by Joan Rivers
“Drew!” came a British-accented call from the crush.
With one heavily jeweled hand I held tight to Drew’s wrist as her cheek was kissed by the beautiful Anne Hathaway, so pale in her deep-red Versace gown, and my other hand was quickly grabbed up by the handsome Pierce Brosnan, who was wearing a hand-tailored Armani tux but would have looked heavenly even wearing off-the-rack.
“Max, you look marvelous.”
Hand? I pulled him down to my level for a kiss. Hey, with half the hunks in Hollywood filled with expensive champagne, I was not about to pass up the opportunities available to a dead-sober single lady. In fact, it was like any other glittering Hollywood affair, except better, because Drew and I had felt the thrill of sneaking in, and that adrenaline high was keeping us pumped.
“Yes, hi, hello!” I waved at the various and beautiful, as I pulled Drew closer and ordered, “Now go find Burke.” Who knew how long we’d be allowed to mingle before our butts would be tossed? We had no time to waste.
A black-vested waiter passed, holding a platter of bent spoons.
“I’m starving,” Drew said, following the waiter. Upon each silver spoon, its handle bent all the way back around and under, was a sliver of cured fish with a pinch of garnish. We each helped ourselves, but it would take a dozen more tiny such Craft morsels to satisfy us. I grabbed the last spoon, and Drew slapped my hand and took it. Receiving a concerned look from the waiter, we backed off.
“First Burke, then food,” I said, pushing Drew along.
“Mother!”
Inside the vast, ten-thousand-square-foot interior, track-lighting-style filament bulbs dangled over the fawn-colored banquettes, lending the gold and beige space a warm amber glow. Along the back, a wall display showed off neatly arranged rows of backlit wine bottles in custom floor-to-ceiling cases. Around us, about three hundred celebrities and industry giants were now laughing and flirting and landing their next films, while at least a hundred more were schmoozing outside on the patio. For this special evening, several giant-screen plasma televisions had been installed around the space, each projecting the live after-party news coverage so we could all check ourselves out on-screen. Not a bad idea in this crowd.
As we pushed gently through the throng, I nodded to Clive Owen, thin and fabulous in a white dinner jacket, while Drew got a quick hug from Penelope Cruz in a shimmering silver Dolce gown, and I scanned the room for any sign of Drew’s evil ex-boyfriend. I have an eagle—if nearsighted—eye, and for just a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of Burke Norris’s broad shoulders from behind a beehive hairdo that made the beautiful Heidi Klum look as if someone had left a bleached squirrel on her head. But, no, it wasn’t Burke after all.
“Heidi! Nice hair,” I called out, then whispered to Drew, “Do me a favor. If I ever leave the house looking like that, shoot me or hand me a bag of nuts.”
“Max!”
I looked up to see Diana Bates, the third woman I’ve known to be married to the head of Interscope Pictures, in her backless, teal-colored Dior, waving to me.
“Great dress, Diana.”
“Thanks, Max. You look gorgeous.”
“Don’t start.”
“What happened to Halsey?” Diana asked. “She really must be desperate for attention. I mean, she makes that crazy last-second grand entrance to the Oscars? Come on. Guess it wasn’t enough for her to be one of five nominees, was it?”
I looked at Diana, stunned. “Halsey? I don’t know what you mean. She was sick. I mean, she collapsed for God’s sake.”
“Exactly,” Diana slurred. “She pulls that stunt right before the awards. James was livid. Says she’ll never do another picture for Interscope.”
I recalled that Halsey had never agreed to do any pictures with Interscope, ever.
Diana went on, “Such a publicity whore.”
Bitch.
I didn’t point out who, in fact, the whore was and just smiled. This town. Diana swirled away in her happy little bubble.
My little Judith Leiber bag began to rattle and vibrate. Cell phone. On the display, a phone number with a British prefix and area code.
My Sir Ian.
“Hello.” I tried to cup my hand over one ear to dampen the sound of a few hundred Hollywood celebrants, but I could hear just the faintest of voices. I spied a hallway that led to the kitchen and figured I might find less crowd noise in that direction. “Hello, darling?” I tried again.
“Maxine, my dear, can you hear me?” came the deep voice. “I’ve had a bloody time reaching you. You never think to consult the list of missed calls on your mobile. So what is a poor fellow to do but keep calling?”
Sir Ian McBride and I had been “dating” for almost a year. While he lived in England and I traveled from coast to coast in the United States, we still managed to clock a great deal of time together. I was always booking work trips overseas, and he had many reasons to come to New York, as his business of buying gems and selling them to the world’s wealthiest jewelers kept him hopping around the globe. Although dating a man in the diamond business may sound too good to be true, our relationship was much more valuable than mere gifts. I’d found a man whom I not only adored but was also a terribly good friend.
“Hello, yes, I can hear you perfectly. I’m at a party, Ian,” I said.
