“As my guidance counselor, shouldn’t you be saying ‘close to the beginning’?” I studied him as he got up, retrieved a file with my name scribbled across the top and quickly shuffled through the papers before tossing it on the desk between us.
“Touché . . . got me there. Tell me, what are you thinking? Wait, let me guess: Stefano Lepres or bust?”
I smiled and nodded. “Yup.”
“Hollywood is a tough place, Lucy. You might want to get a few years in working for some local photographers, perfect your craft with the small fish before taking on the big sharks . . . You’re such a sweet girl, Luce. I’d rather see you stay in Seattle and let me continue to work with you on shaping your career and . . .”
He continued speaking, but he’d lost me at “sweet.” He thinks I’m a sweet girl? Did he just call me “Luce”! Only my closest friends and family call me Luce! He thinks I am a sweet girl and he called me Luce! Briefly, I wondered if he saw me as I saw myself, a slightly frazzled art student geek with grease pencils holding up my ponytail. Or was it possible that I had some undiagnosed case of dysmorphia and was unknowingly a smoking-hot Victoria’s Secret supermodel doppelganger?
“Lucy . . . Do you get what I am saying?” I mentally snapped back to earth. Reality check to self! I am in fact the frazzled art student geek with grease pencils holding up my ponytail, and I should be focusing on the one and only thing James . . . err . . . um, Mr. Braves would ever be interested in when it comes to me: my career.
“Look, there is no way I am going to turn down a once-in-a-lifetime internship for the photographer who inspired me to get into photography in the first place. I’d be crazy!” I exclaimed. “Besides, I’m moving there with my best friend, Julie, and we have already committed to an apartment and everything . . . Sure, it’s Hollywood and I’m still not certain as an adjective what that means exactly but I’m ready to find out.”
James sat up and turned away to tap his pencil on the desk a few times before tossing it to the side and facing me. “Okay, I admire your determination and I do believe you will get a job with him . . . eventually. But, don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Have a backup plan before you leave. You know what I mean? This internship sounds a little . . . sketchy.”
“Sketchy? Dan offered me an internship! He said that it was ‘no problem.’ What else did he need to say? I’m sure that he wouldn’t just invite me down if he wasn’t positive that I’d be hired. He knew that I’d be coming all the way from Seattle . . .”
“Based on what, Lucy?” James said, sternly. “You were interviewing him for a paper, correct? Did he interview you? Did he ask about your capabilities or experience on a set? At any point did Dan Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is request a resume or references even?”
It was kind of cute how heated up he got over my well-being, and it excited me a little bit. James’s concerns were valid, and I had considered them myself, but they were overshadowed by the opportunity. I reasoned that it could be possible Dan just had a gut feeling that I was a hardworking, honest girl and he simply wanted to help me out. Instead of addressing every detail of the situation, I silently agreed to disagree.
“I understand and will have a backup plan.”
“What about your parents? Any help from them?” The mention of my folks brought me back to earth.
“From Dr. and Mrs. Butler? To support me moving over a thousand miles away? Oh sure, they’re stuffing hundred-dollar bills in my pockets every time I visit. It’s getting out of control really . . . In fact they . . .”
“Okay, I get it! They still haven’t gotten over the fact that you went the ‘alternative route.’” James used his hands to gesture quotation marks around the words “alternative route” and flashed his irresistible smile.
“Well, it’s my father who doesn’t agree with my choosing art over science, being a doctor and having great connections and all. He’d rather see me take a safer, more conservative route. My mom, on the other hand, loves that I am getting involved with photography, since it has always been my thing, but hates the idea of me having anything to do with Hollywood. She reads those trashy tabloids and thinks that it is all sex, drugs and silicone.” I laughed at the thought.
James’s eyes drifted to an actual smoking-hot Victoria’s Secret supermodel doppelganger as she strutted past the glass partition. I glanced at her too, my eyes momentarily transfixed on the back of her perfect thighs as she walked away. I subconsciously tugged at the bottom of my sweatshirt to cover the top of my own thunder thighs. Late nights in the darkroom had led to many visits to the vending machine and drive-thru dinners—and neither had been kind.
