by Jane Heller
Harvey was right. Integrity was out and bribery was in, and the realization sickened me. Yes, of course, I knew all about the toadiness that went on in the industry, the buying of favors, the swag, but I suppose I’d turned a blind eye to it because I honestly thought that plain old hard work paid off in the end.
“Take care, dear,” Peggy said with a wave as she hurried to attend to her client. “And don’t fret about Malcolm. His animosity toward you isn’t personal. He just hates the idea of you.”
I lingered in that suite at the Four Seasons for a good ten minutes after Peggy Merchant abandoned me for Pierce Brosnan. Not that I blamed her for that. I would have abandoned me for Pierce Brosnan, who was handsome and debonair and didn’t think media people were parasites. I didn’t even blame her for allowing him to be bought. I had to face facts: It wasn’t enough to be a good writer now; you had to be Santa Claus too.
As I sat on a very pouffy sofa contemplating all this, I inhaled another couple of crab cakes and about a dozen mini egg rolls, and washed them down with more champagne. Yes, free food was one of the perks of my job, and I’d never questioned the ethics of that. Had I been too rigid in my thinking? If members of the media were entitled to free food, why weren’t celebrities entitled to free gifts? Maybe I needed to lower the bar just a little. So they didn’t teach us gifting in journalism school. I was out in the big, bad world now. Like it or not, if I wanted to stay in the game, I had to play by the new rules.
Chapter Three
So, naturally, I decided to gift Malcolm Goddard, as repellent as the idea was to me. The question was, what to gift him with? He always seemed so grumpy, so joyless, even when he was photographed with a pretty woman on his arm. What do you buy for a thirty-five-year-old superstar who couldn’t possibly need anything? What product, what goodie, what treasure would convince him that I wasn’t just some bottom-feeder who only cared about getting my get? Okay, yes, that’s all I did care about, but I still wanted to think of something he’d really like, something meaningful to him as opposed to just a glitzy toy. And it had to be within the budget. Harvey was thrilled when I told him my plan for wooing Goddard—“That’s exactly the kind of killer stuff I’m looking for from you, but don’t go overboard!” he’d warned. “No bling!”
It was during my replaying of the Actors Studio tape later that night that inspiration struck. I was watching the tape in my bedroom, the warmest room in my ground-floor apartment, the lower rental unit of a Spanish-style duplex in West Hollywood. The apartment itself had character—wood floors, cove moldings, and arched doorways—but it got very little light and was cold all the time. Not Missouri cold, but cold enough that I wore socks and a flannel nightgown to bed. What I liked best about it was the residential feel of the neighborhood and its easy access to all sections of L.A. What I liked least about it was the noise that routinely seeped down the thin walls from upstairs. James, my friend and neighbor, was in charge of hair and makeup on The Bold and the Beautiful. He was a sweetheart except that he blasted disco music at two o’clock in the morning, particularly after a night of gay-bar hopping and ecstasy (the drug, not the feeling). I considered myself a reasonable person, but being awakened by Cher’s “Believe,” the most repetitive song ever written, wasn’t fun. I’d stand on my bed and bang my broom handle on the ceiling, and that would usually prompt James to turn it down a notch. But the situation wasn’t ideal. My dream was to save enough money to move to another duplex—a larger, sunnier, upper unit this time. The dream was totally doable if I remained employed.
So there I was, huddled under the covers in my socks and nightie, polishing off a bag of Fritos and replaying the tape of Inside the Actors Studio.
James Lipton, in his typically unctuous manner, was asking Goddard about his childhood. “And where did you grow up, Malcolm?” he said. “Here in New York on the Upper West Side,” Goddard mumbled. His voice was distinctive because of his mumbling. It was soft, low, barely audible, his words running together. “Right down the street from Zabar’s,” he mumbled some more.
I hit Pause at that moment because there was a hint of a smile on Goddard’s face when he mentioned the famous gourmet-food emporium. For just a second there, he didn’t look so surly, so miserable, so tortured actor-ish, and I was sort of fascinated.
