by Maggie Marr
“Yes, ma’am,” said the clerk, carrying the Ferragamo bags. “Come on, then,” Celeste said, clipping across the marble to the back door.
Mary Anne watched the swarm of people pressed against the glass jump in unison as soon as they saw Celeste walking toward the back of the store.
“Madame, I think they’re coming.”
“Yeah, quick, then.”
Just as the manager pushed open the back door, the cameras started snapping, the flashes bursting in Mary Anne’s eyes.
“Put on your sunglasses,” Cici hissed. “The bulbs still blind you, but it helps.”
Mary Anne fumbled with her Ray-Bans, forcing them onto her face. It was like a swarm of bees, but instead of stingers they had flashbulbs. They pushed and screamed trying to get to Celeste.
“Celeste, over here!”
“Celeste, where’s Damien?”
“Are you getting divorced?”
“We hear your tits are too saggy for him?”
“Celeste, give us a smile?”
Celeste and then Mary Anne ducked into the car as Celeste’s driver pushed the paparazzi away and slammed shut the door. But that didn’t stop the photogs. They pressed against the back and side windows with such force, they began rocking the car. Even as the driver pulled forward they refused to move. The car crawled ahead an inch at a time until finally they reached the street and the driver gunned it.
“That was—”
“Something, right?” Celeste said, reaching for her purse and rummaging around.
“Awful. How can they say those things to you?”
“They want the picture. The one that’s worth a boatload of cash, the one that could destroy a career. The one where I’m completely pissed off and slugging a photographer. That is the photo they’re after.” Celeste pulled a tiny diamond-encrusted vial from her purse and popped open the lid. “Want a lift?” she asked, sticking her newly manicured pinky nail into the white powder.
“No, thanks, I’ll pass.”
Mary Anne watched as Cici took two quick snorts and wiped under her nose.
“So much better than caffeine.” Cici popped the lid back on and dropped the vial into her purse. “So tonight, nothing to worry about, just a quick charity event. We get in, stay for an hour, two if the party’s hot, then home. Get some good shots and we’re done.”
“Shots?”
“Photos. It’ll be good for the film, you and I together. Be very good for you. This will be your first press, right?”
“Um, yes. I haven’t been to anything like this before.”
“It’ll be fun,” Cici said as they pulled up to the locked gate in front of her home. “Don’t worry, everything is taken care of.”
And everything was. The makeup, the hair, the clothes. When Mary Anne looked into the full-length mirror three hours later, she didn’t recognize the woman looking back at her. Gone were her mousy locks, with little wisps of curl sticking out at odd angles, replaced by a do that looked straight out of 1940s Hollywood. Her lips were colored a deep red, and her eyes were now “smoky” according to Que, Cici’s makeup artist. Glamorous was the word that sprang to mind. They are professionals! Mary Anne had thought, turning from side to side.
The Town Car pulled up to the red carpet in front of the Roosevelt Hotel.
“Stay close to me,” Cici said, preparing to hop out of the car. “Kiki will be right outside the car. We have to work the line a little.”
The minute the car door opened, she was swallowed by the swarm. But this time the swarm was contained. No rude comments, no obscene remarks. The photographers, although still yelling for Cici to twist this way and that, stayed politely behind the metal rail on the far side of the red carpet. Mary Anne thought the press passes around their necks acted like electric shock collars on unruly Rottweilers.
Kiki Dee rushed toward Celeste and Mary Anne, guiding them to the center of the red carpet.
“Smile, my darlings,” Kiki whispered before stepping back and off to the side.
“Celeste, over here!”
“Give us the look, Celeste. Cock your eyebrow for us!”
“Celeste, give us a side shot.”
Mary Anne stood beside Cici, smiling and trying not to look like a deer caught in the lights of an oncoming semi-truck. “Who’s your friend? She’s awful pretty!”
“Mary Anne Meyers. She’s the most brilliant screenplay writer I’ve ever met,” Cici called out. “We’re working together on Lydia Albright’s movie Seven Minutes Past Midnight.”
“That was perfect.” Kiki appeared beside Mary Anne. “You’re a natural. What a beauty,” she gushed, grabbing Mary Anne’s elbow and steering her away from the photographers. “We need to move.”
