by Maggie Marr
Lydia muffled a giggle. It was all a little funny. Arnold here, celebrating Weston’s death and taking Weston’s job as president of Worldwide. Lydia making a movie that Arnold hated and Weston loved. And now this, sitting at Weston’s funeral next to Arnold’s former assistant who had been privy to the whole event that triggered Lydia and Arnold’s infamous feud.
“You know he’s never forgiven me,” Lydia whispered.
“Forgiven you?” Jeff cocked and eyebrow surprise on his face. “You’re kidding, right?”
Everyone around them stood. The service was finally finished. Lydia turned to Jeff. “What do you do now? You obviously aren’t an assistant any longer.”
“Acquisitions and distribution for Galaxy.”
“I never realized that you were the same guy who was once Arnold’s assistant.”
“Yeah, well, I try not to advertise. I hear you’re going into production. I love the final draft of Seven Minutes Past Midnight. Great writer.”
“We got lucky. Found her writing. sample in the slush pile. Can you believe it? Never happens. You should come by set. We’re at Worldwide, stage thirty-six. Let me know, I’ll get you a drive-on.”
“Love to. Good seeing you Lydia,” Jeff said.
“You as well.” Lydia edged toward the Birnbaum family, where Celeste and Jessica stood waiting to speak with Beverly.
“Who’s that hottie?,” Celeste asked and tilted her Versace sunglasses down to check out Jeff. “He looks like Redford when Redford was young.”
“Jeff Blume,” Lydia said.
“Acquisitions and distribution at Galaxy,” Jessica said while typing an e-mail on her BlackBerry. It was part of her job as an agent to know every “player” in town and where they were currently employed.
“Yes, and Arnold Murphy’s former assistant,” Lydia said.
“Not that Jeff Blume,” Celeste said.
“The one and only,” Lydia said.
“No wonder the little leprechaun can’t take his eyes off you, Lydia,” Jessica nodded in the direction of Arnold Murphy and Josanne. “I’m sure he thinks you’re plotting something. He’s such a paranoid freak.”
“I’m going to need a drink after this,” Celeste said. “I hate funerals.”
“I’m up for it.” Lydia pulled a tissue from her purse and again dabbed under her eyes. Why did she keep crying? Celeste wrapped a protective arm around Lydia and squeezed.
“Fine,” Jessica said, scrolling through her e-mails on her BlackBerry. “Where?” She started tapping away.
“Let’s do Spago for Weston,” Celeste said.
They watched as the knot of people speaking to Beverly Birnbaum untangled. Six feet tall with closely cropped black hair, Beverly was a commanding presence. She’d inherited her father’s amazing taste in scripts and movies as well as his deep, infectious laugh. Beverly was also sincere and truthful; both qualities were unfortunately rare finds in the film business. She was one of Lydia’s favorite people in the industry.
Celeste threw her arms around Beverly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks, Cici.”
“He was so much damn fun! Look, I’m going to cry again,” Celeste said, pulling a tissue from her clutch.
Beverly turned her gaze to Jessica, who’d discreetly slipped her BlackBerry into her purse. “Jessica, thanks for coming. I know you two could really go at it sometimes when you were negotiating a deal, but my dad had tremendous respect for you. He said there was never a better agent in this town. He loved how you fought for your clients.” She leaned in and hugged Jessica.
“You know I loved him—we all did,” Jessica said.
Beverly looked at Lydia. “I know.”
Lydia looked at the ground, her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Celeste gently took Lydia’s hand. “We’ll see you there, okay?” She and Jessica drifted away toward their cars.
Lydia nodded. She didn’t know if she could speak. “Bev …” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know—” Lydia couldn’t hold back the flood of tears. Her chest tightened and finally the sobs she’d held so tight burst from within. It was too much. Everything.
Beverly put her arm around Lydia’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. “He loved you. You were the one for him. I knew it the first day you came to the office. I’m just glad you two reconnected before all this.”
Beverly did know. Maybe she’d always known. “Thanks,” Lydia said, wiping her eyes.
