“So it’s a Catch-22?”
“In so many words.”
“Jesus Christ!” Callie threw her bread on the plate.
“Look, no one’s holding an Uzi to anyone’s heads, so let’s not get too upset. You always have options, Callie—you’re never trapped.” Paul gave a halfhearted, half-hopeful smile.
Rat bastards. She swigged her Chardonnay. “What else do you have for me? Anything new going on? How about that romantic comedy I was up for?”
“The one opposite Clooney?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Clooney dropped out and since he’s not attached to it anymore they’ve decided to recast the whole thing from scratch. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look too promising.”
“And the indie project? The one about the single mother?”
“I passed on it because they rewrote it as a stripper. Full nudity required.” Paul pulled a magazine out of his briefcase. “And then we have this little gem. I’m assuming you haven’t seen it yet.”
Callie scanned the cover title. Stephanie Schueller: What Evan Taught Me, Why I’m the Next Big TV Star, and Why Cheerleaders Are So F***ing Hot.
“Just when I think you’re done bearing bad news, Paul, you turn around and hit me with more. How much garbage does she spew?”
Paul flipped through the pages. “Oh, plenty. Here’s a lovely part: ‘Callie is pretty cool—like, she’s not a bad chick—but she’s not all that talented, to be honest. She’s quite fake, actually. Everything about her is fake, including her tan. The makeup crew uses, like, ten bottles of tanner just to give her decent color. And let’s be honest, the only reason she got big is because of Gabrielle Manx. She basically just rode the coattails of Gabby and screwed a famous singer to get to where she is today. And I’m not hating her for it. I mean, I had a relationship with Evan, too, bigger than the one she had—I’ve still got the rock to prove it. But I don’t buy that whole “I’m so private” act of hers. She’s told so many people I know that sex with Evan was, quote, eyeball-rolling. So why not just come clean? Why play coy with reporters and act like it didn’t happen? Just admit it: yeah, I fucked him, yeah, it was good, yeah, he made me more interesting. Anyway, I can’t respect that. I’ve worked my ass off for everything I’ve got and I haven’t taken any handouts and I keep it real.’”
Callie’s jaw clenched. “That hideous, low-rent bitch. I’m going to vomit.”
“Can’t say I blame you. She definitely has some whoppers. Sherri Finstad hooked that whole thing up.”
Callie thought back to the dinner at the Waverly Inn. “‘Eyeball-rolling,’ huh? Sounds like Sherri needs to learn to keep her trap shut.”
“I’m calling Sherri and telling her to take it down a few notches. Schueller’s handlers, too. You know Will and Wendell—any publicity is good publicity.”
Callie struggled to keep her voice at a low pitch. “You can tell the Wilders to go fuck themselves, Paul. And tell Yves to do the same. I’m not going to be bullied into doing something I don’t want to do. If they want to stand by a pathetic fame fucker like Stephanie, I want nothing to do with any of them.”
“I have a better idea—why don’t we wait until you’re good and sober to make these decisions? Sleep on it a little while.”
“God, these people, I swear! Take your pick from douchier to douchiest.”
Paul rubbed his chin. “That sounds like a movie—Douchier and Douchiest. Where have I heard that? Someone must have run that title past me recently. Hmm. Anyhow, no rush, but why don’t you think over everything with a clear head.” Paul called the waiter over. “Can we get some water, please? And do me a favor—throw this away for me.”
The waiter ditched the magazine while Callie tossed back another glass of wine. “Paul,” she slurred, “I’m washed up. Why are you still with me? I’m done. Finished.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said.
“I’ve got a one-way ticket to Nowheresville. Go save yourself and abandon ship.”
Paul took her glass away from her. “Take it easy, now. You’re being ridiculous.”
“I mean it,” she moaned. “My bosses hate me, I can’t book another gig to save my life, and my taste in men is disgusting. How did I become so repugnant? What happened to me?”
“I’ll tell you what happened to you, young lady,” he said sternly. “It’s called success. You’ll net a million and a quarter this year alone, easy. That’s what happened to you, and last I checked, it isn’t something most actors cry over. The actors I represent would kill—probably kill me, even—to have what you have. Look around us. Not too long ago you were one of these guys. Or did you forget?”
