True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

The line went dead.

  It was my turn to wail, which I did: loudly, angrily, and only because I knew that the chorus of sprinklers humming up and down the hotel’s emerald lawn was drowning out my sobs.

  * * *

  The bereavement calls came in all night. No matter who it was from—one of my dad’s many friends, acquaintances, enemies, ex-wives, former girlfriends, new girlfriends, etcetera, etcetera—it started out the same way: asking me if there was anything, anything at all that they could do for me . . .

  Very very kind.

  Within a sentence or two, however, they’d choke up as they reminisced about the first time they ever met Leo. Then the sniffling began, at which point the tables were turned, and I was now consoling the caller: “That’s okay, Matt—” (or Brad, or Tobey, or Meryl, or Sharon or whomever).“Oh, I know, I know. He was the greatest. He always loved you, too. Yes, really! He mentioned you all the time. . . Yes, I know, he was like a father to you, too. I guess we can console ourselves that, Leo being Leo, is charming the pants off a different crowd now. . . ” . . . or something to that effect.

  Sometime between the second and the seventh call, I got smart and decanted a bottle of Château Lynch-Bages 2000 Pauillac (Leo’s cardinal rule: a good hostess stocks her bar with at least one $100 dollar bottle of wine) and I allowed myself to take a sip before picking up the phone each time.

  The final call came about ten o’clock at night. By then the bottle was long gone, and I no longer felt the obligation to man the Mother Teresa hotline, so I let it ring. But whoever was calling wouldn’t give it a break. I finally resigned myself to that fact and picked up the phone.

  “Hannah, I’m glad you’re home. It’s Jasper.” Jasper Carlton is—was—Leo’s attorney. He is also the third and only Carlton of the venerable old Beverly Hills law firm of Franklin, Carlton, Gregory, Churchill, Carlton and Carlton who is still living and breathing. As such, in Hollywood his representation is like a rare stock, or akin to buying a thousand shares of Microsoft in ’82; in other words, golden.

  I felt an immense flood of relief. I didn’t know what Sybilla had up her sleeve, but whatever it was, if there was someone who could launch a successful counterattack, it was certainly Jasper.

  There was another reason I was glad to hear his voice on the other end of the phone: I hadn’t yet taken the opportunity to thank Jasper for his unwavering loyalty to Leo all these many years, despite my father’s errant behavior, including the now legendary tiffs with studio heads, the public bickering and estate plundering by Leo’s four wives, and his innumerable affairs, including the one that had led to the birth of Leo’s “one and only love child” (my most unfortunate nickname, courtesy of Star magazine) with the one woman whom he hadn’t married: my mother, Journey Sterling.

  In many ways, Jasper is not your typical Beverly Hills lawyer, although that isn’t evident by his trendy attire. His suits may be Brioni (his one concession to a client base that considered itself cutting edge), but his heart is very much classic Brooks Brothers, and it showed in the formality and honesty with which he treated his clients.

  “Jasper, I’m glad you called,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “More than anyone, you were always there for Leo, and I thank you for that.”

  Obviously touched by my kind words, Jasper sighed. “Don’t be so quick to thank me, kiddo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About eighteen months ago, when you first started dating that French fellow—”

  “Jean-Claude?”

  “Yes, that guy. I saw him at the funeral today.”

  I laughed harshly. “Well, you don’t have to worry about him any more, Jasper.”

  “I know,” he answered, pointedly.

  I blushed hotly, glad that Jasper couldn’t see me through the phone. “How?”

  “I’ll get to that. As I started to say, about eighteen months ago, Leo came in to see me. To change his will.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Apparently he was upset, thought this lad was trying to take advantage of you. He felt that, in order to protect you, he should make some changes to your trust fund.”

  “What—what kind of changes?” Suddenly I felt cold. I sat down, hard. Thank goodness there was actually a chair behind me.

  “Your trust was to continue only until his death.” Jasper let this sink in.

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t known that Leo had felt so strongly about Jean-Claude. In fact, I had assumed we had cleared whatever hurdles had stood between the two men in my life. Obviously I had been wrong.

