Hello Hollywood

by Suzanne Corso

  But whenever I was around their daughter, I doubted it. Lauren was . . . well, normal, at least as normal as you could be in Malibu if your parents worked in the entertainment industry.

  “Well, they were great. They didn’t sleep much, so if you’re lucky, they’ll fall out at eight tonight. You’d think they would get tired of sleepovers, but they don’t!”

  “Malibu moms,” Becka said with a quick laugh. “Trading our kids for weekends. This is what we do.”

  “You bet. Is your show going to be picked up for another season?” I asked as we walked into the kitchen.

  “We think so. Our audience isn’t quite up there with the final episode of HBO’s Game of Thrones, but we’re close and just have one more episode to the finale and we’ve got ten million viewers.”

  “That’s fantastic, Becka.”

  She beamed, and for a moment there, I could easily imagine her as the character in her and her husband’s TV show, a knockout woman in her late forties who oozed seduction. “You know what I find intriguing, Sam? Malibu consists of a twenty-one-mile-long strip of coastline. Our population is pushing thirteen thousand. And just about everyone here is connected somehow to the entertainment industry—TV, movies, music. I don’t know much about the music business, but for TV and movies there are just a handful of studio execs who green-light projects. Maybe a dozen total. Those dozen people are why you and I and practically everyone else in Malibu are here. That’s a hell of a lot of power, isn’t it?”

  “Sort of scary, actually. The Malibu Kingdom.”

  Becka was a tall, slender blonde who looked like a surfer girl on an old Beach Boys album cover. She was in her late forties, but like so many women in Malibu, didn’t look a day over thirty-five. She moved with the grace of a dancer and seemed so certain of herself and her place in the world that I envied her.

  “Too much power,” I replied. “It’s probably why some of them go bonkers.”

  “So many of them,” she said.

  I handed her a mug of fresh coffee, and she plopped herself down on one of the stools. “Hey, I heard that shooting started on Brooklyn Story. That must be exciting.”

  “It’s great. Well cast.”

  “Paul Jannis is the producer, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you still seeing him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Smart girl. I heard he’s been having some major trouble lately.” She lowered her voice, as though she were afraid the walls had ears. Hell, maybe they did. Maybe Paul had my home bugged. “Financial problems, kid problems, booze problems—the usual stuff you encounter around here.”

  “Yeah, he seems to be having more than his share lately.”

  Becka stirred cream into her coffee. “I knew his wife. She and I worked on a show together ten or eleven years ago. She was a good writer, with an ear that was equally good for comedy and drama. I liked her. But never liked him much. Anyway, one morning she came to work with a black eye, said she’d run into a door or some other ridiculous story. Not too long after that, she filed for divorce.”

  The things you learned over coffee, I thought. “His son was in rehab for addiction to a video game and credit card fraud.”

  Becka laughed. “Christ. Only in Malibu do you hear about stuff like an addiction to a game. But with a father like Paul, it’s not surprising. Just be careful, Sam.” She pressed her hands against her slender thighs and pushed to her feet. “Now, let me gather up the girls and get out of your hair. Hope you’ve got something special planned for tonight.”

  “A date, actually.”

  I felt silly saying it, a date, like I was eighteen years old. But Becka’s eyes lit up. “Good for you. It’s hard enough living here as a married couple.”

  Uh-oh. I was sure she was about to tell me the TV show was real, that all of it was true, that she was an adulterer and her husband was an addict.

  “But as a single mother, it can be really tough,” she went on. “Anyone I know?”

  “John Steeling.”

  She frowned slightly. “Steeling, Steeling, the name’s familiar.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. The John Steeling? The financier?”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally. But I hear his pockets are deep, and some of the major studios have been tapping him for financing. Like he’s a bank. He may be buying a percentage of Gallery Studios. Did you know that?”

  This woman was a treasure trove of information. “No, I hadn’t heard.”

  “Girl, you need to keep your ear to the ground. What you don’t know can be your downfall in this town. Now I’ve got to round up the wild ones.”

  • • •

  I met Liza at a breakfast place in downtown Malibu. As usual, she was dressed to kill in Armani and had at least twenty projects she was working on simultaneously, most of them accessible through her trusty iPad or phone. The speed at which this woman lived astounded me.

  “I’ve got three recommendations for security companies, Sam,” she said as I slid into the booth across from her. “I just sent you an email with the info.”

  “You think that’s the route I should go?”

  “Bet your ass, honey. That’s the first step. You’ve got Isabella to think about.” She leaned forward. “Paul’s son and his longtime assistant think he intends to harm you. What other confirmation do you need? If you feel uncomfortable about hiring a personal bodyguard, then at least hire some security people to keep an eye on your property. And maybe you should get a big dog with a ferocious bark and an even more ferocious bite.”

  “Maybe I should go to the police.”

  “And tell them what? He hasn’t broken any laws. Yet.”

  Frankly, the idea of dealing with cops made me nearly as uneasy as Paul did. Back in Brooklyn, in the Tony days, we avoided cops. Even though Malibu wasn’t Brooklyn and the cops were probably accustomed to the strange problems that celebrities had, it still left a bad taste in my mouth. I would sound like a crybaby. My ex-lover and the producer of the movie based on my novel has been using my photo for target practice.

