Box Office Poison le-2

by Phillipa Bornikova

  “Ten past seven.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yes, we’re meeting Montolbano at seven thirty.”

  “Why didn’t you get me up?” I said, scrambling to my feet.

  “I just did,” came the snotty reply.

  “In time to get dressed and put on my makeup!”

  “You’ll look fine.”

  “I guess being dead has made you forget everything you ever knew about women,” I said. I forced myself to unclench my teeth, lunged at the closet, and started tossing outfits on the bed.

  “Look, we were going to meet in the bar. I’ll have him come to my bungalow instead. That should buy you a few more minutes.”

  “Great! Thanks.”

  Jeffery Montolbano. Holy shit. I raced into the bathroom, pulled out my makeup, washed and then made up my face. I went with the more dramatic yellow and brown eye shadow rather than the paler daywear. Eyeliner, lip liner, lipstick. Hair dryer to fluff my bed-head hair. Ready.

  Back into the bedroom to pick an outfit. Jeffery Montolbano. I sat on the bed and pulled on my panty hose. Movie star.

  Client. The sensible part of myself was standing off to the side waving her hand for attention as I got my bra hooked.

  I selected a pale gold watered-silk sleeveless dress, the skirt of which came to rest a couple of inches above my knee. It had a square neck that worked well, given my height. I added a multistrand necklace of gray pearls and a gold bracelet. I threw on the matching thigh-length jacket and slid on a pair of very high-heeled black pumps. I paused to dither over the rolling briefcase but decided to leave it behind. This was dinner, not a formal meeting, and the case was dorky—practical but dorky.

  The cute redheaded bellhop was in the lobby, and he pulled out a large golf umbrella to escort me down the pathways to David’s bungalow. Flowering bushes shivered and shed water as we passed, and I felt the cold spray against my legs. The bungalow was tucked discreetly away behind bushes and trees. A winding walkway led to the front door. We reached the door, but before I could knock the bellhop thrust a thick card into my hand.

  “My friend Nu says he drove Jeffery Montolbano out here in the golf cart. Montolbano’s starting to produce now. May even start directing. I’m so going to drive the cart when you guys leave, even if I have to wrestle Nu.” Then in an abrupt change of topic he added, “Maybe you could give this to him?” It was a business card, but one of the new kind that was a flash card and could be read on a computer. It showed the smiling face of the redhead and the words “Toby Wilson, Actor.”

  “Who? Nu?” I asked, confused.

  Impatient. “No, Montolbano. Thanks.”

  “I don’t know if I—”

  But he knocked and David answered before I could finish my demurrers.

  “Just call when your party is ready to leave, and we’ll send the golf cart so you can stay dry,” Toby said brightly. David gave him five dollars and I used the cover of the tip to stuff the card in my pocket as I stepped over the threshold.

  Being a partner clearly rated. There was a sitting room with a gas fireplace. The blue-tinged flames flickered cozily. Sofas, armchairs, and a coffee table surrounded the fireplace, and I saw a cheese platter and a tray with a wine glass and an open bottle of merlot. There was a small garden patio off the sitting room, the plants and potted flowers drooping from the rain, and a separate bedroom. A brief glance through the door showed a four-poster bed adorned with floating draperies.

  A man was seated on the sofa, one arm outstretched along the back and a glass of wine in his other hand. I noticed how the light reflected off his perfectly manicured nails. He had glossy black hair flecked lightly with gray. It was long enough to brush the top of his cashmere and silk turtleneck sweater. He stood and turned to face me. It was Jeffery Montolbano. He was gorgeous … and short. I’m no giant, but he was only a few inches taller than me. He came around the sofa, giving me plenty of time to appreciate his chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, lush lower lip, and trim, narrow-hipped body. He held out a hand.

  His brown eyes, warm and humorous, were locked on mine, and I found myself unable to look away. His handshake was firm and lasted longer than was strictly necessary. “How do you do? I’m Jeff. You must be Linnet.” He had a basic midwestern American accent that was totally devoid of his famous, faintly European on-screen cadence.

  “Ye-yes,” I stammered. I thought I caught a glimpse of David rolling his eyes.

