by Fifi Flowers
“You look stunning, Sofie.” Standing, he made his way to me. A light kiss to my lips sent chills down my spine.
“You are quite dapper, this evening.” I grasped the arm he had extended to me, and we strolled to a waiting car.
The red carpet made me nervous and giddy all at once. There was action all around. Television Crews. Photographers. Interviewers. Celebrities. Gowns. Fans screaming. Total excitement as we glided toward the entrance of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. A venue that David and the executive producers had selected, only a short few steps away from the Dolby Theatre, yes, home of the Academy Awards.
Watching the film with a live audience was amazing. I’m not sure if I paid full attention to the screen. I was listening for the laughter, the screams, the cries, the oohs, and the aahs. Any and all emotion. I wanted to know that they were feeling things in all of the right places, by hearing their responses. When the picture ended and the credits rolled, I smiled seeing, “Production Designer Sofie James.” I saw it at the beginning on the film, but seeing it again made it more real! As we filed out to the lobby, I eased dropped on conversations. Comments abound. Most of them were a delight to hear. Some, not as great, but still, they had an opinion. I was beaming; walking on cloud nine.
Leaving the Chinese theatre, we hopped in to our waiting car that took us a couple blocks away to a historical concert hall for the celebration to begin. Another, smaller red carpet, directed us to a reception area, set up outside of an established dining room, where champagne and appetizers were presented by tuxedoed men. We enjoyed milling around, chatting with fellow cast and crew, along with critics. I loved the buzz of the room, it was filled with energy. People were happy. It was a party. What could go wrong?
Once the drapery opened, everyone found their assigned seat for dinner. Seated, I took in the all of the spectacular decor. It was exquisite. Midnight-blue velvet drapery walled the space. Huge Italian crystal chandeliers hung at different lengths around the room, lighting the silvery-blue dressed tables with gold bamboo chairs. Bold purple and apple green floral arrangements added dramatic color to the overall design. I nudged Drake when the food was served, Steak Oscar—filet mignon topped with crab meat and asparagus. That had to be David’s selection. I hoped he was channeling the Oscar Gods in his favor. Whomever he had hired for this event had done a stupendous job, so far, and it continued with the entertainment. A laser light show and DJ had everyone up out of their seats and moved on to a lounge area, complete with sofas surrounding a dance floor, and stage. Drake and I took to the dance floor off and on. I loved the few slow songs, any excuse to rub up against my yummy man. The night was completely perfect . . . or at least part of it was.
Walking off the dance floor, we were greeted. Well, greeted might not have been the right word. “Oh, if it isn’t the happy fucking couple. Doesn’t anything bad ever happen to you, Drake? Always the perfect life.” The voice was gravelly with a hint of slur mixed in for good . . . bad measure.
“Always a pleasure to see you, too. Is life treating you well?” Drake flashed a hard-pressed smile in her direction.
“Cut the small talk; acting like you give a fuck about me. Your movie has been funded—made—no need to suck up to me. Oh. Speaking of movies, I heard about a little sex tape scandal. Too bad it wasn’t true, or too bad you figured out the truth.” The drunk woman teetered on her high Manolo pumps in a short, low-cut, dark-red, lace dress with a glass swirling in her hand.
“Nice to hear your concern, Mandolina,” I said, knowing she hated her given name.
Turning toward me, her eyes narrowed. “Mandi.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Silly me.” I stifled a laugh as she let out a hmphf sound.
“You and Drake, you two fucked things up for me and David.” My back straightened as her volume increased. Where was all of this coming from? She hadn’t been with him in more than ten years. As I was assembling words to ask, her she turned back to Drake. “He could’ve been jealous of you, but you wouldn’t play along.”
Drake didn’t miss a beat when he calmly replied adamantly, “Maybe if he was interested in you, but he never was.”
