by Maggie Marr
Celeste heard the slapping sound of the screen door between the patio and the restaurant slamming closed, and she looked up to see Jessica scanning the patio and tucking her BlackBerry into her Chanel purse. Celeste was always impressed by just how powerful and put together Jessica appeared (even if her personal life was messier than Celeste’s). Wavy auburn hair with loose curls framed Jessica’s face, and she wore an Armani suit, Dior high heels, and Dior sunglasses that covered her emerald green eyes. A modern-day Katharine Hepburn, Celeste thought, but with a better nose.
Celeste knew that Jessica was one of her true friends (a rarity in life; all but extinct in L.A.). Jessica had seen the best (infectious laugh, wicked sense of humor, and talent) and the worst (bitchiness, rage bordering on mania, and insecurity) that Celeste had to offer and still Jessica loved her.
The first time they’d met, years before, Celeste remembered being unimpressed. She wasn’t sure she liked the look of this hungry young agent. It was Ezekiel Cohen, Celeste’s first agent and former owner of CTA, who introduced them, just after Jessica landed at CTA. Ezekiel was a brave man, lunching with two alpha females. Ezekiel, Celeste learned, wanted to add Jessica to Celeste’s “team” of agents at CTA, a proposition that had it been made by anyone but Ezekiel, Celeste would have flatly refused. The lunch had been less than smooth; Jessica talked too much and seemed too brash. But Celeste trusted Ezekiel’s business judgment. He’d found Celeste, worked with her, and at that lunch seven years later, Celeste’s career was just starting to take off when he requested that Celeste at least return one of Jessica’s fifteen calls.
Thank God for Ezekiel Cohen.
Celeste leaned forward and air-kissed Jessica on both cheeks.
“So how’d it go?” Jessica asked, taking off her sunglasses.
Celeste cocked her right eyebrow (a signature Celeste Solange look that could stop men dead). “Aside from no director or costar, I’d say pretty good.”
“No,” Jessica said, horrified.
“As I live and breathe, I swear this girl is not telling a lie.”
“Lydia must be pissed.”
“Pissed is an understatement.” As if on cue, Lydia arrived, pulled out the chair next to Jessica, and sat. “Do you know where my director is? Have you heard?” Lydia’s voice crested near a decibel that caused other diners to glance toward their table.
“Still in Bali,” Jessica said.
“I need him back here now,” Lydia said.
“Zymar always goes to Bali between films,” Jessica said. She reached for the bottle of Pellegrino and poured some into her glass.
“Between Arnold, Zymar, and Bradford Madison, there won’t be a film. What the fuck is wrong with these guys? Isn’t Zymar repped at CTA? Doesn’t one of your hotshot lit guys have him?”
“I’ll get you an address,” Jessica offered, “but I don’t think Zymar takes his cell.”
Lydia looked toward the heavens. “How do these people function?”
“They don’t, that’s why they’re here,” Celeste said, a smile crept across her lips. “The land of broken toys, wayside waifs, and dysfunctional divas; some talented, most not. They all made the pilgrimage to movieland seeking to fill the void within.”
“Order?” Lydia asked, skimming the menu.
“Done,” Jessica said. “I had Kim phone it in.”
“How do you know—”
“She called Toddy,” Jessica said, interrupting and silencing Lydia. “And she”—Jessica nodded toward Celeste—“if I’m not mistaken, is on her preproduction greens-with-lemon-juice-tuna-on-the-side diet?”
Celeste smiled. “Am I that predictable?”
“Only with your diet. With everything else you’re still a surprise.”
It was good to be known so well. These two were perhaps the only two left who didn’t blow smoke up Celeste’s rear (even her family in Tennessee was a bunch of ass kissers).
“So the director and the costar were a no-show. How’s our baby writer holding up?” Jessica asked, taking a bite of bagel chip. “You know, Lydia, you’re putting a whole lot of faith in a first-timer.”
“She can hang.” Celeste eyed her agent. “She won’t crack.”
“Really?” Jessica leaned back in her chair. “That’s strong praise from one Ms. Solange, who has in fact seen it all.”
