Hot New Thing

by Laura Langston

  “Nothing.”

  It’s definitely something. A red flush is creeping up the back of his neck.

  “Some people are just bastards,” he whispers when he sees me staring. “No matter how good a job you do, you’re never enough.”

  His French accent is noticeable, and I think maybe he’s gotten his words mixed up. “It’s never enough, you mean?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “You’re never enough.”

  And then we’re inside. My breath stops when I see the amazing ceiling that looks like the inside of a sheik’s tent, the massive chandelier with colored bulbs, the rows and rows of red velvet seats.

  Steve Martin is MC. His comments as he hands out the awards for the best in social media have everybody howling. By intermission, my stomach hurts from laughing.

  “Champagne?” Etienne asks as we stand and stretch.

  A ripple of unease skitters down my spine. Mom would kill me. But tonight is special. “Sure.” One glass won’t hurt.

  He heads for the bar, and I get in line for the bathroom. As I’m walking back to my seat, a dark-haired woman in a tight black column dress stops me. She reminds me of a panther.

  “Lily O’Neal, I’m so pleased to meet you.” She has flawless skin and large, almond-shaped eyes. “I’m sorry. You probably don’t know who I am.” Her red lips curve into a smile. “Damarais Hill. I saw you on location last week in Santa Paula.”

  We shot there for six days. By the end, people were actually asking me for my autograph. Calling out my name when I walked by. I lost track of how many people I talked to.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I say.

  She pulls a card from her black clutch. “I’m the Hill in the Trainer and Hill Agency.”

  The bottom drops out of my stomach. Trainer and Hill is one of the biggest talent agencies in Hollywood. “Of course.”

  “I understand you’re represented by a Vancouver firm, but have you considered going with an agency in Los Angeles?” She presses her card into my palm. “If you want to talk, give me a call. We can do wonderful things for you.”

  Between Damarais Hill and the champagne, I’m giddy and I don’t want the night to end. So when Etienne invites me to a party in Laurel Canyon, I say yes. But by the time the limo drops us in front of an ivy-covered yellow mansion, I’m having second thoughts.

  “We shouldn’t stay long,” I say as we follow the sound of laughter past garden beds filled with white flowers.

  “Why not? I’m off tomorrow and you have a late call.” He nods at a burly bald guy guarding a side gate. “Hey, Sam.”

  The man nods and swings the gate open.

  The back of the mansion is as spectacular as the front. Massive kidney-shaped pool. Swim-up bar. Two tiered patios leading to a light-filled house. I almost trip when I see a woman swimming naked in the pool. “Careful.” Etienne takes my arm. “The tiles are slippery.”

  Two levels up is another bar, plus food tables and a dance floor. “I need the bathroom,” Etienne says. “You okay for a minute?”

  At least everyone here is dressed. “Sure. Meet me by the food.”

  There’s quite a spread. Oysters on the half shell. Cracked crab claws. Pearls of black caviar on potato skins. Sushi. Tiny crudités. A selection of cheeses. My mouth starts to water. Little lamb meatballs. And I am starving.

  I scarf down a meatball, a cherry tomato stuffed with shrimp, and a few squares of cheese. Now I’m thirsty, but the bar is crowded so I check out the three punch bowls instead. Citrus-rum, tropical bourbon or iced fruit. Iced fruit should be safe. I ladle some into a cup and take a sip. It’s too sweet, but at least it’s booze-free. I fill my cup and turn to the sushi. I’m about to pick up a piece of California roll when a horsey-looking woman wearing gold palazzo pants and a cream wrap comes up beside me. “Hello, Lily. It’s nice to see you again.”

  At least I remember her. She’s Pat Landsberg, a producer Nic introduced me to on set last week. “Hello!” I gulp down some punch. I’m relieved to see a familiar (but not famous) face.

  “My husband and I are sitting over there.” She points to a short, stout man loaded with bling. “Why don’t you fill up your cup and join us?”

