by Maggie Marr
“It is a very big day.” Anticipation warmed Celeste’s skin and desire tingled up through her toes and legs.
“How big?”
“Black Card big,” Celeste answered, referring to the limitless credit card that Damien kept locked in his safe. Damien mistakenly believed Celeste knew nothing of the card.
“Oooh!” Frederick moaned into the phone. It sounded as if he’d come all over himself. “We just got some fabulous Christian Louboutins this morning.”
“Perfect. I’ll take twenty pairs.”
“He must be in very big trouble, your Damien,” Frederick cackled. “Back from New Zealand?”
“Last night.”
“You know, my boyfriend’s ex-lover is doing makeup on that set. For the actress, Brianna Ellison. You know her.”
Celeste’s heart beat kicked upward and humiliation swept through her body—she felt the heat on her chest and neck.
Of course Frederick knew about Damien and Brie. Everyone knew.
The film industry was a small town in a huge city. Everyone’s boyfriend’s ex-lover did makeup, set design, acted, wrote scripts, produced, gaffed, gripped, agented, or directed. Hollywood was six degrees of separation minus five degrees.
“Brie’s lovely,” Celeste hissed. “I hear she likes girls.”
“Interesting,” Frederick cooed. “I hear she likes cock.”
If Frederick were a woman, she’d rip his eyes out for that remark. But being a member of the catty-effeminate set, Frederick could say whatever he wanted. The exchange was fair trade because Frederick would pay Celeste back with a juicy tidbit of Brie gossip once Celeste finished dropping fifteen grand in his store. And if Frederick really wanted to help Celeste, he’d start spreading some wonderfully salacious lie about little Miss Brie Ellison—perhaps something in the gonorrhea or methamphetamine family?
“I should be there in twenty minutes.”
“Darling, for you I’d wait forty. Ciao.”
Celeste took a quick check of her reflection in the rearview mirror and then balanced the steering wheel with her knees. She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat. The vial had to be in her Chanel bag somewhere. She dug through her purse tossing aside her credit card case, make-up, and cigarettes. She just needed a teensy weensy sniff to keep her alive. There wasn’t a Starbucks on the way, and with so much shopping to do and so little sleep (silly her, she’d cried into her Egyptian cotton towels for three hours), she just needed a jolt. She dug into the pretty white powder with her pinky nail.
Sniff. Sniff.
Celeste wiped under her nose and glanced in the rearview mirror one more time. Still perfect.
Chapter 2
Lydia Albright and Her Alexandra Neel Pumps
Lydia Albright’s movie was falling apart. Her star, Bradford Madison, was incarcerated; her director, Zymar, was in Bali stoned on Thai sticks; and the studio, Worldwide Pictures, was pulling the plug, stopping the money—shutting her down.
With more than a billion dollars in box-office ticket sales and an overall deal at Worldwide, Lydia was currently the biggest producer in Hollywood. But the box office Gods were unkind to Lydia’s last film— Until the End. The movie cost the studio more than $175 million to make, and the ticket sales grossed only $125 million worldwide. The studio would make another $100 million in DVD sales, but still, these were not the numbers that Worldwide considered a success. And in a town where “How much money have you made for me lately?” was the mantra, Lydia knew that her next film—this film—Seven Minutes Past Midnight, had to be a hit.
She slid off her Alexandra Neel pumps. Her fingertips tingled with the anxiety sliding through her body. Lydia paced barefoot in front of the wall of windows in her office bungalow on the Worldwide lot. One glance into the mirror on the north wall of her office (placed there to help her chi) showed her that while her fair skin looked exceptional for thirty-eight (ahem, forty-two) a frown creased her forehead, and the shadow of dark circles (that she’d tried desperately to conceal this morning with Laura Mercier’s thickest formula) still resided under her blue eyes.
She hadn’t slept well last night—hell she hadn’t slept at all. How was this happening? The last forty-eight hours might have ruined Seven Minutes Past Midnight’s chances to ever make it onto the big screen.
Weston Birnbaum was dead.
And with Weston’s sudden death came the reign of the dreaded Leprechaun. Arnold Murphy. Murphy would take over Worldwide as President of Production and not only would Arnold mean the end of Lydia’s film, but also the end of her career at Worldwide.
