by Maggie Marr
Cici clipped down the slate stairs behind Kiki’s stocky assistant, Boom Boom. The girl teetered precariously on a pair of Louboutin heels. Kiki sat at the patio table talking on her cell. She waved at Cici. Papers and black binders lay scattered around Kiki’s feet. The table held only one notepad, a gold pen, a pitcher of water with lemon, and two crystal glasses.
“May I get you something to drink, Celeste?” Boom Boom asked as Cici took the seat opposite Kiki.
“I’m good, thanks. The water is fine.”
Boom Boom nodded, and Cici watched the girl’s treacherous ascent back to the house. She felt for the poor girl; Cici knew Kiki could be a beast to her assistants.
“My love!” Kiki exclaimed. “You look gorgeous. Steven Brockman says hello; he’s still in Asia. Can’t wait to see California Girl. You know he loved that script. Wanted to do it, but with the baby due the same time as the shoot …” Kiki threw up her hands. “What can you do? I can’t wait to get you two back on a set together. How long has it been? What film was it?” Kiki reached to fill both glasses with water.
“The Lady’s Affair, almost ten years ago,” Cici said.
Cici remembered working with Steven Brockman. A high-maintenance drama queen, Steven—while filming slept with the director, the supporting actor, and two grips. She also remembered hearing rumors about a fan Steven kept as a lover for a while once the film wrapped.
“The studio made so much dough on that one.” Kiki handed Celeste her water. “So, the Oscar campaign. I just got some material from the studio. I’m a bit disappointed with their choices, actually. I’ve seen the rough cut twice now, and I think there are better stills we can use for Variety and The Reporter. But the one thing you’ve got going for you, darling, is that the studio assured me they will spare no expense. We’re talking parties, screenings, huge box-office promotions, print, TV, radio—all of it. You know, darling, Ted really wants this for you.”
Cici adored Ted. He knew that she desperately wanted an Oscar. She’d won a Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Leading Role, and an Emmy for a guest-starring arc, but the Academy had failed, thus far, to find any of her film performances Oscar-worthy.
“Looks like the release date is Christmas Day. Your performance is so emotional, really; the whole film is so raw. You did a brilliant job. I know we’re early in the process, but I want to get everyone on board and totally committed now, because the closer we get to awards season, the busier everyone becomes.”
“I have complete trust in you, Kiki,” Cici said. And she did . . for the Oscar campaign.
“What is this I hear about a new film? Vitriol? I thought you were going to relax the rest of the year?”
“This project is impossible to refuse.” Cici shifted in her chair. If only Kiki knew just how impossible.
“And the director?”
“Nathan Curtis, from England.”
“Didn’t he do the publicity shots on California Girl for Worldwide?”
Cici nodded.
“That’s a pretty fast climb. Did he do a feature in Europe?”
“A couple of shorts, but Vitriol is exactly what Lydia’s slate needs—a very sexy thriller.”
“But, darling, Worldwide just wrapped Collusion. You can’t get much sexier than that.”
Cici sipped her water. She didn’t want to share with Kiki Dee the explanation for Nathan’s rapid rise to director. But Cici needed to say something. Kiki hadn’t lasted as a publicist in Hollywood for this long without knowing how to dig. “Lydia asked me to do the film, made my quote, and put Jessica on as a producer. So I said yes.” She gave Kiki what she hoped was a convincing smile.
“Steven worked with Nathan Curtis on a photo shoot,” Kiki said. “Steven didn’t care for him much. I think Steven used the term insufferable prick. But who knows, perhaps Steven was describing himself.” Kiki cackled. “Who’s your costar on the film?”
“Holden Humphrey, and there’s another role for an older male star, say forty or forty-five.”
Cici wanted to plant the seed with Kiki—even though Lydia had visited Steven in Tokyo, and Worldwide business affairs had sent an offer to Steven’s agent—whetting Kiki’s appetite for the role in Vitriol would help the film’s momentum.
“Perhaps something for Steven?” Kiki asked. She lifted her pen and scribbled on her pad.
“Kiki, you’re such a good publicist; most don’t even think to tell their clients when they hear about a role.”
