True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  Christy blinked twice. “Let me get this straight. All of that money now goes to the dog?”

  “You betcha. And as the executive director of Bette’s foundation, I’ll be in charge of making sure that Bette is kept in the style to which she has never had the luxury of being accustomed. It’s about time, too, eh, baby?”

  He scooped up Bette in one hand and scratched her under her chin with the other.

  “Besides making sure she lives high on the hog for the rest of her life, I’ll be administering to the foundation’s other mission, which is making sure that five percent of its interest, compounded annually, is distributed to animal shelters and sanctuaries in need—and collecting a six-figure salary for all my time and trouble. Pretty nifty, huh?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I’ll say. But, Freddy, that dog isn’t going to live forever. What happens after she, uh, joins Simone in the grand hereafter?”

  “Miss Simone thought of everything. My gig is for life, or as long as I want it. And who wouldn’t?” He winked. “After fifteen years with her, I guess I proved I could be just as resourceful as she was. And I certainly do love this little dog. This was her way of taking care of both of us.”

  Christy was still confused. “But, if that’s the case, why put it in the mutt’s name in the first place? Why not just leave it to you outright?”

  “Who cares, honey? Heck, my diva might not have shown it while she walked among the living, but in her own way, she loved me. And she certainly recognized love and devotion when she saw it, too. Maybe she was worried that whatever was left of her adoring public wouldn’t understand what she shared with a prissy black man with a little stardust in his eyes. But I’m certainly not one to look a gift corpse in the mouth.”

  Christy and I both laughed, but Sandy didn’t. As Christy proposed that we raise our glasses one last time in honor of Simone, two large tears rolled down Sandy’s cheeks, not out of fondness for Freddy’s dearly beloved boss but for something she was now too obviously holding inside.

  I caught Freddy’s eye and motioned with my head for him to find some reason to keep Christy busy. The ever-astute Freddy knew what would fit the bill. “Hey, how about a tour of all forty-eight rooms in this hovel?” That was catnip to Christy. Off they went.

  Once they were out of earshot, I took Sandy’s hands in mine and moved her to the silk settee in front of the salon’s blazing fireplace. We sat there silently for what seemed like forever, just listening to the fire crackle and pop, until she was ready to speak. Finally, gulping back her anguish along with another mushroom puff, she began.

  “Rex got passed over for that Grazer project.” As she dusted her hands of crumbs, Bette pranced at her feet. “But that’s okay. He’s been asked to star in the newest Law & Order series.” She emptied her glass again.

  We both knew that TV was a step down for Rex’s career. “Is he going to take it?”

  “He’ll have to,” she said sadly, “now that he’s got a family to support.”

  “What?” To Bette’s immense pleasure, the pot sticker I was holding fell to the floor.

  Yep, you heard it here first—although I anticipate it will be all over town in twenty-four hours. Rex married his agent’s assistant last night.” Her knees buckled, perhaps the consequence of her overwrought emotions, but I had a feeling that her tipsiness was vodka-induced. I gently grabbed her arm to steady her.

  “Is that . . . a woman?”

  “Not just ‘a’ woman. A very, very pregnant woman.”

  “Jeez.” Now I’d heard it all. “He’s—the father?”

  “Get real.” Sandy’s blinders had finally come off, but by the way she grabbed another skewer off the butler’s tray, I was worried that the pounds would start going on in their place. Not that I could blame her for binging through her pain.

  “It’s a marriage of convenience. The baby’s father is Rex’s very married agent, who will never leave his wife, and the assistant—the mother of his child—says that she’ll never have an abortion. Religious reasons.” She stuffed a pineapple cube in her mouth and licked her finger. “But her religion doesn’t forbid her from marrying a gay movie actor who desperately needs a beard.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “The agent paid for their wedding and honeymoon. In fact, his unsuspecting wife planned the whole thing herself! Go figure. And because he’s forever indebted to Rex for getting him out of a jam, he’s making sure that Rex comes up for anything and everything. Can’t allow the bastard to starve, now can he? By that I mean the baby . . . which is how Rex landed the TV gig. I guess it’s a win-win for everyone—except for me. I’m out of a job.”

