by Maggie Marr
“Steve! You remember Steve,” Mitsy said, as though she’d just found Mary Anne’s long-lost second-grade teacher from St. Paul. “He just happened to be here, and I asked him to join us.”
“Steve,” Mary Anne whispered, as waves of fear and nausea swept through her body.
“You don’t mind, do you? I told him you wouldn’t.”
And there he was. Steve. Stepping behind Mitsy to pull out her chair at the table, smiling that sheepish grin. The grin that had convinced Mary Anne to let him move into her apartment, the grin that had made her fall in love with him, that grin that broke her heart.
“Hi, Mary Anne.”
“You just happened to see Steve. Mother, where did you just happen to see Steve? How did you find him? What is he—” Mary Anne looked up at her ex-lover. “What are you doing here?” She must have yelled the last part, because the diners to her left glanced over at her.
“Mary Anne,” Mitsy hissed. “Lower your voice.”
“Maybe I should go.” The grin was gone and Steve stood beside Mitsy’s chair looking uncomfortable.
“No! Sit, sit,” Mitsy said and pulled Steve into the chair next to her. “Mary Anne, I found him over by the restrooms. I told him that we were just two single gals out for a good time and that he should join us.” Mitsy smiled brightly.
“You found him?”
“Mrs. Meyers, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Nonsense, you stay right there. Order a drink and have a crab cake.” Mitsy placed her napkin in her lap as if to emphasize that the decision had been made. “You two must have a lot of catching up to do. When was the last time you saw each other?”
Mary Anne looked across the table at her philandering ex-boyfriend. He had his head bowed, staring at his fork.
“Well?” Mitsy interrupted the awkward silence that only Mitsy didn’t realize was awkward.
“The last time, Mother? Well, I believe the last time I saw Steve was when his bare ass was pumping up and down while he fucked our redheaded neighbor, Viève. That was the last time I saw you, wasn’t it, Steve?”
“Mrs. Meyers, I can’t, I knew when you called—”
“You called?!” Mary Anne screeched.
“Now, Mary Anne, please lower your voice. Yes, I called. But only after Steve wrote me all those letters.”
“You sent my mother letters?” Mary Anne hissed.
“You wouldn’t answer my calls.”
“To Minnesota? You sent my mother letters in Minnesota?”
“And he called several times, too. Right, Steve?” Mitsy said, smiling. “Mary Anne, this breakup was all silliness on your part. Steve was just feeling a bit trapped, now, weren’t you, Steve?”
Mary Anne couldn’t believe this. Perhaps she’d had one Grey Goose too many. Maybe she’d passed out. “Is the bed spinning?” she muttered.
“Bed?” Mitsy asked.
“Yes, trapped. You were always pressuring me for a ring and a baby and a house,” Steve said.
“So you had sex with our neighbor?”
“Viève was very understanding.”
“Understanding of what? Your cock?”
“Mary Anne, please do not use that type of language,” Mitsy scolded. “Steve is here to reconcile, reconnect, and restart your relationship.”
What kind of sick reality show was this? Betrayed first by the man she loved and then a second time by the woman who bore her.
“I’m out,” Mary Anne said, standing and reaching for her purse. “You,” she said, pointing at Steve, “are a gelatinous pile of dog shit some wretched mutt crapped out. And you,” she said, looking at Mitsy, her tone softening to almost a whisper, “have just broken my heart. Because you, Mom, are supposed to be on my team. You are supposed to want what is best for me, not easy for you. And if you think that a two-timing techno geek is all I can get, then I can’t imagine what you must really think of me.”
Mary Anne threw her credit card on the table and jammed her clutch under her arm. “Enjoy dinner; it’s on me. You two can catch up in person. Mom, I’ll send the car back for you.” Mary Anne turned and walked to the front door, looking at the floor so no one at Lucques would see her cry.
