So 5 Minutes Ago

by Hilary De Vries

  “Say, in five minutes?”

  I close my eyes. “Sure. I’ll be right there.”

  G is standing in the middle of his office leafing through Variety when I am ushered in.

  “So,” he says, not looking up. “Tell me about your visit to our client yesterday. Our very big client with the very big TV deal and the new manager.”

  There’s a couple of ways I can play this. Depending on exactly what G knows. Or thinks he knows. But since I have no idea what he knows, or how he knows it, I opt for the bluff.

  “Oh, it was nothing. Routine,” I say, shrugging. “Just going over some publicity coming up.”

  “Routine?” he says, looking up.

  “There’s an InStyle piece that I needed to talk to her about and I also wanted to touch base with her about the show. Get a feeling for how much she was willing to do.”

  “Really?” he says, eyeing me.

  Come on, asshole, show your cards. “Really,” I say, meeting his gaze.

  He drops the magazine to the coffee table. “You know, Alex, I thought I made myself fairly clear about the future of this agency and specifically your place in it. Or what could be your place in it. I’m sorry that you don’t seem to understand that.”

  Maybe it’s the residual effect of my confrontation with the Phoenix. Or maybe I’m feeling emboldened after meeting with Steven and Rachel last night. Or maybe I’m just sick of nothing being what it should be in this town. That nothing is ever taken at face value. That movies are products, stars are commodities, and what we do is a job. Not a calling.

  “Well, then I guess I’m confused,” I say. “Because I assumed doing everything one could to retain the agency’s clients would only be considered supportive of this agency. And of you.”

  G looks at me like I’ve struck him. “How very enterprising of you, Alex. In fact, you surprise me. You really do.” He smiles a tight smile and turns toward his desk. “But I suggest you think again about what we talked about the other night. I suggest you rethink your decision. Your decision about exactly how and where to channel your energies. Do I make myself clear?”

  I’m tempted to tell him that ship has sailed. That he’s closing the barn door after the horse has escaped. And any other clichés I can think of to describe how pointless his threats are now. That if I was ever inclined to side with him, do his bidding, that I’m certainly not now. “Perfectly,” I say, flashing my own tight smile. “Perfectly.”

  “So that was close,” I hiss, as I glide by Steven’s desk and head into my office.

  “Right behind you,” he says, leaping up with my latte.

  “I think I was just marked for death.” I reach for the coffee, pry off the lid, and take a hit.

  “Where were you? Suzanne’s office?”

  “G’s.”

  “G’s?”

  “I think he heard about my visit to the Phoenix from Jerry Gold this morning,” I say, taking another sip of coffee. “Wanted to know what I was doing out there. I played it dumb.”

  “Thatta girl.”

  “But then, I don’t know. I just got mad.”

  “How mad?”

  “Well, I didn’t quit or anything. I just said if it wasn’t in the agency’s best interest to try and retain our clients, then I was in the wrong business.”

  “You are in the wrong business.”

  “I know,” I say, flopping into my chair. “I just don’t know what business I should be in. But until I figure that out, I might as well do something useful around here. I mean, if G’s going to fire me along with Suzanne and the rest of us, then let’s give him a reason to fire me.”

  “Thatta girl.”

  “Will you stop that?” I pull on my headset. “And get back out there. We have a lot to do today.”

  By the end of the day, we’re two for two. Rachel’s called with the news that Jerry and G were tight during their time at Sony. More than tight. Used to play golf and hit the Strip together. And Steven’s found Jerry’s name listed in the agency records as the new manager of two more of Suzanne’s clients. Clearly the plan to infect and kill off Suzanne’s client list is spreading with SARS-like speed. In addition to Carla and the Phoenix, Jerry now handles Lily Tattinger and Cybill Shepherd. Lily could be a problem, given that she’s a big new client—twenty-two, blond, bubbly, and the star of the WB’s new hit series Makin’ It—but nobody cares if Cybill walks. Actually, everyone would be happier if she did.