  Yeah, sure, lady. Get back to us when he does something really nasty.

  It wasn’t like Paul was OJ. Or Charlie Manson. Or even Tony.

  “I’ll start with the property. And maybe a dog.”

  “Great.” She sat back, rubbing her hands together—her beautifully manicured red nails glinting in the light—and looked me over. “Casual or dressy?”

  “In between.” I handed her my phone so she could read his text message.

  “Ah, okay, perfect. I know just the place to start.”

  Most women love to shop. I used to be one of those women. But when Alec and I went bankrupt, I pretty much stopped shopping and all personal shoppers and accounts in the fancy department stores went out the window and good riddance. It didn’t define who I was, it never does. It’s hard to justify thousand-dollar sunglasses when your bank account has suffered a major meltdown.

  My bank account these days, though, was still healthy, despite the fact that Paul owed me half a million. I could afford a new outfit, a new pair of shoes, a new purse, a manicure and pedicure, and a visit to Malibu’s premiere hair salon. And it felt good and satisfying because it was my money—not my grandmother’s, not Tony’s, not Alec’s, but mine.

  Since I had been on both sides of the financial tracks, I had a deep appreciation for the twenties and fifties and hundreds that passed from my hands to a clerk’s. It felt good to shop, to enjoy what I had earned.

  Four hours after Liza and I set out on our shopping expedition, I had spent over two thousand bucks. I’d also learned that Liza was filing for divorce and that it was true about John buying a piece of Gallery Studios. Liza said John was negotiating for a 35 percent cut.

  “And,” Liza added as we left the hair salon, “King offered me a job h
eading up their public relations department.”

  “Awesome! Did you accept it?”

  “I sure did. He’ll be paying me an outrageous salary to do what I basically do now, and my soon-to-be ex won’t be entitled to any of it. I told him I can start anytime, but I don’t want him to pay me until my divorce is final. My soon-to-be ex is already going to scoop up half of my net worth, but he won’t be able to touch what Brian will be paying me.”

  “Karma’s a bitch.”

  The instant the words were out of my mouth, I glanced up to search for my car in the lot, and I saw Paul coming out of the breakfast place where Liza and I had eaten this morning. He was with an older, gray-haired man. Banker or attorney, I guessed. Both of them were dressed casually. Paul didn’t look crazy. He just looked like another guy in Malibu, chilling on his day off, having a bite to eat with a friend. Not a care in the world.

  And then he spotted Liza and me and made a beeline toward us. A fast beeline.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, I see him. Just keep walking.”

  We kept walking, and Paul kept moving toward us and finally shouted, “Hey, Sam, Liza. Hold on.”

  We didn’t stop. We reached Liza’s Mercedes, and she said, “Hop in, Sam. I’ll drive you to your car.”

  I slipped into the passenger seat, and she locked the doors and started backing out of the parking spot. We were acting like a couple of frightened women pursued by a cannibal. Or a rapist. Or worse.

  Paul reached the car before Liza had completely backed out and slammed his fist against the passenger door. My door. “Hold on, Sam, Liza,” he shouted. “Hold on for a minute.”

  I lowered my window. “What the hell, Paul.”

  Rage poured out of him. “Who do you think you are, driving my son anywhere?”

  “He called and asked me to drive him somewhere. He needed help, and since you wouldn’t give it to him, he reached out.”

  I pressed the button to raise the window again, but Paul grabbed the glass, his long, thick fingers gripping it as though it were a living thing, and shook it. The window kept going up, and he continued shaking it, shouting, “You bitch, you can’t interfere with—”

  I threw open the door so fast and hard that it whacked him in the stomach, and he stumbled back, gasping for air. “Leave me alone, Paul, or I’ll get a restraining order against you.”

  “You . . . you can’t do that. I”—he struggled to catch his breath—“haven’t broken any laws.”

  “Bullshit. You’re stalking me. You attacked me in your house. You threatened me. And you haven’t paid me what you owe me.”

  I got quickly back into the car. “Let’s get outta here, Liza.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure, honey.” And she slammed her foot against the accelerator and the Mercedes took off, a dark bullet that flew through the parking lot away from Paul, past his gray-haired companion who trotted toward him, and out onto the road.

  What explanation would Paul give his companion? She stole money from me; she slept with my son; she, she, she . . .

  Liza glanced over at me. “Call the security company, Sam. Paul’s definitely gone around the bend.”

  • • •

  By the time we pulled up to the gate at my place, I’d spoken to the security company and arranged for someone to come by tomorrow afternoon. But how was this going to work, exactly? Security cameras installed at the gates? Armed men patrolling the grounds? Gigantic Rottweilers racing along the fence and howling at every car that passed?

  The idea didn’t fit with how I imagined Isabella and me living out here. But the alternative—Paul rampaging across my property brandishing a weapon—wasn’t particularly appealing, either.

  I pressed the remote on my key chain, and the gate slid slowly open. As we rounded the first curve, I could see two cars outside the guesthouse—Marvin’s and a blue Ford truck. Interesting , I thought.

