True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  “Do what?” I asked exasperatedly. The last thing I wanted was to be blamed for Christy doing something stupid—and getting canned for it. “Fall in love?”

  “Yes, exactly—with a star—well, then, so can I. That is, if he’d ever leave Bethany.” She hit the table in frustration, causing Bette to hide her head behind Freddy. “He’s so unhappy with that bitch!”

  “Is Donnie trifling with your affections?” asked Sandra worriedly.

  “That’s just it: he’s not! I mean, sure, he—well, he’s sweet, and kind, and gentle with me. And yes, I’ll admit it: he does try to kiss me—”

  “Try?” Freddy guffawed. “How can he mess that up when you play the role of Little Miss Ready Willing and Able to the hilt?”

  “Well, Freddy, believe it or not, he’s got a conscience!”

  “Madame, methinks it is more likely that he’s got a smart attorney who’s warned him not to screw up his very, very generous gravy train.” Freddy shook his head knowingly. “And I’m sorry, but Bethany’s not just a meal ticket: she’s the whole Sunday brunch buffet at Polo Lounge. While you, my sweet, are the stale soda crackers from Cantor’s Deli. That boy has never been on a diet in his life, and he’s not starting now.”

  “Once I get in front of the camera, he won’t have to,” she sniffed. “I’ll put us both on the map, and then that won’t be an issue.”

  I glanced over at Sandra, whose eyes were suddenly rimmed with tears. I patted her wrist. “Sandy, are you feeling okay?”

  “It’s nothing.” She shrugged off my hand. “It’s just that when Christy used that term—putting us both on the map—it made me think of this creep who’s been hanging around Rex lately—”

  “Gee,” pouted Christy. “Thanks for that! So, now I’m some sort of creep?”

  “No! Not you! This guy Franklin. He’s done a few commercials and he thinks he can act. Rex has been ‘mentoring’ him. Ha! If you want to call it that. All hours, night and day. It’s just—well, it’s so weird—”

  Christy and I decided that now was the best time to scrutinize our silverware. As Sandra sobbed, Freddy put his arm around her.

  “—And so loud.” She groaned, then buried her head in Freddy’s shoulder.

  The waitress’s arrival with my food gave Sandra time to pull it together while the rest of us collected our thoughts. After a decent interval, Freddy spoke up.

  “Honey, it’s time you face facts: that closet door of Rex’s is not just cracked open, it’s revolving.”

  “Freddy, believe it or not, I hear you loud and clear.” She turned to face him. “But I can’t just let his career go down in flames! Or flaming. He’s up for a big important movie part, and he’s worried sick about it. I’ll just have to do my best to—to keep that boy from distracting him!”

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “How can you stop him from being—himself?”

  Sandra drilled into me with her large, jade green eyes. “I can do whatever it takes. That’s my job, right? You know what I mean by that. You did what you had to do, too, for Louis. Right?”

  No, I thought, I didn’t do it to save him.

  I did it to save me.

  * * *

  The party T was throwing for his wife Takiyah’s twenty-eighth birthday at their stately 32-room English Tudor mansion in Beverly Hills came just in the nick of time—on the fifth day after what we now formally (albeit euphemistically) called “the Altercation.” With Louis having been granted a cautionary, but certainly clear, bill of health by the doctors, the party gave us the excuse we needed to put on a happy (albeit in Louis’s case, slightly bruised) face.

  We easily outraced the reporters in Louis’s Ferarri Millechili. However, our euphoria was short-lived as we pulled up to T’s place and found another swarm of photographers buzzing around his front gate as well. So that we could slip through without too much interference, Louis honked loudly to get the attention of T’s gatekeepers: two former football-players-cum-bodyguards, both of whom were sporting T’s plum-hued signature suits with the requisite blue bandana as a pocket square. (Some say that this touch was in homage to his former gang, the Crips, although you wouldn’t hear that from T, who, under the guidance of legal counsel, had disassociated himself from these former and most formidable pals.)

  The guards scowled at Louis’s obvious attempt to jump the line, but seeing who he was—and recognizing him as a frequent visitor to T’s palace—they motioned us to drive on through and up to the cul-de-sac that encompassed a large fountain in which ten chubby cherubs danced in a misty spray.

