by Clare Naylor
The film festival was a blast. At first I’d started out with every intention of seeing every minute of every movie that I was scheduled to see. But with the nod from Scott, I dropped that notion as quickly as a hot potato.
“Lizzie, don’t be crazy. You don’t have to sit through the whole thing, okay? Unless it’s genius and you think we should sign up one of the cast or the director, don’t bother.” I took that as my cue to relax a little. And certainly I stopped taking my miniature Booklover’s Flashlight that I’d picked up in Barnes & Noble into the screenings so that I could see my notepad. At first I’d seemed like the class creep, sitting there trying to make notes, attempting to draw parallels with Spike Jonze or Aronofsky and waiting till the last of the credits had rolled to write down any name I felt deserved honorable mention. But by the second day I’d become blasé and made the executive decision that if the film was good enough, I’d remember it.
On our first day, Scott was awake before me. He came back from his morning run with his beanie hat on, snowflakes in his hair, and his cell phone glued to his head.
“So where’s my first meeting?” He stood in my bedroom doorway and didn’t seem to notice that I was still dreaming of castles and princes.
“I’ve written it all down on the laminated sheet I left on the breakfast table last night,” I croaked. I was actually quite surprised by Scott’s oxymoronic existence. The health-conscious junkie. The hardworking playboy. I think that’s another Los Angeles peculiarity. Certainly I came to realize in time that you always knew that you were sharing a house with a producer or an agent because you developed a secondhand brain tumor from his unstinting use of his cell phone. Morning, noon, and night. Also, they were only ever clad in exercise clothes or a white towel with bare chest displayed and they never knowingly conversed with anyone in the same house or in the same time zone. For some reason best known to God.
“Okay. So are you ever going to get up?” Scott said as he stretched out his hamstrings. “I’ve got a breakfast meeting in town, and unless you get in my car with me, you’re going to be stuck here. And I need someone to carry all that shit around for me.” That shit being a file that weighed about eight ounces.
“Good thing I’ve been doing all that weight training at Venice Beach, then, huh?” I said as I sat up in bed and pulled my sheet around me.
“Sure.” Scott wasn’t paying any attention to me as he hit redial on his phone.
“I’m up. I’m up,” I promised, and waited for him to leave the room so that I could clamber naked from my bed.
“Did Lara help you with what you needed, by the way?” I called out as he moved into the hallway to get better reception. When I got her on the phone for him last night, she’d sounded amazingly unperturbed, and possibly even pleased, that her boss was calling her while she was at dinner in Chi Venice with her mom and dad. Obviously they weren’t as suspicious and overbearing as my parents.
“Lara?” He clearly got whomever he was calling’s voice mail, because he kicked my doorframe. “Yeah, she did help me. She sorted out what I needed.”
Scott’s first movie screening was in a multiplex where they gave out free popcorn and Coke. Mine was in the unheated library. Unfortunately, it was a really interesting documentary. I say “unfortunately” because I had to sit on the hardest, least ergonomic, most ass-numbing seat in the history of chairs. And I also had to sit next to a hyperscented D-girl from Warner Brothers who was trying to flirt with the guy on the death chair next to her. She kept making intellectual-sounding murmurs and stroking her own knee with more suggestiveness than would have been decent in a Dirk Diggler movie. Let alone the Sundance Library. I wondered what Robert Redford would say if he could see her. The guy she was supposed to be flirting with didn’t seem to notice, I think because he’d fallen asleep during the opening sequence, where the Amish teenagers left their community and took to the open road. When Scott and I hooked up later, I told him that he ought to meet with the director, who I thought had a great eye for detail and story. She was also young and apparently cute, so he agreed, and I set up a meeting for tea the next day.
I also wondered whether I’d run into Jake Hudson on my travels. It was pretty much inevitable, I thought as I sat alone in the Bluebird Café writing up my notes and taking smaller-than-usual bites of my bagel in case he, or anyone else, should walk in and require me to say hello. I read the Sundance Specials in the trades, and I boned up on who was hot, who was buying what, and which stars were in town. If Scott missed a single person or event because I’d failed to alert him, then I’d be in serious trouble.