I let the tape continue. “Did you partake of any of the delicacies at Zabar’s?” asked Lipton. “Oh, yeah,” said Goddard. “I still do whenever I’m in town. Their cheesecake is the real deal, and there are nights back in L.A. when I actually fantasize about it. They don’t know how to make it on the other coast. They know how to make movies—well, some of ’em do—but definitely not cheesecake.”
As the audience laughed appreciatively, I realized with a wave of satisfaction that I had my perfect gift. All I had to do was figure out how to give it to him. I knew he lived in the Hollywood Hills, but his multimillion-dollar estate was tucked away behind wrought-iron gates and I couldn’t exactly leave a cheesecake out in the street. Not only could it melt in the sun or be eaten by a coyote, but it was crucial for me to be present when he received it. He was supposed to see the cake, see me, put two and two together, and think, Wow, what a nice person to go to all this trouble for me and I’d be glad to return the favor by sitting down for an interview with her. How to make this happen? How?
I went to the office the next morning and called Peggy Merchant.
“It’s about Pierce Brosnan,” I lied to her assistant.
This time, Peggy came right on the line. When she thought you were pitching what she was selling, it was uncanny how accessible she was. “So you’d like to talk about interviewing Pierce?” she said cheerfully.
“Someday,” I said. “But I’m calling about Malcolm, and please don’t hang up.”
There was a pained sigh. “In case I wasn’t clear, Ann, Malcolm thinks the media—especially the print media—distorts the truth and takes what he says out of context and is all about invading his space. You may think he’s being difficult or demanding or reclusive, but he just refuses to subject himself to all the scrutiny, except on those rare occasions when he respects and trusts the interviewer.”
“Then I want him to respect and trust me,” I said. “After we talked about gifting yesterday, I decided it couldn’t hurt to buy him a little trinket. Just to make myself stand out from all the others and to show him my interest is sincere. You told me that gifting scores points with your clients, remember?”
Another sigh. “Yes, but I doubt it’ll help in Malcolm’s case, because he’s so adamant.”
“Why don’t you let me try? What’s the harm?”
She considered this for a second or two, then said, “Fine. Go ahead. Just don’t count on anything.”
“Yes. Okay,” I said with new hope. “Now, tell me how I can deliver my gift. I’m sure you can set something up, right?”
“Have it sent here and I’ll see that he gets it.”
“No way, Peggy,” I said, determined to stand my ground. I was making progress, I could feel it. “I need to deliver the gift myself, so that Malcolm and I can meet face-to-face. That’s the whole idea. You said he does interviews with people he respects and trusts. He won’t respect and trust a complete stranger.”
“Look, Ann. He isn’t going to meet with you and that’s that,” she snapped. “Have a lovely day.”
She slammed down the phone. I marveled at her high-and-mighty attitude and felt utterly thwarted by her unwillingness to cooperate. Then I reminded myself that I was supposed to be a killer journalist now. Killer journalists didn’t go through the proper channels. Killer journalists did whatever it took to get the story.
SINCE THE GOLDEN Globe Awards were being handed out that Sunday evening, out-of-town actors, producers, and directors of nominated films, including those who were foreign and, therefore, obscure to most Americans, had descended on Hollywood. German director Wilhelm Holtz, for example, was turning up everywhere. He was a favorite of young American actors, who admir
ed his dark, brooding style (nobody so much as cracked a smile in a Wilhelm Holtz movie). One of those actors was Malcolm Goddard, who, in the Vanity Fair piece, had proclaimed himself Holtz’s biggest fan. Was it possible that he and his idol would be getting together over the course of Globes weekend? For dinner at some trendy restaurant, perhaps? Could Goddard be hosting a dinner in Holtz’s honor, and if so, where might it be? And when?
I decided to go digging. I bypassed the publicists and headed straight for the people who really knew what was happening in Hollywood: the maître d’s at the hot spots. They were the ones with access to the reservation books. They gave the impression that they were secretive about their clientele so the celebrities would think they were being coddled, but they loved boasting about which star was sitting in which booth eating which specialty of the house. And they weren’t above pocketing a wad of cash in exchange for the information. The paparazzi relied on them, and now I was relying on them too. Harvey had instructed me to stay within my budget, but that wouldn’t be a problem. The cheesecake was less than fifty dollars, plus shipping. I had plenty more to spend.