“But where is Cici?” Mary Anne asked.
“She’ll do a quick two-minute bit for Entertainment Express and then she’ll be in,” Kiki said before flitting away back toward the swarm.
Mary Anne stood just inside the door watching Cici talk. Suddenly the flashbulbs began to explode again.
“It’s Brie!” a paparazzi screamed.
“Brie, is Damien with you?”
“Brie, Celeste is here. Want to say hello?”
Mary Anne watched Celeste’s face. She was on camera and could hear everything the paparazzi said, but she didn’t flinch. If Mary Anne hadn’t been standing right there, she’d never have believed that Brie had been there at all. When the interview was over, Cici glided through the doorway and almost walked right by Mary Anne.
“Cici.” Mary Anne reached for the star.
“Fuck!” Cici hissed. “How could Kiki let this happen? That bitch is here, too?”
“You okay?” Mary Anne said, concern lacing her voice. It had to be embarrassing for Cici. In the last few days the tabloids had published dozens of pictures of Damien and Brie soaking up the sun together in New Zealand, holding hands and groping each other on the beach.
“At least I got here first.” Celeste looked around the lobby. “Come on, there’s got to be a back way out of this place.”
And with that, Mary Anne’s night was finished.
Chapter 9
Celeste and Her Gold Bruno Frisoni Sandals
The Pennisula Hotel was quiet, the Mondrian had better beds, but the underground entrance and private elevator to the penthouse suite at the Four Seasons won for discretion. And there wasn’t that much difference in the beds; Celeste had fucked on all three.
This fuck, though, had been a very good one indeed. Celeste leaned back in the penthouse suite marble tub for a postcoital soak, the suds rising around her. She glanced through the bathroom door and saw her gold Bruno Frisoni sandals poking out from under the clothes she’d flung on the floor a few hours earlier. The afternoon had been unexpected—in fact, a complete surprise. But you never knew whom you’d run into on a studio lot. Hmm. Surprising yet fun. Celeste hadn’t felt this free in years. No hang-ups, no problems, just great sex. No mind games or feelings of guilt (her husband was banging an adolescent, after all).
Before today, their relationship had been purely business, and Celeste thought that was what he always wanted. There had never been a hint or innuendo. Most men salivated over her breasts—some actually dropping spittle into her cleavage—but this guy was a class act. He’d gotten into movies simply for fun, had been doing it for twelve years, and despite his success, he really seemed quite bored by it all. The pace, the games, the bullshit. Everyone thought he was “inaccessible.” Celeste had always been able to get him on the phone, but they’d only actually met two times before. This was their third. And what a third.
They’d been at it for hours. It had to be nearly seven, Celeste guessed as she slid lower in the bubbles. How had it happened? So smoothly.
“I have the penthouse at the Four Seasons while I’m in town. Would you like to come over?” he’d asked over a lunch of grilled snapper.
“Now?”
“I would love that,” he’d said and placed his hand on top
of hers.
The penthouse suite was the same as Celeste remembered. Plush Oriental rugs, expensive furniture, and scattered, tasteful art. The sitting room overflowed with bright bouquets of roses, hydrangea, and cymbidium orchids. She knew he was watching as she tossed her Jacqueline Jarrot clutch onto the couch. Celeste teasingly walked toward the bed, twirling a lock of her hair in her right hand.
He walked up behind her and placed his hand on the small of her back. She tingled with anticipation. He gently lifted her golden hair and kissed her neck. She unbuttoned her Christian Lacroix shirt and let it drop beneath her shoulders. His right hand stroked the skin underneath the silk strap of her Agent Provocateur black bra. In one deft motion he unsnapped it, letting it and her shirt drop to the floor. Celeste, knowing the power of the moment, stopped, turned, and looked into his eyes. He knelt in front of her, meeting her gaze. Then he untied and unlaced her low-riding Lucky jeans and slid them over her tiny hips, letting his fingers glide ever so smoothly over her skin. He pulled her pants over her thighs, gently lifting first her right leg, then her left, out of the denim. Her Bruno Frisoni sandals remained: He kept his eyes on her as he knelt at her feet and worked his way back up her legs with his lips and tongue.