“She’ll be good. Today she even called me Cici.”
“Only took four meetings, but yes, we have broken Mary Anne of the habit of calling you Ms. Solange,” Lydia said as the waiter set down her chopped Cobb salad with blue cheese dressing on the side.
“What?” Jessica asked.
“Starstruck,” Lydia said. “No more than normal, right, Cici?”
“She’s a pro. A little Midwestern, but a pro. Hasn’t asked me for an autograph.”
“It’s early. Just wait till the family in Minnesota wants something signed.”
“She’s sweet and genuine and as yet unjaded. Do you remember your first gig in this town? How exciting that was?” Celeste asked, squeezing lemon over her undressed salad and looking at her friends. She knew from experience that transplanted optimism withered quickly in the Southern California sunshine.
“I do. It was Mike Fox,” Jessica said.
Celeste watched as Jessica’s eyes drifted past her in a faraway gaze, a gaze reserved for long-ago travels or lost loves.
Mike and Jessica’s torrid love affair left a big mark on Jessica. A mark, Celeste believed, that affected Jessica’s current choice of mate. It’s not that Phil was a bad guy; he was easy for Jessica. He was gone all week, letting Jess concentrate on work, and then on the weekends he provided her with a dinner date. Phil for Jessica, Celeste believed, was not a love match but a convenience.
“Learned a lot there,” Jessica said, her tone hardening.
“You?” Celeste asked Lydia.
“It’s all a blur. I’ve been going to movie sets since I was six months old. For me it’s just a way of life. Preproduction, production, postproduction; preproduction, production, postproduction, like spring, summer, fall, spring, summer, fall.”
“You’re forgetting winter,” Jessica said.
“Jess, who does winter? We live in L.A.”
Celeste smiled. “I remember mine. It was two lines in a De Palma film.”
“Two lines. That’s pretty good for a first gig,” Lydia said.
“Thank you, Ezekiel Cohen,” Jessica said.
“Until Ezekiel it’d been cattle-call auditions, absolutely nothing. He got me working in two months—real work. A good agent can do miracles.”
“Yeah, but Cici, you had some God-given talent there, too,” Jessica said.
“These?” Celeste asked, arching her back and pointing to her breasts.
“Not just those.” Jessica laughed. “Real talent! I remember watching your acting reel, all those student shorts you did. You were good. You lit up the screen. Still do.”
Listening to Jessica, Celeste started to tear up. What the fuck is wrong with me today? she wondered. That’s twice in less than an hour and three times in one day. She never cried; she’d given up the luxury of free tears on her third film (she’d cry for a role but never for herself). It was a waste of time and energy, and nothing was that important. She still wore her sunglasses; she hoped neither Lydia nor Jess would notice.
“Cici?” Lydia extended her hand. “What is it?”
Fuck! She hated emotional pity parties; it wasn’t her style. “Nothing, I’m fine, really.”
Jessica and Lydia shared a worried glance.
“I mean, it’s completely ridiculous, it’s Damien. I …” Her voice cracked as pain barrel-rolled through her heart. “He’s—I know he’s fucking Brie Ellison, and that’s not the part that bothers me—I mean, it bothers me, but it is Damien, so I’m not surprised. It’s just …” Celeste took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and gathered her thoughts. “I wanted to marry him, I really wanted to marry him, and now … I don’t understand how I co
uld’ve been so wrong.” Celeste exhaled. She felt better just saying it, acknowledging that her marriage was a mistake.
“You don’t mean wrong about the person that Damien is, do you?” Lydia asked.
Celeste shook her head.
“You mean so wrong about what you wanted?” Lydia asked:
“Yes,” Celeste said softly. She had thought she really wanted the marriage. For two years she convinced herself (and Damien) that their marriage was what she had to have. But it was completely wrong. Celeste wondered how she could be so unaware of her own needs.
