True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  However, some of my more trying tasks included juggling his appointments with:

  Candida Sage, the diva acting coach who charged Louis outrageous sums to verbally taunt him for having “the emotional memory of a Neanderthal,” after which she would cradle him to her ample, sagging bosom when he broke down in fear that she was right, and he was in fact an acting fraud;

  Daniela Cross, his anorexic nutritionist, whom I caught upchucking in the guest bathroom after she’d stuffed a box of Zone cookies down her throat;

  Max Banks, the lascivious chiropractor, who had Louis convinced that watching porn was a great muscle relaxant. I guess the fact that his shop backed up to a Triple-XXX video store should have been the obvious giveaway that he had a side business more lucrative than back cracking;

  Billie Buck, Louis’s closeted personal trainer, who tenderly spotted Louis’s bench presses but pouted jealously every time Louis went into the lurid details of his female conquests the night before;

  and “Dr. Manny” Manolo Lipschitz, celebrated quack therapist to the stars, who took full advantage of Louis’s insecurities as an actor as well as his anger at his father, by encouraging him to pass along his hurt to others—lovingly, of course, then giving Louis “permission” to forgive himself for his subsequent bad boy behavior.

  Worse yet, Dr. Manny actually had the audacity to ask me to grind up Valium and put it in Louis’s coffee before he filmed his scenes.

  “That should calm him down, relieve his performance anxiety,” Dr. Manny lisped, spraying both me and the lapels of his Kenneth Cole suede shirt with a fine film of saliva.

  “But won’t he pass out?”

  “Nah. Brando never did. Although it did make him a bit paranoid afterward. I’ll leave you some restraints, too, just in case.”

  I passed on both recommendations.

  And, finally, I was also in charge of supervising Lourdes, Louis’s Mexican maid (whom Louis accused of stealing from his Zone pantry, when in fact it was his upchucking nutritionist who was swiping the food he’d just paid her for), and the Guatemalan gardening crew (who, unaware that I understood Spanish, had numerous interesting and somewhat convincing discussions as to whether Louis was in fact a pimp, based on the number of half-naked women who traipsed in and out of the house while they were there).

  I also extricated Louis from the many ludicrous commitments he made to those who somehow broke through the front line of Team Louis—Monique, Genevieve and Randy.

  And I quickly learned how to shoo away Louis’s posse when they wanted him to come out and play while he was supposed to be studying a script or getting some rest in order to make it onto the set in one piece the next morning.

  I also became adept at playing Russian Roulette—Louis’s shorthand for lying to Tatiana—without stuttering from guilt. As Louis explained it, the truth only got her upset at him, which in turn got him upset with me. Still, no matter what time zone she called from, she instinctively timed her calls while he was cruising Sunset with his buddies—or with some fawning beauty he’d picked up. The upshot of our deceptions was that I got a great handle on both Russian and French curse words.

  I could honestly say he appreciated my role in his life: the gatekeeper. But believe me, it wasn’t always easy keeping the stallion in his paddock—even when he knew staying in there was for his own good.

  What about me, you ask? Had I figured out how to take some time off from the Louis Looney Bin? Well, to be honest, if I was lucky, that happened one night a week: When I knew Louis was out playing with the Posse, I’d go out and look at the stars—the real ones.

  Usually I did this with Mick.

  Then we’d go back to my place and indulge in the tenderest sex I’d ever had.

  With my phones turned off.

  Was Louis aware of our rendezvous? I had no doubt about this, although I know he never heard about it from either Mick or me. Still, it was evident in the little jibes he took at me (“You look a bit peaked, Hannah. Had a fitful night? Perhaps you’d prefer sleeping over here . . . in the cabana, of course . . . ”) and in the way he taunted Mick in my presence. (“Ran into that piece of ass you once used and abused—what was her name? Sherry? Cheri? Cherry? That was it! The virgin, right? What, that wasn’t her name? Well, for that matter, she wasn’t a virgin either, was she?”)

  While Mick and I talked about everything—the scripts he was working on, my trials and tribulations with my star calculations, politics, food we were allergic to, the books we were reading—we stayed away from the topic of Louis.

