According to a Source

by Abby Stern

  I put my phone away and take a seat as I did a few weeks ago. Victoria arrives at 10 A.M. on the dot and locks the door to the conference room behind her. Seems like if any of us were late we would’ve had one less person we were competing with for points but unfortunately no such luck. As I look around the room I recognize a familiar face—the snobby girl from Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar’s party. I knew I’d seen her before. She’s my competition! She locks eyes with me and squints, in a bid to intimidate me, but it doesn’t work. Victoria told me my reporting was the best she got from that night. The energy is more ruthless without having Maggie as an intermediary and all of us knowing what’s at stake.

  “I’m disappointed in this group.” Victoria doesn’t believe in foreplay. “When you fail, I fail, and Victoria Davis does not fail. I will do whatever it takes to get this magazine back to the stature I left it at.” She walks around the table, as she did in our first meeting, looking at each of us as she passes. I’m not sure if she’s trying to intimidate or motivate us but regardless of her intentions, from the looks on everyone’s faces it’s a mixture of both.

  “I need the best reporting team there is and I’m not convinced that’s what I have in this group. Aside from you, Ella. Your reporting from the World Pop Music Awards was some of the best I’ve seen recently. You went above and beyond to spot European Royal making out with B-List Chameleon Singer-Songwriter. She infiltrated the caterers’ quarters. You should all be doing that,” Victoria recommends. Everyone stares at me like I just brought the teacher a fresh-pressed apple juice to get on her good side. My snobby competitor gives me an especially dirty look.

  “How can no one have a personal source for Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star?” she demands to know as she pauses her walk. “This isn’t a rhetorical question. Any of you are free to answer.”

  “She’s really heavily guarded,” the snobby one answers as a defense. “She’s never alone and everyone who works with her has to sign an outrageous nondisclosure agreement.”

  This isn’t breaking news to Victoria, who is appalled by her excuses and doesn’t bother to tell her that she doesn’t care.

  “She has been in the hospital for almost three weeks. That’s an inordinately long period of time for someone who had a little snap. Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star’s psychiatric condition is worse than we originally thought and we need to find out what’s going on. This is your job!” she not-so-gently reminds us. “The only thing the public knows is what they see in paparazzi photos. The online message boards are rampant with conspiracy theories, and it’s the mystery the world wants answers to right now and no one has any answers. Every outlet we compete with is vying for the exclusive as well but we need it. If we are the first to break the story of what’s happening we will hit all of our goals for the year in one issue. So I don’t care what you do or how you do it, but find me something and find it soon and find it first.” She repeats her brusque exit again as well and after sitting in that pressure cooker, chemo feels like it would’ve been a breeze.

  Me: Hey, meeting ended a lot earlier than I thought. Should I meet you guys at the hospital?

  Robin: Don’t bother. She’s napping. We got the results from her bone marrow biopsy. Her count wasn’t doing as well as Dr. Jacobs had hoped. He’s going to give her a different dose of chemo for her next treatment.

  Me: I feel horrible.

  Who bails on their mom’s chemo for a work meeting? In hindsight I can’t help but wonder what the fuck I was thinking.

  Robin: I know Mom would never say anything but I could tell she missed you. Please make it up to her.

  Me: I will! I swear.

  As annoying and condescending as she can be, Robin is right. I need to come up with something to let my mom know I wish I would’ve been there today. As I’m driving home I come up with the perfect plan. I just need to wait until my mom is awake. I wait a few hours to call her.

  “Hi, sweetheart. How are you today?” she answers.

  “I’m good. I’m so sorry I missed chemo today, Mom. How was it?”

  “Oh, it was chemo. You’ve been to one treatment you’ve been to them all. I told you not to worry about it.” Maybe Robin was exaggerating and it was really she who was upset with me for not coming. But she didn’t mention her biopsy results, which means she’s scared, so I should’ve been there no matter what.

