The Dimple Strikes Back

by Lucy Woodhull

  Dammit, Nicolette and Ellen were right. “Dammit, you’re right,” I said, standing as well. “Fuck it. We’re in London! Let’s go party, eh, mates?”

  “You are not good at accents,” Ellen said. “This is one instance in which you should listen to your mother.” My mother, Suzie Lytton, felt that my stardom was a fluke of nature and that I could ruin it at any moment by being myself. That hadn’t stopped her from moving from Vegas to L.A., the easier to surf my coattails and give sparkling interviews to low-level morning TV shows.

  In a cringe-tastic Cockney, I replied, “Bugger you in the crikey, ya chit!”

  “That’s not a phrase people say.” Nicolette grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me towards the bedroom. “Now put on something tight and let’s go. We’ll find you someone not wanted by Interpol.”

  This was a side of Nicolette I’d heretofore not seen. Although I had heard about it around the two-month mark via text. My bill that month had been obscene for several reasons. “Can it be a man?”

  “Hasn’t California turned you gay yet?” She grinned and started going through my suitcases. “That’s what my mother warned would happen to me when I moved from Atlanta. Ooh, is this Alexander McQueen?”

  “I wore that to my first premiere. I’d never spent so much on something that wasn’t a car before in my life.”

  We all sighed—women bonding over expensive couture that took off five pounds the moment you slipped it on. My two wardrobe assistants settled on a black, halter-neck jumpsuit I’d picked up but hadn’t actually had the guts to wear anywhere. Ellen explained, “It’s Europe! You’re expected to look like a disinterested courtesan.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Stop shaving your legs.” How that would help me tonight in a pair of pants, I had no idea. Perhaps the superior European attitude to beauty didn’t need to be seen, just felt. I think ‘je ne sais quoi’ means ‘fuck you, I’m awesome, and I do what I want’.

  Nicolette and Ellen decided to dress and makeup me into what they considered to be an acceptable level of vampiness while we sucked down mid-grade whisky leftover from their flight. The idea that I might dump Bam caused Nicolette to grin at me like never before. But it could have been the booze.

  They both selected garments that fit them more or less—Nicolette a wrap dress that fell to knee-length on me, but was a mini on her, and Ellen a miniskirt and tank top with a leather jacket on top. If there were three hotter ladies in London that night, I’d deny it.

  We went to an Italian restaurant with a famous chef’s name on the front and drank enough wine and ate enough carbs to power fifty drunken marathon runners. Then it was another bar, a dance club full of sleazy, grabby guys, and another dance club full of respectful, non-grabby ladies. While I doubted I would find my next true love at the all-woman disco, I did get enough business cards pressed into my palm to tell me that my non-hetero fan base was an enthusiastic group.

  “I bet you make the gossip blogs tomorrow,” Ellen hollered over the din to me as I posed with another fan, this one delivering a gin-ny kiss to my cheek when the cell phone shutter went off. Oooh, that would make my agent, my manager, my publicist and my attorney so happy! Gay rumours for a Hollywood actor meant big trouble, but bisexual rumblings about a woman made her more interesting to some.

  Sometime around two a.m. my body started shutting down from lack of sleep, heartache and whatever the hell was wrong with my feet—my four-inch heels had acquired switchblades and were in the process of carving me up like a side of beef. I plopped into a booth—in the VIP section, y’all!—and was soon joined by my compatriots. Thereby began the sloppy ‘I love you so much’ portion of the evening. You know, the one where you tell each other how beautiful you are despite the fact that your mascara is now gracing your cleavage?

  I opened the proceedings. “Nicolette, I think you’re so awesome and good and beautiful for my friend, and I’m sorry you don’t like me because I screw criminals.” I paused to yawn. “Criminal. Just one at a time, because I’m a fucking lady, thank you.”

  Nicolette put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re kind of annoying, but I don’t hate you. Especially if you’ve dumped him. Did you dump him? I don’t see why you couldn’t date…Ryan Gosling. He seems like less of a turd than most of them.”