  But my calls to Peg and the Phoenix have turned up nothing. At least so far. When I tried to reach the Phoenix, I got as far as Tracy. “Okay, can you give her a message? Tell her I have more information about what we spoke about yesterday.”

  “Oh, like that’ll get a call back,” Steven says, handing me my fourth latte of the day.

  “Well, I’ll just keep calling. I don’t know what else to do,” I say, prying off the lid and taking a sip. “Unless you can find out her cell phone number. You know, from the gay mafia, of which you’re not a member.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Remind me what good you think it will do talking to her again?”

  “Like it would be the first time a star changed their mind for no good reason,” I say, shrugging. “Besides, we know more than what I knew yesterday, and I want her to know as well. That it looks like something really is going on with Jerry and G.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. So what did Peg say when you reached her?”

  “Basically reamed me a new one.”

  “God, you are a glutton for punishment. Tell me what she said. Exactly. It’s so much more fun that way.”

  “Maybe for you. Peg likes me and she still scares the hell out of me.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Okay, but only if you promise to get the Phoenix’s cell number,” I say, sighing and launching into my pathetic imitation of Peg. “ ‘Davidson, I don’t know jack about Jerry Gold. Or Doug Graydon, for that matter. But if you or anyone there thinks I place my clients at DWP out of personal loyalty, think again. I put my clients where they can afford it and DWP just happens to be one of the cheapest agencies around.’ ”

  “God, I love her,” Steven says.

  “No, you don’t. She just confirms your worst fears about women. Frankly, she confirms my worst fears about women.”

  “Well, at least we can cross her off our list of sources.”

  “Yeah,” I say, sinking into my chair. “Which leaves us not much farther along than we were yesterday. Jerry and G are in cahoots to sabotage Suzanne and we haven’t a clue how to stop them.”

  “What did you tell Suzanne, by the way, when she asked you about your meeting with the Phoenix?”

  “I told her it was inconclusive. Which isn’t, technically, a lie.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “I figure she’ll know soon enough how it shakes out. We’ll all know. It’s just a question of what we do in the meantime.”

  “We could still call the L.A. Times. That friend of Rachel’s.”

  “And say what? Jerry Gold fired DWP from handling Carla? They already did that story.”

  “Well, it was a thought. I was watching Three Days of the Condor again last night and that’s how Redford screws his old boss.”

  “Honey, it’s a movie,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t get your expectations up.”

  “So what’re we going to do? Nothing?”

  “No,” I say, nodding at my phone. “I have one last hope.”

  As I pull into the Chateau garage, I try to remember when I first met Troy here. Seems like a lifetime ago, but it must have been, what, September? The start of the fall season when he got that guest-starring gig on Val’s show. That had actually worked out pretty well—a one-off that turned into a recurring role. Now there’s even talk of a Golden Globe nomination.

  Still, Troy isn’t any more punctual now than he was then. When I hit the lobby, he’s nowhere to be seen. Actually, given that it’s a Thursday night in the middle of the holiday movie
season, the room is packed and it takes me a minute to figure out that Troy is not one of the chic young things holding court here. I scan the room again and spot an empty love seat by the door to the courtyard. I sink into it and pull out the trades. I’ve already read them, but I can’t just sit here staring into space. God forbid you not look frantically busy in Hollywood. Frantically in demand.

  I’m actually deep into the real estate ads, just pondering, ordering a drink to help me come down from my four lattes of the day, when I feel a cold, damp muzzle hit my thigh.

  “Hey, darlin’.”

  I look up. Little Troy Madden and his trusty dog, Miss Sue.

  “Hey, you,” I say, reaching for Miss Sue’s ears and rubbing them the way she likes. “Hey,” I say, as Troy sinks down next to me and I catch his familiar smell of leather and cigarette smoke. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  Troy gives me one of his good-ole-boy grins. “Well, you know what they say.”

  “I probably do, but tell me anyway.”

  “If you can’t help out those on your payroll, who can you help?”