Ignoring Drake’s words, Mandi tipped back her glass, placed it on a passing tray, and grabbed for a new one. Thinking this gave us time to escape, I tried to move away, but Drake didn’t budge. “Blaine was a fucking waste of time. I used him best I could. No relying on any of you.” She was wicked. Her laughter with an evil undertone, gave me goose-bumps. “I lured David to my house once, telling him Daddy wanted to talk to him. He came running. Everyone ran when my father’s name was mentioned. Of course, he was not home. He rarely was. Anyway, I offered David a drink while he waited for Daddy, who wasn’t going to appear. It was easy to drug him. He lost his clothes . . . all his inhibitions. I prayed that this would do it. Let me be pregnant. But no…”
“Oh my God,” escaped my lips before I could stifle my thoughts.
“Yes. Imagine. Your little matchmaking between David and his precious Nelle wouldn’t have worked so well if I was carrying his bastard.” A purely sinister look was painted on her face. I wondered how much alcohol she had consumed or was she nasty naturally?
I didn’t know Mandi very well, nor did I want to, after this run-in. I had been forced to socialize with her on a few rare occasions. Mainly, I had only heard of her stunts, first from David and then, from Nelle. David had complained about her at one time, when he was first dating his wife. She had worked her way into Nelle’s graces, feeding her lies about her relationship with David. When that didn’t work, she followed them around. Got herself on the guest list of events they attended. When David announced their engagement after only dating for a short period, she finally backed off.
However, as she continued to drone on about him, it was apparent, she had never truly gotten over him. “Yes, I followed him. I heard him speaking about a party. I sat outside his apartment one night, waiting for his car to leave the building. I followed him to the Valley. Then down a long driveway. I parked, waited, then walked in to quite a scene. It was not one I would ever imagine Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes attending. I was right. Turns out, he traded cars with Blaine to impress the little bitch with a Ferrari. Ha! He could’ve had his own, if he picked me. Oh well, dumbshit…” Taking a big swig of bubbly, she then continued, “Speaking of dumbshits . . . Blaine . . . good ol’ Blaine. He really is of no use, is he? He does have friends in the right places, though. Thanks to him, I met Rowan. Oh, don’t look puzzled, Rowan shoots porn films. He’s brilliant. Perfect for splicing together your scene. If only I had Rowan make a sex tape of David and me. That could’ve come in handy. Maybe then, he and Danelle would never have gotten together.” She laughed so hard, it caused her a stagger a bit. Gentleman that Drake is, he reached out and steadied her on her feet. I would rather she fell, so we could’ve walk away.
“When I found out my father was investing in David’s film project, I felt some old familiar tingles, but they quickly fizzled out. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Maxsam were still happily married with a new baby on the way, I see. But, then I heard you…” she said, nearly poking me in the chest, taking another gulp. “You and Drake were onboard. Then, next, came Blaine—well, fuck me—all the people that fucked me over. It was time to call up a certain someone and blackmail another. God, Blaine was so easy to manipulate . . . and starlets . . . dumb cunts . . . they will fuck anything and everybody to get ahead. And then, there is you! You and Drake really should be careful, fucking in public . . . people have cameras in their phones . . . security cameras are just about everywhere . . . sets . . . trailers…” She laughed smugly, slurring one thought into another.
“So Blaine was not behind all of this crap?” I asked, wanting to pull her hair, and slap that happy look right off of her face.
“Ha! He was useful, but other than that, no. I knew he wouldn’t resist two women, wanting to fuck him on film. Besides, I told him Drake spread rumors about him years ago. I told him that he also warned me to stay awa
y from Blaine or he would tell my father that I was dating a porn maker. He was more than happy to ruin your romance like he thought you broke ours up. Not that we were in love. Far from it.”
“Text messages? Drake’s phone?” She wanted to tell all; I wanted to know everything.
“One of the whorelettes lifted it for me. Funny, Blaine’s vocabulary was so predictable . . . so easy to duplicate.”
“Why come clean now?” Drake inquired.
“Not my idea. Daddy told me if I wanted to continue to receive his assistance… money,” she laughed, draining her glass. “And for some ungodly reason, my father is enchanted with Blaine and his camera work. I got fucked again and dumbshit Blaine is getting the deals of a lifetime, apparently, so are both of you. I can’t fucking win . . . so there you have it . . . my confession. Maybe I better make sure Daddy hears it. Where is my wonderful father?”