Callie gave the restaurant a once-over. A waiter at a nearby booth spilled a plate of spaghetti, barely avoiding his customer’s lap.
“Count your blessings, Cal, and remember where you came from. It can all go away so fast. Here, have some water and sober up. No one wants to hire a hungover actress with bloodshot eyes.”
She slugged the water and Paul drove her home.
61
“Chop it off. Chop it all off, Tessa,” said Callie. “A good nine, ten inches.”
Tessa held a chunk of hair up. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of length. Maybe we should start off with baby steps and add a few layers.”
Callie shook her head. “I need a big change. Something refined and Grace Kelly–ish, only a brunette version. Let’s go for the whole shebang at once. I’m donating my hair to cancer victims, so it’s a win–win all the way around.”
“Terrific.” Tessa tied a smock around Callie. “What about the studio? They won’t care?”
“The season wrapped and I don’t have any immediate projects on the horizon. Besides, it’s not in my contract that I can’t cut my hair. Weight, yes—I can’t gain more than ten pounds, not like that would ever happen—but it says nothing about hair.”
“Last time you were here you mentioned your mother was getting a wig. How did that turn out?”
“I’ll find out next week when I pay her a visit. Knowing my mom, the wig will be bigger than her own natural hair—she’s always loved it poufy.”
“Too much volume can be a bad thing. I try to convince women that bigger isn’t necessarily better.”
“I’ve been telling Mom that for years.”
“How is she doing?”
“She’s tired—some days are better than others. She says sometimes she wants to stay in bed all day and other times she has tons of energy. Up and down like a roller coaster.”
“I can only imagine. Are you going to see Candice while you’re there?”
Callie’s eyes hardened. “No. I told you about our last encounter, didn’t I?”
Tessa seized a pair of scissors from her arsenal of supplies. “The barbecue? Yes, you told me. Gosh, I haven’t seen Candice in a long time. Last time she sat in my chair was a good two years ago.” Snip. A wad of Callie’s hair landed on the floor.
“I’m stripping all negativity from my life, Tessa, be it man, woman, or anything in between. Out with the old, in with the new.” Callie watched another hunk of her precious locks plunge to its death. I hope I didn’t make a mistake. Damn it. Too late now.
“Then this new do is the cherry on top,” said Tessa. “You have the bone structure to pull it off, too. It will look fab-u-lous.”
Tessa was right; Callie adored her new look; it was sleek and sassy, but best of all, a complete departure from her usual style. No sooner had Tessa put down the hair dryer than Callie was out the door—her acting class with Deirdre Coleman was in fifteen minutes and, per usual, she was running late. She zoomed down Wilshire. Damn it—how could she possibly get from Beverly Hills to Lookout Mountain in such little time? She veered onto Crescent Heights and directly into a pothole. The crater was as wide as it was deep. Splat! A rear tire busted.
“Shit!” Callie screeched. She pulled over and switched on her flashers. Damn it all. She may as well kiss nine hundred buck
s—Deirdre’s hourly rate—good-bye. Essentially a pair of killer heels or a weekend at the Ritz or a third of her end of the rent. Pissing money on anything stupid, regardless of how much she sat on, was a major pet peeve of Callie’s; her Midwest sensibility wouldn’t allow it.
Beep!
A Jeep’s horn made her jump. The vehicle pulled to the side of the road, behind her car. “Callie?” Mitch Gracie poked his head out the window. “Havin’ trouble?”
“Whatever gave you that idea? I just thought I’d admire the potholes up close,” she grumbled. “What are you doing here?”
He had already popped her trunk to get the spare. “I live here. In that peach house over there.” He pointed to a Spanish home north up Crescent.
“No kidding? Small world. Mitch, don’t worry about it, I’m calling a towing company—”
“Towing? Don’t be silly. I’ll have this thing changed in a minute. I’m from Alabama, princess—we’re not afraid of gettin’ our hands dirty.”
