by Ian Bull
I push through the crowd and vault over the barricade onto the red carpet, which is the only clear route out of this place. Everyone is screaming and snapping photos of a nearly naked Katy Perry in a sheer dress standing ten feet away, so no one even notices me. I walk back down the carpet and get to the curb just as a black Lincoln Town Car pulls up, so I open the door.
“Welcome to The Extreme Zone,” I say as Bruce Willis steps out.
“Thanks. Do you know you’re bleeding?” he asks, and points at my mouth.
“Yeah, I lost a tooth. Can I get your picture and then use your car to go to the emergency room?” I ask.
“No problem.” He and his girlfriend strike a friendly pose.
We nod at each other, and I hop into the town car and shut the door.
“What’s the deal?” the driver asks.
“Just drive.” I toss a hundred dollar bill into the front seat.
He pulls away just as the guards rush up. I sink low in the seat and do my best not to bleed all over the leather interior. This is a signal to cash out.
It’s surfing and taking photos of seagulls from now on.
Chapter 6
Julia Day 1: Thursday Night
We stay in the theater manager’s office for an hour until the movie is half over, and then we leave out the back in the same white limo. We don’t speak for the whole trip back to Will’s place; instead, Will spends his time clenching his fists and glaring at me through his pain. He hurts now, but when the photos come out he’ll really be miserable.
I know how you feel, Will. Welcome to my world.
I lean forward to say something, but he puts up his hand to stop me. Trishelle sniffs with disdain, but when she opens her mouth I put my hand on her leg to stop her. I’ve had enough for tonight.
By the time we get to his house, Will’s lower back is so sore he can’t move, but neither Trishelle nor I offer assistance. Derek rushes out and helps Will out of the car while Trishelle and I watch through the limo’s open windows. I get out of the limo just before Will hobbles inside.
“Sorry I ruined your photo op. Maybe it won’t be so bad,” I say.
“It’ll be bad,” he says. He tries to smile, but he looks sad. “Let me know where you end up. I’ll send you your stuff tomorrow.”
“Will?” I ask. “You arranged the brick through my windshield, didn’t you?”
He stops on the steps, shrugs and smiles, but doesn’t answer.
“How many tips did you sell to the tabloids about me?” I ask. “That’s how the photographer would find me, right?”
Again he shrugs and smiles but doesn’t answer.
“Did you tip them before I went out with Colin Farrell?” I ask.
“I need to go inside, my back is killing me,” and he hobbles through the door.
That’s enough of an answer for me. “Are you working with Xander too?” I ask.
“Just the brick and the tips,” he says. “Don’t get too paranoid.”
He slams the door, and I know we’ll never speak again.
John gets out and holds the door. “Where to, Miss Travers?”
“The Montage in Beverly Hills,” Trishelle says. “It’s discreet.”
I slide back in. Soon the limo rolls back down into the dark canyon.
“How bad will it end up being?” I ask.
Trishelle pauses before answering. “The photos will be bad. Will will also say terrible things about you, which won’t help.”
“I blew it again,” I mutter.
“Hey, I LOVED it,” Trishelle laughs. “That kick to that photographer’s face was awesome. Will and he deserve each other. Who cares how bad the photos are?”
That’s why I love her.
When we arrive at the Montage Hotel, we walk through the lobby and down a carpeted hallway, turn right and exit the hotel. Then we walk alongside the outdoor patio to Beverly Boulevard and hail a taxi. Nothing against our driver John, but that’s standard operating procedure for me now.
“The El Rey Theater on Wilshire Boulevard, please,” Trishelle tells the driver.
“You think it’s safe?”
“Just pretend we’re back in New York,” she says. “We’re anonymous again.”
The El Rey Theater is a funky old movie house that now hosts music shows, and about eight hundred people can fit on the ballroom floor in front of the stage, with tables along the side.
We exit the taxi, pass through the crowd and the front doors into the main room, and an open table appears in front of us. Trishelle is not pulling any strings either, this is just her magic. I follow after her just like I’ve been doing since we were in high school.