“Here comes trouble,” Beverly said. She patted Lydia’s arm and nodded her head toward Arnold and Josanne, who wove their way toward them. “That little shit, I can’t believe he had the nerve to show. Especially after what happened. Listen, Lyd, you get Seven Minutes Past Midnight made no matter what Arnold tries to do. Dad loved that script. And let me know if I can help.”
“You got it.” Lydia sniffled.
“Call my office and schedule a lunch,” Beverly said as Lydia backed away.
“I’ll have Toddy do it tomorrow,” Lydia said.
Lydia walked to her car, wondering if she’d always feel so alone.
Deafening silence greeted Lydia at the front door of her Mulholland Drive home. She’d long ago (perhaps the day she refused Weston’s marriage proposal) surrendered the shimmery thoughts of children, big holidays, a house bursting with chatter, music, and laughter; that life was a casualty to Hollywood combat. Lydia didn’t mourn the loss. Her success in film and the life she’d created for herself, although different from that of most women, were what she’d always wanted. But even knowing her choice was correct, every night when she came home the silence roared in her ears.
Lydia climbed the curving staircase. The house was big for one person, but it was a tax write-off (according to her accountant) that she needed. She spent less than half her time here, sleeping five hours on a good night. The majority of her waking hours were spent in her bungalow on the lot, or on set, and set could be—anywhere in the world, for months at a time. No, this place wasn’t a home, it was a house. A big, cold house full of marble, granite, and stainless steel. She’d never had the time (or the right partner) to turn it into a home.
She slipped her silk shirt off and let her skirt drop to the floor, thus creating the only mess in the entire ten-thousand-square-foot spread—a puddle of clothes at the foot of her bed. When she awoke in the noiseless morning, that testament to the house’s habitation would have been whisked away by Vilma as if by magic, wordlessly replaced by the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Hollywood Reporter, Daily Variety, and a carafe of hot coffee. The clothes would reappear in Lydia’s closet exactly three days later, freshly cleaned.
Lydia shivered. The temperature in the house was fine, but she was cold. It’d been a long, emotional day. She climbed to the middle of her king-size bed (the trick to sleeping alone—take up the whole damn bed) and slid under her down comforter. She’d already cried … her tears were gone. Like Weston. All that remained were too-fresh memories of their rendezvous, both recent and long ago. She reached for the remote and aimed it at the plasma television hanging on the wall, but she didn’t want to watch TV. She dropped the remote on the bed. Lydia glanced around her bedroom, a tribute to a child-free lifestyle, all white and silk. Her gaze landed on the pile of scripts on the floor next to her nightstand. She could read. A lesson learned from both her father and Weston: Read, read, read. “Not enough people in this town read, you’d be surprised,” Weston had told her. “And the ones that actually read the scripts, well, they quickly rise to the top.”
They were both right. It’d been that very pile from which Lydia had pulled Mary Anne’s script. Lydia smiled. Mary Anne was a bright spot. Like a hapless puppy floundering around on oversized paws, Mary Anne bounded through the preproduction unable to contain her excitement and enthusiastic grin. Her talent was undeniable. Within three pages of starting to read her script, Lydia had gotten the tingly sensation at the base of her spine brought on by what her sixth sense always told her was exceptional writing.
That ti
ngling sensation (aside from a good orgasm or a hit film) was the moment she lived for. She loved finding the great story. She knew it could pop up anywhere—an article, a book, a script, or a tale told to you in the doctor’s office. But the one commonality was the tingling sensation Lydia got when she stumbled onto the narrative that would support a film.
“It’s a gift,” Weston had told her while she was working at Birnbaum Productions. “Not everyone has it. Most of them are guessing, flying in the dark. Use it, don’t overthink it. You know, your dad had it, too.”
So her high cheekbones and dark hair weren’t the only things that Norton Albright passed down to her. She rolled toward the nightstand and reached for the light, flipping off the switch, then settled back into the bed, pulling the comforter up around her neck.
She listened for a sound, any sound. The house settling, the wind blowing, a board creaking … but there was nothing. Silence. As silent as a tomb.
