by Ian Bull
“Who is he? Ex-boyfriend? Or someone you worked with?” Will asks.
I close my eyes and exhale before I can speak.
“Both. We lived together in New York, and then in the Bahamas,” I say.
“The Bahamas? You’re full of surprises, Julia,” Will says.
I’m surprised how good it feels to say it out loud, but say nothing more. No one knows the whole story, not my parents, and not even Trishelle.
“When was your last encounter with him?” Will asks.
His face is kind. He’s listening. I don’t know how far to let this go.
“Just after the Colin Farrell fiasco. A note saying he loved me appeared in my dressing room on a closed set, on a studio lot with security,” I say.
Will shrugs. He’s not that impressed. I want to tell him about the flowers he sent to my condo, but I don’t.
“What’s your greatest fear about him?” Will asks.
“That he’s watching me. That he’s behind the paparazzo who’s taking my photos. And the brick. That he’s pulling all the strings and will swoop in and ruin my life.”
“Sounds like a powerful guy,” Will says.
“He is, and he didn’t like it when I left him.”
“And he popped back into your life just when you started making a name for yourself, right?” Will asks.
“Pretty much. My face plastered all over the tabloids didn’t help.”
“Guess what? I’m powerful too, and together we can play this game better than him, or anyone.”
“How?”
“Just let me manage everything for you, for six months.”
“Are you asking to be my manager?” I ask. “Because Trishelle has that job.”
“Let me handle your publicity first. Trishelle is a loyal friend, bless her heart, but she can barely handle a press junket,” Will says.
I look at him. He’s making this about him now, which I get. This is an arrangement. My eyes are dry again, so I cross my arms and give him my laser stare.
“Okay, what’s the first thing you’d do as my publicist?”
“You like animals, right? Make appearances at animal shelters for two months straight, and people will stop calling you Stella. And that brick through your windshield? It’s not too late to feed the tabloids the police report and get some sympathy press. They could even send over a photographer to document how we live.”
“Anything else?”
“Start dating me officially. I’ll even give you a ring and ask you to marry me.”
“Please. Derek deserves better.”
“Derek understands how it works. When you’re ready to move out, I’ll break off the engagement and your heartbreak will make the cover of People magazine.”
“You are good,” I say.
“I’ve done this before,” he says with a smile.
I remember reading about his other heartbreaking romances with young actresses who “he left,” who then went on to greater success. Maybe he’s right.
“Now let’s go to the premiere. Please, Julia? This is about both of us.”
“What if that photographer is there?”
“There are fifty paparazzi out there on any given day. They all look the same.”
“I know which one he is. I remember faces,” I say.
“Just relax and let me cover you with the protective Becker bubble.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll call Trishelle and tell her that we’re on for tonight, but she comes too. And it has to be super low key.”
Chapter 3
Steven Day 1: Thursday Morning
I arrive in the lobby of Celebrity Exposed by 9:00 a.m. The offices have dark blue walls with egg-shaped lights overhead and chrome furniture, which makes me feel like I’m in a spaceship. The place didn’t look this slick five years ago when I first met Larry. I helped him build this high-tech lobby where he now likes to make me wait.
“Mr. Naythons is in a meeting,” says the blonde receptionist with the pierced eyebrow. I know her name is Robin, but each time I come she acts like it’s my first time there. I don’t call her on it though; if I did, she’d just pretend she doesn’t remember me, which is typical for Hollywood where almost everybody is a nobody. I smile at her and take a seat.
Larry strides out wearing a tight tailored black suit with a bright pink shirt and no tie, sporting a Bluetooth in his ear. He’s trim and fit from all his P90X workouts, and he’s proud of his Italian model looks. It’s a little showy, but I have to admit it works for him. No one’s noticing me in my leather jacket, jeans and sweatshirt, that’s for sure.
“Hello, Steven,” he says with a handshake, “I know, I look like a dork with this Bluetooth, but when you’re on the phone all day like me it’s best to keep moving. Have you seen the latest Nike app? I can pace in my office up to three miles a day.”
“I haven’t downloaded it yet,” I say.
“You should check it out. Come on back,” he says and motions for me to follow him.
Larry leads me past the framed editions of Celebrity Exposed that line the hallways.
“Yours…yours…that one was yours…yours again,” he says, tapping them as we walk.
We pass through a rabbit warren of cubicles filled with computers and ringing phones.
“Minimize those porn sites,” he shouts, “Editor coming through!”
His staff of young twenty-somethings all laugh as we pass. His personal assistant Anna hands him a mug of coffee, and we step inside his glass-walled office in the center of the insanity. Everyone will see us, but no one will hear us. Larry likes to be watched.
He finds an envelope in his desk and tosses it to me. There’s a fat check inside.
“Still planning to retire at forty?” he asks.
“Sooner,” I say, and I put the envelope in my jacket.
Larry checks his iPhone in his breast pocket and then stands up and starts pacing behind his glass desk while maintaining eye contact with me, which is both distracting and weird.
