Starlit: A Novel

by Lisa Rinna

  Susie waited until Burt was bound and gagged before entering the bedroom. Rosanna had done just as she’d been asked: gotten naked and handcuffed him to the bedposts. He was on his knees, and he groaned when he saw Susie, who was trussed up in Rosanna’s dominatrix catsuit. When she picked up his cell phone, he almost choked on his gag.

  Susie just laughed. “Are you ready for your close-up?” Without waiting for him to nod, shake his head, or cry, she started clicking away. Then she snapped her fingers at Rosanna. “Get over there, and do your thing.”

  Rosanna nodded, then positioned herself beside Burt and gave him a light swat—then another, even harder, then again, and again—and she didn’t stop until the tears were streaming down his face and his scorched backside was streaked with red welts. Every time she hit him, her large naked breasts swung back and forth, like twin pendulums.

  Under different circumstances, Susie would have been turned on, but not tonight. Too much was at stake.

  “I think he’s going to have a heart attack,” Rosanna muttered as Burt gasped for air. Susie’s look told her it was time to get lost, and Rosanna complied. Not even stopping to get dressed, she grabbed her clothes and skedaddled out of the cottage.

  When Burt finally calmed down, Susie sat down beside him on the bed. “Between you and me, Burt, your little thing for Rosanna’s paddle is nothing. However, I’m guessing it’s something you’re keeping from Babs and the kids, and things might get ugly for you if she got a hold of these little snapshots. Am I right?” She stroked the cell phone lovingly. “I’m also guessing the two of us can resolve our little disagreement to everyone’s satisfaction. But let me assure you: if, for any reason, we don’t see eye-to-eye, Babs will see the photos. They’ll also be delivered to every studio executive in town, not to mention the tabloids.”

  He started sniveling, and she knew she had him.

  She took the gag out of his mouth and said soothingly, “Burt, darling, all of this goes away the minute you agree to let me out of my contract. So, what do you say?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  She released him from the handcuffs and tossed him the cell phone. He started deleting the images as fast as his trembling fingers would let him.

  As she walked out of the room, she waved good-bye. She didn’t bother to tell him that she’d already e-mailed the images to herself. She didn’t have to. She’d lived in Hollywood long enough to know that it was always good to have an insurance policy, and he’d worked with her long enough to know that she’d try to hold the photos over him for the rest of his career.

  Chapter 6

  THE GIRL RUNNING on the treadmill in front of him was long-legged and lithe, with a firm, pert ass. In other words, Steve Fisher’s type.

  He’d been dumped by his latest protégée, which had hurt, but Steve knew the score. Women didn’t date him for his looks. For God’s sake, he was over fifty, balding (despite the ponytail), and much too gaunt for his string bean-thin frame: at six-feet four inches, he tipped the scales at only one hundred and fifty-five pounds.

  Despite the fact that he was a hotshot talent manager, once Steve put the girls of his dreams on the path to stardom, inevitably they left him for someone else. He was always being replaced by someone more powerful and prominent, and to add insult to injury, more often than not, he’d made the introduction.

  The fact that the women moved on the moment they got any kind of traction in their careers had taught him a lesson: If he wanted to hang on to them, he had to keep them close and try not to let them become too famous too soon. Of course, he wanted them to be successful—after all, that’s how he made his living—but the less secure they felt, the more they depended on Steve, and he loved the role of Svengali. So, occasionally, he “forgot” to send his starlets out on auditions. When they wondered why they weren’t being considered for a part, he’d comfort them, and they’d feel more reliant on him than ever.

  To get a better look at the treadmill cutie, Steve moved over to the empty machine to her right. From that angle, he could get a close-up of her face in the mirror in front of them. What he noticed first were those beautiful, large, hazel eyes. Then he saw that she was reading a copy of The Hollywood Reporter.

  Ah, an actress. Well, this was certainly going to be easy …

  “I don’t remember seeing you before. Are you new here?”