  “Hey, that’s Flannigan’s truck,” Liza exclaimed, then frowned. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He and Marvin know each other, but I, uh, didn’t know they knew each other well enough to visit.”

  Liza laughed softly. “You know what? Flannigan and his partner split up last week. They were together as long as he had worked for Paul. I think this is fantastic! And if he accepts my job offer, he’ll be working for us! For Gallery! Paul’s going to have a freakin’ fit.”

  The two of us collapsed into giggles. But a shadow loomed in the back of my mind. I worried that all these changes, which essentially isolated Paul from the rest of us, from his former pals at Gallery, might push him over the edge completely. And in retaliation, he would lash out at me.

  • • •

  By five-thirty, a full hour before John was due to pick me up, I was a bit nervous, but so excited to see him. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, critiquing the way I looked, which I rarely do. I was checking out my hair, even my manicure; dark-blue nails—hey, it was the color I loved and obviously so did he.

  Even as I tore through my closet, searching for something else that was casual and classy, a small, soft voice in my head whispered, That’s the old tape you’re playing, Sam. The one where you never look good enough, you never speak well enough, you’re never smart enough.

  I was barely aware of that voice. All I could think of was that shoes didn’t match handbags, that handbags didn’t match the flowing Bohemian blouse I’d bought, or the black jeans. I was so caught up in that old loop that I couldn’t see myself as I was now: a changed, better person.

  A new woman.

  But how changed was I, exactly? Something inside of me—some vibe, some quality others sensed—still attracted the kind of scene that had played out repeatedly with Paul and twice with Vito. If change began within, then maybe I needed therapy. A shrink. Counseling. Could counseling help me break this inner pattern? Could anyone or anything?

  I pressed my fists against my eyes, so irritated with myself that I wanted to scream, shriek, pull a Scarlett O’Hara and throw myself across my bed. Dramatic, ridiculous.

  Sam, diva drama queen.

  Considering the money I’d spent and the time crunch, this outfit would have to do.

  When the doorbell rang at six, I nearly panicked. He was half an hour early? But when I opened the door, there stood Marvin and Flannigan, looking quite pleased and happy with themselves and with each other. They both took one look at me, and Flannigan let out a low, soft whistle. “Damn, Sam, you look . . . stunning. You look like—”

  “A movie star,” Marvin burst out.

  “You guys just being nice?”

  “Honest.” Marvin crossed his heart. “I’ve never seen you look this good, Sam. Never. And we’ve known each other how long?”

  “Okay, I believe you. So the outfit works for a casual dinner on the beach?”

  “Perfectly,” Flannigan replied.

  “Now tell her what just happened,” Marvin said excitedly.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re going to work for Liza, who is going to work for Gallery Studios.”

  Flannigan’s eyes widened. “You already know!”

  I hugged him. “Welcome to the team of good guys, Flannigan. We’re all entering a whole new chapter in our Malibu story.”

  NINE

  There was a moment when John and I were walking out to his car that I felt Grandma Ruth’s presence. It was as if the air on my right side were suddenly lighter, clearer, and I could hear her whisper in my head: Is this the boy who’s gonna get your heart, bubelah?

  I stole a glance at him, at John, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, his beard threaded with gray, his profile in the evening light like that of an Olympian god. Malibu rogue. I imagined he could wear almost anything and it wouldn’t diminish the essential core of how he looked. I also imagined him with short hair and no beard. What would he
look like? Who would he be? I wanted to really see him.

  “I heard a rumor today,” I said.

  “Only one?” he laughed.

  “Same rumor from different people.”

  “Ah, then it must be true.” He opened the passenger door of his Prius—same year as mine, but a different color, silver instead of white—and swept his arm toward it like some footman in Downton Abbey. “Hop in, lovely lady.”

  The inside of his car smelled new, of leather and meticulous care. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the dash, no dirt on the floor mat, no spots on the windshield. Beneath the scent of leather were other odors that were more complex, suggestive of a certain maleness, an essential mystery: Who is John Steeling? Where did he come from?

  I had Googled him, just as Liza had done the day we’d met, and hadn’t found anything more than she had. It was as if he’d simply appeared in Hollywood a decade ago.

  “What’s the rumor?” he asked.

  “That you’re buying thirty-five percent of Gallery Studios.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “What prompted it?”

  “Brian and I have been talking about it for weeks. But what really pushed me was how George reacted to that whole thing with Paul by the swimming hole. I realized that I didn’t have the right or the power to fire Paul’s ass. Now I will. Brian will retain forty percent of the company, George will have twenty-five percent, and I’ll have the rest.”

  “Given the money you’ve been investing in their movies, it makes sense.”

  “I also have great respect for the way the company is run. They’re honest, they pay their employees well, and they make quality stuff. Gallery has room to grow—I like that. And Brian has a deeper sense of social conscience than a lot of the players out here who basically just pay lip service to charities and causes.”

  “I think it’s fantastic. You’ll be a great fit for Gallery. And now Liza has been hired, too, basically doing what she does now. She’ll head up their publicity department.”