Hollywood Girls Club

by Maggie Marr

Money? It somehow seemed silly to talk about money while Mary Anne lay in a hospital bed strapped to an IV.

  “And the second?” Mary Anne whispered.

  “Well, it’s a small town, and it’s never a good thing for your career to be the reason why a big star goes to jail and a movie falls apart.” Jessica pursed her lips and raised both her eyebrows. “It’s a lot like high school; nobody wants to hang around with a tattletale.”

  “A tattletale?” She could feel tears again. Bradford Madison came a half-inch away from hitting her with his “sweet new ride” and she was the tattletale?

  Jessica leaned forward. “Oh, sweetie, I’m not saying that’s what you are, I’m just saying that’s how it might be perceived.”

  Mary Anne fought to keep her composure. So these were her choices: ignore her near-death experience, go to work on set with Bradford Madison every day, and pretend nothing happened, or never work in Hollywood again. Mary Anne exhaled.

  She glanced across the room at Zymar and Lydia. “Don’t call,” Mary Anne whispered.

  “Okay,” Jessica said. “Good choice.”

  Mary Anne heard a snort and a cough from the direction of the couch.

  “She’s awake.” Zymar nudged a sleeping Lydia.

  “Wha—” Lydia’s head bobbed up and she rubbed her right eye. “Oh, Mary Anne.”

  Mary Anne watched as a sleepy smile crossed Lydia’s lips. Both she and Zymar stretched and stood.

  “I see you’ll pull through, then.” Zymar walked toward the bed. “Celeste told me she was tough,” Jessica said.

  “She’d know it. Cici could eat nails if she wanted to,” Zymar said.

  Mary Anne lifted her hand to her forehead. There was a gauze above her right eye.

  “Now, don’t blame me for that,” Zymar said. “I caught you at Koi, but seems you got in a bit of a fisticuffs with a nurse in the emergency room. Don’t like redheads much, do you?”

  “Two stitches.” Lydia stood next to Zymar.

  “Probably why you’re so groggy.”

  “Good drugs.” Zymar grinned. “The real stuff in the ‘ospital.” Jessica stifled a small laugh.

  “She’s awake?”

  Mary Anne glanced to her right, where a tall blond woman wearing scrubs was walking toward her. “Hello, Mary Anne, I’m Dr. Raker.” She pulled out a small flashlight and peered into Mary Anne’s eyes. “You seem pretty good. How do you feel?”

  “My head hurts.”

  “You conked it twice,” Dr. Raker said, checking Mary Anne’s pulse. “You’re quite a little fighter.”

  Mary Anne felt a flush creeping into her face. She was embarrassed; she couldn’t remember anything she’d said or done after meeting Bradford Madison at Koi, and that included her fistfight in the emergency room.

  “Sorry,” Mary Anne said meekly.

  “Don’t worry about it. But look out, whoever the redhead is that made you mad.” She smiled.

  “Please tell the nurse I am so sorry.”

  “I will.” Dr. Raker looked across the bed at Jessica, Lydia, and Zymar. “So she’s good, but she needs her rest.”

  “When will she be released?” Jessica asked.

  “I’ll check in again tomorrow morning. If everything looks okay, we’ll discharge her around eleven. Go home, get some rest, let Mary Anne sleep, come back in the morning.”

  “I’ll be here at nine,” Jessica announced.

  “And I’ll meet you at your house,” Lydia said, following Jessica to the door.

  “And I’ll see you on Monday,” Zymar said. He tapped Mary Anne lightly on the arm, leaned in and whispered, “You know, this means we’ll make a fantastic fucking film! Always good when we get a bit of drama before we start shooting.” He gave her a wink and turned toward the door.

  A melancholy swept through Mary Anne as they filed out of her room. So this was her Hollywood life. A new language, new friends … a new set of rules. Cici’s words on the ride home from Ferragamo chimed in Mary Anne’s head.

  “It’s a compromise,” Cici had said. “With the paparazzi, with the press, with the studios, with the producers, with myself. They need me, and I need them. You’d be surprised what you can learn to accept.”

  Mary Anne closed her eyes. Her head hurt.

