True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  “He’s fine, really he is,” I said brightly. “He doesn’t fully understand why I need this right now in my life, but he accepts it.”

  In truth, my decision to stick it out with Louis had put my relationship with Mick in an odd place. It hadn’t dampened our appetites for each other: on the contrary, our sex was just as fresh and exciting as ever. In fact, lately it had had a sense of urgency.

  As if both of us were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  At any moment, I expected to see some telltale sign that Louis’s predictions about Mick were true, while Mick was anticipating my permanent defection to Camp Louis any day now. So we both held off on the one thing we both needed to give and get from each other:

  Approval. Trust. Loyalty. Perhaps, even absolution.

  Not that I could say any of this to Jasper. So I said this instead: “We’re taking it one day at a time.”

  “I think that’s a great idea. In fact, that’s a wonderful philosophy to have regarding everything in your life right now, including your job—particularly since you never really took the time to grieve for Leo . . . Hey, why not take some time off? Louis can survive for a few days without you, believe me. Besides, it might be the best thing that ever happened to you—and to Mick, if you allow him to tag along.”

  As I bowed my head, a tear dropped onto one of my crab cakes. Jasper handed me his pocket square, which I used to wipe another salty drop off my cheek.

  “You’re right, Jasper. I owe it to Leo. And I owe it to myself.”

  And I owed it to Mick.

  I couldn’t wait to see him, to tell him in person.

  * * *

  Par for the course, the boys never showed up. Back at Louis’s, I spent the afternoon juggling the other appointments Louis had also blown off—his costume fitting for Killer Instincts; a meeting with one of last year’s Oscar-nominated directors to discuss if his and Louis’s work styles were “simpatico” (which, Louis just proved, was obviously not); and a guy-to-guy telephone Q&A with Maxim.

  Where was Louis?

  The phone rang and I leaped at it, assuming it was Randy returning one of the several messages I’d left since leaving Jasper. Instead, it was Ethan calling: He wanted to know why Louis had never shown up at the country club.

  “You mean he wasn’t with you this morning? But Randy called and said that your tee-time got pushed back!”

  Silence.

  In Hollywood, either you’re a creative genius, or you’re a great bullshit artist who surrounds himself with creative geniuses and uses them to further your climb up the Tinseltown ladder. Leaving no doubt as to which talent he possessed, Ethan coughed nervously, then stuttered lamely, “Uh . . . well, I got called in to the studio. Gee, I guess they played without me . . . Um, I’m needed on the set, now. Just have him call me—” and rang off.

  By the time the phone chimed again, I was at my wit’s end. Apparently so was Freddy, who, as predicted, was dealing with the fallout of Simone’s 15 minutes of infamy on Chelsea Handler.

  “The network is promoting the show as the ‘ultimate Hollywood horror story’! Chelsea goaded her into putting on all her diva moves, and she came off as a pathetic nutcase!” Freddy moaned. “Well, that’s the end of the road for milady Cavanaugh. Now, both she and the mutt will be eating Trader Joe’s cat food!”

  “Look, Freddy, I’m sure it’s not all that bad. I mean, how many people watch the show? It’s late night, and it’s pay cable, right?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. And it ain’t exactly The Sopranos.” He sighed. “Man, now that would have been sweet! Why couldn’t she have gotten knocked off by Tony Soprano instead?”

  “Look, I’ve got to keep the lines clear. We’ve got a little emergency here, too. Why don’t we meet later tonight? We’ll think of some way to spin it differently.”

  The “central casting” Denny’s on Sunset near Highland, so nicknamed because it catered mostly to aging B-movie and movie-of-the-week actors, was the Gang of Four’s usual hangout. “Can you call the others?”

  “Hell yeah, I’ll make the calls,” said Freddy. “I’ll do anything to keep from having to inject the old lady’s ass with sheep placenta, which is the next item on my agenda.”

  I blanched. “Doesn’t that have to be done in a doctor’s office?”

  “Nah,” he answered airily. “Miss Simone paid for me to get my cosmetology license. She figures that’s cheaper than spending two hundred bucks a pop with the doc. And I figure, what the heck? It might become my fallback profession—if I can get used to staring at wrinkly old asses all day long.”