“Oh but, darling, I do try. A working client is a much happier client.”
“I’m not sure Steven will want the role. The film is a three-hander, and Steven’s character isn’t the sexy male lead, but the older, more mature voice of wisdom.”
“He’ll have to consider switching to older roles at some point. I’ll mention it to Tolliver,” Kiki said. “So, darling, anything else new for you that I should know about? Marriage, children, scandal?”
Cici’s chest tightened. Kiki emphasized the word scandal. Was it possible that she’d sniffed out the sex tape that threatened Cici and Worldwide?
“You know, it is my job to protect your image,” Kiki continued. “Make sure you’re never tarnished in the public’s eye. I need to know of any nasty little bit out there that might emerge.”
“But there’s nothing,” Cici forced an easy smile to her lips. “Everything is pretty normal.”
Kiki leaned forward and placed a hand over Cici’s. Her eyes softened as though she had the most dreadful news to convey.
“Then, darling, as your publicist, I think there is something you need to know.”
*
Cici’s hands shook and tears streamed down her face as she roared her Jaguar up Coldwater Canyon. Of course Cici played the scene brilliantly, as though Kiki’s telling her of the sex tape was the very first time she learned of the horrible DVD. Cici needed to call Howard, but with the tremor in her hands, she couldn’t drive and use her cell at the same time. She couldn’t even get the voice dial recognition in her car to work with the gutteral sobs escaping her mouth. Cici gripped the wheel tight and inhaled a lungful of air—her ribs expanding as if they might burst from her chest. Panic served no purpose. She exhaled and relaxed the tightness in her jaw causing her molars to grind. Better—much better.
This catastrophe had to be dealt with methodically—consciously—thoughtfully. Perhaps Kiki could be an asset in the battle for containment. Kiki managed to keep Steven Brockman’s sexuality from the public for the last twenty years. But Steven’s sexuality was an open Hollywood secret, well known within the confines of the Hollywood club, and Cici didn’t want anyone in Hollywood to see this dvd. If she enjoyed giving public viewings of her lovemaking, she’d have stayed married to Damien.
Cici turned the car onto Mulholland and stopped on the side of the road at a turnout. Her voice was more even, her breathing less ragged, her fingers more steady. “Lydia Albright she said to her car. One ring later Lydia answered.
“Lydia?” The moment Cici heard her friend’s voice, the hiccupping sobs resumed their voice-breaking routine.
“Cici, what’s wrong?” Lydia’s voice sounded panicky.
One more deep breath—Cici rubbed her temples and forced calm to replace fear.
“Kiki knows.”
“Oh no. Cici, I told you not to—”
“I didn’t tell her. She’s seen the DVD.”
“What? But who? Was she at someone’s party?”
“The private investigator who works for her and Howard.”
“Sherman Ross,” Lydia said. “He must know that Kiki reps you. He wants us to approach him.”
Celeste’s heartbeat sped up. “Maybe this is connected to Damien?”
“This seems too big to have Damien’s fingerprints on it. Besides, what’s his motivation?” Lydia asked.
Revenge? No, she and Damien had settled their differences during the divorce. Money? Damien had plenty of money and would make more if Celeste’s image remained pristine. Damie
n owned two scripts now in development at Galaxy and Summit that Celeste was attached to star in. Destroying Celeste’s career and public image didn’t serve Damien’s purposes.
“Hey, you okay?” Lydia interrupted Cici’s silence.
“Aside from the biggest big mouth who loves celebrity secrets having seen my sex tape? Yeah, I’m fine.”
“At least she has an interest in keeping it quiet. You’re one of her biggest clients. Call Howard.”
Ache careened through her chest—she’d made so many wrong choices and bad decisions, and now, now that she’d finally found love with Ted she could lose him because of all the baggage in her past.
“Are you still coming to the studio this afternoon?” Lydia asked.
“Can we reschedule?”
“Normally, Cici, I’d say yes, but we’ve got a tight schedule with Vitriol. We need to keep Nathan Curtis on a tight leash and we’re supposed to start filming in ten days.”
