True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  “You know, Hannah, you just don’t get it! True love is a give-and-take. And sometimes what you have to give must be really painful.”

  Oh yeah? That was easily said, coming from someone who had nothing more to lose than a skin tag. As for Ethan, well, I wondered why he felt it was worth the price of some foreskin. Perhaps he’d been informed by his attorneys that, when it came to appeasing Ophelia, the Rabi snip was the less painful way to get shafted than a pre-nup.

  Yanking the copper dress out of the fashion stylist’s hand, Ophelia roused me from the salon chair and held it up to me. “Whattaya think of this one? Stunning, right?”

  “Well, um, gee. . . I don’t know. I sort of had something else in mind already.”

  As carefully as I could with two undercoats of polish on my nails, I opened the dress bag hanging in the foyer closet and brought over my gown for her to see.

  Her eyes immediately went to the label. After all, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that couture zing.

  “Axis of Evil?” she sniffed. “What, is that some kind of joke?” Gingerly, so as not to get infected with any off-the-rack cooties, she tossed it into a corner, where it slid under the makeup artist’s mobile cosmetic cart.

  In the movie that was my life, my role as Lady Bountiful now lay on the cutting room floor.

  Ophelia draped the copper gown over my shoulders. “With the right highlights, you just might be able to pull it off.” She turned to her hair patrol: “Coco, pray tell, what do you think? Too too red?”

  “Honey chile,” purred the SWAT leader, so designated because he was the one with the most tattoos “Can there ever be too much red in a girl’s life?”

  “You’re a savant, you know that, right?” She blew him an air kiss, then perused the tag and held it out to me triumphantly.

  “I must be one, too!” “See? D&G!”

  Well, she was partially right.

  * * *

  That night Wilshire Boulevard was a virtual milky way, lit up by those who glowed the brightest in Hollywood’s celestial firmament as they made their way to the Beverly Hilton in their earthbound stretch chariots to eat, drink and be merry at the gala that predicted (or, some insisted, jinxed) Oscar’s ultimate nod.

  To ensure that theirs was a party to be reckoned with, the international press corps provided an elegant setting, a decent enough meal, and enough liquor to launch another Titanic sequel and lure their honored guests (industry bigwigs, revered film legends, television’s latest veterans, talented up-and-comers from every medium, and flash-in-the-pan fly-by-night celebrities of every ilk) to let down their perfectly coiffed hair and be happy, silly, tense or tearful—preferably during the ceremony’s live satellite feed, as opposed to one of its many commercial breaks.

  As Malcolm opened the back door of the limo to let us out, Louis smiled and waved to his adoring fans. Then, leaning so close to me that all watching assumed he was nuzzling me, he murmured in my ear, “Oh, darling, I hope you don’t mind too terribly, but I would really appreciate it if tonight you walked in after me, you know, on the red carpet. We don’t want to remind them that I’m competing with Leo too, now, do we?”

  Competing with Leo?

  I was crushed. I was hurt.

  I was sad that Louis was too damned insecure to share this very important moment with me.

  Still, I was willing to accept that.

  I’d have to, if we were going to stay a couple.

  Out he went, debonair in his white Armani tux jacket, sauntering down the red carpet with the kind of assurance that implied that he was truly worthy of the adoration of his screaming fans. And yes, true to my word, I hung back somewhat, waving at the crowd, stopping to talk to anyone who did not look like someone the paparazzi would care to photograph with me, while Louis schmoozed with the bevy of gushing infotainment reporters who, one by one in their private audience with him, parroted the mantra sure to garner his biggest smile: “Why, Louis, you’re a shoo-in for the Best Dramatic Actor award!”

  Out of the corner of my eye I felt someone watching me. It was Mick, handsome in a black-on-black tux. He, too, had seen Louis stroll into the limelight without a second thought to my being left behind. The involuntary shake of his head let on how incredulous he was at what he’d just witnessed. Seeing me glance over, Mick gave a hesitant wave. I nodded in return, then followed after Louis, hoping that the smile I forced onto my lips wouldn’t give away my own feelings of regret, not about the fact that I wasn’t on Louis’s arm, but that I wasn’t on Mick’s.

