True Hollywood Lies

by Josie Brown

  “How dare you! Louis has changed, Mick. We both have. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Yeah, I’ll just bet. He’s just a regular guy, right? Well, have you noticed that great guy of yours isn’t even here to give you a hand?”

  “He had to get back to the studio. Or he would be here.”

  As soon as I said that, I regretted it. Louis, help me move? More than likely he would have just insisted that I call a moving service.

  Or that I just buy whatever I needed instead, and have the bills sent to Genevieve.

  Mick laughed long and hard. “Right, that’s a joke! Why, I’ll bet he’s never even asked to see your place.”

  “What difference does that make? Why should he want to come here?”

  “Because if he had, it would mean that he wants to know all about you, instead of what you can do for him.” Mick grabbed my hand to force me to face him. “It would mean that he loves you for the right reasons, Hannah, not his usual selfish ones.”

  I wrenched my hand away. “Who are you to say what the right reasons are for him to fall in love? Or for me, for that matter?”

  He flinched. “I thought I knew what reasons were right, once.”

  “I did, too.” I sat down hard on the trunk. “Look, Mick, I know for a fact that I wasn’t what you really wanted.”

  “What makes you say that? Because he told you so, and you want to believe him?”

  “Yes. No! I mean—I mean if there ever was a time you felt you loved me, then maybe it was for the wrong reason.”

  “And what reason would that be?”

  “Maybe you were attracted to me only because of what I meant to him.”

  He looked at me as if he could not believe his own ears. Then he laughed incredulously, mirthlessly. “Hannah, you are so wrong. In the first place, you don’t mean anything to him!”

  “No, Mick you’re the one who’s wrong, about Louis. You always were! He does know me. And I know him, now too. In fact, I know everything about him, the good and the bad . . . which is more than I can say about you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that—that you’ve never really told me the truth!”

  He seemed confused. “The truth? About what?”

  “About Samantha.” There. I’d said it.

  “Samantha?” He was confused. “You know about Samantha?”

  “Of course I do! What do you take me for, an idiot?”

  “I don’t know, that depends. Just what do you think you know?”

  “Well, I know you had a tryst with her, at the Hotel Bel-Air.”

  “Me? A—what?”

  “You made love to her! There, in the Courtyard Suite. I saw the two of you--”

  “You saw us—making love?”

  Now I was confused. “No—well, not exactly! I mean, you were—you were holding her. And I—I know she was naked at the time. That’s true, right?”

  He looked angry. But still, he didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “Tell me, Hannah, how did you know that I was there with Samantha in the first place?”

  I hesitated, but of course he knew.

  Louis.

  “You go ahead and believe what you want to believe—which, I assume, is anything he wants to tell you.” He started out the door, but turned back around. “Oh, by the way, did he even mention that he was there, too? I’m guessing no. Well, he was, Hannah! He was there because… because… ”

  He stopped to find the right words. Seeing the pained expression on my face, though, he quit trying. Then, very quietly, he said instead, “Just take my word for it, he was there, too. With her. But then he left her, without even having the courtesy to tell her he was going. That was my job.”

  He pulled me into his arms. Searching my eyes with his, he added, “That’s how he dumped her, Hannah! Do you see a pattern here?”

  I did.

  But I didn’t want to admit it, because I didn’t want to be wrong about Louis.

  Not now. Not any more. Not after what Louis and I had been through these past four weeks…

  Which was why Mick couldn’t be right.

  By my silence, he knew what I chose to believe. It’s our loss, the look in his eyes seemed to say. Then he was gone. I heard his motorcycle growl down the street.

  I stood there for a moment, thinking about Louis and Samantha.

  So, Louis had lied to me about her.

  And he doesn’t like to break up in person.

  Did I see a pattern there?

  Yes, I did. And yet I didn’t want to believe it. There had to be a better explanation.

  I’d have to ask Louis what that was.

