by Maggie Marr
In fact, the entire evening was preposterous. Spy cameras, two-way walkie-talkies, video receivers and digital displays. And for what? Revenge. The sweet taste of revenge. Knowing that every time she placed her Black Card down to purchase a pair of Ferragamos or Louboutins, it wouldn’t be her money paying for the purchase but Damien’s. He’d always been cheap. Celeste blamed it on his Midwestern upbringing. His family had money; they just never spent it. Damien was the same way.
“Cici!” Bradford yelled into Celeste’s earphone.
“What?”
“Start the car,” Bradford gasped.
“What?”
“Start the car.”
He sounded like he was running.
“Bradford, where are you?” Celeste turned the key in the ignition.
“Unlock the door.” Celeste turned and saw Bradford rapping on the glass. “Hurry, hurry. Damien’s behind me.”
As soon as the door lock clicked, Bradford jumped into the Porsche and Celeste gunned the accelerator. As she turned the corner, she saw Damien, barefoot and wearing his boxers, bent over at the waist gasping for air.
“What happened?” Celeste asked, taking the next corner fast and then slowing down.
“The cats.”
“What?”
“All six were in the closet with me. One sitting on my head. One curled up on a box right under my nose and another using my leg as a scratching post,” Bradford said, pulling up his leg and examining the marks.
“Were they finished?” Celeste asked.
“Weren’t you watching?” Bradford asked, incredulous.
“Couldn’t.”
“Well, it sounded like it from the closet.”
*
“Howard?” Cici heard a rustling noise over her phone.
“Cici? It’s one a.m.”
“I got it,” Cici said, unable to contain her excitement.
“Got what?”
“Tape of Damien and Brie.”
“How di—? Never mind, don’t answer that. Okay, let me think. God it’s late. Tomorrow put it in a plain brown envelope and mail it to my office. Do not put a return address on it, do you understand?”
“Sure,” Celeste stood in front of her giant TV, an image of a buck-naked Brie frozen on the screen.
“And don’t lick the stamp on the envelope; use water.”
“Not a problem.”
“Don’t use your local post office, either,” Howard said, a sigh escaping over the phone.
“Drive over to West Hollywood or the Valley; yeah, the Valley would be best.”
“That it?” Cici giggled. She was giddy, her endorphins running high.
“Yeah that’s it. Is it good?” Howard asked.
Celeste turned back to the television and clicked Play, the image of Brie straddling Damian coming to life. “It’s good,” Celeste said, turning up the volume so Howard could hear Brie’s moans over the phone. “In fact, I think it’s her best performance ever.”
Chapter 23
Lydia Albright and Her Dior Open Pumps
Lydia didn’t want to show Zymar’s rough cut. It was good, but the film wasn’t ready. Unfortunately, her desire held little weight when compared to Arnold’s order to screen the movie for him privately that evening. Arnold’s order, plus an explicit threat that he would pull the film’s editor for another film and reassign the editing suite if she didn’t obey, was at this critical juncture, a fate almost worse than shelving the film. They were too close to the end to lose the film now. So Lydia grudgingly acquiesced, and now she and Zymar sat side by side in the third row of one of Worldwide’s screening rooms, with Josanne and Arnold several rows behind them.
“Lyd, it’s not even color-corrected yet,” Zymar whispered across the armrest.
“They know you’re only three weeks into postproduction.”
“There isn’t a score.”
“Don’t worry about the music. The shots are fantastic. They’ll get a feel for it.”
“If you say so, Lyd.” Zymar slid down in his seat. “But that little pecker is looking for any excuse to pull the plug.”
Lydia cringed. Arnold had them boxed into a corner. The film wasn’t ready to be screened, and yet they had no choice but to let the president of the studio view the print. She didn’t have any room to bargain; they were already over budget. With the additional shooting days and expense (due to Arnold’s fire marshal trick), she was at least $20 million over, probably more. She’d been shuffling paperwork, stalling on reporting expenses and signing off on budget reports to the studio in order to keep the production going and the accounting department in the dark.
