True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  80 Fifth Avenue, Suite 1101

  New York, New York 10011

  www.diversionbooks.com

  Copyright © 2010 by Josie Brown

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

  First Diversion Books edition June 2010.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  For Martin, Austin and Anna.

  True Hollywood Lies

  Part One: Luminosity

  Absolute brightness. The total energy radiated into space, per second, by a celestial object such as a star.

  Chapter 1: Black Hole

  When a star appreciably larger than the Sun has exhausted all of its nuclear fuel, it will collapse to form a black hole—“black” because no light escapes its intense gravity.

  In the Hollywood you know, here’s how the world ends:

  The ice caps melt.

  A meteor hits the earth.

  Aliens invade.

  In the Hollywood I know, here’s how my world ended:

  I buried the only man I ever loved: my father.

  I discovered that my boyfriend of the past two years was a lying cheating louse.

  And the money that had allowed me to pursue my one and only passion—astronomy—vaporized into thin air.

  And it all happened in less than 72 hours.

  I guess I should start at the beginning. And since this story takes place in the land of fairy tales, I’ll give you the fairy tale version first, courtesy of Hollywood’s official newspaper, Daily Variety:

  The King Is Dead

  Leo Fairchild, the most charismatic film actor of the latter part of the 20th century, has died. By most accounts, he was sixty-eight.

  Fairchild succumbed to a heart attack late Thursday night at his palatial Bel-Air estate, Lion’s Den. His fourth wife, former actress Sybilla Lawson, and his daughter, Hannah, were at his side. He was pronounced dead at 1:50 A.M. at Cedars Sinai Medical Center, said his attorney, Jasper Carlton. A private memorial is planned for today.

  “Leo Fairchild was a true original,” said a bereaved Jack Nicholson, a contemporary with whom Fairchild shared adjoining courtside seats at Los Angeles Lakers basketball games. “He had that special magic, that elusive alchemy that convinced audiences he was their hero, their best buddy, that noble guy we all wished we could be . . .”

  Leo X. Fairchild started out as a child actor in the 1940s, working with such esteemed directors as William Wyler, John Huston, Joseph L. Mankiewicz, and Billy Wilder. While the adoring spotlight fades on most child actors by the time they enter their teen years, Fairchild—tall, fair, and possessing a square-jawed handsomeness—matured seamlessly into a boyish teen heartthrob, then took on roles that seemed to mirror his personal escapades as a playboy raconteur, for which he won three Golden Globe Awards and two Academy Awards.

  Fairchild’s celebrity continued to burn brightly through the 1960s cinematic auteur era—he was a favored leading man for such directors as François Truffaut, Bernardo Bertolucci, Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese—and into the 21st century, as he played muse to such pop-culture-infused art house giants as Quentin Tarantino, Spike Lee, John Woo, and M. Night Shyamalan.

  Fairchild leaves prolific credits, some of cinema’s most memorable moments, and—if the tabloids are to be believed—a string of broken hearts . . .

  Truly touching.

  However, not exactly accurate—at least, not the part of how Leo died. I’d like to set the record straight, here and now:

  First of all, my dad, Leo Fairchild, was called to meet his Maker while he was screwing the latest love of his life—a 19-year-old starlet currently playing the eldest, ditziest daughter in a Disney Family Network sitcom—at that legendary celebrity hangout, the Chateau Marmont.

  The staff there was able to convince the other hotel guests that the hysterical, high-pitched shrieks emanating from his playmate were in fact the whimpers of Kim Kardashian’s pooch Gabanna, which, they insisted, was in a nearby suite, being supervised by Hollywood’s most renowned canine midwife while giving natural birth.

  Then, as a pacifier, they offered the human whiners a suite upgrade or a complimentary massage, whichever they preferred.

