Hollywood Girls Club

by Maggie Marr

  “Shall we get started?” Howard asked.

  “It won’t take long,” Janice said, pulling out her briefcase and bag.

  “You received our settlement offer?” Howard opened his own file and rifled through the papers.

  “I did. As well as Ms. Solange’s attempt at blackmail.” Janice smiled.

  “Janice, I made this very clear. We have no idea who made this DVD. Or how. It came by U.S. mail. I even saved the envelope for you.

  “How very kind of you, Howard. I am sure you did. However …” Janice pulled a file from her briefcase and flipped it open. “Your settlement offer is out of line with the prenup that your client signed before she married Mr. Bruckner.”

  Howard cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Janice, in light of the DVD, and the discovery of Ms. Ellison’s birth certificate, I’m sure neither side wants a long, drawn-out process. We’re talking about three very high-profile people here. Besides, who knows what could happen if the district attorney’s office were to subpoena the DVD and the birth certificate.”

  Celeste looked at Damien across the table. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. He leaned on his left hand, watching Janice and Howard as if watching a Wimbledon match.

  “You know how the L.A. DA is. This is just the kind of slam-dunk celebrity case he’d love to try. If only for the publicity.” Janice glanced up from her file.

  “Yes. This kind of publicity can be very bad for a career. Especially when you’re a celebrity.”

  Janice pulled a DVD out of her briefcase and walked toward the television in the corner of the conference room.

  “May I?” she asked. In one swift motion she pressed the power button and opened the DVD player.

  “Of course. But Janice, we’ve all reviewed the DVD, and I don’t think—”

  “Howard, this is a different DVD.” Janice smirked.

  “Different?” Howard croaked.

  “Yes, much older.” Janice inserted the disc and stepped back from the television so that she and everyone else in the conference room had a clear view.

  Celeste watched as the grainy picture slowly came into focus. She gasped as the camera panned across an open-aired cabana in an exotic local, the viewfinder landing on herself a few years earlier. There she was, in all her naked glory. Breasts, ass, and Argentinean muff. All of them exposed. She and another couple filled the screen (very lovely people, an actor and actress she’d worked with on the film set where she’d met Damien), all engaged in acts of sexual gluttony. While Damien, Celeste now remembered, worked the camera.

  Celeste watched as she mounted the actor and kissed the actress. All had enjoyed the slow passion in the exotic South Caribbean locale. But Damien, ever-present Damien, was nowhere to be seen.

  The entire saga came rushing back to her. Damien had begged for the foursome, tantalizing Celeste with the promise of marriage if she proved that they were sexually compatible. It had been the last night on set in the Caribbean, and most of the cast and all of the crew had flown back to the States that day. As producer, however, Damien had stayed behind to finalize details and to close up the set. Plus, he wanted another twenty-four hours alone with Celeste, or so he said. Celeste realized now that what she then believed to be an impromptu orgy was most likely planned by Damien down to the last orgasm.

  Celeste watched as her body rocked back and forth astride the actor, her pelvis grinding away as the actress sucked on Celeste’s left breast. Just as the moment of climax arrived, Celeste threw her head back and looked directly at the camera. A face contorted in passion, staring blindly at the lens. Janice Rosenblatt hit Pause. There the frozen image of an orgasmic Celeste Solange, megastar, the woman whom America adored, flickered on the television screen. The woman whom men lusted after and women wanted to be. Parents took their children to see her movies. With one frame of film, Celeste realized, her entire career would be destroyed.

  Janice stared at Celeste, a sneer pasted on her lips.

  “Images are very powerful things. And this image, I’d say, is worth almost ten million dollars. Or, very simply, the amount your settlement offer asks for above the terms of the prenup.”

  Celeste felt numb. Humiliation and betrayal: Her entire marriage to Damien had been founded on those two cornerstones. She glared at her soon-to-be ex-husband. This was lower than she thought even he was capable of sinking. He leaned forward, peering at the television, holding his head in his hands.

  “Is this what you want?” Celeste hissed.

  Damien turned his gaze away from the frozen image of Celeste and stared at the living image sitting across from him.

  “This is what you brought on,” he shot back.

