by JD Nixon
I shook my head. “I’ve never seen that one.”
“No one has, more’s the shame. But it impressed some big wigs and she ended up with some influential patrons. Not without . . . you know.”
No, I didn’t know. I stared at her blankly.
“Tilly, it’s Hollywood. Ever heard of the casting couch?”
“Yes!” Geez! I’d been propositioned more than once myself in my brief career as an actor. “Do you mean that Yoni . . .?”
“Of course she did! She spent more time on her knees and her back in her first few years than on the set.” I listened avidly, hardly daring to breathe, afraid of interrupting this fascinating gossip. “That hardens a person up very quickly, but her hard work paid off. She scored the lead in a sweet little rom com movie that became a monster hit and she became famous. But now she keeps churning that same kind of crappy movie out, year after year. People are bored of them. I keep telling her that she should expand herself as an actor. Take on a small indie project – something mature and edgy. Something that changes everyone’s opinion of her.” She shrugged. “But you can imagine how seriously she takes my advice! Money and fame are very addictive.”
“It would be interesting to see her in something different.”
“Fat chance of that.” She looked towards the closed bedroom door. “Speaking of fat, I know what she’s doing in there. She’s standing in front of the mirror fretting that she’s too fat to be seen in public. I mean, as if!”
“You know, I used to be a huge fan of hers.”
“Used to be?”
“Yeah, until I met her.”
Wanda snorted with laughter that she had to stifle swiftly when Yoni walked into the lounge room.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded.
“Nothing. I was just coughing. All better now though.” They stared at each other antagonistically. I couldn’t understand why they continued to work together when they had no rapport at all and clearly couldn’t stand each other.
“Well, don’t keep me waiting, you hideous toad,” she griped, striding to the door, not noticing Wanda flip her a double bird as she did.
Yoni looked spectacular. She’d donned casual attire for the hospital visit – expensive tight jeans, a tailored white shirt, opened low enough at the neck to show the promise of cleavage but not low enough to be slutty, and a black jacket. A classic look teamed with some funky chunky silver jewellery and a pair of killer heels to modernise. Her butt was amazing in those jeans. I felt frumpy and chubby in my uniform. God only knew how Wanda was feeling in her revolting tent dress.
Maybe she’d given up caring.
Chapter 21
Yoni, Wanda and I crossed the foyer and picked up the six Heller’s men on the way. Besides Rumbles, I also knew Tysen, who’d given me my first security training ever at Heller’s, Ben, my Elvis partner, and Mr Farrell himself. I threw Tysen and Ben friendly smiles, but saved my warmest welcome for someone who I desperately wished to annoy.
“Hello Hugh! I didn’t know you’d be on this assignment, Hugh,” I hailed him with exaggerated delight, a greeting that was met with a death glare.
“Chalmers,” he grunted minimally in response.
The other men eyed him with curiosity. I could swear that I saw faint colour rising in his cheeks. I smiled to myself. I was going to win this battle even if it killed me, or him, or the both of us if it came down to that.
I tucked my arm securely into Yoni’s, keeping her close to my body, pulling her back tight when she tried to shake me off. Wanda took her other arm. The men formed a cordon around us and we exited the foyer, not without trepidation.
We were right to be careful. It was pandemonium at the entrance to the hotel. I didn’t know how any person could suffer such an experience on a regular basis and remain sane. People pressed all around us, yelling question at her, screaming at her, trying to touch her and paw at her. Cameras flashed in every direction, blinding us. I wanted to lower my eyes to the ground to avoid them, but I could miss something important by doing that. So I forced myself to stay alert, constantly scanning the environment, my poor eyes enduring a terrible barrage of bright lights. Blinking uncontrollably, I rushed her as fast as possible, remembering her high heels. The men struggled to keep the microphones, TV cameras and mobile phones away from Yoni, while guiding her swiftly to the stretch limousine that was waiting at the front.
