As for Troy, it won’t take much to turn this into a plus. Or at least not a negative. Russell Crowe is always taking swings at photographers. Shit, Sean Penn is always taking swings at photographers. And he went to Iraq and on Charlie Rose to talk about world peace. I just have to move Troy closer to Sean’s righteous anger than Alec Baldwin’s loutishness. Beside, isn’t the whole paparazzi thing out of control? Ever since Princess Di died and Disney bailed out Jann Wenner’s annoying US Weekly so it could go neck and neck—and dollar for dollar—with People, the bar has been unduly raised on the Hollywood celebrity photo. And clearly digital cameras are not helping.
“So has Suzanne met with G yet?” I say so suddenly that Steven looks startled.
“Uhm, no. I think words were just exchanged over the phone. He’s supposed to meet with her later today.”
“So she’ll be much more focused on trying to finesse the Phoenix’s bolting than Troy’s contretemps, although she’ll try and act like I’m the one whose neck’s on the line.”
“A minute ago you were Bambi in the headlights, now you’re Donald Rumsfeld?” Steven says, arching his eyebrows.
I ignore him. “So we’re not talking to the media until I meet with Suzanne and G. Meanwhile, call everyone back—except Peg, I’ll deal with her—and give them some bullshit statement to tide them over. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding and Troy Madden looks forward to setting the record straight.’
“No, wait,” I say, raising my hands. “ ‘Ever since Troy Madden returned home from rehab, he’s been trying to lead a normal private life, but the constant hounding of the media—and photographers in particular—has made this all but impossible. While Mr. Madden regrets any confusion that occurred last night and he looks forward to setting the record straight, he would like to plead, on behalf of himself and his family as well as his fans, to be given a chance to continue his recovery without the constant and disruptive presence of the media.’ ”
“I’d hire you,” Steven says, grabbing a pen and starting to scribble, “and I know you’re making it up as you go along.”
“Look, this all goes away. It always goes away. Jack Nicholson? Halle Berry? It’s just a question of how much money has to change hands and when. Unless someone actually gets murdered.”
“Or gets caught shoplifting at Saks.”
“Yeah, but this is the media and everyone hates the media. Especially photographers. I’m telling you, the public buys the magazines, but they identify with the star. How else do you explain the success of InStyle? I’m betting one court appearance and the judge dismisses or Troy writes a check.”
“So there’s just one question, Counselor,” Steven says, smiling. “Who’s the ‘Gal Pal’?”
Right. The Gal Pal.
“Let me see the pictures again,” I say, reaching for the Post. My face is a blur but my hair does look good. A Clairol ad.
“It’s not like you actually see him kissing me,” I say, thinking out loud. “I’m just there. Why wouldn’t I be out with my client? Can I help it if I look like his date and not his mother?”
“Gal Pal,” Steven says, extending his hand. “I’ve always wanted to meet you.”
I send Steven out for coffee, tell reception to pick up my calls while I hit the wires. Judge the damage for myself.
Other than the Post and an AP and Reuters item on the entertainment sites, there’s not too much. Not yet. ET and Access Hollywood will have it tonight. Probably their lead item. The lawsuit will make the legit papers tomorrow, so there’s definitely work to do.
I decide my counterattack of the-media’s-relentless-hounding-of-the-just-out-of-rehab-trying-to-get-his-life-back-in-order-so-leave-my-client-alone tactic is the right one. I just have to make sure Troy doesn’t surface and fuck it up. I try his various numbers and get only his machines. Probably still sleeping it off. I leave messages on them all telling him to stay put and whatever he does, do not—do not—talk to anyone. I put in a call to Peg to cover my ass. Thank God you can never reach her even when all hell is breaking loose. I tell Steven to fax her office with our statement—our provisional statement—and alert Ms. Lexus I’m on my way.