  “What? Why? You’re everything to Rex!”

  “Not quite everything.” She tossed her skewer into an antique urn. Bull’s eye.

  “Seems that Rex’s boyfriend—you remember, the wannabe actor?—well, he’s got some talents that I obviously can’t measure up to. And since the agent wrote in an assistant’s salary in Rex’s TV contract, Rex has asked me to ‘retire’ so that he can put Pretty Boy on the payroll without raising too many eyebrows.”

  “And you’re going to just walk away from a job you’ve done for the past nine years? That just seems so unfair, so cruel!”

  Sandy nodded. “Particularly since I . . . ” she paused to clear the catch in her throat—“I still love him.”

  Even after all that.

  On the way home, I thought about how Louis and I had lost our perspective, and how it was affecting our love for each other. I thought about how wonderful we had been together in Oregon, where we had shared trust, and passion and the kind of secrets you only tell the person you love with all your heart.

  I’d seen Louis at his worst, and I loved him anyway.

  Even when he lied to me.

  I’d always believed that he could be a good person—a wonderful person—if only he’d realize that he didn’t have to lie in order to be loved.

  He didn’t understand that now, and certainly not here in Hollywood, where lies were the currency for success—at least, for those without talent.

  But Louis had talent, which was why he didn’t need the lies.

  I could convince him of that.

  Of course, it would be easier if we were alone, just the two of us. Perhaps under a cloudless night sky, just like we’d had in Oregon.

  Most definitely, we had to work things out as soon as possible.

  We had to do it now.

  And I knew just the place.

  * * *

  “We’re in the bloody desert, Hannah!”

  “Yes, darling, I know we are. It’s Palm Springs, remember?” The two ends of the Emilio Pucci scarf I had tied around my head whipped across my lips as I turned to face him.

  “But Palm Springs is back there. We just passed the turnoff. This looks like the middle of nowhere.” Louis’s words were lost to the wind as the Ferrari zipped off Interstate 10, and, at my behest, up the more desolate Route 62. He was staring straight ahead, trying to get a handle on how the chalky earth, scattered prickly cacti and errant tumbleweeds translated into velvety verdant golf courses, stately Royal palm trees, and undulating kidney-shaped pools with mirrored surfaces that perfectly mimicked the endless clear azure sky above.

  “Seems that way, doesn’t it? But don’t worry. Where we’re going is a little out of the way, but it’s still close enough to go into town.— if that’s what you want to do. I’m guessing you’ll be happy to just stay put.” I gave him a big smile, which left him even more perplexed.

  In truth, our final destination was further than the town of Twentynine Palms—renowned as the home of the largest Marine Corps base in the country—and even beyond Desert Hot Springs, a resort built around a natural underground river, the hot mineral water flows out of the earth at a scalding 207 degrees.

  In fact, we were going even further out than Pioneertown, a remote movie set built in the 1940s to accommodate the number of Westerns Hollywood was shooting at the time, including anything starring G
ene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, the Cisco Kid and Roy Rogers. As we drove by this tribute to the Old West, I thought it was appropriate that we’d be only a few miles from the site of many a Hollywood shoot-out, since Louis and I would also be facing down the demons that were killing our relationship.

  I pointed to a dirt road that ran adjacent to the entrance to the mystical 800,000-acre Joshua Tree State Park. We turned into it, and within two miles we came to a gate that I opened via remote control.

  We had arrived at our destination: “Le Shack,” Leo’s “high desert adobe castle.” At least, that was how it was being described in the eight-page, four-color brochure put out by the realtor who now had the listing.

  Although the 28-acre property had been put up on the market when Leo’s estate had finally been settled, its $8.2 million price tag, coupled with the fact that it was forty minutes beyond the tonier gated enclaves within Palm Springs’s city limits, was making it a hard sell.

  It was for that very reason that Sybilla had never used it. So, thank goodness, it was free of any of her negative karma.

