“Why don’t we go relax somewhere before you blow a gasket?” Callie suggested as they retrieved her car from the valet.
“Awesome. I sure could use a stiffy. The Four Seasons?”
“Sure.”
They grabbed a table on the patio off the hotel’s lounge. Candice stirred a scotch and water and, hands trembling, lit a menthol. “I can’t believe I’m smoking.”
“I can’t believe I’m not,” Callie said wryly, and nursed her iced tea. “Ever since I quit that dump, Harry’s, I haven’t had the desire.”
“Wish I could say the same thing. Can you believe Jon cut me off? I mean, what the fuck? How embarrassing! Like I’m trash, having to beg like some sort of street urchin. Fuck that. Not me, pal. Nope. I need to get something off my chest. I’ve been thinking about this for a while.…” She took a long drag and flicked her ash on the ground. “I think I’m hanging up my hat. I’m done with this business. Done. I can’t do it anymore. I’m treading water, just spinning my wheels and accomplishing nothing except spending money and making enemies. The last thing I booked was a fitness infomercial eight months ago. Back when I actually had some muscle tone. And I’ll confess—I didn’t even film the spot. They sent me home when I got there. How sad is that?”
“What was the problem?”
“I showed up a little wasted. Yes, it’s true. Actually, not a little—a lot. I was high as a kite. Not that I haven’t been high most of the time for the past six months, but apparently I was super obnoxious and … well, you’ve seen me like that, so you can imagine. I’m so ashamed of myself, I haven’t told anyone this. What would people say? ‘Gee, what a loser that Boyd broad is.’ But you know how small this city is and word gets around quick. Starr dumped me, told me I’m too much of a liability. One more ding in my pristine reputation, right? My parents would be mortified. Anyway, my name is muck here so I think I’m going back to Michigan.”
“Candice, I know it hasn’t been a walk in the park, but please think this over more.”
“I have. I’ve been thinking about it hard-core for the past few months.”
“And you want to throw in the towel?”
“Callie, I’m twenty-five years old and have shit to my name. Every man I meet is an asshole, my contract with Coquette is up, and I’m basically unemployable. My folks are sick of me wasting their money and want me to get my act together. Do you know how many times I have to listen to them brag about my brothers? Not that they’ve done much with their lives, but the way my parents talk, you’d think they both cured AIDS. It’s beyond annoying.”
“But it’s when you give up that things take a turn for the better. Look at Gabrielle—she said she was done, too, then booked a lead in a film.”
“She also got shot by the director,” Candice added.
“Seriously, now—”
“I am serious.”
“I am, too,” Callie said sternly. “You’re not a quitter. You can’t give up! You’ve always wanted to be in show business—you couldn’t be a Michigan kind of girl if you tried. You call it the ‘Midworst’ for a reason. How about this: no men, no partying, no staying out all night. Lay off the blow. Take a little break and focus on getting healthy.”
“A sabbatical, so to speak?”
“Exactly. And then when you’re ready, you’ll find new representation and start fresh.”
“Maybe I should go away for a few weeks and come back nice and rested.… Not another rehab but maybe a spa to clear my mind, sweat out all the toxins…”
“And then come back ready to kick ass like you always do.” Callie felt as though she were giving an R-rated pep talk to a group of Brownies.
“Hmmm … Swear off sex and drugs and booze for a while, concentrate on getting my life in order and come back recharged.… That sounds like a plan. You’re right, Callie. I’ve never let anyone spit me out. I do the spitting, goddamn it!” She ground her cigarette in the ashtray and pulled a wad of cash from her Speedy bag. “Here’s something I should have given you a while ago.”
Callie counted the bills. “Six hundred bucks?”
“Five hundred for the rent, plus interest.”
“Candice, don’t worry about it, I—”
“Take it and shut up. Before I change my mind and spend it on more overpriced stilts.” Her eyes glowed with devilishness. “I’m fully aware what a royal pain in the ass I am and I’m sorry. To be honest, I was so jealous when you booked that movie—livid. That should have been my part! At least, that’s what I thought at the time, but then I realized what an atrocious actress I am and you deserve everything you have. I’ll never be unsupportive like that again. Promise.”