“I really appreciate it. Thank you. I can’t believe the timing—I’m running late to acting class and what happens? I get a flat. There’s no way I’m going to make it in time now and she charges an arm and a leg. Grrr.” She called Deirdre and paced along the curb. C’mon, c’mon, pick up. She got the answering machine and dialed the number again. Finally, Deirdre answered.
“Take your time,” Deirdre said. “I could use an extra half hour with this kid I’m working with, anyway. He needs a lot of help. Like pulling teeth, this one.”
Excellent. Callie breathed a sigh of relief.
Mitch worked on her tire, as apt as a professional mechanic. “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you with that new hair. It looks good on you—brings out those eyes.”
“You like it?” She flicked the ends of her bob. “I literally just got it chopped. I needed a change. It’s like I’m twenty pounds lighter.”
“It makes you stand out from all these chicks in L.A. with junky-lookin’ extensions. Like they bought ’em at the dollar store.”
“I never want to blend in with the pack—especially if the said pack looks like a load of illiterate tramps.”
He peeked at her from over his shoulder. “That could never happen. You couldn’t blend in if you tried. So how’s the show going? Have you strangled Schueller yet or did you just leave her black and blue?”
“Ha. Was it that obvious I didn’t like her?”
“Obvious? Anyone with working eyeballs could see it. It couldn’t be more obvious if you had ‘Schueller sucks’ scrawled on your ass,” cracked Mitch.
“I think she’s an acquired taste.”
“You don’t have to be diplomatic with me, you know, Callie. I’m not exactly gonna go squeal to the big guys. Or the press, for that matter. Come on—tell me how you really feel.”
“A bottle of Boone’s Farm has more elegance than that STD,” Callie sniffed.
“Now, that’s more like it! I like it when you tell it like it is—goes with my no-bullshit philosophy. I met her but never worked with her, thank God. I’d take nails on a chalkboard over listenin’ to her yap any day.”
“She’s the Wilders’ new golden girl,” Callie sighed. “I swear, they probably installed a toilet seat in her dressing room made of solid platinum.”
“It’s not about you—remember that. I filmed a part in a movie last month and I’ll never forget what an older actor told me. This eighty-year-old, John Wayne–lookin’ man. I love listenin’ to old folks; they always have such sage advice. He’s been in the business for sixty years and he said to me, ‘Mitch, the thing I learned early on in this business is that you can’t take anything personal. There’s always some asshole on your heels itchin’ to get ahead—and they’re gonna be more talented and better-lookin’ and probably younger than you. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it always will be. Get used to it straight off.’ Try not to let it get under your skin too much.”
“Good point.”
Mitch reached for a towel in the trunk and wiped his hands. “There ya go. Don’t drive too much on this spare—you’ll need to get a new one put on as soon as you can. But at least now you can get around.”
“Thank you so much, Mitch. Bizarre you drove past me, huh?”
“Strange coincidence for sure. Glad I could be of assistance. Drive safe.” He walked to his Jeep but spun back around. “I’d like to take you out sometime.”
“Why, Mr. Gracie,” Callie said with mock surprise, “are you actually asking me out on a date?”
“I am, yes. I most definitely am. Before you slip away again, can I get your number?”
It took a split second for her to mull over the question. “Let me find something to write with.” She found a scrap of paper and pen under the driver’s seat. “This is my cell. Call me anytime.”
“I will. You can plan on that. I’m flying to Buffalo tomorrow to shoot a new flick—a few weeks, maybe a month—but when I come back, what do you say we get together?”
She smiled. “I say I’ll be looking forward to it.”
“Good to hear it. You know, it’s funny—when we first met it felt like we couldn’t be any more opposite, but my gut tells me we have more in common than I originally thought. You’re all right, Callie—you’re different.”
“Different?”
“Yeah—that’s a compliment. Different as in cool and smart and real. I like different. Puts you miles ahead of the Schuellers of the world.” He showed off his crooked grin.
“Thanks, Mitch.”
“Take care of yourself, darlin’. See ya soon.”
