Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club

by Maggie Marr

  These two cackling old birds—Kiki’s face looked overdone. One more procedure and any hint of normalcy would disappear. Kiki treated plastic surgery like a weekly mani-pedi appointment. Meanwhile, Terri was the opposite. The jowls on her—she could wrap the loose skin from her chin around her neck and use it as a scarf. Both were wealthy. Both were the definition of success. But were both lonely? Obviously.

  Kiki married twice, unsuccessfully. Terri, never, but she had legendary affairs. She’d slept with every A-list male star through the sixties, seventies, and well into the eighties. But now? Children? None. No family. Kiki and Terri rifled through the pictures of Cici. She didn’t want a solitary life when she grew old. She didn’t want to hire a male stud service to satisfy her sexual needs. She didn’t want to rattle around in a giant house with only staff and assistants to keep her company. Where would she spend her holidays? And why hadn’t she thought of any of this earlier?

  “Cici.” Kiki tapped her on the arm. “Come back to us, darling. Terri likes this one.” She held up a midrange still of Cici’s face. “What do you think?”

  “I thought you wanted to go with a close-up?”

  “Well, I did, but sweetie, you’re not twenty-five anymore, and I want to maintain the perception of youth for the public.”

  “Look, here,” Terri pointed to a close-up of Cici’s face, “under your eyes. It’s the beginning of bags.”

  “Can’t they touch up the photo?” Celeste asked.

  “Oh, honey,” Kiki said. “They already did.”

  *

  “You sure you want to do this? You don’t have to,” Mary Anne said. She bit her bottom lip and held one of Cici’s hands.

  “You’ll wait for me?” Cici asked. Vulnerability like cold water washed through her veins.

  “Of course.”

  Cici clutched Mary Anne’s hand tighter—she closed her eyes and forced calm into her mind. She didn’t have to do this; she knew that. The surgery was elective. But her public expected her to personify youth and to age gracefully. And Cici knew that aging gracefully in Hollywood meant aging very little at all.

  “Miss Solange? Are you ready?” Melnick’s nurse stood waiting to push her to the operating suite. This was pure vanity—Cici had no right to be afraid—and yet her palms grew damp as the stretcher began to move.

  “Cici.” Charles Melnick rounded the corner wearing his scrubs, his hands raised to the heavens. “I do this every day; no worries.” Cici attempted a smile. She glanced at Mary Anne.

  “I’ll be here when you wake up,” Mary Anne said.

  Cici nodded her head and gave her a small smile as Mary Anne’s fingers slipped away.

  Rule 23: Never Panic

  Lydia Albright, President of Production, Worldwide Pictures

  Lydia almost erased the message when she saw the blinking light on her answering machine. Only solicitors called her home number; everyone else called her office or her mobile. But this time, for some reason, she pushed the button—and heard a cryptic message from Ted Robinoff, her boss, the owner and chairman of Worldwide Pictures.

  “Call me from your landline at home as soon as you get this.”

  Lydia fished her BlackBerry from her purse. No messages. No e-mails. No texts. Ted wanted no trace of this call. Studio security monitored the landlines at Worldwide. Most offices, unbeknownst to their executive inhabitants, contained bugs, and some even had cameras. Security had the capability to listen to all the mobile phones Worldwide purchased for their executives. So, as Lydia dialed Ted’s number in Japan, she realized this call from Ted was different from most of their conversations.

  “Lydia?” Though it was deep into the night in Tokyo, Ted answered without a hint of fatigue in his voice.

  “Hello, Ted.”

  “Where’s Cici?” he asked.

  Ted’s question surprised Lydia. Ted lived with Cici. And since she and Lydia were close friends, Ted and Lydia maintained an unspoken agreement never to discuss Cici except regarding film roles.

  “I’m guessing either on her way to the set or at home,” Lydia said.

  “Then why did I just pick up a message from Terri Seawell asking me how Cici and I are enjoying Fiji?”

  Lydia paused, trying to remember why Terri thought Cici and Ted had flown to Fiji.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Lydia said, covering, “Cici’s off the shooting schedule for a couple of days and she wanted to be Terri-free.”

