According to a Source

by Abby Stern

  “Nothing beats Citizen Kane except for How Green Was My Valley. At least according to the Oscar for Best Picture in 1942,” I told him.

  “You’re crazy. Citizen Kane won,” he insisted, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “I swear, it didn’t. Let’s look it up,” I challenged. We Googled it and, lo and behold, I was correct. Before I could gloat or he would have to admit defeat, he grabbed me by the back of my head and kissed me. I kissed back even harder—it made every other kiss I’d had feel flimsy and like a partial outline of what an actual kiss should be.

  So that morning when Hattie asked me if I hooked up with her brother, I decided to be honest: “Yes,” I answered. I scrunched my eyebrows and clenched my jaw in anticipation of the verbal beating I was surely about to receive for breaking girl code to make out with her brother.

  But she just cracked a smile. “Oh, I don’t want to hear about it. I’m just glad it finally happened. It took you guys long enough,” she quipped as she ran a wet washcloth over her face to remove last night’s makeup. After Hattie’s blessing and our first real date we became inseparable. I never thought I could miss someone while I’m looking at them pump gas outside of the car window, but I missed him. After graduation, Hattie was offered a coveted job in advertising in Chicago and Ethan and I moved in together in West Hollywood.

  * * *

  “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” he says, reaching his hands across the red-and-white checkered tablecloth to hold mine. He massages the area between my thumb and index finger. I’m listening to him with my ears but my eyes are bouncing around the restaurant. I want to focus on our date but I have Victoria’s voice trapped in my head like I’m in some bizarre movie where someone else is narrating my life and I have to do exactly what they say. My eyes home in on the back of a couple. He’s on the shorter side, in his late sixties, maybe early seventies with disheveled salt-and-pepper hair, a fake tan, and all-black suit and a white scarf worn open around his neck as an accent. His date looks like she’s in her thirties at the oldest and his hand is clasped around her waist so tightly it’s as if she’s his hostage, though she doesn’t seem to mind.

  Is it him? I can’t tell. Not from this angle anyway. He does have a wife, so if it is him, this could be the kind of first impression I want to make on Victoria.

  “Hello? Earth to Ella.”

  I snap my gaze to my boyfriend. “Sorry! I thought I saw Aging Iconic New York Italian Actor being seated with a date who’s not his wife.” He releases my hands and takes a drink.

  “Was it him?”

  “I’m not sure. I couldn’t get confirmation from this angle.” I pick up my phone, a cardinal sin on date night, but I need to figure out if the man now seated in the dark corner drinking a martini as he pets his maybe-mistress is him. I still can’t decipher if it’s Aging Iconic New York Italian Actor from these photos. “I’m just going to do a quick lap and pretend like I’m looking for the bathroom.” He swallows, which is his tell that he’s annoyed, but tells me to “go ahead.”

  The restaurant is packed. Dan Tana’s is famous for their traditional Italian cuisine and never having your table ready regardless of your reservation time, but nobody ever makes a fuss because it’s that good. I make my way through the crowd.

  I finally reach the corner of the restaurant, pretending as if I’m lost even though the space isn’t much larger than a tennis court, but one direct glance in proximity to the man in question confirms that he’s not Aging Iconic New York Italian Actor. I’m not sure if I’m relieved that I can focus on my boyfriend and enjoy our date or disappointed that I’m going to remain at zero points for another day. I settle back into my seat opposite Ethan.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I had to check. It’s my new boss, Victoria. I just want to impress her.”

  “You’re going to be fine,” he assures me.

  “It’s not just that I admire her. This new points system she’s implemented to determine which of us will keep our jobs has me spinning out.” I take a sip of my Grey Goose dirty martini and lean back in my chair.

  “I’m sure Maggie will do her best to put in a good word for you.” He reaches for the bread basket and savagely tears off a piece of the Italian loaf and I pour a few drizzles of olive oil onto his bread plate for him.