Yoni, Wanda and I tumbled into the limo, flinging ourselves back on the seats with relief. The driver, obviously well-briefed by the men, sped off closely followed by two Heller’s fleet vehicles, leaving the feral pack behind.
Yoni reached down to the built-in fridge and extracted a piccolo of champagne. She poured it into a crystal flute, even though it was not even close to lunchtime. Wanda and I exchanged glances. Yoni gulped it down and opened the fridge to grab another.
“Slow down, Yoni. You have sick kids to visit,” Wanda warned.
“Who the fuck arranged that anyway? You know I hate sick kids!”
And what could one say to that awful comment? I sat in disgusted silence while they bickered over old territory like a couple married for fifty years.
Suddenly the limo lurched to one side. None of us was wearing seatbelts and we were flung violently around the back, Yoni’s champagne spilling over my pants.
“Put your seatbelts on!” I yelled in panic. They both stared at me stupidly. “Now!”
I leaned over to fasten Yoni’s seatbelt around her, seizing the glass from her hand, while Wanda fastened her own.
I twisted over my shoulder to look out the rear window. The two Heller’s vehicles were still following us. The limo driver slowed down, allowing one Heller’s vehicle to move in front, as one stayed at the rear. But behind it, a flotilla of motorbikes and cars drove dangerously, chasing after us. Panic swept through me. I didn’t want to be in another car accident, having suffered so much the last time.
You’re in charge, you’re in charge, I repeated to myself, hoping to calm my rising dread. I pulled my seatbelt tightly across me and fastened it, clutching the armrest in fear. I was afraid I was going to lose it, but when I noticed the frightened faces of the other two women, I knew I had no choice but to pull it together and be the strong one in the trio. After all, that’s what I’d been hired to do.
“It’s okay,” I reassured in a surprisingly calm voice. “We’re nearly at the hospital.”
And thankfully I was right. We pulled into the drive that led to the entrance of the huge hospital complex a few minutes later. Hospital security had wisely arranged for a police team for Yoni’s visit and the cops efficiently and authoritatively prevented every vehicle except the limo and the two Heller’s 4WDs from entering the drive. I stepped out of the limo first, valiantly holding myself up on trembling limbs, and held the door open for Yoni and Wanda. The executive staff at the hospital immediately took control of the situation, ushering Yoni to the children’s hospital, accompanied by a few handpicked, sympathetic media bodies that could be guaranteed to produce positive copy for her.
I watched in amazement as Yoni turned on the charm, finally becoming the person I recognised from all the interviews about her I’d read and watched in the past. She kissed a sick baby she held tenderly in her arms to a salvo of camera flashes and hugged the diseased six-year-old with a tight squeeze, making sure her face was photogenic the entire time. She even spoke lovingly of her own darling, but sometimes naughty, son. You would have sworn that she was a doting mother, loved children and had an especially soft spot for the sick ones. I almost wished I hadn’t heard her contrary views so that I could buy into the beautiful image again.
“She’s the master of insincere smarm,” I commented in a low voice, astonished by the transformation.
“You better believe it,” confirmed Wanda. “She is very good at acting. Just not in her shitty movies.”
“I never realised. She should win awards for her performance today.”
We waited patiently through
another few photo opportunities for her while she schmoozed the dignitaries who were there to present a fundraising cheque to the hospital. Yoni added a generous personal donation to the money pot with a cheque of her own, amidst grateful applause, and posed for yet more photos. When that was done, we hustled her back to the limo. The Heller’s men mobilised again. The paparazzi hadn’t left while we were busy and swarmed over us again. I ordered the limo driver to take us back to the hotel quickly.
Yoni began railing at Wanda almost before the doors had shut. “Why’d you organise for me to give them so much money?”
“It’s a kids’ hospital. It’s good publicity for you – it will be on the news.”
“You’re pretty fucking generous with my money,” she complained ungraciously. “I want to go to a restaurant for lunch.”
“Why? What’s the point,” sniped Wanda. “You never eat anything.”
“We’re not going to a restaurant,” I vetoed, hopefully averting yet another squabble between them. “We’re going back to the hotel where we’ll all be safe.”