  Another hulking sentry then signaled us to get out so that he could park the car.

  “Bullshit,” said Louis. “Only one ass gets into the driver’s seat of this two-hundred-thousand-dollar car, and that’s mine.”

  Despite the giant’s stare, Louis didn’t flinch. In the meantime, three other cars pulled up behind us. T was watching from the terrace balcony with Ethan, Bennett, Ophelia and Randy. No Mick, of course. Needless to say, after the Altercation, he had been stripped of his posse membership.

  Used to things on his estate running like a finely tuned Swiss watch, T was not at all happy at the reception Louis was receiving from one of his homeboys. He hollered at the guy to leave Louis alone. The big guy shrugged, pointed to a spot on the far side of the fountain, and began yelling obscenities at some poor schmuck who had already parked his car himself without either permission or T’s absolution.

  T greeted Louis at the door with the kind of bear hug that only a man who had already proven himself in the streets of East South Central could get away with. Randy, Bennett and Ethan knew better than to hug; they settled for the kind of hand-eye shorthand that signaled to Louis that the party wasn’t anywhere near the foyer but in the dark recesses of the house, which was wall-to-wall deep in players, gangstas, slurpees, and the wannabes who fill out any self-respecting celeb’s entourage. The five of them then took off for parts unknown, leaving me with Ophelia, whose tiny, delicate foot was encased in a plaster cast, to find common ground.

  What would that be? Not her orthopedic surgery, in which the middle toe of her left foot had been shortened with an oscillating saw in order to accommodate her vast shoe collection, which, she informed me, was her most visible trademark.

  “The toe might be a little floppy at first, but my doc swore I’d be back in stilettos in fourteen days,” she said breezily. “Hey, we all have to make sacrifices in life, right?”

  I might have nodded in sympathy, but little remarks like that had had me avoiding Ophelia like the plague since our first encounter at the Viper Room, which now seemed like a whole lifetime ago. A lot had changed since then, the biggest thing being that I was no longer Louis’s assistant but now his girlfriend.

  In other words, I was Ophelia’s equal.

  Of course, I didn’t flaunt that, but boy, did she know it anyway. In fact, the way she practically genuflected to me, you would have thought that I was the queen of some surreal Hollywood homecoming court.

  “Eight hundred and sixty-one inches! Isn’t that exciting?” Ophelia squeaked loudly above the hip-hop din as we walked—well, she hobbled—through the cavernous rooms of the mansion. She grabbed my arm conspiratorially, then tossed her head in a way that was sure to draw attention to us from the several dozen or so guests milling around us.

  “Huh?” I was drawing a blank. What did that number represent? The name of the band that was bombarding us? A new brand of jeans? Some wishful thinking on Ethan’s part about the size of his endowment?

  “The press you’ve had this week, silly!” Despite her foot cast, she undulated to the music’s beat, and, in the process, ensured a rising quota of admiring glances. “At least, according to Monique. I’m guessing it’s even more than Branjalina or TomKatt at their peak. Maybe even combined.”

  I shook my head, still confused. “I guess she hasn’t mentioned it to me, because I haven’t cared to ask.”

  She looked at me as if I were lyin
g or crazy or both. “Well, babe, you better start giving a damn, if you want to keep your standing. I guess Monique is handling your press, too, right?” She put her arm around me, a sure indication to any prying eyes that we were tight buds for sure. Not.

  Monique, handling my press? I almost laughed out loud. “Uh, no. At least, I don’t think so.” Diplomatically, I tried to disentangle myself from her leechlike grasp.

  “Then Randy should have a talk with her.”

  “What? Randy? Why should he talk to Monique about me?”

  “He’s now rep’ing you, too, isn’t he?”

  Obviously she and Ethan had been smoking something on the way over. Whatever it was, it was certainly stronger than Wild Lettuce.

  “No,” I said emphatically. “Hell, no.”

  “Oh, that’s funny. I thought he and Louis had worked something out. Hasn’t Louis said anything?”

  Numbly, I shook my head.

