Some Nerve

by Jane Heller

  “I suppose my company could function the way other freelance businesses do in Hollywood—the party planners, the stylists, the personal trainers, the life coaches.”

  “Life coaches?” She groaned. “Do they really have those?”

  “Oh, yeah. Celebrities don’t need a good reason to hire people. It’s part of being famous. You have to have a posse.”

  “Then there won’t be any problem for you financially,” she said. “You’ll be just another service provider, only the service you’ll be providing will be helping people. Really helping them. And in doing so, it’ll help you too.”

  It was a genius idea—a career opportunity about which I had no ambivalence whatsoever. I felt energized and optimistic that I could make it work once I figured out the details and tested the waters.

  Shelley and I wound up the conversation with me thanking her profusely and her promising to hook me up with Heartland General’s public-relations coordinator whenever I was ready.

  “We get first dibs on Malcolm Goddard, seeing as we cured him,” she teased.

  “I wouldn’t count on him becoming my client,” I said. “He won’t even take my calls.” Yes, I’d tried to reach Malcolm since I’d come back to L.A. Many times, in fact. I’d left messages on his cell phone but had never heard a word in response. And I’d given my name to assorted assistants and housekeepers and not gotten anywhere there either. He had frozen me out.

  “His loss,” she said. “You’re a lovely lady, Ann. You’ll find someone else.”

  I didn’t want anyone else, but that was a subject for another discussion.

  OVER DINNER AT my apartment, I tried out the general idea on Tuscany and James. They loved the concept, so we batted around ways it could be implemented. It took an entire pitcher of margaritas, but we finally decided that my company would be a specialty public relations firm dealing exclusively with celebrities and hospitals. I would acquire a contact list of PR coordinators from every major medical facility around the country, and the celebrity publicists looking for positive media attention for their clients would subcontract out to me the job of placing these clients with the appropriate hospital.

  “It’s perfect,” said Tuscany. “Publicists are much too busy dealing with the media to handle something as unique as this, right? They don’t have the time to go running around chasing down hospitals and patients.”

  “Absolutely,” said James, nodding his head, which now resembled that of an albino. He had recently bleached his hair plugs platinum. “And I can think of a million celebrities who could use good PR. The ones coming off a movie that bombed. The ones coming off a divorce that got ugly. The ones coming off a DUI conviction whose mug shots were posted on the Internet.”

  “You’re both being a little cynical,” I said. “There are some celebrities who genuinely enjoy reaching out to those less fortunate, and maybe they’ve been looking for a simple, straightforward way to do it. I’d be catering to them too.”

  “You’re right,” said a semichastened Tuscany. “There must be stars who want to do more than promote their latest project and don’t know how. Which is all the more reason for your business going gangbusters.”

  I was encouraged by my friends’ enthusiastic reactions and more convinced than ever that the company would be successful after talking to them about it. “I’ll start small,” I said. “I’ll work out of this room in the beginning. Then I’ll find office space and hire a staff as needed.”

  “What’s needed is a name for your enterprise,” said James. “A clever play on words.”

  “Something catchy,” Tuscany agreed. “Medical, but with an entertainment twist.”

  “I have it, Annie,” said James, clasping his hands together. “You should call the company PRx.”

  Tuscany and I looked at each other blankly.

  “Come on, you two,” he said. “It’s PR, as in public relations, but with the little x on the end, to look like a doctor’s prescription.”

  “Oh,” I said, getting it. “That’s cute.” I scribbled the name down on the pad of paper I’d brought to the table.

  “Wait. What about CPR?” said Tuscany, pointing at herself as if she’d just won the lottery. “It’s a play on words too. CPR, as in the lifesaving thing, but it stands for Celebrity PR too.”

  “I like it,” I said, adding her suggestion to the list. “I like them both.” There were a few seconds of silence while we kept thinking. “How about Star Shifts?”

  James rolled his eyes. “Too down-market. Like the celebrities would be working at a coffee shop or something.”