  By doing so, Marmont staffers were guaranteed that the inquisitive guests were preoccupied while the starlet—her screeches stifled amid stiff gulps of an expertly mixed French 75—was whisked out of Leo’s suite, down the back stairwell, and into a waiting Humvee limousine. At the same time, Leo was being bagged and tagged by discreet personnel of the renowned Hollywood Forever Cemetery before taking his last ride in a limo. (You’ve got to hand it to the hotel’s staff: no one handles a celebrity death like those folks. Just another example of how practice makes perfect.)

  Second, it is true that his current wife, Sybilla Lawson—a former beauty queen who considered herself an actress because of one walk-on she had in a ’90s made-for-TV movie—was at Lion’s Den, Leo’s obscenely humongous Roman-Greco palace in Bel-Air, which she insisted he build for them. Considering her usual martini-induced state of unconsciousness, however, if Leo had indeed died there, it might have been another 16 hours or so until she’d discovered him—and that is a really big maybe, given her propensity to stay in her bedroom for days on end and her assumption that any other prostrate bodies lying around were also suffering the slings and arrows of an outrageous hangover.

  And, to my regret, I wasn’t at Leo’s side either. Quite frankly, he had been dodging me for the past month, PDAing lame excuses for ducking out of our weekly Thursday-night dinner dates at the Sunset Lounge. And thanks to his cell’s caller ID, he could easily ignore my many concerned texts and voice messages. I couldn’t figure out why, although I had some inkling: he didn’t know how to tell me that he’d decided to pass on the project pitched to him by my current boyfriend, Jean-Claude, a fledgling (albeit fully financed) independent producer of French-German-Swiss-Hungarian extraction.

  Leo was wary of any man-boy I brought home. This made sense when I first started dating. After all, like most daughters, for the most part I chose guys who were anti-Leos. Having moved through my fair share of slackers, nerds, and pseudo-intellectuals—none of whom earned more than a derisive sigh from Leo—I took it up a notch and began dating third-rate actors: all sincere dudes and hard workers to the one, but they were still guys who were never destined to score beyond the second male lead in a made-for-TV movie, or be the nameless “Man in Video Store” or “UPS Man” in blockbuster films employing casts of thousands.

  “Hannah, my darling,” Leo would sigh. “If you’re going to date someone in the industry, at least find someone who’ll earn the right to share our legacy.”

  Translation: find a guy whom Leo would be proud to call his son-in-law.

  I thought that was what I was doing when I started dating Jean-Claude: handsome, wealthy, European, and itching to get involved in producing small films with meaningful messages. However, Leo thought (although he didn’t say it in so many words) that Jean-Claude was just another Eurotrash hanger-on looking for a free ride; that I was playing Lisa Marie to Jean-Claude’s Nick Cage—which, once again, made Leo the King in that scenario.

  Still, I denied this vehemently and clung to Jean-Claude, knowing we would someday prove Leo wrong.

  Ironically, the night Leo died, it was Jean-Claude who gave me the news.

  “Where are you, Hannah?” he asked tersely.

  I was annoyed because he should have known the answer to that: not three hours earlier, bored listening to him and his expat buddies wit
h obscure royal titles and dwindling bank accounts commiserate about the over-the-top bottle service and the stuck-up nude house models (specifically, the ladies ignoring their well-worn pickup lines), I quite distinctly remember telling him that I was going to head over to the Griffith Observatory with my telescope. Whenever I could get away (which, considering Jean-Claude’s predilection for barhopping, translated into every night of the week) I went planet hunting—that is, seeking out undiscovered planets circling suns in other galaxies.

  My current target was the red dwarf star known as AU Microscopium—or “Mic,” as we called it—which was moving in tandem through the galaxy with its sister star, beta-Pictoris, through the constellation Saturn. For nearly a year, I had spent every spare evening glued to the eyepiece of my telescope, watching that particular patch of ebony sky and carefully measuring every wiggle or flicker emanating from Mic for proof that some yet unnamed celestial body—a new planet—was in fact shadowing it.

  This “silly little hobby” (Jean-Claude’s declaration, not mine) was something he indulged me—particularly if there was enough eye candy to distract him from my absence.

  His frantic call put an end to all that.