Lydia dropped into the chair behind her desk. The warm earth-toned art and deep-red walls that Lydia’s interior designer had promised would keep Lydia calm were not working.
Fucking Murphy. How could they name Arnold Murphy president of production?
Arnold was Lydia’s staunchest enemy, and an insufferable pig. “The little leprechaun” was the term Lydia had originally coined for Arnold, and it fit: He was short, fat, and balding, with wisps of red hair. It would be tit for tat now, wound for wound. This time, Lydia knew, Arnold was in the ideal position to deal her the deathblow.
Six years. For six years Lydia had worked on getting Seven Minutes Past Midnight into production. Finally she had the right director (albeit he was currently incommunicado in a Balinese brothel), the right actor (he’d make bail), and the right studio head. Surprisingly, finding the right studio head had been the trickiest piece of the puzzle. Nobody wanted to make this film—well, nobody but Lydia and Weston Birnbaum. Weston was the executive who’d finally said yes and gotten the accounting department at Worldwide to start cutting checks. God bless Weston.
Lydia glanced at the Daily Variety lying on her desk. Well, that Weston Birnbaum, whose cock Lydia had sucked (and it was a big fucking cock) at the Four Seasons two months ago—not an unpleasant experience, although Lydia rarely sucked cock anymore, at least not to get her movies made (she’d discontinued fellatio for film when she stopped being an actresss)—now that wonderful man was dead. A massive heart attack. Lydia’s best friend, Jessica Caulfield, had called Lydia at four A.M. yesterday morning.
“Two of them,” Jessica said. “Asian twins. I think you’ve seen them. Did you see Dancing Dog, Hidden Windmill?”
“Shit.” Lydia sighed. “Who will get it?”
“At the same time. One sucking his cock, the other sitting on his face.”
“There’s no way they’d bring in Arnold, is there?” Lydia asked, horrified at the prospect of her nemesis heading up the studio that funded the majority of her films.
“Fuck no,” Jessica said. “He lost more money than any of them. Can you imagine? She was sitting on Weston’s face, and he had a massive coronary. Jesus and the police,” Jessica continued.
“I’m fucked if it’s Arnold,” Lydia said, alarm bells ringing in her ears. Just when all the pieces for her film were finally in place, why did Weston have to die?
“It won’t be Arnold.”
“I’m so fucked.” Lydia sighed again.
“Not as fucked as Weston.”
And there it was in today’s Daily Variety. Proof that short men with Napolean complexes could run movie studios. Lydia skimmed the headline again: WORLDWIDE MAKES MURPHY MOVIE MOGUL. And now my movie is soon to be in the shitter.
Lydia spun her chair around and looked out the windows at the tower of power— Worldwide’s corporate headquarters. A thirty-six-story structure of glass and steel the glass phallus-shaped building dominated the Worldwide Pictures lot. Arnold might already be in the top corner office, looking down at Lydia, knowing the fate of her film, savoring her demise—the prick.
“Arnold Murphy on one,” Lydia’s first assistant Toddy called out.
There were three assistants total: Number one, Toddy, answered phones and took care of scheduling; number two took care of everything Toddy didn’t have time for; and number three, Lydia’s personal assistant, took care of every detail of Lydia’s life,
including scheduling her yearly mammogram, her monthly spa retreat, her weekly micro-derm, her biweekly therapy, and her almost daily mani-pedi.
Lydia put on her headset and forced a smile onto her face. You could hear a frown over the phone.
“Murph, congratulations! So sad about Weston, but so thrilled to be working with you.”
“Cut the bullshit, Liideeeaaa,” Arnold said through the static of his phone.
Lydia cringed upon hearing Arnold’s voice. She loathed his insistence on always dragging out the pronunciation of her name, the way one might speak to a small child.
“Such a charmer. Murph my love, did someone forget to fill your flask before your morning commute?” He wasn’t even in the fucking office yet and he was calling to shut down her movie.
“We are not making this movie,” Murphy said.
“Yes you are.” Lydia’s heart accelerated.
“No.”