“You’ll retire faster if you work for me exclusively. We can write up a contract today. You get all my tips, and I get exclusive first rights for four weeks. We’d then split ownership of the actual photos.”
“I like working for myself.”
“Why?” Larry asks. “You’re in Hollywood now, you’ve got to learn to trust people. Success here is based on friendships,” he says and smiles.
Larry isn’t serious about being my friend. We’ve never even had a beer together, but we’ve made each other a lot of money and that passes for friendship here.
“I consider this job temporary,” I say.
“You said that five years ago,” he says.
“What’s the tip you called about?” I ask, changing the subject.
“The premiere tonight is for The Extreme Zone at the Egyptian Theatre. I just got definite confirmation a second ago that your favorite moneymaker will be there. No one knows she’s coming except me…and now you.”
“What’s the angle?”
Larry stops pacing and looks at his iPhone. He must have hit some milestone, because he grins and sits down face-to-face.
“She’s dating Will Becker but she wants to keep it private.”
“That action movie guy?”
“The action movie guy from four summers ago. They’ll be coming together.”
“So to keep their affair on the down low, they’re going to a gigantic movie premiere where I’ll take a photo of them kissing, and they will become outraged?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
My job is absurd but lucrative. Plus no one’s shooting at me, which is a bonus.
“But there’s one twist,” Larry adds, “The tip is not from her people, it’s from his. She may not be ready for a big public display of affection, but he wants one.”
“So how is this supposed to go down then?” I ask.
“They will be in one of fifty black limos with no set arrival time. They’ll rush down the red carpet and ju
st before they head inside he’ll stop and hold her hand. Maybe kiss her.”
“So you want me in last position behind the barricade on the red carpet before they duck inside. That’s easy.”
Larry shakes his head and wags his finger, reprimanding me for such an obvious idea.
“I want more than that from you. I want you to make it special somehow. Exclusive. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”
I lean back and ponder the situation. I need to locate, track and isolate them, all without them realizing that I’m guiding them into my camera frame. Then I will snap their photos and disappear, and no one gets hurt.
“If I pull something off, are they going to play ball?” I ask.
“They’d better. I pay Becker good money for his tips.”
“I’ll get it,” I say, standing up. “They won’t even know I’m there.”
“She did try to run you over the last time you snapped her photo though, right?”
“She never came close,” I answer. “When she left Colin Farrell’s house, I stayed back and used a long lens from down the street. She came out with Medusa hair and carrying high heels, and she didn’t know I was snapping pictures until she got into her car. Then she spotted me in the street and gunned the car at me, but it was easy to jump clear.”
“She’s got an anger issue, Steven. Sit down with one of my writers and I’ll put your story on the cover: ‘Photographer Leaps Clear of Angry Speeding Starlet.’”
“She doesn’t know who I am. It’s better that way.”
Larry opens his door for me. “Fine. Go work your magic,” he says.
I leave the tree-lined streets and clean air of Beverly Hills and drive past downtown to industrial South Santa Fe Avenue, where it’s all blazing hot asphalt and cement and the only breeze comes from the eighteen wheelers zooming by. I stop at a huge warehouse the size of a city block. Behind the roll-up doors are sixty limousines on three floors, but the only clue from the street about what’s inside is one tiny sign over a gated door that says “Allied Limousine.” I push the doorbell and get buzzed in.
The front office looks like a tiny post office from the 1950s, with a wooden counter and high frosted glass around the one receptionist window. Only the roar of the cars and the constant whirr of the freight elevators give any clue to what’s going on upstairs. Behind the counter is an attractive African American woman with tight cornrows and a colorful dashiki. I haven’t seen her before, but I don’t come here often. She looks me up and down.
“Can I help you?”
“Can you tell Malik that Steven Quinn is here to see him?”
She buzzes Malik and then gives me the thousand-yard stare. I play it cool and look the other way and catch myself in the mirror. My black hair is a little messy from my helmet, but I look tan and in shape. My biker look may not be chic enough for Beverly Hills, but that’s not where I hang.
When I glance back at the receptionist, she’s still staring. Maybe she approves. I haven’t had a date in a long time, and I’ve done okay in the past with African American women, so I give it a shot. “I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name?” I ask.
She just keeps staring, which is answer enough. I rock on my heels in awkward silence while the limos rumble above us. I hear a gate close and feet pounding down the long steep wooden staircase from the second floor. Malik appears, wearing a crisp white button down shirt tucked into black chinos, and sporting the high and tight haircut from his former life as a Marine.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he says to the receptionist, and quickly steers me outside.
“Embarrassed to be seen with me?” I ask.
“It’s safer this way. You can buy me lunch, I’m hungry.”
We hit the local Wienerschnitzel where I watch Malik wolf down two Chicago Dogs while I sip a Diet Coke. He wipes away the mustard from the corner of his mouth, throws down the napkin on his tray and gestures that he is ready to hear my request.
“Is Allied handling The Extreme Zone premiere tonight?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I want Julia Travers to arrive in a white limousine,” I say, and I peel off three one hundred dollar bills.
