Hollywood Strip

by Shamron Moore

  “Les yeux sans visage…”

  She couldn’t tell who was singing or where it was coming from. Tony was the only person in the room and it certainly wasn’t him.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Tony said. The vein in his temple pulsated and his brow swam with perspiration. “You must have a lot of questions, so go ahead, ask away. Damn it, say somethin’—what’s wrong with you?”

  “Les yeux sans visage…”

  There was that voice again; she hadn’t imagined it the first time. Callie parted her lips. Tony tilted his head forward, waiting, willing the words to come out of her. But, still, nothing …

  “Eyes without a face…”

  The music snapped Callie’s eyes open. She checked out her clock radio—8:00 A.M.—and shot out of bed. Shit! How on earth had she managed to oversleep? She was sure she had set the alarm for six. Four messages from production waited on her cell. She dialed Kathy, the first AD, as she floored her BMW.

  “Callie! Good, you’re alive.” Kathy sounded chipper.

  “Alive and well, thanks.”

  “That’s a relief. We were wondering when you’d surface; everyone was worried. So where the fuck are you?”

  “I’m driving over the Canyon, Kathy, and I promise, I’ll be there soon. I’m so sorry, I—”

  “You were due on set almost two hours ago.” The relief in Kathy’s smoker warble gave way to irascibility.

  “Trust me, I know,” Callie said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, tops. I promise.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Good luck in rush hour. Go directly to makeup when you get here and—you didn’t hear it from me—avoid the Wilders. They’re floating around on set. Just a heads-up.”

  Damn it. Of all the times the Wilder brothers could be on set they picked that hour, on that day—not the day she was an hour ahead of her call time, oh, no. “Gotcha. Thanks, Kathy.” She flipped on the radio and cursed at who blared from the speakers: Billy Idol. Damn it. Her dream wafted back to her conscience. Chill out, she told herself; for being on her third chemo treatment, Mom wasn’t feeling too awful, all considering. Or so Callie was told. “I’m a tough cookie, Cal, you know that,” Virginia reassured her. Not that her mother would own up to feeling shabby …

  Callie slapped the dial on the dashboard. What a lousy way to start the day.

  56

  “Oh, lookie here.” Anna, the key hairstylist on set, plucked a hair off of Callie’s head. “Guess what I found?”

  Callie looked down at Anna’s hand and gasped. Nestled between her plump, ebony fingers was a gray hair. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m not even twenty-six yet!”

  “Sweetie, ain’t nuthin’ you can do about it. I started going gray when I was sixteen. And look at my head now.” Anna shook her curls. “Thirty years later, I’m nothing but gray. Grab a bottle of color and call it a day. We all gotta deal with it at some point. Like doing your taxes.”

  Anna tossed the strand but Callie could see it poking out of the trash like a red flag, if ever there was one. I’m officially old. Over the hill. Past my prime. She scowled at the offensive, wiry perpetrator in disbelief. Her father had gone gray at the quarter-century mark. Apparently, neither he nor his daughter inherited Grandma Esme’s amazing genetics.

  “You know who’s got some mighty fine hair,” continued Anna, “is that new one, Mitch. Thick, wavy, just gorgeous. And here he is, too.” Mitch Gracie walked in as Anna clipped an extension to Callie’s head. “Mornin’, handsome. How you doing today?”

  “Doin’ fine, Anna, just fine, thank you.” He smiled and the skin creased around his suede brown eyes. He took a seat next to Callie.

  “Sasha had to run to her car but she’ll be back in a minute to fix you up,” Anna said. “Not that you need much help in the styling department. We were just saying what perfect hair you have.”

  Mitch ran a hand through his tresses. “My mama never wanted me to cut it when I was younger. My sister and me, we looked like a couple of overgrown cactuses runnin’ around. Howdy, Miss Callie.”

  “Humph.” Callie barely managed an audible greeting. Between oversleeping, her nipples aching from her period, and her newly gray situation, she was in no mood for small talk.

  “I’m lovin’ the hair today, Anna,” Mitch said. “Nice work.”