She was hot, and she was wet when finally he gently pushed her backward onto the bed. His tongue ran along the inside of her right thigh until he parted her, finally stroking her in that one tiny spot, the spot that already tingled and longed for his tongue. And there he stayed for their first orgasm together.
Most men wanted to dominate her during sex. They’d throw her legs up over her ears and thrust as if they were a battering ram and she a castle they were storming. Some tried to flip her over onto all fours and ass-fuck her. Others stuck their cocks in her mouth before coming on her breasts. All of which she’d engaged in, at times enjoyed, but recently been reviled by. But this sex, this sex was smooth and soft, with just the perfect hint of aggression and domination, each of them taking a turn at the controls.
The sex, the afternoon, felt good; it felt right. Nothing slimy or lascivious. Just a lovely older, widowed man asking for company. And why not, really? He made her feel good. Made her laugh. He was the first man in a long time who didn’t have an agenda, who didn’t need or want something from her. This time it was lust and the satisfaction of that lust. Nothing more, nothing less. No angle. And she liked him. She realized she hadn’t really liked Damien in years. Amazing. She’d wanted to marry Damien and still, Celeste now realized, she really didn’t like him. Had she ever? It seemed so silly now.
Celeste reached for her glass of red wine. She ought to get up, dry off, and go home. But why? The house was empty. Mathilde was gone. Damien was in New Zealand.
Before he left for his meeting, he asked if she’d stay.
“Please stay the night. I have a meeting, but I’ll be back by eight. We’ll have dinner. I can send someone to pick up your clothes.”
“You’re lovely,” Celeste said, turning her back to him and rolling toward the edge of the bed. “But really, this is what it is. I’ll take a soak and then head home.”
“Celeste.” He placed his hand on the small of her back. “It’s not like that for me. I don’t … I haven’t … Well, this just isn’t my thing. I know it could seem that way. But really it’s not.”
She rolled back over and looked into his blue eyes. He was telling the truth. It wasn’t a line. She could feel it in her gut.
“I care for you. I know it sounds hokey, but you are an amazing woman. I’d love it if you’d stay.”
Celeste smiled her oh-please-you-are-sweet-but-don’t-be-so-silly smile and ran her fingers through his hair. “You are a lovely man. And I enjoyed every moment of the last four hours. But you have a meeting, and I have a dinner engagement. Some other time?”
He smiled. His lips turned upward, but his eyes looked so sad. “Of course, another time. Any time. Please, know that,” he said, and kissed her fingertips as she slid away from him.
So she could stay. Surprise him. But what man really liked surprises? How embarrassing if he showed up with woman number two of the day and woman number one was still lounging around in a Four Seasons robe? Not a good scene. She could call. He’d left his cell phone number. Besides, his meeting was at CTA. She had that number. There were a million ways to get in touch with him. Hmmm. She sipped her cabernet (nice year). It was enticing. The sex. The man. Dinner … companionship.
The whole idea of someone who cared whether you stayed or left appealed to her. Someone who checked in throughout the day. Someone to miss. She hadn’t really had companionship in years. The irony astounded her. Married, biggest star in the world, and no one to make her feel missed? Jeez, Celeste thought, I’m getting sappy. It’s a bad romantic comedy for sure. She was going home.
Chapter 10
Lydia Albright and Her Christian Louboutin Peekaboo Pumps
Lydia was glad she'd traded in her Christian Louboutin peekaboo pumps for Pumas before disembarking Worldwide Pictures’ private jet, because she wasn’t sure what was in the brown sludge she’d just walked through to get to this Balinese hellhole, but the muck was near her ankles and sticking to her shoes (it would have demolished her nine-hundred-dollar heels). Lydia gazed at the dilapidated building before her. She’d read somewhere that Balinese women were the most beautiful in the world, but that little tidbit of information didn’t apply to the ninety-year-old toothless crone squatting in front of the hotel. If nothing else, this woman’s existence proved that Balinese women didn’t age well.
