by Lynn Messina
The man in the Stetson yells, “Way to go, honey.”
It’s unclear from reports whether or not he knew Moxie Bernard was Moxie Bernard. He sticks a twenty in her skirt. She winks at him, slides to the floor, rolls around, then stands up again with a wobble.
After two songs, Bella joins her onstage, and the two swing around the pole, their arms around each other as they caress.
The crowd goes wild and calls repeatedly for the girls to take it off.
Moxie opens the top button on her magenta silk top, then the next and the next until the shirt is entirely undone. Underneath, she’s spilling out of a black lace demi cup bra.
Bella follows suit, taking off her camisole and throwing it into the crowd. Less curvaceous than Moxie, her bare chest doesn’t arouse the same response as her friend’s half-bare one.
The music shifts, from hard rock to trip hop, and the girls rub their bodies against each other, then kiss long and deep.
The man in the Stetson is beside himself.
One by one, the Rapture strippers leave the stage. It’s almost the end of their shift, and they look at their watches, wondering if they should go home.
The dancing ends when Moxie stumbles to the ground and Bella pokes her in the eye with her big toe.
“Ouch,” she says, giggling and covering her eye.
They leave the stage and the bar without paying their tab. Bella forgets her top and ties a napkin around her chest like it’s a scarf. The patrons watch them climb into a black limo.
Gawker breaks the story with several eye witness accounts of the show. “They didn’t go in for any beaver action, but it was still hot,” reports one customer who had a front-row view. “It was wild. I’m gonna tell my grandchildren about it some day.”
One day later, the New York Post prints an e-mail message from Moxie: “The media has misread and misappropriated the fun fey-gey [sic] boogie I did with Bella Masters, and I’m disgusted by how it was carried out.”
Nobody knows what to make of her vaguely incomprehensible statement. Her disgust, clearly not turned inward, seems aimed at a media who—for once—reported an incident without embellishment. They don’t add prurient details because the story already has them: two teenage girls, alcohol, hot lip action, a stripper’s pole, Las Vegas. The editors of Penthouse Letters couldn’t have done better. Even the choice of venue is perfect—an out-of-the-way spot where working stiffs who get off on naked women go to relax after a hard day at work, offering none of the self-conscious irony or the tourism of the glitzy topless emporiums on the Strip.
Moxie sure knows how to pick them.
Her publicist, Jessica Hornet, moves in with the spin immediately, insisting with increasing shrillness that her client was only demonstrating some favorite moves from her cardio strip class at Tighter U Fitness Studio.
“If Moxie got carried away in her enthusiasm to show her friend a new routine, it’s only because she believes that cardio is essential to a healthy lifestyle,” Jessica explains to George Stephanopoulos on Good Morning, America before announcing the launch of a line of fitness videos to be produced by Moxie.
But it’s no use. #FeyGeyBoogie is already off and running. In a matter of hours, it trends worldwide. Suddenly, every stupid or embarrassing act is an example. “Stupid Spanx tore along seam and now ass is hanging out. #feygeyboogie.” “Doh! Texted wife name of restaurant, instead of girlfriend. #feygeyboogie.” “Listen up: Drinking bleach isn’t going to help U pass drug test. #feygeyboogie.”
The nine days’ wonder lasts a full three weeks, twice as long as Queen-gate. Moxie keeps a low profile for the duration while Bella continues to turn up on every red carpet on three continents. She has to. Being famous for nothing requires constant effort.
Every day that passes without a Moxie incident, I relax a little more. It seems entirely possible that this time she realizes she’s gone too far, and when she shows up with her mom at the Court Street Baptist church for Sunday morning services in a demure black suit, I’m almost convinced she’s completely reformed.
But I know that’s just wishful thinking.
Even in her Sunday best, Moxie is dangerously close to the edge, and each breath she takes brings her nearer. It’s only a matter of time before she falls into the abyss.
I’m doomed.