  “If we agree, how can we be sure this is the only copy?” Howard asked.

  “Damien,” Celeste said, her voice low, barely above a whisper, “is this how you choose to do this? In this deceitful, mean-spirited way?”

  Celeste could feel the rage building in her body.

  “You know the only reason I was even fucking that man was because you asked me to. Is this how you want to win?” Celeste asked, her voice growing louder.

  “Celeste, I just—”

  “Ms. Solange,” Janice interrupted, “I’m going to ask you not to speak to my client directly. Please ask me or your attorney if you have questions for Mr. Bruckner.”

  “Your client, Ms. Rosenblatt, is still my husband,” Celeste said. “Damien, after all that’s happened, is this what you want to do? Ruin me? Ruin my career? Ruin everything? The image that everyone in America believes about me? Take it all away from me?”

  Damien sat up and tugged on his shirt. “Celeste, I just want this finished. Whatever it takes, I want it over.”

  “Fine,” Celeste said, and stood. She picked up her Prada purse. “You know, Damien, I know secrets about you, too, and if this ever gets out—”

  “It won’t,” Janice Rosenblatt broke in.

  “If it does, you can consider life as you know it over.” Celeste glanced down at Howard. “I’m finished.”

  She turned and walked out of the fishbowl of a conference room. She’d suffered enough humiliation with Damien for a lifetime.

  *

  Celeste’s Givenchy shoes clipped across the cement floor of the parking garage under Howard’s building. She held her ticket out to the valet. She was humiliated. How had she ever loved such a snake? It was a cliche, she knew, but she’d given Damien the very best years of her life, both on film and in bed. She was pushing thirty (ahem, thirty-five). There weren’t any good roles for thirty-year-old actresses. Teenage boys drove box-office ticket sales, and teenage boys did not want to see thirty-year-old breasts (no matter how firm). Thirty-year-old breasts, Celeste surmised, reminded them of their mothers. No, teenage boys wanted to see twenty-year-old breasts.

  “Celeste, wait!”

  Celeste turned, She couldn’t believe Damien had the balls to follow her down here. She was angry enough to pluck out both his eyes with her bare hands. She scanned the parking garage. Where was the valet with her car?

  Winded, Damien jogged toward Celeste but slowed down a safe distance away. She knew he remembered that she was a black belt in karate and jujitsu and did all her own stunts (action roles came in handy). And Damien knew from experience that she could kick his ass.

  “Stay back!” Celeste threw up her right hand. “Not one step closer.”

  Damien stopped.

  “Celeste, I didn’t want it to end this way.”

  “What way, Damien? With you fucking a minor and film of me fucking a stranger? What way didn’t you want it to end? Because it’s ended in a repulsive pile of dog vomit.”

  “Janice said it was the only way around the district attorney pressing charges.”

  That was rich. As though Celeste would ever really give the tape and the birth certificate to the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office. It was a bluff; was Damien so stupid that he didn’t know that?

  “So you humiliate me in front of Howard
and that bitch?”

  “Howard’s seen worse. You should have seen the tapes Amanda had.”

  Celeste bristled. “How many tapes do you have, Damien? It seems you’ve managed to collect quite a video library of all your sexual trysts,” she spat out. Her nerves were raw and her emotions frayed. Where was the valet?

  “I would never show this to anyone. There are no copies.”

  “Really? How can you be sure? You don’t think Janice’s paralegal or secretary can’t recognize a hot piece of merchandise? Anyone can burn a DVD. You know and I know the value of a celebrity sex tape.”

  “I have the only one. …”

  Damien lifted his left hand. In it he held one DVD case with a clear cover. The fluorescent lights of the parking garage glinted off the reflective disc.

  “How can I believe you, Damien?” Celeste shot back. “I don’t believe anything you say anymore.”

  Damien stepped forward, holding the DVD in front of him, teasing her.

  “It’s true,” he said, holding out the DVD case toward Celeste. “And I’m giving it to you.”

  Every fiber in Celeste wanted to snatch the DVD from Damien’s hand, kick him in the balls, and run. But she restrained herself. She needed to be careful; where the DVD went, so went her career. That circular piece of plastic could ruin her forever.

  Damien took two steps closer.