  “You don’t understand. This is Victoria Davis. She’s like queen of the monarchy of celebrity journalism.” I stare at Ethan as he chews, envious of his carbohydrate consumption. “She says find a story, I need to bring her five if I want to keep my paycheck rolling in.” Not only do I want to keep my job, I want to impress her, maybe even be her one day. “You know what? Tonight it’s not important. Tonight is about us. I’ll figure something out. I promise, the rest of the night I’m only going to be staring at the incredible, talented man right in front of me.” I place my palm faceup on the table, indicating I want him to take my hand again, and he takes the hint.

  “Can you believe it?” he asks, grinning as wide as a villain in a superhero movie. “It’s really happening. My agent says he’ll know more tomorrow but the studio can make me an offer anytime.”

  “I never had any doubt, babe.” I reach my other hand across the table to caress his cheek. “You’re a beautiful writer.” His eyes are welling up with tears.

  “Stop.” He’s proud and embarrassed simultaneously.

  “I will not. Your script is Oscar-worthy for sure and every actor and actress in town is going to beg for an audition so they can be a part of it.” I remove my hand from his face and return it to the table. The way his eyes dance as they stare into mine is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to pure happiness.

  “Next time you see an actor at a club that you know I want to be in the movie, you better talk the script up.” He winks, wiping away the moisture that was previously in his eyes.

  “Obviously. Although I’m sure I won’t even need to.”

  “This is it, Ella. Everything is about to change. The next few weeks the life we’ve had together will cease to exist. We’re going to be on a new adventure.”

  “And I’m going to be right there by your side, supporting you.”

  He releases my other hand from his grip and traces each of my fingers with his, paying particular attention to my ring finger, tracing it repeatedly before moving on to my pinky. I bite my bottom lip with anticipation as he continues to gaze at me and I take another sip of my martini.

  Five

  Dear Freelancers,

  I was going to wait until Monday to send an update but some of you have already accumulated points. It’s going to be a tight race.

  Victoria

  It’s only been twenty-four hours since our meeting. WTF? How are people already on the board? I know that I’m not, without even scrolling through the rest of the e-mail, but I need to find out how many people are. Three. There are three people that have already found something she’s using. My adrenaline kicks in even though I don’t have the luxury of having the time for a full-on anxiety attack. Holiday will kill me if I show up at her party and act like Debbie Downer.

  Ethan casually strolls in at 7:38 P.M. for our preplanned 8 P.M. departure and throws himself down on the bed while I complete my metamorphosis from Frankenstein with hair extensions into blond bombshell. I peek my head into the bedroom and he’s still sprawled out on top of the bed.

  “Babe, how long will it take you to get ready? I don’t want to be late,” I tell him.

  “El, I think I’m gonna pass on the party tonight,” he mumbles, getting under the covers.

  “What? Really?”

  “We’re supposed to hear by midnight if the studio is accepting our counteroffer and buying my screenplay. If I go to the party I’m going to want to look at my phone every five seconds, which you know I can’t do there.” He pats the bed, motioning me to come lie next to him.

  “I understand.” Of course I wish he was coming with me but if I give him any guff for his decision to stay home I might as well get out o
f journalism and into politics because I’d be the biggest hypocrite ever. I reach the bed and prop myself up next to him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He pulls me from my seated position and spoons me. I have a few minutes to spare, so I cuddle against him.

  “You know, you could stay home with me. We can order a pizza and watch a movie. Have another date night at home to keep my mind occupied.” He kisses me in our spot and his hand begins to travel down my torso, lower, lower, trying to seduce me into staying. I smile at his attempt, but I remove his hand.

  “I’d love to, babe, but I swore to Holiday I’d be there tonight. Plus it’s perfect timing. I need to find a story. Three people are ahead of me and the only thing Victoria cares about is points. I have to get some damn points. Something will happen at Holiday’s party. It always does.”

  “Right.” His voice lowers and his embrace loosens.

  “I’ll get out of there as soon as I get a story and come home to you. I love you.” I turn around and kiss him. “Keep me posted if there’s something to celebrate, okay?” He nods and rolls over as I order an Uber. I’m definitely not driving tonight. With my job on the line I need more than a few cocktails to maintain any sort of equilibrium. Besides, I don’t want to end up in the Lynwood jail with a DUI like a lot of the celebrities I spy on.