“I used to date the manager Ricky,” she explains.
Soon we are drinking Patron tequila shots and talking to two young men in their early twenties, while Rebecca and her Car Thieves blast out their alternative rock from the stage. The music is great, but so loud we have to speak into each other’s ears to be heard.
“My name’s Brad. You look familiar to me,” the boy next to me says.
“I’ve heard that line before. Is that the best you can do?” I tease.
Brad works as an audio engineer at a recording studio. He’s a handsome blend of two races—Asian and Caucasian maybe—and he’s wearing a tight T-shirt with the Da Vinci man printed on the front, only he’s playing guitar.
He leans close and stares at me. “I’m serious. Did we go to high school together?”
“I’m a few years older than you, but it’s sweet that you think that,” I say back.
Trishelle looks up from flirting with her own young suitor, and we make eye contact. She flashes me the “thumbs up” sign and raises her eyebrows at me. However, she’s not asking me if everything is “all good.” That is our way of asking if Brad is a jackass. We have a series of hand signals that we flash to each other when men hit on us in the clubs. The “A-OK” sign means I like him, and “thumbs-up” means that no matter how cute he is, he’s horrible so please rescue me.
I flash the “A-OK” sign to her, then touch my nose once, which means he’s okay, but I want to leave in an hour.
Brad tells me about the home recording studio that he’s building, and his energy is infectious. I remember being that excited about my future when I first came to Los Angeles, which was only five years ago. The floor is full of attractive young people wearing tight dresses and tight jeans, girls with messy hair done just so, and the hipster men with trim beards. They laugh, dance, and touch, their lives carefree.
I suddenly feel free too. Scary Hollywood is gone, and I’m in vast Los Angeles, where no one knows me and I can feel alive and wonderful, for as long as it lasts.
An hour later, Trishelle hangs up her cell phone and nods at me, which means the taxi is outside. Rebecca is in the middle of a song, so I lean in and shout in Brad’s ear, “Kiss me like I’m your high school girlfriend.”
He smiles, leans in and gives me a perfect long kiss. He lingers, with just the right amount of moisture and pressure. He breaks away.
“You’re a good kisser and very sweet,” I say. “But I have to go.”
“Can I give you my number?” he asks.
“I’m from out of town,” I say.
“You’re one of those girls who likes to kiss and dash.”
I shrug, and he sticks out his bottom lip in a pretend pout.
“Thank you for helping me forget,” I whisper, and I give him a final peck.
Then we are out the doors and Trishelle and I are in a taxi again. I lean back and sigh. I haven’t kissed a man in months, and Brad’s kiss lingers in my mind until Trishelle interrupts me with a life reality check.
“The paparazzi will descend on my place tomorrow once the photos from the premiere come out and people know you’re not living with Will anymore. I’m putting you someplace quiet for three days until your movie starts in Chicago—L’Ermitage.”
L’Ermitage is a small four-star hotel in Beverly Hills nestled in the
trees on fast moving Burton Avenue, so people don’t spot it. There are no shops nearby, so there’s hardly any foot traffic either, which means gawkers and paparazzi stand out like circus clowns if they’re in front, and they certainly won’t get into the lobby.
Inside there are bright flowers everywhere, but the decor is spare and elegant with dark, plush furniture and low light. The mood is so sedate that everyone ends up whispering, guests and staff included.
Trishelle helps me check in. My hair is a mess and we smell like cigarettes and booze, yet the woman behind the desk gives me a welcoming smile and says less than twenty words to check me in. After all the excitement, I feel like I’m on a church retreat.
“Enjoy your stay with us at L’Ermitage,” she says, and hands me the room keys.
We get through the door into the suite; I walk past the couch, the TV and the dark wood table and collapse on the huge white bed. The comforter is covered with zillion count thread cotton and stuffed with so much softness that I feel like I’m on a cloud.
