According to a Source

by Abby Stern

  “Hol, can I talk to you privately for a sec?”

  “Of course, darling. Please excuse me. I’ll be right back.” Tristan leans in and kisses her on her cheek and her sweaty hand grabs mine and she skips to the corner with me.

  “I’m so happy for you.” I notice Holiday’s eye is still fixated on Tristan even though she’s fully listening to me.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you yesterday, but you know me, I wanted to make my grand announcement and wanted to surprise everyone, including you. What do you think?” Her eyes are desperate for my approval.

  “It’s amazing.… I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither did I. I didn’t actually expect to book a role so soon.” Her eyes are now dancing with Tristan’s as if they’re in some kind of optical lovers’ tango.

  “I’m really proud of you.” I don’t know how to tactfully transition from congratulations to my departure so I decide to bypass a segue. “Please don’t hate me, I just got asked to work and things went down at The Life. I have a new boss and we have to earn points now and I will fill you in later. Ethan sold his script tonight and I can’t even meet him to celebrate because I have to take this assignment.”

  Holiday is on cloud nine, glazed in bliss. She’s not really paying attention to any of the words that are coming out of my mouth. I could probably tell her that I needed to leave to go murder puppies and kittens and her smile wouldn’t shrink. But it’s to my benefit that she’s so elated: she spares me her usual monologue about the subject.

  “Dahhhhhhhhling, don’t worry about it. Go be Bella. And tell Ethan congratulations for me.” She kisses me on both cheeks.

  “Thank you. I promise we’ll have a proper celebration before you leave. I’m going to send in an item on Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict and his girlfriend’s fight, too, if you’re okay with that?”

  “You better! I need my name out there as much as possible to promote the show. Now get out of here.” She shoos me away and beelines back to Tristan. The maître d’ is still surveying me as I order my Uber and the only thing that interrupts his scrutiny is Nick approaching me and blocking his line of vision.

  “Where’d you go?” Nick puts his hand on the wall behind me, leaning in so close that I can tell that the stubble on his face is approximately thirty-six hours old. “I was getting bored attempting to make small talk with those other people.” He definitely gets an A+ for his flirting skills.

  “I went to say good-bye to Holiday. I have to go.” I try to push my back farther into the wall even though that’s obviously impossible.

  “Go? Now? Where could you possibly have to go?” He leans in farther.

  “That is a long story,” I tell him. He has no idea.

  “Would you like some company?”

  “That’s a really nice offer, but—”

  “Another time.” He removes his hand from the wall and straightens his posture.

  “It was really nice meeting you, Nick Williams.”

  “You too, Ella.” I move toward the door. “Can I have your number?”

  If I were in any other situation on the planet I wouldn’t have been able to resist his request. “I’m sorry. I actually have a boyfriend.”

  “Now I see why you don’t want company. I wish you had told me earlier so I wouldn’t have developed such a crush on you.”

  I laugh. Does he really say things like this? I mean, obviously he does, but somehow he totally makes it work.

  “Can we be friends?” he asks. He’s still smiling, and walking away from him is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my adult life. I figure his is an empty request, since men and women are rarely just friends and one, if not both, generally have an ulterior motive, but it’s easier and faster to give in.

  “Sure. I’d like that,” I say. The maître d’ opens the door for me.

  “I need your number,” he calls out.

  “You gave me your card. Have a good night, Nick Williams,” I call back. While I wait for my car I write up a quick file on the incident with British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict and send it to Maggie. This might not be the big scandal The Life is looking for, but hopefully it will buy me some time.

  Six

  “Just you, sweetheart?” Gus asks as I approach the velvet ropes at the entrance of Ambiance.

  “Yep.” I always use my saccharine, flirtatious voice with doormen. He opens the rope and motions me toward the ID checkpoint. Ambiance happens to be one of the nightclubs that use a scanner. They appear to be hard-core, but I always see a bunch of eighteen-year-old actor–reality stars from MTV running around belligerently drunk. The scanner, like most of the rest of this industry, is all for appearances.

  I take a quick survey of the room and notice Jessica hanging out at the bar.

  “Hey, girl!” I squeal as I approach. She throws her scrawny boho arms around me and I try not to choke from the overwhelming scent of patchouli emanating from her.

  “Hi, Ella! Or should I say Bella?” Jess winks. “I was going to text you but I had a feeling I’d see you, and here you are.”

  “Here I am.” Relieved. “What are you doing here?”

  “My friend Mark is getting a table and he invited me. He isn’t here yet.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to come tonight. I was at Holiday’s party, but the girl who was covering got sick. I was asked last minute and I couldn’t say no. I have a new boss and I need to fill you in on all of my work drama.”

  “Tell me in a minute,” she says. Jessica pulls my iPhone out of my hand. “What are you doing?” I scrunch my face, irritated that she’s taken my phone and is intensely typing away. She holds a finger up to shush me, which surprises me. After two minutes of typing she holds my phone in my direction, offering it back to me. I snatch it away before she has a chance to change her mind. What has gotten into her? I look down at the screen to see what she was so intent on writing.