Chapter 17
Celeste Solange and Her Chloe Python Leather Bag
Celeste wanted every penny of Damien Bruckner’s money. She didn’t need it, and the prenup didn’t allow it. But she wanted it. All of it. And why shouldn’t she, after the way Damien was humiliating her in front of the world? Parading around town with an eighteen-year-old.
“Cici, the prenup is very clear on this, and I’m afraid ironclad,” insisted Howard Abromawitz, her attorney.
“Howie, I know you handled the Preston-Sturgess divorce. Jen told me that prenup was solid, too.”
“That one had a loophole if Jen caught him fucking around.”
“But Damien is fucking around. Haven’t you seen People, Us, and Star?”
Howard smiled. “Read them every day. Best client-referral service in the world. But Cici, with the Preston-Sturgess divorce there was a tape. That part of the settlement was off the record. Nathan paid Jen to buy the tape—it would have destroyed his career. It wasn’t like he was sleeping with women.”
Celeste hated spending her only day off from filming at her attorney’s office. She looked around the room. Pictures of Howard with U.S. presidents (Bush and Clinton), A-list stars (Tom, Leo, and Arnold), and sports heroes (Michael, Tiger, and Jeff) lined the wall.
“Look, Cici, Damien is a serial wedder. He likes them young, and he likes to find them before he gets divorced from the current wife. You know I handled Amanda and Damien’s divorce, too.”
“What if I had film?”
“Do you? Wait, don’t answer that. We could be getting into a dicey area.” Howard leaned back behind his mahogany desk.
Celeste stood and walked to the wall of windows. All of Beverly Hills lay at her feet.
“What about Amanda’s prenup? I know what Damien paid her. How’d you get around that?”
Howard swiveled his leather chair and leaned forward. “Off the record. Because I’ll deny I ever told you this. You remember the house in Belize?”
“We used to go there all the time. Damien sold it right after his divorce from Amanda was final.”
“Cameras.”
“What?” Celeste turned toward Howard.
“Security cameras, in every room, including the stables.” Howard paused. Celeste felt a flush creeping up her neck. She didn’t normally get embarrassed, but at this moment with Howard …
“There is tape? Videotape of me and Damien …”
“Was.”
“He never told me there was tape or cameras. Fucker.”
“He bought her off. He knew it would destroy your career. And, well, probably your relationship with him.”
“But how could it destroy—”
“There are a lot of women in Belize.”
Celeste felt her chest tighten. Humiliation again and again. So this is what it felt like to be the cheated-on wife. Not the wife who knew her husband was fucking around and who accepted it as a respite from a tired sex life, but the wife who suddenly realized that the life she’d built rested on the foundation of her husband’s lies.
“You know they were destroyed?”
“It’s been five years. If there were copies, which there aren’t, they’d have surfaced. You’re a big star, Cici. If someone had them, they could’ve made a fortune by now.”
“I could kill him.”
“Okay, well, I never heard that and don’t ever repeat it to anyone. That’s advice from legal counsel.”
Celeste sat on the cashmere couch in front of Howard’s desk. “What now?”
“Well, unless you catch him having sex with animals or children, your prenup is solid. That is the only loophole: lewd, lascivious, and/or illegal sexual behavior. But as you can see by my story, people have been inclined to disregard their prenups if there are persuasive circu
mstances.”
Celeste stood and grabbed her Chloe python leather bag. “I’ve been told I can be persuasive.”
Howard stood and walked Celeste to the celebrity elevator at the back of his office. He air-kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll call you when I have paperwork.” He held both her hands and looked into her eyes. “Cici, call me if you need anything, day or night. I’m here for you.” The elevator door opened and Celeste stepped inside. “Or if you come across anything you think I should have.”
“Thanks, Howard,” Celeste said. She was ready to break a nail or two. It was time to dig into Damien’s dirt.