  “Wine?”

  “Uh … yes … please.”

  We all moved to the fireplace. David settled into a large armchair, which left me on the sofa with the actor. Montolbano filled the glass and handed it to me. His fingers brushed mine. I wondered if it was deliberate? It was certainly electric. Then he said to David, “You’re sure we can’t get you anything?”

  “No, thanks, I’d rather wait for dinner than drink decanted.”

  There was the briefest flicker of discomfort, then Montolbano’s expression went completely blank as he covered. I glanced toward David, but he had caught it. In the forty or so years since the Powers went public, vampires had gotten very good at catching human cues.

  “Or maybe I’ll just nip over to the hotel restaurant now and grab a bite.” The words hung in the air, and David looked like someone who had just swallowed a particularly large and disgusting fly as the irony hit.

  Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. We all sat in frozen silence for a moment, then the actor started laughing. “Wow, phrases like that just have all kinds of meaning now.”

  “Yes, yes, they do,” David said. “But seriously, that sounds like a good idea. I work among humans who are accustomed to vampires, and Linnet, in addition to working at the firm, was fostered in a vampire household. I forget that others might not be as comfortable with our … dietary needs.”

  He started for the door, picking up an umbrella on his way. “I shouldn’t be gone above half an hour, and then I’ll keep you company while you two eat.”

  A new concern intruded, prompted by the empty hole I felt in the pit of my stomach. “We’ll be really late for our reservation. Should we call? Or will they hold it.”

  Montolbano spoke up. “I made it. They’ll hold it.”

  “Excellent,” David said, and he left.

  I took a sip of wine and tried to think of some innocuous social prattle. I considered saying something about his charity work with the Special Olympics, the restraining order he’d had to get against a woman who thought she was going to marry him even though he was already happily married. As usual that didn’t happen. My penchant for saying whatever I thought took hold. “I know you’re famous and all, but why would they hold it if we’re really late?”

  “Because someone on the staff has informed the paparazzi, and they’ll get a kickback from any pictures sold. They will not be happy if I go someplace else.”

  “People do that?”

  “Oh, yes. Morgue attendants, nurses, cops, gardeners, pool boys, waiters, limo drivers.” He ticked off the list on his fingers and seemed amused. “Am I missing anybody?”

  “That’s … that’s horrible.”

  He smiled at me. “Welcome to Tinsel Town. Where the only coin is fame, and fame is fleeting.” He shrugged. “It’s a lucrative business, and I don’t begrudge them. This is a tough town if you don’t have money. Everybody else feeds off the famous, so why not them?”

  We both fell silent. Being female, and knowing that most women (and probably more than a few men) in America would kill to be in my position, I searched around for a new topic of conversation. Something safer. “So,” I said brightly, “I thought it never rained in California?”

  “Only in January and February. Then the vegetation goes crazy on the hills and in the canyons. Next, the summer drought hits and it all becomes a tinder box. Somewhere in August and September the fires start and burn down some houses. Then the winter rains come and cause the mudslides that take out a few more houses. And then the whole cycle repeats. With the occa
sional earthquake thrown in so things don’t get boring.” He tried to keep it light, but I heard a cry of despair beneath the bantering delivery.

  “Really love this place, don’t you?” I said sarcastically.

  He gave me a sad, weary smile. “Caught that, did you? Yeah, I’m sick to death of it all. The traffic, the smog, the constant hustle from everybody.” I slipped a hand into my pocket and touched the bellhop’s video card. “Running as fast as you can to stay in one spot.”

  I hadn’t expected the Through the Looking-Glass allusion. It made me look past the handsome face and wonder about the man inside the public figure. He took a long drink of wine.

  “And now this fucking lawsuit.”

  “But you’re the one who forced it into arbitration,” I said.

  “Yeah, because actors have enough problems without fighting each other like a bunch of caged badgers. There are two hundred thousand members in SAG worldwide. At any given moment only a handful are working. Add to that the avatar technology where you can create a computer-generated actor, and you wonder how long before we all become voice talent. And now Álfar versus human.” He sighed. “The studios must be fucking loving this. A house divided and all that.”