  “Well, don’t worry. Now that we’re BFs, I’ll be right there beside you to show you the ropes. In fact, what are you doing tomorrow? Wanna go to the Grove? I’m craving a real spree. . . . Oh, shit! I have a coloring appointment, at Canale. Hey, do you want me to see if Michael can fit you in, too? No offense, but some highlights might, you know, warm up your complexion some, you know? ”

  This parasitic Sunset Slurpee, my “best friend”? Oh yeah, right sure, that was all I needed: to have Ophelia show me the ropes, so that I might become her clone.

  Or Sybilla’s.

  If that was the case, then the only rope I’d need would be a thick one tied in a hangman’s knot.

  Which was why my stomach lurched at the thought. As bile crawled quickly up my throat, I choked out an apology and headed toward a door I hoped was a powder room.

  Considering the white powder on the tip of the noses of the couple coming out of it, I had guessed right.

  * * *

  “Hey, I know you . . . ”

  The man now staring at me was waiting patiently for the woman who was upchucking in the enclosed toilet stall to be done with her purging so that they could get back to the party. Having beaten me to the stall, I was left to flush my lunch down the bidet instead, with her boyfriend as my unwilling witness.

  Lucky dude. Retching in stereo, no less.

  I moved over to the sink so that I could rinse out my mouth. I know I sounded like a fool as I stammered back, “Yeah, uh, hi. Sorry, but I just couldn’t wait. When nature calls and all that, ha ha.”

  He said nothing else but just kept staring at me. Then his eyes moved from my face down to my breast:

  That now famous breast, which, for this party (as with all other events I attend, excluding well-publicized trysts in the woods) I’d had the decency to cover up.

  And trust me, not every woman at the party could make that same claim. Least of all Stare Master’s date, whose top was so low-cut that more of her popped out of it with each new spasm she gave.

  If you don’t already know this, then believe me when I tell you that fame is a surreal experience. Even having grown up around it, I never truly realized how awful it was to have others stare at you—scrutinizing every inch of your being—as if you were an object in a store window. Or a museum.

  Or worse yet, the zoo.

  I snapped my fingers to get his eyes to move back up to my face. “Hey, shouldn’t you be checking in on her to make sure she’s okay?”

  He shrugged. “She’s fine. Happens all the time, right?” He winked at me, as if I should have known better, what with the way I had just unloaded my own lunch. Then he pulled a business card from a gold-plated case.

  “I’m in development over at Bravo. You know, you’re really hot right now. We could build a whole reality series around you? Whattaya say?”

  A reality show–about me? What, was this dude high or something?

  His girlfriend gave one last heave then she flushed.

  “Just think about it,” he grinned broadly as she reemerged, paler and a pound or two lighter.

  He couldn’t help but watch vicariously as I took her place in the closet. Had I meant to leave the door open? Yes. Why? To take care of business, in a way: I tore up his card, flushed it, and walked out of the powder room suite with my head held high.

  At least it was high until I got out into the hallway—and realized I’d have to confront Louis about what he and Randy were cooking up.

  I wandered through the labyrinth of rooms and suites that made up T’s castle. He had personally redesigned it, unfortunately without the help of an architect. My hunt moved me through a gauntlet of stares and whispers from the partygoers—actors, agents, songwriters, musicians, record industry producers, all prominent in their own right. Their seemingly nonchalant head turns were a dead giveaway that they recognized me as Louis’s new (newest?) arm charm.

  Not fun.

  Just when I thought I might have to find another bathroom before I could find Louis, I caught a glimpse of him sitting out by the pool with Bennett, Randy, Ophelia and Ethan. Their Insiders Only intimacy created an imaginary 40-foot bubble around them, which allowed others the opportunity to observe them jealously as they laughed and conspired, but deterred anyone not already in on the joke from joining in.

  Glancing up just at that moment, Louis smiled, winked and waved me over into the bubble. I smiled back, but I wasn’t happy. I wanted to leave so that we could have the conversation in private, but I knew I’d never get Louis to agree to go home yet. So instead I steeled myself to grin and bear it for now. When we were home, just the two of us, away from Randy and all of this glam and glitter garbage, we’d talk about it.