  Enough said.

  I was contemplating my own fate when I heard Randy’s car pull up. The car, a Corvette—a test-drive loaner from one of the many dealers who catered to Randy’s auto junkie habit—was low to the ground, which made it difficult for Louis, disheveled, distraught, and obviously stinking from too many scotch rocks, to uncoil himself and stand up without staggering. As Randy peeled off, Louis stumbled past me and out toward his bedroom, where he plopped down on his Cal King Dux. He ran a hand through his burnished curls just once then stared forlornly at the infinity pool undulating outside his window.

  I followed him in but said nothing. For ten minutes I waited for him to acknowledge me first, but by minute eleven it was all too obvious that he was going to keep pretending that I wasn’t hovering overhead. I could live with that. But he couldn’t ignore his obligations to his career, too.

  “We missed you at the Ivy.”

  Annoyed, he growled, “Don’t worry about me. I’ve already had lunch.”

  “I know. I can smell it on you.”

  He gave me a bleary-eyed stare. “What of it? What’s it to you, Little Miss Goody Two-shoes?”

  Why was he looking for an argument? Personally, I wasn’t in the mood for his childish games. I opened my mouth to say something when he added venomously, “You know, Hannah, if only you’d been where you should have—”

  “Where I—what? What are you talking about? With Jasper? Louis, I was there!”

  He grabbed my hand and yanked me down beside him. “Not there, Hannah! Here! Beside me!”

  There, with his face so close to mine that I could feel the heat of his warm, sour breath on me. I sat there quietly for a minute, then asked, “Louis, what’s wrong? What happened today?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. No. That’s not true, Hannah. Everything is—is so wrong.”

  “What? What is it?”

  He turned to face me. “I’m an ass—a complete sod! You don’t think I know that?”

  “I don’t think—listen, Louis, Jasper wasn’t that upset—”

  “Screw Jasper! This isn’t about Jasper!” His eyes widened in disbelief that I couldn’t read his mind. At the same time that his words poured out in a torrent of broken thoughts, he gasped for air: “My father did exactly the same thing! And me mum always said that I’d . . . ah, crap! My fans! When they—they’ll hate my guts—Ha! What do I care if they think I’m a bastard, a fraud . . . Bollocks! I don’t deserve—”

  He’s having a breakdown!

  Should I get him a glass of water? Should I call an ambulance?

  Damn it, why didn’t I fill that prescription for Valium that Dr. Manny had forced on me?

  Why didn’t I take those damn restraints?

  Unconsciously, I put my arm around Louis and stroked his hair.

  “Oh, Louis, Louis,” I whispered. “Listen, whatever it is—whatever you’re feeling, it will work itself out! It will be okay.”

  As his gasps slowed down, I felt him collapse into my arms. Soon we were breathing as one. Without raising his head, which was now nestled on my shoulder, he murmured, “Thank God you’re here. I’ve never really told you how much—how much you mean to me.”

  I felt his arms go around me. Gently, he pushed me down onto the bed’s Anichini cashmere throw, all the while showering me with gentle kisses until, finally, his tongue parted my lips.

  My heart
leaped in my chest. He must have felt it, too, because he opened his eyes. No longer were they filled with doubt. Au contraire—he knew exactly what he wanted:

  Me. On a platter.

  But for right now, the Cal King would do.

  How easy it would have been: I could have leaned back, closed my eyes and let his fingers do the walking—up and under my Anna Sui silk cami. Then, having discovered that my Damaris lace bra had a front snap, his long, thick fingers could have meandered, ever so gently between my breasts and freed them from their lacy lair. Once my nipples were freed, his tongue could have titillated them into a frenzy. Then those ever-industrious hands of his could have begun the arduous process of untying my Frankie B. lace-up jeans (Dammit! Dammit! I might as well have been wearing a chastity belt! Why, oh why did I have to wear those, today of all days?), so that his lips could once again follow suit—

  Then, in the morning, he could find a reason to let me down easy.

  Despite all the wonderful claims he’d made just now.

