True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  A list of people who would never ever get a callback, come hell or high water. Of course, they were never to know this. On that list were The National Enquirer, The Globe, The Star, the entire producing and reporting staffs of Entertainment Tonight, Extra, Inside Edition; most definitely TMZ, and a motley crew of over-aggressive fans and stalkers. Someone named “Sam” (no last name given) was also included (previous posse member? Stalker extraordinaire? Long-lost brother?), as well as the fourteen girlfriends he had dated prior to Tatiana. (Obviously, good-byes were something Louis took seriously.)

  I had my work cut out for me.

  * * *

  The Ralph’s run netted six bags of groceries for a whopping $485.23—a bit pricier than the usual fare for a guy’s night out, I was guessing.

  Unless it was being delivered by a couple of third-rate hookers.

  I couldn’t pull into Louis’s driveway because he never answered the intercom when I rang up, so I parked out on the street. Grabbing two of the bags, I began the trek back to the house.

  As it turned out, there was no room to park in the driveway anyway, what with all the boy toys parked willy-nilly behind Louis’s own collection of hot wheels. There was a black Lamborghini Murciélago, a bright yellow Lotus Elise, and I recognized the red Humvee—a twin of the one Louis owned—belonging to Randy Zimmerman. Up until last year, Randy had owned an Aston Martin Vanquish, same as Leo. The trade-in was a sure sign that the auto Randy drove in any given year mirrored his idolatry of his client du jour.

  The front door was opened a crack. Still, I knocked before entering. No one answered, but I could hear the fight announcer’s voice and raucous men’s laughter wafting out from the living room.

  I found my way to the kitchen and dropped the bags on the counter. I considered whether or not to make another run out to the car but thought it best to make my presence known first. I headed out to party central.

  The lineup in Louis’s living room looked like a lad mag dream cover shot, something along the lines of “Hollywood’s Young Turks at Play.” Sprawled comfortably among the leather and suede sofa groupings with Louis were Ethan Blount, an indie director who had recently gone mainstream in a big way, having had the foresight to secure the film rights of a popular cult trilogy belonging to a well-known Japanese sci-fi/fantasy author; T.H.E. Mann, the gansta-hip hop artist known for his chart-busting X-rated rap lyrics and his trend-setting line of men’s clothing, who had successfully transitioned into movies as the lead of a new “urbanized” Oceans reboot (“Oshunz 10 + 1”); Bennett Fielding, a hot young TV sitcom actor whose very first movie role had been the comic relief in Louis’s last film; the ever-leering Randy Zimmerman;

  And Motorcycle Guy.

  Motorcycle Guy? Here?

  He did a double take too, then let loose with an ear-to-ear grin.

  Very nice!

  I glanced away, but I couldn’t help but smile, too.

  “Ah, and finally, here is the most important lady in my life,” Louis declared with a flourish. He didn’t bother to get up, though. He just tapped the picture-in-picture feature on his remote control so that a Man Show wet T-shirt contest could be viewed at the same time as the boxing match.

  “For the next forty-eight hours, anyway,” Randy sneered.

  “Or, until Tatiana hears you’ve said so,” Bennett chimed in, then guffawed, as if he’d been auditioning for the role of class clown.

  “Don’t mind them, dearest. They’re just jealous because you’re not only capable but beautiful as well—whereas Ethan’s assistant is some techno-nerd like himself, T’s assistant is his very pregnant wife’s ever-watchful brother, Bennett’s girlfriend won’t let him have one of his own, Randy’s assistants are usually out the door in a minute and a half, or end up in the psych ward because he’s so abusive, and Mick doesn’t have the cash flow or the stature to rate his own Hannah. Well, that’s just too bad, eh? They’ll just have to admire you from afar.”

  From the looks on their faces, he’d gotten across his underlying message: Lay off; she’s all mine.

  “Besides,” Louis concluded, “Someone has to take care of my dirty laundry. Believe me, it’s not something Tatiana aspires to.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Guess what? It’s not what I aspire too, either! Instead I smiled benignly—and groaned inwardly: in my haste to make it to Genevieve’s before six, I had forgotten to drop his laundry at the dry cleaners. I made a mental note to myself to do so first thing in the morning, and to beg the clerk to have it back the same day. Of course, I would make up the difference and take the loss.