  Pat’s husband, Richard, quickly puts me at ease, asking about my experience and how I’m finding the role of Iris and making sure I never run out of punch. He offers to get me something to eat at one point, but I say no. With my luck, I’d probably drop a chunk of sushi down my dress or something. When Etienne walks by and gives me a questioning look, I give him a thumbs-up. A few minutes later, when Richard says they’re casting for an upcoming movie and asks if I’d consider taking on a part, I almost choke on my drink. “Of course,” I say.

  Pat stands. “There are a few people Rich and I would like you to meet.”

  When I stand, the pool seems to tilt. I’m light-headed with excitement.

  And my excitement builds. Pat and Richard escort me around the patio, introducing me to their friends and associates—more producers, another director. Business card after business card is pressed into my hand, along with cup after cup of punch. People can’t do enough for me.

  “She’s a beautiful girl,” someone says. “Like a china doll.” The words drift by. I feel weirdly disconnected. Time and conversations are blurring; names are running together.

  “I need to find Etienne. I need to go.” My mouth feels thick, like I’m talking around a pair of socks.

  “Tell your agent to call us as soon as possible so we can get this offer on the table.” Pat hands me her card.

  That makes six. I fumble with my clutch. Or is it seven? I’ve lost track. “I need the bathroom first.”

  “Of course. It’s inside through the media room.” She motions to the open patio door. “Turn right, go down the hall. You can’t miss it.”

  There’s a movie playing, but the images on the screen are blurred. “Somebody should fix that,” I mumble, walking unsteadily down the hall. Inside the bathroom, the room starts to spin. I grab the vanity and stare at my reflection until the walls stop moving. I lean into the glass and stare at a tiny mole beside my mouth.

  Oops. It’s not a mole. It’s a tiny piece of lamb. A lamb mole. I giggle. And everybody in the whole wide party world has seen it. My laughter deepens. Whatever. I brush it away.

  A few minutes later, when I wander back to the media room, Etienne is waiting.

  I collapse into a black recliner. My legs feel like I’m walking under water. “Hey, Mr. Maple-Sugar Bacon Man.” I hesitate, grappling for a memory. “No. Wait. Mr. Musky Maple-Sugar Bacon Man.” My eyes are so heavy, I swear I could sleep for a year.

  Etienne crouches beside me. He’s taken off his tie and loosened the top buttons on his shirt. “Are you okay?”

  “’Course I’m okay.” I gesture to the screen. “That’s not okay though. That movie’s out of focus.”

  He just watches me.

  “What’s wrong? Is my lamb mole back?” I giggle again.

  He frowns. “Lamb mole?”

  “Yeah, everybody saw it. But that’s okay because everybody really, really likes me.” I straighten. I trace the outline of his lips with the tip of my finger. “You like me too, right, Etienne?”

  His blue eyes darken. “I—”

  I cut him off. “Come home with me,” I tease. It’s like the movie, only backward. “You know you want to.” I drop my hand to his shoulder and pull him close. And this time we really do kiss.

  His mouth is warm, fruity and sharp. I could drown in his taste. I slide my arms around his neck and pull him closer. I really could.

  He lifts his head and gently removes my hands from his neck. “Did you eat the sushi?”

  “No. Yes. I can’t remember.” I struggle to think back.

  “I hope not,” Etienne say
s. “That was happy sushi. It was laced with pot.”

  “I didn’t.” Skepticism flashes across his face. “I didn’t, didn’t, didn’t,” I insist in a singsong voice. “But I did have a lamb meatball.” I snicker. “That’s where I got the lamb mole. And I drank lots and lots of iced fruit punch.”

  “Ah.” He tugs me to my feet. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “You’re drunk, Lily.”

  “No way. That was fruit punch. Fruit as in way-too-sweet fruit punch.” I giggle again.

  “That was vodka fruit punch. It’s sweetened for people who hate the taste of booze.” He puts his arm around me and guides me to the door. “Come on. We need to sober you up. You’re totally hammered.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lily to June: We need to talk. I’ve had offers!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Claire to Lily: There’s a picture of you and Etienne in the Vancouver Sun!!!!!

