by Josie Brown
The pool on the terrace level of the Sunset Tower is the place to see and be seen, especially on a beautiful afternoon.
Do my children recognize the many stars within spitting distance of them? My guess is no—unless they’re wearing a super-hero costume, or still look as girlish or as boyish as they did in the teen movies they made just a few years ago.
Hanging by the pool days on end won’t keep your skin forever twenty-one, but hanging by the Sunset Tower’s pool says you’ve arrived.
Trisha splashes in the shallow end with the hotel’s on-call au pair, a twenty-something adorable enough to have her own sitcom. But hey, in this town, the stardom competition is tough, to say the least. I don’t envy the young and talented who stay to play, and certainly not those who are paid to pass.
While we’re working, Aunt Phyllis supervises the children’s studies. Afterward, she takes them on outings—to movies, the local parks and libraries, or the Farmer’s Market.
When the kids hang at the pool, Aunt Phyllis parks herself in the hotel lobby with her knitting bag. From there, she can tune in on conversations. Lately she’s been passing along gossipy tidbits to the TMZ hotline. It’s one way of subsidizing a measly Social Security check. Or as she puts it, “No one expects the little old lady in the lobby to be their worst paparazzi nightmare.”
Even Lassie and Rin Tin Tin have adjusted to hotel living. They sleep on little hotel beds, get walked in William S. Hart Park adjacent to the hotel, and enjoy the hotel’s “pet dining menu,” which includes chopped sirloin, grilled boneless chicken breast, and New York steaks, rare.
My youngest waves at me, but she’s having too much fun pretending to be a porpoise to come over. I spot Jeff, sitting on a lounge chair that backs up to a cabana. He’s writing furiously on his iPad. Without Morton and Cheever to distract him, it seems he’s become focused on his studies. At least one good thing has come from this situation.
I ease myself down onto the lounge chair beside Mary. “You’re getting quite a tan.”
She shrugs. Her eyes don’t move from her book.
I try again. “Is that your assigned reading?”
She clicks off the iPad. “Mom, tell me the truth: why are we here?”
So much for small talk. I force my lips into a grin. “Don’t you remember? Your father has been asked to consult on a movie script. The plot revolves around the banking industry.”
She juts out her chin. Since she was two, this was the telltale that she doesn’t like what she is hearing.
“Really? You expect me to believe that?”
I’ll match her disbelief then raise it with my own tone of indignation. “What are you trying to say, Mary?”
“Babs texted me. She asked if I was upset—about our house blowing up! Mom, I didn’t know how to answer her! You and Dad hadn’t said anything. But you must have known about it…right?”
Ah, the moment of truth.
I nod. “We got the call from the fire department the afternoon we were at the movies.”
Her anger propels her into an upright position. “You knew—but you didn’t say anything?”
“Yes, we knew. But I didn’t want you and Jeff and Trisha to be as upset over it as I am. And since we have to be here at the hotel anyway, I told your father I thought it would be best for us to settle in before we broke the news to the rest of the family.”
Mary eases back into her chair. She lowers her sunglasses, revealing eyes that are red and rimmed with tears. I have no doubt she’s thinking about the house, her room, and all of the things left behind that will no longer be a part of her life. “Is everything gone?”
“Sadly, yes. Nothing was saved.”
“Will we ever move back?” she asks in a whisper.
“The insurers are assessing the damage now. Even if they do a full payout, the time and expense may not be worth it. On the other hand, since there hasn’t been an empty lot in Hilldale for quite some time, it should go for a premium. It might be a better idea to sell it, as is.”
She pulls away from me. “So your answer is no. We’re never going back.”
I place my hand over hers. “There’s another reason why it’s a very strong possibility that we won’t be returning to Hilldale. Your father’s company has offered him a transfer—out of the country. It means more money, and I guess it’s one way to view our misfortune as a fresh start.”
“But I don’t need ‘a fresh start.’ I’d miss my friends! I like my teachers, and my school!”
