Hollywood Girls Club

by Maggie Marr

“Great! Where should I send it? I’ll messenger it over now.”

  “Urn …” Mary Anne scrambled over the cat and the couch cushions to the desk by the front door and grabbed the Wells Fargo envelope with Sylvia’s address. “It’s 6615 Franklin, apartment 303.”

  “Fantastic. You’ll have it in an hour. Listen, Mary Anne, if you want it, the rewrite job, it’s yours.”

  “Yes. Oh, thank you, Lydia. Thank you.”

  “No problem. You’re the one with the talent. I’ll have Worldwide Business Affairs call your agent to get your writing quote.”

  “Okay,” Mary Anne paused—fear bumped away the excitement in her belly. Her agent? She didn’t have an agent! Could she get an agent? Would Lydia still hire her if she knew that she was unrepresented?

  “Mary Anne?” Lydia interrupted Mary Anne’s scrambled thoughts. “Who does your deals? Who represents you?”

  “Oh, aah … My, aah, I, aah .” Mary Anne hung her head, shame and sadness replaced her fear. So close—and yet the dream was still dead. “Lydia, I don’t have an agent.”

  “For fuck’s sake! I cannot believe someone with your talent is sitting out there in the world without an agent. I’ll take care of it; I know a few. What dumbasses. No wonder the movies are for shit.”

  Excitement once again blossomed in Mary Anne’s chest. “Oh, thank you, Lydia,” Mary Anne said. “No wonder.”

  “Okay,” Lydia said. “So script in one hour, agent in two, Worldwide Business Affairs after that. And do you think we could sit down tomorrow? Talk about the script? Is your schedule clear?”

  “It’s clear.”

  “Great. I’m going to jump onto this other call, but Toddy, my assistant, is on the line. She’ll schedule a time with you for tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

  “See you then,” Mary Anne said.

  It was the call. The call that the hopes and dreams of every Hollywood busboy, bartender, and waiter (also known as struggling actor, writer, and director) were built upon. And after Mary Anne had gotten the call from Lydia Albright just eight weeks ago, everything—everything—in her life had changed. One point-five million dollars would do that (Mary Anne had sent the bus money and a celebratory bottle of champagne to Michelle in Minnesota after her first writing check cleared).

  Kim, the assistant to Jessica Caulfield (Mary Anne’s new agent), messengered Mary Anne ten copies of the Daily Variety announcements that ran two days after Lydia’s call. MEYERS MEETS MIDNIGHT read the headline. Mary Anne sent five copies to her family in St. Paul. For the first time, she felt that her parents, Mitsy and Marvin, were proud. The story of Mary Anne’s success ran on the front page of the St. Paul paper, the Pioneer Press. Her father actually started telling people his daughter was a writer. Strong praise from a man who’d never read anything Mary Anne had written. Maybe Marvin would even see the movie? Of course he’d see the movie; she’d invite him to the premiere.

  Mary Anne was living her dream. She was writing. For the first time in her life, she was writing and someone was paying her to write. Jessica handled the deal. First Worldwide paid five hundred thousand dollars against one million for The Sky’s the Limit for Lydia, because she wanted to produce that film as soon as Seven Minutes Past Midnight was finished. The numbers were confusing to Mary Anne at first, until Jessica explained that she would get five hundred thousand dollars now and five hundred thousand more if and when The Sky’s the Limit went into production.

  Then Worldwide paid Mary Anne another $350,000 to rewrite Seven Minutes Past Midnight, and an additional $175,000 to polish the script. (A polish was meant to be less work than a new draft, but it was really the same amount of work.)

  First, Mary Anne spent four weeks rewriting Seven Minutes Past Midnight for the director, Zymar—no last name, just Zymar. That was before Zymar disappeared to Belize. Or was it Bali? Then Mary Anne did more character work for Bradford Madison (the star) before his drunk-and-disorderly arrest. Finally, she’d spent the last seventy-two hours making the Raphaella part bigger and sexier, now that Celeste Solange had signed onto the film.

  How had this happened? Mary Anne Meyers from St. Paul, Minnesota, was writing a bigger and sexier role for the biggest star in the world, Celeste Solange. From homeless to millionaire with one phone call. Only in Hollywood.