My plan is to test the waters with Suzanne—find out where on the Richter scale Troy actually registers vis-à-vis the Phoenix—and then face G and spend the rest of the day on the phones doing damage control. Already the word in the hive is that the Phoenix walking is big, but not that big. She is making the inevitable “changes” now that her career is taking off again. On the advice of her lawyer. Or her agent. Or whoever has put the bee in her bonnet that DWP, even BIG-DWP, isn’t big enough for her. Normally such musical chairs among clients and publicists isn’t even newsworthy, barely makes Variety. Only when agents lose clients can heads roll. But given BIG-DWP’s fragile state and G’s take-no-prisoners attitude, any blood loss is cause for concern.
By the time I get to Suzanne’s office, I’m far more anxious to see how she’ll spin the Phoenix debacle than I’m worried about any attempted wrist-slapping of me.
“Let me see if she’s ready for you,” Suzanne’s minion says frostily, waving me toward the sofa. “She just got a call.”
I shoot her a blissful smile—hey babe, knock yourself out—and stay standing, not even bothering to pretend to study the ancient Georgia O’Keeffe lithographs Suzanne keeps on her walls. So seventies. So oddly endearing.
“It might be a minute,” the minion says, trying again. I shoot her another fuck-you smile. Like I said babe, I got all day.
When I am finally, grumpily waved in, Suzanne is predictably tight-lipped, dressed like Ashley Wilkes in another one of her white suits and going in a million directions at once in her South Carolina drawl.
“Alex, we ah not off to a good start,” she says, not looking up from her desk, but focusing, a little too intently, it seems, on the piles of papers she’s sorting through.
What does she mean, good start? To the day? To the merger? To my signing Troy? But then, obfuscation, not precision, is the name of our game.
“Tell me whut exactly happened,” she says, glancing up and waving me to her office sofa—white Haitian cotton, another seventies affectation. This time, I obey and sink gingerly onto its spongy, stained surface.
“Look, I won’t pretend this is a plus, but we can spin this in a way that works for everyone,” I say, bypassing a recitation of last night’s events and moving directly to The Solution. If I’m supposed to fake out the public, why not my boss?
“Really?” Suzanne says, eyeing me sharply. “How’s that?”
Okay, maybe this won’t be a slam dunk. There’s a reason why she’s lasted as long as she has: that before she became officially over the hill, Suzanne was once considered good at her job. Brilliant, even. Still, these are dangerous times and I’m reluctant to be totally honest.
“Look, I’ll be honest,” I say. “Troy is proving to be more of a handful than I—than we—were led to believe. It’s one reason why I’m having to baby-sit him at so many routine events. I’m meeting with Peg to go over exactly where we are in his rehab schedule. I mean, it could be that we’re in some recidivistic situation here, although I don’t want to use the words Robert Downey, Jr. At least outside this office.”
It’s a bit much but I’m betting that among the BIG-DWPers, she and I are the only ones who can use recidivistic in a sentence. And that she knows it.
“Go ahn,” she says, mustering a sterner tone than her expression conveys.
“Well, until we get a clearer bead on Troy’s, ah, behavioral limits, I’m recommending that we take him, temporarily of course, out of circulation. Forget the events. The meet-and-greets. Let Peg do the heavy lifting. Get him an actual job and then we’ll go back to work.”
Suzanne nods, which I take to be a green, or at least a yellow, light and plunge ahead.
“In the meantime, I’ll be dealing with the media today. I’ve already prepared our statement,” I say, rising and handing her a printout. “And I’ll be
getting on the phone this afternoon. Then, depending on what happens to the court case—although I’m banking on a dismissal—I’ll handle that.”
She doesn’t say anything for a minute as she reads my statement. And then rereads it.
Okay, I can wait for my final grade. I slide my hands underneath my thighs and hunch up my shoulders, leaning forward on the sofa. If my feet didn’t reach the floor, I would wag them. Just a kid in the principal’s office.
She picks up a pen and makes a few editing marks. And a few more.
Oh, come on. It sounds like a plan and you know it.
“So, Gal Pal,” Suzanne says, looking up finally. “Sounds like ah plan.”
It’s a good parting shot, but we both know I’m home free with the requisite slap on the wrist. Time for my mea culpa’s and I’m outta there.