  “What do you mean Terri-free?”

  Lydia assumed Cici had shared with Ted that Terri Seawell was shadowing her during the filming of Vitriol.

  “It’s for the Oscar campaign for California Girl. Terri’s shadowing Cici while we shoot Vitriol.”

  “Vitriol? Terri Seawell is on set for Vitriol? Are you sure that’s wise?” Ted asked.

  Lydia’s carefully crafted calm zipped away, replaced with a tingling sensation pulsing through her body. What did Ted know? Why would he question Lydia’s decision to allow Terri access to the set?

  “Terri’s article gets Cici and Steven Brockman the cover of Vanity Fair before the Academy votes,” Lydia said.

  “But where’s Celeste? She hasn’t been home in two days and she’s not answering her cell. I don’t want to appear like a jealous lover, but I haven’t gotten a return call.”

  “Did you try Mary Anne?” Lydia remembered that Mary Anne had offered to help Cici after her surgery. Mary Anne would know the cover story Cici wanted to give Ted.

  “I’ll try her. And you’ll see Cici today. Tell her to call me.”

  Today? Lydia glanced at the calendar on her BlackBerry. Of course, today. She’d blocked out two hours of her day for a lunch visit with Cici, and Ted had access to Lydia’s calendar.

  “No problem,” Lydia said.

  “Any more letters?” Ted asked.

  “So far no,” Lydia said. “I’d tell Briggs if I received more.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Ted said and released the line.

  *

  “He knows,” Lydia said. Cici lay in a bed at the Peninsula, surrounded by pillows and flipping through Vogue. Mary Anne sat beside Celeste while, across the room, Jessica spoke with Mike on the phone.

  “About the face-lift?” Mary Anne gasped.

  “He doesn’t know,” Cici said, still turning pages.

  Lydia paced in front of the window. She was trapped. Ted’s tone—the coolness—the bit of edge at the end of every sentence—he knew something. Jessica yapped on her phone. Vitriol was already a mess. Mike had arrived on set that morning to find Viève locked in her trailer.

  “And it’s an eye-lift, by the way,” Cici said. “Not a face-lift.”

  “Not the eye-lift, the sex tape,” Lydia said, exasperated.

  “Sex tape?” Mary Anne looked confused.

  “I’m bored,” Cici said. “Where is Melnick? He’s late, and I want to go home.”

  “This is the Peninsula, Cici,” Jessica said, now finished with her call. “Anything you want, they can find. We can’t smuggle you out until later. If Terri finds out you’re in Beverly Hills and ditched her, this face-lift won’t remain a secret.” Jessica picked up the room-service menu. “Anyone else hungry?”

  Frustration spiked within Lydia. Had they heard her? Did they even listen? She’d risked her career for these three, and all they wanted to discuss was plastic surgery, shopping, and lunch? She ditched her security detail to attend this meeting. Why weren’t her friends more alarmed? Was this a game for them?

  “He knows,” Lydia said. She needed them to stop chatting. To stop pretending everything was fine. To begin to feel the fear she experienced almost every day. But their chatter continued.

  “Lydia, he can’t know,” Cici said. “Don’t worry. Oh! I didn’t tell you? Terri and Kiki go to hookers.”

  “Hookers? But they’re so old,” Mary Anne said.

  “What? Old people don’t do it?” Jessica asked. “You think Mitsy and Marvin haven’t been like rabbits since they
renewed their vows and went to Miravel for their couples’ weekend?”

  “Are you and my mom still e-mailing?” Mary Anne asked Jessica.

  “Occasionally, but not about you,” Jessica said playfully. “Never about you. Or Holden. Or anything like that.”

  “Ted knows,” Lydia said again. Her irritation turning to anger. “Ted knows about the sex tape!” Lydia didn’t realize she’d yelled, giving voice to her anxiety, until she saw the looks on her friends’ faces.

  Lydia never yelled. Not even during Seven Minutes Past Midnight, with Arnold clawing down her back. But now, at this moment, the overwhelming sensation that she might drown in fear—and anxiety—and paranoia—consumed her. All three of her friends softened their eyes and looked at her as she were a lost puppy trapped in a well.

