by Abby Stern
“Ella Warren. Nice to meet you.” Ugh! I didn’t mean to introduce myself as Ella, especially since colliding with him is bringing out the Bella in me. Nothing I can do about it now.
“So you’re the infamous Ella. Holiday loves you. She talks about you all the time. Now I can see why.” He looks me up and down but he seems more intrigued by me than to be imagining what I look like naked, and I don’t feel objectified or uncomfortable at all.
“How do you know her?”
“I’m hip-pocketing her.” Hip-pocketing is a term used in the acting world when talent agents don’t sign a client but they send them out on auditions to see how they do and what feedback they receive. If they book a role they are eventually offered a contract with the agency. If the feedback is poor, sayonara, sucker.
“Oh!” I pause. I’m a little taken aback that she didn’t mention anything at lunch yesterday. Miss “I’m fine washing hair” has a secret or I guess now not-so-secret life complete with Hollywood aspirations. “I had no idea she was even acting,” I confess. While enjoying mimosas, we dissected every intimate detail of my life but she artfully hid hers. I don’t know why I’m surprised, though. Everyone from dermatologists to nutritionists to nail technicians in this town all want to be famous. But I never thought that bug would bite Holiday. She’s usually an open book, not one to omit interesting details or information about her life. I mean, she usually Facebooks, Instagrams, Snapchats, and group-texts about stubbing her toe. I’m going to have to grill her about this omission at a later date when she’s not in hostess mode.
“Is there anything Holiday doesn’t do?” he asks.
I look down toward my Aquazzura-clad feet.
Nick diffuses this awkward moment with a joke and offers to get us drinks. “In case you run into someone else, then you can blame it on the alcohol.”
I can’t help but smile. God, Nick is charming. I feel like I’ve reverted back to being the bespectacled freshman sitting alone in the courtyard during lunchtime, when the captain of the football team finally notices me.
“Let’s,” I reply. He holds out his arm, and we link together like the stars of a George Cukor movie, or like Bogie and Bergman. I feel like a million bucks.
I have to ingratiate myself with men for work all the time. A little flirting to be taken to the celebrity’s table for a cocktail and a scoop is innocuous. Alcohol, sex appeal, and celebrity can be a dangerous trifecta, so I’m careful not to cross a line. Let me be clear, I’ve never cheated on Ethan. Nick graciously escorts me into the living room and grabs two flutes of champagne from a waiter’s tray.
“Shall we toast?” Nick asks.
“Sure. But to what?” Our flutes are hanging in midair.
“How about to an ally at this party?” he suggests.
“Perfect.” I raise my glass a few more inches.
“Cheers to meeting someone at this party whose smile could light up the whole city,” he toasts. I’m not going to pretend like his line isn’t cheesy, but my luminous smile widens as we clink glasses. “This is the first of Holiday’s functions that I’ve attended. It’s … interesting,” he reveals.
“Tell me about it. Last time some girl locked herself in the bathroom all night after she found out that Holiday wears a smaller-size dress than she does.”
“Seriously?”
I nod yes.
“Some of these people seem a little bit crazy. I guess you really will have to stick by my side all night,” he insists. He grabs me and pulls me toward him and I feel like I might faint if I get any closer to him. Just in the nick of time, the maître d’ rings a bell to signify the commencement of dinner. Talk about saved by the bell.
Nick puts his hand on the small of my back as we file into the dining room, and I feel my heart flutter until we reach the table. Ugh. I hate it when Holiday puts out seating cards. It’s not so much that I care whom I sit next to as I do about whom I’m not sitting next to. At one of her previous soirees, Holiday thought it would be nice for me to get to know her astrologer. I’m no better than anyone else; I certainly wait up until midnight the last evening of the month so I can read Susan Miller’s Astrology Zone forecast for my sign for the new month as soon as it’s posted. It’s cheaper than therapy and she makes me feel like my life will be okay. While I usually love astrology, this woman was not my cup of organic chai tea. She kept on talking about Pythagoras and destiny and claimed to be clairvoyant. I wanted to know if she could anticipate me snatching the ten-carat emerald-cut Cartier diamond ring off the woman on my left and using it to slit my wrists at the table. I already had to be concerned about what Former Singer Turned Fashion Designer Turned Yo-Yo Dieter is eating daily for work. I couldn’t deal with that brand of crazy, too.
