True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  As if his having it would have mattered to me!

  Or that he would have given a damn if I did care.

  Louis acknowledged my barely stifled guffaw at this contemporary comedia dell’arte with a knowing grin and a slight bow. I shrugged and went back to my magazine.

  His A.D.D.—adoration deficit disorder— was now so great that he decided to take a more diplomatic tact to win my forgiveness. After flopping down beside me on the sofa (close enough to have scored well on that portion of the studio’s flight attendant exam), he cleared his throat and began his new pitch with a serious tone.

  “Hannah, my love, since this is a four-hour flight—”

  “Five hours, twelve minutes, and forty-two seconds to be exact.”

  “Yes, right, excellent assessment. Be that as it may, I’m hoping that, at some point in those 312.7 minutes you will find it in your heart to put aside any reason you may feel justified in being disappointed in me—”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something? I must have dozed off. In my dream, it was a lazy hazy Saturday, and I was enjoying the fact that I had been granted a day off by my lord and master.”

  He sighed, then hung his head in shame. “You’re right. I’m a self-centered bastard. I had absolutely no right to ruin your one day off. Who do I think I am, anyway? Tell the truth: I’m becoming one of those insecure, egotistical wankers who are so ubiquitous to Hollywood, aren’t I?” He searched my face for any trace of forgiveness.

  Well, yes, of course he was all of that, and more . . . which is why just the thought that Louis felt he needed clemency, from me of all people, put that much-coveted smile on my lips.

  Pleased to have gotten the response he was looking for, Louis practically glowed. He was loved! Once again, all was right with the world.

  Or so he thought. But I wasn’t going to let him off so easily.

  “Let’s just say I was a bit surprised at your change of heart. Well, even if I don’t appreciate it, I’m sure Tatiana will.”

  “Who? . . . Oh, of course, my beloved.”

  “If you say so.” I plucked the card with Caresse’s cell number on it from his shirt pocket. “And I’m sure you took little Miss Coffee-Tea-or-Me’s card out of mercy, right?”

  “If I hadn’t, it would have broken her heart, now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Then how very considerate of you.”

  “Goes with the territory. What’s a sex symbol without sex?”

  Nonchalantly, he took the card out of my hand. He started to put it back in his pocket but then thought better of that idea. Instead, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and inserted it there.

  “I couldn’t tell you, Louis. No such animal has ever crossed my path. I live in Hollywood, remember?”

  It was Louis’s turn to laugh. “That’s why I’m falling in love with you, Hannah. I don’t have to sugarcoat anything for you because you already know the score, don’t you?”

  I laughed, too. Yes, Louis, I thought, if anyone knows the score, it’s me—which is why I refuse to play the game.

  The plane had started down the runway. Encouraged by my response, Louis tried another compliment—if you could call it that.

  “You’ve got a great smile. Granted, you’ve got a bit of a space between your two front teeth, but personally speaking, in certain situations it can be a real asset.”

  “Thanks. I guess.” What, was I a horse or something? Overspaced teeth is an asset? As it dawned on me that his remark might have been less equine than carnal in its inference, I blushed more than a bit. Having toppled me off my pedestal, he laughed heartily.

  Primly, I retorted, “Now, if you’d like me to keep smiling, then you’ll review these DVDs Monique sent of The Actor’s Studio interviews. According to her, the last actor invited who’d starred in a film backed by this studio felt that dropping his drawers would gain him more empathy from James Lipton than some well-chosen anecdotes. She’s assured them no similar antics will come from you, but—well, you do have a reputation for irreverence. Just think of it as another one of those ‘sex symbol’ obligations.”

  (Actually, Monique’s exact words to me were, “While they’re taping, make sure Louis keeps his cock in his pants. I mean that both literally and figuratively.”)

  He groaned. “But there’s a Manchester soccer match scheduled today, and we can pick it up via satellite!” Then he paused, struck by some more alluring idea. Smiling mischievously, he countered, “Tell you what: I’ll skip the match and go over the tapes, on one condition.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That we play our own little game between each interview. Say, Twenty Questions. You have to answer anything I ask.”