  Chapter 13

  Celeste Solange and the Cowboy Boots on Egyptian Cotton

  Celeste marched into her trailer and slammed the door shut behind her. Bradford Madison was a dumbass. First he almost killed their writer (thank God Mary Anne hadn’t pressed charges), then he consistently arrived two hours late for his seven A.M. call time (while the rest of the cast and crew, including Celeste, waited around for him to show up), and now he didn’t know his lines. Celeste didn’t care if he was third-generation Hollywood royalty. It was bullshit. She knew it, Lydia knew it, Zymar knew it, and Celeste was going to make sure that Bradford knew it, too.

  Seven Minutes Past Midnight was only seven days into production and already three days behind in the shooting schedule. If Bradford didn’t pull his head out of his ass and get it together, this film was going in the shitter.

  Celeste sat in front of her makeup mirror and pulled off her wig. If it wasn’t Lydia’s film, she would walk off the set right now. She’d have Jessica call Arnold Murphy and tell him to go fuck himself. But that would ruin Lydia’s career and make Arnold Murphy cackle with glee. Celeste heard a knock on her trailer door.

  “Cici, it’s me,” Lydia called.

  “Enter at your own risk.”

  Lydia held a cell phone in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other.

  “Thought you could use one of these,” Lydia said, offering up the bottle.

  There was a reason Lydia was Celeste’s good friend. Just when she wanted to cuss out the producer on this fucking film (which could ruin all their careers), Lydia showed up with Celeste’s favorite bourbon.

  “He’s killing your movie. And your star,” Celeste said. She started removing the thick makeup that had been spackled on hours before.

  “I know. I know. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  “Rough?! Lyd, this is not rough. This is fucked up. This is taking it up the ass because some pissant cock can’t keep his shit together. He’s doing a better job of fucking up your film than Arnold ever could,”

  Lydia poured bourbon into two crystal glasses, walked over to Celeste, and set the tumbler down on the vanity in front of Celeste’s makeup mirror.

  “I don’t care who his father was, Lyd, he needs to pull his head out of his ass and act professional.”

  “He’s got the goods, Cici,”

  “Only when he knows his fucking lines. He hasn’t been doing it long enough to fake it. If he doesn’t know his lines, he can’t do shit.” Celeste threw a tissue on the vanity and took a swig of bourbon.

  “You’re right.”

  “Look, I get paid either way. And my performance is solid. But you? Lyd, Arnold will jump all over you if this tanks or you go over budget. And Zymar? Come on. After his last film? If this one doesn’t hit, he’s done.”

  Lydia sighed and sat down on the chaise behind Celeste.

  “Is he on the blow again?” Celeste asked.

  “Zymar watches him every day. I’m around him some evenings. Plus—and I’ll deny that I ever told you this—his probation requires he take tox screens, and so far they’ve all come back clean.”

  “If he’s using his own piss.”

  Lydia sipped her bourbon. “I guess we could get him a sitter.”

  “That cock? He’ll never agree to it.”

  “It’s in his contract. The only way we could get the film insured was if Bradford agreed to a sitter clause.”

  Celeste stopped scrubbing her face and looked at Lydia in the makeup mirror. “So what are you waiting for? Call Jess and get her to call his agent and tell him that you’re getting Bradford a babysitter.”

  “Arnold.”

  “What?”

  “The minute I do that,
Arnold will know we’re in trouble. He’ll smell blood and be all over us.”

  “Like a set visit two times a day by Jojo the Monkey-Faced Girl isn’t all over us already?” Celeste asked.

  “I know, but there are all kinds of things he could do. Require us to find a new star. Reshoots. New start date. The whole film gets pushed. If he really thinks Bradford is impaired, he could shut us down.”

  “Fine! Fine, fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Do what?” Lydia asked.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll watch him.”

  “Cici, I wasn’t suggesting that at all. I was just—”

  “Look, I’m a producer on this film, too, and I want to pull my weight. And I know actors. Tell the little fuck he has to stay at my house.”

  “What about Damien? He’ll flip, you know—”

  “Lyd,” Celeste paused and looked into the makeup mirror. “Damien moved out.”

  “What? Oh, Cici, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “The day we started shooting. I came home from set and all his clothes were gone. He left me a note, though. Good guy, huh.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Save it. It’s better this way. He’s a bad man. Besides, I’m taking all his money, and right now he’s miserable. He’s staying in Silver Lake at Brie’s house, and she’s got six cats.”