  “Cici, just three things and it’s yours. I swear there are no copies.”

  “What are they?”

  “The prenup stays exactly as written, no district attorney, and I get the DVD of Brie and me. Fair?”

  “Fair isn’t the word I’d use, but it seems to be the only deal I can make.”

  “You played an excellent game, Celeste. I’d say we ended in a stalemate.” He handed Celeste the DVD.

  “Howard has the DVD of you and Brie. Plus the copy of her birth certificate.”

  “Yeah, although it looks like I have to marry her just to be on the safe side.”

  The valet revved Celeste’s Porsche up to Celeste and Damien. Finally. The valet hopped out and held the door for her.

  “So in a way, Celeste, even without the money you win.” Celeste climbed into her Boxster.

  “How do you figure?”

  Damien walked forward and leaned into the open coupe.

  “Celeste, I’m finished. If Borderland Blue doesn’t hit, I’m through. Summit isn’t renewing my producing deal and I’m way too old to become an independent producer. Plus, I’m stuck with an eighteen-year-old child to raise, unless she divorces me or finds someone to run off with.”

  Celeste relaxed into the driver’s seat of her car.

  “I would have stayed married to you forever,” she said. Damien looked into Celeste’s eyes.

  “I know. But you know what, Celeste, I don’t deserve you.”

  “Thanks, Damien,” Celeste said.

  “Got to get back upstairs,” he called as he backed away from the Porsche. “You know that bitch charges me seven hundred fifty dollars an hour.”

  *

  Celeste sat on the floor of her custom-made closet crying. She held the DVD Damien had given her as tears streamed down her face. She was alone. How pathetic. Celeste Solange, old and alone, in a giant house that terrified her. It hadn’t been the money she’d wanted, it was the revenge. She hadn’t gotten the money, and now she knew that revenge was useless. Seeing Damien withered and old. Admitting his career was over. Celeste now knew that there was no gratification in revenge. She had no emotions left inside her for Damien. She felt nothing but the embrace of sadness, knowing she’d spent so much energy and time obsessed with someone who meant nothing to her now. Someone who didn’t know her and didn’t love her. Damien had used her for his personal pleasure and then tossed her away. It was truly pathetic. How did she ever fall for that loser?

  Celeste didn’t know how long she’d been crying when her cell phone rang.

  “Hello,” she said, trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

  “Cici, are you okay?”

  Hearing that voice, his voice, made Celeste’s bottom lip quiver. “Yes.” Her voice shook as sobs engulfed her body.

  “Cici, are you at home?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice muffled through her sobs.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, okay?”

  “You will?” Celeste tried to gather herself.

  “I got in this afternoon. I tried to call earlier but you didn’t pick up.”

  “I was at Howard’s.”

  “Your attorney?”

  His voice was strong and soothing, as if he completely understood why she was upset.

  “Please, Cici, let me come get you. I don’t want you to be sad.” Such a simple statement, filled with so many promises for the future.

  No quips. No jealousy. Just unconditional kindness. Celeste wiped away the tears on her cheeks. The old Celeste would have shot back a coy or smart remark, letting him know that she really didn’t need him and that she was in complete control. But she did need him and she did want him. She hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. They’d been rendezvousing whenever he was in L.A. He didn’t burst in with machismo and bravado, trying to let Celeste know (as all her past lovers had) how lucky she was to have him. No, in fact, he always made it clear how lucky he felt to have her, that he’d met this smart and beautiful woman who was sharing time with him.

  It was disconcerting. It made her afraid. She’d never felt safe with a man, any man. But he wore her defenses down, with his consistent kindness and affection.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked her.

  “I’m really not hungry,” she said.

  “No, beautiful. I have the jet waiting, and you could use the time after today. Where do you want to go?”

  Celeste felt a smile creep over her face. The first true smile she’d experienced all day.

  “Well,” she said, “somewhere warm and private.”

  “Private? Why private?”

  She heard a lascivious hint in his voice. He might be nice, but he wasn’t a saint.

  “We might enjoy the privacy.”

  “I like the way you think, lady. I know just the place. Get your toothbrush. We just turned onto Mulholland and we’ll be at your place in five.”

