Shooting Hollywood

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  I was so tired of hearing women say this. We repeated, ‘I thought we could have it all,’ like a mantra of self-torture, constantly reminding us of what we hadn’t gained. Or if we had, it was tainted by what we had to give up. Why did women think they could escape loss?

  As we sped closer to our destination, I said, “My first modeling job was a fashion layout for bathing suits. We shot it at Paradise Cove. I remember I glued fake plastic nails over my stubby ones. They had a live trained seal they wanted me to pose with. He swayed his big head and hit my hand. All my nails flew off. I was mortified.”

  “Is there a moral to this, Diana?”

  “I was Kyra’s age. Sixteen. I was still a virgin. And I was worried about plastic nails.”

  “Different time.”

  “Now we have acrylic nails and no virgins. Do you love your daughter?”

  “Of course.” She said matter-of-factly. And I felt chill.

  Turning left, Monique guided the Mercedes down a steep road into the cove and the restaurant’s empty parking lot. I looked in my side view mirror. I thought I could make out the shadow of another car behind us. The Mercedes’ lights pierced the mist. I put the window down. The sound of the ocean crashing against the shore and the thick damp salty air filled the car. My heart pounded.

  “Do you see her?” Monique asked breathlessly.

  “No. Drive slower.”

  “Oh, Diana,” She murmured. “I’m afraid of her. Afraid of my own daughter. You talk to her. I can’t.”

  “Stop!”

  She slammed her foot on the break. We both lurched forward as the car skidded to a stop.

  “Did you see something? Hear something?” Monique asked breathlessly.

  I peered out the window.

  “Is it Kyra?” Monique asked.

  I opened the car door. With the car’s headlights as a guide I slowly approached what appeared to be a bundle of clothes on the asphalt. But my gut knew it wasn’t just clothes. It was Kyra. She was curled in the same fetal position as Jimmy Whitelaw had been. The right side of her head had a bloody hole in it. A gun rested near her hand. Monique got out of the car.

  “Kyra? Kyra!”

  “Stop her!

  Confused, I turned and saw Heath running toward us yelling, “Stop her!”

  Monique fell to her knees and pulled Kyra’s body to hers. She began to rock her, and sob. I stepped back and felt Heath standing behind me. Trembling I wondered if this was what Kyra had meant about hurting her mother.

  Heath rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment.

  “Stop her from what?” I asked.

  Instead of answering he impassively studied a mother holding her dead daughter. He looked like a director who was unable to get the scene to work right.

  “Evidence. Contaminated now,” he said to no one in particular.

  Kyra’s death was declared a suicide. Hollywood closed ranks around Monique Lancer. Her client list might be aging, but she still had power. The rumor that she had prostituted her own daughter was said to be scurrilous and spread by those who had personal axes to grind. And the hot new Jimmy Whitelaw was quickly forgotten. His unfinished movie was dumped along with my ten lines and one close-up. But the image of Kyra huddled in death on the cold asphalt of the parking lot never left me. I couldn’t forget her telling me that the gun was for her own protection. And then there were Heath’s words: contaminated evidence.

  A few days later I called him and asked him out to dinner. We meet at a restaurant near my house.

  “Are we on a date?” he asked, as we sipped our drinks.

  “No. I mean I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “You want something. What?”

  “I’m a woman who lives a chaotic life and I would like to tie up some lose ends.”

  “I like tying up lose ends. Are you sure we’re not on a date?”

  “I think Monique killed her daughter. I also think she wanted me to be a witness.”

  He sat back. “You mean Monique wanted you to see her discovering the daughter she had just murdered. But Kyra said she wanted to hurt her mother. Wouldn’t suicide do that?”

  “It would hurt Monique more if she came back home. If she told the truth.”

  “About her trying to prostitute Kyra.”

  “Yes. Right now it’s just a rumor. Hollywood can deal with that. It’s the truth we have trouble with.”

  “So you’re saying what?”