  David returned. His color was high, cheeks fuller. He had fed, and well, it seemed. Jeff stood.

  “Okay, shall we go?”

  At that moment a gust of wind sent a palm frond sailing into the patio, and the pelting rain plastered against the sliding glass doors. It flopped like an alien creature. “Maybe we should call for the golf cart,” I said, and picked up the phone.

  Apparently Toby won the arm wrestling contest with Nu because he was driving the cart. We all ducked from the door into the uncertain cover of the golf cart, and Toby kept up an unending stream of artless prattle while we made the two-minute drive to the doors of the lobby. Maybe he thought he was being charming, but he came across like a desperate court jester, flinging out bad jokes and flop sweat. David stared at the young man in bemusement, while Montolbano looked like a stone effigy. I writhed with embarrassment for the kid.

  Montolbano gave his valet ticket to the bell captain, and a few minutes later the large model BMW convertible, top prudently up, arrived. We hurried down the red carpet beneath the awning. The doorman, umbrella at the ready, opened the doors for us. I expected to end up in the backseat while the men sat up front and talked, but David surprised me by sliding into the back. I climbed in, the door was shut, and Montolbano pulled away

  “No driver?” David asked.

  “I get driven whenever I’m on a shoot, but I like cars, and I like to drive.” Montolbano gave a shrug. “And sometimes I just like the privacy of a car and my own head.”

  3

  Montolbano took us back to Sunset Boulevard and headed east. The parklike scenery gave way to tall office buildings and more upscale strip malls. Some of the tall buildings sported giant billboards with movie posters. One of them was a thirty-foot-tall image of the man seated next to me. It was advertising his latest movie, Steel Pinnacle, which didn’t tell me much. There was a big skyscraper; Montolbano, looking grim, grimy, and gritty, was dressed in Ninja black and holding a big gun.

  I must have made some sound because Jeff gave me a look out of the corner of his eye and said, “Go ahead—you can laugh. It’s a gobbler.”

  “But will it make money?” David asked from the backseat.

  “I have no doubt.”

  “But you just said it was terrible,” I objected.

  He looked over and smiled that ten-thousand-watt smile. “Linnet, there’s no connection between quality and the box office. You saw Transformers, right?” Jeff drove in silence for a moment. I watched the headlights and the light from neon signs play across the chiseled cheekbones and square jaw. “I’m getting a little long in the tooth for these action films. I don’t want to end up like Harrison Ford or Stallone, embarrassing myself. I’m in that awkward stage. Too old for action hero. Too young for eccentric geezer roles. That’s why I’m moving more into producing and directing.”

  “Must be hard when everything revolves around how you look,” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s a tough business and every rejection is very personal.” He added in an nasal singsong. “You’re too short. Too tall. Too ethnic-looking. Your tits are too small, too big. Your voice is too high. Too low. Not pretty enough. Not young enough. All stuff you can’t change. Really personal and really hurtful. I got lucky, became famous. Now I get asked. I don’t audition anymore. But I ache for the kids. I see what it does to them. I try to be kind and encouraging, but now that I’m making movies I’m the one making those kind of judgments.”

  “So why do it?” David again.

  Jeff glanced back and shot him a smile. “If I could answer that question I’d have saved myself a fortune in couch time, and I’d be making a fortune counseling other actors. I don’t know.… Why do I act? I’m insecure? I crave attention? Truth is, I love making movies from both sides of the camera. On the first day of principal photography, when you hear an actor deliver that first line of dialog … well, it’s a total high.” As if embarrassed by his own enthusiasm he added in a blasé tone, “And the pay ain’t bad either.”

  He took us into a turning bay and made a U-turn. A red umbrella marked a valet parking service in front of a two-story white building with lots of windows, and the word KETCHUP in bright red letters on the wall. The rain was still pissing down, but there was a gaggle of men in raincoats or windbreakers trying to protect their cameras. Not ordinary cameras either. These had lenses that looked like you could sight in on Saturn, they were so long and the apertures were so wide.

  David had spotted them too, and he had the vampire’s usual reaction to most things human. “Idiots,” he muttered as we pulled to a stop.