“I’m just glad you’re back in my life.” She squeezed Candice’s hand affectionately and Candice returned the gesture.
“Come on, mama; let’s get out of here. It’s time for this bitch to dry out. Waitress? Check, please.”
39
“I just can’t believe it, Esme. You barely have a speck of gray!” Tessa, Callie’s hairdresser, exclaimed. She deftly trimmed Esme’s short curls into shape.
“And no dye, either,” Esme said. “All natural. My mother was the same way. Hopefully my granddaughter inherited those genes.” Callie beamed from her parallel chair and chuckled to herself. At seventy-five, Esme gave fifty-year-old women a run for their money. In her prime, she had resembled Gina Lollobrigida and even now she still managed to turn heads.
“Tell me about this movie premiere you’re going to tonight,” Tessa said. “You must be excited.”
“Heavens, yes. This is all new for me. Callie called me up and said, ‘Grandma, pack your bags, I’m flying you out to L.A., and bring something fancy because you’re going to be on a red carpet.’ So naturally I said, ‘Honey, I’ll be there with bells on my toes.’”
There wasn’t anyone Callie would rather have at her side on her big night; it was a no-brainer, one that angered Virginia.
“You can only bring one guest?” her mother asked during a typical remote phone conversation.
“Yes, only one,” Callie lied, “and Grandma begged me to take her.” Callie omitted that Paul Angers and Tyler were attending, too. Maybe I’m just being selfish, she thought. After all, just because she and her mother didn’t see eye to eye didn’t mean she couldn’t be proud of her accomplishments, did it? The glamour of a Hollywood shindig would definitely impress Virginia. A novel idea rocked Callie’s brain and for the first time she realized something they both shared—a love of glamour. Neither woman left the house without lipstick or gloss, coiffed hair, and a handbag that coordinated with the day’s outfit. Still, Callie couldn’t bring herself to invite her.
“I cannot believe Esme is going to see a film with the word ‘nympho’ in it. She’ll have a heart attack! Why on earth can’t you bring more people? You’re the star of the movie, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you tell them to give you two more tickets?”
The disappointment in Virginia’s tone twisted Callie’s heartstrings. “I—I don’t know, Mom. I mean, maybe I can—”
“It’s not every day my daughter has a movie premiere to attend. Those things aren’t exactly common here in Michigan, remember? Or maybe you’ve forgotten where you came from.”
Callie’s neck flushed. “The producers call the shots, Mom, not me. And besides, you hate gory movies.”
“Hold on—Tony’s trying to say something. What did you say, Tony? Speak louder, I can’t hear you. Yes, I’ll tell her. He says to make sure you get Sal Saunders’s autograph and tell him he loved his performance in Kill Me, Kate.”
“Okay.” Ugh, Tony—what a tacky pain in the ass.
“And before I forget, one of those tabloids—I forget which one—claims you and Evan are trying for a baby. Claire and I lunched yesterday and she brought it with her. I thought you didn’t want children? And out of wedlock, at that!”
“That’s a bunch of bull, Mom. I’ve told you, those magazines are silly. He’s too busy working to think about
much else.”
Bedroom Eyes was resting from his European tour before embarking on the U.S. leg. In less than a year, he had gone from being a well-known entertainer in Europe—the UK, Sweden, France, Germany, only a handful of countries. Now, around the globe, and especially in the United States, it was full-throttle Evan-mania.
Callie whipped out her phone. “Grandma, I’m stepping outside a minute.”
“Go ahead, dear.”
She rang Evan and was ready to hang up but he picked up on the sixth ring.
“Greetings, you gorgeous little slut.”
She giggled and combed her fingers through her flat-ironed locks. “Look who’s talking. Thanks to you, I may not be able to wear my new mini tonight, my arms and legs are so bruised from you banging me all over your kitchen.”