  “What did he say?” Jessica asked softly.

  “It’s not what he said, but how he said it.” Lydia watched her friends exchange looks.

  Cici finally broke the awkward silence. “I know what you mean. Ted conveys information he doesn’t want to verbalize through tone.”

  “Exactly. I’m telling you, Cici, he knows. And I need you to tell him about the footage, because if we don’t—”

  “What about Sherman?” Jessica interrupted.

  “Sherman doesn’t matter if Ted knows,” Lydia said. Desperation laced her voice. Her friends needed to understand—they couldn’t lie to Ted—they shouldn’t lie to Ted.

  “Sherman still matters if the goal is to get the DVD,” Jessica said.

  “Isn’t Howard negotiating with Sherman?” Cici asked.

  “If we get the DVD, all Ted has is speculation,” Jessica said.

  “Wait, I’m still back on the sex tape,” Mary Anne said. “Your sex tape got out? I thought you destroyed the DVD.”

  “So did I,” Cici said. “But it seems Nathan Curtis saw the footage at some sex party. Then Sherman Ross, this very questionable private investigator who works with both Howard and Kiki, gave the DVD to Kiki.”

  “Your publicist?” Mary Anne asked. “But why?”

  “To let Cici know he had the tape,” Jessica said. “So she can make an offer to purchase the DVD.”

  “Right. Seems he’s brokering the sale for whoever owns it,” Cici said. “I’ve got Howard on it—he’s attempting to buy it from Sherman.”

  “But who stole the footage?”

  “Mary Anne, if we knew who stole the footage, do you think we’d still be having this conversation? Do you think I’d be this upset?” Lydia asked.

  “Sorry,” Mary Anne whispered.

  “Jessica and Lydia seem to think Billy has something to do with it, and maybe Viève and Nathan,” Cici said. “Viève and Billy have been friends for years, but they’re keeping that a secret, and we don’t know why.”

  “And Lydia’s been getting crazy stalker notes and phone calls,” Jessica added.

  “So Worldwide put a security detail on Lydia,” Cici said.

  “And Ted doesn’t know any of this?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Ted knows about the notes and the stalker,” Jessica said.

  “But not about my sex tape. Or my eyes,” Cici finished.

  “He knows everything,” Lydia said. “Cici, you’re in denial if you think Ted doesn’t know about the DVD.”

  “Lydia, you said yourself that Ted didn’t mention the tape. If we get the DVD then all Ted has is groundless rumors, and all of us know how many rumors float around Hollywood.”

  “And audiotape,” Lydia muttered. “Ted might be monitoring your home phone and your cell.”

  “Then why would he call you? He’d know I was staying at the Peninsula. He’d know about my eye-lift. I used the home phone and my mobile for those calls.”

  “Ted is very smart.” Lydia leaned forward and looked at her friends. “He wants us to believe he doesn’t know.” Jessica, Mary Anne and Cici exchanged an awkward glance.

  They thought she’d lost her mind. She could see it on their faces. These three women, for whom she risked her career, questioned her sanity.

  “Okay, Lydia,” Cici said with barely a smile, “you’re really starting to sound paranoid.”

  “Paranoid? Paranoid?” Lydia’s voice became shrill. “Cici, I’ve got a wack job sending me notes, the wealthiest man in America, my boss, only wants to speak to me on an untapped line, you have a sex tape about to be auctioned, Arnold Murphy shows up at a Worldwide premiere … and I’m paranoid?” Her head pounded. “I can’t do this. I feel like I’m doing this alone. Why aren’t any of you concerned? The fate of our careers and the future of Worldwide rides on this, and all you three want to do is order lunch and have mani-pedis!” Lydia grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “You give me a call when you get serious.” She heard the door slam behind her as she walked down the hall.

  Rule 24: Never Ignore a Threat

  Mary Anne Meyers, Screenwriter

  Mary Anne lounged in a cable-knit sweater on the chaise next to her swimming pool while her niece and nephews splashed one another. The underwater pool lights had come on ten minutes earlier and the wind picked up as the sun set.