“Oh, hey, how’s it going?”
It was Courtney. She looked like an escapee from Doctor Zhivago, with bunny fur draped around her face and her hands tucked into a white muff.
“Courtney, I’d forgotten that you were coming.”
Actually, I hadn’t, and she’d given me her cell-phone number several times before we left the office and told me that she’d definitely get me into this party that Harvey Weinstein was throwing at his house tonight. But I just knew that it would involve lying and humiliation to get beyond the door, and I wasn’t sure that I’d have anything to share with Harvey if I did meet him, so I’d sort of forgotten to call Courtney. Besides which, I saw her every single minute of the day back at The Agency, so three days apart weren’t going to wreck our beautiful friendship.
“Yeah, I’m here with Mike.” Mike was now doing public again. His hair had grown in beautifully after Rogaine, but he was so thrilled to have it that he insisted on wearing it long, like a bad eighties rocker. Courtney sat down at my table. “Though I have got to say that the talent is so lame this year. All the movies blow.”
“All of them?”
“So I hear.” She opened my Fresh Samantha juice and helped herself. I wasn’t sure if Courtney had ever seen a movie with a budget of less than $60 million anyway, so Sundance was hardly going to float her boat. She was, though, all about the scene. “So Harvey’s party is tonight. You want to come?” Courtney had never ever been so friendly to me, and I knew that it was just because she didn’t have anyone else to hang with.
“I’m not quite sure what Scott’s schedule is and I haven’t got an invite. I hear they’re like gold dust.”
This was actually true. The Sundance party circuit was reputedly even more fearsome than L.A.’s. On my way in from the airport with Scott last night, our car had driven down Main Street, and I’d gotten a flash of the hellaciousness of it all. There was a private party in every restaurant, and standing outside each one were bouncers and publicists with lists and traffic jams of 4x4 limos, so beloved of celebrities and hot young directors. Scott had told me that no bastard got into any gig worth going to in this place without a bracelet. And that was only the studio parties. The more exclusive ones, like Redford’s and the Miramax party, were held in condos or private homes. It would take me at least one Academy Award or a wedding ring from Mr. Weinstein himself to get into either of those parties.
“Scott’s going to be there anyway, and I’ll get you in. I know the bouncer.”
“Okay, sure. Thanks.” Well, that seemed to solve that. Even though I didn’t especially want to gain entrance through the kitchen window, I knew that there was no getting out of it. And I knew that if I turned up there, I’d run into Scott, who would know that I’d crashed the party. Then I’d seem kind of cheap and unprofessional. But I figured that ultimately he’d be more forgiving of my transgression than Courtney would if I didn’t go. “What time?” I surrendered.
“Six-thirty. I’ll swing by and pick you up. And I’m so glad that you came instead of Lara. She’s always so uptight about this kind of thing. She’s afraid that if Daniel catches her gate-crashing, she’ll lose her job.”
“Is Daniel going to be there?”
“Everyone’s going to be there,” she said, and took an enormous bite of my peanut butter cookie.
Oh, the joys of sharing a house with Scott Wagner! While he was s
till in town in a meeting with the actor from a movie he’d seen this morning, I was in his bathroom with his products. I had put on an old Fiona Apple CD that I’d found in the living room, drawn a huge tub, and wrapped myself in one of the plush, warm towels from the linen closet. The kind that would never emerge from the washing machines in my basement—even if I lived to be 102 and inherited a fabric-softener fortune. Then I’d run up to his room and become a beauty bulimic. I’d rubbed two types of cleanser on my face, run downstairs and squeezed half of Kiehl’s pharmacy into my bath, run back up and exfoliated, or rather grazed myself, with some sea-salt scrub, and then dashed back down, leaving a mist of vertiver in my wake. When Scott came home, I poured him a whiskey, put out a plate of cheese and crackers that I’d picked up at the market between screenings this afternoon, and swapped Fiona Apple for Van Morrison. Not that I wanted him to marry me. I just wanted him to agree to take me to the party so that I didn’t have to risk certain mortification on the doorstep if I didn’t get in—or being fired again by Daniel if I did.