“Mmm, that was amazing, wasn’t it? You’re making me hard all over again. How wet are you?”
“Like a sink.” His sex-drenched voice made her shiver in the eighty-degree heat and her nipples poked through her cotton ombré tank. “Right now I’m thinking about giving you a tongue bath.”
“Come over. I’m just lying by the pool.”
“I unfortunately can’t, baby. My grandmother and I are getting ready for tonight.”
“Ahh, that’s right; Grandma Esme’s in town.”
“She’s more excited about this thing than I am. Definitely not your typical senior citizen. Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“Absolutely; looking forward to it. Hopefully I won’t disappoint her with my cooking.”
“It won’t take much to impress her, Evan, she already adores you. I’ve talked about you quite a bit.”
“Oh, really? I’m a popular subject, am I?”
“Indeed you are,” purred Callie. “She knows everything.”
“She knows I ravaged you all over the kitchen I’m using to make her dinner?”
“Well, maybe not everything, but close. Anyway, I had a minute and just wanted to say hi.”
“You’re sweet, doll. Have fun tonight and knock ’em dead, my little nympho.”
40
Callie felt as though a swamp was housed underneath her Hervé Léger sheath. So sweaty. Thank God she could still wear the bandage dress—the hem skimmed her thighs, barely concealing her love bruises. Cross, uncross, cross, uncross—her legs wouldn’t keep still as the limo slowed to a crawl next to the Majestic Crest Theatre. Damn it, when were those two milligrams of Xanax going to kick in?
“Skankazoid, you okay?” Tyler whispered. He was a picture of leisure in his sleek Marc Jacobs sports coat. “You’re squirming more than a virgin on her wedding night.”
“Just a little nervous, that’s all.” The chauffeur opened her door. She tried to count the number of reporters clustering around the front of the theater. Eighty? Definitely. One hundred? Possibly. She swallowed. Here goes nothing.
Paul led her to the front of the press line. “I just got a text from Sherri Finstad and she’s running late, unfortunately. Looks like you’ll have to do this alone, which I’m not too crazy about.”
“No worries, Paul,” she said, smoothing her dress.
“Just do what you do best. You look like a million bucks, so just work it. I’ll be waiting for you off to the side with Tyler and your grandma. Remember, you don’t have to answer any questions you’re not comfortable with.”
“I know.”
“See now, this is a time when you could really use your own publicist to direct—”
“Paul, listen to me: I’ll be fine. I can handle myself, trust me. Coy is my middle name.” She reassured him with a smile and placed a well-heeled stiletto on the red carpet. Channeling Naomi Campbell, she paused dramatically for the assembled photographers, stomach sucked in, hands on hips.
“Hold that pose, Callie … Nice!”
“Give me a smile, Callie-girl!”
“Over here! Look over your shoulder with that sexy pout!”
“Blow me a kiss. Yeah, just like that. Again!”
“Show us the back of your dress!”
They barked so many requests, she couldn’t comprehend them all. Or maybe it was the Xanax kicking in. About damned time. Screw it. I’ll pose however I want and they can keep up. Berry-slicked lips pursed, she flirted and shimmied while the cameras flashed. They couldn’t get enough of her and she devoured their attention like an Animal Style Double-Double burger. Having so many people—strangers—focus completely on her, zealously shouting her name, was exalting. Best of all, it was on her terms—she was in control of the commotion instead of the other way around.
A gaggle of journalists waited for her as she strutted farther down the carpet. A scrawny woman with veiny hands shoved a microphone under Callie’s chin; she had never been interviewed live and her legs tensed with apprehension. She took comfort in towering over the ultra-short woman.
“There’s been much written lately about the other star of the film, the late Gabrielle Manx. I understand you two were friends; how difficult has her murder been for you?”
“It’s been hard,” Callie said cautiously, tucking her hair behind her ear. “With the movie finally out, I hope people can see what a talented actress Gabby was—she was never the bimbo the press has made her out to be.”