  Everyone in this town was a gambler, an addict, only the stakes were much bigger than in Vegas. In Vegas you gambled your money, but here, in this town, you gambled with your dreams. Mary Anne was now one of the winners. She’d hit the jackpot; she was one of the success stories that fueled the never-ending fire. And now Mary Anne was finished with the script.

  She glanced at the clock; it was six-thirty A.M. She needed some sleep. Lydia’s office would call by ten and they’d want her to come in so that she and Lydia could go over the new draft this afternoon. The start date for shooting the film was only a week away (assuming Zymar returned from overseas and Bradford completed rehab). Lydia wanted Mary Anne on set every day. She needed her there for production writing. That was another seventy-five thousand a week to add to Mary Anne’s flourishing bank account.

  Mary Anne padded down the hall past the guest room (she had a guest room!). She glanced in the mirror hanging in the hall.

  Her green eyes looked tired. Her light brown hair, earlier pulled into a ponytail, now stuck out at odd angles (she had a habit of pulling on her hair while she wrote). Dark under-eye circles were evident even through her freckles. “You look like the girl next door!” Celeste Solange had exclaimed yesterday, the first time they met, flashing her effervescent world-famous smile.

  Mary Anne had been starstruck; it was the first time she truly understood the word. How did you speak to someone you’d watched on a twenty-foot screen since you were twelve years old? This woman had won a Golden Globe! What could she, Mary Anne Meyers from Minnesota, possibly have to say that could interest Celeste Solange?

  “Just be yourself,” Lydia had whispered into Mary Anne’s ear prior to Celeste walking into the room. “She’s a person. Think of her like you would your neighbor or a cousin. Don’t treat her differently; they get tired of that.”

  Some cousin!

  But Mary Anne tried to act normal—tried not to be speechless, flounder her words, gush, stare, beam … all those things Hollywood newbies and tourists were guilty of doing. She tried to call Celeste Cici, as the star had insisted. She also tried to focus on the person Celeste was, not the persona she presented.

  Mary Anne guessed that there was a piece of herself that Celeste held back—a piece that wasn’t for public consumption. When everyone wanted a piece of you, didn’t you have to retain something for yourself?

  Mary Anne walked into her bedroom. Painted lavender, the room was calming. Her giant king-sized bed, draped in a paisley-flowered duvet, called to her. Mary Anne sat on her bed and slid off her fuzzy bunny slippers. She placed them next to the three-foot pile of scripts that Jessica had messengered to the house. Each screenplay sent from a producer clamoring for Mary Anne to rewrite his or her script.

  “Lydia must have a lot of faith in you,” Jessica had said. “First-time writers never do production work. I know Lydia thinks you’re talented.”

  Mary Anne lay back onto her bed and tried to soften her mind for sleep; all she needed was a couple hours, but her mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Once you worked for Lydia Albright, you could work for any studio in town.

  It was difficult for Mary Anne to wrap her mind around her success—she spent almost a decade trying to break into the film business, thinking that nobody wanted her and that she wasn’t very talented. Now, with just one phone call, just one person believing in her the whole town was banging on her door. Where had they been the past nine years?

  “Basically, it’s an industry full of lemmings,” Jessica said. “Point them to the sea and they’ll go. Even if there’s a big cliff.”

  Mary Anne shut her eyes. Enjoy it, she thought, drifting off to sleep. At least you’re not a rodent.

/>   Chapter 5

  Chanel Sandals by the Pool

  “A divorce?! Celeste, you do not want a divorce,” Damien said.

  Celeste lay on a chaise lounge next to their Olympic-size swimming pool, sipping fresh-squeezed guava-mint-orange juice and while she attempted to maintain her calm cool façade anger seethed within her clamping hard in her belly. A knife—she wanted a long, sharp and jagged blade if not to kill her husband then to make him suffer—or at least scare the son of a bitch.

  Damien dried the droplets of water off his silver-haired torso. She’d watched him complete fifty laps (his morning ritual for twenty years) and wondered at each turn how she might successfully drown her philandering husband without ruining her new Chanel pool sandals. Now Damien stood before her, glistening and blocking the morning sun. At fifty, he still had a phenomenal body. Tall, lean, and tan. Damien was vain, priding himself on his physique. He could easily pass for a man in his thirties.

  “Like hell I don’t,” Celeste said.

  “You’re overreacting. It was a prank by the crew on set. Those panties are not Brie Ellison’s.”