  “I still wish I could’ve been there. How about a mother-daughter night out in Hollywood for some quality nonchemo time together? I’m thinking a Spago date night once your counts are high enough. Would you be up for that?”

  “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Ella, for giving me something to look forward to.” It’s not a seat in a player’s box at the US Open, which occupies the top spot on her bucket list, but at least I can help my mom cross one thing off.

  Seventeen

  The last thing I want to be doing is working tonight. Holiday’s pilot shoot wrapped and she came home this morning. We never really connected while she was away. I’m sure she was devoting 100 percent of her focus to Benedict Canyon, but if she were a guy I would think that she was ghosting me. As soon as she got home she scurried to her room and passed out without even taking off her shoes. I really want a proper girls’ night catch-up session so I can fill her in on everything, but I have to work my usual Thursday night.

  I arrive at Ambiance at 11 P.M. sharp and no surprise, Gus is at the door.

  “Hey, babe,” he says, kissing me on the cheek as he unhooks the rope. “Solo tonight?”

  “Yeah. I just needed to get out of the house,” I tell him. Another one of my regular white lies. I’m one of the few patrons here this early. In my experience it won’t start filling up for about another hour. Around 12:45 A.M. is when things really get going and I have to be at my most alert. A few people may trickle in over the next few minutes who bought tables and bottle service. They come early to get the most out of their money, but since the celebrities’ tables are comped I have some time to kill. I find an empty table and text Nick.

  Me: Wish I were with you instead of at Ambiance xo

  Fifteen minutes later I’m approached by an entitled cocktail waitress with a brunette bob and blunt bangs. I hate this girl. She’s worked her way along the club circuit about the same amount of time I have. She always rotates to the hot-spot club and I can’t seem to get away from her. She’s always dating the up-and-coming young male celebrities so she thinks she’s a goddess and she’s so rude to me.

  “You need to move,” she snarls without so much as an “excuse me.” “The guests for this table have arrived.” She tosses her head back authoritatively. Unfortunately no one I know is here yet so I have to retreat from my seat with my proverbial tail between my legs. I decide to hover near the bar, since it’s on the exact opposite side of the club. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Excuse me, you’re Ella, right?” Whoever just spoke to me asked for Ella, not Bella. Is my cover blown? My saliva instantly evaporates as I turn around. I look up and am relieved when I see the reveal. “I’m not sure if you remember me. Tristan.” He squints his eyes, unsure if I’ll recognize him even though he’s got a bigger Twitter following than the president.

  “Yes, you’re in Benedict Canyon with Holiday. We met at her party.”

  “And at Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar’s party.”

  “Right. Of course.” The knots release from my body so quickly I almost feel light-headed with relief. “It’s nice to see you again.” He shakes my hand and has a firm grip. I hate people, especially men, with weak handshakes.

  “I saw you over here and recognized you. And all of her photos. And she talks about you nonstop.” I smile. “Is she here with you?” He looks around, trying to see if she might be in another area of the club.

  “No, I wish. She crashed as soon as she got home,” I tell him.

  His face loosens with relief.

  “That must be why she hasn’t texted me back.”

&nbs
p; “I bet you’ll hear from her tomorrow,” I assure him.

  “Yeah. We’re … sort of seeing each other.” His entire face widens as if he just got Botox and smiling is the only expression he can make.

  “Oh, are you? You better behave tonight then. Holiday has a spy here.” He laughs and I’m amused that he thinks it’s a joke. Tristan glances around my perimeter again.

  “Are you here by yourself?”

  “Yeah, I needed to get out of the house for a drink,” I say by rote … again.

  “Wow. I’d never be able to go out alone. I’m way too insecure.”

  “Says the smoldering TV star,” I joke.

  “I know, but still, I don’t have that kind of confidence,” he says. This time I smile and take the compliment. If only he knew I had no choice and I’m getting paid to be here.

  “That settles it, though. You’re gonna come to my buddy’s table. Holiday would kill me if I didn’t take care of you.”