  And once again, Leo had read the situation right.

  Jasper continued. “Well, last week he came into my office again, requesting that I draw up another new will. In it, you were to be included again. Sybilla was going to be cut out.”

  “I think I know why,” I muttered.

  “Yes, I can imagine. Neither Sybilla nor Jean-Claude seems to have a discreet bone in their bodies.”

  So, Leo had known after all! I dropped my head, ashamed at my own naiveté.

  “However, Hannah, he never got around to signing it.”

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “For right now, it means that the current Mrs. Leo Fairchild will inherit his full estate. However, you would have every right to contest that will.”

  “I can’t even think about that now, Jasper. It’s—it’s just too soon.”

  “I know, kiddo. I just wanted you to be aware of the true situation before the will is read tomorrow.”

  “So that’s what she meant.”

  “Who?”

  “Sybilla. I—I just found out about them today, I mean her and Jean-Claude. She told me not to ‘make waves,’ or else I’d regret it.”

  “Sounds like she knows she’ll have to accept a settlement of some sort,” he answered thoughtfully. “Still, I think that under the circumstances, we’re going to have to move fast. I’ll ask the court to freeze whatever assets there are. But the way your stepmother is already spending it, there may not be much left when all is said and done. Which brings us to a very important question: how are you fixed for money?”

  I grimaced. “My rent is paid up for the month, but it’s slim pickings after that.”

  I didn’t mention that I’d recently splurged on my new convertible Beetle with all the bells and whistles, along with a summer wardrobe from Fred Segal to go with it; or that I was still paying off the $4,000 I’d borrowed for my telescope, lenses, mount and other stargazing paraphernalia. “I haven’t exactly been frugal, I guess. And you know I don’t have a job. I’ve been concentrating on my planet hunting.”

  Jasper cleared his throat, which I interpreted to mean that he viewed my astronomy project as just another harebrained example of TFB (trust fund baby) busywork.

  “Can you type?”

  “Sure, slowly, with my index fingers.”

  His silence spoke volumes.

  “I see myself more as a people person,” I backpedaled brightly. “You know, hostess with the mostess. And I’m great with details.”

  “I know. You came through like a champ in planning Leo’s funeral. I can’t even imagine how things would have gone off if that addle-brained stepmother of yours had taken the reins. You know, Hannah, I always felt you were the one thing in Leo’s life that made him proud. You were his anchor, whether he was willing to admit it to himself or not.”

  A knot formed in my throat. Jasper’s kind words made me both happy and sad at the thought of Leo. “So, what do you have in mind, Jasper?”

  “I’ve got a new client who needs some help. Don’t worry, it’s not a lot of office work. His manager can make arrangements to handle that kind of stuff.”

  I silently waited for the punch line.

  “What he needs is a gopher—you know, someone who can run errands for him, help him run lines, be on the set with him to make sure he’s got everything he needs—”

  “You want me to babysit an actor?”

&nb
sp; “Well, yes, in a way. You’d be his personal assistant.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you serious?”

  “Frankly, yes I am. It’s Louis Trollope. You know, the one they call the new British heartthrob. He’s a young Hugh Grant, but with a Colin Farrell edge.”

  “Colin is Irish.”

  “That’s beside the point, my dear. The point I’m trying to make is that Louis is hot right now; the wet dream of the month. And because of who you are, you’d be perfect for the position: you won’t be star-struck, you understand the importance of discretion, you can’t be intimated—”

  “You can say that again.” My mind flashed on all the screaming matches I’d had with Leo. In most cases I had stood firm, to his chagrin. Of course, those times had usually ended with me hiding in a bathroom, upchucking my pent-up inclinations to run, hide, and cry myself to sleep over our colliding obstinacy.

  “And—” Jasper continued, “you’re already familiar with actors and their—well, let’s just call it their ‘idiosyncrasies.’ ”

  “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a slap in the face.”

  “It’s neither. It’s just a fact of your life. So, why not capitalize on it?”