  Louis, curious about me? Hmmm. Sure, it was flattering. And scary. And very thrilling.

  I hoped I was a good enough actress to hide the fact that I was pleased he was even interested. “Okay. You’re on. But I have to warn you, it won’t be half as exciting as Manchester, I’m sure. In fact, at any point if you get bored, as I imagine you will, we’ll end it and you can switch over and get the Manchester score.”

  “Oh, I don’t plan on getting bored,” he teased.

  “We’ll see. By the way, I have a condition, too.”

  “Name it.”

  “That I get to ask a question for every one I answer.”

  He leaned back, thoughtfully. “Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Neither do I,” I said, with a bit less bravado. “Who’s up first, Depp or del Toro?”

  * * *

  The first three questions weren’t so bad. In fact, I’d say we both found them much more entertaining than the tapes. His questions to me were: (1) What did I like best about my childhood (my answer: growing up on the waterfront); (2) What were my first impressions of Los Angeles (that it was hectic, hot—the weather; and cold—in regard to the people); and (3) What would I be doing if I weren’t (in his words) babysitting him? (Planet hunting, full time!)

  I thought his questions were quite thoughtful, so much so that I used them on him. At first, to avoid giving answers, he accused me of cheating, but I would have none of it.

  “A deal is a deal, remember?” I reminded him.

  With that he shrugged and gave in: His best childhood memories were “sneaking into flicks with me mates”; (2) When he first landed in L.A., he said, “I thought it was heaven: the sun, the palm trees, all the great-looking birds—”(a.k.a. the pretty young things who couldn’t resist him).

  The third question—what would he have been doing if he hadn’t been an actor—wasn’t so easy for him to answer. Staring off into the clouds through one of the cabin’s windows, he muttered, “I’d probably be a lazy good-for-nothing tosser, like me old man.”

  Acknowledging the pity I’m sure he read in my face, he shrugged and turned back to the television monitor. “How many more of these do we have to go?”

  “Too many. We’ll never finish all of them. Maybe we can get in two more before the plane lands. That should put Monique at ease that both your posterity and posterior are safe and secure.”

  “I live to serve,” he said dryly. “This time, what say we get the questions out of the way first?”

  “Well, I dunno—” I hesitated. The happy, playful Louis was so much more comfortable to be around than the dark, bitter one I had just glimpsed. “If you want, we can skip the questions altogether.”

  “Indulge me.”

  “Okay, sure,” I said warily. “So, what do you want to know?”

  “What would you say to your father, you know, if he were still alive?”

  Louis watched intently as I struggled with the words. “I—I guess . . . well, I guess I’d want him to know that I’m okay, and that I miss him terribly. And that—that I forgive him.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Why what?”

  “Why do you forgive him? What for?”

  I paused again, not just confused about how to explain this but more or less sur
prised that Louis would even give a damn. But apparently he did—at least enough to make me think that I could be honest with him if I truly wanted to—

  And yes that was exactly what I wanted: to go ahead and say to him what I never had the chance to say to Leo.

  “Okay, here goes: I forgive him for not putting me first.”

  “First?”

  “Yeah, first: ahead of all of the loony wives and the bitchy lovers; ahead of this lousy studio deal, or that blowhard director. And most of all, ahead of his rep.”

  “Rep?”

  “Yes, his—you know, reputation. As a lady’s man. That’s all I ever really wanted from him. To come first. Just once.”

  There, I’d said it.

  “So, you wanted him to put you in front of his career.”

  “Yes,” I answered defiantly. “What’s wrong with that? Doesn’t every kid deserve that?”

  “Well, whether we do or not, we all certainly think we deserve it, now, don’t we?” he laughed wryly. “In my case, I was always coming in second to a pint of Guinness.”

  I laughed uneasily with him, then we both sat quietly for what seemed like forever.

  Finally, very softly, he added, “That old man of yours must have been quite an education, eh?”