  “It’s Leo,” Jean-Claude said, in a dire tone. “I think you’d better get over here as fast as possible.”

  “Where? Voyeur?” I was confused. It was a wannabe’s hangout, not one of the usual watering holes that established players like Leo often frequented.

  “No—uh, Lion’s Den,” he murmured distractedly. “Look, I don’t have time to explain. Please—” he choked—“just get here!” He then heaved a soft sigh into the phone, and hung up.

  That was how I came to realize that my father had finally left me for good.

  I didn’t jump into my car immediately but instead kept my eye on Mic. It seemed to quiver ever so slightly. At least, I thought so. Then again, through all my tears, it was hard to tell.

  * * *

  Leo’s memorial service was held at dusk in the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Crystal Garden. The setting sun’s soft rays, bouncing off the hotel’s pale pink stucco walls, provided a healthy glow to the complexions of the many stars in attendance.

  No doubt that was greatly appreciated.

  True to the claims that Leo had been “a thespian bridge between Hollywood’s Silver Screen era and that of a newer, rawer epoch in filmmaking” (not my proclamation, but that of The Hollywood Reporter), the turnout was a Hollywood Who’s Who: Barbra was there (in classic black Karan, of course), as were Nicole, Renée and Charlize (in funeral frocks provided by Prada, Lacroix, and Marc Jacobs, respectively); the two Toms (Hanks and Cruise); Nicholson, Pacino, De Niro, Scorsese, as well as the two Stevens (Spielberg and Soderbergh), and both the Coen and the Farrelly brothers. Also milling about was every up-and-coming actor, mobster, gangsta/rap singer-cum-actor, Playboy bunny, limo driver, bartender and waiter who had ever crossed Leo’s path.

  The eulogies were touching and numerous. Everyone had a “Leo” story. Both Toms waxed poetically about being “discovered” by Leo, and how his mentorship had changed their lives, while Madonna sobbed, albeit dry-eyed, “He was like a father to me.” (Of course, this immediately gave credence to the old rumor that the two had been more than “just friends” in her romantic hiatus between Sean and Warren in the summer of ’89.) Everyone’s head nodded in unison, leaving one with the impression that the “grand-père of cinema” (Newsweek) had mentored, bullied or screwed his way into the heart of anyone who had ever stepped foot on a studio lot.

  Having relieved the semi-comatose Sybilla from the process of planning and coordinating Leo’s funeral, I had not yet allowed myself the opportunity to acknowledge my own grief. By the time Warren and Gene began rhapsodizing on and on about some ill-fated bad boy shenanigan that the three of them had attempted during some on-location shoot in which Leo was once again the cockeyed hero, I couldn’t contain myself anymore; I let my tears fall freely along with everyone else’s.

  (Well, admittedly, most of the puffy eyes in the crowd were from the many eyelifts that had been performed that week. Still, it’s the thought that counts.)

  Long after the final guests had successfully maneuvered the paparazzi gauntlet and been whisked away via remotely-summoned limos, and after said paparazzi had finally snapped their final photos (including some of the catfight between Sybilla and the Disney Channel junior diva, which Jean-Claude was kind enough to break up), and after the waterworks display put on by Wife #3, a former soap opera diva, had finally trickled out (ironically, just seconds after the CNN cameraman had packed up his gear), I finally had the chance to collapse in anguish.

  I stumbled into the private hospitality cottage that had been rented in tandem with the Crystal Garden for use by the bereaved. At first it appeared that the small but elegant space was totally empty. As it turns out, it wasn’t. Sybilla had also decided to take her consolation there. I knew this because I could hear her wailing in the cottage’s bedroom.

  I sighed. In truth, I didn’t like the woman. While wooing Leo, she had been sickeningly sweet to me, hoping to inspire me to be her ally in that cause. I hadn’t obliged. I’d had my reservations about her, but I’d never shared them with Leo because he was a big boy and could make up his own mind in that matter, with or without my blessing.

