Bleak

by Lynn Messina

  The suave Frenchman is absent from the photos taken the next day in front of her hotel, but her hoo-ha is fully present. Vive la exhibitionism.

  The papers dutifully pixilate out the indecent parts, and to see the uncensored photos you have to go online. I don’t recommend this. The image is horrifying; her vagina looks like some sad little undernourished animal in a third-world zoo, like a bald mouse or a decrepit old bat.

  I glance once and click off immediately. Nobody is looking over my shoulder, but I still feel like a perv. It’s hard to see the photo and not imagine a thousand middle-aged men getting a prurient thrill.

  As soon as the pictures hit the Internet, Moxie’s publicity machine goes to work proving they’re fakes. Her new PR firm, Hornet Associates, releases the original shot of her at the premiere, which shows her demure white cotton undies firmly in place. Stalker.com obediently posts the photo with an apology to Moxie and her family. Twenty minutes later, the host amends the entry again, this time adding fresh evidence that the panties have been Photoshopped in—and very badly, too. Gleeful—he knew Moxie was a big ho—he refers readers to GalaFotos.com, the internationally respected company that took the photograph. There, visitors can see the real original shot.

  Hundreds of other sites around the world do the same. Moxie’s bare beaver is reproduced in forty-eight languages.

  The next day, when the second batch of photos makes the rounds, Jessica Hornet tries a diversionary tactic, announcing on CNN Moxie’s literacy initiative, a plan to set up reading programs in twenty of the poorest districts in the United States. It’s a desperate and cynical ploy, but the mainstream press covers it with the usual enthusiasm. Oprah calls her an inspiration. The president invites her to the White House to join a blue ribbon panel on reading skills.

  Two days later, when Moxie climbs out of a gondola and flashes all the pigeons in St. Mark’s Square, hardly anyone notices.

  Day 819

  During the plane ride to Los Angeles, my editor, Elaine Smart, and I brainstorm topics of conversation just in case Moxie comes to the party. My list is short but thoughtful. 1) Ask about Red Scarlet. What was it like to bungee-jump across the Grand Canyon? Would she do her own stunts again? 2) Ask about singing career. Has she thought of recording an album with Yoko Ono? (Per an interview with Barbara Walters, Yoko is her favorite Beatle, followed by Stella McCartney and Ringo Star.) 3) Gush over catchy hit single “Waiting.” Query lyrics. Does “Waiting is a large, ripe peach” mean that waiting is sweet or that the narrator is from Georgia? 4) Mention that I grew up in Norwalk too and that I too think Hunan Gourmet totally rocks. (If necessary, remind her of signed American Grrl poster in window of restaurant: “To Hunan Gourmet, the best around. You totally rock. Love ya, Moxie.”) Ask which she likes better: their egg foo young or beef with broccoli.

  With little more than twenty-four hours until the party, it’s still not clear whether Moxie will be in attendance. Her status changes hourly. This morning she was definitely in but by noon she’d agreed to fly to New York to do a top ten list on Letterman. Four hours later, the appearance was in jeopardy, as Letterman refused to cut #2: Because underwear is for children and the elderly.

  Lester Dedlock assures me this is quite normal. Nobody is anywhere in L.A. until they’re somewhere and even then they’re sometimes not there.

  The whole guest list is like that. In the past two weeks, I’ve heard every name from Julia Roberts to Robbie Williams as a possible attendee. At one point, the entire cast from Revenge was coming, then only Emily VanCamp, then everyone but Emily VanCamp. Bill Clinton was even mentioned during one breathless conversation.

  The only person, it seems, who has definitively rsvp’d is me.

  With such a fluctuating guest list, it’s impossible for me to come up with conversation for everyone. I gave it a really good shot at first but when Gwyneth Paltrow was removed for the third time, I realized it was a waste of energy. I’d just have to wing it.