Chapter 7
Jessica and Her Fuchsia Balenciaga Heels
Jessica walked down the red carpet at the premiere of My Way or the Highway knowing that she looked amazing (Pilates three times a week and yoga daily could do that for a body). She prayed she wouldn’t trip in her fuchsia Balenciaga heels. This was a CTA packaged film (or rather a Jessica Caulfield–packaged film). One of Jess’s actor clients, Maurice Banks, starred; another client, Rowyn Hertz, directed; and finally Steven Fabian, a third client, had written the script.
Flashbulbs popped. Matt Damon walked in front of Jessica. Her eyes were blinded, and all she could see were spots. A television cable snaked just ahead of her on the red carpet. Jessica picked up her left foot to clear the cable but dragged her right. Damn. She felt it catch. She could see the picture and the headline tomorrow: ÜBER-AGENT TAKES TUMBLE ON THE RED HIGHWAY. Fuck! Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed her arm.
“Gotcha.”
“Thank y—” Jessica turned, her eyes focusing. A bolt of adrenaline surged through her body. There he was. The man; the one who taught her to play it safe with men. Mike Fox. He was alone, or he seemed to be alone.
Jessica hadn’t seen Mike Fox since the day she left I M FOX Productions to become an agent at CTA, which was shortly after their sordid little love affair (which they pretended nobody knew about) ended. Between the private jets, supermodels, and blow, Jessica couldn’t compete, Mike couldn’t commit, and Jessica couldn’t stay. The parting was neither amicable nor angry; their affair just ended. But the longing—the “what ifs” and “what could have beens”—popped into Jessica’s mind every time she read about Mike’s successes in Variety or Hollywood Reporter.
“Jess, smile,” Mike whispered into her ear. “They’ll never know.”
More flashbulbs popped, the lights again exploded in Jessica’s eyes. The spotlight always felt brighter when she was with Mike. He pulled her closer, not letting go of her arm as they strolled down the red carpet.
“You smell good and you look even better,” Mike whispered. Jess giggled. Giggled! She hadn’t giggled in … well, since she’d stopped sleeping with Mike.
“You know, I always loved making you laugh,” his deep voice breathed into her ear.
“I always loved it when you did,” she whispered.
The red carpet ended as they crossed the threshold into the theater lobby and joined the mass of Hollywood’s who’s who.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Mike said. “I wondered how many of your clients I had to hire to get to see you again. You’re coming to the after party. Find me there.”
Jessica turned to smile, but in an instant, Mike was engulfed by the sea of handshakes and backslaps that were bestowed on a producer at his premiere. For even though Jessica had packaged the project, it was Mike’s film. He’d found her writer’s script, set it up at Summit Pictures, and quickly hired her actor and director. Mike Fox’s ascent to the top of Hollywood, like Jessica’s, had been meteoric; he’d moved rapidly from producer to studio head (a position often reserved for balding middle-aged men) to rehab to producer. Meanwhile, she had stayed at CTA and collected hot male stars, fancy directors, and award-winning writers.
Jessica’s thoughts were deep in “what ifs” when Lydia Albright walked up behind her.
“You know, I think he still fancies you,” Lydia said.
“Mike will always fancy Mike,” Jess said, landing with a thud back in reality.
“Maybe. But you know he’s cleaned up. No more supermodels or actresses. I hear he’s interested in getting into family entertainment.” Lydia raised her left eyebrow.
“You forget I have a man.”
“Yes. When was the last time Phil was home?”
“That’s a little low, Lyd. He’s working.”
“I’m just saying. Phil’s great, but he needs to be working less on software and more on getting married. He better get with the program before someone else catches you.”
“You saw my graceful entrance?” Jessica asked.
“Nice save. I don’t think anyone who knows you saw it.”
“Lyd. Everyone here knows me.”
Lydia smiled. “Come on. Sit with me. I hear this thing is pretty good. Should make a ton of money at the box office this weekend.”
They walked into the theater. People milled around the rows of seats, talking and smiling, laughing the anxious laughs that come before the start of a film at its premiere.
“Move fast, here comes the leprechaun,” Lydia said, trying to weave her way past a Corinthian column.
“Arnold is here? But this isn’t a Worldwide Pictures film.” Jessica whirled around, looking for the telltale red hair.
“Pre-studio head. He’s an executive producer on the film.”
“Liideeeaaa!”