  Our little game had so decompressed the levity in the cabin that I would not have been surprised if oxygen masks had fallen from the ceiling.

  “My turn,” I said, hoping that my question would be the breath of fresh air needed before we got to New York. “Are you looking forward to seeing Tatiana when we reach the hotel?”

  “God, I hope not!” said Louis, in horror. “I never tell her where I’m staying. What a joke that would be!”

  “Why? What do you mean?” I was confused. I’d done everything Louis had asked of me: ordered flowers for her, arranged their delivery to her apartment, along with his sweet little note: “My darling, I’ve been counting down the hours! From your Князь” (the last word, which I text-messaged to the florist so that they would get it right, meant prince in Russian). I’d even given her agency our time of arrival at the hotel. And now, he didn’t want to see her? Was he afraid of a paparazzi stakeout? Was that why he preferred Tatiana to stay away from the hotel?

  “I like to unwind first. She wouldn’t understand that. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “Who? Tell me what?”

  “Genevieve. About my usual routine. You know, how I need a massage when I arrive.”

  “Oh, yes!” I heaved a sigh of relief. “Of course, I know all about that. It’s all taken care of, through Barry. Just the way you like it.”

  “That’s my girl.” He patted my arm but let his hand linger. “You do know the score.”

  “I . . . I guess so.” I shrugged. I guessed his arrival massage was a good luck ritual or something. Leo’s had been playing nine holes at the Bel-Air Country Club barefooted. Go figure.

  Chances were that Tatiana’s hectic booking schedule wouldn’t allow her to be at the hotel in the middle of the afternoon anyway, so I decided to let the matter drop. And if she was there, maybe I could arrange a couple’s massage for the two of them. I was sure Louis would like that.

  “You’ve got one last question,” I declared brightly. “Go for it.”

  “What is your ideal in a man?”

  “My ideal? That’s a—a funny question.”

  “Why is it funny?” Despite the nonchalance he showed as he flipped through Esquire, I got the feeling he’d be parsing every word that came out through that space between my teeth.

  Pausing as I weighed my words, I finally answered: “I want a man who brings his heart and soul to our relationship. I appreciate men”—here I paused—“who aren’t afraid to speak their minds, to be honest. Or, as you put it, I want both of us to always know the score.” I gave him that gap-toothed smile he claimed to love so much. “How about you?”

  “Well, frankly, I find honesty in relationships overrated.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “No, I mean it! While every woman I meet claims to want exactly what you’ve just described, I’ve found that, in practice, they prefer the pretty lies. Especially in Hollywood.” While I took time to digest this, he added, “I think we should go one more round.”

  “We can’t. We’re about to land.” The consistent drop in the plane’s altitude was coinciding with a rise in the intimacy of his questions, both of which I found a tad uncomfortable.

  But Louis was not to be deterred. “I’ll make it quick,” he said briskly, then he looked me in the eye as he asked, “Are you falling for Mick?”

  “What?” I could feel my ears getting uncomfortably hot. “What do you mean? I don’t even know Mick.”

  “You’re right. You don’t. Then again, you’d like to think you know me.”

  I was unsure how to answer that. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “I know you like a book!” But I didn’t. Instead, I gave him the answer he wanted to hear: the sugarcoated answer. “I thought I did. But I guess I really don’t.”

  “Exactly. And that’s my point: He’s a wanker, just like the bloody rest of us blokes, love.” He gave me that dazzling smile of his. “I’m only telling you this because I’d never want anyone to hurt you—”

  I was just about to ask him why he thought Mick would hurt me when, just then, Caresse came into the cabin. She was carrying two down pillows. Noting Louis’s slight nod, she leaned beside him and slipped one under his head. As her breast grazed his forehead slightly, he grinned up at her, although I assumed he was still talking to me when he said,

  “—I mean, what would I do without you?”

  Chapter 7: Comet

  An icy object on an independent orbit around the Sun.