  “No!” Ellen swept into the booth on my other side. “We can’t talk about men. It’s a rule, for authors, of which I am an esteeeeeeemed one”—she bowed, we applauded—“to have ladies have conversations not about penises. It’s the Bechdel test, and no more cock talk.” Ellen was a semi-famous YA author—her sophomore effort was punching other New York Times-listed authors in the face every day. She must have ordered more alcohols for us sometime in there, because a waitress arrived, and Ellen shoved something pink and frosty into my face. “You don’t need a man when you have Colin Firth!”

  “Colin Firth is a man,” Nicolette said.

  I explained, “Colin Firth is my vibrator as well as the most Mr Darcy in the pond.” I shoved the drink away.

  “Hear, hear.” Ellen pushed my cocktail back towards me, but I remembered I had a wardrobe fitting I had to be at to in, like, eleven hours London time—which is like American time, except it pronounces ‘aluminium’ funny.

  “Okay—” I held out my arms. “Okay.” It took a while for my mind thoughts to swim through the lake of vodka between my brain and my brain. “I am a professional woman with an important career. I need to worry about my career, right?”

  “Right!” Nicolette toasted me and only spilled half her drink on the table.

  “This is my first step to world domi—dom—conquer. Conquering. First, I play second banana in a couple movies, and then, next, I play top banana in a Mel Brooks joint!”

  Ellen dipped her napkin in some water and dabbed at my boobs. I looked down to behelded that I’d dribbled some accidental drinky there. “Whoops,” she said. “Does Mel Brooks do joints anymore?”

  “He will for me. It is my destiny and my…future destiny.” My head fell to the table of its own accord. And then it stayed there because heads are really heavy, you know? Because my brain is so big and full of cheese. I turned my mouth to the side. “I do not need some stupid man getting me all jacked the fuck up because he can’t keep his paintings in his pants and then they kidnap me. That is poor life management.” I was finally able to lift my noggin. I held my drink aloft. My righteous bitches did the same. “To money!”

  “Mo money!” Ellen said.

  “Mo stress!” Nicolette added.

  “Mo’Nique!” I finished my pink thing. “I like her.”

  Nicolette nodded. “She’s got a lot of talent.” She finished her round and set the glass very carefully upside down. “Fuckers in my department won’t promote me to detective. Funny how White dudes are always the most qualified for everything.”

  I grabbed her hand affectionately, feeling more at home with her now that she’d begun with the potty mouth. “It’s because they play golf with each other with their dicks and balls. And then the dude with the smallest pair gets to be in charge because he yells the most.”

  Ellen burst out laughing. Nicolette slumped farther into the seat and said, “Maybe they take the detective exams with their…members. Maybe magic ink flows out.”

  “I’ve seen it a hundred times. Magic ink. They think it’s magic. It’s mostly just sour, usually.”

  And that was when Ellen fell out of the booth. She came back up for air and said, “I’m gonna write a movie for you, Lytton. It’s gonna be called Sour Grapes and it’s about one woman’s quest to improve the flavour of life.”

  “No! Let’s make a movie about all women. Like after the apocalypse, but only the women are left, but we have science, so there are still babies.”

  “I want to see this movie,” Nicolette slurred very sincerefully. “I want to live it.”

  “To Ellen! Best fucking writer in the world!” I had nothing to toast with, but I held my glass aloft anyhow. N
icolette joined me, hers upside-down. Ellen didn’t seem to mind, for she leaned over me to sloppily kiss her lady. I just kinda sat between, my eyes bobbing like a pool buoy, until the groping began. “Hey, hey—that was my boob. Nice grabbing, though. Ellen?”

  “Yeah, sorry. You can’t blame me, though. You have terrific tits.”

  I clasped my hands to my mammaries. “Thanks!”

  “Hey!” Nicolette sat up and pointed to me, then Ellen. “Have you two ever…”

  I said, “Oh, God, no.”

  “Noooooo,” Ellen agreed.

  “Fuck, no.”

  “That’s horrible. Why would you say that?”