  I loaded up a few more items then headed back over to Louis’s place, something the Beetle could now do on autopilot.

  By the time I got there, both the red and the gray cell phones were ringing. On the red line was Genevieve, screaming something about Louis’s broken nose, and that I’d better get over to Cedars-Sinai as fast as I could.

  “What? What are you saying?”

  “Just do it! Now!” she screeched, then hung up.

  On the other cell was In Touch magazine: Did I care to comment on the information they had that Mick Bradshaw had punched out Louis Trollope on the set of his movie, now filming at Fox Studios?

  Was it true that I had been the subject of their altercation?

  Was there any word as to how long Mick would be suspended from the Fox lot?

  Would the break in Louis’s nose mean that plastic surgery would be involved?

  I gave no comment, got back in the Beetle, and began the trek back down the hill.

  Chapter 13: Zenith

  The point on the celestial sphere directly above an observer, or the highest point in the sky reached by a celestial body.

  From what the doctors could tell, Louis was lucky: His nose had not been broken. Still, only after the swelling went down in a couple of days they could do an X-ray to confirm this. In the meantime he’d need ice packs to reduce the puffiness and plenty of Vicodin for the pain.

  And a whole hell of a lot of reassurance for his bruised ego.

  Being in no mood to counter the stares he would get if he decided to go out in public with a swollen nose, Louis spent the next four days at home, poolside. Because he wasn’t supposed to drink while taking Vicodin, he chose to forgo any painkillers and to live with the soreness. He did, however, use plenty of ice.

  In his perpetually filled glass of Dewars.

  Naturally, nursing his pain in such a manner put him in a lousy disposition, which he took out on anyone who dared to tread onto his path within the now heavily guarded estate: Lourdes, who burst into tears when he yelled profanities at her for moving his empty drink glass; the Guatemalan gardeners, who cursed the puta who had put him in such a foul mood, then flipped coins to determine who would dare trim the bougainvillea bush adjacent to the pool, only to incur his wrath for having gotten too close to him; Randy, who stopped by daily with the latest box office information on Dead End, and had to put up with Louis’s threats to move to another agent “who can appreciate me”; and, of course, me, who had been delegated the job of keeping his spirits up at all costs—including my sanity.

  “Bloody git! He coldcocked me when I wasn’t looking!” With the ice pack and bandage on his nose, Louis’s voice now had a nasal cadence to it. “Listen to me! I sound like a bloody pouf or something! So much for the dubbing. Bollocks! Well, Ben can’t blame me for this! Fox’s security people never should have let that bastard through. In fact, if my face is ruined, I’m bloody suing the whole lot of them, starting with your boyfriend!”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Louis,” I said calmly, although I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. “You are, remember?”

  That brought him back to earth for a moment. He turned away from me. “Sorry, love. I’m not blaming you—”

  Oh, aren’t you?

  “—it’s just that I can’t stand the thought of that wanker ever ha
ving touched you.”

  “We can’t change the past, Louis. Neither of us can, right?” I said pointedly. I had yet to ask him about Samantha. But that would have to wait now.

  Instead I reached for the phone. “Don’t worry. Ben is already working around you until your nose heals. And I asked Monique to cancel all the interviews you had scheduled, until next week. Otherwise, any opportunities you have to plug Dead End will be squandered in questions about the—the altercation.”

  “Oh yeah, great! As if I’m giving Mick any more publicity.” He punched the wrought iron chaise with his fist. “Once again he’s hanging onto my gravy train.”

  “Well, Mick did write the screenplay for Dead End. I mean, he deserves credit for that at least, right?”

  “No one gives a shit who wrote the bloody screenplay! All they care about is the star’s performance: mine.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Why are you so paranoid all of a sudden? Haven’t I done everything you’ve asked of me?”

  “I haven’t quit asking,” he shot back. “For example, it would be nice to know why he was there in your house in the first place.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Why is that strange? Before… well, before we were—us, Mick used to come over all the time.”