I continued my ramblings. “So . . . I guess they’re worried that I am making a huge mistake. But I love photography, and it’s not about Hollywood; it’s about Lepres! Plus, yes, Stefano is my idol, but he is also the greatest photographer in the world. He is a genius!”
James refocused, tugged at the collar of his shirt and leaned forward, resting his elbows on top of his knees. “Listen, your portfolio is exceptional. But I’ve heard some crazy stories about this Stefano Lepres character . . . I gotta tell you, Butler, he seems a little out there . . . Even his work is a little . . . out there.” He opened the top drawer and pulled out the latest issue of American Photo, sliding it across the desk.
I turned to a page marked by a yellow sticky note. The headline read, “Inside the Mad Mind of This Generation’s Fellini: The Great Stefano Lepres.” Of course, I had already read this issue. In fact, I had two copies because the newsstand had it before my subscribed edition arrived in the mail. A portrait of Lepres was displayed on the first page of the article. His smile was inviting, his dark chocolate eyes alluring. A model once-upon-a-time, he knew how to work with his chiseled cheekbones and square jaw. Another photo of him on a red carpet accompanied the article. He flashed a peace sign and appeared as if he had just stepped out of the Salvation Army based on his androgynous ensemble. His standard look consisted of muddy and muted oatmeal hues layered loosely over his lanky frame. He appeared very thrown together, but judging by his work, one could only assume that it was a thoughtfully planned-out appeal. Regardless, I appreciated that he dressed down and figured that this meant he was low-key, just another photographer who knew his purpose was to make others look spectacular.
“He looks like a nice guy to me,” I defended.
James took the magazine from my hands and thumbed to page three. He read aloud, “‘Lepres declined to comment on the rumor of his on-set meltdown resulting in setting superstar Beyonce’s hair on fire.’” He looked up at me with a smile that said Are you nuts?
“I know. I’ve read stuff too,” I admitted. “But I mean, really? You can’t believe everything that you read. I’m sure that is part of some silly rumor started by a jealous industry person. Clearly you missed this part of the article . . .” I took the magazine back and flipped back to page two. A portrait of a dozen colorful people took over most of the third page. They all posed and preened into the camera. None of them had model looks but they all exuded confidence and artistic know-how. Surely they were once frazzled art geeks themselves. I read aloud, “‘We consider ourselves the Lepres Family; consisting of dreamers, visionaries and trendsetters, each handpicked by Stefano. He not only captains the ship but encourages us to be better as artists and grow in our field,’ says Elizabeth Rich, a former intern turned lead producer.” I continued reading: “‘My designs would never have seen the light of day if Stefano hadn’t come along. Now you can’t open any magazine further than five pages without seeing one of my creations. I am forever grateful for his ability to turn anything that he touches to gold!’ says former assistant stylist turned fashion maven Frankie Fredo.”
James remained unimpressed. “And . . . ?”
“And? Anyone that works for him goes somewhere—fast! Could you imagine the possibilities? A few years with Lepres and I could be the next Ellen von Unwerth! Who knows? And besides that, they are the type of artsy family
that I’ve always wanted to be part of. I want to be one of them so badly. I think that I belong there. Actually, no—I know that I belong there. Does this make sense?”
James exhaled deeply as he spun his chair around to a file cabinet. He removed a heavy paper bag from a metal drawer and put it on my lap. “Perfect sense.”
“What’s this?” I unfolded the sack and stared inside. Peeking right back at me was an old Nikon camera.
“I found it at a vintage shop a few years ago and never got around to using it. It is basically worth nothing and I know it’s not as glitzy as the flashy digital ones . . . but there is something honest and real about its simplicity. It’s authenticity made me think of you.” My jaw fell. I never in my wildest dreams expected a gift from James Braves. He was thinking of me outside of school? Maybe I’m not clinically insane. Perhaps there is an Otter Pops chance in hell that he . . . Stop, Lucy! Just stop! I had to pull myself back to reality yet again. It’s an old camera in a paper bag, not a Tiffany ring in a blue box! Get a hold of yourself! I picked up the camera and gave it a closer inspection. As hokey as it sounds, I felt a real connection to the clunker. I imagined that we, the camera and I, would go on our own adventure, becoming better than anyone expected.