“Listen, you redheaded prick,” Lydia stood and leaned toward her office window. She wasn’t about to let this little-man knock her down without a fight. Blood pulsed through her veins and heat flushed her face. She was a warrior—you didn’t make movies without going to battle. “This studio spent twenty million in preproduction. You’ve made pay-or-play offers to the star, the director, and to me, the producer. If you don’t make this movie, you are seventy million dollars in the hole before you even walk onto the lot to start your first day of work at this studio. Not the best first impression for the board of directors, now, is it?”
Murphy snickered. “Liideeeaaa, your director’s high, your star is in jail, and your luck has run out.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was shutting down Seven Minutes Past Midnight.
“You and I both know that it pains my heart to make this—”
“Celeste Solange on line two,” Toddy yelled out.
Lydia pressed the mute button on her phone. “Celeste is in New Zealand.”
“What? They don’t have phones in New Zealand?”
“Murph, hold on a second,” Lydia said. Leaving the leprechaun, Lydia, jumped from line one to line two.
“Cici?”
“Lyddy.”
“Cici, where are you? You sound so close. I thought you were in New Zealand.”
“I am close—well, relatively speaking. I can see the ocean and I’m on this side of it.”
“What happened?”
“Have you seen People yet?” Celeste asked.
“No, I’m still working on today’s Daily Variety.”
“Damien is fucking the eighteen-year-old,” Celeste said. “Seems he was much too cozy on set to want me around.”
“Interesting,” Lydia said. “Damien is fucking a child and I’m getting fucked by a leprechaun.”
“What?”
“Have you seen the trades today? Variety, Hollywood Reporter?”
“Just the part about me getting bumped from my soon-to-be ex-husband’s film.” Celeste snapped.
“Guess who got the Worldwide gig.”
“Fuck if I know. I’m just an actress—hired help. Marsala, or Walter? Aaah. Wait, a leprechaun … no fucking way, Lydia. It isn’t Murphy, is it?”
“Bingo. He’s holding on line one. Shutting down Seven Minutes Past Midnight. First call of what I am sure will be his illustrious tenure as studio head. Little fucker is still in his car, hasn’t even made it into his office yet, and he’s shutting down my film.”
“But I was calling to tell you I’ll do it,” Celeste said.
“What?” Lydia’s heart bounced in her chest—Cici in her movie would be a dream. “I love you and you’ve always been my first choice, but I don’t have it in the budget. Jessica and I discussed it ages ago. I can’t make your twenty-million-dollar quote—I can’t even make half your quote. Besides, this is Murphy. He’s shutting me down, and it’s got nothing to do with the script or the film.”
“We could travel, take it to another studio? What about Summit or Galaxy?”
“Cici, you’re a gem. But Murph isn’t going to let any studio buy this project out. It’s not about the money or the movie. This one is personal. It’s about Murph and me.”
“No worries. I’ve got Robinoff.”
“What?” Lydia looked up from the Daily Variety she’d anxiously flipped through. God, she loved Celeste. Ted Robinoff was the ever-elusive CEO of Worldwide Pictures and Arnold Murphy’s boss. A virtual recluse, some executives thought Robinoff had a direct line to God and others thought that the only direct line to Robinoff was through God’s office. “How?”
“Lyd, I’m telling you I can deliver this. Just get your director sober and your star bailed out and don’t tell Murph who did it. We’ll get the movie going through Ted before Murphy gets into the studio. Get off the phone with Murphy before he says no—have your assistant do it. Have Toddy tell him you had to run out, some sort of emergency.”
Lydia looked through her office door at her three assistants, all listening in on her line (there were always at least eight ears on a call, most times more: the caller, the callee, and both assistants. First rule of Hollywood: There are no secrets). Hope blossomed in Lydia’s heart—maybe—just maybe… “You heard the lady. Toddy, get off this line and get on line one. Tell the leprechaun to take a leap.”
“Cici, I’m sure glad you’re on my side. You must have some heavy-duty shit on Ted.”
“Nothing like that, just pulling an old favor. I need a change and there’s no one I’d rather do a movie with than you. Besides, I hear your star boy is a pretty good actor, and when he’s not in the slammer or on set, he likes to be in bed. It’s a great script, Lyddy. I’ll do a really good job for you.”