  “Isn’t he allergic?”

  “Deathly. I hope he dies. Especially before he changes his will.”

  “How you doing?”

  “Okay. The house is big, old, and lonely. Poor Mary Anne, she ends up staying with me four nights a week. I’m always enticing her with something. That’s another thing.” Celeste turned away from her makeup mirror and faced Lydia. “Do you think that little peckerhead even realizes how close he came to killing someone? Or at the very least going to jail for the third time?”

  “She’s a saint.”

  “Yes, she is. Because if I were writing his lines, after all that shit he’d be down to monosyllabic ape sounds.”

  Lydia arched her eyebrow and looked at Celeste in the mirror. “Oh, I forgot—we are down to monosyllabic ape sounds. But he has lines. So tell him. It’s my house every night but Saturday.”

  “Starting when?”

  “Starting now. We’re going to be running his lines tonight. Until he gets them. Plus, I’m drafting a set of house rules for him.”

  “He’s not going to like this.”

  “Too fucking bad. You tell him I know his grandfather, and if he doesn’t comply, that’s my first call,” Celeste said. “It’ll scare the shit out of him. That old man can still kick some ass. Who do you think confiscated his Trans Am?”

  “Got it.”

  “He can meet me at the car in twenty minutes.”

  Lydia stood at the trailer’s door. “Thanks, Cici.”

  “Yeah. Wait till tomorrow. If Bradford comes to work, then thank me.”

  *

  Celeste opened the door to the guest suite in the east wing of her Hollywood Hills home.

  “This is your room. The bathroom is connected. It should be stocked with everything you need. Towels, toothpaste, soap. If it’s missing anything, just let me or Mathilde know.”

  She watched Bradford throw his Louis Vuitton duffel on the floor and check out the room. He stopped at the plasma television on the wall.

  “The cable is the full package. It’s all wired to our digital-media library. We’ve got two thousand films stored. You can watch them whenever you want. Celeste turned toward the walk-in closet and slid open the cherrywood-and-glass-panel door. “Now, this is nice. It’s lined with cedar and has silk hangers,” she called. Bradford didn’t respond. Maybe he’s using the toilet, Celeste thought. Or he’s tried to run away. She walked toward the door.

  “I thought we’d run our lines—” She stopped and looked at Bradford.

  He stood in the center of the king-size bed, naked (except for black snakeskin cowboy boots). His dick was erect and he stroked it with his right hand.

  “Well, come on, then. I know this story about lines and acting is bullshit. This is why I’m captive in your house, isn’t it?” Bradford said, with a bored look on his face.

  Celeste fumed. Who did this infant think he was? First of all, she’d seen bigger cocks on midgets. Second, everything about Bradford was the biggest turn off in the world. His self-obsessed nihilistic bravado overwhelmed even his impressive good looks. For fuck sake. Once you started sleeping with a real man, a true adult, children like Bradford were just impossible.

  “You’ve got to want it. Brie told me Damien’s been at her house for the last week,” Bradford said, and flopped down on the bed, landing his ass on the mattress.

  No wonder he was such a pain. Bradford traveled in the Brie Ellison circle— young Hollywood: obnoxious, oversexed, overpaid, underachieving post-adolescent children. Actually, though—Bradford could come in handy. With the divorce just around the corner, Celeste could use a spy. A little inside information. Better not piss Bradford off by telling him about his tiny penis size.

  “Bradford,” Celeste said, fluttering her eyelids, playing the starstruck star. “It really is very tempting. But, growing up in this town, surely you know I never, ever sleep with my costar.”

  “I thought that was bullshit.”

  “Sometimes after, but never during.” Celeste sat on the edge of the bed and leaned toward Bradford. “Although with you it is very, very hard to resist.” With his ego, he was such an easy mark.

  “I know,” Bradford said, and flexed his bicep. “I don’t think you’ll make it through the whole shoot, especially with me staying here.”

  “Well, at least let me make it through one night,” Celeste said. “Why don’t you put on some clothes and come downstairs.”

  “I’m hungry. You cooking?”

