by Josie Brown
“Should I come with you?” slurred the perennially annoyed Tatiana with a Slavic lilt. “That woman knows next to nothing about lighting! The photographer she chose made me look like a corpse!”
This from a woman-child whose alabaster skin was stretched so woefully thin on her bony five-feet eleven, 103-pound frame that her catwalk photos from Jean Paul Gaultier’s Auschwitz-inspired fashion show brought tears to the eyes of Holocaust survivors.
“No!” both Louis and I answered in unison.
Shooting me a daggered smile, he continued, “I won’t hear of it, my darling. She is much too temperamental, and I wouldn’t dream of putting you through such torment. I’ll deal with her alone. Hannah here”—with a steely grip, Louis pushed me forward into his lushly upholstered lair—“will be more than happy to keep you company while you wait. It should take fifteen minutes, tops.”
With that, he left the two of us to get acquainted; that is, Tatiana studied her Opi-glossed nails with that world-famous look of boredom etched in Prescriptives Flawless Skin foundation, while I tried not to stare . . . too much.
As if.
It was certainly easy to see how Louis could fall in love with her, even if this infatuation, like all the others, lasted only a few months. Most certainly she was more beautiful in person than she was in her renowned partially nude Mario Testino photos, more so because, in 3-D and living color, those sharp green eyes acted like an ever-changing emotional kaleidoscope despite the placid countenance on her exquisite face.
Particularly when she was thinking about Louis, as she obviously was during the 52 minutes prior to her not-so-nonchalant inquisition of me on that very subject.
“You, Whatever-Your-Name-Is-That-I’ve-Already-Forgotten: how long have you worked for Louis?”
“Only for a couple of days.”
“Oh, yes? How did you get the job?” The chill in her voice left nothing to the imagination as to her suspicions on how I must have accomplished this magnificent feat.
“I was referred to him by Jasper Carlton.”
She grunted her grudging approval. But believe me, that guttural utterance took all the magic out of our budding relationship once and for all.
Not that I could blame her for having doubts. Heck, from what I could tell just from being with Louis for the past 44 hours, if I were his girlfriend I wouldn’t trust him on the other side of the door unless he agreed to wear an electronic ankle bracelet.
Which is probably why, like me, she leaped to grab the phone when it rang. It was all the way across the room, and, thank God, I got there first. I attribute my win to the fact that she probably hadn’t eaten in a week and therefore hadn’t had the energy for anything longer than a short sprint.
“Yeah,” I growled brusquely into the phone, praying it wasn’t Louis saying he was “all tied up”—literally—and couldn’t break away, and so was asking me to keep stalling.
“Hi, Louis! It’s Caresse.” To demonstrate that she was just as accommodating on the ground as in the air, our friendly flight attendant then purred, “Care for some company?”
“No thanks. Got it covered,” I snapped back, then hung up.
“Who was that?” asked Tatiana, suspiciously.
“No one. Nothing important. Just the front desk, checking to see that everything is okay. With the room, I mean.”
Tatiana said nothing, but she scrutinized every word that had come out of my mouth, like a human lie detector registering any deviating nuance.
Had I tipped her off to the truth? I wasn’t to find this out until Louis came bounding through the door some 37 minutes later.
“Finally! What an unmitigated ordeal!” he moaned, taking Tatiana’s granite-like visage between his hands and giving her a long, lingering kiss. “Hannah didn’t bore you too badly, did she, love?”
“Not at all,” murmured Tatiana. “I can see why you keep her around, Louis.”
“Oh?” he laughed warily. “And why is that?”
“Because, dearest, she is too smart to fall in love with you.”
Considering all that had transpired in the last two hours, I would have assumed that Louis would be relieved to hear that observation, but the way he raised his left eyebrow indicated that this was not the case.
Thankfully, she hadn’t noticed. There was a mirror too close at hand, all the better to monitor the effect she made as she wrapped herself in his arms. Immediately, though, she pushed him away.
“Louis my love, how close did you let that woman get to you? You reek of Glow! Go shower, then we make love. . . Oh, and You-Whose-Name-I-Can-Never-Remember, you can go now, okay?”