  Of course, Louis never believed that. And thinking otherwise made him paranoid when he saw us together—to the point that I almost wished I had taken Dr. Manny up on his offer for the restraints.

  Mick chose another way to solve the problem. He avoided any Posse junket that might put us in Louis’s presence at the same time. Instead, he’d claim he had some writing to do, or a late-night meeting with this director, or that producer.

  Louis would laugh caustically—then take out on me his displeasure at being put off by his buddy. “Better watch it, Hannah. Mick isn’t the innocent Boy Scout you think he is. Next to him, I’m a virtual wallflower. Trust me on this.”

  I couldn’t believe him. At the same time, I never asked Mick, point blank, if Louis’s teasing allegations were true. I guess Louis’s warnings did the trick: I was too afraid of how Mick might answer.

  Within those ninety days, I also took full control of coordinating Louis’s professional life. For example, whenever Team Louis called up with a request for his participation in some media event, or a demand on his time, or his consideration of a possible role, I’d say brightly, “Sounds interesting!” Then I’d weigh its impact on The Big Picture of Louis’s career, as defined by Louis’s whims at any given moment, coupled with what Jasper knew were the realities of his financial situation, and leavened with what I remembered Leo saying were the three most important reasons to choose a role (“because the director has balls, the script has a soul, and the supporting cast are the best in the biz”). Then I acted accordingly.

  Sometimes I’d pass adamantly. (“Louis is invariably tickled by petite amusements. He laughed aloud at this one! So sorry, but no go, dear.”) On other occasions, I’d pass but feign a reluctance that left the door open for more appealing offers. (“Gee, sorry! Louis would have liked to have done it, but he’s got a conflict that day/morning/evening/month/millennium.”) Or I’d agree to a sit-down—albeit warily. (“Yep, it’s on Louis’s radar screen. But first he wants to be assured he’s got final approval on all quotes/copy/photos/scripts/wardrobe/etc . . . ” or “Louis doesn’t like the idea—at least, not as it’s been presented. However, he’s offered to allow me to sit down and discuss it with you; no, he won’t be attending. Yes, he’s adamant about that. Would you prefer for Louis to tell you so, himself? No? I didn’t think so . . . ”)

  While Monique learned to live with this, and Genevieve groused about it but invariably accepted it, Randy went ballistic over the thought that I had become an impregnable buffer between him and his number one client.

  “That bitch is going to ruin your career! She doesn’t know her tit from a hole in the ground when it comes to dealing with Rothman, or Amy or anyone for that matter. Hell, when Scott gets a hold of her, he’ll carve her a whole new asshole,” he warned Louis as they worked out in Louis’s home gym.

  Randy was under the impression that I was nowhere within hearing distance. I heard him, though, as his callous bark wafted through the breezeway the gym shared with the cabana guestroom, which I was using as Command Central while bivouacked in Louisland.

  “My God, Randy, you’re acting like a jealous little schoolgirl! Besides, you’re all wrong about Hannah. She’s a natural barracuda, just like you!” Louis’s weights grated against each other at timely intervals. “In fact, she just got Amy to agree to my taking a pass on anything but a remote media tour for Breakneck. And she had the Fox suits practically going crazy over the thoug
ht of greenlighting the Moulin Rouge sequel with me in the male lead—for over twenty mil I might add, and a percentage equal to what they’re paying Baz.”

  I then heard a clank, which indicated that either Louis was changing the settings on the Universal gym, or that Randy had just fainted.

  I supposed it was the former, because then Louis added, “As for Scott, why just the other day he told me that if Hannah weren’t my girl, he’d make her his; says it was she who convinced her father to star in the first film of Scott’s to make its money back.”

  “Bullshit! He doesn’t have a loyal bone in his body,” Randy spewed venomously.

  “Maybe not, but he certainly has a soft spot for Hannah. Just like me.” Louis chuckled. “Hey, guy, don’t look so worried! With Hannah watching the shop, we’ll both have more time to play. And just think what I could do with that extra ten percent I’d save if she were making my deals, instead of you.”