  And you’ve never been there at all. And now you never will.

  “But how did he know you were going to be there? I just don’t like the timing of that whole scenario.” Louis stared coldly at me. “And by the way you’re acting, Hannah, I’m beginning to wonder if you actually planned to meet him there.”

  “Louis, please! Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “No? Okay, I believe you… I guess.” He poured an ice cube into his palm, then tossed it into the pool, turning its glassy surface into a bull’s-eye of ripples. Without looking my way, he asked, “Mick didn’t say anything that would make you change your mind about us, did he?”

  There it was: the opening I was looking for.

  It was my chance to ask him to level with me about Samantha.

  But I didn’t take it.

  Instead I answered him with a trembling voice. “No, Louis. He just said that—that you’re a pro at using others. And that eventually you’d use me, too.”

  The tremor in my voice was a dead giveaway that Louis’s suspicions were confirmed: I knew about Samantha.

  But, for the sake of our relationship, I was going to pretend that I didn’t.

  He turned back to me. The mere shadow of a smile acknowledged my obvious lie, as well as his appreciation that I was willing to do that for him.

  For us.

  He too was willing to make sacrifices for us. He said so in this way:

  “I’ll be the first to admit it: I’ve done some things—to the other women I’ve known—that I haven’t been proud of. But I’m different with you, Hannah! That’s because I love you more than I’ve loved any other woman I’ve known. You do believe that, don’t you?”

  He’d asked me in such a way that I knew his heart would break if I didn’t.

  Yes, I want to believe that. I really, really want to.

  “Yes, Louis. I know you do.”

  “That’s good, love. Very good.” Gently he traced my face with his finger. “But I have to ask this, and I want you to be honest with me, or else what we have here won’t work: Do you feel the same way about me, love? There is no one standing between us, is there?”

  Of course, he meant Mick.

  Mick, who created the cinematic hero Louis had been born to play.

  Mick, Louis’s best bud, his loyal pal.

  Mick, who, for all I knew, had shared Louis’s other women with him, but was forbidden by Louis to share me.

  Which was why neither of us could now share Mick’s love, loyalty and friendship.

  I hesitated about a fraction of a second. “No. I love you more than anyone I’ve ever loved, too.”

  I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m a lousy actor. My unconscious blink as I spoke was a dead giveaway, I was sure of that.

  But Louis, like the rest of us, only saw what he wanted to see and heard what his ego needed as confirmation: That I was his.

  All he had to do was ask.

  “Is that so, love? Then prove it.” He pulled me down onto his lap and moved in for a kiss. His lips brushed mine for a second—

  Then he pulled back. “Shit! That hurts! I can’t—I can’t even kiss you now!”

  He put his hand to his nose and tapped it gingerly. I rose to get off, but he held me firmly. “That’s okay. Kissing is just the appetizer, right? We can move on to the main course without it—”

  “Louis, I don’t think we should do that—out here.”

  “Who cares that we’re out by the pool? The gardeners are working in the front now . . . No, don’t worry about the security guard, he’s watching the gardeners! Look, love, we both know that I shouldn’t have to beg for it! I mean, if you’re truly being honest with me, right?”

  He wanted proof that no one stood between us. Was that too much to ask for?

  Not Mick. Not Tatiana.

  Not Samantha.

  No one.

  “Good, now that’s better! . . . Right . . . Right. . . um, now, that’s therapy . . . Damn, I wish you could get a hold of a naughty nurse’s uniform somewhere . . . ”

  * * *

  Despite my trying to appease Louis in every way possible, his incarceration made him grumpy.

  I have to admit that I had a bad case of cabin fever, too. In fact, I couldn’t run the simplest errand without having a swarm of paparazzi on my tail as I bobbed and weaved down Laurel Canyon Boulevard until I ducked down one of the many side streets that dropped me onto Sunset, where, if I was lucky and the lights worked in my favor, I was granted anonymity in the form of three lanes of traffic.