  He’s trying to be a good guy, offering to let me hang out at a table with bottle service but being with him I have to be much more surreptitious about my observations and can’t get up and take as many laps around the club without arousing any suspicion. I’d rather focus on my job and get out of here as soon as possible but I don’t want to be rude. He gestures to his table a few feet away and I follow him. The surly cocktail waitress gives me side-eye when she notices me as she drops off the first round of bottles. I give her my best fuck-you smile—only for a second so she knows I have more important matters to tend to, like Tristan introducing me to his friends.

  None of them are famous, which bodes well for Tristan’s character but not so much for me cultivating more points.

  “We have vodka and champagne. What can I get you?” Tristan asks.

  “Champagne, please.”

  “Of course. You’re Holiday’s friend. I should’ve known.” He removes the bottle from the ice bucket and tilts the flute as he pours the bubbly from the bottle. He’s no champagne novice either.

  “Tristan, we will be fast friends,” I say, raising my glass to thank him.

  “I’ll drink to that,” he says, pouring some for himself as well. He raises the flute in the air. “Cheers.” I clink his glass.

  “Are you excited to see if the show gets picked up?” My mouth tingles from the champagne. Tristan leans his chest forward, placing his elbows on his thighs, and plays with the condensation on his glass.

  “Yeah. It will be awesome if it does.”

  “Don’t be too enthusiastic or anything,” I quip.

  He grins. “Nah, it’s just that I’ve been down this road before.” He takes a sip of his drink. “A lot.” He takes another sip.

  “I think you’re going to be just fine. Nick—”

  “Holiday’s agent?” he wonders.

  “Yes, her agent.”

  He stares at me now, trying to figure me out.

  “Anyway, he isn’t concerned and when the rep isn’t concerned the talent shouldn’t be.” My assurance doesn’t do much for Tristan’s anxiety.

  “Agents do have a tendency to tell their clients what they want to hear, whether it’s the truth or not,” he warns.

  “Oh, I know,” I agree. “But he’s a pretty honest guy.” A devious smile glides across my face. “Let’s just say I can tell when he’s being truthful and when he’s embellishing.” Tristan reads my innuendo and softens his shoulders, appearing more tranquil that his career is on a prosperous path.

  I’m discreetly trying to survey the room to see if any other celebrities have shown up but so far, nothing. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom so I can make my lap. I double-check every person at a table with bottle service to make sure that my gut is correct and I’m almost looking so hard for someone to be here I feel like my mind might experience a mirage and fool me into thinking that A-List Sex Symbol Box Office Gold Turned Critically Acclaimed Actor is here, since he’s still a nightclub staple even though he’s well into his forties and, according to Nick, wrapped his latest film.

  After my unsuccessful lap I proceed to the bathroom and check my e-mail when I’m safe in the stall. There’s one from Victoria—this week’s points e-mail. I close the toilet lid and sit down to prepare myself. I’m not the biggest on prayer and I get really irritated by those people who pray only when they need something, so instead I’m going to ask the universe for a dose of positive energy. I click the e-mail open.

  Patriot Media and Publishing Employment Scoring Rubric

  1 million hits/day-first month

  2 million hits/day-second month

  5 million+ hits/day-third month and on

  200,000 copies/month-first month

  500,000 copies/month-second month

  1 million+ copies/month-third month and on

  Huh? This is strange. I don’t have anything to do with sales. I exit out of the e-mail, trying to make sense of it, and find a second note from Victoria.

  Dear Freelancers,

  Please disregard the previous e-mail. Below is the correct weekly points e-mail.

  Victoria

  She must have accidentally forwarded another scoring rubric the first time. The only person that rubric could be for is her. I shake my confusion off and return to my concern for my own job. Here it goes.…

  UPDATED POINTS CALCULATIONS

  1. Not me

  2. Not me

  3. Not me

  4. Not me

  5. Not me

  6. Ella Warren

  I’m number six?! This is not okay. I’m so close to the chopping block that my skin could be pierced with even the slightest movement. I have to get something tonight, but Tristan and his friends certainly aren’t going to help me bump my way up this list. I type up the few notes I have on Tristan and leave the bathroom in a panic, hoping that a celebrity has shown up while I was in there. I do another full lap before returning to the table with no such luck.