  “Aren’t you guys cold?” Mary Anne called. She watched her niece, Lauren, climb onto her cousin’s shoulders.

  “We’re good,” Gavin, her older nephew, called to her.

  It was the final night before her family, excluding Mitsy and Marvin, returned to St. Paul, and Mitsy had decided that tonight she wanted to cook a big family meal. Mary Anne could smell Mitsy’s meat loaf wafting from inside. Through the kitchen window, Mary Anne could see Mitsy at the sink. Steam fogged the glass. Mary Anne guessed Mitsy had just dumped the boiled potatoes in preparation for mashing.

  Mary Anne leaned back and watched her nephew dive into the pool. The first scream she heard sounded as if it came from her neighbors’. But the second scream was louder and definitely came from the house.

  Mary Anne bolted up and jumped for the door. She wondered if Mitsy had cut herself, but she’d never heard her mother make such a horrifying sound, not even when she required seven stitches after her blender accident.

  Mary Anne burst into the kitchen. Mitsy stood motionless and Michelle shook.

  “What?” Mary Anne asked, looking first to her mother and then to her sister. “What is it?”

  “Your … the front door. There’s a—” Michelle looked past Mary Anne to the three kids shivering and dripping water on the kitchen floor.

  “Mom, what is it?” Gavin asked, his voice fearful.

  “Go back outside and dry off,” Mitsy said, her tone stiff. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Mary Anne,” Michelle whispered, watching the children leave. “There’s a dead cat outside the front door.”

  Mary Anne rushed to the front door and stopped in the doorway. A white Persian cat lay limp on her doorstep.

  “Oh my God.” Mary Anne knelt down and peered closely at the little furry body.

  “Is it?” Michelle pressed her fingertips to her lips.

  Mary Anne nodded. “I think so.” She bent her face close to the cat to see if she could hear her breathing.

  “What happened to her?” Michelle asked.

  Mary Anne reached down and carefully touched the cat’s chest, trying to feel for a heartbeat. She stroked her. “Poor kitty,” she said. Slowly, the cat opened her blue eyes. Her lids appeared heavy, as though she were drunk.

  “She’s alive,” Mary Anne said. “Let’s go. We’ll take my car.”

  *

  “You found her unconscious in your front yard?” the vet asked as as she felt the cat’s stomach.

  “That’s right,” Mary Anne said.

  “She’s groggy, but I don’t feel any internal injuries.” The vet shone a light into each of the cat’s eyes. “I want to take her in back and have our tech draw some blood. See what caused her to pass out on your front step. Toxicity or something else going on. Who knows. Maybe she was napping.”

  “She really didn’t look like she
was napping,” Mary Anne said. “I thought she was dead.”

  “You don’t know who the owner is?” the vet picked the cat up.

  Mary Anne shook her head.

  “Okay, wait here. I’ll be back.”

  *

  “Vicodin? Who would give a cat Vicodin?” Mary Anne asked as she held the cat in her arms.

  “Who knows,” the vet said. “She might have gotten into it accidentally; maybe someone left it out?”

  The cat had really looked dead on her doorstep. Was she supposed to die there? Was Mary Anne meant to find her? Who would put a drugged, semi-dead cat on a doorstep and drive away?

  “She doesn’t have any identification. Do you want us to take her?” the vet asked.

  Mary Anne glanced down at the cat curled up and purring in her arms. “What will you do with her?”

  “She’s not microchipped. So we’d keep her for twenty-four hours, and if no one claimed her, we’d send her to the pound.”

  The pound? Mary Anne didn’t want the kitty to escape death only to be put down.

  “Or, you could keep her for a while—see if any of your neighbors claim her.”

  Mary Anne smiled. “I think that’s the best idea.”

  She and Michelle walked through the waiting room toward the door. “What are you going to call her?” Michelle asked.

  “I can’t name her; her owners might come get her”

  “You have to call her something.”

  “I’m not sure.” Mary Anne waited for the receptionist to print up her bill. She glanced at the counter. Magazines lay across the front desk. People, US, Star, and OK! She glanced at the cover of the newest US. Was that—?