  “Why, thank you. You cats have that hot and heavy scene today and I want it to be extra full and sex-ay.” As if Callie needed reminding. Anna took the bobby pin out of her mouth and secured a section of Callie’s hair. “I gotta spray the bejesus out of this hair. It can’t be falling from all the steam generating from you two.”

  “No need sweating it, Anna,” scoffed Callie. “We just may need a little help producing heat, even.”

  “No doubt,” Mitch snickered. “Callie’s so used to filming lesbian scenes, she may need a little help in this department.”

  Anna blissfully pinned away. “I guess that remains to be seen. Seems to me filming a love scene with a man would be much easier than with a nekkid woman. But I don’t know, I’ve never been an actor.”

  “Neither has Callie,” said Mitch with a wink. “She just whips her top off and flings her hair around a little. Not too much acting required, is there, Lambert?”

  Callie stared straight ahead, stone-faced. “Kind of like with your off-off-off-Broadway gems. All those Tony winners under your belt, Sir Laurence Olivier.”

  “Acting comes easy to me. It’s second nature. I get inside the character’s head and”—Mitch snapped his fingers—“boom. Magic happens. Instantaneously.”

  Wow, big word. “How fortunate for you,” Callie said.

  “It is, isn’t it? Same as how playin’ a half-naked bimbo comes so easy to you.”

  Anna jerked her head from one actor to another, back and forth like she was watching a game of Ping-Pong. “You two need to take this outside? What’s with all the attitude?”

  “You’ll have to ask her, Anna. Callie, here, doesn’t care much for me. Wish I could tell you why.”

  “Maybe because you’re a conceited know-it-all who needs to learn when to keep your mouth shut. You know, Mitch, not every thought that springs into your head needs to be spoken,” Callie spat. She squeezed her eyes shut while Anna waved a can of hair spray around her head.

  “Lawdy,” Anna whispered. “I wish I could find time to be so silly. You two are too much. Okay, Miss Thang, you’re good to go.”

  “Thanks, Anna. I’ll catch you in a few hours.” She hopped out of the chair and ran smack-dab into Will Wilder.

  57

  “Callie! Just the girl I was looking for. Got a minute?” Will said.

  “Of course.” Callie followed him into his office. “What’s up?”

  Will shut the door and took a seat. “What’s with the late start?”

  “I know, I know,” Callie sputtered. “I’m sorry, Will. I totally understand you being angry and I promise I won’t—”

  He held up his hand. “Ssh, slow down, take a deep breath. Look, you’re flustered right now and I know you’re going through a tough time with your mother and all. How is that going, if I may ask?”

  “Mom is doing well. She’s had a few treatments since they removed the tumor and her doctors are very pleased. It’s a work in progress, of course…”

  “Of course.”

  “But she’s doing better than expected. We spoke yesterday and she was very upbeat.”

  “That’s great. I’m just checking to make sure you’re doing okay,” Will said. “It’s my job. We want you to bring your A game.”

  “I know. I’m hanging in there.”

  “Good. Look, we all love you—in my book, you’re golden. I have no desire to make a mountain out of a molehill. But let’s not make a habit of showing up two hours late. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Excellent. So, Wendell and I have been doing a lot of thinking; we’re tossing around a few ways of spicing up the storyline. Cheerleader Chronicles needs a little someth
ing, a little oomph. The network wants more fireworks. I don’t mean more T and A, per se—after all, it isn’t HBO—but it could use an arch. Another dynamic. What do you think?”

  “I think that sounds interesting,” Callie said carefully. “Like, what—casting a new love interest for me?”

  “No, no, no. We’re pleased as punch Mitch is on board. Six episodes, maybe more. We’ll see how ratings go. Spike conducted a poll the other day asking what the fans would like to see more of and the answer given was: a villain.” Will placed the tips of his fingers together on his desk, prayerlike.

  “But we have villains, Will. Every week we have villains.”

  “I mean someone steady. Someone you love to hate. Catch my drift?”

  “As in a supporting character? That’s great. A Hamsburg-type would be perfect. Maybe you can get Sal to reprise his role.”