I place my hand over hers. “What is truly important in our lives isn’t things, or even places, but the memories we have, and the people who love us most, who have helped us create those memories. Mary, we’re the most important people in each other’s lives, aren’t we?”
She nods. “Yes, of course.”
“Should we make this move, we’ll be sharing some invaluable experiences.”
She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes shift to our hands, mine over hers. “Mom, are you telling me everything?”
We tell our children that honesty is the best policy. And yet, when it comes to their wellbeing, the great parenting dilemma is deciding how, and when, we dole out information to them. Will what we tell them go over their heads? Worse yet, will it scare them? Will they understand our motives and respect our decisions?
Mary isn’t an adult. She’s no longer a child, either. She’s right in pointing out that I owe her the truth, especially during these very crucial years in her life.
But she can’t understand that the decisions we’ve made are not only on her behalf, but protect many innocent lives.
Jack’s and my life depend on them, too. The next decision we make will determine our freedom.
All the more reason to squeeze her hands and say with all sincerity, “At this point, there is so much that neither your father nor I know. Mary, sweetheart, we’re taking advantage of all the wonderful things coming our way.”
She’s about to say something when suddenly we hear some woman screaming, “Why, you little snoop! Give me that cell phone!”
The next thing I know, Jeff is running toward us. As he passes us, he drops his cell into Mary’s beach bag, before bounding into the hedge behind us.
The woman comes out of a cabana on the far side of the pool. She’s naked, except for the flimsy towel she’s wrapping around herself. She stops when she sees us. “That boy—did you see him? Which way did he go?”
Mary and I stare at her, then at each other. We both point toward the elevator.
She runs off, tucking the towel around her as it slips.
I wait until we hear the elevator whisk her down into the hotel before grabbing Jeff’s cell. I scroll through the photos he’s taken—all of celebrities, who I guess had been hanging out, poolside, over the past few days.
Jeff pops out from behind a bush. “Is the coast clear?”
“For now,” I say.
He flops down in the chair on the other side of Mary. But when he reaches for her bag, I grab his wrist with one hand. He looks up to see I’m holding his phone with the other.
“You know the hotel’s policy. Why are you spying on these people?”
“Whenever I overhear something juicy, Aunt Phyllis cuts me in for some of her paparazzi fees.”
“What? That’s disgraceful!” I delete all the pictures.
Jeff folds his arms on his chest. “Why can’t I help Aunt Phyllis? She needs me. Sometimes her hearing aid flakes out on her.”
I shake my head firmly. “She’s making enough now that she can afford a new one.”
“Even if that’s the case, she can’t be in two places at once. She’s already paid me twenty bucks for the leads I’ve picked up here, by the pool!”
“The money isn’t the issue. Eavesdropping is hardly a profession. Worse yet, it isn’t polite.”
“Okay, whatever.” But, by his scowl, I can tell he’ll say anything to get me off his back.
Maybe I’m being too hard on him—really, on a
ll of them. Although all the children haven’t come out and said so, they know something isn’t right with our little sabbatical. I’ve cut my hair shorter, and lightened it. Jack doesn’t need them, but he’s started to wear glasses anyway, parts his hair differently, and now sports a scruffy goatee. Whenever we go out in public, we wear sunglasses.
Aunt Phyllis teases us that we’re “living like celebrities, and acting like them, too.” She can think what she wants, just as long as she—or for that matter, the kids—don’t realize the truth:
We’ve gone off the grid.
Well, a Hollywood version of it, anyway.
My children may not miss school, but they miss their friends and the continuity of their lives.
I hope they can soon get back to it.
If and when they do, it will be because Jack and I are sharing it with them.
Chapter 7
Dead Poets Society
“Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”
—Robin Williams, as “John Keating”
Now that you have your invitation to your own movie’s premiere in your gelled talons, of course you’re wondering, “What will I wear?”