She knew Lydia rushed Vitriol into production in an attempt to contain Nathan Curtis and the DVD. “I’ll call Howard.”
“And I’ll call Sherman,” Lydia said.
Cici signed off from the call and pushed hard on the accelerator. Dirt and rock flew into the air from the turnout. She needed to make one more stop before going home.
*
Cici pushed open the front door to her ex-husband Damien Bruckner’s lavish new Bel-Air home. Damien’s gross profit participation on Borderland Blue, the super hit that Celeste starred in after their divorce, had paid for this house.
“Damien?” she called.
She walked across the rug, imported from Tibet. Damien usually played tennis on Fridays and she wondered if he was out on the court.
“Damien?” Cici walked up the stairs toward Damien’s bedroom and study.
She needed to do a little recon. As Damien’s former wife, she had a right to walk through his house, didn’t she? She tapped on Damien’s study door, hoping to find the room empty.
“Damien?” Cici called softly. No answer. She turned the handle and gave the door a gentle push. Damien’s desk sat next to a wall of windows that offered a view of his pool and tennis courts. Cici glanced down toward the yard, where Damien was rushing around the court getting his ass kicked by his tennis instructor. From the looks of Damien’s energetic stride, he and Dart had just begun playing.
Cici turned away from the windows and surveyed Damien’s study. She pulled open his top desk drawer and rummaged. Nothing unusual: receipts, files, nail clippers, lint roller. A combination lock secured the bottom drawer. Cici punched in Darnien’s birth date and the lock popped open. Not very imaginative. The drawer contained some porn, a letter to his attorney, and a check register for a foreign bank account. She glanced out the window. Damien and Dart still played.
A flat-screen TV hung above the credenza across the room. A DVD shelf nearby didn’t hold anything interesting—a collection of Damien’s films, plus some other blockbusters. No porn or unmarked cases. The tray in the DVD player was empty. She should be so lucky as to find her DVD in the DVD tray.
Cici walked back across the room and took another peek out the window—still safe. She walked through the door that connected Damien’s study to his master bedroom. He still had a mirror above his bed? Geez, he was pushing sixty. What a perv. She wondered if he had mounted cameras on the ceiling behind the one-way glass. Cici remembered the thrill she felt the first time Damien begged to film them together. Her rush continued when they viewed the tape. The graphic sounds of their lovemaking, watching Damien’s face contort—it had all turned her on. Perhaps the most aroused she’d ever become was watching herself having sex.
She moved through the bedroom toward Damien’s mahogany closet. In the Hollywood Hills home that Cici and Damien shared while married, the contractor built a safe in their closet to Damien’s specifications. Cici guessed that a similar safe resided in this closet. She pulled open the double doors and walked to the far end of the closet. Yep, a door with a lock.
She tried Damien’s birth date; no luck. What was something that Damien always had on his mind? She tried his monthly alimony payment to his first wife, Amanda. Voila. Cici pulled open the door and there, housed inside, identical to the safe built into their home, sat Damien’s new safe. While married to Damien, Cici had opened the other safe several times—usually after Damien had angered her by having an affair—and taken his black card to subsidize her shoe-buying-benders. Hundreds of thousands of dollars later, Damien still hadn’t changed the combination.
Inside the safe was everything Damien wanted to hide from the world. Cici remembered some of these items from their marriage: gun, fake passports, credit cards, securities, and a couple of film reels. In the second drawer she found several unmarked DVDs. She scooped up the DVDs and tossed them into her quilted Marc Jacobs bag.
She closed the safe and the door behind it, and walked out of the closet to glance out the bedroom window toward the tennis courts. Her heart clutched tight in her chest—the tennis court was empty.
“Cici, what are you doing in my bedroom?”
Cici’s fingers tingled with the sound of Damien’s voice. A chill slithered up her spine—what to say—what to do—but she was an actress. This she could handle.
Cici turned to Damien. She fluttered her eyelashes and cocked her hip. “Looking for you, of course.”
Damien’s eyes roved over her body. “Do you ever age?” he asked. “You still look as sexy as the day we met.” He stripped off his tennis shirt and dropped his shorts to the floor. “But, really, what are you doing in here?”