  “Don’t tell me. Another one of Daddy Madden’s pearls of wisdom?”

  “Hey, don’t knock Daddy Madden,” Troy says, his smile widening. “Daddy Madden knows a thing or two. Besides, he likes you.”

  “Your dad likes me? Your dad doesn’t even know me.”

  “He knows your work. I tell ’em. All those stories about me being on TV and in the magazines. It’s ‘cause of you.”

  For a second, I’m tempted to let fly with my usual smart-aleck response. To back Troy into his corner and keep my distance. Maybe it’s the end of a long day, or maybe I know I need his help. Or maybe it’s just easier not to think of one more cynical remark to prove how tough and clever I am. Whatever the reason, I let it go. “Well, thanks,” I say, looking down at Miss Sue and rubbing her ears again. “Thanks.”

  “So,” he says, smacking his thighs. “What do you say we get ourselves a drink and you tell me what you need?”

  We flag down a waiter and order a beer for me, a Diet Coke “in the can” for him, and a burger, what the hell, between us. A few minutes later, a corner table opens up and we take it.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve been here since that time I first met you,” Troy says, emptying his Coke into a glass.

  “Really,” I say, slicing the burger and handing him his half. “I thought you came here all the time.”

  “Nah, this place is too much of a scene for me. You know, I meant what I said in court,” he says, gazing around the room. “At least part of it.”

  “What part?” I say, my mouth full of burger.

  “That Hollywood can wipe the smile off your face.”

  “That’s for sure.” I reach for a napkin.

  “But I guess you gotta be here to really understand that,” he says, looking back at me.

  “You got that right. Although you seem to be doing okay now.”

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” he says, nodding. “But I also meant the part about making amends.”

  “Well, you’ve done that.” I wipe my fingers on the napkin. “Haven’t you?”

  “Not all of ’em. I mean, I actually owe you an apology.”

  “Wow,” I say, leaning back in the sofa. “An actor who apologizes.”

  “Hey, don’t give me any shit about this. I’m supposed to do this.”

  “Are you kidding? I love this,” I say, laughing. “I wish I had this on film. ‘How to Be a Successful Star. Lesson number one: Don’t be afraid to admit when you’re wrong. Especially to the little people.’ ”

  “Are you gonna let me apologize or are you gonna just give me endless shit?”

  I hold up my hands. “Please, proceed.”

  “Okay, I apologize for my inappropriate behavior at that Chanel-Harley thing we went to. Getting drunk and riding my bike into the store.”

  I nod at him. “Well, thank you.”

  Troy reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. “And I believe I owe you this,” he says, handing me two tens.

  “Really, that’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. “Let’s just consider it an agency expense.”

  “No, take ’em.” He thrusts the bills at me. “Please. And there’s one more thing.”

  “There’s more?”

  Troy sighs and scans the room. “And I’m sorry I kissed you,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper. “And I’m sorry if it caused you any problems. I mean, when I took a swing at that photographer and we had to go to court.”

  “I thought you were just trying to grab the camera,” I say, reaching for my beer.

  “Whatever. It got out of hand and it was my fault.” He shakes his head again. “I knew I never should have agreed to do it.”

  I practically choke on my beer. “Wait a minute. What did you say?” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “I said it was my fault.”

  “After that.”

  “That I never should have agreed to do it.”

  “Agreed to what?”

  “To make a play for you. It was his idea.”

  “Whose idea?”

  “Doug’s.”

  I practically leap off the sofa. At best I’ve been hoping Troy would cough up some info about G’s party. Like why he was there and how he knew G. But this was a fucking home run. “And why would he ask you to do that?” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

  Troy shrugs. “I don’t know. He said it was hazing. A way for him to find out who he could trust at the agency. What can I say, I was still using at the time so it sorta made sense. Besides, I probably would have made a play for you anyway. I usually do. Or I did. And I owed Doug a favor.”

  “You owed him a favor?”

