by Jessica Jiji
Of course I’d already thought of Lucien. Pride wasn’t the issue—I would have been happy to throw myself at his mercy—but he was so snobby that his idea of A-list was the Icelandic experimental photographer who only worked in the midnight sun, not the Hollywood hottie Weldon H. Sutton was after.
“Nah . . . he’s useless,” I said, happy that Irwin was so secure he wouldn’t have minded me contacting an ex.
“What about that princess whose dog you used to walk; you know, in that fancy building on West Street?”
The Meier tower—of course! The princess was long gone, but it couldn’t get any more A-list than Ruxandra del Mar, the star I’d seen on my last visit there. Except she was notorious for banning all reporters for miles around.
When I explained this to Irwin, he smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “You’re not a reporter. Now, what does she need that only you have?”
I strained my mind trying to recall every word of the conversation I’d overheard. “Pulverized rhino meat . . . or something?” I guessed, trying to remember the name of the diet aid she’d been so desperate for.
I expected Irwin to look at me like I was crazy, but instead, he calmly corrected my mistake. “You mean desiccated hippo liver.”
“You know about that stuff?”
“Marisa was practically an addict. Used to sprinkle it on potatoes.”
I nearly gagged at the thought but pressed him for more information. “Where did she get it? I hear it’s impossible to find.”
“In Flushing, where else?”
Half an hour and a short cab ride later, we found ourselves in a crowded, narrow alleyway. Hidden among the bright neon signs, storefront tanks full of swimming fish, and sidewalk vendors selling tchotchkes was a small pharmacy. Instead of aspirin and cough syrup, though, the place was overflowing with baskets of gnarly, dried roots, herbal tinctures, and strange-looking apparitions. We scored the last three packets of desiccated hippo liver, and I felt like Jack and the Beanstalk hurrying out with potential magic in my pocket.
The next day I went straight to the Meier building, hoping to run into Ruxandra del Mar, but Natan told me she wouldn’t be back until Thursday. “The best time to catch her is at about four when she comes from breakfast,” he told me. It was bumping up on my deadline, but there was no choice. I had to wait and pray that she’d have a big meal and feel really bloated that day.
When it arrived, Irwin drove me to the train station and walked me to the platform. It was a clear, bright November afternoon. “Everything’s coming together for you,” he said.
“Yeah, I already got the great guy, and now I’m going for the dream job.”
“I’m the great guy? I’m the lucky guy.” He zipped my leather jacket up, held me close, and spoke softly. “I have never been so happy as I’ve been these last couple of weeks. You know I’m dead in love with you.”
He’d said it before, but hearing it again made me glow inside. “I love you, too.” I had planned on waiting until I got the job to tell him Mrs. Lilianthaller’s insider tip, but in the moment, it slipped through my lips. “And . . . I have a lead on a rent-controlled apartment in the East Village. As soon as I get this gig, it’s back to the city!”
I expected Irwin to cheer, but he looked crestfallen. “Back to the city? I was hoping you’d move in with me.” He took a step away as we heard the rumble of the approaching train in the background.
“This is even better. We can move together to Manhattan. Isn’t that what you always dreamed of?”
“Yeah, maybe when I was sixteen, but I’m thirty now, and hello? I own a house and run a business on Long Island.”
As the train pulled in, my heart sank, but rather than dwell on our different domestic tastes, I leaned in and kissed him. “Okay, I understand,” I said. “I don’t even have the job yet, so let’s not think about it.”
Ricardo was on duty at the Meier building. He let me hang around the lobby and, being an old friend, even agreed to go along with my scheme. So when Ruxandra’s long, white stretch Hummer drove up, we began our fake conversation.
“Really, so you used to weigh three hundred and forty pounds?” he asked as the glamour queen walked into earshot. I almost forgot my lines at the intimidating sight of this world-famous diva. It was nothing like seeing Yelena Yelenovich slumped in a beanbag chair. Ruxandra had an impenetrable air of grandeur, plus the usual entourage shielding her on all sides.