  “I think Kyra called to have her mother pick her up. I think Monique went to Paradise Cove and shot her with the gun Kyra had. Then called me. Remember she was only twenty minutes away when she called. About the time it takes to get from the cove to my house.”

  “And what proof do you have for all this?”

  “You said it. She contaminated the evidence by holding Kyra to her own body.”

  “That’s not proof. To a jury that’s a mother grieving.”

  “You’re a detective. Doesn’t it bother you that she could get away with this?”

  “People do get away with murder, Diana.”

  “I guess my only hope is that she gets drunk one night and the booze and the guilt get the best of her and she confesses.”

  He studied me for moment then said, “There is one thing Monique Lancer could do that would at least let you know she did it.”

  “What?”

  “Take you on as a client.”

  “What would that prove?”

  “You’re the one who knows for sure she was using Kyra to get Jimmy Whitelaw. If she did kill her daughter she’d be even more worried about you. But taking you on as a client would give her control over you. Make you hers. Ease her worries.”

  A loud noise came from the bar area as a man fell off his bar stool. Two waiters picked him up. It was Ryan Johns. As they dragged him out of the restaurant he spotted me and yelled, “Diana, you’re a lonely bitter woman.”

  The diners peered at me. There was a ripple of laughter. Heath raised his eyebrows.

  “Ryan Johns. He lives next door,” I tried to explain.

  “Are you a lonely bitter woman, Diana?” Intimacy warmed his voice.

  “Are you a lonely bitter man?”

  We leaned closer, our lips touching. I took Leo Heath home that night. I let myself experience the warmth and passion of another man in my bed.

  When I got up late the next morning he was gone. There was no note. In the kitchen I checked my voice mail. He had left a message.

  “I had an early meeting. I didn’t want to wake you. I thought of writing you a note but I have writers block. I’ll call you in a little while.” I smiled as he hung up.

  I had a second message. I heard Monique Lancer’s voice. She asked me to come on board. To be her client. After all, we had been through so much together. How could she not extend to me? “I’ll call again. We need each other, Diana,” she added then hung up.

  My skin turned cold.

  I took my coffee and stood on my deck and breathed in the morning air and thought of Kyra and I sitting on the bus bench together. I had let her go. I should have held on to her tight. You only have such a short time to hold onto the living.

  Someone yawned loudly. I peered over the rail. Ryan Johns was passed out on the walkway. I put my coffee down and grabbed the hose that was curled in the corner and turned it on full force. I aimed it at him. He jolted up shaking like a bear.

  “Jesus Christ, Diana.”

  “I’m not a bitter woman.”

  “What?” he staggered to his feet.

  “Lonely. And very, very sad. But I’m not bitter.”

  “Does that mean I’m not a hack?”

  “No!” I went into the living room.

  The phone was ringing.

  What’s It Worth?

  This is a story about my fascination with women in Hollywood who look for their self-esteem in mirrors, in the camera, and especially in a man’s eyes. And how far some women will go to protect their own lack of self-worth.
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br />   EMMA PARKER HAD LEFT her keys in her front door. Since I was meeting her for lunch I used them to let myself in. I found her in the living room. Wearing a faded blue chenille bathrobe, she was on her hands and knees, peering under the sofa. The sofa looked like it came right out of a forties movie with its big green-leaf print fabric. I imagined Eve Arden and Joan Crawford sitting on it, sharing snappy dialogue.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  She peered over her shoulder at me. A thick strand of henna-colored hair flopped across her check. “My self-worth.” Emma was an actress. “And those.” Her tired green eyes focused on the keys dangling from my hand.

  “You left them in the front door,” I explained.

  Staying on the floor she leaned her back against the couch. “Oh, man, I’m such a mess, Diana. We were supposed to have lunch weren’t we?”

  “You wanted to talk about Lund? I think you referred to him as that son-of-a-bitch director who fired you.” I set the keys on the coffee table.