  “Okay. What about Celebrity Stripers?” I offered. “It’s a takeoff on candy stripers.”

  Tuscany stuck her tongue out. “Sounds like a reality show about celebrity felons. How about Hollywood Medical?”

  “A one-hour drama on NBC starring Heather Locklear,” sniffed James.

  More silence. More thinking. Then I jumped out of my seat and lifted my arms in victory. “Code Gold.”

  Tuscany smiled. “As in code blue?”

  “And code gray and code red and all the rest,” I said.

  “Code Gold,” James murmured, trying out the name. “To tie in with the gold statuettes they hand out at the Oscars.”

  “And the gold statuettes they hand out at the Emmys and the Grammys,” I said. “And the gold medals they give to athletes. Gold, as in the gold standard. Gold, as in glitz and glamour. It works, doesn’t it? It combines a medical phrase with entertainment and fun. I think we’ve got a winner.”

  My friends demonstrated their approval by raising their empty margarita glasses. “A toast to Code Gold,” they said in unison.

  I raised my glass too. “Here’s to the first company that encourages celebrities to show their caring, compassionate sides.”

  “Even if they never had caring, compassionate sides before!” said James. “To Code Gold!”

  “To Code Gold!” Tuscany and I repeated.

  We clinked glasses and congratulated each other for coming up with the right concept and the right name.

  “I hate to bring this up while we’re celebrating, but when are you planning to tell Harvey you’re leaving the magazine?” Tuscany asked me with a shudder. “I don’t want to be anywhere in the building when you drop the bomb.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I reassured her. “I know just how to handle him.”

  “Since when?” she said skeptically.

  “Since I figured out that if I give him the exclusive on every celebrity who visits a hospital, he’ll be a happy man,” I said. “Jennifer Garner goes to see a patient in Phoenix? I make sure Famous has the first photo.”

  She smiled. “You’re right. That’ll totally shut him up.”

  “Any other questions?” I asked my pals, who’d been helping me brainstorm my new venture for the entire evening but were probably ready to call it a night.

  “Just one,” said James. “Where’s that music coming from?”

  “Music?” We’d been talking so animatedly and uninterruptedly that I hadn’t heard anything but the sound of our own voices.

  “Yeah, listen.”

  We listened. Sure enough, my neighbor downstairs had his stereo on. Not blasting the way James used to blast, but definitely loud enough to make it through my hardwood floor. And I’d thought I’d escaped this time.

  “Oh God,” I said. “And it’s Cher.”

  “He has good taste,” said James.

  “Come. I’ll introduce you,” I said.

  I DIDN’T WANT to leave Famous without completing the task Harvey had assigned me, so I continued my pursuit of Danny Moder, even as I plotted the launch of Code Gold, and ultimately got the go-ahead from his battalion of gatekeepers to conduct the interview with him. He and I spent a very cordial two hours together at the Chateau Marmont, discussing everything from Julia and the twins to his first job as a cameraman. I wrote up the story, e-mailed it to Harvey, and received kudos both for my perseverance and my writing. M
y boss was so pleased with the piece that he sat me down in his office and started badgering me about my next one.

  He was in the middle of one of his “Now who’s the big get? Who? Who? Who?” interrogations when I took the opportunity to break the news that I was quitting.

  “What?” he yelled, getting the red kabbalah string he had tied around his wrist caught in the cord of the six-line phone on his desk.

  I explained about Code Gold, as well as how the magazine would benefit from it, and he stared at me as if I’d truly lost it.

  “Why would you throw away the chance to interview the people everyone wants to know about?” he demanded. “And why wouldn’t you want to beat out the competition to do it?”

  “Because there are more important things in this world than beating out the competition,” I said.

  “Like what?” he yelled in such a clueless way that I actually felt sorry for him. “The big get is what it’s all about!”