  Randy’s ten percent.

  The same ten percent that was his sole purpose for hanging with Louis in the first place.

  As if they both didn’t know that.

  The clanking paused again, which was Louis’s way of intimating that he was seriously contemplating that thought.

  I supposed Randy was, too—unless that time he had fainted.

  He hadn’t. Instead he asked, “So, uh, what’s really happening here, man? Oh, I get it: she finally let you into her pants, huh?”

  The response: silence, except for the clacking of barbells.

  That was it?

  Louis wasn’t going to deny it?

  Of course not. Why should he? It was exactly what Louis wanted! He got off on the fact that Randy’s Cro-Magnon pea brain—and, for that matter, those of all of his buds—instinctively assumed that it was out of sheer adoration and sexual longing that I killed myself making his life so easy.

  “Well, it’s about time. I thought you were losin’ the ol’ Trollope touch. Shit, I don’t care if you’ve got her doing some of the piddly shit detail on your deals . . . saves me from handing it over to my assistant to cover, know what I mean? Just don’t tease about my percentage, okay, man? That hurt. Makes me think that all we’ve got here is some kind of—I dunno—coldhearted business arrangement. We both know better than that, right? We cover each other’s backs, remember? So don’t you worry, I’ll be watching her like a hawk, making sure she doesn’t leave any crumbs on the table.”

  “I know you will, Randy. You’re my man,” said Louis soothingly.

  “Damn right, I am! Hey, uh, can I get in on some of that Hannah action, too?”

  My heart took a leap, just as much from Randy’s sickening suggestion as from wondering how Louis was going to answer him.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself? Hannah, love, what do you think of Randy’s offer?”

  So, he knew I’d heard every word!

  My first instinct was to run away in shame. Instead, I chose to confront them, armed only with my fury at being a woman scorned so salaciously and the knowledge that Randy was more mortified than I was.

  An AK-47 would have made the tableau complete.

  Upon seeing the look in my eyes, Randy blathered something about being late for a meeting at Dreamworks and stumbled out the door.

  This left me face-to-face with my tormentor and paycheck.

  “Was that fun, or what?” he crowed, laughing. Peeling off his sweaty T-shirt, he wiped his neck and back with it, tossed it into a corner for Lourdes (or me) to pick up, and headed out toward the pool.

  “Fun? Fun? What, are you kidding me?” Gasping for air, I followed him out. “You let him denigrate me! And then you let him think that we—that we—What is it, Louis? What more can I do to prove to you that—”

  “Prove what, love? That you’re the best personal assistant I’ll ever have? That I need you in order to survive? That I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you?” He stopped short. Slowly, he turned back and looked me right in the eye: “Why, you’ve already proven that, Hannah.”

  His words knocked the wind out of me. “I—I have?”

  “Of course, love, of course!” Taking both my hands in his, he pulled me down with him onto one of the many double wrought iron chaises that were scattered poolside. “My darling, darling Hannah, did you actually think I didn’t know you were in on my little joke on Randy?”

  He laughed, as if any other assumption was absurd. “That sodding bag of wind! He’s just a whoremonger, someone to pass time with while I’m stuck here in this glamorous Purgatory. Now that I have you, I just keep him around for laughs.”

  Of course, there was another benefit to yanking Randy’s chain so hard: Now Randy squirmed, begged, and wheedled all the more pathetically when he was with Louis.

  And Louis found those traits particularly appealing in sycophants.

  “Why, you’re worth ten of him! But you know how it is: I can’t take a piss in this town without an agent, right? And since they’re all alike, I’m better sticking to a known incompetent—even if I have to suck it up about the damned commission—and letting you watch my back for me. You’re my angel. There is no one else I can trust.”

  Gently, he pulled me closer toward him until he was cradling my head on his chest. “I swear, Hannah, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Admit it, darling, we need each other, don’t we?”

  I felt his lips graze my forehead.

  Reflexively, I lifted my head. Our eyes met for an instant. Then his eyes roamed down to my lips, as if anticipating his next move.

