by Maggie Marr
Jessica had allowed herself to be numbed by the office, and now, for the first time in seven years, she was coming down from her workaholic high. The last person she’d ever have expected to meet her (with his feet planted solidly on the ground) was Mike Fox.
Jessica slipped quietly out of bed. She’d shower, then go downstairs, make coffee, and read scripts. Jessica looked at the clock; she was to meet Celeste, Lydia, Christina, and Mary Anne at the Four Seasons for breakfast in three hours. Christina was returning to Oxford in three days, and Lydia wanted a confab on Christina’s future career in the film trade. Lydia had already offered Christina a job at her production company as a reader (a much easier way to break into the film biz than as an assistant), but as Lydia had mentioned, who better for a producer-intraining to sit down with than a writer, a powerful Hollywood agent, and a superstar?
Jessica wanted to get some reading finished so that after breakfast she could spend all day with Mike. They’d talked about driving out to Palm Springs for the night or maybe going to Coronado. If they wanted to be really naughty, Mike could steal Summit’s corporate jet for the rest of the weekend and they could go to Cabo or New York. There were no stars to worry about, no bottom lines to meet, no phone calls to return. Every bit of business could wait. She’d put it all on hold (she’d even turned off her BlackBerry!). Jessica pattered down the staircase, toward her coffee and her scripts.
*
Settling into the oversized white chair and ottoman in her study, Jessica picked up the first script on her pile of ten. Paul Peterson, head of Summit, had sent her this one with a $20 million offer for Maurice Banks and a $20 million offer for Holden. It was a two-hander, a buddy picture. Holden had finally started to see the acting coach, Gary Moises; at least now he had a chance of actually doing some acting and having a career for the next ten years. Paul wanted Lydia to produce; he was already asking Jessica if Lydia would consider moving her overall deal to Summit from Worldwide after Seven Minutes Past Midnight was released.
Jessica thought a move to Summit was the perfect solution to Lydia’s problem with Arnold. Summit would pay for Lydia’s overhead (staff, operating expenses) and sweeten her producer’s quote ($5 million plus ten percent of gross), and in exchange, Lydia would let Summit look at every project she wanted to make first before she discussed the project with any other studio. Paul was fair, and Lydia had worked with him at Birnbaum Productions. (As his first job in the industry, Paul interned for Weston when Lydia was a reader, so they went way back. And Paul knew what a dumbass Arnold was.)
“You left me alone.”
Jessica looked up and smiled. Mike stood in the doorway with a sheet wrapped around his waist.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” she said.
“I’m still tired,” Mike said, walking over to her. “Come back to bed with me.”
“Can’t. Already drank two cups of coffee.”
Mike bent over, his lips grazing Jessica’s ear. “Then you’ve got some energy. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Jessica felt a tingle in her spine and her toes curled. Mike was so sexy. She could feel herself getting wet just from his whispering. He wasn’t even touching her.
“But then again,” he said and slid his lips down her neck. “Who really needs a bed?”
*
Jessica waited for the girls at a big table in the Four Seasons restaurant. All of them were late. Jessica had been worried that she’d be the one keeping them waiting, especially after the rendezvous on the floor of her study at home. She’d rushed through a shower, thrown on silk pants and a shirt, and dashed toward the door, leaving Mike standing in the kitchen (still wrapped in a sheet) grinning and sipping his first cup of coffee.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” he said.
Jessica stopped at the front door and turned around. “You will?”
“Yes, Jess, I will.”
That was when it hit her. Really hit her. Mike Fox would be there. He’d be there when she got home, when she got up, and when she got old.
“Jess, I know I made a big mistake when I left five years ago, and I’m not making that mistake again. So yes, I will be here when you get home.”
“Okay.” Jessica smiled and picked up her keys from the crystal bowl in the foyer.
“Hurry up and get back here so we can do something fun for the rest of our weekend.”
“You got it,” she said.
“Tell the girls I say hello. And tell Celeste I want her to do my film next, no matter what her agent says about the script.”
“I’ll tell her, but you know her agent is kind of a ballbuster.”
The memory made Jess smile, and it made her impatient. She had the sexiest man alive standing naked in her kitchen and she was waiting at an empty table.