I search the table for my place card, hoping I’m next to Nick, but no such luck. I am smack dab in the center of the nineteenth-century Victorian dinner table and completely landlocked. I’ve never met either of the people whose names are placed next to mine, and Nick is a few chairs away on the opposite side of the table. As soon as he sits down, a German model, Anaeliese, slides in next to him. It only takes her about thirty seconds to completely drape herself over him as soon as she finds out he’s an agent. Great, I think, disappointed.
“I’m not just a model.” She sits up straight, as if to make clear she is about to enlighten him. “I’m a classically trained actress.”
“Oh, are you?” He takes a sip of wine and tries to politely escape the conversation by turning his face in the opposite direction, but she’s either not responding to his social cues or refuses to let opportunity pass her by, so she continues. She taps him on the shoulder until he looks back at her. “Nobody takes me seriously because my lips make me look exotic—” She briefly pauses and purses them for effect. “—And I’ve been told that my eyes are as captivating as watching a high-speed police chase on the news,” she says, trying to entrance Nick with her deep gaze, but I can tell he sees right through her.
Anaeliese made sure to speak loudly enough so everyone within earshot would hear her. I want to throw up. She’s so self-absorbed and egomaniacal she doesn’t even notice that Nick isn’t listening. He mouths help to me and I can’t help but smile and shrug my shoulders. My seat companions are fairly painless although I have to listen to a debate between them about the prestige hierarchy of The New Yorker versus Vanity Fair.
“How can you even attempt to construct an argument to dispute that The New Yorker is not superior? You’re smarter than that,” the guest seated to my right cajoles. He places his fork and knife onto his plate so the act of eating won’t distract him from making his point. “Malcolm Gladwell is one of the most ingenious writers of our time. He’s made people question the way they think. He’s the Old Hollywood equivalent of writers, full of substance.” Though his opponent at this point is staring around the table, blinking as if she’s signaling SOS in Morse code, he’s transfixed on making his point and continues his tirade. “Vanity Fair’s writers are always entertaining. I’ll give you that, but my position remains the same. As a whole The New Yorker is a more creative and cerebral publication.”
“I suppose it’s true what they say, there’s no accounting for taste. And I’ll take your Malcolm Gladwell and raise you Krista Smith any day. She’s an inspiration and an aspiration for female journalists and her influence far exceeds that of most entertainment writers.”
Neither of them would concede their point.
Tonight’s five-course meal consists of once-again-legal foie gras, filet mignon, and English trifle, among other vegetables and side dishes I’ve never seen before. I am relieved when the waiters clear the last set of plates because I’m stuffed and the tensile strength of my borrowed LBD is being tested. The end of dinner would usually indicate the end of a dinner party in most circumstances, but when it comes to Holiday, the night is just beginning. It’s time to move to the conservatory for after-dinner drinks. I have to hand it to Holiday: She knows how to keep her guests happy and
liquored up. I barely finish my first sip of port when Nick grabs my hand.
“Hide me,” he begs, pretending to hide behind my back.
“Oh you mean you don’t want to spend any more time with Fräulein Crazy?”
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I am. It must be really difficult to be so good-looking that supermodels are throwing themselves at you,” I tease, playfully pushing him.
“You think I’m handsome?” he asks, taking a step closer to me. Now he is undressing me with his eyes.
“Good-looking. I said good-looking. Not handsome. But that’s not the point,” I say, trying to change the subject and taking a step back. Holiday interrupts our aperitif and calculatedly prances to the center of the room while she clinks a fork on her glass to quiet the crowd and get their attention.