“Who put you in charge?” Yoni demanded angrily.
“Heller did.”
“Oh, him. Okay,” she acquiesced unexpectedly, obviously remembering Heller’s enormous attractions (and she hadn’t even yet personally experienced just how enormous they really were). “He’s visiting me on Friday night, isn’t he?”
“That’s what he said,” I replied, hoping that it would be true. With Heller there for Yoni, I would be free to clock off and visit Will.
“Good,” she said sweetly and opened another piccolo.
“Take it easy. You have media interviews all afternoon,” Wanda told her flatly.
“Bitch! Why don’t you tell me about these things?” Yoni ranted.
For no reason, she suddenly threw her champagne all over Wanda’s chest. Wanda didn’t react except for a disparaging rolling of her eyes and I guess that this wasn’t the first time Yoni had done that. I reached for the napkins and handed Wanda a bunch. And that left the three of us stinking of champagne now, but only one of us actually having had the pleasure of drinking any.
The limo pulled up outside the hotel and we made a mad dash back safely inside, where we returned to the suite for lunch. The men would make their own arrangements for lunch, back on duty again when Yoni started her media interviews later in the afternoon.
Wanda ordered us room service and Yoni took her small undressed salad into her bedroom to eat, leaving Wanda and I to enjoy our chicken salads together. Yoni wasn’t in her room for long before she locked herself in the second bedroom. Seemed like it was time for another outfit change.
A timid knock drew me to the suite’s door and after cautiously checking through the peephole, I opened it. A woman carting a rolling suitcase told me she was there to style Yoni for her interviews. I scrutinised her credentials thoroughly as the poor woman squirmed in front of me, afraid that she wasn’t going to make the cut. Then with a friendly smile to dispel her anxiety, I waved her through to the second bedroom.
Wanda went to Yoni’s bedroom to bring out the remains of her lunch. It didn’t appear to me that she had touched much of it. I couldn’t imagine how she managed to survive on the meagre amount that she ate each day in her quest to remain thin. I was infinitely glad that I’d dropped out (or more accurately, been dropped out) of a career that demanded such sacrifice from women. I loved food far too much to starve myself for a job. Even for millions of dollars and adulation. Actually, considering the throng of scary fans outside, even the adulation was losing its sheen for me, and I’d never really been interested in the money.
After an hour or so, and another polite reminder from Rumbles about the time, the stylist left. Yoni emerged from the second bedroom and hurried to her own, before she seemed ready to suffer through the ten or so interviews that had been lined up for her. She now looked much more serious, but still glamorous, knowing that she would be on TV. She wore a plain, but very flattering, dark blue silk skirt suit with a simple white singlet top underneath. It hinted at her curves, but maintained her slenderness. Her jewellery was simple but breathtakingly expensive, and her hair had been pulled into a casual messy bun that left gorgeous tendrils drifting softly around her discreetly made up face. She was every inch the professional actor, ready to discuss how her new role was groundbreaking for women in Hollywood and how it had permanently changed her life. This was despite the fact that the character was virtually identical to those in her last three movies, none of which I’d seen. And that made me realise that perhaps I wasn’t as much of a fan as I’d originally thought.
Again, her performance that afternoon was astounding, even though every interviewer asked the same tired questions about the movie. She revealed that her character was a nuclear physicist who falls in love with, and eventually wins the affection of, a hot government agent assigned to protect her after she and her sexy but thick assistant witness a murder. And although initially attracted to the assistant, the hot agent is eventually beguiled by the nuclear physicist’s brave sweetness and they all live happily ever after. Except the assistant, of course. It sounded like a terrible plot to me.
In one interview, she laughed self-deprecatingly about the fact that she certainly wasn’t brainy enough to be a nuclear physicist in real life. In another she argued that it wasn’t at all degrading to women for Hollywood to always show female scientists as frigid, beautiful, vulnerable and secretly sexy. She refused to confirm though that her character did wear glasses and a white coat with her hair tightly pulled into a bun during the first half of the movie, but by the second half her hair was loose, her eyesight miraculously restored and the white coat ditched for a low cut, tight shirt and short skirt. She wrapped up that particular interview more quickly than the interviewer wanted, and I had to step in to ensure that the woman left the room as requested.