“I see a grin,” Lydia called as she and Celeste clipped across the marble-tile floor to the table. “That must have been put there by one Mr. Mike Fox.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Celeste bent down and gave her an air kiss. “Well, if the rumors are true, and they usually are, then I have to agree with Lydia. You are indeed getting banged on a regular basis.”
Jessica flushed, smiled, and lifted her menu.
“We saw Mary Anne pulling in when we parked,” Lydia said. “Christina’s on her way. She was going to stop by Brie Ellison’s to pick up some shoes Brie borrowed.”
“That’s another one making some time. Christina spends more nights at my house with Bradford than she does at your place,” Celeste remarked to Lydia.
“Yes, well, her father seems to believe that when Christina’s out all night, she’s with her girlfriends,” Lydia said.
“Only if she’s a lesbian and Bradford is having a party. The other night they were so loud I thought the house would come down. ‘Oooh, ooh, ooh!’ Do you remember what it’s like to get fucked like that?” Celeste looked at Lydia and Jessica. Both of them sheepishly peeked over their menus. “Oh, silly me! I forgot you two and your new loves. Of course you do. How is it I’m one of the sexiest people alive, according to People magazine, and you two are getting more action than I’ve had in the last six months? Hmmm.” Celeste looked at her menu.
“That’s not what I hear,” Jessica quietly singsonged.
“What?!” Celeste put down her menu. “What do you hear?”
“I hear that a certain celebrity, who will remain nameless, has been rendezvousing upstairs at this very hotel with a certain movie mogul, who will also remain nameless, whenever that movie mogul happens to be in Los Angeles from New York.”
Celeste pressed her lips together and picked up the silver coffee carafe from the center of the table. “Lies, rumors, and more lies. You know how this town is.”
“What if I had pictures?” Jessica said, and smiled.
“Oh my God!” Celeste yelped, practically jumping from her chair. “I almost forgot.”
“What?” Lydia asked.
“I need film of Brie and Damien fucking.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Mary Anne rushed toward the table, her hair still wet.
“Sit. You haven’t missed much, except Cici wants to film her soon-to-be ex-husband having sex with Brie Ellison,” Lydia said.
“Isn’t that illegal?” Jessica asked.
“Excuse me?” Mary Anne said, plopping down beside Lydia and across from Jessica and Celeste.
“Film or tape. I need it to break my prenup.” Celeste sipped her coffee, then leaned in and whispered, “You know Brie Ellison is a minor.”
“No fucking way!” Lydia crowed. “Damien’s really gotten his dick in the wringer this time.”
“It’s too good to be true.” Jessica giggled.
“Well, it is true. Howard pulled her birth certificate from the tiny town in Missouri where she was born. Minor equals illegal, and illegal equals big bucks for me. So I need film. How do we get it?”
Lydia’s cell phone started ringing. She glanced at the number. “Sorry, girls, it’s Christina.
Just a sec.” She clicked and answered.
Jessica watched from across the table as Lydia’s face turned from a smile into a frown.
“What? Oh, no. Christina, I’m so sorry.”
Celeste put down her menu and glanced at Lydia and then looked at Jessica.
“Sweetie, it’s okay. Stop crying. Shhh. No, they’ll understand,” Lydia said, glancing around the table. “Uh-huh. Okay. I’ll be home right after breakfast. I promise it will be okay. Did you tell your father? What did he say?”
Celeste leaned toward Jessica and whispered, “Who do you think died?”
“No, honey. He won’t kill him. He’s just being protective. Okay. See you soon.” Without looking at any of them, Lydia reached for her spoon, picked it up, and started to stir her coffee.
“Lyd, what is it?” Celeste asked.
“Well,” Lydia said, exhaling, “it seems that little Miss Brie Ellison is on quite the sexual rampage.”
“What?”
“When Christina got to Brie’s house, she found Brie in bed.” Lydia paused and lifted her coffee cup to her lips.
“So?” Jessica said.
“Well, Brie wasn’t alone, and she wasn’t with Damien, either.”
“Oh, no,” Celeste wailed.
“What? What am I missing?” Jessica asked.