And of course it worked. Scott was fine with my tagging along, as long as I elbowed him in the ribs occasionally and reminded him of people’s names. And though I think that Courtney was pissed at me for getting legal entry to the party, the two of us did hang out together and bonded just a fraction. She had her bouncer friend slide her in, and we met in the main room of Harvey’s condo. Courtney and I sipped mulled wine outside on the veranda, and after pointing out every single person in the room, giving each of them an A-, B-, or C-class status, and telling me who they’d slept with and what their particular kinks were, she regaled me with even more tales of Jake Hudson’s unsavory dating history. I actually found it hard to believe that I’d ever seen Jake as a charmingly harmless man. But ignorance is bliss, and I hadn’t known any better that day that we drove up the PCH, me with my bleeding wound, he with eyes only for my legs. He was phenomenally bright—that went without saying. The guy was the head of a major studio, and no matter how dismissive people were of Jake, he would never have gotten to where he was on just looks and smooth talk alone. He was a brilliant businessman and an irresistible lover. He just happened to be afflicted with satyriasis, which was becoming more apparent with every passing moment.
“I just hope the man-whore uses a condom while he’s sharing himself with the whole town,” Courtney said as she scoured the room over my shoulder for people to bitch about.
“Well, I guess at least he’s honest about having a good time,” I said. “Can’t do too much harm that way, can it?”
“Oh, yes it can,” she spit as she picked a cinnamon stick from her glass. “He really fucked up last summer.”
It turned out that one weekend in July, Jake had actually gotten married to some really famous pop star one weekend in Tijuana. Sometime after their third pitcher of margaritas. Courtney barely dipped her voice as she told me the story. In fact, she may even have gotten louder.
“They were both there for some cheesy freebie thrown by one of the studios, and they got totally smashed and fooled around and then went and got married the next day. But the marriage only lasted a weekend. They both got back on Monday morning, and she decided that it’d been a huge mistake and they had to get a divorce. Before anyone found out.”
“You’re kidding?” I said. “But she’s gorgeous. Shouldn’t he have stayed married to her just for the kudos? Plus, I read in People that she buys cars and boats for her boyfriends all the time.”
“No way, she didn’t want to be married to someone who wasn’t famous. Or a busboy. She only does the two, no middle ground. Plus, she’s a total thug.” Courtney tossed a cigarette butt over the edge of the balcony where we were standing, and it drifted down into the snow.
“Like how?”
“Oh, she has all these bodyguards and gangster connections. She told him that if he tried to sell his story or get his hands on any of her money, she’d get someone to take him out with a lead pipe and ski mask.”
“But she’s so sweet. She has such amazing skin.” I thought of the videos I’d seen of her on MTV.
“If word ever got out that she’d gotten drunk and got married, it’d have ruined her rep with the preteens. To her it would have been worth breaking his kneecaps for that.”
“Poor Jake.” I almost felt sorry for him.
“Anyway, it’s a total secret, so don’t breathe a word,” Courtney broadcast to the whole party.
“Don’t breathe a word about what?” Jake Hudson appeared beside me holding his drink. Of course he was going to be at this party—he was Mr. Fast Pass. Access All Areas. And, as I was about to find out, when he wanted something—i.e., his friend’s girl—he was also Mr. Take No Prisoners.
“Holy shit.” Courtney burned her finger on her lighter. She might have acted as if she knew everyone in the room, but the truth was she got all her so-called information from IFILMpro. So in the presence of actual powerful people, she became unsteady on her feet.
“Were you talking about me?” Jake’s chest puffed out like a pigeon’s.
“Actually, we were discussing a movie we went to see this afternoon,” I managed.
“How are you, darling?” Jake moved in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Courtney could hardly conceal how blown away she was.