  He was wondering if I’d let him make it.

  So was I.

  All of a sudden, I wasn’t at all sure how I felt anymore: Wasn’t I still angry? Yes, of course I was. So, why was I so scared, too?

  And aroused?

  And then I thought of Mick.

  “What the hell is happening here?” I whispered.

  Louis narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing me for some indication that whatever spell he’d cast was still in effect.

  Watching me glance away, he knew it wasn’t.

  His grasp on me loosened. Slowly he rose. As he stretched languidly, the few beads of sweat still clinging to his taut, bronzed abdomen glistened in the sun. Walking away with his patented pantherlike saunter, he tossed back over his shoulder: “So, am I forgiven for my naughty little joke at your expense?”

  I nodded resignedly. What else could I say?

  He was right. He did need me.

  And he was also right that I needed him, too.

  At least, I did for now.

  * * *

  The final scene of Breakneck was shot a week later, and not a day too soon. When the second the director called out, “It’s a wrap” there was a collective sigh of relief. Considering all the histrionics that had taken place on the set over the course of the last two months—Louis’s ever-increasing star turns, Donnie’s obvious on-the-set cocaine consumption, the unexpected appearances of two of Rex’s “associates”/lovers in his dressing room on the same day, the catfight that had ensued, and Simone’s all-too-obvious kleptomania and the director’s increasing exasperation over it—the wrap party was sure to be one hell of a hoedown.

  Since Randy represented both the star and the director, he was invited, too.

  Lucky, lucky me.

  As soon as our bosses were ensconced in their own traditions of toasting cast and crew and handing out “remember me when Oscar Time rolls around” gifts, the Gang of Four—the nickname Christy, Sandy, Freddy and I called our little coven—grabbed a couple of bottles of Bouvet Brut off the craft table (not exactly a top-of-the-line bubbly, but, hey, this wasn’t exactly a top-of-the-line production, either) and headed for a quiet corner we’d already staked out in the cavernous soundstage. The way Christy opened the first bottle—with a shake, twist and a pop—sent half its contents all over us, but by the time we’d downed the other half, we couldn’t have cared less. We were all relieved that the production ended without anyone being dropped, blacklisted or
murdered. Yet at the same time, we were also melancholy at the thought that we’d no longer be seeing each other so often.

  “I’ll miss every one of you,” blubbered Sandy, her staid demeanor in tatters after a mere two plastic cups of the Bouvet Brut.

  “So, let’s make a pact!” squealed a misty Christy, ever the Girl Scout. “Once a month, we get together! No ifs, ands or buts!”

  “Aw, hell,” hiccupped Freddy as he poured a bit of the bubbly into Bette the Pampered Pooch’s saucer. “This always happens—everyone promises they’ll make the time, but no one ever does.”

  There was just no way Freddy’s dire prediction was going to bring me down. “Come on!” I scolded him. “We’re not ‘everyone.’ We’re the Gang of Four—remember?”

  I was feeling no pain for good reason: I’d had three glasses of champagne, and as soon as Louis traipsed off with Randy, I’d be free to meet Mick at our favorite rendezvous point: the Santa Monica pier. From there we’d watch the sunset and wait for Venus to appear.

  Then we’d head back to my place and make love.

  It would be a perfect evening, followed by my first day off in over a week.

  I showered the last of the champagne into their glasses. “Drink up, to tomorrow!”

  “I’ll drink up, but to something else,” groaned Freddy. “Tomorrow, all hell may break loose: Simone is taping Chelsea Handler’s show.”

  “What, you’re kidding? Chelsea and that panel of hers is going to tear her up and spit her out. You know, she tried to get Rex on that show. Of course, I vetoed it,” sniffed Sandy.

  “Yeah? Well, I’m trying to do the same, but the old bat is being stubborn about it. She doesn’t get it that Handler and her team are out for blood—and if they put those little ‘idiosyncrasies’ of hers on the air, it will kill her in this town.” Freddy added as he wiped away a mascara stained tear.