Pushing off of Drake, she attempted to set down her latest empty glass. Unsuccessful; it crashed to the ground, causing those close by to take notice. Weaving her way toward the elaborate DJ stage, she grabbed a champagne bottle off of a low cocktail table and continued on. Teetering on her high heels, she began to climb up the steps to the stage. Oh shit, what was she going to do now? She stopped briefly, looking around. Then, began up another set of stairs that lead to several different, level, platforms surrounding the DJ and housing equipment that provided the light show, accompanying the music. Stopping on the next level, she appeared to be yelling. With the music playing, her voice was drown out. Drake tried yelling up to her, “Mandi, get down.” It was of no use, she couldn’t hear him. I could barely hear him, standing so close to a multitude of booming speakers.
It wasn’t long before she was kicking off her shoes, hitting the DJ as they went flying. “Oh shit! How the hell? What the hell is she doing up there?” loomed from the DJ’s mouth. Stopping his music, he shouted into his microphone. “Fuck! Someone needs to get her! She shouldn’t be up there. It’s too dangerous. Lots of cords. Wires…” Time seemed to have stood still, people had turned to look up, their eyes glued to the crazy woman, high above, swinging a champagne bottle. Silence fell over the crowd. “Please get down,” the DJ requested.
“It’s okay . . . I’m fine. Just looking for my daddy…” Mandi replied, then looked out to the audience, she was holding captive. “Where are you, Daddy?” It appeared she wasn’t satisfied with her view as she tossed the champagne bottle and began scaling the scaffolding high above the stage area. The DJ began yelling for help.
Finally, her father had stalked across the dance floor. “Mandolina Alexandria, climb down from there, at once.”
His words stopped her climbing. Holding on to a pole with one hand, she held her other one up to her brow, gazing down to her father below. “Oh, Daddy, look at your pretty, little princess… I confessed… No more problems… Just a good girl, Daddy…” Mandi was laughing and slurring, hanging on to scaffolding, precariously.
Her father moved over closer to us. He was looking for a way up. “How did she get up there?” He asked one of the DJ’s grips who had walked from behind the stage to see what was going on. “You need to get someone up there to help her, now!” His voice was strong, full of agitation. He was waving his arms, breathing hard.
Drake started to move, looking around. “No, don’t you dare.” I didn’t want Drake trying to be a hero. Nor did I want him to get hurt, attempting to help that crazy woman.
“Don’t worry; I’m not going up there. Let me find some security guys.”
“Please don’t leave me.” I held onto his bicep tightly, then, pointed at a team of uniformed men, heading toward the stage on both sides, “Here comes some help.”
However, before anyone could get to her we all watched as she wobbled about, stumbling, trying to adjust her footing onto another ladder. Then with a slip of her hand, a blood curdling scream escaped from her mouth as she started to plummet to the ground. Drake quickly turned me into his chest, blocking my view. The sound was sickening. I clung to him, crying.
Security scrambled to her lifeless body. Her father was hot on their heels, shouting for someone to call 911. By the time the paramedics had arrived, Mandi was not breathing and she had no pulse. Security had done their best with administering CPR. But it was no use; the paramedics calmly indicated that she had broken her neck in the fall. Her father did not listen. He insisted that they work on her. Appeasing him, they secured her with a neck brace, strapped onto a back board, and wheeled her to a waiting ambulance. But it was too late. The damage had been done. The evening was over for all of us. The celebration had turned to a time of mourning. All I wanted to do was escape, to be alone with Drake.
Making our way out of the party, we headed for home. Once we arrived, Drake guided me to my bedroom. Undressing, we climbed into bed and held each other, not saying a word. I was shocked. I was sad. I didn’t know what to say . . . what to think. But I knew Mandi did not deserve to die for her actions. As much as I despised what she had done to so many people over the years, I never wished her harm. I may have hoped that she got what was coming to her, but definitely nothing . . . nothing like that. Wrapped up in the safety of Drakes’ strong arms, clinging to him, I closed my eyes, and sobbed, until sleep overtook me.