  This job was already costing me money!

  “Hannah, meet my guys: Bennett Fielding, Ethan Blount, T.H.E. Mann, Randy Zimmerman, and Mick Bradshaw.”

  I shivered at the sound of Motorcycle Guy’s real name. It was almost as if that charge I’d felt when he shook my hand on Laurel Canyon Boulevard had been reignited at the center of my spine, and, in a flash, had worked its way back up and somehow wound its way back into my heart.

  (Stop it, Hannah! He’s in Louis’s orbit, which means he’s out of your range).

  It took a moment, but I came to my senses and murmured a bright, “Nice to meet you all.” Before I could turn to leave, though, Randy drawled out, “Oh, I know Hannah. We’re old friends, ain’t we, sweet thang?”

  His suggestive tone raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Randy expected one of two reactions: for me to slink off because I was too embarrassed to answer him, or for me to be flattered that he wanted to hang out with his wang out.

  What, was he kidding? All his arrogance earned him from me was a look that should have turned him into a SnoCone.

  “Dude, that ain’t no way to treat a lady.” T.H.E. got up and proffered his hand. “These boys have the manners of a pack of hyenas. Don’t be giving ’em no mind, sweetie. And you can call me T, if I can call you Hannah.”

  “Thanks. Please do, and I’d be honored to do the same.” I smiled up at him, willing to forgive and forget all those nasty rumors about his having pistol-whipped the head of his music label as his way of expressing “disappointment” over the lack of promotion for his latest CD, or that, just a nanosecond before I’d entered the room, he had commented on how he’d like to “twang the G-string” belonging to the third contestant from the left.

  “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to bring in the rest of the groceries.”

  “Need any help?” Mick asked nonchalantly enough, but he still had that shit-eating grin on his face, which made it all the more difficult for me to keep a silly smile off mine.

  “There are only four more bags,” I said hesitantly. ”It’s nothing, really—”

  “I don’t mind. I need to stretch my legs, anyway.”

  “Sure, okay. Thanks.” I was glad to see that the others were preoccupied with the pre-fight commentary as Mick followed me out the front door.

  “I can’t believe you were on your way here.”

  “Yeah? Well, I can’t believe that you’re Louis’s new assistant.”

  Simultaneously we both said, “You should have seen the look on your face—” and burst out laughing at the serendipity of it all.

  It was too dark outside to see much, and it seemed totally natural when Mick grabbed my hand and steered me up the driveway toward the gate. Halfway there, he bumped into Randy’s Humvee and yelped: he had hit the knee with the open wound from the motorcycle fall.

  “Gee, I—I can’t apologize enough for that.”

  “Hey, it’s just a scratch, really. Besides, if I hadn’t fallen, we would have met under totally different circumstances. That might have changed everything. Fate, you know?”

  I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I liked the way it sounded. “I guess you’re right,” I answered cautiously. I was glad that it was dark and he couldn’t see how happy hearing that made me, because I wasn’t yet ready for him to read me so openly.

  Besides, there was still the issue of my work
ing for Louis.

  “So, how long have you known Louis?” I asked as casually as possible. I opened my car door, then grabbed two sacks of groceries and handed them to him. I picked up the last two bags and locked the car door.

  “For a couple of years. I was the script doctor on Fast Eddie, his first American film.”

  “Oh, yeah? I remember that one.”

  “Yeah, well, he had the role pegged. You know, ‘fast-talking bloke taking L.A. by storm.’”

  “Sounds like total typecasting.”

  “Seems to have turned out that way. Anyway, that’s when we started hanging out together. I also wrote Dead End, which he starred in.”

  “I know. It just came out, right? That’s the one that may get him an Oscar nod. Wow, you two have a great relationship: artist and muse.”

  “Not really.”

  “You’re not great friends?”

  “No. I mean, yes, we are close buds, but he’s not my ‘muse.’ I wrote it several years ago, before I’d even met him. In fact, it was my first script, and I had another actor in mind for the lead. That guy turned me down, though, and it sat in a drawer for years. Louis read it and pushed the studio to get it made. I owe him a lot for that.”