Any other studio head, when dealing with a producer like Lydia (a producer with over $1 billion in box-office receipts under her belt) and a huge potential moneymaker like Seven Minutes, would accept the overage—in fact, on this big of a production they’d expect it. But Lydia could think of no other president of production who would have “set up” a producer in order to play out a personal vendetta.
Even though Lydia hadn’t turned in all her receipts, she was sure that Arnold knew she was over budget, probably down to the last penny. But what Lydia wondered was whether Arnold was aware that Lydia knew of his deceit. Arnold never had learned to cover his tracks well. An ego overage. It was a similar scenario that started their feud almost ten years before.
The lights dimmed as Lydia watched her film flicker to life.
*
As the lights went up, Lydia knew Seven Minutes Past Midnight was a hit. It didn’t matter that this was a rough cut, that it wasn’t color-corrected, or that it lacked music. Seven Minutes Past Midnight would pummel box-office records. Lydia felt it in her core.
“You are a brilliant director,” she told Zymar, beaming. She thought she saw him blush.
“Thank you, Lyd.” He squeezed her hand. “But it was all you that kept this film on track.”
They both tilted their heads over their shared armrest toward the back of the screening room where Arnold and Josanne sat. “Wonder what that little pecker thinks,” Zymar said.
“Liideeeaaa,” Arnold yelled from the back.
“Guess we’re going to find out,” Lydia whispered to Zymar as she watched Arnold stand and strut down the screening room stairs with Josanne close behind.
Not even Arnold was so stupid that he couldn’t see how fantastic the film was. Cici’s and Bradford’s performances were impeccable. The shots were genius. The action sequences well thought out and worth every dollar. Excellence and hard work had trumped Arnold’s petty, backstabbing personality. She’d done it again—produced another hit.
Arnold stopped on the stair above Lydia and Zymar (even though he stood four inches above Lydia, in her Dior heels, Lydia was still taller).
“Unbelievable,” Arnold said.
“I know. Really something, isn’t it,” Lydia said, and smiled at Zymar. “He did—”
“I am absolutely disgusted,” Arnold continued.
Lydia’s body recoiled as if Arnold had reached over and slapped her.
Arnold pointed his finger at Zymar. “How could you waste the studio’s money like this?” He turned and sneered at Lydia. “And how could you let him?”
“Arnold—”
“No. This is a mess. Worthless. Un-releasable.”
“Arnold, what are you talking about? This is a rough cut. It’s brilliant. With a final edit and a score, Seven Minutes will be number one at the box office.”
“You mean with another five million dollars.” Arnold’s piercingly shrill voice was rapidly approaching a level that he saved for outright rage, a tone familiar to Lydia.
“Our postproduction budget is approximately five million.”
“You’re already twenty over, aren’t you?” he snapped. “Josanne ran the numbers today.”
Josanne stepped forward with her ever-present black binder and flipped it open. “Yes, Mr. Murphy, with all the overages, and the invoice that we just received from the B
urbank fire department, this film is approximately twenty-one million dollars over budget.”
“Arnold, Weston and I discussed this when we made the deal, and with a budget of this magnitude, twenty-one million in overages is nothing less than expected—”
“Nothing? Lydia Albright, are you telling me that you wasting
twenty-one million dollars of this studio’s money is nothing?” Red crept up Arnold’s neck toward his face.
“Now, wait here, this film—” Zymar started.
“I am not speaking to you!” Arnold interrupted, shoving his finger in Zymar’s face.
“Now, there’s no need to get pissy,” Zymar argued. “This is just a rough cut. We all know that rough cuts are sixty percent at best. And this is already one terrific film, even at that.”
“You would say that,” Arnold said. “It’s your film. Your work is atrocious.”
Lydia was horrified. Arnold had just broken one of the cardinal rules of Hollywood. No one ever insulted someone’s work to their face. A studio executive might phone a writer or director’s agent to pass along a message that the studio was “less than pleased” with their work. But no one, under any circumstances, openly called something crap to the creator’s face. Was Arnold losing his mind? Lydia could feel the heat rolling off Zymar.