* * *
Yeah okay, bitch, consider me out of here!
I made it back down into the bowels of the hotel and the (eeeuw-yuck!) comfort of my cubby—only to find Prudence K. still cooling her Manolo Blahnik-clad heels on my bed.
“Louis said you’d cover me,” she said, slipping her hands into a pair of cashmere-lined black leather gloves.
“He what?”
“He said you’d have my cash.”
I now saw how she lived up to her name. “How much?”
“Eighteen hundred.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“Hardly. And believe me, no one ever complains.” She licked her lips seductively.
“Yeah, I can imagine. Um, do you take credit cards?”
“Visa, MasterCard, Amex. No Discover. You can’t get this kind of merchandise at Sears, ya know what I mean?” She laughed at her own cleverness. It wasn’t the first time, I’m sure. From her Kate Spade striped tootsie, she pulled out a wireless credit card processing terminal, swiped my Visa, and handed it back to me with a printout to sign.
“I guess he expects me to add it to my expense report,” I said, thinking out loud to myself.
Prudence K. clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Nah, I don’t think so. He said something about this whole thing was your fuck-up, and that’s why it was coming out of your pay.”
And with a wave of her Gucci-gloved hand, she was out the door before I’d even finished saying, “Room service? I need a new change of bed linen—now!”
* * *
Vanity Fair’s real photo editor was not wearing Chanel Chance.
Nor was she at all pleased with Louis’s abuse of the magazine’s renowned celebrity photographer, or his overt flirtatiousness with the stylist, make-up artist, hair dresser and the art director’s barely legal but certainly awestruck intern (“For his own good, you need to lower your boss’ dose of Viagra . . . ”), or the way in which he second-guessed how the photographer lit the studio for the shoot (“Jeez, who does this prick think he is, Brad Pitt? That hasn’t happened to me since that Russian-French cadaver they call a supermodel had the nerve to pull that same stunt, then went whining to my publisher when I told her where to stick her little light meter...”)
As his handler, it was my duty to try to reel him in, but since it was me he was punishing with this outrageous behavior, I very seriously doubted I was up for the job.
Still, I had to give it a try. As the VF team set up the next shot, I followed Louis into his dressing room, where his next wardrobe change was already laid out: some duded-up urban cowpoke ensemble, courtesy of John Galliano. It was just perfect for the surreal fantasy in which a model, trussed up in strategically placed leather straps, was to be branded by Louis with a faux hot iron inscribed with his initials.
Upon hearing me enter, Louis sighed. “What is it you want, Hannah?”
“Louis, I think we need to clear the air about what went on back at the hotel.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” he asked with a dark smile. “You have no need to worry. I’m not going to fire you over your slip-up.”
“Oh.” I don’t know if I was more relieved or disappointed. “Why—why not?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just chalk it up to my magnanimous nature.” He chuckled ironically. “Sure, I was pissed at first. Had every right to be, wouldn
’t you say? Then again,” he broke into a broad smirk, “having Tatiana waiting her turn while Prudence K. and I were screwing in your bed was . . . well, let’s just say that the love of one good woman—or several, for that matter—has a way of getting your juices flowing, know what I mean?”
No, I didn’t. And I was hoping that he wouldn’t go into any detailed explanation, either, considering that I’d actually have to sleep in that bed.
Alone.
I felt a tingle go up my spine as he walked over to me. He stood so close that I could feel the heat of his breath on my face.
Slowly he picked up the branding iron and examined it. “Frankly, love, I’m getting a bit bored with Tatiana. I mean, if I weren’t, then why would I feel the need for ‘a massage’ every time I hit town? The truth is that she doesn’t understand me.”
He stroked my face with the branding iron gently, slowly. “Not like you do.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Louis,” I nervously stammered. “I guess, after this afternoon, we are now both in perfect agreement that I really don’t ‘know the score.’”
“Oh, I think you do. In fact, I think you knew exactly what you were doing.” His eyes were mesmerizing.
“And—what was that?”
“Encouraging Tatiana to see that the sooner she moves on, the sooner I can, too. Am I right?”