  Tally looked up from her THR, slightly annoyed. The man had been staring at her from the back of the room for the past twenty minutes, and as if being creepy weren’t enough, now he was interfering with her workout. But her annoyance faded immediately when she realized who was bothering her.

  It was Steve Fisher.

  She knew she shouldn’t be surprised to see him there. After all, one of the reasons she’d joined that specific gym was that it was right in the heart of Beverly Hills, and she’d heard a lot of Hollywood players were members. Networking was networking, even if you were spandex-clad and sweaty, right?

  Steve Fisher was pretty high up on the list of players she wanted to meet. He managed the careers of a lot of up-and-coming stars, and he’d dated many of her favorite starlets. She’d seen photos of him in Vanity Fair and People with various young actresses on his arm; most recently, he’d been snapped on the red carpet at the Golden Globes with a British actress who had done a lot of PBS costume dramas and was now trying to pick up some American films.

  Tally slowed down the pace of her treadmill. Her dimple deepened as she smiled. “I only joined last week.”

  He looked down at her magazine, as if noticing it for the first time, then looked directly into her eyes and said, “You must be an actress.” When she nodded, he smiled appreciatively. “What would I have seen you in?”

  That wiped the smile off her face. “Nothing … yet. But I’m studying with Randall Littlefield. In fact, he’s just invited me to join his master class.”

  “Randall? He’s the best! Even after actors make it, they’re always working on their craft, and they surround themselves with good people like Randall.” He punched the setting of his treadmill to a crawl. “Do you mind me asking if you’ve got a manager yet?”

  “A manager? Me?” Tally’s eyes widened. “No, not yet …”

  He held out his hand. “I’m Steve Fisher. That’s what I do.”

  Looking slightly embarrassed as she took it, she said, “To tell you the truth, I already know who you are.”

  Steve smiled. This is going to be easier than I thought …

  “Tally, you look like a million dollars.”

  The look in Steve’s eyes made Tally blush, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, she had to agree.

  Then again, the dress was Gucci; while not exactly a million dollars, it might as well have been, considering her budget.

  It had been a week since Steve had offered to represent her. She had hesitated at first, because she couldn’t believe her luck. But with both Sadie and Mandy insisting that she take him up on it, she’d finally called his office and stammered out a promise to work hard and never to let him down. In turn, he had made it clear to her that while he had no issues with her talent, she didn’t look the part of a star. “If you’re going to make it in this town, you’ve got to look like you belong here,” he said.

  The dress certainly accomplished that. It was black, strapless, and slinky. The fact that it hugged her tightly all over made her self-conscious. “Gosh, I can barely walk in this,” she murmured.

  “That’s OK, nobody walks in LA anyway. All you have to do is stand and smile while the paps snap your picture. Remember, the goal is to have people talk about you and wonder who you are. We’ve got to put you out there, make you visible. How do you think Kim Kardashian got started, or Paris Hilton? Trust me, those ladies have nothing on you, doll.”

  Except money, thought Tally.

  “I hear you, Steve. But—well, I just want to say up front that those aren’t exactly my role models. I was hoping we’d position me as the next Reese Witherspoon or may
be Anne Hathaway.”

  Steve shrugged. “Yeah, sure, OK. Here, put these on.” He handed her a pair of six-inch stiletto heels. Then, noting the slim, low-slung jeans on a mannequin, he motioned to the Gucci shop girl. “Bring over a pair of those in her size. She’ll also need a couple of those tops, there.” He pointed to a rack of sheer, glittery blouses. “And those sunglasses. Oh, yeah, and a bikini, too. I like that silvery one. What do you think, Tally?”

  When Tally looked at the price tag, she nearly fainted. “Steve, I can’t afford this! Really, I don’t make nearly enough money to buy any of this. I’m just a waitress, remember?”

  “Sweetheart, you can’t afford not to invest in your wardrobe. Not to mention your face and your hair. Thank God you’ve already got a great body. Otherwise, I’d have to set you up with my nip/tuck guy, too.”