  There are so many features that make the Ritz Carlton Suite perfect for an evening (or, for that matter, a 59-minute, $1,800 session) of naughty debauchery. And, while each amenity is unique in its ability to spark romance, collectively they create the absolutely perfect ambiance for fucking like rabid dogs.

  Okay, well, perhaps like well-groomed highly pedigreed poodles.

  Where to begin? For starters, there is its incomparable view of Central Park. As seen from the large twenty-second floor picture window of this two-bedroom suite, and framed magnificently within the brocade drapes that complement the opulently furnished room’s taupe, pale rose and celadon color scheme, it certainly sets the mood for romance!

  Romantic enough to make you horny, you ask? Most definitely—particularly if someone else—say, the Hollywood studio you’re shilling for—is picking up the tab.

  And if that view doesn’t ring your chime, try luxuriating in either of the two marble tubs while soaking in L’Occitane bath beads. Then dry off in the fluffy Egyptian cotton towels before swaddling yourself in thick terry robes and falling into one of the two king-sized beds swathed in 700 thread-count Pratesi jacard cotton sheets. To further set the mood, the hotel invites you to light as many of the fragrant Frette candles strewn about the room as you like. Or you can flip on the Bang & Olufsen stereo system and play a mood-setting riff from the in-room compact disc selection, as each CD chosen for its success in encouraging guests to just get it on (as determined by frequently conducted guest surveys).

  And if none of this does the trick? Well, there is always the myriad of porn available via cable, as viewed through a wireless home cinema system’s 59-inch widescreen monitor.

  While all of this was news to me, it wasn’t to Prudence K., who, as Louis’s regular “masseuse” during his New York journeys, readily partook in all of the amenities the hotel offered. Thanks to Louis (and other A-listers, VIPs, and expense unaccountable CEOs), the Ritz Carlton Suite was her home away from home. In fact, in preparation for her audience with Louis, Prudence K. even helped herself to the contents of the complimentary Floris shaving kit, which provided the necessary accoutrements—a tiny yet super-efficient razor and ultra-foamy scented shaving cream—to touch up her Brazilian bikini wax.
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br />   What a field day the hotelier’s quality control team would have if they were allowed to survey her opinion as to whether the Stearns & Foster SilverDream Euro Pillowtop King mattresses were truly firm enough for marathon sexcapades, or how well the Teflon stain-resistant finish on the upholstery stood up to that potent combination of semen, sweat, vaginal fluid, and Chance Chanel Eau Fraîche, or the actual burn factor incurred when kneeling on the plush wool Oriental carpets!

  All of these, and more, were her domain—or so I gleaned in the 18-second elevator ride we took together down to my room, a cubby which embodied the more marketable moniker of “guest suite” in describing its meager—and somewhat less opulent—425 square feet.

  “Jeez, whattaya supposed to do in this cage, fuck standing up?” Prudence K. sniffed scornfully as she surveyed its much punier bed.

  Since this was to be her temporary rendezvous site with Louis—thanks to my efficiency in relaying his whereabouts to his beloved Tatiana, who had been cooling her Rive Gauche satin ankle-strapped heels in the intimate but still very public VIP lounge while Louis’s onsite point man, the ever-vigilant Barry, frantically relayed the direness of the situation to a very irate Louis and me—I prayed that this was in fact the case, since, subsequently, I too would be sleeping on those sheets.

  I certainly wouldn’t be getting any sympathy from Louis on the matter: upon seeing Tatiana’s petulant pout staring up at him from the lounge’s reproduction Duncan Phyfe sofa, he hissed through his grim, teeth-gritting grin, “Dammit, Hannah, I thought you knew the score!” before sauntering over to “the face that has launched a thousand magazine covers” and sweeping her up in his arms.

  Then, with a slight wave, he banished me to clean up the merde I had made.

  After getting Prudence K. settled, I shot back up to Louis’s suite and blathered out some lie about the Vanity Fair photo editor needing to meet with him to go over the wardrobe for the shoot later that afternoon.