Even in my state of suspended animation, I was aware that I was witnessing a perfect example of the Hollywood spin on Newton’s theory of universal gravitation: what was down—currently, his ego—could only be inflated again if those around him were willing to blow enough hot air into it.
Was I willing to pucker up?
I had no choice. A happy Louis made for a happier world.
I smiled uncertainly. “Okay, I guess you’re right, Louis. It must have been a subliminal slip.”
“I was afraid of that.” He nodded knowingly. “Love, look, no one expects you to be perfect, not even me. But you can’t be butting into my bedroom, no matter how tempting that may be.”
Butting into his bedroom? What, is he crazy?
“Look, I know you just want to make me happy”—he paused at that, as if considering the possibilities—“and I’ve no doubt that soon you’ll become a pro at doing so. Still, the next time you have some grand scheme involving my love life, just ask. I don’t bite—unless you absolutely insist on it.” Playfully, he tapped me with the branding iron, his indication that I was now excused to go.
As I lurched toward the door, he called out, “Why don’t we discuss some new ground rules, at dinner, after that taping? Make a reservation somewhere—but don’t choose some place where we’ll be seen—uh, interrupted. The paparazzi and stalkers are already staking out the lobby. Tatiana’s visit tipped them off. Better yet, let’s just order in room service. We both might just want to hit the sack early, right?”
Not me. At least, not on those sheets.
I stopped cold. Was he insinuating. . .
Flustered, I turned back around. “Louis, I don’t think—”
“You know, Hannah, that’s just you’re problem: you don’t think. But all that will change . . . once you know me intimately. Oh, which reminds me: call Barry. Tell him I won’t need Prudence K. tonight.”
Prudence K.—again?
But now. . . he wouldn’t?
Why not?
* * *
Like all “Actors Studio” tributes, Louis’s was comprised of various stills and film clips of his stage, BBC television, and film career, intermittently interrupted by flattering comments from the always officious Mr. Lipton (one or two of which easily scored at least a 9.7 on the gush-o-meter).
The youthful audience, made up of up-and-coming actors, directors and future career waiters, was quite aware they were witnessing history in the making. They knew a soon-to-be Academy Award winner when they saw one, by golly, and so they listened intently, and cooed and murmured at all the right moments.
Louis, ever the consummate performer, did not let them down. His unabashedly modest answers, spoken with unwavering intensity and periodically infused with wise cynicism (and in one instance, a faraway glance that bespoke a bittersweet longing) seemed astounding coming from someone his age—not that anyone in the audience could tell what that age really was: The filter used on the dimmed klieg lights shining on the stage gave him a rosy, boyish glow that shaved at least four, maybe even six, years off the age claimed on his official bio.
Standing in the back of the room and witnessing his triumph, I breathed a sigh of relief. The Day from Hell was finally over, I prayed.
The silent pulse of the red cell phone dashed my hopes. I flipped it open and found a text message waiting for me.
Mick B: Miss U. How R things?
Mick! A surge of longing swept over me as I remembered how comfortable I’d felt in his arms. I could never text message what I was feeling, so how was I to answer that? I chose to tell the truth—to a degree:
Hannah F: Interesting. Exhausting. Miss U 2. Wish U were here.
Mick B: I am.
I tried scanning the audience, but this was difficult to do, since, from where I was standing, I could only see their backs, and the only illumination was coming from the stage. As it turns out, Mick wasn’t in the audience but standing right behind me, as I discovered when he wrapped his arms around my waist.
As happy as I was to see him, it also made me anxious to have him and Louis so close to me at the same time. But the way in which he nuzzled my ear told me that I—or, for that matter, Louis—would have to get over it.
He whispered, “So, Louis hasn’t driven you to jump off the roof of the Ritz Carlton?”
“Almost, but not quite. Between him, Tatiana, and—”
“Oh, and let me guess: Prudence K.?”
“You know about Prudence K.?” I was more than a little disappointed that he did. What I was actually thinking was, How well do you know her?
“Louis likes to share his conquests,” Mick explained, with a grimace.
Are we talking literally, or figuratively? I wanted to ask. But I couldn’t.