  This concept terrifies me. I find awkward silences devastating—the steady buzz of nothing, the hum of my rattled brain desperately trying to come up with a clever retort. Whole empires have crumbled in the space of time it takes me to think of a clever rejoinder to the simple question “How are you?”

  To this baseline anxiety add professional photographers and celebrity snapshots and you have my worst nightmare. Every time I imagine Katrina, Sunset Press’s publicist, introducing me around a shiver runs through me. “Excuse me, Gwyneth, this is Ricki Carstone, the author of the book. Do you mind if she stands stiffly beside you while these nice men take your photo? I promise it’ll only take a second.”

  It is mortification wrapped in embarrassment topped with a shiny ribbon of humiliation.

  Next to me, Elaine reads my list of Moxie topics but doesn’t make her own. An L.A. native and child actor—she had a small part in the hit series The Martin Family, playing the fatally adorable Leila Martin after the fatally adorable Sheila Martin outgrew her fatal adorableness—she doesn’t believe in celebrity. There are only varying degrees of obscurity—where you fall on the spectrum is simply a matter of timing.

  She can afford to be philosophical. On the obscurity-o-meter, she falls somewhere below Keisha Knight Pulliam and above Jeremy Miller.

  Unwilling to reminiscence about her industry background, Elaine always fobs me off by asking—snidely, I’d say—how the second book is coming. That shuts me up quickly enough.

  Elaine hands me my notebook just as the plane starts to descend. She puts her chair in the upright position and opens her shutter. Below Los Angeles twinkles like lights on a Christmas tree. “What about Lloyd?” she asks.

  A flight attendant with a garbage bag breezes by before I can toss my cup away, so I put it in the seat pocket. The plastic cracks. “What about him?”

  “He’ll be there. What will you talk about with him?”

  Distracted by the ever-evolving roster of famous names, I’ve given no thought at all to my host and benefactor. Of course I need conversational topics for Lloyd Chancellor. He’s the most important person I’ll ever meet. The weight of his significance strikes me dumb. I don’t have a single thought in my head.

  Not a one.

  Elaine sees my stricken look and laughs. “Good Lord, you’re hopeless. To review, Lloyd Chancellor is the son of Duke Chancellor, the former head of Arcadia Studios, and Danielle Doyle, eighties rom-com star. He has made three movies—A Fall from Great Heights, Presenting the Dissidents and Catcher and Rye—the last of which is his only commercial success. He’s in his mid-thirties, has never been married and is currently between breakups with supermodel Levienne Jordana. He has curly red hair, green eyes, a smattering of freckles, and the most collagen-stuffed lips of any man, woman or child in Hollywood.”

  “That’s only a rumor,” I point out, some of my panic fading as she runs through his vitals.

  “His plastic surgeon confirmed it.”

  “His alleged plastic surgeon. They can’t prove he’s Patient X.”

  Elaine rolls her eyes. “Nobody has lips the size of porterhouse steaks without a little medical help.”

  While this is most likely true, it’s hardly fodder for small talk. But that’s all right. There’s enough to say about Lloyd’s three previous films to fill any number of awkward silences. Catcher and Rye was even a pretty decent screwball comedy. The banter didn’t have quite the zingy rat-tat-tat of Hepburn and Tracy, but it was sharp and very funny in places.

  By the time we land, I have nice things to say about all his movies, even the ones I didn’t like. (A Fall from Great Heights: “Excellent theme song by Taylor Swift. So short and to the point.” Presenting the Dissidents: “Blake Lively’s dress in the final scene was stunning.”)

  We disembark and I follow Elaine through LAX. One airport is pre
tty much like any other, but I feel an uncontrollable sense of excitement being surrounded by these gates and those signs. There’s something almost unbearably West Coast about the utilitarian building, as if the air itself is laced with palm tress and movie stars. When we get to baggage claim, our luggage is already waiting, and we breeze through the crowd to the arrivals hall, where a livery driver in a black cap and white gloves is holding a sign with my name.