  Emma and I had both read for the part of Livonia in Lund Hagan’s movie. Despite the character’s exotic name it was the typical dutiful wife role which means there is very little dialogue and the actress stands around looking loving, worried, and makes a lot coffee. But the movie was directed by Hagan, who was known for his taste and intelligence. A rare commodity in Hollywood. He was also known for being a narcissistic bastard who was difficult to work with. Not a rare commodity in Hollywood. Emma got the part. Two days into shooting Lund Hagan had fired her. This is the kind of blow to an actress’ career and ego that makes waitressing look good.

  “Oh, God, I’m so hung over.” Emma held her head in her hands. Then she anxiously peered up at me. “Do you mind if we don’t have lunch? I’m not feeling well.”

  “No, of course not. Can I get you anything?”

  As she struggled to her feet the bedroom door opened, and Lund Hagan sauntered in buttoning his black shirt. His black leather jacket was slung over his arm. At least his jeans were zipped up. The director was a tall aloofly handsome man in his early fifties with thick blonde hair fading to white. His blue eyes were as warm as two ice cubes. Right now he had the conceited look of having just signed a multi-million dollar contract, or a having had great night in bed. It was hard to tell which. These expressions can be interchangeable in Hollywood.

  “Diana Poole,” he said, surprised. We shook hands awkwardly.

  “I was just on my way out,” I said.

  “On your way out?” he repeated, smiling haughtily. “You should never say that in Hollywood. It might come true. You won’t tell anyone that you saw me here, will you?” He meant his wife, the producer of his films, and his mistress, the biggest casting director in town.

  “This is so embarrassing.” Emma slumped onto the sofa.

  Ignoring Lund, I said, “I’ll talk to you later, Emma.”

  “I’m sorry, Diana,” I heard her say as I left the house.

  In my car I wondered why Emma had gone to bed with Lund Hagan. Surely she didn’t think she’d get her part back. I looked at my watch. I had a call-back for a TV commercial at two-thirty. So I had a couple of hours to kill. I decided to go to Saks and buy moisturizer. It was all I could afford.

  My husband, Colin, died suddenly of a heart attack about a year ago and left me with no life insurance. He did leave me with our house – now referred to by the realtors as a tear-down—in Malibu; an old green Jag that blew hot air from its vents no matter what the weather was; and two Oscars. Colin had won each for best screenplay. He also left me with an empty spot where my heart should be. I had been an actress before I married Colin, and now I’d gone back to acting in an attempt to keep the life that he and I had loved. Of course I was older now and the competition for my kind of role was brutal.

  Standing at the make-up counter in Saks I looked at my reflection in the counter mirror and wondered why they always tilted these things so you saw your neck, chin, and nostrils. My hair was determinedly blonde and my eyes blue. A pretty face that was becoming more set in its ways. Less optimistic. Less adaptable. Again I thought of Emma. Maybe she did think she’d get her part back. Desperation can do that to you.

  Completing my purchase, I let the escalator drift me upstairs. With my little Saks bag in hand, I wandered around staring at the expensively dressed mannequins. I became aware of other females roaming and looking. Did they just have time on their hands? Or were they Madame Bovarys searching for that perfect dress for the perfect romantic lover? The perfect romantic dream.

  It was then I saw Carol Hagan, Lund’s wife. She was with Val Franz, his mistress. A saleslady was ushering them toward the dressing rooms. They were the last two women on earth I wanted to encounter. I ducked behind a tall rack of evening gowns, hiding as if I’d done something wrong. While being slashed by sequins, I tried to figure out the implications of a wife and mistress shopping together. When did sequins make a comeback?

  “Diana?” Carol’s voice cut through the cushy silence. She swiftly parted the hangers on the rack like a female Moses parting the Red Sea.

  “Are you hiding from us?” Val, the mistress asked with wry smile. They carried large expensive purses slung over their shoulders. The bags were so big they looked as if they needed bellboys to carry them. Each woman held an iPhone.

  “Carol. Val. Of course not,” I grabbed a gown and held it up to me.

  “That’s a size two.” Val said dryly, placing a hand on her sharp bony hip. Val was a size two. Her dark hair was pulled back from her lean carved face. Physically she appeared to be all edges, but her personality was cautious, even thoughtful.