  Seeing the shocked look on her face, he gave her a hug—and held on to her for a little too long.

  “Look, let’s just make this an advance on your future earnings. After you get a few roles under your belt, I’ll deduct what you owe me. You know, a little at a time, here and there.”

  “Well, OK.” Tally exhaled—or at least tried to. The dress barely gave her any room to breathe.

  Gucci was only their first stop on Rodeo Drive. Steve also wanted to take her to Dolce & Gabbana and Prada. Then they’d meander toward Melrose, hitting Madison, Diavolina, and Fred Segal on the way—none of which she’d ever dare to enter on her own. But now that she was represented by Steve Fisher, she belonged in these places. At least, Steve thought so. And who was she to argue with him? Besides, no man had ever taken such an interest in her. And she had to admit it: she looked stunning in the body-hugging clothing he picked out.

  Apparently, others thought so, too, as evidenced by the many admiring he glances she got that evening as she and Steve roamed from one see-and-be-seen spot to another. They began with dinner at Madeo, where Tally picked at her salad while she stared at the stars who glittered all around her. Courteney Cox and David Arquette sat at the table beside them, while Gwen Stefani ate demurely across the room. And wasn’t that Posh and David Beckham in the back booth? She felt as if she were in a dream. But no, she was really there, living her dream. And someday, when she was a big star, too, these very celebrities would wave at her and invite her to sit with them. Someday soon, she vowed to herself.

  Tally was disappointed to see that Steve was more interested in the food than in the company. By the way he wolfed down his spaghetti Bolognese, Tally wondered how he stayed so thin.

  From Madeo, they went for drinks at the Tower Bar and afterward sat poolside in one of the Viceroy’s cabanas before ending the night at the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where Steve’s favorite table sat smack dab in the center of a galaxy of stars. Steve might not have been managing Nicole Kidman or Brad Pitt, but he certainly garnered their nods, waves, and handshakes, and Tally soaked it all in.

  Everywhere they went, Tally made sure she grabbed a few matchbooks. When she found herself in the ladies’ room at the Polo Lounge with Renée Zellweger, she tried hard not to stare as the star reapplied gloss to her lips, then stopped, looking at the MAC tube in frustration. “Oh, no! It just ran out,” Renée murmured to herself. She glanced over to Tally. “Don’t you hate it when that happens?” Tally just smiled and nodded, too starstruck to respond. Resigned to her plight, Renée sighed, then smacked her lips to even out what little gloss had been applied before tossing the empty tube into the trash basket and heading out the door.

  Tally waited until she heard the clack of the celebrated actress’s heels fade before plucking the tube out of the basket. It would make a great addition to her star memorabilia collection.

  Then it struck her. Had she actually said something to Renée, the memory of their conversation would have been the best keepsake of all.

  Steve is only partially right, she thought. It’s not enough that I have to look as if I belong here in Hollywood. I have to act as if I belong, too.

  Tally looked down at the lip gloss in her hand. Even as she placed it in her purse, she knew it would be her very last celebrity souvenir.

  Steve had just motioned the waiter for the bill when she got to the table. “Hey, what took you so long? Renée Zellweger just stopped by. If you’d been here, I could have introduced you to her.” Seeing Tally’s eyes grow wide, he laughed. “No big deal. There’s always next time, right? Speaking of next time, why don’t we hit Malibu tomorrow night? Renée mentioned some shindig at Katzenberg’s. Wear that low-cut dress from Fred Segal.”

  Tally couldn’t wait.

  And so it went, from that night forward. As Steve explained it, the game plan was to get “out there” as much as possible, to see and be seen by the town’s movers, shakers, and hipsters.

  It was fun, but she felt odd having him as her date. He was perhaps twenty-five years older than she, maybe more, but she really couldn’t tell, because his forehead had no wrinkles, and he colored what was left of his hair an auburn hue. But the hairs on his chest were gray—she knew this because the top two buttons of his shirt were always undone.