“Look, I was there. Of course I was there,” I say, dropping my eyes to my lap—okay, you got me—where I realize bits of Haitian cotton have shed onto my black pants. No wonder it went out of fashion. “But if you’re asking me did I see Troy’s inclination to fisticuffs and could I have stopped it?” I say, raising my face, eyes wide. “No.”
“So the photo was just—”
“Routine,” I say quickly, cutting her off.
You got me. I’m the Gal Pal. Now, let’s move on.
“Troy had left and then he suddenly showed back up on the bike, looking a little the worse for wear, I might add.”
Let’s not forget who’s really the asshole here.
“They snapped. Literally. Who wouldn’t shoot him?”
“And yew wuh just—”
“Waiting for my car,” I say, shrugging. “I assumed Troy was long gone.”
Spinning always goes best when you wind up at the truth. Even if you have to lie to get there.
“Speaking of long gone,” I add, eager to move to new business. “I hear we actually did lose a client.”
Suzanne’s smile evaporates. I may be off the hook, but don’t fuck with her.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Alex,” she says evenly and I wonder, for just a second, if I don’t hear more sadness than anger in her voice.
“So I’ll let Doug know you and I have spoken,” she says, standing, handing me my edited statement. My trip to the woodshed is officially over. “But he’ll want to meet with you in any event. And I want you to keep us both apprised of what happens today and with the court case.”
I make the appropriately conciliatory noises and head for the door. But when I glance back over my shoulder to make my good-byes and catch her standing there in her suit that I realize is a little rumpled, I feel a similar stab of, what—guilt? fear? sorrow?—that I felt for the valets last night. At one time, she was a legend. Or as much of a legend as a woman who is not an A-list star is likely to be in Hollywood. Suzanne Davis. The publicist who pioneered the post-studio-era Hollywood PR machinery. She’d even won a Producers Guild Award and had a whole section in Variety devoted to her. Now, at fifty-three, she looks battle-weary, and the same town that once lauded her is ready to consign her to the discard pile. And they’ve sent G to do the actual garroting.
“You know, I meant to say this earlier,” I say suddenly, and I feel my face flush. “I’ve really learned a lot from you. I mean you. Not just DWP,” I add, stammering slightly. “So I’m just glad. Glad I got to work here. When it was just your agency. Yours. And not Doug’s.”
I stop and I realize I’m not spinning her. That I actually mean what I’m saying. Whoa. Isn’t this what I was wailing to Steven about the other night. Authenticity? Well, be careful what you wish for. Because authenticity or sincerity or whatever this is feels odd. Like a “very special episode” of Frasier, or Friends, or something.
“Okay,” I say, rushing to restore the world to rights and my tone of self-mockery. “Alex, thanks for sharing—”
But Suzanne cuts me off. “If Peg gives you any shit,” she says, matching me olive branch for olive branch, “tell her to talk to me.”
My warm and runny feminist bonhomie lasts as far as BIG’s outer offices—still Christo-ed in all that plastic sheeting—where I am instantly waved on in. I should take this as a good sign. A member of the team. But I have only the look of the guilty. A sheep to the abattoir.
I take a minute to hide out in the bathroom, gather my thoughts. But it’s amazing how even here, with the tasteful white phalaenopsis and the flickering red currant bougie perfuming the air, I feel G’s bullying presence.
I make a note never to buy overpriced French red currant candles—and certainly never date any man who does—and head out, hoping some fresh burst of courage will hit me. But the distance from the bathroom to G’s office is short. Much too short. Not even the second minion—again I am waved on in—slows me down.
And then I am here, swaying slightly on G’s spongy carpet, breathing in his leather-scented air, ready to meet my maker. The glowering Toby jug behind the leather desk, the Post spread out before him. Even before he speaks, I can tell this will be much worse than I anticipated. That I’m about to get up-close-and-personal with G’s legendary short fuse.
“I know you’ve been through this already, but if you could, ah, indulge me with an explanation of last night’s events, that would be so helpful.”