Day 978
When Harry invites me to In Style’s Golden Globes after-party, he doesn’t tell me we’re crashing, so when I find myself in the basement of the Beverly Hilton Hotel, I’m surprised. The red floor-length gown I bought especially for the occasion isn’t made for shimmying up elevator shafts.
When I express reluctance, Harry grins at me and asks where’s my sense of adventure. “Anyone can go through the front door,” he says, with as much enthusiasm as a teenage boy getting his first set of wheels, forgetting, I suppose, that anyone can’t. That’s the whole point of Hollywood. “Trust me, it’s entirely worth it. This bash is second only to Vanity Fair’s Oscar party. I go every year. I have to see and be seen. How else am I going to become famous?”
His logic is irrefutable, and I slide off my three-inch heels and reach for the ladder. We emerge a few minutes later in a dark corridor. Harry waits until I put on my shoes before opening the door. We’re at the back of the ballroom.
“Mission accomplished,” he says.
Overwhelmed by the glamour of the event, the flawless faces and the perfect bodies, I make a beeline for the bathroom to see how much damage crashing did. I feel like there’s a far–from-endearing black smudge on my cheek, even though Harry swears there isn’t.
“I’ll get you a drink,” he says. “What would you like?”
“Champagne,” I say without pausing. Only one thing will do at a party like this. “But stay right there. I’m afraid I won’t be able to find you again.”
I’m also afraid of being identified as an interloper and thrown out, but I don’t mention that.
The bathroom is crowded with regular women and a smattering of celebrities, and as I sit down at the vanity, I have the very surreal experience of watching Meryl Streep wait for the toilet. It’s impossible to look away, and I observe her discreetly in the mirror until she disappears into a stall. I hear a faint tinkling sound and a chill runs up my spine.
If only you could sell experiences on eBay.
While Meryl washes her hands, I examine my face for damage. My makeup seems relatively unharmed by our little escapade, but my hair, piled high on my head in ringlets—yes, I paid an obscene amount of money to a woman at Frédéric Fekkai to create the effect—is starting to come down. I stare at myself, exasperated by my normalcy. Why can’t I be perfect like everyone around me?
Although not clever enough to bring emergency pins, I spy a basket of products on the ledge and I dig through the collection of hairspray bottles, lip glosses, pantyhose and needles.
“Can I help you?” a soft voice asks.
I freeze, convinced that “can I help you” is only prelude to “find the door because you obviously don’t belong here.” I glance up guiltily at my accuser, a petite woman in a raspberry-colored ruched dress. “I’m looking for pins,” I say hesitantly.
Far from tossing me out, she smiles, puts a briefcase on the counter and opens it with a quick snap. In her bag, she has the entire contents of a Macy’s cosmetic counter. “Here,” she says, giving me a handful of glittering bobby pins. I know the stones aren’t real, but they’re so sparkly and beautiful I almost turn them down.
“Thank you,” I say, a little breathlessly as I close my fist around them. Whatever she discovers about me, she’s not getting them back.
“Is there something else I can help you with?” she asks.
I look at her and then again at the contents of her case, grappli
ng with my conscience. It’s wrong to take free stuff at a party you weren’t even invited to. I’m not so hard up that I can’t afford to buy myself a new tube of Great Lash. But the selection of high-end brands is humbling. The Sisley Phyto-Proteine mascara alone costs more than any bra I own.
“Um, mascara?” I say.
The woman gives me a tube of the Sisley in black. “Have you tried their eyeliner?”
Amazed, I shake my head.
“Here”—she hands me a dark-brown pencil—“you’ll love it.”
“All right,” I say, baffled. I can’t imagine who she thinks I am. Although I took some pains getting ready, I couldn’t hide my average-girl provenance. My dress is nice but off the rack and my makeup is total amateur hour. I actually sat with a copy of Glamour magazine open, copying the illustrations as I tried to trace the ridge of my brow line.