Zymar stepped forward, his fists clenched at his side. “Listen, you little red- headed prick. You’ve done nothing but try to sabotage this film since you took over the studio. And now that you know it’s going to be a hit and Lydia was right, you can’t stand it.”
“You hack! You are swearing at the head of a studio.”
“Damn straight, and wishing it was more than swearing I was doing.”
“Are you threatening me?” Arnold yelped. “Now you’re threatening me? Josanne, call security.”
“No need; I’m leaving,” Zymar yelled, and stomped down the stairs toward the exit.
“Lydia, control your director,” Arnold screeched.
“I am not a dog to be put on a leash, Mr. Murphy,” Zymar shot back.
“Come back here; this meeting isn’t finished!” Arnold screamed toward Zymar’s retreating back.
Lydia watched wearily as Zymar opened the screening-room door and then slammed it shut behind him. “Arnold, there isn’t anything constructive that’s going to come out of this tonight. Not now. Let’s reconvene in the morning.”
“Lydia, if you don’t get your director back in here right now, he’s fired! You’re both fired!”
They were so close to the finish line. Just six more weeks and the film would be released and the public could decide. Ticket sales would make the ultimate fool out of Arnold Murphy.
“Sorry, Arnold, got to go.” Lydia walked toward the exit. “It’s past my bedtime.”
“That’s it!” Arnold yelled gleefully after her. “Insubordination and job abandonment. He’s fired and you, Lydia Albright, are fired as well.”
Lydia looked at the little man standing on the stairs. “Good night, Arnold,” she called.
“I will shelve your film, Lydia. Do you hear me? You won’t work again.”
Lydia held up her hand and waved over her shoulder. She needed to find Zymar.
*
Lydia pulled the Stoli bottle from the silver bucket of ice that rested on the nightstand next to her king-size bed. She topped off her shot glass. It was four A.M. and Zymar was gone, bundled hours earlier onto a private flight to New Zealand with his editor, the footage, and the only rough cut of Seven Minutes Past Midnight. Lydia was sure she’d committed a felony and violated a slew of international copyright laws. And now, once again, she was alone.
The silence was loud. She hadn’t quite realized how integral Zymar had become to her home—his heavy footfalls, loud singing, Eurotrash accent, even his funky Balinese music that blared over her sound system. The house felt alive when he was in it. Lydia felt alive when she was with him. She sipped her vodka. Now Lydia just felt cold and alone. And not nearly drunk enough.
Arnold would ban Lydia from the Worldwide lot. Toddy had promised to go to the bungalow tomorrow and grab as many files as she could without appearing conspicuous. Thad Blumenthal, the producer of Turning Blue Pictures, whose company occupied the bungalow next to Lydia’s on the lot, had offered to have his staff sneak into Lydia’s bungalow over the next week to retrieve whatever Toddy left behind. They both knew that studio security would look the other way, as long as Lydia wasn’t the one clearing out her office.
Lydia set her shot glass on her nightstand, settled into her pillows, and pulled up her down comforter. Her king-size bed felt huge; she hadn’t slept by herself in months. She missed Zymar. It wasn’t just the disappointment with Arnold and the film. It wasn’t the humiliation of being scolded like a child. No, it was the pain and anger she knew Zymar felt that made her melancholy. She ached to reach over and snuggle deep into the safe, warm place inside his arms.
Lydia’s home phone rang. Four A.M.? There were maybe five people in the entire world who would call her this late. She contemplated leaving it to voice mail, but with Zymar on the lam and her new status as an unconvicted felon, she thought she’d better answer.
“Lyd, it’s Jess. How are you?”
“Well, I’ve been fired, my film and the love of my life are fleeing to New Zealand, and I’ve nearly completed a bottle of Stoli. I’ve been better.” Lydia felt woozy. It occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before.
“Arnold just called. He screamed for at least a half hour. I thought you should know he’s leaked the whole thing to the trades. It’s going to be front page in Variety and the Hollywood Reporter in the morning.”
“Nothing like making the trades. Is that it?”