  And here we go.

  Day 820 (A.M.)

  I have so many appointments scheduled for August 21st that I actually have to figure out how the calendar function on my phone works. This level of organization is unheard of. Usually the details are my life are comfortably contained on random scraps of paper.

  Suddenly I feel important.

  Lester Dedlock meets me in the lobby of my hotel and suggests we have breakfast poolside. Before I can respond, he’s leading me toward the elevator and relaying the history of the Marmont Tower, an art deco grande dame from 1929. While we wait for the car to come, he ticks off a list of the famous people who have lived here—Errol Flynn, Claudette Colbert, John Wayne, Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, Howard Hughes.

  I respond with an appropriate series of wows and no-kiddings, but I already know the information. After three weeks of cyberstalking, I’m intimately acquainted with the Marmont Tower. I can rattle off the dimensions and amenities of each room (junior suite: 550 square feet, Egyptian linen, Kiehl’s products, Wi-Fi, flat-screen TV, iPod station, gourmet mini-bar, twenty-four-hour room service).

  Lester selects a table at the far end of the pool, almost out of earshot of two squabbling children and their ineffective nanny. Within seconds, a waiter appears with menus. I order a latte and instantly regret it. I’m having breakfast poolside at the Marmont Tower with dazzling sunlight spilling over my shoulder. I should have something vibrant and decadent like a champagne cocktail or a Kir Royale.

  Lester gets a cup of tea, Earl Grey, no sugar.

  My film agent looks in person exactly as he does on the cover of Vanity Fair, save for an array of deep wrinkles around his severe black eyes. His face is long and angular, with a sturdy chin and patrician nose, and his thick white hair spills over the collar of his pristine white shirt.

  He is ferocious looking, and when he stares down at me from his imposing six-plus feet height, I feel as if I’m having an audience with Zeus himself.

  Except…those fierce white brows are far too neat to be natural. Sometime in the past week, they’ve been trimmed and plucked.

  This small display of Hollywood vanity brings him solidly back down to earth.

  The latte arrives in a delicate white cup, and I inhale it deeply, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. They’ve been there all morning, ever since I woke at six to see the sun rising over the Hollywood Hills, its golden fingers reaching through a panoply of pinks and orange.

  After breakfast with Lester, I have lunch with the publicist to go over what I should expect at the party. Then a seaweed wrap, massage and mani-pedi at the spa. Hopefully that will calm my jitters before the woman from Frédéric Fekkai arrives to do my hair and makeup.

  Yes, I’m maxing out my credit card for this party, but if I can’t max it out for the Hollywood launch of my book, then when can I?

  Lester recommends the eggs Benedict, but I can’t imagine eating anything so heavy. I settle on an oat bran muffin and a bowl of fruit.

  “I trust you’re settling in all right?” Lester says as the waiter takes the menus. “Everything as you’d expect to find it? No unpleasant surprises? Good. Good. The Marmont is a reliable establishment. I always put my daughters up here when they’re in town. The chairs in the lounge are particularly comfortable. Just the right amount of lumbar support. And of course there’s the view.”

  Yes, the view. The entire city of Los Angeles stretches around us in every direction. I love the sleek compactness of Manhattan, but there’s something primally appealing about the wide-open space of urban sprawl.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” I say, soaking up the sun. It’s warm in New York now, too, but it feels different, somehow more desperate.

  “The event site is only a few blocks away,” he says, as he points east. Or maybe west. “A little too far to walk, especially in the spindly heels pretty young women like to wear, but a short cab ride.”

  Although my heels are far too sturdy to be called spindly, I don’t belabor the point. I’m far more interested in the venue—an ultra exclusive club whose members make up the crème de la crème of the Hollywood elite. “Have you been there?”

  “Indeed, yes,” he says with a slight nod. He leans back in his wicker chair, mindful of the insufficient lumbar support, and raises the cup to his lips. “It patterns itself on what used to be called a gentleman’s club before that term took on lewd implications, but with its rented rooms and catering service, it’s really more of a nouveau pastiche.”