Sarcasm. Right off the bat. Whatever playbook I had driving over here is clearly out the window. I take a second to stall for time. Look around, like I’m not sure whether I should sit or stand. Which I’m not. But G is not into any routine pleasantries.
“I don’t care if you stand on your head,” he snaps, spittle flying. “Just tell me what happened. Or should I say your version of what happened.”
I feel my face instantly flush. Like I’ve been slapped. Which, I realize, I have. In all my time as a publicist, I’ve had my share of spoiled clients, bossy managers, and patronizing assistants. Seen plenty of petulant, rude behavior. Head-fucking, even. But I’ve never had any real contact with the pros—the screamers, the producers who throw phones at their assistants, the studio bosses who physically threaten their lessers, the agents who—well, agents are in a class by themselves. I do not realize, until this meeting with G, how incomplete my Hollywood education has been.
“I’m waiting.”
G drums his nails on the desk, the light glinting from their polished surface.
I take a good breath. The old Hail Mary.
“So you actually broke down crying?” Steven says when I reach him on my cell as I’m heading out of the BIG garage. Burning rubber, actually. Can’t put enough distance between me and G.
“No, it was more like tremulousness. The quivering damsel in distress.”
“But the effect was what? ‘If you hit me, I’ll fall apart’?”
“Are you kidding? With all that leather in there? I was going for ‘If you hit me, I’ll come.’ ”
“Oh, fuck you,” Steven says, sputtering with laughter. “You were not. Besides, you don’t even live in West Hollywood.”
“Hey, I’ve been to the Pleasure Chest,” I say. “No, I just beat G to the punch. ‘You can’t punish me worse than I’m punishing myself.’ It always worked great on my parents.”
“But I thought he blamed you for letting the evening get out of hand.”
“No, I blamed Troy for letting the evening get out of hand and I asked G for his advice and counsel, blah, blah, blah. By the end, he was practically showing me tae kwan do moves. That whole Mike Ovitz thing. ‘I’m a killer, but I’m Zen about it.’ He said it was a great way to fend off ‘overly aggressive’ photographers. And clients, I guess. He never got that specific and I sure didn’t. Besides,” I say, anxious to move the conversation along, “G has bigger fish to fry with Suzanne and the Phoenix.”
“Speaking of which. Suzanne put out a memo.”
“I heard that. What does it say?”
“ ‘A loss but not unexpected. Redouble our efforts. A time of consolidation and change.’ The basic.”
The
basic. If there is anything about this day, this week, it’s definitely not basic. What was it, a month ago, I was bored out of my mind? Now every breath requires a game plan. Just to get through the day.
“So you’re coming back?” Steven says. “Because there are tons of calls.”
Where else would I go? I glance at my watch: just about three. Just twenty-four hours since Charles asked me out. Since daylight pierced the shroud. Now, I’m back in the smoke and ash. Hours of phoning ahead of me, hours of stamping out Troy’s fire. Suddenly I’m exhausted, wrung out from my meeting with G.
“No, I’m coming back to put out the fires,” I say, a tad too heartily.
“To put out the fires,” Steven repeats.
“And then I’m getting ready for my date with Charles.”
“Your date with Charles,” Steven says, and I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or mocking me or is just as spaced out as I feel.
“Yes, my date with Charles,” I say, clicking off. My date with Charles. My date with Charles. My date with Charles.
9 No, but I Can Hum a Few Bars
Saturday dawns, not with salvation but terror. My date with Charles.
Oh God. I haven’t been on a date since . . . I can’t even remember when.
There was a producer, I think, when I first moved to L.A. Or maybe he was just a DWP client I was baby-sitting. Anyway, he spent more time talking on his cell phone than talking to me. And then there was drinks with that stuntman. That was more like Margaret Mead out with the natives than a date, although Steven thinks I cut the research unduly short when I decided not to sleep with him. “Five percent body fat, but you couldn’t get past the lack of a BA,” Steven had said, sounding genuinely shocked. “You’ll never get laid in this town.”
So 5 Minutes Ago Page 11