Celeste sat on the floor of Damien’s former home office in her velvet Versace sweat suit (Donatella had been wonderful enough to design a one-of-a-kind turquoise one “to match your eyes, darling”). The computers were gone, but most of the files still remained. Damien had been anal retentive about keeping three copies of every document, one at his studio office at Summit Pictures, one at his attorney’s, and one at home. But Damien was so busy fucking Brie Ellison, he must have forgotten about his home files. He hadn’t returned to the house since he’d moved out (Celeste had the locks and security code changed the day he left), and she instructed Mathilde to call her immediately if she saw Mr. Bruckner snooping around. Eight weeks and no Damien.
Celeste worked her way through the credenza behind Damien’s desk. All she could find were old bank statements and movie deal memos. She’d give those to Howard in case his assets-detection specialist could find anything she missed. But there was nothing dirty or sordid. She’d known it was unlikely anyway; she doubted Damien would keep dirty stuff so accessible. He’d hide it, keep it out of sight. But where?
Celeste stood up from the floor. God, she hated paperwork. She was an actress, not a secretary.
“Cici, where are you?” Bradford called.
“In here.”
It was Sunday evening. Bradford’s diligent return to Celeste’s house every Sunday evening to run lines and prepare for the workweek had surprised her and Lydia. They were impressed, especially since he was spending every free moment both on set and off with Zymar’s daughter. But even with his new girlfriend, it seemed Bradford craved the structure and the rules Celeste provided. His acting had rocketed to the next level with the discipline. His performances in the dailies were incredible. And he really wasn’t as big of an asshole as Celeste had originally surmised. Like most celebrities his age, he was just young and out of control; inebriated with his money and success. Staying with Celeste (and, it appeared, dating Christina) seemed to have grounded him.
“Cleaning house?” Bradford stood in the doorway and surveyed Damien’s study.
“You could say that. Trying to organize and find a few things.”
“I’ve never been in this room.”
“Ugly, isn’t it? Damien’s study. Or it was Damien’s study. Guess I’ll have it remodeled and redecorated. I don’t know, maybe I should have a home office.”
“So you get the house?”
“Yeah. That’s what the prenup says,” Celeste bent over to put files stacked on the floor back into the credenza.
“Guess Damien will make Brie sign one of those, too.”
Celeste stopped. She looked over her shoulder at Bradford.
“Married? They’re getting married?”
“That’s what Brie says.”
“Of course they are.” She wondered if Brie Ellison knew what she was getting with Damien. But she guessed that, much like herself years before, Brie didn’t know and didn’t care.
“Well, once her mom and dad sign off on it.”
“Close family?”
“Nah. Not exactly. She’s only seventeen.”
Celeste felt a tingle in her spine. Did he say seventeen?
“What?”
“Yeah, her birthday isn’t for another four months. Hey, thought I’d take a quick swim before we run lines for tomorrow,” Bradford said.
“Sure. Go on. In about an hour?”
“Great.”
Celeste stood and looked at Bradford. He had unknowingly provided her with a piece of information that was worth several million dollars. “Bradford, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here.”
“Well, thanks, Cici. See ya in an hour.”
God, it was almost too good to be true. Fucking a minor might not classify as lewd and lascivious in L.A., but it was still illegal.
“This is Howard.”
“Howie, it’s Cici,” Celeste said into her flip phone.
“Cici, my love. How are you? Do you need me to come over? Are you okay?”
“Fine. I found it.”
“What?”
“I found a way to nail Damien’s ass to the wall. Brie Ellison. She’s a minor.”
There was a pause; Celeste could practically hear the legal gears in Howie’s mind beginning to spin. “Are you sure?”
“Well, I’ve been told. I mean, all we need to prove it is a birth certificate. How hard is that? He’s fucking a minor. That’s still illegal in California, right?”
“It’s not enough.”
“What? She’s seventeen.”
“Cici, do you have proof they’ve consummated their relationship?”
“It’s all over People and Us. On Entertainment Express Friday night he had his hand down her pants.”