62
The panic in Grandma Esme’s voice crackled through the phone. “Honey, I just heard the news. I can’t believe it.”
Callie stopped mixing a batch of cookie dough and dropped the wooden spoon in the bowl. “The news?” she said, and gripped her iPhone tighter.
“Yes, dear. What a shame.”
Callie racked her brain—what was Grandma talking about? Her urgency was alarming. Esme was usually so placid and low-key. It could only mean one thing. She stared out her kitchen window, paralyzed. “Grandma, what are you getting at?”
“I’m just surprised it ended like this, honey. I didn’t expect it, especially since things were going so well.”
“I don’t understand. Is it Mom? What happened, Grandma?”
“No, no, I’m not referring to your mother, dear. She’s been fine, thank goodness—we had a nice conversation yesterday afternoon.”
Phew. “What’s wrong, then?”
“I was just doing the dishes and heard the news on TV. I forget the name of it, but one of those entertainment shows played a clip about you.”
“Grandma, I’ve told you, you have to take those programs with a grain of salt. Let me guess—I’m in the hospital, either because of malnutrition from my crash diet or withdrawals from Botox.”
“No, honey, nothing like that—besides, I’ve learned not to pay any attention to such far-fetched rubbish. I’m referring to you being dropped from your show.”
“Hold on—I’ve been dropped? As in fired?”
“He didn’t use that word, I don’t think. He said, ‘It’s official—Callie Lambert won’t be returning to The Cheerleader Chronicles.’ A heavyset woman—Cheryl or Sharon something—said that you and Wilder Productions have made a joint decision not to renew your contract.”
“Joint decision”? Ha! “Sherri, was that her name?”
“That’s it. Honey, is this true? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Grandma, I swear, this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Really, now? They mentioned some other actress—said she was the only cast member who’d be returning. A really cheap, tall blonde. Does that ring a bell?”
“It certainly does,” Callie muttered.
“My, the only reason that show was any good was because of you,” Esme huffed. “Can’t they see that? How can they do this? Surely they can’t all be fools!”<
br />
Callie had been prepared for grave news by the sound of Esme’s voice and was thankful it wasn’t serious. It troubled her far more that her grandmother was so upset. “It’s just the way the ball rolls, Grandma. Please don’t let it get to you. My friend, Mitch—I told you about him the other day—he talked about this same thing. ‘You can’t take it personal,’ he said. And I can’t.”
“But they’re disposing of you like garbage. That’s what really gets my goat.”
Her cell beeped—it was Paul Angers. “Grandma, my agent’s calling.”
“Take it, honey, and call me back when you can.”
Callie switched over to the other line. “So, is it standard for actors to hear they’ve been fired on the news or am I a lone exception?”
“I just got done reaming the Wilders a new asshole,” Paul said. “I found out like you.”
“And?”
“And since you decided not to do another pictorial—which is fine, it was totally your call—their response was to write you out of the sequel and any subsequent sequels and also pass on renewing your contract.” Her silence prompted Paul to continue. “I’m just as furious as you that they chose to release a statement before calling us.”
“Actually, I’m not furious at all, Paul. You’d think I would be—I mean, I’m pissed they didn’t have the decency to call me first. But not that pissed, all things considered.” Why on earth weren’t expletives rolling off her tongue? Was she ill? Why am I so calm?
“I wish I had better news for you. Honestly, I truly do. But nothing is a guarantee. And with Schueller gaining popularity … they thought that focusing on Blaze as the main storyline was the way to go. They like you and have enjoyed working with you—”
“But they don’t like me enough to keep me around if they can’t get their way,” Callie finished. “Especially if Stephanie comes cheaper.”
Paul sighed. “They’re fully aware of their options. Look, you had a great run—a great run. And to call it anything less would be untrue. But it’s really tough to please everyone and yourself at the same time. Now’s as good a time as any to regroup and charge your batteries. Decide what game plan’s best for you—what you really want in this business. This could be a blessing in disguise. In fact, I can’t think of a better time to take a break. When you come back from Paris, we can figure everything out. This is the perfect time for you to…”
Hollywood Strip Page 23