  * * *

  As I wind through the hills on the drive to Holiday’s house all I can think about is trying to get my exclusive. I step out of the car, making sure to keep my legs together so I don’t flash anyone like Former A-List Hot Mess Actress.

  I step out wearing an Elizabeth and James dress and Aquazzura shoes, and before I can knock on the front door it sails open. I’m greeted by the maître d’ of the event. He looks like he came straight out of an old movie. He has an elegantly trimmed mustache, not a hair on his head is out of place, and his suit is perfectly pressed. He takes my coat and asks for my phone. Because of the high-profile guests, Holiday always takes extra precautions to ensure that no photos of her parties float around the Internet. If you refuse to surrender your phone, you have to turn around and go home. She enjoys gossip, but in her mind selling photos takes it a step too far.

  Luckily my job never includes taking photos (observations only), so even when I send info to The Life I have no reason to cling to my phone. I remove my phone from my sleek black Rebecca Minkoff clutch, and he takes it in exchange for a glass of 2003 Dom Pérignon. Holiday wouldn’t be caught dead serving any other champagne at one of her parties.

  I take a few sips to relax. My stomach feels hollow and I realize I forgot to eat all day so I’m on a mission to find some hors d’oeuvres. Food is always hit or miss at Holiday’s parties. Sometimes she orders enough food to feed a small country and other times she subscribes to the theory that food is more of a decoration for your plate than fuel for your body. Lucky for me, Holiday isn’t in Hollywood anorexic mode tonight.

  Uniformed waiters pass around Gorgonzola-stuffed dates wrapped in prosciutto, mini crab cakes, and everyone’s secret favorite: pommes frites. Apparently, if you wrap french fries in wax paper and make them into a cone shape, the normally abhorrent American snack turns into an international delicacy.

  I grab some nibbles and survey the guests. The attendees range from celebutants to legitimate actors to entertainment executives, with even a few high-powered people from the finance world sprinkled in. It’s an eclectic group, to say the least.

  “Hi, darling,” Holiday squeals as she scampers over and gives me a hug. “You look gorgeous.”

  I do a twirl for her. “I should, it’s your dress.” Holiday is nothing if not generous and lets me borrow a few of her high-end garments at a time. I almost always have to be dressed up for work, and being in designer clothes helps me blend into the social scene. Unfortunately my taste is Tom Ford but my budget is Target. Holiday understands my plight and has opened her closet to me. It’s like my own personal Rent the Runway, minus the fee.

  “Where’s Ethan?”

  “He’s waiting to hear back about his movie and wanted to stress out about it at home. I hope we didn’t mess up your seating arrangements.”

  “Not at all. We must have a drink for good luck! Listen, darling, even though he isn’t here I want you to have a ball. Come mingle with everyone,” she insists. She pulls me to the center of the living room, which is the focal point of the party until dinner is served. I don’t see anyone here that I know and am anxious about finding a story. I need to collect myself before the mingling mood can strike me. This glass of bubbly and a trip to the bathroom should help me unwind.

  “I have to run to the powder room, Hol. I’ll be right back.” I turn around before she has a chance to stop me and make my way to the closest of her many bathrooms. After attending a few of Holiday’s parties I’ve learned everyone else is way too stuck up to have a conversation with someone they don’t know and who can’t help them with their career. Once they get a little tipsy it’s another story, so I’ve invented a little game to keep me occupied until their BAC levels rise.

  I call it the Cocaine Game. I won’t dance around the political incorrectness of this game, but let’s face it, a lot of people in Los Angeles engage in extracurricular activities and most of the time it involves “going skiing.” Skiing is the universal moniker for cocaine when referenced in text messages, e-mails, or any other potentially incriminating mediums of communication. Here’s how it’s played:

  RULES OF THE COCAINE GAME

  1. Pick an appropriate venue. A nightclub, entertainment industry house party, or the bathroom at the Chateau Marmont are always guaranteed to provide a successful game.