“Will was such a puppet master,” Trishelle says, and then climbs next to me on the bed and gives me a hug. “I wish I’d known.”
“I’m just glad you’re here,” I say as I hug her back, my only real friend.
“I asked the hotel to hire an extra security guy to watch you tonight so don’t be surprised by your bill tomorrow,” she says.
She tosses back her brown hair and props herself on her elbow to look at me. The curve of her breasts down to her ample hip is like a ski slope, and I feel scrawny next to her. Inexperienced too. Despite my success, she’s still more at ease in the world than me.
“Thanks for taking me out. That’s exactly what I needed,” I say.
“We take good care of each other,” Trishelle says.
She’s right. I would never have been brave enough to explore New York if Trishelle hadn’t dragged me out, and Trishelle would have slept through alarms and lost every job if I hadn’t gotten her out of bed and made her coffee.
“Do you think I’m ‘hyper-vigilant’?” I ask.
“Hyper-what?” Trishelle asks.
“Like I’m always on edge, thinking that the world is out to get me. Like the photographer, or Xander stalking me.”
“You were right to be suspicious, except it was Will who was messing with you.”
She’s right. I’m not even hyper-vigilant about the right people.
“Once we got to the club you were fine,” she adds. “I just think that you’re so stressed you can’t have fun.”
She’s right about that too, but with Will and the photographer gone, that might change. Then I remember the flowers in the limo. He’s the one remaining “unknown” in all this.
“How crazy is Xander, do you think?” I ask.
“I don’t know, he wasn’t my boyfriend,” Trishelle says. “But his notes don’t seem that bad, especially after the way you left him.”
“I had to. It was the only way I could have gotten away.”
“Have you spoken to him since the break up?” Trishelle asks.
“Why would I? Things ended horribly.”
“But you don’t talk to any of your ex-boyfriends. You probably won’t talk to Will again, either.”
She’s right yet again, which bugs me. I turn on the bed and face the window.
“We can’t all be friends with our exes, like you,” I say.
“It’s not like I’m buddies with them. Some of them were real pigs. I just stay in touch. That way, the drama fades and whatever power they had over me fades with it. We end up laughing over drinks and I wonder what the fuss was all about.”
“I’m not good at normal talk,” I say, and turn back to face her. “That’s why I act—I never have to worry about what to say next because it’s right there on the paper.”
Her face softens, and she smiles. “You seemed fine with that boy Brad tonight.”
“Because I was acting. I was pretending to be from out of town. Not myself.”
Trishelle moves closer and strokes my hair. “With Will, the photographer, even Xander—as long as you’re scared or angry about what they’ve done, they own a piece of you.”
“Xander is different. It was such a crazy experience.”
“Crazier than tonight? That was pretty wild.”
“He’s stalking me, Trishelle. That’s wrong.”
“Then end it. You’re not some twenty-two-year-old from Thunder Bay, Ontario anymore. You’re Julia Travers now. You left him years ago and hit the Hollywood jackpot on your own. You have status here, more than he does. Whatever power he had over you is gone. But you may not feel that unless you see him,” she says.
“You mean confront him?”
“Not at all. But if he appears in front of you, just relax. Listen to his speeches, blah blah blah, and see him for what he is. He’s just another man, Julia. They live and they die, and they come and they go.”
Trishelle is right. Cold sweats with quivering legs is no way to go through life.
She pokes me with her finger.
“Want me to spend the night?” she asks. “I’ll spoon you.”
We both laugh. It’s been so long since anyone, man or woman, has spooned me that the idea is too hilarious, and laughing makes me feel better.
“No thanks. I want to prove to myself that I can be here alone,” I say.
“I’ll be downstairs at 8:00 a.m. to check on you,” she says, and kisses me goodbye.
I fall asleep in my clothes, then bolt awake in a sweat two hours later. I’m still in “fight or flight” mode from the premiere. I turn on the TV just as a review for The Extreme Zone comes on the 1:00 a.m. news. I click off the TV as fast as I can.