“Yes, my dear. Of that I am completely aware, as is most of the world. You look marvelous, by the way. I’ve been watching you on television all morning, haven’t I?” With his clever array of live satellite feeds, my dear Ian had obviously been able to follow my movements around town from the comfort of his flat in London, where it was currently tomorrow morning. I noticed a big screen off to my left replaying a video clip of my arrival with Drew at this very party only moments before. Ian, seven thousand miles away, probably noticed it too. “I must say, Maxine, I was more than a little surprised to see you arriving at the big Vanity Fair party. Aren’t they the bastards who continually try to keep you out?”
“In the past, yes, true…” One of the things I adored about Ian was his fabulous business savvy. A brilliant man, he told me wonderful and daring stories about trading diamonds all across Europe and Africa, and over time I had shared some of my professional victories—I hate to brag—and some of my most bitter defeats. With his businessman’s habit of keeping careful score of those who have bruised me, he hadn’t quite mastered the art of Hollywood amnesia so necessary to finesse the tricky ins and outs of doing business here. Sometimes it’s better to forget all the names on one’s enemies list. If one survives in this town for any amount of time, it can be a long list. I put on a hearty tone to my voice and said, “We’re all friends again. Everything’s fine.”
“Max, darling.” His voice had the sound of a man who knew me too well. “Did you bash into that crazy magazine party?”
“It’s crash, Ian. And, no. Of course not. I was asked in. What do you think I am?”
“An American,” he laughed.
Three waiters, all clad in dark vests and striped ties, passed by on their way to the kitchen.
“I am just a bit worried about you, that’s all. My media people managed to arrange a live feed of Glam-TV, and I watched your show. It was all going marvelously well, my dear, but then what on earth happened with that girl, Halsey?”
The question of the evening.
“My God, Maxine. You’re lucky she was wearing any clothing at all, or they would have had to place modesty bars all across the screen.”
“Were you shocked, Ian?” I was only teasing. Few people could shock my boyfriend, who had a talent for negotiating the price on natural diamonds that belied the civility of his McBride family’s well-educated lineage, but I liked to try.
“Maxine, do listen to me this time. I think you had better go home and stay out of the public eye. I am fairly safe in saying that there is rather a large storm of press coverage here in Europe surrounding this Hamilton girl, and I can only imagine it is worse there in the States. You may not realize it, b
ut…”
He went on for a bit. Nothing is less romantic than a man who wants me to stay home and avoid the storm. I was just getting ready to say so when I spotted one of the servers, a lovely redheaded girl with a long ponytail, hastily rebuttoning her black vest as she emerged from an alcove in the hallway to the kitchen. And what was this? Immediately following her out of that dark alcove was none other than Burke Norris, who brushed past without noticing me, looking down, as he was, to zip up his fly.
Oh. Really.
I interrupted Ian’s mini-rant: “Got to go, love.” I don’t know why, but when I talk to him I get all “Beatles” in my word choices. “We’ve got terrible cell reception. I have no bars. Call you lat—” I snapped shut my phone midword, rushing after Burke.
I rejoined the loud party, approaching a tangle of guests standing around the bar, and just heard the last words directed at Burke, coming from some man I didn’t recognize.
“…the last time I saw her. It’s got to be a bummer for you, man.” The stranger drained his martini glass. “I mean, you and she were still real tight, right?”
“Are you two talking about Halsey?” I interrupted.
“Max Taylor,” said the man, brightening when he recognized me. “Max Taylor. I love your interviews. You are so mean.”
Burke, suddenly realizing whom he had brushed past on his retreat from the waitress boff, looked sheepish, while I graciously decided not to lash into him for that ridiculous behavior. I had bigger grapes to squeeze.
“Isn’t she mean?” persisted Burke’s friend, smiling in admiration.
“Is she ever,” Burke mumbled.
Well, he had dated my Drew for over a year. During their romance, he had seen both my generous and my fierce sides.
“You look beautiful, Max,” Burke said, revving up the charm. “Your show was great tonight. You and Drew.”
“So nice to know you are still a fan.” I smiled a not-altogether-friendly smile. “What I really want to know, though, is what have you got to do with Halsey and her drug problems?”
“Whoa. What?” Burke took a few steps back away from the bar and his buddy.
I followed closely. “Halsey was upset about you tonight. You. What the hell was that all about?”
Burke turned to his buddy for support, but the guy was getting a refill on his martini.
“Tell me,” I insisted. A prickle of fear kept me glancing back at the entrance, expecting at any moment to see a commotion of bodyguards and bouncers coming after me, finally having tracked down Todd Whomever and confirmed I had no free pass to this party. “Come on, Burke, don’t play games. Something was up between you and Halsey.”
“Huh?” he asked, perplexed, a glint of gold in his wide gray-green eyes.
A brain surgeon he wasn’t.
