. This was the first American outpost of the British franchise. Once inside, we were transported into a fantasy world of rock and roll culture. There was a real 1957 Cadillac car hanging over the central bar, booming classic rock over the sound system, and museum-grade music memorabilia lining the walls.

We ordered burgers and fries. I had the vanilla milkshake; Blaise had the chocolate. Before I could reach into Lori’s clutch purse to pay for my part of the meal, Blaise had already placed a Gold Amex card on the tray.

“Everything today’s on me. Grandmother’s orders.”

“That’s not fair. I have my own money. I can afford some burgers and fries.”

“You’re my guest. And I mean everything. Whatever you see that you like, I’ve got the card right here.” He patted his breast pocket.

“Well, no, you haven’t. The waiter has it right now. I reserve the right to negotiate. OK?”

“You act like one of my homies. They feel it challenges their masculinity if I pay for them.”

Rodeo Drive’s shopping corridor spans just three blocks, from Wilshire Boulevard in the south to Little Santa Monica Boulevard in the north. Ficus trees line the street, providing shade from the hot sun of summer days with their bushy form. Blaise wanted me to enter each shop in order as we made our way toward Wilshire. The prices were frightening for a middle-class girl from Long Island.

There was Gucci, Bijan, Cartier, Hermès, Carroll & Co., Chanel. I touched the fabrics, even held a few items in front of me, posing before a mirror, and marveled at the shiny gold and silver settings that held sparkling gems, lined up neatly underneath glass counters. But I didn’t succumb to the desire to own any of it. I didn’t think of the afternoon as a shopping spree but a museum tour. These were the treasures of the upper crust on display.

Blaise grew grumpier as the day progressed with me not buying anything. He even waved his grandmother’s Gold Amex card before my eyes as if to entice me to take the plunge. There was a Gucci Flora outfit that sorely tempted me. An oversized, softly tailored Flora print cream silk blouse featuring the iconic multi-colored botanical illustration of lilies, poppies, and iris flowers with matching high-waisted silk pleated trousers. I think I saw a picture of it in one of Lori’s magazines. But the price tag read $850!

When we reached Giorgio’s of Beverly Hills, Blaise decided to act peremptorily. The boutique smelled heavily of tuberose, gardenia, and expensive upholstery. As we moved toward the perfume counter, I did my usual dance of dithering observation and price calculation. A glamorous sales associate in a sharp silk blouse stood behind the polished glass counter displaying the iconic yellow-and-white striped boxes of the newly launched Giorgio Extraordinary Perfume.

Blaise leaned against the glass counter, gesturing to the rows of yellow bottles. "We’ll take a bottle of the Extraordinary Perfume. The largest one you have."

My hand immediately dropped onto his forearm, pulling him back a fraction. "Blaise, no. The purse spray is more than enough. Really. It’s perfect for traveling."

Smiling warmly, recognizing Blaise’s casual, wealthy posture but reading my hesitation flawlessly, the salesgirl said "The two-ounce spray is actually our most popular this summer, young man. It features the exact same heavy crystal bottle design, and it fits beautifully into a daytime handbag."

“My grandmother says if you buy Giorgio, you go big or you don't go at all."

Worn down, I nodded in surrender. The salesgirl smiled even more broadly now. "An excellent choice. It’s the scent of the season—very bright, very Beverly Hills. I'll have it ready for you in just a moment."

Outside the store, I hefted the Giorgio shopping bag, remarking how the bag was far too large for the small box that contained the perfume bottle.

“How much was the damage?”

“You don’t need to know. Just enjoy the perfume. I’ll want you to wear it next time.”

After a cup of coffee at The Brighton, just steps of Rodeo Drive, Blaise insisted that we finish running the gauntlet of elite but over-priced shops.

“Buy something that you really like if only to commemorate the day we’re sharing. I feel the need to repay you in some way for the pleasure of your company today,” Blaise said in a charmingly rehearsed manner.

We went back to Gucci, the first store we had ventured into several hours before. When we stepped past the heavy glass doors, the noise of Rodeo Drive cut out completely. The store was cool, quiet, and smelled of rich, imported Italian calfskin and a faint haze of expensive cologne. The floors were highly polished marble, and the walls were lined with smoked glass and gleaming brass fixtures.