“Then you’ve got him for heavy petting, but it’s not enough. Look, statutory rape is a criminal offense, and for the district attorney to file charges against Damien Bruckner for his relationship with Brie Ellison, you need more than Damien cupping some ass at a premiere. Or you need—and I’ll deny that I ever said this—at least enough proof to make Damien believe that the district attorney could file charges. The kind of proof that might have monetary value to someone like Damien. Not that I would ever advise you to extort money or subvert evidence of a crime, but hypothetically speaking, that type of evidence could have great value. Might even break open an unbreakable prenup.”
“So we need to see them fucking,” Celeste said, pacing.
“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. And it needs to be before she turns eighteen or gets married.”
“She’s not marrying him until I get divorced.”
“That’s correct.”
“Stills or film?”
“What?”
“Still photography or film—which is better?”
“Well, in these scenarios, film is more effective.”
“Yeah, film always is.”
Chapter 18
Lydia Albright and the Lifts
Lydia paced outside Arnold Murphy’s executive suite. She’d been summoned. A summons Lydia had tried to avoid. Lydia had waited for Arnold for twenty-five minutes. Fifteen minutes was acceptable in Hollywood, twenty minutes was making a statement, and thirty minutes was an insult. According to Lydia’s watch, Arnold now had three minutes and twenty-seven seconds before she walked out the door.
The little prick. Making her wait.
He’d received their shooting schedule. He knew that for the next three days Zymar was filming the biggest action and pyrotechnic sequence in the movie. Together, the next seventy-two hours would make or break Lydia’s film. Today was the money shot. And here Lydia waited, flipping through three-day-old Varietys and watching Arnold’s assistant roll calls. Unbelievable. The second hand on her watch clicked onto the six. That was it. Her time was too valuable to throw away. She had an explosion in an hour and forty-five minutes. Lydia stood up to leave and turned toward Arnold’s prim male assistant.
“Please tell Ar—”
“Mr. Murphy will see you now,” he interrupted her, and stood. “Right this way.”
Lydia walked through the door to Arnold Murphy’s office and immediately bit down hard on her tongue so as not to laugh.
Arnold’s chair sat on lifts. Seated behind a giant wood desk in an oversized chair on stilts, he looked like an eight-year-old redhead playing make-believe at his father’s desk. O
nly in Hollywood do we pretend not to notice this, Lydia thought.
“Liideeeaaa, sit down,” Arnold said.
Josanne Dorfman sat in the chair next to Lydia’s, facing Arnold’s desk.
“Arnold, good morning. My assistant must have made a scheduling error. I thought our meeting was at nine A.M.”
“No, your assistant made no error. I had some important calls to make. And now I am finished and ready to meet with you. Josanne will be joining our meeting.”
“Of course. What can I do for you, Arnold? You know today is a big day for us. The beginning of our largest action sequence.”
“Yes, so I hear. Let’s see.” Arnold glanced down at a black binder on his desk. “It looks to me that you are on time and on budget. Is that correct?”
Arnold’s even tones stunned Lydia. She expected to be ripped apart for some trumped-up charge. Perhaps crafts services cost too much or she’d overspent on crew overtime. But civility? That was baffling.
“Yes, everything has been smooth.”
“Josanne saw the dailies and she tells me they’re quite good.”
“Really excellent, Lydia,” Josanne chimed in. “Perhaps some of Zymar’s best work.”
“Okay …” Lydia glanced at Josanne and then Arnold, warily. “So you have every reason to believe you’ll come in on time and on budget?”
“Yes. The next three days we shoot our primary action sequence. After that we wrap principal production in five days. Then we’re ready for postproduction.”
“Okay, then,” Arnold said, shutting his black binder. “Thank you for coming up, and we’ll talk when you wrap.”
“‘Okay, then?’“ Lydia paused, looking at the little big man behind his desk. “Arnold, I got five messages at seven A.M. this morning telling me to be here by nine or I couldn’t shoot my action sequence today. I bust my ass to get here and then wait thirty minutes in the reception area while you make calls. Now you tell me I’m doing a superior job, ask me two questions, and tell me to leave? Arnold, excuse my language, but what the fuck is going on?”