  To my relief, no one else was on it, either.

  * * *

  It was inevitable that someone would pull a Lahti (be otherwise predisposed with relieving bodily functions when his or her name was announced as the winner in their category), or perhaps a Jack (take enough painkillers to give the press something to write about, or perhaps let some part of his anatomy sum up how he felt about the evening). As the night wore on and the speeches wore thin, I was afraid that person would be Louis, who seemed to belt down a scotch every time he heard the phrase “—and I’d like to thank the Hollywood Foreign Press Association—”

  Mick’s category came up before Louis’s. When he won, he bounded onto the stage, thanked the movie’s crew, took special note of the producers and the director, expressed his gratitude to various cast members for bringing his characters to life, but pointedly skipped any mention of Louis. The cameras were ready for that, cutting to a close-up of Louis and me.

  And Louis was ready for them. By reminding the world that he’d stolen Mick’s girl, he’d effectively steal Mick’s thunder, too—which is why he pulled me close, gave me a soulful look, and moved in for a long, lingering kiss.

  Just as his lips came up to mine, I turned my head.

  Louis lips brushed my cheek instead.

  The effect was sweet—and not at all what Louis had wanted the world to see.

  Too bad. I was disgusted with his behavior, and I wasn’t going to play along.

  For the rest of the ceremony, Louis ignored me. And since our table was filled with a fair amount of Hollywood’s up-and-coming women-to-watch, that was certainly easy for him to do.

  When Louis’s category was finally announced, he won as well. Leaping onto the stage, he took his award from Renee Zellweger then he, too, thanked the movie’s crew, the director, the producers, and his cast members.

  It was no shock to anyone that he did not mention Mick.

  What did stun everyone, when the incident was discussed afterward and incessantly by the media, was that he hadn’t mentioned me, either.

  The wounded look on my face was later described by the media as “reflectively melancholy.”

  With Renee on one side and the official onstage eye-candy-cum-statuette holder (i.e., one of Hollywood’s many second-generation princesses) on the other, he was led off the stage and into that den of wolves known as the press room—where, with backslaps, air kisses and handshakes, along with the clicking of flashbulbs and the gushing softballs pitched by reporters, Louis was once again assured of his position as the brightest, most recognized star in that social constellation known as Hollywood.

  As for me, I had to sit at our table and smile serenely as Ben or Hilary or Julia or Steven nodded and shrugged sympathetically at my exclusion in Louis’s speech. It was inevitable that Louis would forget someone’s name, right? They’d all done it. No big deal, right?

  Of course it was.

  When Louis finally made his way back to the table, his unabashed apology said it all. “My God, love, I’m truly and awfully sorry! Must have just slipped my mind somehow. But I’ll make it up to you, later tonight, right?”

  With that he winked patronizingly, then punished me further by giving his undivided attention to two female Greatest Race contestants who were proclaiming to be his biggest fans, and explaining how they could prove it.

  Together.

  Mick got up and left.

  I wished I had followed him out, bu
t I just couldn’t.

  Chapter 17: Eclipse

  A chance alignment between the Sun and two other celestial objects, in which one body blocks the light of the Sun from the other; or

  To obscure or diminish in importance, fame, or reputation.

  The PA I found for Louis was perfect in every way: efficient, discreet, highly experienced (having been employed previously by two other film actors of Louis’s caliber), and most importantly, vetted with a clean record by a private investigator hired by Jasper.

  The PA also happened to be a man.

  As I explained this to Louis, who was floating in the pool, he raised his Ray Bans in disapproval and frowned.