An impeccably dressed sales associate approached us. He wore a perfectly tailored, dark double-breasted suit with a silk pocket square.

Blaise broke the ice, trying to sound older and more confident than he really was. He mentioned Mrs. Glover’s name, the owner of La Belle Cosmetics, and slid the Gold American Express card onto the glass counter.

"Ah, of course. A pleasure to have you with us today," the sales associate said, his posture softening. He immediately guided me toward a velvet-lined display case.

I was hesitant, eyeing the exotic ostrich and solid-leather top-handle bags that looked like they cost thousands. Sensing my reluctance to abuse Mrs. Glover’s generosity, the sales associate deftly pivoted.

He pulled out a GG Supreme canvas crossbody camera bag. It featured the iconic brown monogram, a slender leather shoulder strap, and the definitive vertical green-and-red web stripe running down the center.

"This is from our newest accessory collection," the salesman explained, lifting it with practiced grace. "It’s incredibly lightweight, perfect for a summer afternoon in the canyon, and quite classic."

When I slipped the strap over my shoulder, it fit perfectly against my hip. The polished gold "GG" zipper charm caught the store's track lighting. It was undeniably Gucci, effortlessly cool, and at roughly $150, it wouldn’t make me feel like a grifter.

The salesman took the Gold Amex to the heavy, mechanical imprinter at the back counter. The distinctive "clack-clack" of the machine pressing the carbon-copy receipt echoed through the quiet boutique.

While Blaise signed the thick paper slip, the bag was wrapped in crisp tissue paper, placed inside a heavy, chocolate-brown box with gold foil lettering, and slid into a matching rope-handled shopping bag.

The salesman handed the bag to me with a slight bow. "Enjoy," he said. Blaise put his arm around me and walked me to the front door, looking back over his shoulder at the salesman.

“Do you think they’ll let me in, dressed like this?” I asked Blaise as we queued up for the parking valet at The Bistro, behind a parade of luxury sedans and expensive sports cars.

“It’s OK. They’ve lightened up on the dress code in recent years. At least that’s what my granddad says. You’ll be fine. It’s not like you’re wearing a potato sack.”

“That was my first choice, but Lori vetoed it.”

“Joey, you’re a riot.”

Together, we walked beneath the awning and pushed through the heavy doors. The transition was instant: we stepped out of the warm, exhaust-tinged L.A. air and into the cool, dimly lit, romantic world of the European elite.

The restaurant was already buzzing with the low murmur of old-money conversations, the clinking of crystal, and the scent of garlic, butter, and expensive perfume. Standing at the podium was Kurt Niklas, looking immaculate. Kurt’s eyes instantly dropped to my Gucci bag, then up to Blaise’s face, recognizing the family resemblance to his grandmother, the cosmetics mogul.

"Ah, good evening," Kurt said, his voice carrying a smooth, authoritative European cadence. "Your grandmother called ahead to ensure we took magnificent care of you tonight. Right this way, please."

He walked us right through the center of the room, past tables of legendary film producers and impeccably coiffed Beverly Hills socialites, guiding us to a prime, deep-red leather booth. I slid in, carefully placing my Gucci bag on the seat next to me, the gold foil lettering gleaming under the soft, amber light of the restaurant. The table was a pristine landscape of heavy white linen, glistening crystal, and a small silver basket of hot, crusty cheese bread that smelled incredible.

Their waiter appeared almost instantly. He introduced himself as Jean-Pierre, wearing a starch-stiff white apron over a black waistcoat. With practiced, synchronized movements, he snapped open two heavy, cloth-bound menus and presented them with a slight bow. "Good evening. Welcome to The Bistro," Jean-Pierre said, his French accent thick but perfectly clear. "Tonight, the chef has prepared a spectacular Émincé de Veau with wild chanterelles. But first, may I suggest a refreshment while you look over the menu? Perhaps a Perrier with lime, or a Shirley Temple for mademoiselle?"

I opened my menu, and my eyes widened slightly. The menus was written entirely in French, with tiny English subtitles underneath. It was a minefield of Potage, Escargots, and Soufflés. I caught Blaise’s eye across the table, giving him a subtle "help me" look. I didn’t want to look unsophisticated, but I also had no idea what Clams Casino actually was.