  To my chagrin, once they married, she did her best to keep the two of us from seeing each other, or else she readily excused herself from our get-togethers. So as not to feel like a third wheel, Jean-Claude made it a point to bow out as well, which is probably why our Thursday-night dinners were so comfortable—that is, until Jean-Claude made it his life mission to produce Leo’s next movie, which is why Leo made it his goal to avoid Jean-Claude’s entreaties in every possible way.

  Speaking of Jean-Claude, where was he? I wondered. Sybilla’s wailing was excruciating. Since the moment she had heard of Leo’s death, Jean-Claude had taken it upon himself to give her a shoulder to cry on, so I couldn’t really blame him for finally ducking out.

  I tapped gingerly on the bedroom door. No answer. I tried again, a little bolder this time. Her convulsions only grew louder.

  Wow, I thought. I guess she really did love Leo!

  That was where I was wrong. Peeking through the bedroom door, I was able to confirm that, yes, Sybilla was hysterical with emotion—however, it was the ecstatic kind that only happens when you’re enjoying illicit wild monkey sex with someone who makes it his business to play women as if they were Stradivarius violins.

  That virtuoso was none other than Jean-Claude.

  Both of them looked up at the same time. It was as if the three of us were suspended in a time warp. Then, in slow motion, the desire in their faces melted into guilt. Still, it was no match for my own look of horror, I’m sure.

  I ran out the front door, ignoring Jean-Claude’s pleas as he grappled with the pants tangled at his feet. He caught up with me as I was unlocking my car door. “Hannah, please—” he stuttered. “It’s not at all what you think!”

  “What, are you crazy?” I screamed. “I know exactly what was happening in there.”

  “I was just—consoling her! It meant nothing, I swear!”

  “It may have meant nothing to you, but she was sure enjoying herself! Believe me, Jean-Claude, that was no performance. Sybilla isn’t that good of an actress.”

  He nodded resignedly. “All-right, Hannah, you want the truth, you’ll have it: Sybilla and I—we love each other.”

  “You—you what? Since when?”

  The thought suddenly struck me: Had Leo known about it?

  “I won’t lie to you. We’ve been in love for quite some time. We were just waiting—well, for the right time to tell you.”

  “And Leo, too?” I spat out the words.

  He frowned. “Yes, we were going to tell the both of you.”

  I couldn’t speak. It was as if someone had knocked the air out of me. Finally I murmured, “When would that have been? After he completed your fil
m?”

  Jean-Claude didn’t answer.

  “Well, then maybe he was right not to want to do it.”

  “Don’t be so sure he wouldn’t have. Sybilla would have talked him into it.”

  I winced at the inference: that she could have made Leo do something that I could not.

  “In fact, we were planning it as a comeback vehicle for her, too.”

  “For Sybilla?” The thought was so ludicrous that I laughed in spite of my anger. “Why, she couldn’t act her way into an infomercial! Marriage to Leo saved her from having to be turned down for—for a position as a QVC hostess!”

  “You’re cruel, Hannah.” With that, he turned and walked back toward the cottage. I wanted to call out—I don’t know, I guess I wanted to curse him, curse them both . . . or, maybe, ask him what I had done to deserve this.

  Instead I got into my car and fumbled to put the key in the lock. I couldn’t quite keep my hand from shaking in order to achieve that goal, so instead I sat silently, watching the fronds on the stately palm trees scattered throughout the hotel’s lawn rustle to and fro in a gentle breeze.

  My cell phone beeped. The caller ID showed that it was Jean-Claude calling. A shiver of hope ran through me: Maybe it was all just a big mistake, a bad, stupid dream! Maybe he realized how much he’d hurt me, how much I really meant to him. Maybe—

  I clicked it open.

  “Hannah, my sweet—” Sybilla.

  I almost dropped the phone. “What do you want, you conniving bitch?”

  “Just to warn you,” she cooed. “The will is being read tomorrow, and if I were you, I wouldn’t make any trouble.”

  “Don’t threaten me, you two-timing stepmother-fucking whore.”

  “Ouch. That hurt—you, dearest, and tomorrow you’ll find out exactly what I mean.”