Lydia looked Jessica in the eye. “Brie was in bed with Bradford.”
“But Bradford is seeing Christina,” Mary Anne said, stating the obvious.
“Welcome to Hollywood,” Jessica said.
“Cici, you may run into a bit of a mess when you get home. It seems Bradford is now back at your place and has been calling Christina nonstop. When Zymar asked what was going on, well, Christina told him. Zymar’s on his way to your house.”
“Might be good for Bradford to get his ass kicked,” Celeste said.
“I’m glad we’re finished with production,” Lydia said. “Bruises have a nasty way of showing up on film. They are such a pain for the makeup department to hide.”
“That bitch,” Celeste muttered. “That girl must be stopped.”
“Christina isn’t part of this crazy entertainment world,” Lydia said. “She’s sweet and young. You know, I think she was falling in love with Bradford.”
“Never fall in love with an actor,” Jessica said, and glanced at Celeste. “No offense, Cici.”
“Don’t worry, I’d never fall for an actor. Are you kidding? Marrying a producer was bad enough.”
“I know how she feels,” Mary Anne whispered.
Jessica looked at Mary Anne, as did Lydia and Celeste. Like any good writer, Mary Anne spent most of her time observing whenever they were together. It was a rare occasion when she actually offered information that was personal.
“I walked in on my boyfriend … well, you know. I walked in on him at our apartment with our neighbor.”
“Was this Steve?” Lydia asked.
“How did you know?” Mary Anne looked at Lydia.
“You mentioned Steve and Viève in the ambulance the night Bradford almost killed you.”
“It’s just so awful.” Mary Anne gazed into the distance.
“I think it’s safe to say we’ve all been there.” Lydia glanced around the table. “Or almost there. Maybe not quite as graphic as your and Christina’s scenes, but pretty close.”
Jessica nodded along with Celeste. She sighed. “Twenty million or not, I’m almost glad Bradford Madison isn’t my client.”
“I agree with Cici. I think it’s time Miss Ellison gets a little of what she gives.” Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Cici, you said you needed film. Well, I think I know just the person who can help us, and she just so happens to work for you.”
“Work for me? Who?” Celeste asked.
“Kiki Dee,” Lydia said.
Chapter 21
Mary Anne and Her Anna Molinari Flats
Mary Anne sat in Lydia’s living room, relegated to the role of tissue passer. Mascara trailed from Christina’s long lashes to her chin. Heaving sobs shook her thin frame. Lydia had fled the scene to find Zymar, hoping to prevent a jail sentence for him and bodily harm to Bradford, who wasn’t in the house but was making his absence felt by lighting up the phones (all six lines, including Christina’s cell).
“I feel so silly,” Christina said, and blew her blotchy red nose. “I mean it’s a fling, really.”
Christina glanced at Mary Anne, who interpreted the look as a request for confirmation. She nodded.
“It’s not like we were,” Christina sniffled, “in,” she said, grabbing another tissue, “love,” she wailed, her emotions breaking apart again.
Mary Anne kicked off her Anna Molinari flats. She felt sad for Christina and a little mournful for herself. Images of the afternoon she’d walked in on Viève and Steve flitted through her mind.
“I mean, I know actors. I understand. I’ve been on film sets my entire life. My mother’s an actress—she’s been married three times. I get it,” Christina said, as if trying to convince herself. “It’s just that”—she grabbed yet another tissue—“he seemed different, he seemed different when he was with me.” Her forlorn face implored Mary Anne to spout words of wisdom.
“Maybe he was,” Mary Anne said.
“What?”
“Different when he was with you.”
“Yeah, right, more like just a fucking good actor,” Christina shot back, rubbing the tissue under her eyes.
“No, really. Maybe with you he was the very best he could be, as a man, but …” Mary Anne paused, testing out her next words in her mind.
“But what?” Christina asked and sniffled.
“But that’s just it. When you were around, you helped him to be this really great guy, the Bradford Madison he always wanted to be, but when you weren’t around—”
“He became the self-absorbed, nihilistic prick he always was?”
Mary Anne allowed herself a small smile. “You can’t change someone’s behavior. You can’t love him into being someone he’s not, and you can’t blame yourself for his decisions.”