  A couple of men in short red jackets rushed forward to open the car doors for us. One of them, an elderly man with a weather-seamed face and iron gray hair, offered his hand to assist me out of the car. His palm was rough and callused, his thin black pants and jacket were soaked through, and rain ran down his face.

  Then I had other things to worry about because the minute my leg emerged from the car the frantic whir and click of digital cameras began. I had a flashback to that awful picture of me in the New York Post last year, and I wished my skirt was longer. The maître d’ came rushing out the front door of the restaurant armed with a giant golf umbrella; behind him was a hostess with another large umbrella. David, Jeff, and I were now protected from the elements. Jeff took my arm, pulled me close to his side, and paused to smile and wave at the throng of photographers.

  “Who’s the babe?” somebody yelled from the crowd. Jeff just gave an enigmatic smile. I opened my mouth to call “Lawyer, I’m a lawyer,” but then we were hustled into the interior of Ketchup.

  “Well, that was unbelievably humiliating,” David said.

  “Bread and circuses, my friend, bread and circuses. You’ve got to give the public what it wants.” Then he added in a lower tone, “Or they’ll eat you alive.”

  “Yeah, but does that include staking me in front of them like a gazelle at a tiger hunt?” I asked. Jeff realized I was annoyed and looked contrite.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with absolute sincerity, and I liked him again.

  It didn’t seem to mollify David, however. He said rather acidly, “You do that very well. Do you rehearse it in front of a mirror?”

  Which had me then wondering if it really had been sincere or if I had just fallen victim to a masterful performance?

  We were turned over to a beautiful young hostess, who took us up in the elevator to the second floor and the main body of the restaurant. Her demeanor was obsequious and flirtatious as she led us to our table, the only open table in the place. It was definitely a happening place. Some of the other customers pointedly pretended a famous movie star was not walking past, but others stared and whispered. The waitstaff was mostly female, all very pretty and dressed in strappy mini bandage
dresses that barely covered their rear ends. I suddenly felt like a dowdy librarian in my dress and jacket.

  The decor was very sleek, very modern, and very red. The lights looked like suspended red balloons; then I thought about the name and realized they were meant to represent tomatoes. The upholstery on the chairs and booths was white leather, and my heels clicked on the hard shiny white floor. Large pieces of modern art adorned the walls; many were pictures of ketchup bottles.

  One little girl ran up with a napkin clutched in her hand.

  “Please, may I have an autograph?”

  Montolbano knelt in front of her. “Of course, honey, what’s your name?

  “Samantha.”

  Pulling a pen out of his pocket he wrote, “For Samantha, reach for the stars, best, Jeffery Montolbano.” The little girl looked stunned, and her father was snapping pictures with his phone. Montolbano didn’t hurry, he posed for quite some time with the child. In that moment he became Jeff for me.

  Just before her father led her away Jeff asked, “Would you like a Space Command pin?”

  The child was speechless with joy. She could only nod vigorously. Jeff pulled an enamel pin from his pocket and pressed it into her plump little hand.

  We were led to a plush booth that could easily have accommodated another three people. I leaned back to rest and realized my feet were kicking in the air as if I were a five-year-old. On the table in place of flowers or a candle was a juicy red tomato in a glass box. I wondered how many tomatoes got wasted every night, maybe even twice a day if you added in lunch. Or did they get served in the next meal’s salad? I tried to make a quick count of the number of tables but gave up.

  The menu was eccentric. Lots of things with ketchup and very all-American. Jeff went with the Barking Dogs appetizer, which was two mini Kobe beef hotdogs, chili, melted cheddar, and homemade ketchup. The idea of making hotdogs out of Kobe beef sort of hurt my head. I went with the Californication appetizer which was Dungeness crab cakes with chili lime aioli. In an effort to keep down the calories I went with a cup of the lobster bisque for my main course, while Jeff ordered this giant twelve-ounce Kobe burger with bacon and blue cheese. He also added the Threesome appetizer, which was garlic parmesan, sweet potato, and Cajun fries with all five varieties of the restaurant’s homemade ketchup. I wished I’d gone with just a salad for dinner because I was never going to be able to resist.