  Granted, she was very appreciative of all he was doing for her. But on those nights he took her out on the town—say, to one of the many nonprofit benefits that were packed solid with B-and C-list celebrities—he acted so proprietary. If she were to be honest with herself, she’d have to admit that he acted as if she belonged to him.

  For example, if someone attempted to talk to her—and especially if that someone just so happened to be male, younger than Steve, or handsome—Steve would interrupt or pull her away with some ridiculous excuse.

  She couldn’t understand why. “Steve, don’t you know who that was? He’s the director of that new HBO hit show, and he says there’s a part coming up that might be perfect for me—”

  “Bull. If there were, I’d send you up for it, you know that. Tally, baby, you’ve got to trust me on this: he’s just trying to get into your pants.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, Like you? But she thought better of it. Of course, he was looking out for her best interests. After all, he was her manager.

  Still, that didn’t make it any less creepy when he put his hands on her. And there was always a hand of his somewhere. She didn’t mind when he steered her through a crowd by the elbow, but it made her shiver when he put a hand on the small of her back or when he absentmindedly patted her ass. Or, worse yet, when he tried to kiss her good night. She avoided it by giggling and quickly slipping out the car or by coughing and claiming she was coming down with a cold, but she knew she couldn’t keep up these little games forever.

  She just prayed he’d get her a job before then.

  Chapter 7

  “I DUNNO. SHE’S NOT what we have in mind, is she? I think she’s too short,” the network suit said to the sitcom’s show runner, as if Tally wasn’t standing a mere seven feet away. “Whattaya think?”

  Nonchalantly, Tally tried to make herself look taller by straightening her shoulders and tossing her head back as the assistant who was reading with her paused in the middle of a line for the verdict from her boss. The show runner kept them all waiting a full two minutes while he finished texting, then finally he looked up and squinted at Tally. “Nah, I’m not so worried about her height. The read was decent, I guess, but I’m more concerned that she looks too fresh. You know, our lead is a bit more—well, seasoned.”

  Too fresh. What the heck did that mean? Apparently, it meant adios, and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

  Despite Steve’s reluctance to push her too hard (his excuse), Tally cajoled a steady number of auditions out of him. The good news was that she was making the rounds. The bad news was that by now, she’d heard every possible turndown. From the get-go, the process was disheartening. Tally was undoubtedly talented, but so were many of the women in the reception room waiting to try out for a part, not to mention those who made up the line that flowed out the door.

&
nbsp; And if the producers and directors weren’t whispering throughout her audition, they were talking loudly on their cell phones or (like the show runner who apparently was looking for someone not so “fresh”) texting as opposed to paying attention.

  Callbacks could be just as brutal. And because she was such a “fresh face,” Tally sometimes got called back three or four times, only to be told that she was too young, too old, too short, too tall, not pretty enough, or too pretty. Sometimes they simply said, “It’s not going to work out this time,” or worse yet, “We’re no longer going forward with this project.” Bottom line: no work for Tally.

  She knew for certain that was the case this time, too, when the casting director smiled up at her brightly, then gave her the ultimate generic let-down: “Sorry, hon, but we’re going in another direction.”

  How many times had she heard that one? She shrugged, grabbed her purse, and stumbled out the door.

  The tears were streaming down her face by the time she reached her car. Still too upset to drive, she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. Seeing her face there, she went into character: the character the show runner would have loved had he only taken the time to listen to her say her lines, as she was saying them now.

  Screw him, she thought. With the hurt and anger out of her system, still looking in the mirror, she set her lips into a smile. After six weeks, she and Sadie were finally going to see Mandy, and the last thing her sensitive friend needed was to see her crying.

  Tally and Sadie were anxious to see her. For the first two weeks after Mandy had left Randall’s class, neither of them had been able to get her to answer her phone or even respond to a text message. Camping out on the doorstep of her studio apartment hadn’t worked, either. When they came by, she either pretended she wasn’t home or pleaded with them to leave her alone. “Seriously, I’m OK,” she said. “I just don’t feel great about myself right now. Please, just give me a little more breathing room.”