  Then we’d cuddle. Or better yet, we’d make love.

  “We were just talking about you,” Louis said as he wrapped his arms around me. “Randy is trying to convince me that you may someday be a bigger force in Hollywood than me.” He chuckled at the thought. “Well, certainly bigger than him. Right, Randy?”

  Randy winced. “Anything’s possible. But your boyfriend here wants to keep you in your place. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him that you’re a brand, now, too.”

  “Don’t tease the poor girl, Randy,” Louis retorted. Ever so gently, he tightened his grip on me.

  Suddenly I found it hard to breathe. I took a few quick gulps of the L.A. night smog and glanced skyward. Only a few stars were twinkling through it.

  “Hannah doesn’t have an ego of any sort,” he continued. “Why, she could care less about all of this celebrity crap! You live to be at my beck and call, right, love?” He stroked my arm with his finger.

  Ego, me? Of course not. You’re right: I couldn’t care less.

  Sort of.

  And as for being at your beck and call—yeah, right. That’s how I envision spending the rest of my life: forgetting my own dreams.

  Somewhere to the left of Saturn, a star flickered.

  My star?

  I sighed. Later, when we were alone together, I would convince Louis that it was important that I continue my work.

  For us. For me.

  “Hey look, guy, I’m just as shocked as you are about it. But Monique tells me that the phone is ringing off the hook about you. And her.” Randy nodded toward me. “They want to know everything: about her life as Leo’s little girl, what she wears, where she eats, how she was able to wangle you away from Tatiana . . . Hey, what have we got to lose? If it keeps you in the limelight, I say the more the merrier.” He leered at me. “You wouldn’t mind that, would you, hon?”

  I looked down into T’s pool. He had it filled with gigantic golden koi fish. They were all swimming in different directions, chasing each others’ tails.

  Ophelia piped up with a pout. “Well, I, for one, don’t see how it would hurt, Louis. It didn’t hurt Madonna and Guy. Oops! Okay, well, they’re not a good example. Hey, what about Brad and Jen—oh…duh, sorry. My bad! You’ve got to admit, though, that it has helped Angelia and Brad. And Ethan and I love being a power couple, don’t we, honey?”


  She glanced at him for encouragement. He nodded uncertainly.

  Looking into the pool, I noticed that some of the fishes’ tails had been eaten off.

  By other fishes. Scary.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I really don’t think our relationship is anyone’s business! And besides, supervising Louis’s career takes up all my time. And that’s the real priority here.”

  “So get some help, silly!” laughed Ophelia. “You can hire a PA, and then delegate some of the grunt stuff, right? Heck, even I have a PA. I had to get one because Ethan was getting too much hate mail about me. Can you believe it? His fans like to blame me when they don’t like his movies. So now my PA burns all the stuff that gets us both so upset.” She tossed her head so that her tresses danced in the breeze, surely a crowd pleaser for those watching from outside the bubble.

  “Hey, there you go!” seconded Randy. “If you want, I’ll even help you screen the prospective candidates.” He grinned slyly at the thought.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said coolly.

  “I don’t know, Hannah. That might not be such a bad idea,” Louis put in. I turned to him, incredulous that he’d go along with the concept. He smiled sweetly. “Love, look, I’ll admit it. Sometimes I ask too much of you. And I know that I’ve been wearing you out lately.”

  I felt the palm of his hand move down the small of my back. It stopped just above a belt loop of my low-cut jeans. He massaged my hip suggestively. “Besides, if you’re out running errands, then who is going to stay at my side and look after me?”

  Translation: Between the running down into town, and the phone negotiations, and the studio meetings—not to mention being on the set whenever Louis was—I had been falling asleep too often when he wanted sex.

  And now, with the requests flowing in to be the newest power couple on the party circuit, I’d have to make some hard choices:

  Was I his PA, or his girlfriend?

  I got the message loud and clear.

  “Okay, Louis. If that’s what you really want. I’ll start interviewing on Monday.”

  “Good. Then after the postproduction on Killer Instincts, maybe you and I can get away. You know, take a long vacation, find a deserted beach… ”