  A prank? Damien’s claim was bullshit and Celeste knew it. But bullshit that a part of her (the part of her that still loved the prick standing before her) wanted to believe.

  “We just got married, for God’s sake,” Damien said.

  “I know, I was there—the one in white.”

  “Yes.” Damien paused. “White. That was a stretch, even for you.” A lascivious grin lit up his tan face.

  God, he had the most magnificent smile. He was an ass, but he had perfect teeth.

  “Yes, and marriage, the monogamy bit, seems to be a stretch for you,” Celeste shot back bitterly.

  “We are not getting divorced.” Damien sat on the edge of her lounge chair. “I just spent half a million dollars to marry you. A wedding you begged me for. We’re not getting divorced. There is nothing going on.”

  “Really?” As if throwing down an ace, Celeste tossed the Enquirer she’d been reading into Damien’s lap. There, on the cover, were Brie Ellison’s surgically enhanced lips sucking Damien’s earlobe. He glanced down at the cover and smiled.

  “A picture is worth—”

  “A thousand words,” Damien finished. Leaning in, he rubbed his strong body against her tensed arm. “Come on, Celeste,” he whispered. “You know it’s fake. What if I believed everything this rag printed about you? Isn’t there a two-headed baby in Roswell that some alien fathered when you were abducted by a UFO?”

  Celeste fumed. He was right. The Enquirer wasn’t enough to go on. But the Enquirer, the crotchless panties, and the fact that Brie Ellison was starring in Damien’s next film, well, that was plenty of proof.

  “Cici. I love you.” He leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “You still drive me wild. You know how film sets are; they’re like high school. And they’ve gotten worse. You haven’t been on one in a while.” Damien lifted the strap of her Chanel bikini and kissed her shoulder.

  Heat slid down her back and her skin quivered with his kiss. God, she wanted him and hated him both at the same time.

  “I was supposed to be on one this fall,” Celeste pulled away from his touch. “Or have you forgotten?”

  “So that’s what all this is about. I told you the studio won’t make your deal. They don’t want to pay your quote. Twenty million is too much for this film, and Brie is only getting paid a million.” Damien reached out and slipped his finger under the clasp of her swimsuit top. “I’ve missed you.” He pulled up the fabric and started kissing her breast. “Let’s go to the pool house.” His voice was husky and his eyes had that vacant look of lust that all men’s take on when they’re hard.

  Heat simmered low in her body—a heat fueled by desire pushed aside her anger. Her body wanted to give in. Even as their marriage soured, she knew their sex life would never wane. Catching herself, Celeste once again pulled away from Damien’s embrace.

  “Can’t,” she said, pulling her swimsuit top down. “I have to get to the studio.”

  “Studio? What studio?” Damien looked surprised.

  “Worldwide.”

  “Who are you meeting for lunch at Worldwide?”

  “It’s not lunch. It’s business.”

  “Yeah, right,” Damien said and playfully tried to pull her down on top of him. “Come here.”

  Celeste again pulled herself away from her husband. “We start shooting in a week.”

  “We who? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Damien, my love, don’t you read the trades? Daily Variety? Hollywood Reporter? Or are they also just rags printing lies?”

  He glared at her. Score one for Celeste.

  “It’s a little Lydia Albright film. Seven Minutes Past Midnight. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “What?! Since when? Lydia’s career is over with Arnold running Worldwide.”

  “Since three days ago. If you weren’t on set pulling high-school pranks with the crew, maybe you’d know what’s going on in the movie business.”

  Damien leaned back on the chaise lounge. “Worldwide won’t meet your quote. They’ve already spent twenty million on Bradford Madison plus gross points in profit participation and ten million for Zymar to direct.”

  “Deal’s done. Funny you mention Bradford. Yes, hmm … Now, there is an interesting actor I haven’t worked with yet.”

  “If you like them wet behind the ears and fresh out of rehab.”

  Celeste bent over Damien, letting her nipples graze his arm. “Darling, rehab or no, I just like them fresh.”

  Damien stopped. She’d chipped the enamel surface of his exterior, she could tell. Age was a sore spot for anyone in Hollywood; at least anyone over twenty-five. No one willingly told you how many years they’d lived. Best guess was to take whatever they said and add five years; that generally put you within seven years of the real number.

  “Celeste, I know you do. But I guess the real question is—does Bradford?”