“Yep,” I said as they moved through the lobby. When I noticed they weren’t paying attention, I added, “I lost two hundred pounds without even dieting.” That got the group to quiet down and start eavesdropping, but Ruxandra still seemed uninterested. “This stuff is a miracle.” I desperately held up the packet of fine brown powder.
“What did you say it was called again?” Ricardo asked loudly.
“Desiccated hippo liver,” I said as slowly and deliberately as possible. I felt like an idiot, but this was the only bait on my hook. And just then, Ruxandra bit.
“Halt!” she commanded the entourage. “Did anyone else hear what I just heard? Or was it one of the voices in my head?”
Lars of Lars of Beverly Hills stared at me like I was some kind of intruder, but Missouri Culpeper, Personal Trainer to the Stars, rushed to my side. “How much do you want for that?” she whispered from the corner of her mouth. I couldn’t give it to the assistant. I had to hit my target, so I brushed her off. “Not selling,” I said.
Ruxandra herself swaggered over. I almost went blind looking at the stunning actress I’d seen in so many great films, and I almost went dumb trying to speak to someone who was the object of millions of people’s dreams and jealousies.
Almost, that is, until I looked into her eyes. There I saw it, that familiar gaze I knew so well from the pleading stares of Slobodan, Kingpin, Mini, Bogey, Bacall, and every other dog I’d ever been master to. Whether in canines or humans, the meaning was the same: What do I have to do to get that treat?
“Everybody has their price,” she said, towering over me and grinding her spike heel into the floor. “Name yours.”
I let a pause hang in the air while I fingered the envelope teasingly. Suspense was every trainer’s secret weapon. The longer I waited, the more ready she seemed to give me the six-thousand-dollar denim jacket off her back. But I wanted more.
“Oh, you can have this,” I said, sniffing the little packet and then rolling my eyes with delight. “And I wouldn’t ask for anything in return. But—I’ve always been a huge fan of your acting, and when I saw you in that revival of A Chorus Line, I realized you were one of the truly great artists of American musical theater.” I was counting on her to react the way Cadbury did whenever I commanded him to roll over. He’d immediately dive into his tumble, loving the attention, and when he was through, his eyes gleamed with pride and satisfaction. Ruxandra looked similarly mesmerized. “I’d just love to hear you sing ‘Tits and Ass,’” I suggested.
“That’s outrageous,” said Lars. “Ms. del Mar isn’t some street performer.”
“No,” Ruxandra announced regally. “If she insists, I can perform. The actual name of the song you’re referring to is ‘Dance 10, Looks 3,’” she added with delight. “But I will need my cane and top hat.”
“What a brilliant idea!” fawned Missouri.
It felt like I had stepped into one of Ruxandra’s caper films. She took my hand and started guiding me to the elevator. “Did you not love the outfit I wore for that number?” she asked in the same intimate tone Trish and I might share.
“Loved it!” I affirmed.
“Well, you are in for a treat, because I have it upstairs!” she squealed. We were in the dusted bronze elevator. “Where do I live again?” she asked. Lars pressed eleven.
Ruxandra’s three-thousand-square-foot apartment had more mirrors than the Hall at Versailles. No wonder she worried about her figure; you could see dozens of reflections of her everywhere you turned.
She sat me down in her personal home the
ater and ordered a black-and-white-clad maid to bring me whatever I wanted before disappearing into a back room.
As I waited, sipping a ginseng seltzer, I prayed that Ruxandra would still be my best friend when she realized I was after an interview. Before long, the lights went dark, and the strains of what sounded like a live orchestra but could only have been the most high-tech of speaker systems started playing the Broadway tune. A spotlight from an upper balcony beamed onto the stage area in front of me, and Ruxandra emerged, transformed into Val, the auditioning dancer in A Chorus Line.
Her moves showcased grace, rhythm, pizzazz, and beauty. I was transfixed from the moment she started singing until she took a sweeping bow at the end.
“Bravo! You’re a genius! Incredible! Thank you, Ruxandra!” I stood and applauded, wishing I had a dozen roses to throw her but realizing I had something she wanted even more. “Here,” I handed her my three packets of the diet aid. “You really don’t need it—your body is just perfect—but there’s always more where that came from.”