  NOTES:

  • Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star made an early appearance at Hollywood hotspot Ambiance.

  • Arrived just before 11 pm and immediately made her way to the bar even though she seemed to already be a little tipsy when she got there.

  • Entourage was only girls.

  • Wore signature crop top and low-slung jeans with heels.

  • Had playful dance-off with her friends, which she won.

  • Took three shots of tequila in a row with her gaggle of gals and was in full-on party mode

  • Left 30 minutes after she arrived. Left through back door and snuck out of garage to avoid paparazzi.

  “You saw all of this?” I ask Jess, my jaw agape.

  “Yep!” She smiles back, well aware that she did a great job.

  “She never goes out,” I tell her.

  “I know.”

  “No, I mean like never. In all of my years working for The Life, I’ve never seen her in person! I’m so jealous; she’s my favorite. I’ve listened to her music since her debut single, dressed as her for Halloween no less than three times, and she is basically the only person I would probably ever get starstruck over. She’s my celebrity white whale. I’d ask you what she was like, but you just wrote it all down for me,” I joke. “Thanks, Jess. You’re amazing. This should earn me some points.” I release a small sigh of relief.

  “Points?” she asks with a quizzical look on her face.

  “I’ll explain later. Part of the work drama. But you saved my ass!”

  “I do what I can,” she says modestly in jest, tossing her hair back, proud of her effort.

  “What can I get for you ladies?” the bartender interrupts. He’s gorgeous, and I think he’s in the Givenchy billboard on Sunset Boulevard—either that or the Calvin Klein billboard on Santa Monica Boulevard. It could be a full-time job keeping track of LA’s bartenders and their billboards.

  “Two glasses of champagne, please,” I answer. He slides flutes over to our side of the bar.

 
“It’ll be thirty even.” He smiles at me, pretending to flirt in the hopes that I’ll leave him a bigger tip.

  “This is on me, Jess. Well, on The Life. You earned it!” The Life’s new policy may be stories in exchange for points but no one said anything about cutting down on our expenses so I can still treat my sources.

  My phone buzzes and I have a text from the reason why I can’t stand to be around these degenerate “club” guys.

  I’m waiting up for you.

  “Everything okay?” Jess asks.

  “Yeah. More than okay. Ethan sold his screenplay today.”

  “Shut up, that’s great!” She jumps out of happiness for me and accidentally spills a few drops of champagne. “The plan is finally gonna happen!”

  “I know and he just texted me that he’s waiting up for me which he never does anymore. You know what that means!” I might be gaining points with Victoria to save my job but I’m definitely losing cool points as each second passes because I can’t contain my excitement.

  She furrows her brow. “You don’t think he’s going to propose tonight?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. I mean … he might.”

  “Congrats, El. To you and Ethan.” She raises her glass for yet another toast tonight.

  “To me and Ethan,” I echo as we clink our glasses.

  “I love you, but please don’t ask me to be a bridesmaid. You know how I feel about the commercialization of love.”

  I hold my hand up like a stop sign in the name of love. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  I maneuver my head around to try to see if any celebrities have shown up, but the club has filled up considerably in the past few minutes so my eyes are having difficulty scanning the crowd. Jessica nudges me and I instinctively turn my head. She’s spotted Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor who also happens to be Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star’s ex. Maybe she got word he was en route and that’s why she only stayed for a half hour, something to note in my file.

  “Ella, you’re about to love me.” Jessica giggles. Jess rarely giggles so this must be good.

  “Why?”

  “Because my friend Mark is at Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor’s table,” she whispers. I feel a smile emerge on my face and this time it’s an expression of legitimate joy that my job will be a little easier tonight and make my bosses happy, which is more important now than ever.

  “How do you know Mark anyway?”

  “I buy weed from him,” Jessica confesses.

  “You still have a dealer for weed?” With the plethora of medical marijuana dispensaries they seemed to be antiquated—not that I’m complaining.

  “Are you kidding? I don’t want to be on some government list!”

  She does have a point. And I’m assuming neither do the celebrities, since we all know that for celebrities there really is no privacy. I’m living proof. “I knew he had celebrity friends and clients, but I had no idea they were this A-list. I mean, they’re no Sexy Indie Film Actor but what can you do?”

  “Let’s go over to the table. I need good observations on Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor. Never have I been so glad you’re a pothead,” I joke as I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m one of Mark’s most loyal clients,” she boasts.

  I reapply my Stila lip gloss and we parade over to the table. Mark and Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor are the only ones there right now. As we approach them, a suit-clad security guard turns to the group inside the table to determine if we’re cleared for entrance. Mark nods and the security guard steps aside to allow our passage. Once we’re in, Jessica gives Mark a hug but I have my eyes focused on Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor, who’s glued to his phone texting and doesn’t even glance in our direction or acknowledge our presence. There’s nothing that makes you feel more invisible than being in someone’s presence and having them completely ignore you.

  “Yo, Jess. Glad you could come. Haven’t heard from you in a minute,” he says after their embrace.