Chapter Seven
Drake…
The day after the premiere, the entertainment page headlines read, Hit in the Midst of Tragedy. The article went on to tell the tale of the evening’s events with a bit of a twist. It was reported that the daughter of a certain, well-known, film producer had fallen to her death while dancing, high above, on a platform stage at the movie premiere after-party. The story continued with rave reviews of the film, followed by a write-up, outlining the life of a lovely, young woman and her untimely death. Nothing was mentioned about her recklessness. Her intoxication. Her nasty disposition. She was painted as a perfect daughter—her father’s little princess. Which, was all well and good for her parents. Whom, I’m sure, did not want the gory truth spilled about their daughter, and perhaps paid to keep it that way—for as long as they could. There were always people that were perpetually looking for dirt; scandal.
One of the sickest parts about this whole unfortunate incident was that some people involved in the production said that maybe we should thank her for drawing attention to the film. “Death equals Oscar,” someone whispered. All of this, and more, I overheard, believe it or not, at her memorial service. While I wasn’t fond of Mandi, I knew her parents were grieving, and I hoped that these remarks were not hitting their ears. As mad as I was at what she had done, hurting so many people over the years, I didn’t wish death upon her. I would’ve preferred that she received the help she so obviously needed.
After Mandi’s funereal, I was even more certain I had made the right decision about accepting an outstanding project in Boston that had been offered to me. This Hollywood crowd was still rubbing me the wrong way, after all these years. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the making of films as much as I did in the beginning, but besides the creativity, I could easily walk away, again. There was only one major problem—Sofie.
Since the opening-night premiere, the worldwide release, the Oscar-potential buzz, and the infamous publicity that surrounded the film, several movie deals along with scripts had been messengered. Sofie was finally given the recognition she so craved. The type of jobs she desired, were being placed in her hands. She had choices. I even received a few film offers; some for acting and some for set designing. I was quick to decline all of them.
During the time that Sofie and I were apart, I was offered some big architectural projects. One of which, I could not turn down. Being away from her, gave me time to start working on it. Like Sofie’s desire to be a production designer, the job handed to me was my dream project. I had bid on it years ago. However, the City of Boston had stopped plans and refused to budge until the building, in question, was starting to come apart at the seams. The thought of losing a historical landmark had the Cit
y contacting my architectural firm. One of my partners contacted me with the incredible news. He knew all about the drawings I had worked on, along with all of the time and energy I had put into research for rejuvenating and enhancing the building. I could not say no. I had to leave. I needed to get back to my firm . . . to the job of my lifetime. It was easy to say yes a couple months ago when I thought I had lost Sofie forever. Once she returned to me, the reality set, hit me . . . there was a deadline for my return to Boston.
For our remaining time together, unbeknownst to her, I was always looking for the right time. I was constantly on the brink of pounding my head against the wall. There just wasn’t a perfect moment. There was no prefect solution. I don’t know what I could’ve been thinking about, when I decided to come to LA. To be honest, at first, I was thinking with my cock. Then, my heart. But I, definitely, never used my head. I hadn’t really thought pass the project. Spending a year with Sofie, working with her day in, day out. Going to bed with her in my arms. Waking up curved around her luscious body. The reality of leaving her was devastating. I couldn’t imagine giving her up. We had to work this out, somehow. But, could we work it out? A bi-coastal relationship; flying out to each other whenever we could? Funny, it seemed as if I had had this conversation with myself, not that long ago. I wasn’t looking forward to having it with Sofie.
What was the best way to break the news to her? This question haunted me, daily. A romantic getaway was the answer I came up with. I thought, maybe breaking the news to her would be easier if we were neutral ground. Would that really matter? I asked myself, as we drove up the Coast and over again, the next day, while we were hiking. When would be the right time? Would it ruin one of our last weekends together? Do I announce it over dinner? Driving up? Driving home? Ha! In bed . . . no, definitely not in bed.