I put on some hotel slippers and head down to the lounge. There’s a security guard in the lobby, and I wonder if he’s the one they hired for me. I wave, and he nods back. Should I introduce myself so he knows I’m here?
I shake my head. Stop it. Live like a normal person for once.
Soon I’m sitting on a couch, drinking a glass of cabernet. It’s a cool and foggy spring night and there’s a cozy fire going.
I probably have a day before the photos are in print, and they’re probably already online. Screw it, I won’t even think about them. Trishelle will figure out how to handle it, that’s her job. I’m going to sleep in, order room service and do nothing but rest.
I have to gather my strength. I have to get my wits back. Eat right. Stretch. Prepare. Saturday morning I leave for Chicago. I have a movie to do. It will be hard work and long hours, but it’s controlled. I know how to act. I’m always good on set, and I have to stay that way. I have to be a pro again, not let this shit bother me. I have to nail it.
“Rough night?” a voice asks. A familiar voice. I look up.
It’s Xander. He hasn’t changed much in five years. He’s twenty pounds overweight but he still could pass for a fifty-year-old Anthony Quinn with dyed black hair.
The cold sweats come instantly. Bad sign. I look for the guard, but he’s gone.
“Long time no see, my dear,” he says, and sits down next to me and smiles. “You used to leap up and hug me when I returned. I guess things have changed.”
My legs shake, but I fight it. Trishelle is right, these feelings just prove that he still has power over me. The only way to make that feeling disappear is to face him.
“You’re persistent, Xander,” I say. “I will give you that.”
“Persistence is a building block of success. It’s how you get what you want.”
Standing behind him is a man I’ve never seen before; tall, olive skin, short dark hair slicked back, with one thick streak of shock white hair sweeping off his forehead. He’s handsome, but his face is harsh.
“Did you get my flowers?” Xander asks.
“I did,” I answer, looking back at him. “They were quite a surprise.”
“I’m glad you liked them,” he answers.
I didn’t say that, but I don’t contradict h
im. His friend circles behind the couch which scares me, but I keep my eyes on Xander and the room. Where’s that guard?
“At least no hurricane can interrupt us here in Beverly Hills. You do get earthquakes, but that seems unlikely,” Xander says, then laughs.
What would Trishelle say right now? I sip my wine as I search my mind for a clever response, but find none. Screw facing my fears, my skin is too wet and freezing. I see the guard in the foyer and wave for him to come over, then start to stand up.
“If you want to talk, call Trishelle. She will book a time after I get back from Chicago.”
Xander’s tall friend with the harsh face sits down next to me on the other side, pinning me on the couch between them. The guard should be in front of me by now, where did he go?
“The guard works for me, by the way,” Xander says.
I want to run, but they each grab a knee. My gut says scream, but I can’t. What is happening?
I won’t let you leave without a proper good-bye this time,” Xander says. “Now be a good actress and follow my directions.”
The room tilts.
Chapter 7
Steven Day 3: Saturday Afternoon
I’m sitting across from Larry in his glass cube office at Celebrity Exposed, leafing through the tabloid and looking at my latest photos: Will kissing Julia’s cheek…Julia screaming…Will attacking…Will lying on the ground.
I inhale deeply and the cool air stabs at the exposed nerve of my shattered tooth.
“Tooth hurt?” Larry asks.
“Like hell,” I say.
“She keeps it real. That’s why she’s a good actor.”
“Any feedback?” I ask.
“They both love them.”
“She didn’t seem too happy at the time,” I counter.
“If she didn’t want her picture taken, then why didn’t she just get back in the limo? Actors always want an audience.”
Larry tosses an envelope across the desk at me. Inside will be a bonus check.
“Remember, they get paid too,” he says. “We were all in it together.”
I feel odd, though. My antennae are up and telling me that something is different about this one—but then again, maybe the exposed nerve of my shattered tooth is shooting confusing signals up into my grey matter.