Still, I go with it, taking one of everything she offers, even a little sample of Narciso Rodriguez’s new perfume. The makeup stash barely fits in my purse, and I have to throw away some recent receipts to make room for it. Feeling like a superstar for getting away with something—what, exactly, I’m not really sure—I return to the ballroom.
Giddy, I find Harry just where I left him. He’s holding two flutes of champagne and surveying the crowd. In his black tuxedo, he seems right at home among the glittering and the elite. Nothing about his golden blond hair, handsome face and impeccable surfer-dude body says gate crasher.
He smiles as soon as he sees me. “That was quick.”
I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or sincere. One loses all sense of time in the presence of free makeup. “At the risk of sounding like a yokel, I have to say this: I heard Meryl Streep pee.”
“Not at all,” he says, handing me champagne. “That why we’re here.” He holds the flute in the air. “To Meryl Streep’s toilet. May it always flush.”
It’s the perfect toast, and I raise my glass high. “Hear, hear.”
A waiter breezes by with a tray of caviar-topped blinis and I realize that I have to eat something, not just because I skipped lunch to get my hair done but because this might be my only chance to eat Golden Globe after-party food.
“There’s a table of hors d’ouevres to the right of the bar,” I say. “How do you feel if we make our way toward it?”
“I was about to suggest it myself.”
Having never crashed a party before, I never realized how easy it is to feel welcomed in a place you don’t belong. But Harry is so confident and comfortable that I find myself relaxing despite my nerves. Standing next to him, I feel the same sense of entitlement he does and snag yet another crostini with fois gras.
It’s all just a game, seeing what you can get away with.
An expert player, Harry strikes up conversations with people left and right. Some he actually knows from previous parties; others are complete strangers. His manners are perfect, appreciative but not gushy, and everyone responds. Watching, I’m amazed he’s not already rich and famous. Ninety percent of success is networking and making sure you know the right people. Whatever the remaining ten percent is, I’m sure he has it. Harry is unusually well-rounded and informed. He knows something about everything. With a vice president of Imagine Entertainment, he discusses Spain’s chances in the World Cup; with a reporter from the Times, he talks about the new production of Begonya Plaza’s Theresa’s Ecstasy at the Cherry Lane Theatre in the West Village.
Although I try to stay discreetly in the background, Harry introduces me to everyone he talks to as the author of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Inconceivably, some people recognize the name.
“Moxie Bernard, right?” a producer for Focus Features says.
“Yes,” I reply.
She pats me on the shoulder. “Poor you. She seems to be off the rails at the moment. Although to be honest, we’d all like to have your troubles. It’s when the coked-out star of the moment won’t attach her name to your project that you’re in trouble.”
One guy, a freelance reporter, actually lights up when he hears my name. “I loved Jarndyce,” he says, before launching into a brief plot description for his date. She laughs politely several times but doesn’t seem genuinely amused. I try not to hold it against her. “It’s all about the insanity of office politics. I work at home, so, sadly, I’m not exposed to that stuff. The scene with the photocopiers made me devastated that I don’t work in an office with crazy people. Your life is so much more fun than mine.”
As he is a legitimate guest of In Style, I’m not so sure about that, but I accept the compliment with a high blush. It’s beyond anything to be standing in the same room with Helen Mirren and George Clooney and every hot young thing in Hollywood and find myself a fan.
And I thought listening to Meryl Streep urinate was surreal.
At eleven, the crowd starts to thin as the glamorous go to their after-after-parties. The superglamorous are long since gone, and Harry suggests we take off too. You never want to be the last guest at a party. “And this is the best part,” he says, directing me toward the exit with a hand on the small of my back. “We get to leave through the front door.”
We’re passing the dessert table and I grab one last cream puff. They’re not as decadent as the caviar and fois gras but still feel like wonderful, ill-gotten gains. “Yeah, but anyone can leave through the front door. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Harry laughs and instantly changes directions. We’re walking back toward the elevator shaft. I stop midstride. “Nope. Just kidding.”