  “He’s got to be a pouf, right? Oh, come on, Hannah! Now, why would I want some fag hanging around here? It gives the wrong impression.”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s as straight as you are,” I countered. “Look, Louis, if you’re really worried that people question which team you bat for, then why do you hang around with Randy? I mean, come on already! Despite all of his macho manwhore bullshit, the jerk practically lives in tranny bars, right? And haven’t you seen his paddle collection? I mean, the guy proudly admits he lives to be a bottom. Haven’t you asked yourself what that’s all about? The way Randy fawns all over you, I’d be willing to bet that you’d feel more comfortable sharing a bar of soap in the shower at The Sports Club with your new PA, Jeremy, than with your esteemed agent.”

  Louis’s nod was barely perceptible, but it was an acknowledgement just the same. Ah, so some of these same suspicions had crossed his mind before, eh? With any luck, Louis might now actually reconsider his “relationship” with Randy and shop around for another agent: a real he-man, like Ari, say, or Bryan or David.

  If only.

  “Besides, Jeremy was the most qualified candidate I interviewed. Also, he’s a total stickler for details, has a photographic memory, and was the hungriest candidate for the job. Oh, and by the way, he’s got his choice right now of working for you or Ewan. He’s choosing you. Go figure.”

  “Oh. . . .well, of course, he would.”

  Surprise, surprise: I’d taken every single objection Louis could think of, added a reason he could feel superior about, and turned it around on him. I tried hard not to smile at my triumph.

  Louis lowered his shades and got back to his sunbathing. “I trust your judgment, love. Do what you think is right.”

  “Good, then that’s settled. Jeremy’s waiting in the foyer. I’ll go get him so that you two boys can get acquainted.”

  I’d almost made it to the door when Louis stopped me cold with this one: “In hindsight, Hannah, having a guy as a PA might be the smartest thing I’ve ever done. Another bloke would understand things about me that women just can’t grasp. No offense to you, darling! Of course, you’re more to me than just ‘another woman.’ And you’re certainly more than just my lowly PA… Can’t wait to meet him. I’ll break him in right, go over a few things with him, like my usual routine—”

  Louis’s usual routine.

  His words ripped through me, like a knife.

  Now I knew how Louis had spent his time in London.

  “And all this time, I thought that I was your ‘usual routine.’ Well, thanks for clearing that up, Louis.” I tried to keep my voice calm, but I couldn’t. “I’m doing this only because we both felt it would save—strengthen our relationship, remember? If bringing on Jeremy, or anyone else for that matter, male or female, means that we have no relationship at all, then maybe I shouldn’t hire anyone, or maybe we should just break—”

  “Damn it, Hannah! Why are you always jumping to conclusions? I mean, really! Are you that insecure?”

  He waded through the water until he reached the steps, then climbed out and wrapped a towel around his waist. Water droplets, clinging to his well-oiled shoulders, glistened in the sun.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, my management company has devised a multi-page dossier on my likes, dislikes, needs and preferences. The fact that I’ve offered to go over them with Jerry—”

  “Jeremy.”

  “Whoever—is just my way of shouldering some of the burden that always seems to land on your fragile, delicate shoulders.”

  He took hold of those fragile, delicate shoulders and nuzzled them seductively. “You know, love, you’ll never lose me as long as we’re both happy.”

  “So, tell me you’re happy, Louis.”

  He stopped, thought a moment, then said, “Couldn’t be happier, love. I just wish I—we—weren’t so bored. . . ”

  Bored? Did I say I was bored?

  Or was he saying that I was boring?

  That afternoon, while Louis reviewed his dossier with Jeremy, I familiarized myself with the contents of Louis’s toy chest of sexual paraphernalia. I was determined that my name and the word bored would never come out of Louis mouth in the same sentence ever again.

  * * *

  True to his resumé, Jeremy took to the job like a fish to water. Nothing his master requested of him went unfulfilled.

  In fact, the very first thing he did was to change the passwords on both the gray and the red phones, as well as the one on Louis’s PDA.

  In other words, I no longer had access to Louis’s voice mail or his calendar.

  Jeremy did, however, present me with my own phone and PDA—on Louis’s orders.

  “He wants me to copy you on all important meetings,” Jeremy explained in that calm, rational, happy singsong voice of his that I was already learning to despise.