  I saw his point, but I didn’t exactly like it.

  Sure, I could handle whatever some up-and-coming actor could throw at me; if Leo had given me nothing else, he had given me a ringside seat on high-profile notoriety. But that had been a living hell. Now that I was free of it, why would I want to relive history with a cardboard copy of Leo?

  I wasn’t that desperate. At least, I hoped I wasn’t.

  I let loose a loud sigh. It had been an exhausting week, and I was ready for it to be over. “I don’t know, Jasper. I really don’t think I’m cut out for it. But thanks for thinking about me.” My lack of sincerity was palpable, I’m sure.

  “I understand, sweetie, believe me I do. But the money is decent—six thousand a month—and it won’t be forever, just however long it takes for Leo’s estate to be straightened out. If anything, the hubbub around this kid might help you keep your mind off of it. And he’s not a bad sort—at least, not yet, anyway. You might actually enjoy yourself.” He paused. “Take a day or two to think about it. If you change your mind, call Svetlana in my office, and she’ll email over exactly what you need to know about the job. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to keep Leo’s widow at bay.”

  “You’re very sweet to be concerned about me, Jasper. But don’t hold your breath.” With that, I said good-bye.

  And pulled the phone out of the wall in silent protest.

  Then I walked over to my telescope. Peering through the lens, I suddenly realized that I was too dizzy to be standing up, and so I stumbled off to bed.

  The good news: If I was going to get wasted, at least it was on a $100 bottle of red.

  The bad news: It was probably the last expensive bottle of wine I’d ever drink.

  * * *

  Here’s the part where you get my backstory:

  Let me start off by saying that it’s not easy being a trust fund baby. First of all, everyone naturally assumes you’re lazy because you don’t have to work in order to make your rent money.

  In most cases, that is so wrong. Of course, many of us work! It’s just that we are usually working at something that doesn’t come with a salary attached. I mean, many Hollywood TFBs are struggling actors, artists or musicians.

  And a lot of us do charity stuff (in other words, those who can’t, volunteer.) We TFBs put the “junior” in Junior League, regardless of our age.

  My own form of hereditary atonement is astronomy research for UCLA: I do mapping of late-type stars that are found at the center of the galaxy. And because I’m a volunteer, it’s initially assumed I’m a saint—that is, until people find out that I’m the daughter of Leo Fairchild, and then they change their minds based on a new assumption: that I’m too stupid to use my family’s connections or trade on my illustrious name to get a real job.

  Well, they’re wrong. I’m not too stupid. I’m just too stubborn.

  Maybe that’s because I’ve always felt that my birth was in fact an accident, the result of too much hashish and a defective condom shared between a man old enough to know better (Leo was forty-two at the time) and a girl young enough to be his daughter: Journey, my mother, who was all of nineteen.

  I must admit, when he heard he was going to be a proud papa, he did try to do right by us. At the time, he was between wives (numbers One and Two), so why not?

  But hey, it was the late ’70s, and a chant murmured in a Mount Tam redwood grove at sunrise in front of a bunch of stoned acolytes does not a union make—at least, that was the conclusion Leo reached just prior to my first birthday. So he offered Journey her freedom (“It wasn’t our karma, sweetheart”), along with generous child support for me.

  He deduced, quite rightly, that my mother was not the kind to make palimony waves. She left Los Angeles for Northern California without a backward glance. In truth, she couldn’t stomach the industry. Her love beads and New Age values were out of place with the true Hollywood: lies, doublespeak and business-as-usual backstabbing.

  Besides, Leo’s wandering eye hurt even more than his callous dismissal of their union.

  For the first sixteen years of my life, I lived with Journey on a tiny houseboat docked along the Sausalito waterfront, a pseudo-bohemian enclave that welcomed free spirits with open arms. For a little kid, it was a virtual play land: our homes—made out of anything that could float, from tugboats to abandoned barges to hobbled-together skiffs—were anchored so closely together that we could play tag by hopping from one gangplank to another.