Hmmm. Great question—especially from someone who has worn the same ratty old jammies since high school. So that your promenade of fame doesn’t turn into a walk of shame, here are three tips to avoid the typical fashion faux pas:
First, dress to compress. Any gown that puts you within spitting distance of your favorite movie stars is worth fighting the battle of the bulge. Just say “Spanx for the memories!”
Next, skip the train. The goal is to make it to your assigned seat without tripping on the hem of your gown. Forget the sky-high heels and the too-long train and you can breeze in and smile pretty for the cameras.
Despite Diana Vreeland’s fashion savoir faire, your first time on the red carpet is not the time to “give ’em what they never knew they wanted.” Your very first time on the red carpet should not be an occasion for a nip slip or your thong doing you wrong, just because you packed your pistol in the wrong place. Better to avoid any dress that begs for a wardrobe malfunction.
Better yet, just this once, leave your gun at home.
You’re just as lethal with your stiletto heel.
“What’s it like to watch someone die?” Sebastian Gillingham, the latest and, so far, greatest screenwriter for Lethal, has waited to ask me this all day.
His timing is perfect. Just a moment ago I read the final page of his screenplay, and rewarded him two thumbs up—
Which is possibly why I’m spilling my drink all over the carpet.
Well, that and the fact I’m on my third tumbler of Bowmore. Whiskey isn’t my usual cuppa, but this is a very expensive twenty-five year-old bottle of the stuff, so bottoms up, right?
We have a right to celebrate early. The screenplay is finally completed, and besides, happy hour started eons ago—
In Paris, if not Los Angeles.
Addison was lucky to get Sebastian on this project. In only four days, this award-winning screenwriter has done a wonderful job massaging Lethal into a thriller that is also a love story. The characters are no longer cardboard cutouts, but a man and a woman who must make life-or-death decisions and live with the consequences. The plot revolves around stolen intelligence. Its loss is the fault of the hero. The heroine holds the key, but she doesn’t know it—yet. She once had a relationship with the villain—a terrorist who is both heartless and cunning. In reliving her feelings for him, will she fail in stopping him?
Sebastian has made Jack and my job easy. He graciously listened to our suggestions of how to make the scenarios of derring-do ring true, both in regard to the technical details and the emotions that drive them. Then, he just made a few simple changes—reworded a few lines of dialogue, or altered the action within the scene.
He has an Oscar on his mantle, but his cache of BAFTAs and Emmys comes from a BBC drawing room drama that’s a hit on both sides of the pond.Bloomsbury, which dramatizes the life of Virginia Woolf, her sister Vanessa Bell, and other influential early twentieth-century writers, philosophers, and artists in her London social set, is being applauded for its attention to detail, nuanced performances and spot-on period dialogue.
No wonder word has it that Sebastian is a shoo-in for a knighthood, and not just because he’s tall, elegant, and looks great in a tux.
His question not only catches me off-guard, it brings a blush to my cheeks, too. “I don’t usually have the opportunity to hang around after a hit.”
“Ah…yes, I imagine that would be the case.” He laughs at his own naïveté. His bashfulness is part of his charm. In fact, he’s so shy that he has never looked me in the eye—yet another of his many endearing traits. “But the way you’ve described your hits to me—how you research your targets, how you get close to them without their even noticing you’re there, that you even know them intimately—I would think that you’d feel some sort of…I don’t know. Perhaps the word I’m looking for is—”
“The word I think you mean is remorse. By the time their name is on my to-do list, they’ve already been very bad boys—or, for that matter, girls.”
“But they have lives. Maybe even spouses and children.” He tosses back his head, so that his bangs stay out of his eyes. It’s a nervous habit. Despite being in his forties, he still wears his hair as if he’s in his third year at Oxford.
Or perhaps he thinks women find it adorable.
I’m a woman, and yes, it has its allure.
Jack, on the other hand, finds it annoying. But what he finds even more irritating is Sebastian’s subtle attempts to veer us away from the technical aspects of our job by tossing in a question or two about our personal lives.