Ruxandra ripped open one of the bags and poured half of its contents down her throat, momentarily looking less than glamorous. “So it’s not true what the tabloids say,” I cooed. “You really do your own dance moves. And you’re so much nicer than they claim. How unfair is the press?”
Throwing herself dramatically across the couch, Ruxandra launched into a long speech about the cruelty of exploitive reporters. “Even when I had my first bit role they started lying about my love life, and I was only eight for God’s sake.”
I listened sympathetically as she ranted, cried, whimpered, and cursed about the media. She punched a pillow when she described how she’d only heard about Roberto’s affair with the elderly baron when “Entertainment Tonight” stuck a camera in her face to film her reaction.
“That is so awful—you poor thing!” Ruxandra rested her head on my lap, and I stroked her hair gently. “If only you could tell your side of the story to someone you could trust.”
“Trust a reporter?” She looked at me as if I had just told her to jump off a bridge. “Are you kidding? They’re all sharks. Every last one. They’re only after my blood. They’ll rip me limb from limb.”
“Oh, I agree completely,” I said. “I went to school for writing, and the journalists were always looking for a salacious angle. But not all writers are journalists. What you need is somebody who can put into words the poetry of your existence.”
Ruxandra looked intrigued. “I’ve always wanted to let the world know what a beautiful person I really am inside.”
“They only focus on your outer beauty, but they don’t know how much time you spend helping other people.”
“Exactly!” she said. “Like, I’m really working on promoting literacy right now. After all, if people can’t read, how can they appreciate the credits at the end of a film? Who’s done my hair, my makeup, my wardrobe? I don’t look this beautiful without the help of others.”
“You obviously care about making sure everyone is appreciated. It’s a story that needs to be told,” I said solemnly.
“Did you say you were a writer?” she asked.
“I did go to Vassar, but I haven’t published anything since I was seventeen, unless you count a poem in a local New Jersey newspaper. I’m afraid I’ve earned more money by not publishing my work than by publishing it.” For the second time in as many weeks, I was flashing my loser credentials.
Ruxandra was even more intrigued than Salli by my total lack of professionalism. “You know what? Maybe it is time for the world to know the real Ruxandra,” she said. “Are you game?”
Are you kidding?!
I had offered her treats, she did her trick, I rewarded her, and now she was a puppy in my arms.
And they said dog-walking is a useless skill.
- 24 -
While Irwin slept peacefully, I worked by the glow of my laptop at his desk, hour after hour, transcribing, organizing, writing, rewriting, polishing, and finalizing my draft. When it was done, I collapsed into my lover’s arms.
The next morning, I asked Irwin to drive me to the train, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “On such an important day? You’re not relying on the LIRR. I’ll be your chauffeur.” He promptly canceled his first three appointments.
We battled traffic on the way in, and although Irwin was driving, I was the one who was a bundle of nerves. I kept checking to make sure I hadn’t somehow lost the envelope with my printed-out story, which was way too hot to send electronically and risk a leak, along with exclusive photos Ruxandra had allowed me to shoot.
When we reached the Time-Life building, Irwin tried to calm me down. “Don’t worry,” he ran the back of his hand across my cheek. “They’re going to love it!”
“What if they don’t? This is my only shot.”
“They will! But listen,” he took me in his arms, “no matter what happens, you’ll never be alone. It took me a lifetime to find you, and I’m not letting go. I don’t care if you’re a top columnist or a dog-walker, as long as you’re mine.”
My nervousness turned into joy. “Of course I’m yours,” I said, looking into his bright eyes and realizing that I was already as lucky as they get.
He kissed me tenderly. “As long as we’re always together, everything’s going to be great.”
I murmured in agreement, kissing him back. “You mean that? You really love me?”
“Hey,” he said, “a guy like me doesn’t face a morning commute to Manhattan during rush hour if it’s not love.”
Celebrity Style’s offices were located on the forty-fourth floor, and each time I thought I was headed up there, someone else would enter the elevator and stop it along the way. That ride felt like it took forever, but I knew it would be nothing compared to having to wait for Weldon H. Sutton to react to my article. I’d probably hear within a week, if I was lucky, and what would I do in the meantime?