He turns us around again. “All right, but only if you’re sure.…”
I smile and snag a chocolate-covered strawberry. I don’t really need it but it’s mere inches from my hand. “Positive. I’m the kind of girl who likes to use doors.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for the Oscars.”
The hint of a future date thrills me, but I try to keep my expectations in check. Unfortunately, Harry’s schedule keeps him very busy. This is only the second time I’ve seen him since our Ivy outing and the first one doesn’t really count, since it was a coincidental meeting at John Vholes’s office. We grabbed dinner afterward but it was at a diner down the street, a far cry from Spago.
Limos line the drive in front of the hotel, and we weave through the madness to get to Harry’s car, which is parked across the street and down the block. My feet are killing by the time we get there and as soon as I sit down, I take off my shoes. I wiggle my toes, lean back and sigh. “I had a wonderful evening. Thank you for inviting me.”
Harry links his fingers through mine and lifts my hand to his mouth. “The evening’s not over yet,” he says, kissing my knuckles.
My stomach does a backflip.
Half the point of putting on a beautiful red dress is having someone else take it off, and I don’t hesitate a moment in inviting Harry up to my apartment. I make the usual noises about another drink or coffee but as soon as we’re in the elevator, I lean forward, press my body against his and kiss him. Neither one of us realizes when the doors open, and it takes an embarrassed, “Excuse me,” from the Griffith Observatory curator across the hall for us to notice.
I jump back but Harry holds steady. He leads me from the elevator, then waits for me to indicate the way. We walk slowly toward my door like in a dream. My hands are shaking slightly, so I can’t open my door. I try once, twice; the third time’s a charm.
Harry says, “Nice apartment” as soon as I shut the door and pulls me into his arms. The kiss is long, deep and mindless. A few seconds later, we’re in the bedroom, falling onto the comforter, pushing the pillows to the floor. He moves the strap of my red gown to the side and trails kisses along my shoulder. Every moment from the night whirls together in a kaleidoscope of impressions, and I feel powerful like a sex goddess: irre
sistible, invincible, famous, successful.
Whispering something against my skin, he brushes the second strap aside and reveals my breasts. Harry moans in delight and I feel another surge of emotion as liberating as it is wild jut through me.
Clearly, I’m in love.
Day 980
John agrees it’s time for me to strike out on my own.
“You know all that I know,” he says at the end of our last lesson.
I’ve taken two four-week courses with him: Screenwriting 101 and Intermediary Hollywood. He’s taught me everything from the basics of constructing a screenplay (Rule number one: The emotion has to be on the page) to the inner workings of the movie industry (Rule number one: With every film they make, they’re asking, Can I get a theme-park ride out of this?). All I have to do now is sit down and write.
That shouldn’t be too hard. I have my story, my title, my characters. I just need to string them together with dialogue.
“You’ll be great,” John adds. “I’ve worked with a lot of people but you’re the most talented by far.”
I simper accordingly.
Before the advent of my holiday Visa bill, I considered continuing with John. He offers a tutorial in which he guides you through your screenplay step-by-step. As much as I’d love to have someone hold my hand, I couldn’t do it at the expense of my health insurance. I have to make sane, rational decisions, not just because I’m a Carstone but because it feels good. There’s something oddly glamorous about making the right choice, a comforting sort of smugness.
It’s invigorating after eight years of inertia.
“Don’t let the technical details psyche you out,” he continues. “You can do this, I know you can. Yes, there are lots of things to keep in mind about how to enter a scene, leave a scene, describe a scene, camera angles, interior shots, exterior shots. We didn’t go over any of it but I know you can figure it out. It’s pretty easy stuff. And don’t for a minute believe the success of your screenplay depends on how well you conform to the rigid format. A lot of people say your success is riding on that, but they’re wrong. Rule number one is story. The rest will follow. So trust your instincts. You’ll figure out how to construct a montage or a voiceover. And like I said, it’s not make or break if you get it wrong. Sure, some readers won’t finish the first paragraph if the structure isn’t one hundred percent right, but you don’t want a doctrinaire like that reading your story anyway.”