  “I know. Things with my blog have been overwhelming and I haven’t had a chance to call you and replenish. I’ll definitely hit you up in the next few days.”

  “No worries. Sit down. Have a drink.”

  We accept his offer and Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor is still staring at his phone and hasn’t said a word to us. Ugh. Stop looking at your phone and do something. I’m not going to get any points for boring. I reach for the scoop in the ice bucket and play bartender. I’m nowhere near as skilled as Holiday, but I make do. Vodka soda with a splash of cran isn’t terribly complicated and I doubt it would be recommended after Dom, but it’s free.

  “I’m Bella. Thanks.” I sip my cocktail.

  “No worries. How do you two know each other?” he asks, adding a little more vodka to top off his drink. Jessica jumps in before I have a chance to answer. She wants to keep my identity secret as much as I do. I know she doesn’t want to arouse any suspicion about my job or me with Mark because she doesn’t want to be blamed for bringing a reporter into a celebrity’s inner circle.

  “Bella and I were both English majors at college together and ended up staying in LA,” she explains.

  As she’s talking, I notice Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor get up and walk away. I pretend to still be listening to Jessica while trying to keep one eye on him and determine where he’s wandered off to.

  “You a fan?” Mark asks. He’s clearly caught me staring at Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor despite my efforts to be surreptitious. This is so embarrassing but I have to play along.

  “Yeah. Big fan.” This is another one of my generic cover stories. I’m a drug addict at Chateau and fangirl at the club. What and who will I be next week? I play any role I need to get my story. I look down at my feet, pretending to be shy.

  “It’s cool. Most girls around your age are.”

  The worst was when I had to cover a small club on Melrose last year and my friend Monica happened to be one of the cocktail waitresses. I was there at least twice a week every week for six months and she told me that I came up regularly at the staff meetings. Everyone thought I was a groupie for the club because I was there so consistently.

  In Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor’s ten-minute absence I manage to down a second cocktail. He finally returns with a gaggle of male pals in tow that he actually does acknowledge, and the energy at the table completely changes. I move around the table, haphazardly dancing, to get an unobstructed view of Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor. After a brief chat with his pals, he returns to his iPhone, texting, while he intermittently sips on multiple vodka cocktails. He refrains from dancing or smiling or displaying any emotion or acknowledgment when the DJ spins his first solo single, which took his status from teen heartthrob to icon.

  He finally perks up around 1:45 A.M. when he notices someone at the edge of our table and whispers to a male friend sitting next to him before approaching the man just outside of our table that’s around Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor’s age, height, and build. They are dressed almost identically in jeans and hoodies with leather jackets as their outer layer. At first glance it looks like the Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor and the non-celebrity mystery man are catching up, but within seconds their conversation becomes heated. Before I know it, Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor throws a punch and the mystery man reciprocates. Luckily the security guard stationed in front of the table jumps into action seconds later and the fight is broken up before it could progress into something much worse. A second burly security guard joins the first and they escort the unidentified participant out, and a cocktail waitress takes an ice-wrapped towel and cleans up a small amount of blood from Boybander Turned Actor Turned Solo Artist’s mouth and right knuckles. Multiple guards surround the circumference of our table and I know it’s time for me to really do my job.

  “Oh my God, what happened?” I ask Mark. Any detail o
n why Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor might’ve started this fight is essential.

  “That guy is the worst,” Mark scoffs. “He dated Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor’s girlfriend before they got together and he was being a jackass, provoking him, so he punched him in the face, rightly so, if I may add. I would’ve done the same thing.”

  Jessica and I turn to each other, knowing that I’m getting gold, when Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor calls out to Mark as he hustles his entourage toward the exit.

  “I gotta run. Nice meeting you,” he says to me. “See you later, Jess.”

  He rushes to catch up to his group and when they are all accounted for they slip out of the exit to try to avoid the paparazzi. This is why I can’t ever leave work early. Boybander Turned Actor Turned Solo Artist may have seemed boring, but if I had left at 1:30 A.M. because seemingly nothing was happening, I would’ve missed the story. With two stories tonight I should earn a decent amount of points. If I keep this up, I’ll hopefully be able to save my job at The Life.

  Seven

  Death Dog ingestion is usually reserved for when you are so drunk you need to get any sustenance in your stomach ASAP to help absorb the alcohol or else you’ll puke. The dogs are sold on mobile grills outside of nightclubs all over Los Angeles and cost four dollars, which is a bargain when you’ve been drinking all night. The bacon-wrapped Death Dogs have a twofold affect. One, the fat, grease, and carbs help sober you up so you wake up with a less severe hangover, and two, in the morning you’re so disgusted with the sausage sitting in the pit of your stomach all night that you eat healthfully the next day, if you eat at all.

  But tonight is a special occasion and these Death Dogs are not a Hail Mary to prevent alcohol-induced illness.

  “Babe!” I call out as I come into the apartment. “I’m sorry that I missed the celebration cocktails but I brought congratulatory Death Dogs!”