At least it was meant to be a quick trip (if you disregarded the eighteen-hour flight each way). Lydia hoped to spend less time on the ground than the round-trip took in the air. She only had the Worldwide jet for another twenty-six hours (it was the longest she could keep it out without Arnold knowing). Shit. She had to find Zymar.
She’d started south of Kuta, on the coast, where Zymar was famous for hibernating between films. But his home, a hut with a porcelain pot in which to pee and no running water, was empty. His neighbor, a tiny stick of a man, told Lydia’s interpreter (Thuan, a local she’d snagged at the airport and offered a hundred U.S. dollars to if he’d translate for her for the day) that Zymar had left the day before to visit Denpasar. So she and Thuan loaded into Thuan’s Volkswagen Bug (he demanded that he drive his car as part of his services) and headed inland. Three hours later, Lydia’s legs were cramped after slogging through brown sludge. She watched her interpreter try to communicate with the toothless old woman.
“She say go on up. But leave her five first.”
“Five?” Lydia asked. Then she realized—of course, the universal translator—cash. Lydia smiled at the woman and handed her a five-dollar bill. The old woman cackled and said something to Thuan.
“She say room six and thank you. She also say if you are wife to knock first.”
“Tell her not to worry—not his wife. Not anybody’s wife,” Lydia said, and moved toward the front entrance of the hotel. There, between Lydia and the door, sat a giant baboon defecating on the step. The baboon finished and scampered up a palm tree beside the hotel. Lydia stepped over the steaming pile of shit, realizing what, in part, made up the brown sludge she’d waded through.
The lobby was filled with orange vinyl chairs that looked as if they came straight from a Denny’s in Sherman Oaks. Once past the lobby, there were, of course, no lights to illuminate the creaky wooden staircase. Room six was on the top floor. She felt as if she was in a scene from Apocalypse Now as they ascended. She might as well get a gunboat and go upriver. She hoped Zymar didn’t have a machete. Lydia reached for the doorknob and Thuan cleared his throat.
“Lady, maybe I go first. You might get a surprise.”
“I promise it’s nothing I haven’t seen. I’m from L.A.”
And it wasn’t. Weston may have liked Asian twins, but Zymar preferred Balinese triplets. Lucky for Lydia, all four were taking a breather. One was in the bathroom and two were passed out on the
bed, where Zymar lay smoking a Thai stick with his eyelids half closed.
“Bollocks, this must be good stuff,” Zymar said as he exhaled. “I see Lydia Albright.”
She’d never determined exactly where Zymar’s accent was from. It sounded to her like British-Australian with a hint of New Zealand thrown in. Pacific Eurotrash. Damn, she’d always been a sucker for accents. Weston’s was New York Jew. It didn’t matter the type of accent, she just loved how it sounded on a man.
“Not such good stuff, Zymar. It’s actually me,” Lydia said.
“Eh. She even talks. Sounds like Lydia Albright, too.” A wicked gleam lit up Zymar’s eyes as he took another toke on his Thai stick.
Lydia looked around the room. She needed Zymar’s clothes and—she hoped for his sake—his shoes. She couldn’t imagine what kind of parasite you could pick up slogging barefoot through baboon shit.
“Girls. Looky here. It’s Lydia Albright from ‘Ollywood.” Zymar laughed and nudged one of the sleeping triplets. The third one emerged nude from the bathroom and curled up on a divan in the corner.
Lydia grabbed Zymar’s jeans and Paul Frank T-shirt off the floor and dumped them on the bed next to her director.
“Work with me here, big guy. I’ve only got the plane for twenty-six more hours. We need to get going.”
“Going? Lyd, look around you. Do you think a man like me would leave this lot?”
Lydia spotted Zymar’s flip-flop sandals (covered in brown goo) in the corner. Careful not to touch the soles, she walked them to the edge of the bed.
“No, but I do think you have a pay-or-play contract to do my film, which means that either you come back with me to do my movie, or forget about your ten-million-dollar fee and pay the studio back the two million they already paid you. Plus go to movie jail for the next five to ten years because I will make it my personal mission in life to make sure you don’t work in film—any kind of film—for at least that long.”
Zymar’s lips turned upward into a soft curve. “Lyd, if you’d get rid of them tits and grow a wank, you’d be me best mate for sure.”