  “Mathilde will serve dinner in about an hour. Bring down your script pages for tomorrow and we’ll run lines and have a drink.”

  “I know my lines,” he reached for the TV remote.

  Irritation bubbled through Celeste and boiled in her belly. Bradford didn’t know anything—much less his lines. She inhaled deeply and concentrated on the character she wanted to play—wanted Bradford to believe; ditzy and dependent.

  “Of course you do, lover, but what about me? Didn’t you see how I struggled today? You don’t want me to have a horrible day tomorrow, too.” She should win an Oscar for this performance.

  Bradford smiled. “Babe, for you, of course.” He rolled off the bed and reached for his Armani jeans.

  “Thanks,” Celeste said, and walked toward the bedroom door. “Oh, and Bradford?”

  He looked up from pulling his jeans on over his boots. “Yeah?”

  “From now on, leave your cowboy boots at the front door.”

  Chapter 14

  Lydia and the Stella McCartney Pumps

  Lydia lounged on a suede recliner (one of twelve) in her home screening room, waiting for the lights to come up. After four weeks of shooting, the dailies were brilliant. The lighting, the performances, the camera angles, all exceptional. Zymar made a great director . . as well as a great lover.

  A wicked smile curled across Lydia’s lips. She knew that the first rule of producing was to never fuck your star, so she hadn’t. Besides, who really wanted to have sex with Bradford Madison other than Bradford Madison? With his ego, there wouldn’t be room for anyone else in the bed. Instead, Lydia slept with the director.

  Thirty glorious nights. Ever since Bradford nearly killed Mary Anne at Koi. Lydia and Zymar had spent some tense moments in the back of the ambulance with Mary Anne in and out of consciousness.

  “She looks so pale,” Lydia had whispered.

  “Gray,” Zymar said. “Sickly gray.”

  He was right. Mary Anne’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Steve? Where’s Steve?” Mary Anne asked.

  Lydia leaned forward and reached for Mary Anne’s hand. “Honey, you’re okay. We’re in an ambula
nce—”

  “But where’s Steve?” Mary Anne asked, with wild-eyed terror. “‘Oo is Steve?” Zymar asked.

  “Honey, is Steve someone you want me to call?” Lydia asked.

  “He’s fucking Viève,” Mary Anne whimpered, then closed her eyes.

  “Who’s Viève?” Zymar whispered into Lydia’s ear.

  “You’ve got as much information as I do,” Lydia whispered back.

  By the time Lydia and Zymar left Cedars Sinai, Lydia was exhausted. It was a shorter distance to Zymar’s hotel than to her home (at least that’s what Lydia told herself), and so much less lonely.

  Once in Zymar’s room, Lydia went to the bathroom to take out her contacts (years on a movie set taught her to always carry an extra case—you never knew for sure where you might end up sleeping).

  “Lydia, you take the bed,” Zymar called.

  “The couch is fine,” she walked out of the bathroom as Zymar pulled off his shirt.

  Lydia stood and stared. For a director, he had a hell of a body. His torso was lean and well muscled, like that of a rock climber or swimmer, his chest hair beginning to turn silver. She glanced at the couch that Zymar had already made up for one of them. Did she really believe either of them would be sleeping there?

  “Lyd, found a T-shirt for you.” He handed her the shirt, his own chest bare. He stood so close to her. Heat simmered in her belly and her heart quickened its beat with his nearness. Electricity pulsed between them and she realized Zymar must know the hot feeling he stirred within her.

  Zymar looked down at her. “You look tired,” his fingertips trailed through her chestnut-colored hair.

  She tilted her head. Zymar moved closer and pressed against her. The pulses of electricity shot up her neck as he put his hand behind her head, firmly tilted her face toward him, and pressed his lips to hers.

  His kiss wasn’t soft; in fact, it was a little rough, but Lydia liked it that way.

  He slid his hand down the back of her pants and cupped her ass. She grew wet with his insistence—his desire. Lydia pressed her body into him. She wanted him—needed him. She needed to be with Zymar—to leave behind that big empty house that she could barely stand to be alone within. Lydia unbuttoned Zymar’s jeans and slipped her hand into his pants. She grasped his cock and a low moan escaped Zymar’s lips. Lydia grew wetter.