Malik takes the money, then answers. “Certain things are just better when they’re black—leather jackets, women, coffee and limousines. And movie stars always insist on black.”
“Julia Travers is suddenly a movie star?”
“Yes, she is, and you helped make that happen. And I get abuse from managers whenever I send over a white limo. What do I say when that shit rains down on me?”
“Tell them it’s hip. White is the new black.”
“I’ll let you know how that line works,” he laughs, gesturing with his fingers that he needs more cash. I peel off three more one hundred dollar bills before his fingers stop moving.
“White it is,” he says as he pockets the money, but then he pauses and stares at me.
“What?” I ask. “Spit it out.”
“I wouldn’t normally tell you this, but you did serve with honor—even if you Ranger types are all nuts.”
“Rangers lead the way in that category too.”
Malik leans across the orange Formica table. “You’re not the first person to ask about Julia Travers’s limo. Some tall Latin guy came by and paid me to put a bouquet of roses inside.”
“Maybe she has a stalker.”
“No, he was all business, military too, at some point. I could tell. He acted like he was a stone-cold badass.”
“One of your Semper Fi buddies?”
“Please. He was South American something. Packing heat, too. It was one of those small and slim 9mm handguns, but I still saw it.”
“How many hundies did you make him fork over?”
“The same as you,” Malik says, standing up. “Just thought you should know.”
Chapter 4
Julia Day 1: Thursday Afternoon
I put my blush Armani mini dress on. It still fits, but it's a little tight over my tummy. I need to lose some pizza pounds, but not enough to need Spanx, thank god. I pop my Tiffany diamond stud earrings in, add a matching bracelet, then run a brush through my blonde hair. I’m ready to go.
When I get dressed up for events like this, people say that I look like 1930s movie star Carole Lombard. If I put a wave in my hair, I could be her double. I like the comparison because she was funny, and I think I’m better at comedy too, even though my current reputation won’t allow it. My first roles were comic; maybe my luck will change and I’ll get another chance to prove I can do it.
I leave the guest cottage and walk into the house and meet Will in the mansion’s entranceway. He looks handsome in designer jeans and a purple shirt.
“Why do you have a high heel on one foot and a flat on another?” he asks.
“So you can tell me which is better.”
I lift one foot up, then the other.
“Go with the flat. More girlish and fun.”
“Good choice,” I say, and toss the heels aside and put the other flat on.
A car honks outside and my heart skips a beat.
“Limo’s here. We’re on,” Will announces.
I’m actually excited. I get to go out with Trishelle again, maybe have some fun….
We step out the front door and Will gasps, grabbing his chest. Parked in his circular driveway is a long white limo with tiny flashing lights rolling across the bottom trim. I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from laughing.
Trishelle pops out of the front passenger side and rushes over to Will, who is still blinking away his tears.
“Come on, Will, it’s not as bad as you think,” she says.
“You mean it’s not really a cheesy white stretch limo?”
“The guy at the limo company told me that ‘white is the new black.’”
“Trishelle, it’s WHITE! I am not Dolly Parton going to the Country Music Awards. I’m Will Becker going to the premiere of an action movie.”
“
I apologize,” says Trishelle. “But you two said you weren’t going, and then you said you were going, and then you weren’t, and now you are again. By the time I called them back the last time this is all that Allied had left. And I won’t call a new limo company we haven’t used before, especially on the day of the event.”
Will paces on his cobblestone driveway clenching his fists. He’s having a full OCD freak-out and he doesn’t realize how funny he looks. Trishelle and I trade glances and fight to keep straight faces.
“If your career will be ruined if we show up in this, let’s not go,” I say.
“Fine by me,” chimes Trishelle. “I heard it’s not that great anyway.”
“You two don’t get it. We have to go,” Will insists.
Trishelle and I trade glances again as my eyes narrow to slits. Something is up.
“Why? Is someone expecting us?” I ask.
“I arranged for a photographer to be in last position on the red carpet to grab our first PDA photos together,” he explains, “but there can’t be any photos of us coming out of a white limo.”
“What’s a PDA?” I ask.
“Public Display of Affection,” Trishelle says.
“What kind of display, Will? And when were you going to tell me?” I ask.
“I thought we could hold hands. Maybe kiss.”
“You arranged a red carpet kissing shot?” Trishelle asks. “She told us both that she wants it low key. That means you just walk inside.”
“Julia asked ME to help her change her image, and this is the first step,” Will says.
“I’m her manager, not you,” Trishelle warns.
Will and Trishelle step toward each other, lean in, fingers pointing.
“I’ve been doing this for years. You have no idea,” Will says.
“You have no right!” Trishelle says.
I shout over them. “Stop! You’re the only two friends I have! Figure it out!”
Trishelle flips back her brown hair and puts her fists on her hips. She’s a big girl with Jessica Rabbit curves, and I can tell she’s ready to punch out this action hero.
“Fine. I got everyone invited. You figure out how to make your photo work,” Trishelle says, as she climbs back in the car. “And we’re not changing limos.”