“No one answered the door, and I was looking for you,” Cici said.
He walked naked across the bedroom and into the bathroom. “You could have called.” His voice echoed off the tile walls.
“I did. How do you think I knew you were here?” The water started to run.
“Want to join me?” Damien stood in the doorway of the bathroom, naked, his cock long and hard, aroused by Cici’s presence in his bedroom.
“While I am flattered,” Celeste said, “I’m still living with Ted.”
“Marriage didn’t stop you. Why should living with someone?”
“Maybe that’s why we ended so badly, because marriage didn’t stop either of us.”
“Maybe.” Damien crossed his arms over his chest. “But, really, what do you need? If you’re not in my bedroom to fuck, then why are you here?”
Revulsion pulsed through her like a slimy substance oozing onto her skin. She couldn’t believe that she once loved Damien, that she had allowed him to define her, that she once was the desperate woman who needed a man like Damien to love her. She became a whore for his desires.
“It seems something has come up,” she said. A lascivious grin danced across Damien’s face as he pulled up an eyebrow and glanced down at his own cock. Cici rolled her eyes. “Cute. Other than that.”
Damien walked back into the bathroom. “How can I help?”
Reflected in the bathroom mirrors, Cici watched Damien lean forward to check out his pores. “You remember your attempt to produce porn?”
“Porn? What porn?”
“The DVD,” Cici said.
“Of?” Damien called.
“Me.”
“I gave it to you.”
“Do you remember what I said, about it ever getting out?”
“Something about collateral? That you know secrets about me, too,” Damien called from the bathroom.
“Well, guess what?”
“What?” He emerged from the bathroom, his eyebrows pulled tight and his lips a thin line—a perplexed look on his face. “What are you talking about, Celeste?”
“Someone has it,” Cici said.
“That’s impossible. I made one DVD, which I gave to you, and I destroyed the original footage. There weren’t any copies.”
“Not impossible. The DVD is out there. People are paying big bucks at high-end sex parties to see me.”
; Anger rose like bile—a sour taste in her mouth. Her entire life could shatter because of Damien’s perversions. “Your divorce attorney kept the DVD for a while, didn’t she?”
“This is bad,” Damien said. “Really bad. What are you going to do?”
“Me? Don’t you mean we? You and your cameras got me into this mess.”
“Cici, I feel for you, really, but we’re divorced. And, frankly, this isn’t my problem.” He walked toward the shower.
“Damien,” Cici called.
He stuck his head out again; impatience whittled away at any charm Damien’s face still carried. “Yeah.”
“You better rethink your position on helping me or all those secrets I know about you? Well, they won’t stay secret for long.”
*
Cici stood alone in the elevator and watched the numbers light up as she ascended to Lydia’s office. She didn’t trust Damien, but she knew that fear and self-interest motivated him. Over the course of their marriage Cici collected enough dirt on Damien to bury him and his massive Bel Aire home.
The doors opened, and Cici breezed by reception and directly to Toddy, who sat just outside Lydia’s door. Toddy scheduled every component of Lydia’s life, and had listened to Lydia’s calls for the last seventeen years. The details Toddy knew about everyone in Hollywood boggled Cici’s mind. With her connections and experience, Toddy could easily sit in Lydia’s chair and run Worldwide.
When Lydia accepted the job as president of production at Worldwide she offered Toddy an overall production. Toddy declined. She preferred instead to manage Lydia’s life, read scripts, prepare script notes, schedule meetings, and greet celebrities. Cici glanced over at Lydia’s two other assistants, both barely out of graduate school, their desks askew with papers, Post-its, and scripts, feverishly working the phones. Toddy, with one notepad and one pen on her desk, pushed and errant wisp of hair behind her ear and with an ever easy, graceful calm spoke into the phone. She glanced up, saw Cici, and gave her the one-second sign.
“Hello, Celeste,” Toddy said once finished with the call. She stood and leaned over her desk. Her embrace was warm—genuine—and managed to transfer the tiniest bit of calm to Cici. “She’s finishing a meeting. Probably five minutes. What can we get you to drink?”