“He’s having Worldwide Business Affairs file suit tomorrow in federal court. He’s claiming the film’s been stolen.”
Lydia snorted. That was rich. The film, her film, had, in fact, been beaten, bruised, and now abducted. But only to save its potential box-office life. “Yeah, well, I’m sure if he tries, he can track it down. There are only a few postproduction facilities in New Zealand.”
Jessica didn’t laugh. “Lyd, this could get really ugly. How much more time does Zymar need to finish post?”
“Four, maybe six weeks. Why?”
“I spoke to your attorney. He can probably stall for a while. I mean, the legal system is slow. But you realize you will bleed out in the industry while this is happening. You only have so much juice, and this is going to take most of it. All of your projects at Worldwide will be shelved and no other studio will want to take a chance with you until this gets sorted.”
Lydia had already contemplated how the next two months would be the longest and most painful of her entire Hollywood career (including when she nearly starved trying to make it as an actress). She didn’t have an office. She wouldn’t have an income. And no one in town would return her calls. They’d talk about her, just not to her. It was going to be very, very cold for Lydia Albright in L.A.
“Thanks, Jess. I know this town. I’ve already thought about it. Guess I’ll finally get all that reading finished.” Lydia glanced at the three-foot pile of scripts next to her bed. Writer samples, new scripts, potential films to make. Who was she kidding? There were no “potential films to be made” by Lydia Albright until Arnold got his print back. How could she win this battle? Even if Zymar finished the film—which was a complete long shot, since they didn’t have $5 million for postproduction or any money to pay the composer. Who would release it? Where would it be shown? Worldwide owned the film. And as long as Arnold was in charge, it would never get a release date.
“Lyd, I’m here. You know anything I can do, I will.”
“Thanks, Jess. I appreciate it.” Lydia sighed. The sun was coming up, but who cared? She didn’t even have an office to go to today.
“So I found you an office,” Jessica said with a hint of a smile in her voice. “You ought to feel pretty comfortable there.”
“What? Where?”
“Just after Arnold called, Beverly Birnbaum phoned. Said she’d expect to see you at her bungalow over at Summit around ten. Wanted me to tell you that your old office is still yours.”
Lydia smiled. It was always the Birnbaums who bailed her out. Now, if only Weston’s ghost could take care of Arnold. “Bev is the best.”
“Yeah, the whole family is.”
“Then I better get to sleep. I’m going to have a helluva headache in the morning.”
“Night, Lyd. Talk to you later.”
“Night, Jess.” Lydia set the cordless phone into its cradle. At least she didn’t have to stay holed up in the house licking her wounds. It was all about perception in this town, and starting later today she’d make sure that every producer, agent, and studio perceived that Lydia Albright didn’t have an ounce of worry. Even if every cell in her body was screaming with fear.
Chapter 24
Arnold Murphy and the Dolce & Gabbana
Arnold Murphy wasn’t stupid; he knew Lydia Albright’s game. He’d figured that out years before when he was stuck kissing Weston Birnbaum’s huge ass. Arnold knew her type; they were common in L.A. Fuck queens. Fuck the man (any man) in power and get what you want. The only problem for Lydia was that Arnold was unfuckable. At least by her. He waited impatiently in the back of his Lincoln Town Car for his driver to open the back door. If the lard ass would waddle around to Arnold’s side, he could enter Charles’s home at exactly 8:17 P.M. A perfect time to join a 7:30 P.M. soiree. Finally. Arnold glared at his approaching driver. How unfortunate for a life to be squandered shuffling people around in a car and opening doors, but then obviously his driver was barely capable of these mundane tasks. Arnold sighed, and waved his hands toward the waste of a man who chauffeured him to and from events, work, and home. What was his name? Ralph? Raymundo? Really, who the fuck cared? It was inconsequential.
He inhaled. Dead fish. He hated Malibu. The ocean was a toilet; every form of waste churned within the sea and people swam in that filth. He walked up the steps and the security guard pulled open the massive fifteen-foot doors. Charles liked things big.