Lydia shook her head. “Let’s pretend we didn’t hear him. Keep moving. The ladies’ room. He can’t follow us in there no matter how feminine he is.”
Jessica cut through the crowd, heading to the side staircase leading to the basement ladies’ room, but Lydia trailed after her, caught behind a slow-moving executive.
“Liideeeaaa Albright, I know you hear me.”
Jessica watched as Lydia took a deep breath, turned around, gritted her teeth, and plastered the professional-producer-who-loves-everyone-no-matter-how-much-she-really-hates-them smile across her face.
“Yes, Arnold, I hear you. How could I not? But you know, you’re so short, it’s difficult to see you and know which direction your voice is coming from.”
Josanne, ever present at Arnold’s side, let out an audible gasp. Jessica heard a few snickers to her left.
“Liideeeaaa, you are not making your days on this film,” Arnold said loud enough for everyone two rows in either direction to hear. Public humiliation—so that’s what Arnold wanted.
Lydia leaned forward and bent slightly as if addressing a toddler. “Arnold, is this really the correct time and place to discuss my film?”
“I am the head of the studio, Liideeeaaa. I will decide the correct time and place,” Arnold said. “If you’d return my calls, then we wouldn’t have to discuss this now.”
“You know, Lydia,” Josanne said, “you’ve been very negligent in returning Mr. Murphy’s calls. We’ve left word for you three times today.”
“Really? I must scold my assistant; she had down that you called four times.”
“I will not allow you to waste the studio’s money,” Arnold snarled.
“No, Arnold, I don’t expect that you would. But we aren’t wasting anything.”
“You are. I haven’t seen any dailies and you’re now six days into your shooting schedule.”
“No, Arnold, we’re still in preproduction. Our start date got pushed back three weeks.”
Another audible gasp from Josanne and this time Arnold’s face turned red. The crimson wave began at his neck, just above his collar, and rolled upward, emphasizing the vein in his right temple, which bulged and began to throb. He looked as if he might stroke out.
“Liid
eeeaaa Albright, who the fuck at my studio gave you permission to push your start date?” Arnold screeched.
Bad behavior was common in Hollywood. Name calling, screaming, hurtling phones across the room, all were considered very acceptable forms of stress release. And the whole town talked about the fights afterward. But almost always, disagreements took place behind closed doors, so this display of anger and animosity in such a public setting hushed conversations for ten rows all around them. Jessica saw people in the balcony shushing one another. Suddenly, Arnold Murphy and Lydia Albright (and their ongoing feud) were more important than the film that was meant to unspool. They were the entertainment. Jessica knew that Lydia knew that at this moment, she and Arnold were the center of the Hollywood Entertainment Universe, and how Lydia played her next card would determine her viability as a producer and the viability of her film. God, I hope she’s holding aces, Jessica thought.
Lydia smiled. She again tilted her head toward Arnold as if addressing a petulant child who’d thrown himself to the floor in the checkout line at the grocery store when denied a chocolate bar.
Very clearly and very loudly, Lydia said, “Arnold, it was Ted Robinoff, the chairman of your studio, and I do believe your boss, who approved the delay of my start date. Perhaps you should call me less and Ted more?”
Royal flush.
The vein in Arnold’s head throbbed as the snickers around them grew louder.
“You bitch,” Arnold muttered under his breath. “This doesn’t end here.”
“No, Arnold,” Lydia whispered. “I doubt that it does. But this moment must be very embarrassing for you.”
*
The glitteratti was out in full force. Everyone in Hollywood wanted to work with, sleep with, or just be near Mike Fox, and after watching his latest film, Jessica understood why. Stars and studio executives hoped he’d sprinkle them with his gold dust—the license to print money that Mike Fox seemed to have. My Way or the Highway was going to be another hit.
Mike Fox sure could throw a party, especially on the studio’s dime. He’d rented out Havana Vin Vin. Jessica and the movie’s star, her client Maurice Banks, followed William White (the megastar) and Julie Jensen, megastar in her own right and William’s wife in name only (they both had same-sex partners on the side), into the club. The room was draped in blood red swaths of velvet. The lights glowed red. Even the Cristal and Absolut had a touch of red food coloring.
