AFTER THE POOL, the four actresses returned to the hotel. Rihanna and Mischa, sharing the front bedroom, chatted like schoolgirls about the cute boys at the pool while they put on makeup and plucked eyebrows and smoked cigarettes from long onyx holders. Rihanna went through a box of tissues as her allergies momentarily flared up. Mischa was doing fine except that she had some water in her ear from the pool that numerous Q-tips failed to remedy. But such was life!467Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm5SZ42RgLv
Then dinner in their hotel at Yoshi, Joel Robuchon's Japanese restaurant. It was quaint in terms of size----seating only forty people----but not in design, which was luxurious Japanese contemporary with muted colors and stone. At the far end, the room swept open to a second story, from which hung a pearly eight-foot spiral chandelier. Beyond the far wall of glass was an ornate Japanese garden.
Lindsay and Rihanna sat on the burnt-orange silk banquettes along the wall. Nicole Richie and Mischa took the comfy yellow chairs across from them. The table was set with black plastic mats, black-and-clear water glasses, and glass plates. A soft light burned in a green glass in the middle of the table. Before they could say banzai they were drinking the house's Bruno Paillard Champagne.
They were, quite simply, having a blast. They were sun-drenched, nicotined, intoxicated and giddy. Over salmon sashimi and their first flask of sake, they decided to forgo their usual topics of conversation----global warming, nuclear proliferation, future film roles----in favor of describing the looks on their boyfriends' faces during sex. In a nutshell: Egor looked like a chipmunk holding his breath. Joel, a seal giving birth. Drake gnashed his teeth as if he were about to pass a bowling ball. Mischa's Sebastian was always a quiet one, closing his eyes as if he were trying to remember the lyrics to a song.
"When was the last time, for any of you?" Nicole Richie asked. She actually won; she and Joel were intimate last week. For Rihanna, it was weeks. For Mischa, months, for Lindsay, years.
"Wait," said Mischa. "Do you mean, when was the last time Sebastian had sex? Or the last time he had sex with me?"
The joke fell flat. Even Mischa had shocked herself with the comment. Rihanna knew about Sebastian's affair, and Mischa had alluded to it previously with the others but never so explicitly.
"I don't think Egor cheats," said Lindsay. Mischa was alarmed at how matter-of-factly she put it. She poured a new flask of sake, which had been recommended by the sommelier. "He's only attracted to things he can buy."
"Honestly, I don't know about Drake," Rihanna chimed in. "I don't think he cheats, but I never know anything about him. Y'know, last week he had a bit of the lurgy? I only found out when I heard him puking in the loo. And then I took his temperature and it was bloody through the roof. Not five minutes before that, I'd asked him if he was feeling up to a jog and he said, 'Could be,' with his trademark straight face. Then he's keeled over on his ass spilling his guts. He's just got one speed, that one: man of mystery. Sometimes I want to remind him that he stopped playing Double-O-Seven years ago."
The edamame----salted, boiled soybeans in the pod----were fresh and firm and the octopus salad and boiled potatoes were seasoned to perfection. They shared orders of prawns tempura and vegetable fritters and grilled black cod wrapped in banana leaves. A broth soup with tofu topped it off until dessert. Mischa preferred the lime snow eggs but everyone else liked the lychee sorbet best. Ah, well, the women celebrated their diversity.
More sake, and they were perilously close to being drunk----or perilously close to being so drunk they no longer realized it.
"Joel is just so insanely insecure," said Nicole Richie. "Whatever else---and I know what you all think of him----it all comes down to that. Insecurity."
"I'd like kick him in the bloomin' balls, I would," said Rihanna, the alcohol loosening her tongue.
"No, I mean----oh, this is yummy." Nicole Richie had her first taste of the new sake.
"By all means, keep drinking, Nicole," said Lindsay with her famous Marilyn Monroe wink. Lindsay was the most petite---probably a hundred pounds soaking wet----and Mischa was a lot closer to her than to their tall, leggy friends across the table. Lindsay and Mischa matched them sip for sip, nevertheless.
"Here's an example. We were at dinner a few weeks ago and Joel's talking to the waiter. The waiter's a grad student in psychology. He said he was doing a thesis on the relationship between psychotherapy and Christianity. Joel makes a comment that Jung is the founder of psychotherapy. The waiter didn't say anything, but later on, Joel realizes he meant Freud. It bothers him so much that he looked stupid to the waiter that he finds out the waiter's schedule and makes us go back there for dinner again, just so he can strike up another conversation with the waiter and correct himself."
"Now that is insecurity," Mischa said in agreement.
"So here's a question," Lindsay was coming out her shell more and more as the weekend traveled on. "Raise your hand if you're still in love with your boyfriend. Honest, now."467Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzgBL5SF5W8
Mischa looked at each of the ladies. Eight hands among them, all resting on the table.467Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUOVoxdLQSD
Mischa raised her hand.467Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsE530b5W2H
"Mischa, really?" said Nicole Richie.467Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl1HdAKOoE5
"No, I have another question," she said. "Why are we spending our time on our getaway weekend talking about our boyfriends?"467Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0HyaVTUsQ3
"As of now, we're not," said Rihanna. "Promise?"467Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsa9MJEiQ0b
Their hands all met in the middle of the table. Fuck the boyfriends. They still had each other. And the night, as they say, was still young.467Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC99VNzyUqC