  I was somewhat miffed, however, to discover that my new problems garnered no empathy whatsoever from the other members of the Gang of Four.

  Showing up late for our infrequent confab at Central Casting Denny’s, I undid my scarf and took off my glasses only after the waitress—plump, timeworn and smacking her gum loudly as proof that she had better things to do than to worry about who I was—sauntered off with my order of poached eggs on rye.

  “Hey, what’s with the Mata Hari couture?” asked Freddy, as he sliced up a sausage for the ever-ubiquitous Bette.

  “The press,” I answered miserably. Then I threw down some Fred Segal swag bags. “Go ahead, open them.”

  Christy and Sandra pounced, while Freddy gave a raised eyebrow before opening his bag and squealing out loud. Each bag had a trove of goodies unique to that elite boutique. For the girls, designer perfumes, scarves, earrings, and metallic hobo totes. And for Freddy, aftershave, a cashmere scarf and some angora socks.

  “I was in Fred Segal picking up some shirts for Louis, and for some reason the salesclerk insisted that I take some items from their VIP closet for myself. I thought you guys might not be so mad at me for being late if I came bearing gifts.”

  “Oh, sweetie! You didn’t have to do that,” murmured Sandy.

  “Bullshit. I, for one, would have never spoken to her if she hadn’t,” teased Freddy. “Now we’ll be expecting these goodies every time we meet. So, tell us the truth, girlfriend: why the need to come bearing gifts?”

  “It’s just my humble way of saying thank you. I’m beginning to realize that you three are the only ones whose friendships I can count on. Particularly in light of all that’s happened this past month.”

  “Works for me,” said Freddy. “So, how is life in the fast lane?”

  “Frightening.” I sighed. “I can’t go anywhere without a paparazzi escort. I just know I pissed off the security people at Fred Segal.”

  “Well,” sniffed Christy, “they must not be too upset at you to give you all this VIP stuff.” Even as she dabbed the store’s signature cologne behind her ear, it was obvious to everyone at the table that Christy was having a
hard time with my sudden fame.

  But not as hard a time as I was.

  “What, do you think I enjoy living in a fishbowl? That this is how I want to spend the rest of my life?” I asked her incredulously.

  “Don’t be such a little drama queen,” laughed Freddy. “You’re proof positive that Warhol was right. So sweetheart, now that the clock has started running on your fifteen minutes of fame, why settle for the kiddie table when they’re inviting you to sit with the adults?” He patted the banquette. “Don’t worry. Your spot will be waiting right here, after you’ve had that inevitable fall from grace.”

  Well, I had to admit it had been a while since I’d had others treat me so deferentially.

  And offer me nice pretty things.

  And fawn over me, as if my every word were suddenly golden.

  Although my work as Louis’s PA had meant running into stores all over L.A. to pick up and drop off items that had caught his fancy (or ones the stores hoped would), those tasks had been for business, not pleasure. However, since my metamorphosis from Hannah-the-PA to Hannah-Louis’s-Girlfriend, I was once again encouraged—no, make that required—to shop.

  And shop well. Yep, my favorite Rodeo shop girls had missed me (or at least my Amex card), that was true; and once again, I was on a first-name basis with the girls at the Grove.

  But now, not only was I back, I was back with a vengeance.

  Better yet, I was back with the kind of cachet that came only through celebrity.

  Just like Leo.

  Just like Louis.

  “You don’t have to feel guilty about it, Hannah,” Christy echoed then added, “but just don’t make us feel bad if we follow in your footsteps.”

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that—well, it means that I’m going to reconsider my stance on Donnie.”

  Freddy turned from feeding Bette in order to give Christy the once-over.

  “Oh? Do tell, darling! Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “It’s not exactly sudden.” She flushed brightly. “I’ve been reconsidering it for quite some time. Besides, if Hannah can do it—”