  “No, it isn’t,” I said, getting up from my chair and going around to his side of the desk. “What I’ve learned, Harvey, is that the big give is what it’s all about.” And then I did something that really unnerved him. I wrapped my arms around him and planted a huge wet one on his cheek. While he stood there gaping at me, I told him I looked forward to working with him in my new capacity and wished him luck finding someone to replace me on the staff. “You were right. I was never a killer,” I said as I walked toward the door. “But not to worry. This town is full of them.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Suddenly, I was a big get. I’m serious. I launched Code Gold and became the one everybody wanted to know more about.

  Almost immediately after I’d sent out press releases about the company to hospital PR departments, entertainment publicists, Hollywood trade publications, and the general media, celebrities clamored to come onboard. And once they did and the hospital tours began, I was besieged with interview requests. Me. On the other side of the questions this time. It was odd and wonderful simultaneously. I was profiled in Oprah’s magazine. I appeared on Jill Rappaport’s Today show segment. I sat down for a long conversation with a writer from the Calendar section of the L.A. Times. And then came Access Hollywood and Entertainment Tonight, and before I knew it, Code Gold was on the map big time. I sent Sean Penn to a hospital in Washington state and Courteney Cox to a hospital in Alabama and Queen Latifah to a hospital in the Bronx. Movie and television actors, sports stars, celebrity CEOs—they all wanted in. Reaching out to the sick and downtrodden was good for their images and good for their souls, they were discovering.

  As for me, those first six months after I’d left Famous and set up my company represented the happiest period in my professional life—with virtually no panic attacks, I should add. Once I was away from the pressures of having to sink to Harvey’s low level and threw myself into a career that nourished me, my mental health improved dramatically. No dizziness in crowds. No wobbly legs in supermarkets. Not even a fear of vomit. Tuscany had a stomach bug, and I was right there holding her head. I was becoming so well adjusted that I was scaring myself.

  Although I still hadn’t flown. In fact, I hadn’t been near an airport since the day I was supposed to fly with Malcolm on his Cessna. I’d been able to arrange all the celebrity events via phone, e-mail, and fax. But I knew I would step on a plane and tackle my last lingering phobia as soon as the situation warranted. I wasn’t avoiding flying, really. I just wasn’t rushing to do it. Everything was going so well that I didn’t need to.

  Not that I want to paint an overly rosy picture of my life. Yes, my business was thriving, but my love life was pathetic. Instead of accepting dates from the reasonably nice men who asked me out, I sat around pining for Malcolm. When I was in a particularly masochistic mood, I’d stick one of his movies into the DVD player, curl up in bed with a bag of Fritos, and watch him, recalling the anecdotes he’d told me about the making of each film and remembering how easily he’d shared his experiences with me. Because he’d trusted me. Because he’d fallen in love with me. Because he and I had connected in a way that didn’t happen every day. No matter what had come after, I wasn’t wrong about that.

  Sometimes, I’d schedule a Malcolm double feature and watch two of his movies back-to-back, long into the night. Seeing him on screen was the closest I could get to the real thing. I ached for him during those exercises in self-torture. I wondered where he was and with whom as I stared at his flickering image on television, but mostly what I wondered was why he wouldn’t forgive me. Surely he’d heard that I was no longer a media parasite. Surely he’d read about Code Gold along with everybody else in the entertainment community. His own publicist, Peggy Merchant, called me often, as sweet as could be, asking if I’d send Pierce Brosnan and some of her other clients out into the trenches. And every single time she called, I could feel myself tense, hoping against hope that she was calling on behalf of Malcolm. She wasn’t.

  Still, I didn’t give up on him, on us. Well, not until I ran into him and witnessed firsthand his complete and total lack of interest in me. One of the most important aspects of building Code Gold was to network at industry events. Toward that end, I attended a party at Morton’s restaurant, the spot where Vanity Fair always holds its Oscar soirée. This occasion was a birthday party for Sidney Lumet, the director who’d given Malcolm his first big break in New York. Since my status in town had risen considerably, I was able to score an invitation.