  “Frankly, I’d like to be copied on all of his meetings. As a double-check system, okay?”

  “Already got that covered. With Genevieve.”

  “But that’s not necessary if I have—”

  “Louis would prefer it that way.”

  I was beginning to hate it when he said that. Maybe because he said it much too frequently, in response to every question I had about Louis’s “routines.”

  “Louis feels that you’re too weighted down by stupid details. It’s his desire that you focus on his big picture—”

  His big picture.

  “—because that frees you up to be with him more of the time.”

  “More time with him, huh? Not according to this.” I jabbed a finger at my PDA, which only had me scheduled for press interviews, broken up intermittently by some “play time” (at least, that’s how Jeremy had written it up) with Ophelia—a mani/pedi, spa day, trunk show at Barneys. . .

  Oh yeah, I was beginning to see the “big picture,” all right.

  “Thanks for your consideration, Jeremy,” I answered coolly. “I’ll just take it up with Louis tonight.”

  “Sure, whatever you want to do, Hannah,” he chimed in. “Oh, and by the way, just so you know, we’ll be getting back late tonight, after midnight. Randy scheduled a—a dinner. With Mr. Brownstein.”

  “That’s nice. Where is it taking place?”

  “I’m really not at liberty to say.”

  I stared at him. Hollywood Reporter had already noted Brownstein’s penchant for dives where the steaks were served lukewarm but the pole dancers were red hot. I could only guess that their destination was one such hole, perhaps Fantasy Island.

  Imagine the tattoos they’d see, and where.

  By the eighth minute of our staring contest, a bead of sweat popped up on Jeremy’s forehead.

  Still, he didn’t break.

  Boy, he’s good. I really know how to pick ’em, don’t I?

  * * *

  If I was going to suffer separation anxiety from Louis, then at least something good could come of it. I’d devote my night to stargazing. After telling Jeremy to inform Louis that I’d be at the observatory that evening, I called Christy to see if she’d have an early dinner with me.

  Unfortunately, Christy couldn’t join me: she was working a double shift at Dublin’s. Although it enjoyed a coveted location on Sunset, the bar catered to a less-than-desirable crowd, mainly frat boys and blue-collar Nean
derthals who preferred shooters to premium brands, and waitresses with bountiful breasts, to Slurpees with credit-rating services programmed into their speed dials.

  “Sorry, Hannah. I’ve started taking acting lessons again and I need the money, so my bosses here are letting me fill in for anyone who calls in sick.” She sounded breathless but happy.

  “I understand, sweetie. By the way, were you able to get any of your things out of Donnie and Bethany’s place?”

  “They had Manuel, the gardener, drop off my clothes.” I could hear her tear up. “He also left a note from their attorney. Bethany is threatening to sue me if I say anything to anyone about Donnie and the rape.”

  “As if she could shut you up! I think you should go to the police, right now—”

  “I can’t, Hannah!”

  “Why not?” I asked indignantly. “Those pigs need to understand that they just can’t do something like that! If you go to the police, they’ll make sure that Donnie and those—those ‘actors’ don’t get away with it!”

  “Hannah, no! I’m not going to the police, and that’s final.” Although Christy whispered it, she was resolute. “In the first place, I don’t want people to think of me as ‘that girl who did the porn flick for Bethany’s husband, Donnie Beaudry.’ What will that accomplish, other than keep producers who are afraid of getting Bethany mad at them from working with me, or get me more offers to do porn?”

  Her sigh echoed through my cell phone.

  She had a point there. “Okay, Christy. I understand. I can’t stand the thought that they’re getting away with it.”

  “They are. But, you know what? I just can’t afford avenging my pride right now.”

  * * *

  Mic, my own special star, was happy to see me again.

  I knew this because, four hours into my observation—12:43 AM to be exact—he let me in on his little secret: there was no dust visible at around three AUs inside the debris ring that encircled Mic.

  That was the telltale sign I needed that a planet was orbiting it.

  I made the necessary notations, then packed up my telescope.