Christina bit her lower lip. “I know all that. I get it, but it still just absolutely sucks.” She glanced out the window. “What is it with men? Do they ever get any control?”
Mary Anne sighed and shook her head. “So far, I say no.”
In the land of sunshine, community property, silicone, and starter husbands, did marriage even really matter? The longer Mary Anne lived in Los Angeles and worked in Hollywood, the more she was surprised that anyone still married. Everyone, it seemed, traded up every two years. Why not sign a lease agreement for a relationship instead of entering into a marriage? Commit for a finite period of time, and then move on; maybe if you knew at the beginning of the relationship that you only had so long together (not open-ended, like until death do you part), it’d be easier for men to keep their dicks in their pants. Perhaps the key to maintaining a relationship was even easier: Never give your heart away. Never be vulnerable. Never fall in love. It seemed to work for Lydia—or it had before Zymar.
“That’s enough of a pity party for me.” Christina took a deep breath. “Besides, I’m back to London in three days, and I don’t want to waste this last little bit of time crying over that bugger.”
Mary Anne admired Christina’s strength. Finding Steve in bed (well, on the couch) with Viève had left her rocking and wailing in Sylvia’s apartment for at least four days, unable to eat or speak. Mitsy had threatened to come out and have Mary Anne committed if she didn’t at least return her calls.
“Okay then, I am going upstairs to destroy every gift Bradford Madison gave me, except the diamond necklace—that I’m keeping. Then I’m going shopping.”
“Retail therapy?” Mary Anne asked. She hadn’t even known the term existed prior to meeting Celeste.
“Exactly,” Christina said, smiling tentatively. “And then we are going out tonight.”
“We?”
“Yes, Nobu first and then to Tantric
.”
“The new club in Hollywood?” Mary Anne raised her eyebrows.
“Opened last weekend. Very hot.”
“Hmm, not sure,” Mary Anne hedged, looking down at the red toenail polish chipping off her toes (she’d failed to maintain her pedicure).
“Mary Anne, you have to,” Christina said, her bottom lip quivered. “I asked Cici earlier if she’d go and she promised, but that will be a mob scene. I won’t have anyone to speak to if you’re not there. Besides, what if I run into Bradford, or worse, Brie?”
Mary Anne sighed. “Okay.”
“The car will get you at eight.”
*
Mary Anne sat in a semicircular booth in the VIP section of Tantric, watching as Cici gyrated on the dance floor below with a gorgeous man-child who couldn’t have been older than twenty. Cici turned and slid her ass against the man-boy’s privates, proudly displaying a white Vivienne Westwood shirt with a neckline that plunged to her belly and showed off not only her perky breasts, but her chiseled abs and tiny belly button. Enough friction to start a forest fire.
“Time to make a friend,” Christina picked up her mojito and gestured toward the bar. “That’s Boom Boom, Cici’s publicist’s assistant. She’ll love this dirt on Brie.” Christina gave Mary Anne a wicked grin and walked to the red VIP rope. Christina nodded at the bouncer, who quickly unfastened the barrier as he ogled Christina in her Jean Paul Gaultier boots and Emanuel Ungaro short shorts.
Mary Anne scanned the club. She’d now participated in “the scene” a half dozen times, but she was always surprised to see the same faces flitting about: Vilmer, Zach, Jessica, Nikki and Paris—always out, always at a new club, and always drinking.
Mary Anne wasn’t surprised, however, when she and the girls quickly attracted two gadflies and a hanger-on. They magically appeared everywhere, and tonight, as soon as the waitress started the bottle service (at $750 for Cristal), the three ladies had company. One was a “baby” celebrity with a show on Fox—or was it CW? The girl either had a massive crush on Cici or a tendency for stalking. She’d practically plopped herself on Cici’s lap trying to get close. A second hanger-on (or maybe working man) was the dirty dancer now running his hands across Cici’s ass and thighs. And finally, next to the actress sat a celebutante with nothing much for talent other than her sparkling blue eyes, her father’s name, and her immense bank account. Those attributes, thus far, had been enough to get her four films and two television shows.