Because then I’d have to accept whatever answer he gave at face value.
I turned back to the stage, where Louis had been answering the audience’s questions. One wannabe actress, with the kind of assets that would certainly get her cast in a prime time network soap with or without an ASDS diploma, breathily asked, “What do you look for in a leading lady?”
The audience giggled anxiously. Arching an eyebrow, Louis answered with a lascivious chuckle, “A woman who brings her heart and soul to the project. I appreciate women”—he paused, tantalizingly—“who aren’t afraid to speak their minds. Bottom line: my perfect leading lady always knows the score.”
With that, his eyes scanned the room, zeroing in on me—standing beside Mick.
The interview was over.
* * *
On the ride back in the limo, Louis did everything to show his pal that he was glad to see him—and ignored me totally. “Man, I’m so glad you’re in town. So, ready to see the sights?”
“Whatever, guy,” said Mick noncommittally. “But, hey, I don’t want to interrupt your plans. With Tatiana.”
“She’s winging her way to Paris as we speak,” said Louis evenly.
“Oh? Too bad. Well, uh, yeah, so what say we take in some clubs?” He turned toward me apologetically, but I ignored him. Like me, he didn’t have the guts to blow off Louis. From the look of things, we were the ones who would have to get over it.
Or get over each other.
“I’ve got an even better idea.” Louis now had a reason to acknowledge me. “Tell Barry I’ve changed my mind . . . to get Prudence K. here pronto.” He then turned to Mick. “You want some action, right?” When Mick hesitated, Louis added, “You remember her, right? Hey, don’t sweat it, it’s on the studio.”
We’d finally reached the hotel. Yanking the limo door open with one hand, I speed-dialed Barry’s number with the other.
“Hannah, wait—”said Mick, then he turned to Louis. “Look, man, I—I’ll take a pass. I thought, you know, that you’d be tied up, and that I could keep Hannah company—”
“You did, eh? Well you were only right about one thing, I am tied up. With Hannah. Right, love?”
They both stared at me, waiting for my response. I looked from one to the other, weighing Mick’s shock and hurt with Louis’s annoyance and jealousy.
Just then, we all heard Barry’s hazy voice coming through the phone, “Can I help you?”
I was confused, angry and upset. More than anything, I was bone tired.
So I threw the phone at them, headed for the front door and never looked back.
Housekeeping had forgotten to change my sheets. Since I was too angry to go to bed anyway, it finally didn’t matter anymore.
Chapter 8: Parallax
The angular difference in apparent direction of an object seen from two different viewpoints.
By morning, I had decided that, if I were going to save both my sanity and my salary, I’d need to have that talk with Louis about our “ground rules.”
Only I was going to be the one who set them. And he was going to live by them.
Rule #1: No more guessing games. He was going to have to start being honest with me as to what he wanted. Oh and hey, if that was a hooker, he’d have to call her pimp himself. I was out of the procurement business.
Rule #2: No more double entendres. If anything left his mouth that even hinted at a sexual innuendo, I’d be out the door so fast he wouldn’t know what hit him.
Rule #3: This was a long shot, but I felt justified to have it as a safety clause: If either of us fell in love with the other, I would walk. Why? Because he was a guy with hot pants, and I was a woman with a checkered history when it concerned men with hot pants, starting with Daddy Dearest. Enough said. No hard feelings.
I never got the chance to lay out the new ground rules, because Louis fired me before I opened my mouth for anything other than a poached egg white on rye toast.
Granted, it was done in the gentlest way possible: After summoning me to his palatial chamber and insisting that I take a cup of chamomile tea and help myself to the Zone breakfast buffet already laid out by a retreating bellboy (smirking heaven knows why), Louis then proceeded to tell me how he hadn’t slept all night (it was on the tip of my tongue to say that was Prudence K.’s fault, not mine, but I thought better of that), how he had been so upset at my “irrational behavior” that he’d called and blessed out Jasper for saddling him with “a Hollywood brat who assumes her job is to freeload at my expense—and the studio’s of course”; and, oh by the way, what right had I to invite “my boyfriend” to do so as well?