“Wow, Mr. Braves . . . err . . . um, James. I really don’t know what to say! Thank you . . . so much!” I stood up and surprised myself by giving him a full-on hug.
“Hey, you’ll be great—and remember, I’m always here for you!” Probably realizing the questionable appropriateness of his embrace with a student, James put his hands on my shoulders to put some distance between us. I briefly wondered if he would have done the same with the supermodel doppelganger. “When you’re a famous photographer, don’t forget about your first fan.”
chapter two
What’s Your Dream?
Balancing on the tips of my toes over the bed frame, I held up a giant poster of two fashionable girls wrestling over a sleeping jaguar. The vibrant colors jumped off the drab wall. A final thumbtack secured the lower left corner as I smoothed my hand across the poster before leaning back and allowing my eyes to feast on the image.
“Are you going to ask him to sign it?” Julie forced through a yawn as she entered the room with two steaming coffee mugs. I took one of the mugs with both hands.
“Probably. Definitely going to try to get those signed first.” I nodded to the bookshelf showcasing Lepres’ last three art books.
“You are totally obsessed!” Julie teased as she curled up on her bed, tucking her knees into her oversized T-shirt.
“I’m sorry—how many times have you made me watch Lost in Translation? Just because Scarlett Johansson hasn’t called you to be her next understudy doesn’t mean that you can get on me for . . .” Julie sank farther into a sea of mismatched blankets and stared into her coffee. It seemed impossible for someone who had been told her whole life that she was perfect to have an ounce of self-doubt, but deep down Julie did have her insecurities. Something even I, her best friend, sometimes forgot.
“Yet,” I amended quickly. “She hasn’t called you yet, is what I meant to say. You are going to be one of the greatest actresses of our time, Jules!” Julie half smiled. “I can see it now!” I pulled my friend up from the bed by her arm before putting my arm around her shoulders. We turned toward the door, which I swiftly shut using my right foot. The opposing side of the door faced us, displaying a glamorous photo of Angelina Jolie, also shot by Lepres. “That is going to be you and I am going to be the one behind the camera! Together all the way! Just like we’ve been saying since we were fourteen! Remember the day we decided that we’d move to LA and follow our dreams?”
“Yeah, the day that I didn’t get cast for any of the lead parts in Rent. I hated that day.”
“Yeah, but then we ditched school and snuck into the movie theater with two pints of ice cream! I loved that day!”
“That’s right! We tapped our spoons together and swore on Ben and Jerry that one day you’d make it as a famous photographer and I’d make it as a movie star. We were such dorks.”
“Jules, it’s all happening now! We’re here, and we are going to make it. We just need to make it happen! I mean, if only for Ben and Jerry . . .” I held my mug out.
Julie tapped her coffee mug to mine as we both took a sip, still eye to eye with Angelina. “You’d better make it to the studio soon. It’s already late into the morning. I’d want to be there early just in case they are shooting again . . .” Realizing the time, I bolted for the bathroom and immediately turned the shower on. Over the crushing sounds pouring from the faucets, Julie yelled, “And take it easy in here! It’s starting to look like a stalker’s shrine!”
Once again, I followed the boulevard breadcrumbs in reverse to the studio. The Roxy. Sunset Plaza. The Chateau Marmont and . . . turn!
Eyeing myself in the reflection of a window around the corner from Stefano’s studio, I tried to pump myself up. “You got this. This is your destiny,” I whispered aloud. I stepped back and adjusted my sensible black slacks, beige button-down blouse and business casual flats. I had purchased a few interchangeable work-appropriate pieces from Ann Taylor Loft before leaving Seattle just in case they had me start right away. I pulled my ponytail apart tightly to secure it. My red hair was still slightly damp but I didn’t want to waste time with heated tools. I was on a mission and time was of the essence. Once again, I marched right up to the familiar door and rang the buzzer.