  The house itself was one of those 6,000-square-foot midcentury modern monstrosities: white-on-white and angular, with a flat roof, a huge wraparound verandah that separated a massive salon and master bedroom from two additional guest suites, and an oasis of a playground that included a fire pit, tennis courts, its very own nine-hole golf course, and a 70-foot infinity pool that butted out over the mesa on which the estate sat.

  Some of my most treasured childhood memories had been formed when I’d visited Leo there: he had taught me how to swim in that pool and, roaming through the scrub brush that surrounded the outskirts of the property, I’d caught a whole menagerie of lizards, on which I’d then bestowed ridiculous nicknames like Esther, Horatio, and Geraldine.

  And it was there that, under the cool, cloudless canopy of night, I’d taught myself the names and origins of various stars.

  Here I was, once again, focusing on one star in particular: Louis.

  Getting him to join me for a mini-holiday at Le Shack really hadn’t been all that difficult. For Louis, the Oscar nomination had created an emotional pendulum, weighted on one side by euphoria and on the other by unfounded insecurities. Out in the desert, a hundred miles away from Los Angeles, we’d be trading in a very frenzied Team Louis, the stalkarazzi, and the media’s pre-Oscar infogasm for leisurely games of golf, interspersed with sunbathing and exhilarating swims, followed by poolside massages that (I assured him) would inevitably culminate in some passionately unbridled lovemaking.

  I had left strict orders with Jeremy not to call us, for any reason whatsoever.

  Then I left my cell phone behind, to ensure that he couldn’t break this one and only rule.

  I’d sworn to myself that sometime within the thirty-six precious hours we’d spend here at Le Shack, Louis and I would recapture the attraction we’d felt for each other that afternoon in Soho. And while these few precious hours certainly couldn’t rival Oregon, where we’d first professed our love to each other and lived without secrets and lies, I had all the confidence in the world that it just might allow us to rediscover why we’d loved each other in the first place.

  As we followed the sentry of palm trees to the portiere that fronted the frosted glass double-door entrance of the house, I saw Louis give an imperceptible nod of approval. The realtor, having fully comprehended the added advantage of being able to say “Louis Trollope slept here” had followed my directions to a tee in readying the house. A bottle of Château Lynch-Bages 2000 Pauillac had been brought up from the wine cellar and uncorked. A tin of caviar rested on a bed of ice, beside a platter with a sliced loaf of fresh-baked Tassajara bread, and organic fruit. Vases holding fragrant flowers were strewn about the sunken living room, which was adorned with classic Eames chairs, Le Corbusier sofas, and curtainless floor-to-ceiling windows that boasted breathtaking panoramic valley views.

  Entranced, Louis walked out onto the patio to the pool’s edge, breathed deeply, then moved on through the doors leading into the master suite, where the slow-moving overhead fan nudged the early afternoon breeze over the large kingsize bed. Its white chenille duvet was already turned down, and its smooth, lavender-scented sheets called out to be rumpled in the heat of passion.

  “You’ve thought of everything,” he said finally.

  “I hope so.” I jumped on the bed, pulling him down onto it with me.

  He needed no other invitation.

  We undressed each other, slowly at first, then furtively, as if we would burst if we couldn’t feel each other’s skin beside our own.

  As if we’d die if we couldn’t consume each other: body, mind and soul.

  The first orgasm, a magnificent, spontaneous combustion, was followed by a mutual and exacting exploration of each other’s longings and desires. Tentative and oh so tender at first, our love play grew hungrier as the afternoon shadows grew longer, finally voraciously raging into a wet, throbbing passion that left us both weak as we collapsed side by side.

  Afterward, neither of us could speak. When he finally caught his breath, Louis murmured, “I’ve missed you.”

  A tear rolled down my face. I sobbed then answered, “I missed you, too.”

  We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  When we awoke, the sun had already fallen beneath the horizon, and the evening desert chill had settled in. We tossed on some robes, grabbed the wine and caviar platter and headed out to the pool.

  “I’m a cruel sod, aren’t I?” Louis stared off into the shadowed hills, but by the huskiness of his voice, I knew his thoughts were with me, not out there, or even back in L.A.

  “Thoughtless perhaps. Yeah, okay, and cruel. No doubt about it, you are both.” I put my arms around him.