  “It looks like something a drag queen would wear,” Carol, the wife, grabbed the dress from me and threw it on a low-slung leather chair. Her hair was a mass of graying curls. She had all the personality and subtly of a John Deere tractor. Lund was a man of divergent taste in women.

  “Why are you avoiding us?” Carol persisted.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to be alone?”

  “Not in Saks.” Val smiled.

  “This is déjà vu that we’ve run into you,” Carol said.

  “Serendipity,” Val corrected her.

  “We were going to call you, but we can’t get a hold of Lund.” Carol shook her iPhone as if to make it ring. “Did you hear that Emma Parker’s off the movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told Lund she was wrong for the part. Too neurotic. Too New Yorky. But he had a vision.” She paused, her lips curved down. “He didn’t come home last night, and he wasn’t with Val…” her voice quivered then trailed off.

  “You were on the short list for the role, Diana,” Val continued for her.

  They were like a married couple correcting each other and picking up the other’s train of thought.

  “We need to talk now.” Carol had regained her composure.

  The two women guided me to a private dressing room and promptly dismissed the saleslady. I sat on a sofa. My tiny Saks bag looked pathetic in this room filled with Charles Chang Lima outfits and Prada suits. My reflection was on display in the three-way mirror. I wore jeans and a crisp white shirt. I felt fleshy and all breasts compared to these two women.

  They began to undress. Val had the body of a mistress, toned and exercised. Carol had the body of a wife, thin but sagging.

  “I was trying to reach Lund to set up a meeting for you.” Carol stepped into a pair of blue-and-white striped trousers. “He told me he was going to sleep at the office. Why does he lie?” She asked Val.

  Val shimmied into a black dress. “He can’t help himself. Even when he doesn’t need to lie, he lies. Diana, we’ll set up a meeting with you and Lund later today. It’ll just be perfunctory. There isn’t time to interview other actresses, and he knows it.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re offering me the role of the wife in Lund’s movie?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  I had a jolt of pure optimism; the kind that sho
ots through an actor when she hears the word ‘yes’. It felt as if I’d just downed a Starbuck’s espresso laced with steroids. I was keenly alert and able to do anything, especially have a career. Then I thought of Lund sauntering out of Emma Parker’s bedroom and my optimism ebbed.

  “His secretary didn’t know where he was,” Carol snapped angrily. “For God’s sake, the movie is shut down. My ass is on the line.” She stared at her ass in the mirror then zipped Val up. In return Val held up a blue-and-white pinstripe jacket for Carol to slip into.

  “Maybe Lund doesn’t want me for the role? I did read for him. He didn’t seem impressed,” I said.

  “Lund needs to be pushed into a corner,” Val said.

  “It’s the only way he can make a decision,” Carol explained.

  “So we’re pushing.” Val studied her reflection. “A little black dress. Perfect for a funeral. There’s always one or two a year at least.” Now her gaze was on me. “We always wanted you for the part of the wife. You have that genteel suburban look. All the other actresses we’ve seen look like they’re trying out for The Wives of Orange County.”

  Val grabbed her iPhone off a chair and answered, “Yes?”

  It must’ve made a noise that only dogs and Val could hear because I hadn’t heard anything. She began talking about another movie she was casting.

  Carol grabbed her iPhone and punched something, then snapped. “Is he back yet? Get him now.”

  I sat staring at my little Saks bag feeling doomed and exhilarated at the same time when my cell phone rang. I fumbled around in my purse, finally digging it out and answering it.

  “He’s gone. Diana, I just want to say again that I’m sorry about forgetting our lunch.” It was Emma.

  “Listen don’t worry about it…I can’t talk right now.”

  “One more thing. Lund was so sweet when he told me I hadn’t worked out for the part. He said let’s get a drink. One thing led to another. Somehow I thought if I went to bed with him he’d give me back the role. A sort of reversal of the casting couch seduction. Screw the director after you lost the part.”