  We appreciated that our parents were, for the most part, big kids, too: artists, musicians, writers, poets and activists who were not tied to work schedules or deadlines, laughed at conformity, and deviated from mainstream answers in favor of any and all alternatives.

  There was a caveat, however: while encouraging our own sense of freedom, adventure and experimentation, they expected us to accept it all wholeheartedly from them as well.

  By the time I became a teenager, I was finding this harder and harder to do. To Journey, I wasn’t merely her child, but also her soul mate, pal and confidante. I was always expected to be there: panhandling alongside her at the ferry terminal as the nine-to-five commuters were on their way to work in San Francisco’s financial district, or hawking Journey’s handicrafts—poorly made candles, painted rocks, and recycled denim made into tiny purses—at the dusty Marin City Flea Market, whenever Leo’s monthly stipend ran out, which it did all too often, particularly after one of Journey’s infamous monthly houseboat parties, where the thick pot haze did little to obscure the pairing-off of errant spouses or significant others.

  When I turned thirteen and asked Journey if I could join her in a toke, she made a big deal out of my request, insisting that we throw a “joint mitzvah” to celebrate the occasion. All I remember about it was how ill I was afterward—and how Journey was too stoned to wake up and comfort me.

  By my fifteenth birthday, I’d had enough of Journey’s way of life. I now had a thirst to know more about how others lived—specifically, my father, beyond what I had gleaned from his old movies, tabloid clippings and our too few daddy-daughter phone conversations and my occasional visits to his many homes in the Southland.

  All my life I had been taking care of Journey. Now I wanted someone to take care of me.

  She was not all that open to my suggestion that I live with Leo until I turned eighteen. “Despite being a total shit head, he is your legacy. But still—”

  “I know all that. But he’s also half of who I am. Shouldn’t I give him a chance to be something different, at least to me?”

  Neither of us thought that there was a snowball’s chance in hell he’d agree to my scheme. I mean, who would want a goonishly tall, gawky, pimply, flat-chested Jane Austen-enthralled teenage girl with crooked teeth and terrier-like hair hanging a
round the house? Particularly when the average age of his current flock of busty, burnished and blond girlfriends was twenty-three: for sure legal, but still young enough to trade clothes, CDs, and secrets with his daughter.

  You could have knocked both Journey and me over with a feather when, through his assistant, Tammy, I got the word to “Come on down to L.A.” Journey bought my ticket on Southwest the very next day.

  The morning I flew out of Oakland was cold and foggy. An hour later I departed the plane into brilliant sunshine, my eyes blinking to adjust as I hopped into the waiting limo Leo had sent to pick me up. I felt like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis.

  That adjustment took three years, and Leo made it a truly eye-opening experience: Not only was I versed on how to choose fine wines, tie a tuxedo bow tie, and tell a great script from a real stinker, but I also learned how to lie with a straight face to his agent, his latest director, the press, studio heads and, most importantly, to Leo’s various and sundry girlfriends.

  Leo marveled, “Honey, you’re a chip off the old block. A natural-born liar!”

  Although on the surface his compliments seemed more heartfelt than backhanded, they really weren’t.

  I also learned that I, too, was not immune to Leo’s duplicity, which usually occurred when I needed him most. My 104-degree fever and strep throat couldn’t keep him from a Lakers game, although he claimed he had to “stay late on the set” and sent Tammy in his place to take me to the hospital. (There I was in my hospital bed, flipping channels with my remote, when I came upon Channel 9 as its camera panned the Lakers’ court. And there Leo was, in his floor seat, right next to Jack.) And on my seventeenth birthday, he missed my party because he was “on location”—in Palm Springs, I later learned, he was with the woman who would soon be his third wife, the soap star.

  Then there was the time he showed up for my apartment-warming party immediately after my graduation from high school but disappeared an hour into it, claiming he had to meet his agent and a producer on the Fox lot. A couple of hours later, changing out of my bathing suit in the pool’s clubhouse, I overheard two of my so-called girlfriends comparing notes on his sexual prowess in the apartment complex’s hot tub.