  And with absolutely no recognition of all I’d done for him these past few months.

  And completely dismissing the torrid sex we’d had for sixteen or so hours prior to his grand announcement.

  I shoved him away, hard.

  “Louis, NO. We—we can’t.”

  “Dammit, Hannah! Why not?” He was a petulant little boy whose brand new toy had just been taken away.

  “Because it won’t work! You know that! We both know that! We have to stick to the pact and keep things between us totally professional.”

  I jumped off the bed. He looked as if he was going to pounce after me, so I took two steps back.

  How he read that as an invitation for more of the same I’ll never know, but somehow he did. He moved in until I was cornered up against the wall. “I can’t. The truth is—Hannah, I’m falling in love with you.”

  “Oh, Louis, puh-leez.”

  Placing his hands on either side of my face, he murmured, “I mean it, love! Truly, I do. I’ve never met anyone like you, who takes care of me like you do. But it can’t go on—just like that.”

  With a hand, he pressed one of my own against the wall and held it there while he leaned in to kiss me—

  —So I slapped him with the other.

  Hard.

  Rubbing his jaw, he cried out in pain. “Dammit, Hannah! What the hell!”

  “How could you do that to me?” I spat out. “Or—or to Mick?”

  How could I do that to Mick?

  Louis just stared at me. Then he started to laugh uncontrollably.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked indignantly.

  “Mick. That’s what.” His mouth twisted into a cruel smile.

  “What about Mick?”

  “Your Mr. High-and-Mighty, your Mr. Great Gentleman. I’ll just bet you don’t know where he is right now—and with whom!”

  “Why—what would I—why is that so important?” Just talking about Mick made me want to hide my head in shame. I could only imagine what he would have thought if he’d seen me with Louis just moments ago—and could have deduced how much I had enjoyed it.

  “It’s important because I’m so tired of him standing between us, Hannah,” he shouted angrily. “I meant what I said, about us! And whether you want to believe me or not, Mick does not deserve you.”

  “I know you find this hard to believe, but he’s nothing like you. He’s never given me any reason to—to doubt him. Face it, Louis, you’re jealous. Of us.”

  “Me? Jealous?” He snickered. “Look Hannah, I’ll accept whatever you want to think of me. And if you want to keep things ‘professional,’ then okay, sure, that’s fine by me! But I care enough for you to see that you don’t get hurt. And Mick will hurt you.”

  “Cut it out, Louis,” I said darkly. “I’m in no mood for your games.”

  “Oh, love, this is no game,” he growled. “If you don’t believe me, go see for yourself. Mick’s at the Hotel Bel-Air. The Courtyard Suite. And believe me, he’s not working on his golf game.”

  With as much dignity as I could muster, I headed for the door. Louis had already turned toward the mirror, where he was scrutinizing the very visible handprint outlined on his face.

  “Oh, and love—the next time you want to play rough, let’s pull out the paddles instead, okay? That is, if you don’t mind being the bottom, because I always insist on being the dom. It’s an ego thing, I guess.”

  Although he shrugged apologetically, his eyes never left the mirror. “Damn it, I wish you’d given me fair warning that you were going to slap me. I think you knocked a tooth loose! When you get back, if you’re not too torn up, call Bill Dorfman’s office and set an appointment for first thing in the morning, will you?”

  * * *

  I asked the valet at the Hotel Bel-Air to keep my car on the curb since I would not be staying long. I’d coordinated many of Louis’s media interviews in the hotel’s Courtyard Suite—it was his favorite—so I knew to follow the narrow garden path that rambled through the hotel’s exquisite flora until it dead-ended at the boudoir’s entranceway. I did not knock but instead went around to the double French doors that overlooked its very private terraced courtyard. As I suspected, it had been left open to take advantage of the mild fall breezes.

  Mick’s voice could be heard from inside. I couldn’t make out what he was saying—only that it sounded, well, kind and gentle.

  Similar to how it sounded when we made love.

  Even that did not prepare me, though, for what I saw as I peeked through the door: Mick was on the bed, cradling Samantha, who lay naked in his arms.