I drove all over town, my wallet bulging. I hit the Sunset Strip and combed the “in” spots there. I hit Santa Monica and talked to everybody on my list there. I wasn’t even going to bother with Beverly Hills, given how Goddard was so damn arty and Beverly Hills was so old farty, but on a hunch having to do with Wolfgang Puck being Austrian and Wilhelm Holtz being German, I hit Spago—and hit paydirt.
What I learned was that Malcolm Goddard was, indeed, hosting a party of six in the garden patio of the famed restaurant, although the reservation, I was told, was in the name of Luke Sykes in order to throw parasites like me off the scent. The dinner was set for Friday night at eight-thirty. Since it was only Wednesday, that left me just enough time to order the cheesecake from Zabar’s and have it Fed Exed right to Spago, where, after Goddard’s main course was cleared away, my dessert would be carted out with great fanfare and delivered to his table. From my own table a few feet away, I would be able to witness the surprise and delight on his face, and then I would make my move. I was very optimistic about this plan, mostly because it was the only one I had but also because it had come about as a result of my dogged detective work. I was a good reporter and Goddard would respect and trust me, even if I did have to grease the palm of every restaurant employee in town.
LATER THAT NIGHT I went to Bristol Farms, the upscale supermarket not far from my apartment. All the running around had made me hungry and I had nothing but an old jar of Dijon mustard in the refrigerator. I needed to stock up.
I wasn’t alone. L.A. is a city filled with busy professionals and seven o’clock at night is prime after-work food-shopping time. The aisles at Bristol Farms were jammed. Carts were colliding. Gridlock reigned, particularly in the paper-goods aisle, where I’d gone after buying all the edible stuff. They say never to shop for groceries on an empty stomach because you end up buying more than you expected, but I was much too preoccupied with being a killer journalist to worry about that.
I steered my overflowing cart through the throngs of customers, past the tissues and the napkins and the toilet paper, and reached for a roll of Bounty. I was just about to grab it when the weirdest thing happened: My throat started closing up and the room started spinning. Not spinning as in after drinking too many margaritas, but definitely moving with the herky-jerkiness of a movie shot with a handheld camera. Feeling slightly faint, I gripped the handle of my cart to steady myself and waited helplessly for the wave of dizziness to pass.
It did pass after only a few seconds, but it left me wondering what the hell was the matter with me. Was I dying of cancer like my father did and was this an early warning sign? Or was I just hungry? Hunger made people light-headed, didn’t it?
I didn’t know what to think at first, but as I waited in the long line at the checkout counter, I reminded myself that I probably didn’t have cancer—I was a bit of a hypochondriac. Okay, more than a “bit” of one. I subscribed to Women’s Health, Prevention, and Psychology Today, and when they described a disease, I immediately convinced myself I had it—and that what I needed was to eat a decent meal and get a good night’s sleep.
I HAD INVITED Tuscany to be my date for the big night—I thought I’d look too predatory and obvious if I sat three feet away from Goddard at a table by myself—and she was excited about tagging along. I was excited about the evening too. I even took extra care with my appearance, and attempted to look a little more glamorous than usual.
Glamorous. Ha. I was what is commonly referred to as “fresh faced.” I had dark blond hair (shockingly, it was natural) that I wore shoulder length and parted down the middle in no particular style other than that it always looked clean. My features were even and well proportioned. My height and weight were average—perfectly healthy by Missouri’s standards but borderline fat by L.A.’s. I didn’t wear tops that exposed my midriff or bottoms that exposed my crack, but rather, dressed conservatively, if casually. I wasn’t a tomboy exactly, but I was more comfortable in blue jeans than in ball gowns. When I covered industry events in fancy clothes, I always felt like a drag queen.
On that Friday night, as I regarded my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I groaned. James had given me makeup tips, and I’d tried to follow them. The result was that I had over-painted my lips and over-shadowed my eyelids and over-bronzed my cheekbones, chin, and forehead. I looked hideous and slathered the whole mess with cold cream and started over.