  The description—a pejorative, to be sure, no matter how warmly it is said—almost makes me smile, and a few of the butterflies cease their fluttering. “Are you a member?” I ask. According to the L.A. Times, the membership process is arcane and selective. Hopefuls have to be recommended by a “proposer” and seconded by two “affirmers.” Then their name “languishes in a book for a spell,” collecting signatures, until there are roughly thirty-five. “But,” warns the anonymous source, “the signatures have to be from people who can personally attest to whether or not the prospect is a ‘good bloke.’ ” Blackballing is common, with no obligation to provide a reason.

  Nevertheless, this is still L.A., so the unaffiliated mega famous like Bono can stroll in for a game of billiards whenever they want.

  “For my sins, I am, yes. But it’s a business arrangement, not a social one. I have to go where the deals are or suffer the consequences,” he says, then smiles broadly, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “Obviously, it’s no hardship to be surrounded by rich leather and excellent brandy. I think you’ll find the rarified setting is perfectly suited to your novel. Lloyd Chancellor is an astute promoter.”

  The waiter delivers my muffin, which looks all healthful and worthy with its smattering of oats on top. He places a dainty bowl spilling with strawberries and melon next to it, while another server lays down a platter of beautifully garnished eggs benedict. Lester immediately dives in. I eye my muffin suspiciously, trying to figure out how much butter I need to make it palatable.

  I pick up the knife and cut the muffin in half. “Have you done deals with him before?”

  “No, I haven’t. Not with Lloyd. I’ve done several deals with his father. He was a good man to work with, a straight-shooter, as they say, always able to see what the fuss is about. I can’t abide people who don’t even try to understand the other point of view in a negotiation. If nothing else, it’s simply poor manners.”

  There are so many things I want to know about Lloyd Chancellor and every person who works in the office of Chancery Productions and all the Arcadia executives who are mentioned in the press release announcing Moxie’s involvement that I don’t know where to start.

  I want to say, Tell me everything—every seemingly minor, tedious little detail that you wouldn’t even mention to the lead detective in a murder investigation. Everything.

  Instead, I ask him about his career as if I hadn’t memorized every word of the Vanity Fair article.

  The man who invented first-dollar gross easily launches into a detailed description of the shifting politics of the Ashley Famous mailroom as the agency merged with Creative Management Associates to become ICM. The moment was rife with opportunities, and he took advantage of every one.

  “After all these years, the most important thing I’ve learned about the film industry and the most important thing I can tell you is don’t expect anything,”
he says seriously after the waiter asks if he’d like more hot water. “Don’t expect the movie to get made, don’t expect Chancery to buy the rights to your book, don’t expect them to renew the option, don’t expect the party to go off. Don’t expect anything to happen a moment before it does and you’ll be amazed how delightful a business this is.

  “Now, you are,” he continues, “in a better position than most, and I’ll admit that things seem to be toddling along smoothly, but this is Los Angeles. It’s like a small African nation. It’s a bunch of warlords in Hummers firing their machine guns into the air; the regime in charge changes daily. The only thing you can do is keep your head down and wait it out. Right now it all comes down to the script. Lloyd has the two most-coveted writers in town lined up. Let’s let them finish the screenplay and then we’ll see.”

  Lester has been talking about the “two most-coveted writers in town” for months as Lloyd negotiates their contract. Since they’re so coveted, their fee far exceeds Chancery’s small discretionary fund. The studio, therefore, has to step up with the money to pay them. Once it does, Arcadia will be officially on-board as the movie’s fiscal sponsor. When that happens, I get a set-up bonus of twenty-five thousand dollars. I’m not relying on the money to cover rent or anything, but it’s a nice chunk of change. A girl could easily pay off a few shiatsu massages.

  “The thing I don’t understand is how they can be coveted—”