  Will shook his head. “He wanted too much moola before we got picked up for a full season—now forget it. No, more like another Kiki to your Layla. That’s what worked so well with the movie—your dynamic with Gabrielle. Obviously, we can’t duplicate the chemistry but we can take note. What the show needs is another female, a Lex Luthor in a skirt. Chicks equal ratings and seventy-five percent of our audience is male.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more exciting to have a different guest star every week rather than the same old actress?”

  “That’s the problem—we need the excitement of a familiar rivalry. I’m talking raw theatrics, someone you can really gnash teeth with. The old-fashioned good-versus-evil routine to make viewers tune in.”

  “But don’t the viewers tune in to see me?”

  “Of course they do. But think of how many more will tune in to see you and your rival. Tension makes for good television.”

  “But that will take away from my character, won’t it?”

  “On the contrary; I think it will only add to your character’s development. It could raise a whole new set of issues no one ever knew existed with Layla.”

  “Um, I don’t know.…” Callie tried to wrap her head around sharing the spotlight with a new lead actress. “It’s difficult picturing anyone other than Gabby playing Kiki.”

  “Agreed. It’s impossible. Besides, you took out Kiki in the film, so bringing the character back isn’t even a possibility. We were thinking, however, of writing in the role of Kiki’s long-lost sister—now that could be hot. No one in direct competition with you, of course.”

  “Maybe that would make for an interesting twist, Will.…” Why had she doubted her importance? She mentally smacked herself for feeling and sounding so insecure.

  “This is your show and we want you happy. And when we make money, we’re all happy. So we’re thinking, how great would it be for the long-lost sister to be a Gabby two point oh?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “There’s a pretty blond actress we’ve tested who’s a dead ringer for Gabby. Sorry, bad pun. She’s very green and rough around the edges but there’s something interesting about her. She’s got the right attitude—bitchy and badass—and she’s physically imposing. She could provide the right contrast with your character.”

  Callie’s stomach sank. “You wouldn’t be talking about a girl named Stephanie, would you?”

  “Why, yes, I am. You know her?”

  “We met last week. She was wandering around the set.”

  “That’s right—she was visiting Brant. I’m not kidding myself, I know damn well she’s the poor man’s version of Gabby. If Gabby was Monroe, then Stephanie’s Jayne Mansfield—no, forget that, not even Mansfield. Mamie Van Doren, let’s say. But she could work. She’s not a name, which means we’re getting her dirt cheap.”

  Of course. Everything in entertainment boiled down to money. “Sounds like you’re pretty set on her. When does she start?”

  “Not for a few more weeks. She hasn’t even been written into the script yet.”

  Callie bit her cuticles.

  Will chuckled. “Don’t worry, Callie. It’s your name that appears right after the title, not anyone else’s, and certainly not hers. And don’t forget—higher ratings means bonus time.”

  She sat up straighter. “Bonus?”

  “That’s right, my dear. Bonus with a capital B.”

  Callie was suddenly excited. “I like the sound of that, Will.”

  Will leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I knew you would. As I said, money makes everyone happy.”

  New actresses popped up all the time. So what? It was the nature of the business. She chalked up her lack of assurance to hormones and stress. A needy, temperamental actress equaled obnoxious and she despised self-indulgent prima donnas—the Candices of the world. Naturally, everything would be fine—why wouldn’t it be? There was only one Callie Lambert. Bitches, hear me roar.

  Hours later, she was reunited with the Hick Prick.

  Whack!

  Mitch Gracie’s face reverberated from the force of Callie’s hand. He cranked his fist back but before he could return the hit she planted another one. She took a step back and swung a high kick but he blocked her with his fist. Callie fell. His eyes blazed and held Callie’s contemptuous stare. And then, like a hawk sweeping to nab his prey, he dropped to his knees and kissed her.

  Callie caught her breath. Mmmm, he smells like pinecones and leather. She kissed him back, at first mildly and then with abandon, swiping her tongue along his and sucking on his lips. Those pillowy, savage lips of his … He unbuttoned her top and she moved his hand lower down her body, between her legs. This wasn’t so bad.…

  “And cut.” Brant removed his headphones. “Back on your feet. We’ll take it from the top of Scene Five again, guys. Nice work. You two look good together. Have you been practicing behind our backs?”