  We’d walked into the kitchen undetected. The boxing match had just started, and curses, whoops and whistles were flying out from the living room. I opened a few cabinets until I found ones containing the needed plates and trays then I began unwrapping the prepared dishes. Mick seemed in no rush to get back to the guys, which was fine with me.

  “Of course, being the grateful friend that I am, I guess I’ll have to tell Louis what you really think of him.”

  Was it that obvious? I turned around, startled. “How do you know what I think?”

  “You told me, remember? At the scene of the accident. You called him a ‘slave driver.’” He let loose with another teasing grin.

  I laughed. “Who do you think he’ll believe, you or me?” I blinked my lashes in mock innocence.

  “That’s a good question,” said Louis.

  Neither Mick nor I had heard him enter. We both stared at him, like two guilty children caught playing doctor or something. He looked from one of us to the other, not sure what to make of our little game.

  “I didn’t know you two knew each other. Gee, Hannah, you seem to be very popular.”

  “We just met tonight,” I explained. “Unfortunately, on my way down the hill, I ran out of gas, and Mick stopped to help.”

  “Oh.” Louis turned back to Mick, bemused. “So Hannah is the girl you almost ran over. Interesting.”

  “Yep, she’s the one.” It was Mick’s turn to be embarrassed.

  “Why? What did you say?” I asked Mick, confused.

  “He said, ‘I almost ran over the best piece of ass I’ve seen in a long time.’ Of course, had I known he was talking about you, Hannah, I would have said, ‘Too bad, because you can’t have her, she’s mine.’” He laughed. “By that I mean only during your waking hours. The last thing I am is a slave driver, right?”

  I knew better than to answer honestly. With calm precision, I picked up the loaded tray and carried it into the living room.

  * * *

  I did my best to stay out of the living room for the rest of the evening. Even when I was called to bring in more poi blinis with smoked salmon (care of Wolfgang Puck takeout), wheat-free tofu-topped pizza (ala Cheebo) or British Columbia salmon (Zone) with a pitcher of Goji Himalayan Juice or Lagunitas Draft Micro-Brew to go with it, I ignored Randy’s jibes, Louis’s sudden attentiveness, and most certainly Mick’s apologetic glances.

  To keep myself busy, I went over Louis’s itinerary for the next day with a finetooth comb, making notations as needed:

  5:00 A.M.: Wake-up call

  6:00 A.M.: Limo to Columbia Pictures

  6:30–7:00 A.M.: Make-Up, Bldg K

  7:00am-6:00 P.M.: On Set (Breakneck), Studio 1002

  12:30 P.M.: Lunch in Dressing Room (Zone!) and Entertainment Tonight interview with Mary Hart

  8 P.M.: Premiere of Ethan Blount’s latest film, Tales of the Crystal Universe at the Arclight on Sunset

  10:30 P.M: After-party for Crystal Universe at the Viper Room

  Does the guy ever sleep? I wondered. Apparently he did not, which meant that I wouldn’t be getting much shuteye either for the next couple of months. Or time with my telescope, which was an even bigger crime in my book.

  Sighing, I then put my mind to perusing Louis’s itinerary for the rest of the week. Based on that, I would have to coordinate the following:

  Leave Sunday for New York, via the studio’s private jet, to promote Dead End.

  Monday: in the early afternoon, Louis would be photographed by Annie Leibovitz for a Vanity Fair cover; in the early evening he would join James Lipton for an “Inside the Actor’s Studio” interview, which was to be taped in front of an audience filled with film students and cinephiles. (So that Louis could prepare a full arsenal of appropriate responses and interview postures—unabashed modesty, unwavering intensity, wise cynicism, perhaps a faraway glance that bespoke a bittersweet longing—Monique, Louis’s publicist, had included several DVDs of previous “Actor’s Studio” interviewees for him to study. This stash included interviews of the two Toms, Harrison, Johnny, Sir Ian, Benecio, Sir Anthony, Paul, Colin, and the pinnacle of all Lipton interviews, as determined by the “LGF”, a.k.a. the Lipton gush factor: the Barbra interview. It would be my job to study the tapes beforehand and make notations that might be of interest to Louis.)