“Friends.” Holiday doesn’t have to use a loud voice because she naturally commands attention. “I want to thank you all for joining me tonight. It’s been lovely seeing you all, especially those of you I haven’t seen in a while. Everyone knows that I love a fabulous party ‘just because,’ but there is a reason I invited you all for dinner.” She pauses to make sure everyone is paying attention for her big reveal. “I have an announcement.”
Announcement? This makes twice that I’m caught off guard. I saw Holiday twenty-four hours ago and she didn’t have any announcements for me.
“The official announcement comes out tomorrow, but I’ve recently taken to acting, and I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve booked my first role in a television pilot called Benedict Canyon and we are shooting it in Canada next week! Because what better place to shoot a show set in Los Angeles with a plot focusing on characters in Los Angeles than Canada?” The crowd chuckles with Holiday at the absurdity. “Usually I don’t have an audience when I’m being groped by a federal officer, but immigration, here I come!”
I shoot Nick a look, since he’d also conveniently omitted this piece of information from our earlier conversation. He shrugs his shoulders apologetically and winks at me. The crowd cheers and claps.
“I’m so excited to start this new journey and I’d like to invite my costars and the writer-director to join me so we can all do a group toast to the success of the show.”
A group of incredibly attractive twentysomething guys and girls including Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict, the swoon-worthy up-and-coming actor, Tristan Thompson, and a dashing thirtyish sandy-haired man in a suit I don’t recognize join her. Waiters appear, seemingly as if from nowhere, with refreshed trays of champagne and pass them out to each guest. “To the success of Benedict Canyon. I’m so grateful to be working with this gorgeous, talented cast and our brilliant creator, Seth Rubin, who will also be directing the pilot.” Holiday looks to her new Benedict Canyon family and raises her flute. “Here’s to six seasons and a movie! Cheers!”
“To six seasons and a movie! Cheers!” the crowd screams back. Holiday’s face glows even more than usual.
“Cheers,” Nick says, turning to me.
“You knew the whole time,” I assert.
“I did. Sorry I couldn’t say anything. I have to keep a lot of secrets with my job.” If only he knew how much I understood.
“Well, she seems really happy, so thank you for giving my best friend a chance.”
“If all goes like I think it will I’m going to be the one thanking her. I think she’s going to be Hollywood’s next It girl. The public is already fascinated with her, and with the amount of buzz she’s going to generate for the show, I think it has a real shot at being picked up.” He raises his champagne glass to the sky, as if he’s asking God himself to pick up the TV pilot.
I notice from the corner of my eye that Anaeliese has found a new mark. She pulls almost the identical move that she used with Nick and is draped all over Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict. Is there anyone this broad won’t fawn over?
“I guess you’re old news,” I say, nodding my head toward Anaeliese and the Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict, who of course, already has a new girlfriend.
“Great,” Nick mumbles. “He’s my client. It’s my job to know about their personal lives, too, and shall we say he has a little problem being faithful? And his girlfriend is the jealous type. I’m talking the volatile jealous type.”
“Yikes. I’m pretty sure she’s in the bathroom,” I tell him, scanning the crowd.
“Let’s hope she stays there.” As soon as the words leave Nick’s mouth, Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict’s hand travels down toward Anaeliese’s butt and simultaneously his girl du jour enters the conservatory.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she screams, quieting the entire room. “Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me?” She continues to bellow as she drunkenly stumbles over to her boyfriend and the model-slut. It’s clear she’s had way too much to drink and the other guests watch with bated breath.
Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict unsuccessfully tries to mollify her. “Sweetheart, it’s not what it looks like. We were talking about the show because there might be a role for her.” This is about to get ugly. Victoria is only going to keep the reporters that have their own sources and can find stories—BOOM! I’m committing every detail of the altercation to memory.