“Cici, it’s so easy to lose perspective,” Lydia said. “They write stories in magazines about what kind of underwear you own. That is a little crazy.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m just surprised. I thought I knew myself, knew what I wanted, and when Damien said he was going back to set, it just clicked, you know. That this asshole is not the guy I can spend the next twenty years with.” She glanced across the table toward a surprisingly silent Jessica.
“He’s a dumbass,” Jessica said and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Brie can’t carry the film; I don’t care who he puts opposite her in the male lead. She doesn’t have an audience to support her.”
“She’s cheap,” Celeste said, referring not to Brie Ellison’s tawdry nature but to her acting quote.
“Not that cheap,” Jessica said as their waiter took the remains of their meals. “She got first-dollar gross points.”
“What?! He told me she got a flat fee of a million.”
“Jess, that can’t be right. She’s not a big enough star for first-dollar gross,” Lydia said.
“It’s true,” Jessica said. “Damien pushed it through the studio, told them he wouldn’t make the film with anyone but Brie, and then her agent asked for one million up front and back-end first-dollar gross. I’m sorry, Cici, but I thought you needed to know.”
The rage in Celeste’s body bubbled. Damien Bruckner was a liar, a cheat, and… her husband. Gross points! He’d convinced the studio to give his new tart gross points. Brie could make much more than Celeste’s $20 million quote with first-dollar gross points. The fucker.
“No, you’re right, Jess,” Celeste said, tossing her blond mane. “It’s much better that I know. Maybe not so good for Damien, but much better for me.”
Chapter 6
Lydia Albright and Her Black Alexandra Neel Calfskin Pumps
Lydia pulled her black Range Rover through the gates of Hollywood Forever Cemetery. The Disneyland of death. Here lay the heavy hitters of the past—Rudolph Valentino, Cecil B. DeMille, and Douglas Fairbanks; a Who’s Who of Hollywood history fertilized the perfectly manicured grounds. Now it was the final resting place for Weston Birnbaum.
Lydia parked her car behind a long line of Mercedes, Bentleys, and BMWs. She picked up her three-inch black Alexandra Neel pumps from the passenger seat, wary of the high-heeled torture device. She hoped her feet hadn’t swollen on the way over from the studio; she couldn’t go barefoot to a burial.
Lydia checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then set her cell phone to vibrate. It would be very bad form, even in L.A., to roll calls at a funeral (not that she hadn’t seen it happen).
Lydia hated graveside services. Morbid reminders of a finite life. She slid into a chair and scoped out the scene. The service was total L.A. Multidenominational—first a rabbi spoke and then a minister from the Hollywood Church of Science. Betty Birnbaum (Weston’s first wife) and Elizabeth Birnbaum (his third and current wife) sat in the front row holding hands and crying. Weston’s three sons (two of them film agents and one a painter) sat next in the row, and finally Weston’s oldest and favorite child, his daughter, Beverly. A producer and former man-eater turned lesbian, Beverly had given Lydia her first real job in Hollywood (after Lydia’s failed attempt at acting) as a script reader at Weston’s production company, Birnbaum Productions. It’d been Beverly who told Lydia, “You know more about story structure than you ever will about acting. Stop starving and get smart. Come work for me.” Lydia took the job and never looked back. Maybe that was why Weston said yes to Seven Minutes Past Midnight. Well, that and the blow job.
Lydia wondered what Bev would think about Lydia blowing Weston in the celebrity suite at the Four Seasons. Maybe she’d be surprised that it had taken this long for Lydia and Weston to rekindle their romance. There had always been a connection between them. In the beginning of Lydia’s career with Birnbaum Films, Weston gave Lydia pointers and helped her with story structure. He taught her how to get a studio to say yes to a film and begin writing checks. At the time, Weston was on wife number two and was twenty-five years Lydia’s senior. He kept trying to fix Lydia up with any one of his three sons. That never happened.