By the time I left my apartment, I was feeling better about myself. My charcoal gray pantsuit was businesslike but appropriate for an evening at Spago, as were the little diamond studs I’d stuck in my earlobes, and my makeup no longer looked like it had been applied by a cement mixer. I was good to go.
Tuscany, on the other hand, was dressed for Halloween.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked after she’d picked me up in the Mercedes.
“Nothing, if you’re in your Goth period,” I teased, appraising her raccoon eyes and black cape, the hood of which was draped over her head. “Or are you making a statement about the plight of women in certain Arab countries?”
She smiled mischievously. “It’s possible that I could meet someone tonight,” she said as she drove us to Beverly Hills. “I wanted to look dramatic, just in case.”
“Well, you’ve achieved your goal,” I said. “But tonight isn’t about you. I’m the one who’s supposed to make a conquest.”
“He’s gonna love that cheesecake,” she reassured me.
“He should,” I said. “I read a description of its ingredients on Zabar’s Web site and it’s as dense as he must be.”
About ten minutes later, we pulled onto Canon Drive, where Spago has been serving upscale diners since its relocation from the Sunset Strip back in the nineties. There were three valet-parking attendants rushing around in front of the restaurant, but none of them rushed around to help us.
“It’s not as if this car is a beater,” said Tuscany of the Mercedes, which was only three years old.
“They ignore you if you’re not in a Hummer limo,” I said.
Eventually, one of the valets did come and take the car. We walked to the entrance of the restaurant and stood at the threshold. While Tuscany peeked inside, I checked my watch.
“Eight-thirty,” I said. “You ready?”
“Very,” she said with wide eyes. “Every man in this place looks like Johnny Depp and I’m taking one of them home.”
“Tuscany,” I said sternly. “We have a No Actors rule.”
“Right.”
I poked my head inside the restaurant. It was crowded, at maximum capacity, everybody laughing and talking animatedly. For some reason their voices started coming at me at an exaggerated, extremely loud volume, and I began to feel twinges of the same dizziness I’d felt at Bristol Farms. Again, I wondered what in the world was going on. Was it cancer? A heart problem? An acute infectious disease for which there was
not yet a vaccine?
I took a few long, deep breaths and tried to focus on the matter at hand—at how relieved I’d be once the Goddard interview was in my pocket and Harvey was off my back.
“Hey, are you okay?” asked my friend as she held my arm. “You’re kind of swaying.”
“I’m great.” I smiled, thinking of the cheesecake that was chilling in Spago’s refrigerator right that very minute: Malcolm Goddard’s fantasy dessert come true. I bet even Diane Sawyer hadn’t thought of it. There was really nothing to all this do-whatever-it-takes-to-land-an-interview stuff, I decided. It was a piece of cake, no pun intended.
Chapter Four
After I had a brief word with Henry, the maître d’, confirming our little plan, Tuscany and I were shown to our table for two on the patio, a beautiful garden setting where a fountain trickled next to a pair of century old olive trees. There was a reason celebrities loved to dine there. The atmosphere was charming, an oasis of calm in the middle of the city.
“Oh my God.” Tuscany grabbed my arm across the table once we were seated. “He’s even hotter than I thought.”
She wasn’t talking about Henry, who had a beaky nose and a recessive chin. No, she was swooning over Goddard. I’d seen him too, out of the corner of my eye as we had stepped onto the patio, and he was hard not to notice. He was holding court at a banquet-size table a few feet away. Wearing his customary black leather jacket and jeans, that curly lock of brown hair falling into his eyes, he was toasting Wilhelm Holtz and four other men and then throwing back a shot of whiskey. Even during what was clearly a festive occasion, he looked dour.
“How are we supposed to eat with him sitting right there?” said Tuscany. “I’ve lost my appetite already.” She was employed by a magazine devoted to covering celebrities, and yet she was forever in awe of them. When I’d first come to L.A., I’d been in awe of them too, but I wasn’t quite as reverent as I used to be. I was still keenly interested in them as a species, I enjoyed the challenge of getting them to discuss subjects they’d never discussed in public before, and I really did try to bring out the best in them, even the ones who took themselves much too seriously. But Malcolm Goddard? He seemed to take himself more seriously than most, and I was less sure about my ability to bring out the best in him.