  2. Enter the bathroom at the venue of choice.

  3. Sweep your fingertips across the top of the toilet tank.

  4. Estimate (as best you can) how much, if any, cocaine you’ve accumulated on your fingertips. Make sure to differentiate regular dust from the Colombian candy.

  5. You are automatically disqualified if Former A-List Hot Mess Actress, or any Hollywood train wreck du jour, was in the stall prior to the start of the game.

  6. NOTE: This game can be amended for multiple players, and whoever picks up the most cocaine wins.

  Confession: You don’t actually win anything when you win the Cocaine Game, only the satisfaction of knowing that people in your current venue are as fucked-up, if not more so, than you are. I do not condone substance abuse or booger sugar as a dietary supplement—though that last part usually falls on deaf ears.

  The party has just begun so I doubt I’ll have any luck right now. I lock the door immediately after I enter the bathroom. No need to let any strangers in on my party game. Against my better judgment I once taught my friend Angela the Cocaine Game when I took her to a party at the house of Romantic Comedy Actress Who’s Had Bad Luck with Men. She got a little overzealous and checked every bathroom in the palatial Pacific Palisades mansion. She won the game and her nose started bleeding all over the starlet’s new Stark rug. It wasn’t easy explaining that one to the security team. Needless to say, we haven’t been invited back.

  Holiday’s bathroom is magnificent. She never leaves any detail undone. There’s a huge orchid sitting atop the mirrored vanity and half a dozen Tocca candles emitting their signature Cleopatra scent throughout the room. This bathroom is nicer (and almost bigger) than my apartment. I run my fingers against the back of the toilet. Clean as a whistle. Tame crowd so far. I haven’t been this surprised since I discovered shopping at sample sales is more invigorating than a day of beauty at Kate Somerville.

  Since there is no snow I will kill some time by giving my makeup a touch-up. No amount of Clé de Peau concealer or eye cream can take away the dark circles from all of my late nights and early mornings at work. Somehow I’ve convinced myself that if I coat my lashes in more Dior mascara the sleep deprivation becomes less noticeable. Hair, check. Lips, check. Tummy, sucking in.

  As soon as I turn the handle and step out of the bathr
oom I collide with Hugo Boss Classic Two-Button Business Suit and spill both of our glasses of champagne all over his chest.

  I look up and the first thing that runs through my mind is “Agent!” Only an agent wears a suit 24-7. Seriously. Whether they have the option to change into comfortable clothes after work or not, they don’t. At least it makes them easy to spot in any social situation. I have to admit, while they tend to have a lousy reputation in the female community they secretly turn me on. I love their unabated ambition and sharklike quality. In that split second I can’t figure out if he represents talent or literary clients.

  The second thing I notice is the man in the suit is gorgeous, so he’s probably an asshole—a hot asshole, but an asshole nonetheless.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  I expect him to bark at me, but he just smiles. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I would’ve needed to take it to the cleaners after tonight anyway,” he insists as he uses his cocktail napkin to soak up the mess I’ve made. I join his efforts to dry his suit and as I press his chest with my napkin, I notice he smells delicious. His confident azure eyes meet mine with such extreme intensity that I feel weightless. For a moment, I think not having a date tonight might not be terrible after all.

  “No, I’m really sorry.” I’m talking with my hands, swinging around the wet napkin. “I’ve only had half of a glass of champagne, so sadly I can’t even blame it on being a little buzzed—I’m just a klutz,” I admit.

  “Really, it’s okay,” he reiterates and shoots me a million-dollar smile. This guy shouldn’t represent movie stars; he should be one! I feel a slight shiver run through my body and notice I have goose bumps on my arm. I can’t even remember the last time I had this reaction to someone within thirty seconds of meeting. I don’t even know if I felt like this with Ethan.

  “I think it’s adorable. Nick Williams.” He extends his hand and I think he’s reaching out to shake mine, but in fact he’s handing me his business card. I scan it quickly. Nick Williams, Epic Agency … talent agent. God, I’m good. Too bad it doesn’t list his relationship status and tax ID number. The way he’s staring at me, as if he wants to throw me up against a wall, makes me, yet again, momentarily forget that I’m not single.