Lydia and Weston’s original affair began just before Lydia left to produce her first solo film, a tiny independent called My Sad Silly Face. Lydia had found the script and cobbled together $2 million of financing (with Weston’s help, of course). One night Lydia was in Weston’s office, and when she leaned over his desk to look at a note he’d made on the script, he turned his face toward her—and kissed her. The magnetism was too intense to repel, and the affair went on for years. No one knew. They met in non-industry places. The affair wasn’t something they wanted to be an “open secret” for a number of reasons, not the least of which was Weston’s failing marriage to multibillionaire investment banker Oren Highley’s daughter.
When the divorce was final, Weston came to Lydia with the biggest diamond she’d ever seen. It had to have been ten carats. He begged. He pleaded. He said she’d be happy forever. And, she thought now, she would have. But something … something—Lydia never really knew what—made her say no. And so they parted. Soon after came wife number three.
It hadn’t been until recently, just two months ago, that Lydia and Weston reignited their affair. Neither was surprised that the passion still buzzed between them. The sex, although not as hot as the first time around (Weston was over sixty, after all), was exceptional.
That evening at the Four Seasons, Weston had watched Lydia undress, his lustful eyes roving over her. First she removed her tight-fitting black slit skirt, then her white silk Donna Karan shirt. Weston barely blinked, his eyes never leaving her body. Finally, Lydia stood naked in black Versace stilettos. Weston told her to keep the heels on and get on top. Lydia happily complied. It was her favorite position. Halfway through the sex, he’d flipped her over onto the bed. His vigor surprised her and a small giggle escaped her lips.
“Not bad for an old man,” Weston gasped out between pumps, the strain of wanting to come showing on his face.
“Not bad at all,” Lydia whispered into Weston’s ear just before he climaxed.
But Weston, Lydia knew, loved the ladies. And though his ticker could take Lydia, the gathering today was testimony to his heart’s inability to stave off the Asian twins. Lydia pulled a tissue from her Alexandra Ned lace-up bag. Trying to force herself to stop her free-flowing tears, she continued to survey the scene.
Behind Weston’s two ex-wives and children sat five of the biggest stars in Hollywood. It was a lot of wattage. And in the middle of those five sat Cici.
Celebrities liked to travel in flocks, perhaps a self-preservation tactic—protection against the agents who traveled in wolf packs. And there was the pack, seated directly behind the stars. The uber-agents. The four founders of ACA, the nine partners of DTA, and the president of CTA—all respectfully distanced from one another lest a fistfight erupt.
Lydia glanced at Jessica, who pulled down her Dior sunglasses and winked at Lydia, tilting her head to the right. Lydia looked.
There he was—Lydia’s leprechaun, Arnold Murphy, sat in the fourth row next to his minion Josanne Dorfman. Once a tremendously fat woman, Josanne had become a well-known anorexic-bulimic. It was rumored that she hadn’t eaten in three years, and that her stupidity was a direct result of her body feasting on her brain. Hollywood didn’t like ugly people (especially in the exe
cutive suite), and ugly people knew it—especially the ugly women. Josanne had stabbed and clawed to get as close to the top as she could; a former assistant of Arnold’s, she’d attached herself to this angry little man, riding in the sidecar of his success.
“In God we trust in all things,” the minister droned on. Weston was a dedicated Jew, so Lydia wasn’t sure why a Catholic priest was speaking at the funeral. So L.A. Maybe next they’d read from the Kabbalah.
Seeking comfort, Lydia shut her eyes and visualized the first day of production on Seven Minutes Past Midnight. The director, the actors, the set. She was deep into her meditation when she realized that the seat beside her was no longer empty.
“I hate these things,” a gruff voice whispered in Lydia’s ear.
Lydia opened her eyes. To her right sat a sandy-blond outdoorsy guy who looked as if he should be hiking in Big Sur instead of attending a funeral in L.A. Did she know this guy?
“Jeff Blume,” he whispered and held out his hand. “We met years ago, when Weston had his production company and you were still working for him.”
Okay. There were so many people she met since beginning her career in the film industry.
“I was Arnold Murphy’s assistant,” Jeff continued. “I was there while you were both working for Weston.”
“Oh, Jeff. I remember now,” Lydia whispered. “Were you there when …”
“When the shit hit the fan? Oh, yeah … I was on the call.”