  Fucker.

  She wouldn’t let him win. Or at least know that he had. She turned toward the house.

  “We’re having a script read-through,” Celeste called as she clipped across the flagstone to the back entrance. “Not sure what time I’ll be back.”

  “No worries. I fly out at ten,” Damien called.

  Celeste stopped and turned. Damien lounged on the chaise like a snake soaking up sun.

  “New Zealand again,” Damien said. “Problem on set.”

  “How long?”

  “Couple of days, maybe a week. They only have ten more days to shoot.” He sipped his juice and reached for the Enquirer. “Great picture of Brie, don’t you think? Good publicity for the film.”

  Celeste’s eyes teared, but she didn’t want him to see her cry. She had to get away from him.

  “Have a safe trip,” Celeste said, and turned toward the house. The largest, most luxurious house in the Hollywood Hills; twenty thousand square feet of unhappy home.

  *

  Celeste sat alone at a table on the patio behind Factors Deli. Not her first choice, but she knew Lydia had an affinity for this spot (her father often brought her here for lunch when Lydia was a little girl and he was still producing), and it was close to Jessica’s Beverly Hills office. Only for these two women would Celeste Solange wait. Her days of waiting for anyone had ended the same time her acting quote rose to eight figures.

  The waiting was mildly irritating but she didn’t mind being alone. She’d never acquired the usual set of gadflies and hangers-on that some celebrities collected. People as trinkets. She had her “team”: agent, stylists (makeup, clothing, and hair), publicist, attorney, business manager, accountant, and trainer—but everyone had a job, a place in her life, each contributed their part in the multinational corporation that was Celeste Solange. A corporation that in a good year could gross upward of $100 million although she hadn’t had a “good year” in almost two—thank you, Damien.

  Not a ba
d climb from poor, white Tennessee trailer trash to multimillionaire (she didn’t even have a GED—few people knew that). Thanks to her brilliant business manager, Jerry Z, her assets were many—real estate, stocks, jewels, a restaurant in Tribeca, two clubs in L.A. Who knew (other than Jerry) what on any given day Celeste actually owned? Her overhead was low (well, relatively; compared to most celebrities, she spent like a pauper). She’d never rented a private island or purchased a jet. Damien had his own money and he paid for their living expenses—the house, the cars, the staff.

  The one luxury she did indulge in was shoes, very expensive shoes. This past month she’d gorged herself with twenty pairs of Louboutins, five varieties of Choo stilettos, and a limited-edition pair of Prada mules encrusted with diamonds a pair that easily cost thirty thousand. Celeste’s eyes sparkled—she would pay nothing; but Damien? She couldn’t wait until he opened that Black Card bill.

  Celeste’s personality (she could barely admit to herself) was just as multifaceted as her holdings. You didn’t get to the top in Hollywood without stepping on some fingers and toes … perhaps throwing a few elbows to the ribs. But the softer side of Celeste, the gentler interior, was there, too. The little girl who grew up without a mother (no one ever mentioned her father) still existed; Celeste had just hidden her away for safekeeping.

  Very few souls witnessed that vulnerable girl; she could think of two total: Jessica and Lydia.

  Celeste glanced at her unopened menu. There was no need to read it; she was having greens with lemon and a side of tuna for protein. The studios paid her not to eat. She’d never subscribed to the idea that the waiflike, heroin-addicted look was sexy. In fact, some of her counterparts might even call her full-figured (if you thought five-foot-seven, one hundred eighteen pounds with a thirty-six-inch bust was fat). No, Celeste had curves; great, full, rounded, luscious curves. No fat, not an ounce, but definite curves. Still, she stuck to the tuna before films to keep the curves in proportion.

  Celeste sipped her tea (super sweet—some things from the South you never gave up) and looked around the patio. Two tables to her left sat one of her (many) former lovers, an actor, with Brad Grey, the former manager and owner of Brillstein-Grey and now the head of Paramount. That actor had a penchant for asses, Celeste remembered, and not just cupping them. She’d wondered if it didn’t suggest a latent desire, as he’d never seemed particularly interested in her breasts, either. But who in Los Angeles didn’t swing the other way, at least on occasion? Her dead grandmama in Tennessee must have rolled over in her grave at least a thousand times since Celeste had moved to Los Angeles. The things she’d seen? And done?