  Rocking her back and forth, he kissed her forehead tenderly.

  Dazed and upset, I stumbled back out onto the garden path, but I only made it a few steps before I keeled over, gasping for air.

  Why had I been stupid enough to believe that he had cared for me?

  I don’t know if it was the sense of betrayal I felt, or my anger at myself for having believed that Mick was any different from Louis—or Jean-Claude, or even Leo, for that matter—but suddenly, a wave of nausea swept over me. As I heaved all of my hurt and pain and crab cakes into one of the hotel’s exquisitely pristine white rosebushes, the thought came to me that I owed Louis an apology.

  I’d start by making that dentist appointment the minute I got back to the car.

  * * *

  “The biggest problem with Denny’s,” groused Christy, “is that it doesn’t serve booze.”

  “You can say that again,” I said, pushing away my untouched platter of eggs. “Frankly, I’d be more inclined to think that the Grand Slam lived up to its name if I were smashed before I ate it.”

  After what I’d told them of what I’d seen that afternoon, no one blamed me for having lost my appetite. However, my promise to ask Jasper to write a cease-and-desist letter to Chelsea’s producers on Simone Cavanaugh’s behalf had restored Freddy’s, who’d cleaned off his dish of French toast in just a few quick bites.

  “Well, if living with that old diva has taught me one thing,” he said, winking slyly, “it’s that it’s just as easy to carry a to-go cup into a restaurant as it is to take one out.” Rustling through the bag in which he carried his constant companion, Bette, he came out with a thermos. “Who wants a cocktail?”

  The Gang of Four downed its water glasses to make room for his expertly mixed martinis.

  Ever appreciative of a host’s generosity, Sandy raised her glass. “Well, here’s to Miss Simone. May she survive yet another exposé of her poor pathetic life—and may other exposés follow, if only to grant her the satisfaction that the spotlight will never dim.”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “I guess what Donnie says is true: that there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” exclaimed Christy.

  “Donnie’s an idiot,” Freddy said bluntly. “He’ll finally realize it the first time he’s caught with his pants down around his ankles and Bethany’s attorneys are gleefully shredding his pre-nup.�
��

  She colored slightly. “Donnie’s not like that. He’s true blue to her!”

  Was there a slight disappointment in her voice? I didn’t want to go there, not today.

  Not after what I had just seen of Mick.

  Just then, all eyes turned to my Coach clutch, where, once again, the insistent buzzing of my cell phone had been beckoning all night long. Although its caller ID indicated that the number belonged to the very persistent Mick, everyone at the table winced reflexively. Personal assistants are the twenty-first century equivalent of indentured servants, and as such our instincts were to leap when summoned.

  Well, too bad. At the moment, I was too angry to confront him over the obvious, and to hear any lies he had to explain it away. Instead, I chose to drown my sorrows within a cloistered cocoon of true friendship.

  Knocking back my martini, I added my own two cents. “Freddy’s right. You’re a fool to trust him. Or any ‘him’ for that matter.”

  Christy sniffed, still unconvinced. “Look, Hannah, you’ve had a rough day—”

  “That’s an understatement!” I said, spilling the last of the thermos’s contents into my glass. “They’re all assholes. And the bigger they are in this town, the more they feel justified to use us.” Stumbling over a hiccup, I added grandly, “I almost feel sorry for Samantha, that little sap! Well, she’s welcome to have him.”

  Sandy and Christy traded guilty glances. Watching the interchange, I put down my glass. “What? What is it?”

  Christy looked as if she was going to start bawling. “We knew, Hannah. Oh, please don’t hate us!”

  “About her—and Mick?”

  I envisioned the silken strands of our friendship cocoon dissolving in my angry tears.

  Watching my reaction, Sandy quickly added, “No, no! Not about that! Just that—that she’d come to town the day before yesterday. Said she was here to ‘work things out.’ We didn’t say anything because—well, because we thought she’d have to go through you anyway, to get to Louis—”

  But she didn’t. She went through Mick.

  Or, more accurately she went to Mick.

  Christy interrupted her. “Omigod! You don’t think that Mick—that he’s—”