  “He kind of covered my ass on a movie I did at Sony a few years ago. It was a piece of shit—I don’t think I shot a single scene sober—and he got the studio to throw some extra money at the marketing. Not that it made any difference. But still, it was a gesture.”

  “Yeah, Doug’s a prince.” I say, my mind going in a million directions. So G deliberately tried to set me up by having Troy make a play for me in public. But why? It seems a long shot, but what else could it be but the stick of G’s carrot-and-stick plan to line up supporters? If I wasn’t won over by his dangling of financial incentives, I would presumably go along with him if I feared my job was in jeopardy after being caught in a compromising situation with a client. God, G is even sleazier than I thought. Knowing this won’t get me any closer to being able to prove he was engaged in illegal kickbacks with Jerry, but it might be just enough to get the ball rolling, to keep Suzanne’s job.

  “You know what, apology accepted,” I say, leaping up. “But I actually have to make a call.” I reach for my bag and start for the door, but impulsively turn back. “Thank you,” I say, bending down and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

  I practically fly out to the courtyard, fishing my cell from my bag. I punch up Rachel’s cell. Come on, come on. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

  “What now?” she says when she answers.

  “I have to meet you,” I say. “Tonight.”

  “Is it serious or gossip?”

  “Oh, both,” I say, staring up at the giant billboard, the one where the Marlboro Man once towered, blazing in the night sky. “Very much both.”

  18 And the Winner Is . . .

  Christmas is a bit of a bust. Actually, more of a blur. Between the parties and the premieres and the jacked-around awards calendar, what with the Oscars moving up a month and dragging all the rest of the wannabes—Golden Globes, SAG, People’s Choice, Independent Spirit—up as well, it’s amazing anybody gets away at all. Rachel flies back to New York, Steven flees to the Big Island with some of the lads, while I grit my teeth and head home to Philly for all of four days, one of which is spent stuck in O’Hare waiting for the runways to be cleared. Or spring. Whichever comes first. Turns out, spending twelve ho
urs at Gate 21C is twelve hours I don’t have to spend with Amy, who is barely showing but in full I’m-about-to-become-a-mother mode, which means she is even more of a princess than usual.

  “All she did was sit around rubbing her stomach with this pious, blissful look on her face,” I tell Steven when I reach him on my cell the second I get back to L.A.

  “What kind of a look? I can’t hear you over the blender,” he says.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the beach bar. It’s still happy hour out here.”

  “I hate you,” I say, staring out the limo window as we snake up traffic-clogged La Cienega. “It’s already dark here and supposed to rain tomorrow.”

  “Why don’t you fly out for New Year’s,” he says over the roar of the blender. “You can sleep on the sofa bed in my suite.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I say, sighing. Between Troy and the Phoenix and Val, God help us, all going to the Globes, I have way too much work to do. We have way too much work to do. “I’m actually going into the office tomorrow.”

  “What?” he yells.

  “I said,” I say, raising my voice so loudly the driver eyeballs me in the rearview mirror, “I’m going to the office tomorrow.”

  There’s a blur of static that I take to be Steven’s response.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, what are you doing for New Year’s?”

  “What I do every year,” I say, practically shouting. “Ignoring it.”

  The days leading up to the Globes are an even bigger blur. But then they always are, given that they’re basically the kickoff to Hollywood’s Super Bowl. The endless meetings and phoning and arranging of limos, dresses, shoes, hair, jewelry—all for three hours of televised self-congratulation. If you think Hollywood secretly winks at awards handed out by a bunch of photographers and part-time “reporters” from Israel, Germany, Spain, and South Africa, think again. Actors will take anything for free. Especially if they can be photographed receiving it. Just when you can’t take one more call from a stylist or an assistant or an E! producer, you remind yourself that it’s only going to get worse before it gets better. If that doesn’t work, you comfort yourself with the fact that at least the Globes serve booze, so there’s always the hope someone famous will do something outrageous, like Harvey Weinstein publicly flaying his publicists in the hotel lobby, and make the whole endeavor worth attending after all.