  “I’m not that terrible!” I snapped. Geesh, Ellen had such impossible high standards. I dived into my purse and found a bunch of paper moneys that looked rainbowey and weird, so I set them on the table in the hope that someone else might count them into the required denominations. “Ellen has never tickled my taco.”

  “Wait!” Nicolette’s brown eyes turned as wide as really wide brown eyes.

  Wow, was I drunk.

  “Wait—didn’t your low-rent Ryan Gosling name his cat ‘Captain Taco’?”

  I straightened my spine. “Yes. After Tito’s Tacos.”

  “I fuckin’ love Tito’s Tacos,” Ellen said with a burp. She set to figuring out the money, thank goodness. I love her.

  Nicolette nodded. “Me, too. Anyway, that cat is named after pussy.”

  “No.” I shook my head, and then the whole bloody restaurant joined in the wobbling, even the furniture.

  Ellen plopped a hand on my arm. “She’s a professional detective. Believe her.” Her voice dipped low and serious. “It’s a pussy cat.”

  Nicolette laughed so hard she nearly pissed herself, and we all decided that going home was the best thing. My girls had got a hotel room, but in the interest of everyone’s best interests, I made them come home with me. We grabbed various of my jammies—which looked like high-waders on my houseguests—and crammed into my queen-sized bed. “I won’t be offended if you two want to go to the couch and…and…” I offered magnanimously, my eyes heavy and glued shut like, like, like with glue. Ellen let out a snore in response.

  “Turn over, sweetie,” Nicolette said.

  I would turn over. I’d turn over a new leaf in the life department. I was worthy of love that could take place in public and happen every day of the month and in the same hemisphere as me. Damn right.

  * * * *

  How I made it to the wardrobe fitting

  a) looking alive instead of dead

  b) on time and

  c) without barfing on any of the sexy cat burglar outfits they squeezed me into is a mystery for the ages. But I didn’t regret my drunken shenanigans with my hos. Therapy or the VIP room and bottle service—they cost the same, they help you similarly, but for one, you get to wear badass jumpsuits and pretend you’re at Studio 54. I suppose you could have a drunken dance party in therapy, but your treatment will likely be longer.

  Bonus—nobody in wardrobe suggested that I lose ten pounds! Had I become an acceptable Hollywood woman? Or had everyone thrown up their hands and just decided to put my bodacious buttocks in black? Who cares.

  They took a bunch of Polaroids of me, and had settled on putting me in another jumpsuit. I was gonna bring them back! It featured a collar and long sleeves, like a mechanic’s, except fashioned in some material made by NASA that sucked in my thighs until they almost didn’t even rub together. Those genius people could have gone to Saturn, but instead they made advanced science clothing for comedy movies. And to finish it off—a giant zipper from my crotch to my throat.

  There had been some debate about shoes. The Powers That Be, i.e. studio execs in suits, wanted me in six-inch spike heels. No, no, no. First off—my feet are merely eight inches and change long. The only performance I could manage in six-inch shoes was a ballet on my toes. Secondly—I was so tired of seeing women in action movies leap about in ridiculous footwear. The military doesn’t put its fighting heroines in freaking Jimmy Choos! One twisted ankle and the terrorists win. After my polite, yet firm bitching, they agreed to find something in a lower-heeled wedge, maybe with spikes on it.

  I ran into Daniel whilst in my snazzy space spandex, and his eyes got appreciatively wide. Score one for me. The tight black tee and army-green cargo pants they’d poured him into would be fap fodder the world over once this movie hit previews, I had no doubt. God bless the makers of size smedium shirts, as made famous by Chris Evans as Captain America.

  He offered to play London tour guide for the day and take me out to dinner—at least one man I knew had the ability to follow through. I’d told him I’d have to answer him after I consulted with my visiting friends, and he wanted to include them, too! It was shameful how many sighs I’d had to internalize during our conversation. One sigh for his pretty face. Another for his hard, gorgeous, hummina hummina hummina body and a third for not wanting me to ditch my girls.