  Dad to Lily: We have a problem, young lady.

  “Don’t do it again,” June says as the driver coasts to a stop outside Uncle Mike’s house the following night. I’m glad the day is over. I don’t know how people work when they’re hungover. I barely managed, even with my late call. And boy, did Ellen have to do a lot of magic in makeup to make me look human. “I covered for you this time, but I won’t in the future.”

  Of course she covered for me. June’s supposed to be chaperoning. If my parents found out she wasn’t, they’d be furious with her.

  Living room lights glow through the dark silhouette of the tree in the front yard. It’s almost eleven, but somebody’s still up. Oh, man. A headache pounds behind my eyes. This won’t be good.

  “Next time, text me if you’re going somewhere after an event.” The streetlight makes her perma-tanned face look like rough adobe. “At least Etienne finally answered your cell phone.”

  Yeah, at 2:00 AM as we were driving the streets of LA while he sobered me up with milky coffee and greasy French fries. By then, my aunt was frantic. How was I supposed to know she’d check on me before she went to bed? Apparently, she’s done it before, but I’ve always been asleep.

  “I told them you had my permission but you lost track of time.”

  She doesn’t know about the punch, then. Etienne was smart enough not to mention it. “Thanks.” I gesture to the business cards she’s holding. “So you’ll follow up with Richard and Pat? And the others?” Three producers mentioned specific roles. Two others wanted to talk possibilities.

  “Yes, Lily. With everyone.”

  After confirming tomorrow’s pickup time with the driver, I head for the front door, gingerly sliding my key into the lock. My aunt and uncle said very little last night, though they were obviously furious. They told me to go to bed, that we would discuss things when they were calmer. I know I need to apologize, and I will, but not tonight. Please, not tonight.

  The door swings open. I see a pair of ugly striped socks, a faded gray sweat suit. Samantha. Her face impassive, she gestures to the living room. “They want to see you.”

  Crap. Aunt Joanne is curled into the corner of the couch, her dressing gown pulled tight. Uncle Mike is beside her, his hair sticking up at the back. Guilt twinges. They’ve dozed off waiting for me.

  “We were worried last night,” he says.

  Worried enough to call my parents. I know. Mom and Dad reamed me out long distance first thing this morning. “I’m so sorry.” I perch stiffly on the chair across from them. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  My gaze lands on the newspaper lying on the coffee table. It’s open to the picture of me and Etienne arriving at the party. Thank God we weren’t photographed leaving.

  “We want you to use our home as your own, but that means having enough respect to let us know when you’ll be late,” Uncle Mike says.

  “We have certain expectations,” Joanne adds. “Obviously, you do things differently in your house.”

  Not true, I want to say. My parents freaked too. But her stern frown stops me.

  He clears his throat. “While you’re here, you must tell us if you plan to come in after midnight.”

  “It may be a foreign concept,” Joanne says, “but it’s how we do things in our family.”

  Our family. Message received. I’m an outsider here.

  “Of course.” I get up, and my gaze falls on the newspaper again. I wasn’t an outsider at the party. Everybody wanted to talk to me.

  As I walk down the hall, Samantha pokes her head out of her room. “Was it worth it?”

  Instead of judgment in her dark eyes, there’s only curiosity. “Totally.” The punch was a mistake, and one I won’t repeat (pizza and sushi are to be avoided too, Etienne said last night), but I’m glad I went. “So totally.”

  A half smile flits across her face as she shuts the door.

  I made some important connections last night. And connecting is the name of the game in Hollywood. It’s a sign that I’ve arrived.

  Tuesday morning, however, when I arrive at the studio and see Etienne standing by the coffee, the only thing I feel is a hot rush of embarrassment. I’m dreading this. I haven’t seen him since I kissed him in the media room. And in the limo too. Shame worms through me.

  Girls throw themselves at him all the time, Claire had told me when we talked Monday. For sure he’s used to it.