  I was chatting with Harvey, who was now treating me with grudging respect, when I spotted Malcolm across the packed room. He was not alone; Rebecca was holding his arm. The sight of them together was a kick in the gut, but I hung on.

  I continued to listen as Harvey pontificated, even as my gaze remained fixed on Malcolm, almost willing him to make eye contact with me. Come on, come on, I’m over here! I thought as I followed his every step, his every handshake, his every nod of the head. Look at me, Malcolm! Remember how you loved me! Tell me you want me, not her!

  Finally, there was a moment. He saw me amid the sea of bodies, I know he did. Maybe I was reading something into his expression that wasn’t there, but I could have sworn he looked happy that I was in that room with him.

  But it was only a moment, as I said. The hint of a smile or whatever it was faded quickly, only to be replaced by a blank face and, just as quickly, a turn toward Rebecca and a directional shift away from where Harvey and I were standing. No kidding, he literally steered her away from me, to avoid even the possibility of having to talk to me. Another kick in the gut, yes, but it served a purpose. After that party, I realized it was over and the pining had to cease. What’s more, I realized that despite how betrayed he felt and despite how much I’d deserved his anger, he couldn’t have loved me. Not really. If he had, he would have made some effort to bridge the gap between us, some attempt to work things out with me. But no. He hadn’t cared enough to make even polite conversation at a social gathering.

  I felt tears prick at my eyes, made my apologies to Harvey, and hurried off to the ladies’ room to regroup. I was at the sink, freshening up and vowing to stop feeling sorry for myself, when Rebecca sauntered in.

  “If it isn’t Ann,” she said cheerfully as I was wishing I was anywhere else but in that bathroom. She was wearing a very strange outfit—a black silk pants thing that was configured like overalls and wouldn’t have been out of place in Middletown if it had been denim—but she managed to look as beautiful as always. “Lovely to see you again.”

  “Same to you,” I said, wanting very much not to appear like a sore loser. Besides, I had to think about Code Gold. Rebecca was a potential client after all. “Enjoying the party?”

  She smiled. “I have a veddy, veddy, veddy handsome escort. I enjoy going ’round with him no matter where it is.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I said, feeling my spirits sink lower with each “veddy.” Hadn’t he told me he’d broken up with her because she wasn’t me? Apparently, not being me was now a good thing.
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  “And of course, Malcolm and I are so comfortable together after such a long friendship,” she went on. “We finish each other’s sentences.”

  So he really was hers. They were a couple. I had to accept it and take the high road. “I wish you two all the best,” I managed, “but I do have to get back to the party. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I’ve—” She hesitated. “Never mind. Enjoy the party.”

  “You too.”

  I held my head up as I walked out of that ladies’ room, but I was dying inside. I couldn’t shake the nightmarish vision of them finishing each other’s sentences, including the ones in the wedding vows they would undoubtedly be composing to each other soon enough. After all the things he’d said to me, after all the things he’d said about her, she’d won. She’d won and I just had to face it. It was time for me to forget Malcolm Goddard and move on.

  ABOUT TWO WEEKS after the party, I got a call from Jeanette. She and I had kept in touch since I left Middletown, just as we’d pledged we would. She’d been updating me on Bree Wiley, and the news hadn’t been encouraging. Bree continued to languish in the hospital waiting for a new liver, while her parents continued to look for full-time jobs. My heart went out to all of them.

  “I have good news this time,” said Jeanette, sounding very upbeat. “In fact, I’m calling from Bree’s room here at the hospital.”

  “What’s going on?” I said, cautiously optimistic.

  “She got the transplant, everything’s fine, and she’s going home in three or four days.”

  “Jeanette! That’s fabulous!” I exclaimed, knowing what a long road it had been. Bree had spent most of her childhood in hospitals and doctors’ offices and hadn’t even started to live her life. Now she would have a future. Now she would have the chance to do and see and experience all the things the rest of us took for granted.

  “She wants to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”