“Like I said, you were always my first choice; I just knew that Jessica and I could never come to terms on a deal. Just not in my budget.”
“This film isn’t about the money. You’re getting Celeste Solange at bargain-basement prices. All I want is a producer’s credit and a piece of the back end.”
“Just tell Jessica this was all your doing, otherwise she’ll never let me book any talent out of CTA again.”
“I already told Jess.”
“And?” Lydia asked.
“She didn’t flinch. It’ll be the easiest deal you’ll ever make. Give her a call. My attorney is drafting a deal memo right now. Jessica will fax it to you and to Worldwide Business Affairs. It’s pretty sweet.”
“I owe you big.”
“We’re friends, Lyd, let’s go make a film.”
Chapter 3
Jessica Caulfield and Her Balenciaga Sandals
Jessica Caulfield’s brown lizard skin heels pinched her toes as she lounged on the patio at The Ivy in Beverly Hills with one of her many movie star clients. You hadn’t “arrived” in the film biz until you could secure patio seating at the Ivy. Reserved for the deal-makers, power brokers, and stars, the Ivy sat on a nondescript Beverly Hills street. The patio, whitewashed brick with a picket fence and white roses, provided no view for the patrons feasting on crab cakes and chopped salads. But the view from the street—that was something else entirely. Aston Martins, Bentleys, and Jaguars pulled up to the valet, and exiting from these pristinely polished automobiles were the rich, the famous, and the beautiful.
Behemoth SUVs with dark tinted windows, home to the ever-annoying yet ever-needed paparazzi, sought out the parking meters across the street. The valets—clean-cut, crisp-looking young men with the short haircuts and high cheekbones of prep school graduates—lined the sidewalk in front of the patio seating, trying to obscure shots taken with the giant telephoto lenses. Jessica knew this was all part of the dance. If privacy was truly the desire, why not raise the fence? Or enclose the outside area with a hedge? No, this spot was the place to be seen. A statement, made by anyone who entered, that you did in fact belong within the confines of Hollywood and the Ivy. You were a member of the club.
Jessica leaned her head forward in a futile attempt to release the tension that gripped the back of her neck. She
sipped her iced tea and her auburn hair fell in waves around her Dior sunglasses. Jessica had dined at the Ivy for close to seven years. She was one of the most powerful talent agents in town and easily commanded lunch on the patio. And this lunch was to finish a deal with one of CTA’s hot young stars, Holden Humphrey.
When Jessica had discovered Holden, she’d just begun her career as a talent agent at CTA. Kiki Dee, a publicist, had begged Jessica to attend an actors’ showcase. Jessica had resisted, knowing that other agents fended off these requests, and if she went, she’d be the only agent in attendance. But she owed Kiki a favor (everyone at some point in their Hollywood career owed Kiki a favor).
When Jessica arrived, the desperation in the air had been palpable. Mostly old actors (anyone over thirty-five) doing scenes from old films, all hoping (as was the case at every actors’ showcase) to be “discovered.” Sure, some of the actors were brilliant and many had talent, but these people were in denial about the reality of the film industry. Hollywood was the Calcutta of entertainment— hundreds of thousands of actors starving for work. The odds against these actors on stage were staggering; they’d have a better chance of winning the lottery than becoming a superstar. That night—oh so long ago—there’d been one not particularly gifted young actor who possessed a spark.
The “It” factor.
“It” was an indefinable quality, a quality for which casting directors, agents, and managers relentlessly searched. ‘It’ wasn’t talent or bravado. “It” was a gift from God, Jessica believed, that very few people received. Or perhaps everyone had “It,” but only a couple of people in the world truly knew how to tap into their “It” reserve. Either way, Jessica knew Holden had “It,” even if he couldn’t act.
Now, five years later, Jessica sat across from Holden Humphrey at the Ivy. The Los Angeles sun burned her scalp and frustration wound through her chest and lodged hard and cold next to her heart.
They discussed any last-minute desires Holden had before Jessica closed the deal for his next film, Money for Love, with Galaxy Pictures Business Affairs. Sure, these details could be hammered out over the phone, but a little face time with Holden (a $15-million-per-film star) was part of Jessica’s job.