I’m sure it’s why Jack passed on this little celebration, claiming he had “another appointment.” In truth, he’s out walking the dogs, but I don’t dare tell Sebastian that Jack prefers their company to his.
Right now, I can’t say I blame Jack. This question certainly gives me reason to pause. “In most cases, yes. They have lives beyond their day jobs as terrorists. But it hasn’t stopped them from ruining the lives of others.”
“But isn’t terrorism in the eyes of the beholder?” Sebastian pours yet another two fingers of Bowmore into his glass. Ever the thoughtful guest, he splashes my tumbler, too. Okay, more than a splash. Enough so that even Jack’s rudeness no longer bothers me.
I don’t want to lose the giddiness of our success, so I tap the rim of my glass to his. “What do you mean by that?”
“One man’s terror attack is another’s fight for freedom.”
I shake my head adamantly. “Terrorism is not a political statement. It’s a bullying tactic used against the defenseless. It ruins the lives of families who just want to get on with their daily, ordinary lives. They kill families in local shopping malls, and children on soccer fields. The average John and Jane Doe having lunch in a coffee shop may have the bad fortune of standing next to a suicide bomber when he blows sky high. I can tell you unequivocally that terrorism is not how you win friends and influence voters. If you want to make your case, you do it at the ballot box. Trust me, the terrorists know this.”
Sebastian’s frown is evidence of his disbelief. “In your country, big business lobbies for what it needs. It also buys public opinion. What about John and Jane Doe then? Who looks after them?”
“Sometimes, the task falls to me.” I tap the screenplay with my index finger. “You’ve got some of what we do right here. If only I were as gorgeous as Jennifer Garner.”
Sebastian winces. “Or whomever.”
I choke on my whiskey. “What do you mean by that?”
“She dropped out, right after her husband pulled out of directing it.”
“Let me guess—Cooper is out, too.”
“Seems like it, unless Addison can coerce Jennifer Lawrence to take the role. When it comes to leads, those two are practically joined at the hip.” He taps t
he script, too. “After reading this, she’d be a fool to pass, if I do say so myself.”
“I agree.” I try to stand up, but I’ll admit it—I’m a bit tipsy.
Ever the gentleman, Sebastian puts his arm out to steady me.
Instead, I end up in his lap.
“Sorry! I guess I’ve had too much to drink.”
“Not to worry,” he smiles, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that I’d end up there.
As quickly as I can, I leap—okay, make that fall—out of his lap. He stands up in order to reach down to help me up—
Instead he ends up on the floor beside me.
We both laugh at this. At first, we exchange embarrassed chuckles, but soon we’re into full-blown snorting, to the point that we’re both rolling on the carpet.
Face down, I gasp, “My God, I don’t remember the last time I just let loose like this!”
I turn my head toward Sebastian to find him staring at my backside. When our eyes meet, he smiles. Picking up the whiskey bottle, he murmurs, “Bottoms up.”
“Um…I don’t think I should drink anymore.”
I rise to my knees, but slowly, because I’m woozy. I don’t want to throw up on the carpet. The dogs would think I’d left them a treat, and the next thing I know, I’d be cleaning up after them instead.
Ugh. Can’t stand up. I settle back down onto my knees again. Sort of. More like yoga. Downward dog. Good, the blood is rushing to my head. Much better. Yes, exercise will do me good.
No, vomit rushing there, too. I collapse into the cobra position: on my stomach, head and shoulders lifted.
Sebastian is sitting on the bed, albeit he’s not half as looped. What’s he reading? Is that the Gideon’s Bible from the night table? “You like to journal, do you?”
I’d try nodding, but in this position, I’d only be asking for trouble. I don’t want to pull a Linda Blair. “Yes. Old habit. It’s for my children…when they’re old enough to understand why I do…you know, my job.”
“Totally understandable.” He flips the pages. “I’m old enough, though. You don’t mind, do you? It may help me find the key as to why I find you so beguiling.”