I went straight to the editor-in-chief’s receptionist, who regarded me impassively and stuck my article on top of an in-tray. “So will I be hearing from you soon?” She merely nodded in response, and I turned to leave, pausing to gaze at some of the framed covers on the wall. I had read each one of these chronicles of the vicissitudes of fame. It was like looking at a museum dedicated to my favorite pastime.
I was momentarily lost in the fantasy of rushing through these halls with my latest column when a voice behind me bellowed, “STOP! YOU!” I froze and then turned to see Weldon H. Sutton holding my article and pointing at me, his neck veins bulging. I was gripped by fear, thinking I’d have to beat another disgraceful retreat like I had at Gallant.
“You had the nerve to bring me a personal interview with Ruxandra del Mar?”
I gulped. I must have crossed some line. Maybe she was a persona non grata at Celebrity Style. Maybe they’d sworn her off years ago.
“This is unbelievable. We’ve sent every one of our reporters to get an exclusive with her, and she’s turned us down for the past three years. And now you’ve done it. You’re a genius.” I didn’t know whether to trust my hearing, until he added, in no uncertain terms, “Hey everybody, meet our new star columnist, Laurel Linden.”
Streams of staffers started crowding into Weldon H. Sutton’s office. Squeals of wonder traveled through the room as they competed to get a first glance at my exclusive photos.
“She looks fabulous!” cried one staffer.
“This is a miracle—how did you get to her?” wondered another.
“Eat your heart out, People Magazine!” guffawed Mr. Sutton. “This is the scoop of the year.” I was feeling dizzy from all the excitement.
Suddenly, a face I recognized from my Google search moved up from within the crowd. “Yeah, but is it well-written?” asked Fatima Smith, plucking my exclusive from the editor’s hands and looking at it with disdain.
“Don’t you worry about that.” Weldon grabbed it back. “This writing’s spicier than four-alarm hot sauce.” Setting his glasses on the tip of his n
ose, he began to read to a hushed crowd.
We all know who she is . . . or do we? Her molten eyes and volcanic talent have sizzled movie screens and melted hearts for nearly a decade now, not to mention those off-screen eruptions! Yet Ruxandra del Mar may be the most misunderstood woman since Marie Antoinette (who, incidentally, never said “Let ‘em eat cake.” She was a low-carb Queen.)
The six-foot, sultry stunner hasn’t given an interview in three years, since she bid adios to Roberto in a live television breakup . . . until now. She bares all about her most intimate concerns, deepest fears, secret desires, and, oh yeah, that bisexual bullfighter who bumped her for a Bavarian baron.
“It’s been just awful having to hide all this time,” she says, that honey-sweet voiced tinged with bitterness as she curls up with a mink pillow on a white leather couch in her fifteen-million-dollar penthouse overlooking New York Harbor. “God knows why anyone would care about my love life,” she adds modestly, as if millions around the world weren’t fantasizing about Ruxandra between the sheets at night.
“But if they’re curious, I’ve always been happy to share with my fans, just don’t stick a camera in my face before I’ve had a chance to wax my unibrow.”
The perfect blonde crescents above her eyes—separate, thank you very much, courtesy of Mandolina of Malibu—furrow at the memory of that particular public humiliation. Roberto was never the issue, she insists. “His tepid temperament was no match for my blazing passion.”
She’d long been planning to put out the flame of their love and only continued wearing that spectacular five-carat engagement ring because she hadn’t found the right time to break it to him gently.
Too bad “Celebrities Uncensored” found Roberto first as he played freaky footsie with his geriatric German in a hot tub in Baden-Baden.
“Why anyone cared so much about a silly fetish when there are over six hundred million illiterate people on the planet is beyond me,” she says, characteristically turning the subject away from herself and to the world at large—the world that rarely sees how much Ruxandra does for it, because she doesn’t invite the cameras along when she’s out in jeans and a sweatshirt giving her all to the cause she cares so passionately about.