“SLS,” a male voice crackled out of the speaker box. Not so shockingly, I lost my voice and my nerve, as well as any ability to put words together. “Hellooooo? . . . Stefano Lepres Stuuuuudiossss . . . Wait, are you selling Bibles?”
Bibles? I looked up and acknowledged the small but obvious CCTV camera above the door. I spoke to it and said, “Am I . . . what? No . . . My name is Lucy Butler and”—deep breath—“I am here to intern.” I pulled my head up high and took a dry gulp.
The door swung open and the human equivalent of a peacock emerged. A femme man wearing a rhinestone-encrusted, leopard-print, cropped Jeremy Scott T-shirt folded his arms and rested his fisted hand under his chin. “Are you sure? Because, quite frankly, you look like you’re selling Bibles.” He batted his faux eyelashes.
“No . . . I . . . I’m here to work. Is Dan here?”
“Who?” The peacock lifted his penciled eyebrows.
“Look, I came here to intern. Dan said to come to LA. I have a paid internship working for Mr. Lepres and . . .”
“A paid internship? Ha . . . darling, that is adorable! Tell me more!” He twirled his blinged-out Patricia Field grenade necklace in fascination.
“Yes, a paid internship . . . Is there a manager here? Or someone that I can talk to?” My face burned red with embarrassment and frustration.
“Yes and no. There is a manager; however, she is currently . . . indisposed. Now about those Bibles . . .”
* * *
For the next three weeks I diligently tried gaining access to Stefano’s studio. It seemed like new people rotated there daily, because I never met the same person twice. Nobody knew who Dan was, so I stopped dropping his name after the third attempt. Not once did the steel entryway open farther than five inches as one exotic creature or another would scrutinize me up and down, then raise an eyebrow as if to say, What can you possibly contribute here? One day someone kindly let me slide my resume through the crack under the door. Still, every visit ended with a sassy studio worker cutting me off mid-sentence and slamming the door just inches from my reddened face. I was determined to keep trying because, while the door was barely being answered, I just knew that one day it would swing wide open. All I had to do was keep showing up. Besides, I told practically everyone in my life that I had this internship, and returning home to Seattle to say “I was wrong” was not an option.
Following the last rejection, I huffed all the way home and steamrolled into the apartment. Slamming the door behind me caused both roommates to look up from the co
uch in unison. I dropped my bags and portfolio to the floor and stomped into the bedroom, closing the door with my back and sliding down Angelina’s pouting face before sobbing into my hands.
After a few quiet knocks on the door, I opened it to find Julie looking down at me. I rose to my feet and wiped away tears with my sleeve after accepting a much-needed hug.
“Don’t worry, Luce. If you’re stressed about money, I got a job at GiGi’s today, and from what I understand that is a really good thing! Apparently, being a waitress is this town’s secret gateway to everyone that you need to know. Maybe I’ll meet a casting director on his lunch break . . . or a photographer looking for an assistant . . .” I nodded as she consoled me, but the thought of giving up on my dream was devastating, especially since I had come so close to making it happen. Or had I? Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for this place.
Our third roommate entered the hallway with three colorful margaritas in hand. Just like the flamboyant concoction, Sebastian was large, loud and proud. Although he was African-American, he was obsessed with all things Latin due to his unwavering crush on Ricky Martin, who he insisted he “had a moment with” at a bar once. He even had a Puerto Rican flag tattooed on his shoulder. Bas was never seen without a signature silky scarf worked into his wardrobe. He’d collected them for years, finding most of them on eBay where, he admitted, “It may not be real, honey, but it looks real good.” Today he was wearing a navy one decorated with tiny “LV”s all over. It loosely hugged his neck and really brought out the blue in his colored contacts. Julie and I found his room for rent online and fell in love with him immediately. He was a self-described “slashie” (fashion stylist “slash” actor), although he never actually spoke of work or went on auditions. Julie had seen an unemployment check once, and he had mentioned being laid off from a “major film agency,” which explained his ability to maintain. With his confident demeanor and fabulous presentation, Bas defined the phrase “fake it till you make it.”
The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe Page 2