  Celeste allowed herself another smile as she closed her phone. She looked at the DVD lying on the floor at her feet. Using her foot as a lever against the wood floor, she broke the offensive recording in two. No more smut, no more games, no more lies, no more Damien. That ugly part of herself and her life was dead, forever. With the snap of the DVD breaking, she knew it to be true.

  Chapter 28

  Lydia Albright and Her Bottega Veneta Woven Leather Platform Pumps

  Lydia pulled her black Range Rover into the guest parking space in front of Beverly Birnbaum’s bungalow on the Summit Pictures lot. Guest, that’s certainly what she was, having been banned from Worldwide. She’d been sharing space with Beverly for six weeks. Thank God Toddy had been compulsive about the daily downloading of Lydia’s files to Lydia’s laptop and BlackBerry. Toddy had managed to sneak into Lydia’s old office the day after her expulsion and grab scripts and files before security showed up and escorted Toddy to the studio gates. Thanks to Toddy, they hadn’t lost anything but office space. And Beverly Birnbaum was kind enough to give Lydia that and a phone.

  Lydia hadn’t spoken to Zymar in five days. Tucked away in an editing bay in New Zealand, he was furiously finishing Seven Minutes Past Midnight. The composer, Derek Van Hausen (a close friend of Zymar’s and a connoisseur of Balinese brothels), had agreed to finish the score without any guarantee of receiving full compensation. Lydia thought Zymar was a miracle worker; no one in this business worked for free. But Derek believed in the project and in Zymar. Besides, Worldwide had already cut Derek a check for the first half of his fee, and he felt confident he’d receive the other half. After watching Zymar’s cut, he knew there was no way that Worldwide w
ouldn’t release this film. And Derek’s score, according to Zymar, was perfection.

  Lydia passed Toddy, who sat outside Lydia’s tiny closet of an office at the back of the Birnbaum bungalow. Lying on Lydia’s desk was yet another ominous-looking envelope from Worldwide Business Affairs. This was the third she’d received. The others threatened jail time, monetary penalties, and lawsuits if the print for Seven Minutes Past Midnight wasn’t immediately returned, and she was sure this one did the same. Of course, Lydia’s entertainment attorney also received copies, as did Jessica. They were doing what any good team of representatives would do in this scenario: They were stalling. That and playing stupid.

  “You are not to tell anyone where Zymar is,” Jessica had told Lydia over the phone.

  “Jess, everybody knows he’s in New Zealand.”

  “Lydia, everyone but you knows he’s in New Zealand. Got it? Right now it’s the only way. And don’t call him from your home or your cell. If this thing actually goes to trial, we do not want anything on your phone records. Use Bev’s phone. Or borrow Mary Anne’s. Do not leave a paper trail.”

  As a soldier in the screen trade, Lydia had conquered many opponents, but this war, the one with Arnold—this one seemed so personal.

  “I miss him.”

  Jessica sighed. “I know. It’s even more painful when you’re in love. Changes the whole dynamic for the film.”

  Lydia bristled. In love? Am I in love with Zymar? Sure, he made her happy. She could barely sleep in her own bed without him. And she moped about the office pining for him. But also for her film.

  “Jessica, I don’t have time to be in love with Zymar,” Lydia said, laughing. “I’ve got too many movies to make.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have time to love Mike Fox, either, but I do. Don’t worry, Lydia, no one is going to force you to quit film, stay at home, and make babies,” Jessica said. “Okay, that’s one of Arnold’s henchmen on the other line, gotta jump.” She released the line.

  In that single conversation, Jessica had articulated every one of Lydia’s fears. As a child, Lydia watched her frustrated mother (an actress by calling) marry a producer and leave her career behind. A semi-star, Sally Albright gave up Hollywood, bore three children, and drank herself into oblivion each night. It wasn’t until Lydia was ten, when her father’s career as a producer was peaking, that her mother’s drinking got really bad. Sally would sit on the back veranda at night, staring at the pool, railing against the fate of her life. When Sally was particularly drunk, she wanted an audience for her sorrow, and because Lydia’s father was always away on set and her two younger brothers were asleep in bed, it fell to Lydia to absorb the rants. How could Lydia have been so blind?