  Shame pricked at me. I’d shoved Sam so far out of my thoughts I’d nearly forgotten his name. If Sam was his name. I believe it was, but he’d given me so many over our time together that I chose to doubt in order to alleviate my wanton lusting. I wasn’t a woman who usually juggled men—I’d been lucky if more than one noticed me in the space of a year, never mind at the same time.

  Of course, Daniel was a fab-O movie star with a fleet of women on retainer for his sexual pleasure. Probably. He wasn’t flirting with me—he was polite. Dreamily polite.

  Forty-eight hours since I’d heard from Sam.

  And about sixty since I’d been attacked because of him. Again.

  We met Danny for a late lunch at an out-of-the-way joint near the National Portrait Gallery with seriously the best cheeseburger I’d ever had. If I admitted that on Twitter, however, I don’t think they’d let me back inside America. The grease hit the spot—specifically, the hangover spot.

  He charmed Ellen and Nicolette to the point where they decided to ditch us right after, saying they wanted a romantic night in the city. Sure, they did—one for them, and one for me. I could tell how much Ellen liked him by the way she subtly elbowed me over and over again until I had to restrain her because of my rib bruising. As they left us in the street, Ellen made a graphic gesture of sexual encouragement.

  That was just silly. I was a professional woman, working on her burgeoning career and interacting with her colleague and oh, golly, he put his hand in the small of my back. “Would you like to visit the portrait gallery?” he asked.

  I giggled, which is not a professional response. “Yes. I want to see Queen Elizabeth I, the best monarch you ever had, and a woman who didn’t need no man.”

  He smiled, subtle at first, then it blossomed into something mischievous. “It can be good to not need someone.” He led me down the square towards the entrance. “But wanting someone—that’s the delightful part.”

  “If they want you in return.”

  “Sometimes even if they don’t. ‘A girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.’ So does a boy.”

  Did he just quote Jane Austen to me? If he pooped salted chocolate, he might be the perfect heterosexual man. I rewarded his intellect with another giggle. That made two, which was two too many.

  I was already crossed in love. I didn’t need to be double-crossed.

  His face reflected a mix of bemusement and flirtation. Why flirty? He likely flirted with everyone and everything—the world was his oyster, and we all wanted to pour hot sauce on him and lick him up. Or, wait, maybe he was the oyster? Whatever, the licking was the important part.

  I paused my libido long enough to take a breath in Trafalgar Square, not quite believing I was here. Not quite believing I was being paid to be here. I smiled so hard it began to hurt. I almost had an out-of-body experience, with the secretary me from a year and a half ago peeking in on the future and fainting from dreams coming true. For once, I controlled my urge to cry, and instead swallowed the ball of
joy lumping my throat. I turned it into a goofy face for Danny, which elicited a chuckle and a head shake that seemed to say, ‘Crazy Americans!’ I was their official representative.

  We proceeded into the museum, and the crowds parted before us, whispering worshipfully. About him. Almost every person in each room just stopped and stared, and trepidation fluttered my insides. I didn’t know if I wanted this level of fame. The constant cell phone pics. The never-ending attention. But this was what came with the pay cheque, right? I didn’t want to be an ungrateful asshole. Besides, they weren’t looking at me, except tangentially. Thank goodness, because I just had to swallow a cheeseburger burp, and I’m pretty sure Angelina Jolie has taught herself not to burp or fart.

  I kept my head down and pretended the attention wasn’t happening. That was what Danny did, although he plastered a constant, small smile upon on his features. He seemed aloof and accessible at the same time, like the monarchs hanging on the walls around us.

  He wound us through the elegant rooms with gleaming wooden floors and skylights that made them seem bigger, grander. Dutifully, he delivered me to the Tudor collection, wherein I visited my queen. I stopped in front of a portrait that featured Elizabeth I standing atop a map of England. Yes. Top of the heap. Large and in charge. I grinned and nodded up at her, redhead to redhead, virgin queen to non-virgin commoner.

  She had the right idea. I’m the boss of me.

  Danny leant down to me and, sotto voce, asked, “Did you really foil an international group of art thieves?”