  Maybe, but I’m not most girls. Making my mark in Hollywood doesn’t mean I should lower my standards. I take a deep breath and force myself to move. I need to get this over with.

  “Morning, Lily,” the AD says when I reach them.

  “Morning.”

  Etienne looks over and smiles. I turn away, pour coffee, add way too much sugar. When the AD leaves, I squelch my humiliation and turn around.

  His dimple flashes as he gives me that classic Etienne look, the combination of sexy flirt and little boy lost. “Had any punch this morning?”

  My face heats up a thousand degrees. He laughs.

  “Look, I’m really sorry, okay? You probably have the totally wrong idea, but I don’t normally act that way. It’s not who I am, and I need you to know that.”

  “It’s no big deal,” he says as we wander over to the chairs. “It’s not the first time.”

  Somehow that is not comforting. “I don’t want it to get in the way of our”—our what? Friendship? Budding romance? Working relationship?—“our work on set,” I finish weakly.

  “It won’t.” We sit and watch John take his place on set for his first scene of the day with Brooklyn. “How did it go with your agent yesterday?”

  “Good.” I’m relieved he’s changed the subject. “She promised to follow up on the offers right away.”

  “Keep on top of her,” he says. “Nobody cares about your career as much as you. I learned that the hard way.”

  Early in his career, Etienne had a disastrous relationship with a business manager who insisted he be called Steven, the English translation of Etienne. The relationship ended publicly and badly. I found out last night when I googled Steve “Etienne” Quinn.

  “You’re on your way, Lily. Pat and Richard are top producers. Anything they touch is box-office gold.”

  On your way. Box-office gold. I remind myself of Etienne’s comments over the next few days as I work on the film and wait for June to get back to me. On Wednesday, AJ asks me to do a phone interview with a reporter from the Hollywood Slate. Wary of being misquoted, I ask for the questions ahead of time, and the interview goes well. I text June about it and at the same time ask if she’s been in touch with any of the producers. She doesn’t reply. By Friday, I’m anxious. By Sunday, I’m mad. I don’t need her holding my hand every minute, but she is supposed to be chaperoning me.

  On Monday morning, we finally connect by phone as I’m dressing in my trailer.

 
“Richard’s role wasn’t suitable for you,” she says. I hear the sound of a coffee grinder in the background and someone shouting, “Tall dark to go.”

  I fasten my skirt and walk into the living area. “What do you mean, it wasn’t suitable?” I wiggle into my black Iris shoes.

  “Just that.” The background sounds fade. “It was too mature. Too edgy.”

  I fall into the pink loveseat. “What about the other producers? What about their projects?”

  “A level of sophistication…some violence…not comfortable…”

  “You’re cutting out!”

  “…simply not the right roles for you…better for my other clients…recommending them instead.”

  “What?” Shocked, I stare at the weekly flower arrangement on the glass side table. The pretty yellow daisies and white freesias mock me with their cheerfulness. “You suggested other clients?”

  “I have to do what’s best for my clients, Lily.” June’s voice is full strength again, but I feel like I’m under water. I am so stunned, her words sound garbled. “There will be other roles for you, dear. Don’t worry.”

  Sound comes out of my mouth. Something mechanical. June starts to respond, but I cut her off. “I have to go.” Jumping up, I hurry to the kitchen counter. “Someone’s waiting for me.”

  I disconnect and pick up my purse. Someone is waiting for me. I flick the clasp and remove the only business card I didn’t pass to June.

  Damarais Hill. It’s time I talked to her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Claire to Lily: Srsly??????? June turned them down?

  Mr. Basi to Lily: Good work! A solid B on the classwork. You can write the final when you get home.

  Mom to Lily: We miss you. Only 3 more weeks to go.

  “Bring me another glass of wine,” Damarais demands when the waiter stops to top up our water glasses the following afternoon. She’s wearing a sleek beige pantsuit, chunky black jewelry and a Bluetooth in her ear. She looks like a cat ready to pounce, the way she watches the other tables.