  “Very funny, Brant,” Callie said. With reluctance, she tore herself from Mitch. She felt flushed—dazed, even. She hadn’t expected to feel aroused. Tingly. Was it her self-imposed sexile that made her wild, or the man himself?

  “Just a suggestion,” Mitch whispered. “When I lean in to kiss you—”

  “Yes?” she said eagerly.

  “It may be more interesting if you put up more of a fight. Make me work for it a little more. Hey, Brant?” Mitch turned to the director. “How’s the timing on our kiss?”

  Brant chomped his gum and mulled it over. “You could slow it down just a little. Take your time with it. Remember, this is a culmination of all their pent-up hostility.”

  “Gotcha. Kind of like when I finally hooked up with my girlfriend. I worked so hard gettin’ down her pants, I should have earned a certificate in Blue Balls 101,” Mitch cracked.

  Callie pictured a gingham-happy Pippi Longstocking on Mitch’s arm, since he disliked the Hollywood kind so much. But that was beside the point—it wasn’t about the girlfriend’s looks or his relationship status. In fact, it wasn’t about Mitch at all; for the first time in nearly two years, she felt fire for someone other than Evan Marquardt. (Mr. Quick Dick, the New York revenge lay, didn’t count.) Suddenly, with crystal clarity, she saw a future without the pesky Brit shackled to her vagina. Yes! It was possible. Her body pounded with elation and recharged mojo. She wanted to tear through the soundstage and shout the news with a televangelist’s fervor: I’m hot for someone other than Bedroom Eyes! Revelations were happening and miracles were alive and well in the City of Angels. Hallelujah!

  58

  Revealed: 20 Celeb Plastic Surgery Shockers!

  Callie stood in line at CVS and scowled at the cover of Got It! The cover photo wasn’t the most flattering—her mouth hung open, as though caught mid-sentence, and her skin was oilier than a pan of Wesson. She recognized the bandage dress from the premiere of NCA! but little else of the photo jogged her memory. What an awful angle, she thought; her shoulders looked uncommonly broad, like a linebacker’s. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching her—in a hat and True Religions, she blended in with all the other L.A. bums—and swiped the magazine f
rom the rack. There, on page 35, was a half page devoted to her nose. The article featured a still from The Cheerleader Chronicles and an old snapshot, easily five years old and obtained through God-knows-who.

  Callie Lambert hasn’t always been so picture perfect. Got It! discovered a pic of the then 21-year-old starlet and her shorter hair wasn’t the only thing different! “Judging from this older photo, it appears Miss Lambert has undergone a rhinoplasty at some point before her TV career,” Miami-based plastic surgeon Dr. Liam Bowersox tells us. “The before photo demonstrates a thicker bridge with a noticeable bump. In the after shot, Miss Lambert shows off a more camera-friendly look: a thinner, smoother bridge, turned up slightly at the tip. The effect complements her face and gives her a more streamlined profile. In addition, her lips appear to have been plumped by an injectable filler—but that could also be a makeup trick. Whoever did her work—kudos to him or her for showing restraint and not going overboard.” We concur, Doc. Job well done, Layla!

  Callie contemplated informing the editor that not only were her lips 100 percent hers, but they were 100 percent fabulous, too—thank you very much—before reconsidering. No sense giving the press more ammo and labeling herself a bitch. Besides, if her pucker looked luscious enough to be confused for fake, why complain? She was learning to choose her battles. Fame was a double-edged sword; the attention stroked her vanity but made her self-conscious, too. She could stomach and even delight in the occasional write-up but couldn’t bear being chased by the media. Luckily the initial insanity following the release of NCA! had all but evaporated—the paparazzi had an unending supply of fresh meat to stalk. Callie was thankful for all of the Hollywood bimbettes getting pregnant or a DUI—or both. The more girls courting the press, the less pressure put on her. She thought back to more simple times, when a Labatt’s and making fun of drunk callers on QVC made her happy; leading a nondocumented existence wasn’t so bad after all. But the tradeoff—the free designer clothing, comped dinners and five-star hotels, front-row tickets to concerts and fashion shows—wasn’t too shabby, either, she reminded herself with a smile. In fact, life was pretty damned good.