  “You can’t say I didn’t warn you, eh?” A crooked smile pierced his lips.

  “Yes, I was duly warned.” I turned to face him. “I guess I know the score.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Because having to break in a new girlfriend every few months is a pain in the arse.”

  “Boo hoo hoo. I feel so sorry for you.” I took off my robe and dove into the pool. By the time I resurfaced, he had joined me. We kissed underwater. Then, gasping for air, we came up once more.

  He jumped out first. “Bollocks!” Scalded by the hot Mexican pavers that encircled the pool, he reached for his robe before offering me his hand. Pulling me up beside him, he held the robe open so that I could share its warmth. His warmth.

  We sat together in a cabana chaise as Venus appeared to join the moon in a celestial duet. Soon other less luminous objects in the evening sky surrounded them.

  This starry promenade danced above our heads as we talked the whole night through.

  I listened as he opened up: about his concerns over how poorly the Brownstein project was going; his fears that if it bombed it would irreparably damage his career; his realization that his reputation was fragile and that any destructive move might bring it down; and his inevitable qualms over whether that Oscar statuette was truly going to be his next Sunday night.

  At dawn, I made him his favorite breakfast of bangers and mash. I no longer did Zone. That was Jeremy’s job now, and Jeremy wasn’t here. Thank God.

  And of course we made love again, as if nothing else mattered.

  Not his past cruelties, insecurities, or infidelities.

  Not my fears of abandonment, or my anger at his betrayals.

  It was almost as if all was forgotten.

  Perhaps even forgiven.

  Afterward we just lay there in bed, his body spooning mine. Drifting off, I realized he was whispering something in my ear, but I didn’t catch it.

  “What?” I asked. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I said, don’t go. Blow it off.”

  I sighed and turned around to face him. “We’ve already gone through this. It’s important to me. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

  His face was caught in the one shaft of ea
rly morning sunlight now seeping through the drapes. He stared at me blankly. Then it registered so clearly on that face of his that was like a moving canvas: Finally, for the first time since Louis had professed his love for me, he understood how there could be something just as important to me as him.

  He would have to share me with the galaxy.

  But he couldn’t.

  In Louis’s mind, there should only be one star in my life.

  Him.

  Then and there, realizing that this would never be the case, Louis sighed, shook his head sadly and turned his back toward me.

  It was my turn to sigh.

  * * *

  All of Hollywood had Oscar fever, including me.

  This time, I was organizing my own transformation from ugly duckling to swan. It would go something like this:

  Oscar Blandi would come in to do my hair. He does not sport any tattoos, thank goodness. Any visible ones, anyway.

  Diana Ayala would be there for my makeup. No nightingale droppings, thank you very much.

  Ophelia would be nowhere near Louis’s place. In fact, if she showed up, I would order the now omnipresent guards to shoot on sight and ask questions later.

  Despite being deluged by calls from every couture house on the planet begging me to take anything from their showrooms for my walk down the red carpet, I had already made up my mind about what I’d wear. This time, the ethereally elegant turquoise Axis of Evil gown would have its shot at stardom.

  And despite any traumas Louis might incur prior to the event, I’d be wearing a smile on my face, too.

  And yes, I would be by his side as he walked into the Kodak Theatre and into Oscar history.

  Hey, not that I was adverse to all loaners: The House of Harry Winston had the perfect pair of aqua-hued sapphire-and-diamond earrings and a matching bracelet for my gown. In fact, now that my trust fund had been fully reinstated, I might even consider the bling worthy of a splurge after the big night.

  * * *

  On the day of the Azkaban dinner, Malcolm picked me up at two o’clock in the afternoon to take me to the airport.

  Louis was home, but he stayed out by the pool all morning while I pulled together the few things I needed for my overnight stay. I knew he was still upset at my decision to leave, because he didn’t even get up to see me off when Malcolm rang the doorbell. I stood there for three or four minutes, hoping that he wouldn’t make this so hard on me, but he didn’t move. I couldn’t even tell if he saw me blow a kiss good-bye, because those stark turquoise eyes of his were shielded by his pitch black Ray-Bans.