  Book him into the Ritz Carlton, and accept only the “Ritz Carlton” Suite;

  (Oh, just great. And what if the Ritz Carlton Suite was already booked? Would Louis stand in the lobby and pout until it was made available? Or, as his “person,” would I be made to stand there and pout in his place?)

  Book Prudence K. for an in-room massage. Ask for “Barry” at the concierge desk; he will know how to find her. DO NOT ASK VIA SWITCHBOARD!!! (Hmmmm. . . .)

  Have four dozen yellow tulips sent to Tatiana, via her modeling agency.

  Have a late albeit romantic supper brought up to the suite—Zone, of course. (Can Zone meals be romantic? If not, should I switch the menu to South Beach? I mean, South Beach is more romantic sounding than Zone, so would it not follow that it would taste more sensual, too? Hard to say. )

  Next day: fly Virgin Air, upper class, to Heathrow, where Louis would complete voice-over production on his last British film, a dark take on Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, starring Louis in the Olivier/Maxim de Winter role. It’s considered edgy because it ends with Louis’s character actually being tried and hanged for killing his first wife. (This was Louis’s idea: “Updates the plot somewhat, don’t you think? Besides, it makes the role Oscar-worthy. . . well, it’s at least a shoo-in for an Olivier, right?”) (Would he want me in London with him? At least my passport is current, thanks to Jean-Claude’s insistence that, as a girlfriend of a jet setter, I should always be at the ready for a transcontinental jaunt on any given whim. That was another way in which our relationship did not live up to his promises: the furthest I ever got with him was Cabo San Lucas—and on my dime, surprise, surprise. . . )

  Book Louis into the Lanesborough. Accept only the Royal Suite! (Ah, the hotel of rock stars and fashionistas—which meant I’d have yet another chance to play “My celebrity is more important than your celebrity!” Would Louis’s name pull rank? And what would be my punishment if it did not?

  Limo Service: Regency Limo, ask for Alfonse. Accept none other!

  Ask Alfonse to arrange for in-room massage from Ernestine J. (Considering Louis’s after-flight massage rituals, it shouldn’t be a big deal to get the names and telephone numbers of his favorite masseuses from Barry and Alfonse for the PDA. Make mental note to do so. . . )

  Next day limo service to Notting Hill Sound Studios.

  Zone luncheon.

  Break for British Cosmo profile interview: “A Man for All Pleasings . . . �
�� to take place with a photo shoot by Mert & Marcus, at a King’s Cross Studio.

  Back in recording studio, until 6 P.M.

  Heathrow to LAX via Virgin.

  Limo home.

  I could already see that working with Louis was going to put a major crimp in my star search. Oh well, maybe I’d have the energy to sneak out tonight, after the party, I thought.

  But first things first. I called the limo service that Genevieve’s directions stated was Louis’s preference, and requested his favorite driver, Malcolm.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but Malcolm is already booked for tomorrow morning. However, he will be available later that evening to take Mr. Trollope to the premiere and the after- party.”

  “Oh.” I was in a quandary. Was Louis the type to throw a tantrum at things like that? I guess I’d find out the hard way, tomorrow. “Please send the next best substitute, then. Someone—um—unobtrusive.”

  Yeah, right, that was sure to appease Louis!

  Despite the fact that everyone except Randy claimed early studio calls, Louis’s shindig didn’t break up until two in the morning. Mick stuck his head in to say good-bye and (I’m guessing) to apologize, but I would have none of it: I feigned being tied up on a phone call to London (“Yes, yes, Mr. Trollope will of course require the Round Room, on the twenty-eighth. Please put the room under his usual pseudonym, E.A. Presley.”) and dismissed him with an impatient wave.

  My message was crystal clear: The game was over. We had both lost.

  Louis came in to say goodnight as I was washing the last of the plates and silver. “So, what time will you need me tomorrow?” I asked brightly.

  He laughed, as if the question had been a joke. “You’ll meet me here and ride in with me to the studio, of course. My assistant is always written into my movie contracts.”

  “Sure, of course.” It was a cool trick: My presence on the set ensured that my salary was to be covered by the producers during the weeks of the shoot schedule—a savings to Louis’s bottom line.