  “I poured you another drink,” Tristan says, handing me a flute.

  “Thanks.” I take a large swig to calm myself down. I hop on top of the banquette again with my stomach in knots. My eyes move around as if I’m following the movement of the strobe light, and my desire for small talk right now is null. I look down at my phone every few minutes to physically watch the evening and my chance at earning any substantial amount of points tick away. I happen to be looking down when a text from Nick pops up.

  Nick: Just got home from premiere and after-party for Former Rapper Turned Ambitious Comedic and Dramatic Actor’s new movie. Exhausted and about to pass out. Will be missing our slumber party tonight. ’Night, sexy.

  Nick’s text makes me smile but I close out of it because I need to focus all of my attention on my surroundings. At 1:45 A.M. the bar announces last call and it’s official that my night is a bust. I throw my phone in my purse and tap Tristan.

  “Thanks for letting me chill at your table,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

  “I think I’m gonna head out.” I’m ready to give him a hug and call an Uber.

  “You sure you wanna call it a night? My boy texted me and he’s throwing an after-party at his place.” His friends high-five each other at the news. “You wanna roll with us?”

  Right now all I want to do is send in my short file on him and go to bed.

  “I dunno … I think—”

  Tristan interrupts my lame excuse before I can even make it. “C’mon. It’s at Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob’s house. He usually throws a pretty good after-party and he’s not too far from Holiday’s house.”

  If he hadn’t buried the lede he wouldn’t need to persuade me at all. This after-party is my Hail Mary to save the night. Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob! Even if I didn’t need a better item for The Life I would go. Some people say that nothing really juicy happens in LA before 2 A.M. so it’s worth a shot. I know I have a code and normally wouldn’t break it to troll an invitation-only after-party for work gossip but I’m
number six on Victoria’s list and I’m desperate. Tristan is offering me an opportunity; I need to take advantage of it. Besides, what’s the use of having a code and not reporting on people’s indiscretions in certain places if I can’t report on anyone at all because I lose my job?

  Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob will be a good get. Not only have I had an unrequited crush on him since his show debuted but I’ve never seen him out before. He has a long-term girlfriend who recently stuck by him while he made a quick trip to rehab. He’s had his fair share of scandalous behavior but always manages to maintain a much lower profile than his fame or indiscretions usually allow. This could put me in the top four!

  “I’m in,” I tell Tristan, trying to keep my reply monotone when I want to squeal and jump up and down. My heart races and I can’t stop playing with my hair. I place the locks behind my ears, then in front of them. I try one side tucked behind my ear and the other in front. I’m giddy and nervous and want to look perfect. I’ve gone from celebrity journalist to weak-in-the-knees fan with one sentence.

  “You ready to roll?” he asks, when the rest of his crew has gathered.

  I follow the boys to our chauffeured SUV. We arrive at Twentysomething CW Bad Boy Heartthrob’s Sunset Plaza home and we can hear the noise from the party outside. I make my way up the steep driveway, which is almost insurmountable in stilettos; we stop in the kitchen to pour some cocktails before proceeding through the rest of the house.

  A group of generically pretty girls, who dress like they came from a magazine photo shoot, and refuse to even make eye contact with me are stationed in the kitchen as well. In LA, celebrities aren’t the only ones that can make you feel invisible. Girls like this only talk to people that buy them dinner, booze, or Christian Louboutin shoes, or are famous or can make them famous.

  “God, those girls are awful,” Tristan scoffs. I couldn’t agree more. “I don’t know how but somehow they always end up at every after-party.”

  There’s a very specific art to a successful after-party. A few key elements need to be in place to convince people to hang out after the club instead of going home.