“With a name like Nympho Cheerleaders Attack!, bad acting is the first thing that jumps to my mind, but the reviews have been shockingly decent. How does that feel?” the woman continued.
Callie beamed. “Fabulous! Everyone wants to feel appreciated, right?”
“There have been reports that Gabrielle slept with her alleged murderer, director Tom Johannesburg, the very first night they met. Can you confirm this?”
“I have no idea and it’s none of anyone’s business,” sniffed Callie.
“Gabrielle was a call girl. True or false?”
“Absolutely false.” She prayed the woman would trip in her faux leather heels and sprain her ankle.
“Are you and Evan Marquardt tying the knot? Are you engaged yet?” asked a man standing next to a video camera emblazoned with the Hollywood Hotspot logo.
“No and no.”
“Ms. Lambert, Corey Cox here with Rise and Shine L.A. Critics are comparing this to a much bloodier version of camp classics like Valley of the Dolls and Showgirls. What do you think about that?”
“That’s really cool. I’m a fan of Jacqueline Susann and Joe Eszterhas.” Her lazy Midwest accent was audible as her senses slackened from the pills. Mmmmm. Like molten honey. Cruising through her bloodstream at a leisurely twenty.
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it? I knew what I was getting into. The name of the film says it all, doesn’t it? We’re not exactly trying to be Doctor Zhivago.”
“Tom Johannesburg makes movies that demean women. How do you defend this statement?”
“I don’t,” she quipped. “It is what it is.”
“Victory for Vaginas, the feminist organization, has taken issue with the movie and your Coquette pictorial. They say, quote, you’re a disgrace to the female race. Would you like to comment?”
Callie rolled her eyes.
“The Detroit Free Press remarked you look anorexic. Are you?”
“No,” she said, “but in the words of Kate Moss: ‘Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.’” I’m a saucy bitch.
“What’s next for you, Callie? More sexploitation flicks?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “We’ll see. I’d like to have a diverse career. I don’t exactly want to get pegged as a naked lesbian horror slut my whole life, know what I mean?”
“Is this film too much for your average moviegoer? The sex, the violence, the nudity?”
“That’s for the audience to decide,” she said with a flutter of her lashes.
“Do you plan on appearing in more pornography or have you hung up your G-string?”
“Thongs or boy shorts? Boxers or briefs?”
“What do you think about Gabrielle’s life story be
ing turned into a movie of the week?”
“Do you hope Johannesburg gets the chair? Or should he rot in jail?”
“Why won’t you confirm you’re dating Evan Marquardt?”
“You smell delicious! If you came out with your own line of perfume, what would you call it?”
Callie responded to the questions with stony silence and greeted the fans who lined the sidewalks, issues of Coquette in their hands. Enthusiasm plastered on her face, she autographed copy after copy. The issue had hit newsstands days earlier and Callie was pleased with the outcome; the cover was of Gabby on her knees, grasping Callie’s thigh-high boots and hungrily staring up at the towering brunette.
“You rocked it, girl,” Tyler said when Callie joined her group.
Paul excitedly put a hand on her shoulder. “Have I got some news for you. I was just speaking to the Wilders and there’s talk of NCA! becoming a television series. It’s a sequel to the movie, which is perfect since your character is the only one who survives.”
She stared at him blankly.
“Yes, yes, I’m serious! Spike is very interested.”
“They want me as a series regular?” said Callie.
“Believe it, my dear. Let’s keep our fingers crossed. Toes, too.”
Grandma Esme tugged on her granddaughter’s arm. Her sable eyes sparkled. “Honey, I can’t tell you how happy I am for you. You looked so beautiful out there, so poised and grown-up. If only your father could see you … You’ve made me so proud.”
It was the best compliment she had ever received.
41
“This is outstanding, Evan,” said Esme. She savored a bite of couscous. “Callie’s talked about you so much but she didn’t mention you’re quite the chef. How wonderful.”
Hollywood Strip Page 15