“Do you think I’m stupid? The only role she can accurately play is an international whore,” she screams. Anaeliese is now irate, too. She may be gorgeous when she poses for the camera but she definitely has the ugly-angry thing going on—and Style & Trend Magazine wouldn’t photograph this look for any season.
“Oh, and who are you? Some slut from the valley?” Anaeliese howls.
She and Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict’s girlfriend lunge for each other at the same time, and I feel a slight breeze as Nick rushes toward the reluctant threesome to diffuse the situation. He pulls Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict and his girlfriend to one side of the room and mollifies them, but Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict’s girlfriend then starts in on him, and Nick pulls his client away, and after he successfully diffuses the situation, returns to me.
“Crazy, huh?” Despite jumping in the middle of that brawl not a hair on his head is out of place.
“You know … actors,” I joke.
“I certainly do. You’re not an actress?”
“God no!”
“That’s a shame. You’re gorgeous. You could be,” he tells me. I almost choke on my champagne. There it is. The agent is coming out again.
I lean closer to him and whisper, “Does that line really work?”
“All the time,” he whispers back with a smile. I think that part of him is kidding but I’m not sure. I want to write down every detail of this argument before I forget a single foot stomp.
“Would you excuse me for a minute?”
I bolt toward the atrium, pull my claim ticket out of my clutch, and hand it to the maître d’. He exchanges the ticket for my iPhone but scrutinizes my every movement to make sure I’m not taking pictures of anyone. I have a text from Ethan from an hour ago.
Ethan: El, I sold it!
Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Ahh!
I text him back immediately.
Me: I’m so proud of you baby! I knew you could do it!
Ethan: Not without you. Come to the Hotel Bel-Air!!! Meet me and my agent for celebratory drinks!
Before my excitement gets the better of me and I forget these details I write them down before I reply. I open my e-mail to send a message to myself with all of the info but before I can create a new e-mail, I see I have one from Maggie titled, “Tonight? ASAP?”
Hi Ella,
Sorry so last minute but can you cover Ambiance? The girl that was assigned to cover had to go to the ER. Wanted to help you get some points on the board.
I respond.
Hey Mags,
No prob
lem! I’ll take all of the opportunities I can get. I’m at a party and have an exclusive. Was going to leave soon anyway. I’ll send a file shortly. Hope Victoria is ready to rearrange her score sheet Monday!
I feel terrible but I can celebrate with Ethan once I get home.
Me: Wish I could Maggie just asked me to cover a club for a girl who got sick. #Points Have one for me and I’ll see you at home. We’ll celebrate like we did last night! Wink. XX
I don’t bother returning my phone back to my bag and rush over to Holiday and interrupt her conversation with some of the people from her show. The maître d’ trails me like I’m wearing a million dollars’ worth of borrowed diamonds and he’s been charged with guarding them.
“It’s okay,” Holiday says, calling him off. He nods and retreats to his position. She’s with Gwendolyn Ross, famed and feared editor in chief of the only fashion and lifestyle publication that matters, Style & Trend Magazine; the creator of her show, Seth; a woman I don’t recognize but of course looks like she could have been or still could be a model; and her costar, Tristan. Holiday giggles at everything Tristan is saying, and it only takes me about two seconds to recognize the look in her eye. She has the hots for him, and any man that Holiday wants, Holiday gets. “Ella, I want to introduce you. This is the inimitable, fearless fashionista Gwendolyn Ross.” Gwendolyn avoids making eye contact and is less than interested in being introduced to a plebeian like me. “And this is my costar, Tristan.”
“Hey.” He shakes my hand.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.” He doesn’t have to say anything. I notice the sparkle in his eye and know that he’s smitten with her, too.
“And this is Seth and his wife, Maya. Everyone, this is my best friend, Ella.” Maya looks away, as if she wasn’t spoken to and I wasn’t standing inches away from her. She’s lucky she tricked someone into marrying her. Coming from someone who used to work with coffee, I can say she’s about as warm as an iced latte.