I resumed my spot standing near the door, arms crossed, my hardarsed look firmly plastered on my face. I’d been practicing it in the mirror for months and was confident I’d nailed it. The next interviewer was Trent Dawson, the host of a current affairs program, People’s Pulse, which aired each work evening. It purported to discuss the major news items of the day, but in reality it provided an endless stream of stories about fad diets, push-up bras, cosmetic surgery, bad neighbours and celebrity gossip. Unbeknown to him, I’d featured in one of his stories a while ago, although incognito.
He was handsome enough in a sleazy kind of way, famous for his antagonistic and aggressive interview style and his disreputable private life.
Trent spared no charm today though, flattering Yoni so shamelessly that she giggled all the way through the interview. There was unmistakable chemistry between them and it soon became obvious that they were no strangers to each other. After the cameras cut, he stood up and leaned over to her, whispering in her ear. She burst out with a gale of laughter and agreed to whatever he’d just proposed. I imagined that meant we’d be seeing him again later in the evening.
As he left the room, a huge smile on his face, he cut me a curious glance. His eyes swung back for a second glance, swiftly checking me out, wide with interest.
“Hello, who are you?” he asked me in a low voice, looking over his shoulder to see if Yoni was watching. She wasn’t, preoccupied in fixing her makeup between interviews.
“Just a drone,” I replied in a friendly voice, pleased to be acknowledged for once, especially by someone famous.
“You look familiar. Have I met you before?”
“Nope,” I said hastily. “I’d remember if I met you before, Mr Dawson.”
He studied me for a moment as if still trying to place me. “Are you looking after Yoni?”
I didn’t comment.
“Is she expecting some trouble? Anything in particular?”
I remained silent, staring at him steadily. He laughed good-naturedly in defeat. “What’s your name?”
“Tilly Chalmers.”
He shook my hand, staring bol
dly into my eyes. “Tilly Chalmers, I might see you around some time.”
I smiled noncommittedly and he smiled back before leaving.
The rest of the afternoon passed very slowly, and we were all glad when it was finally over and we were free to retreat upstairs. Wanda went straight to her room, I hit the shower in the second bedroom and Yoni retreated to her bedroom, probably to make use of her secret bar fridge. I changed into some jeans and a t-shirt, remaining barefoot with my hair loose, and planted myself in front of the telly, not planning on leaving the suite for rest of the evening. Wanda came over, also casual in ill-fitting, baggy jeans and t-shirt. We ordered dinner and another bottle of wine, and chatted while we ate. Yoni stayed in her room.
We were halfway through our meals when there was a knock on the door and I answered cautiously again. I greeted the visitor.
“Well, hello again, Tilly Chalmers. I didn’t imagine for a moment that we’d meet again so soon. Are you staying with her?” I nodded briefly and let Trent Dawson into the suite. He’d also changed into more casual clothes, which only confirmed that Yoni would definitely not be leaving the suite again tonight. That saved everyone a lot of bother.
“Her room’s that one,” I said helpfully, pointing to Yoni’s bedroom. He smiled back at me as he knocked gently on the door, before opening it and disappearing inside.
“Ooh, the hag has some competition,” Wanda observed with diabolical delight.
“No way,” I protested, embarrassed.
“He was definitely interested,” she insisted.
“Don’t be silly. Anyway, even if he was, I’m not. I have a boyfriend, remember.”
“You’re so boringly loyal, Tilly.”
“It’s hard sometimes, I can tell you,” I sighed, and an image of Heller flashed into my mind, quickly followed by one of Bick, then Farrell. Whoa! My mind skidded to a screeching halt. Where the hell did that come from? Farrell? Never, ever! Not even in my nightmares!