“Jake, this is Courtney,” I said. “And actually I have to go and talk to Scott, if you’ll excuse me.”
I was about to edge away from Jake, because really I hadn’t a clue what to say to him anymore. I couldn’t discuss movie stars, because he’s slept with all the women and the men were his best buddies. I couldn’t discuss movies, because that was about as interesting as discussing your hemorrhoids. And I was afraid that if I brought up politics, he’d suddenly have a eureka moment and realize that he had been here before. Then he’d lose interest in hunting me down like one of the Vegas Bambis, and, to be honest, I was quite enjoying the pathetic interest he was showing in me, even if only because he couldn’t remember that he’d actually paint-balled me before.
“Oh, hey, you don’t get away that easily.” He reached out for my arm and guided me back to his side. “Scott can come over here.”
“No, really, it’s fine. I just thought . . .” Shit, now my cover was definitely going to be blown. Scott would reveal that I was his assistant and not his girlfriend, and Jake would go over and flirt with Harvey’s wife instead.
“Scott, my buddy. Get the hell over here!” Jake yelled, and Scott slapped the guy he was speaking to on the arm and made his excuses.
“Lizzie has something to say to you,” Jake told him.
“She does?” Scott looked confused. He was probably under the impression that he was going to be asked to resolve a scintillating baseball-trivia argument.
“It’s actually private,” I spluttered.
“Aw, they’re in love,” Jake said, checking out my cleavage.
“Wassup?” Scott was looking at me expectantly. Thankfully, the room was noisy, and he hadn’t heard the news that we were in love.
“Well, I was thinking that . . .” And at that moment I saw a guy behind Scott in a god-awful beige ski turtleneck, and before I could censor myself I added, “That we could go skiing tomorrow. Only I’ve never been, and I hear it’s fun.” Dolt.
“Skiing?” Scott pursed his lips, thinking hard. “Sure, why not?” Oh, God, not the response I was hoping for. I’d forgotten that Scott had the soul of a frat boy and would love anything that involved gear and hot showers with the guys afterward.
“Great. Let’s all go skiing,” Jake added. “I’ll come pick you kids up at about seven A.M., and we’ll go to Last Chance—it’s a great spot up the mountain. You’ll love it, Scottie, my man.”
“Do you ski, Scott?” I asked, praying that he’d veto anything called Last Chance and insist that we start on the bunny slopes. Somewhere called Soft Landing. Or, even better, that we’d sit in some Alpine theme bar and laugh into our Gluwein as we watched everyone else fall over.
; “Sure I do. I went to school in Boulder. So see you in the morning, man,” Scott said, and then wandered off. Our three minutes in his company were obviously up.
Jake, on the other hand, had clearly had an empty-bed episode similar to mine last night, because he was determined to take me home. And the more mulled wine I had, the more I wondered if he might actually succeed.
“You see, there really aren’t any women you’d want to marry in Los Angeles. I mean, it’s okay for a sleazy fling, but you don’t meet classy chicks.” His drink was swinging precariously between his thumb and his index finger. “And you, Elizabeth, are a classy chick.” Luckily for me and my weak will, Courtney chose the moment that Jake began to rest his hand on the wall behind me, hemming me in close to his body, to decide that she had a migraine and that I needed to take her home.
“I’ll get you a car,” Jake volunteered to Courtney, without taking his eyes off my lips.
“No, I’ll take her. I can’t leave her alone,” I said, ducking under his arm and reappearing at Courtney’s side. For once I was really grateful that she was a demanding, jealous bitch. If he said “classy chick” just one more time, I would probably have done something that I’d regret throughout the universe and into perpetuity, as a lawyer might say.
“See you in the morning, then.” Jake looked pissed for a second, then he spotted across the room an alternate and very badly dressed means of filling his bed. Leaving me and Courtney to attempt the impossible—find a ride home in a town where you were about as likely to find a free taxi as you were to encounter a Nobel Prize–winner wandering down Main Street singing “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
22
Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.