"We’ll start with the Clams Casino to share," Blaise said, pronouncing it just right. "And for our main courses, we will both have the Émincé de Veau (sliced veal in a rich cream sauce) with the capellini."

Jean-Pierre scribbled smoothly on his small notepad. "Excellent choices, sir. And for dessert? The chocolate soufflé requires forty-five minutes to prepare. Shall I put the order into the kitchen now, so it is ready precisely when you finish?"

"Yes, please," I said, trying to sound like I ordered the soufflé all the time.

"Perfect," Jean-Pierre bows. "I will bring your starters straight away."

While we waited for the starters, I discreetly looked around the room. I would nudge Blaise every time I spotted someone I recognized as a celebrity. In the corner of the room, Elton John and Rod Stewart appeared to be toasting past escapades in the whirligig of the musical life. At a table close by us, Sammy Davis, Jr. and his wife were sampling the French Onion Soup. Blaise pointed out David Geffen sitting at a table with a woman who looked suspiciously like Cher. But we weren’t sure. Then again, I didn’t know who David Geffen was either. In the smoking section of the room, Blaise told me the elderly man holding a demitasse of espresso in one hand and puffing on a Montecristo #4 Cuban cigar was the famous film director, Billy Wilder, who was one of the founders of The Bistro.

“I wish I could get all their autographs. My mother would just die. She’s a huge fan of Old Hollywood. Your grandmother said Sinatra eats her once a week. Not tonight though. But she hates people who bother celebrities in private places.”

At that very moment, a very familiar looking woman walked by our table, stopped, and placed her hand on Blaise’s shoulder. It was Farrah Fawcett.

“It’s you. Blaise. Right?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s my name.”

“Farrah Fawcett.”

“Of course, you are,” Blaise laughed. “I’m shocked you know who I am though.”

“I had some discussions with your grandmother about doing some promotional stuff with La Belle Cosmetics. But I’m still under contract with Fabergé. Maybe in another year if your grandmother still wants me.”

“I’m sure she would,” Blaise said enthusiastically. “By the way, this is my friend Joey Prentiss.”

“Hello,” I said, almost swallowing the final syllable.

“Are you a model or actress? I think I’ve seen you in a magazine ad for La Belle, in fact.”

“I wish. No, I just graduated from high school. I’m only visiting L.A. for the summer. I’m going to college in New York in the Fall.”

She reached into her purse and took out a pen. Taking one of the paper napkins they use as coasters for drinking glasses, she started to scribble something. “Well, here’s someone you could contact in New York if you ever decide to try modeling. He’s a great agent and a personal friend. Tell him I recommended you. Great seeing you, Blaise. Say hello to your grandmother for me.”

I looked at the napkin and gave Blaise a look of incredulity. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know but I think I’ve just witnessed the birth of a star. So, are you going to contact this agent?”

“She was just being kind. I’m not that beautiful!”

“Only a little bit beautiful?” laughed Blaise. Jean-Pierre arrived at our table with our starters.

When Blaise drove his Mustang up our driveway, I thanked him for a wonderful day of shopping on Rodeo Drive and a delicious, entertaining dinner at The Bistro. Before collecting my shopping bags from the back seat, I leaned into Blaise and offered my cheek for a kiss. He kissed me full on the lips instead. A long, lingering kiss that made me almost black out for a second. Finally, he released my lips. I ran into the house after Blaise drove away. I was ecstatic and dying to tell Lori all about my afternoon of shopping on Rodeo Drive. I placed the Gucci shopping bag and the Giorgio bag on the coffee table as Lori came in from the kitchen, yawning. She had been brewing some bedtime tea. I wanted to tell her about all the celebrities in The Bistro. About Farrah Fawcett thinking I could have a modeling career. I would show her the napkin she wrote an agent’s name on.

“Whoa! We’ll sit down with some tea, and you can tell me all about it. Just slow down.”

“I can’t! I feel so good about life, about me, about—”

“Mateo called.”

“Oh, did he say what he wanted?”

“No, he just asked me to have you call him back when you get in.”

“I’ve got to tell him about today too.”

“Maybe not a good idea, sweetie.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”