Burke Norris was quite a package. On the surface. He had the height—at six feet four he was a foot taller than I was—and the looks: dark, wavy hair that he wore perfectly cut, and shoulders just wide enough to make him walk through crowded bars sideways. He had a permanent five o’clock shadow even a decade after the unshaven look had become passé, yet it perfectly suited his strong jawline and tanned face. He dressed well and smelled good, but as much polish as he had on the outside, in his heart something had always been lacking. He’d been brought up with a little too much unsupervised time in Beverly Hills, and after drifting away from college, he’d found better things to do, apparently, than getting a job. Heaven forbid he should go to work for his father, the pickle king of Van Nuys!
The better Burke looked, standing there in the bar in his Armani tux, the more I hated him, because this good-looking idiot had stolen my daughter’s heart and he just wasn’t worthy of her. Eventually, soon, Drew’s heart would stop aching and she’d know she was much too good for this lout. But to help that healing moment come sooner, I had to find out how Burke was connected to this night’s fiasco.
“Did you give drugs or booze to Halsey? Answer me.”
“No. Of course not. Why would you think I could ever…?” He looked hurt. His eyes scrunched in a convincing mock-up of confusion and innocence. Right.
“Because Halsey Hamilton, God love her, collapsed at my feet this evening,” I whispered. “And as she lay there, she talked about you.”
“No kidding.” His beautiful face was a cipher. Was he sad? Sorry? Concerned? Proud?
“Were you two dating, Burke?”
“No. Well, not anymore. Really, Max. Halsey and I, we were over as a couple. History.”
My head began to ache. Burke and Drew had started out fast—too fast, I always told her—and had gotten engaged after only a month. They had been happy together for over a year. But when things began to go bad a few months ago, Drew could see the end was coming and finally threw him out for good two weeks ago. Since Halsey had been tucked away in rehab during the entire period that Burke and Drew had been on the rocks, when had he and Halsey had this bout of “history”? Had Burke and Halsey been having a sick, secret affair during Drew’s year of “good times,” the year Burke had been engaged to my daughter? He couldn’t have!
“So when did it start?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, okay. Back in the day…”
I felt a momentary urge to commit murder. Really. Burke Norris was clearly admitting that he had had a short fling with Halsey, Drew’s so-called good friend. If Drew ever found out, she’d be devastated. It was in the rules, damn it. When a girl breaks up with a rat, none of her friends was allowed to sleep with him. Ever. And if the sweet girl hadn’t even broken up with the rat yet, but was still happily engaged…But when had Halsey ever cared about the rules?
I reached out and grabbed Burke’s arm, feeling the hard biceps beneath the fine wool of his jacket. “If you ever tell Drew about your stupid affair,” I began, “I swear I’ll—”
Just then, Big Jonathan, the bruiser from the front door, walked into the bar. His eyes held the cool gaze of a commando looking to search and destroy.
I gulped. Time to go. As Burke burbled his regrets about Halsey, and sincere-sounding, soppy apologies, begging to be released one more time in his gilded life from the consequences of his bad choices, I slunk down low and reversed course, steering away from the bar, staying below the radar of the additional three bouncers who had joined Jonathan. The security team was beginning to talk to people at the bar. Burke’s buddy was one of them. I thought I could hear my name above the general chatter.
I slunk even lower, limping along quickly toward the other side of the lounge, explaining to a startled Daniel Day-Lewis that I’d gotten a charley horse, damn it. He seemed concerned. But this is Hollywood, so who can tell?
“That’s her!” a masculine voice boomed. “Max Taylor!”
I sped through the opening in the crowd, miraculously cured of my phantom leg cramp and ran smack into Graydon Carter, with his large forehead, beefy middle, and clouds of silver hair, the editor of Vanity Fair himself. He was standing, talking to a pretty woman whose shiny coif was swept up in a great-looking topknot.
“Max Taylor,” he said in astonishment. “You…”
“Yes, Graydon,” I said, smiling warmly. “Me.”
The beefy bouncers, exiting the bar area, spotted me standing in the middle of the crowded restaurant, surrounded by TV screens, talking to the big boss. They stopped, agog, uncertain, wanting to snap at me like the guard dogs they were, but then not wanting to bust into the editor’s conversation, lest they get put back on their leashes outside the fine event.
“Wondered when I’d run into you,” he said, gesturing with his drink toward a big-screen nearby. The pretty, young woman at his side smiled. Of course everyone knew I was here. But he was cheerful; that was something. “And you have quite a story, don’t you, Max? The story of Halsey Hamilton’s latest meltdown. Not very pretty, but then, you have the smarts to be where the ugly stuff happens.”
I loved it. He actually sounded jealous.
“Perhaps,” he continued, “it
’s a story you would like to share with our Vanity Fair readers?” He smiled down at the woman at his side, then said, as an afterthought, “Max Taylor, this is Sibyl Morgan, one of my best young editors.”
She said, “You’ll give us the story?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” I said.
“Yes?” he said, smiling a most charming smile as the tiny pin spotlights gleamed off his silver waves.
“If the price is satisfactory, Graydon,” I added.
“Now, really!”
I smiled at them both. My private view of the downfall of an Academy Award–nominated party girl was surely worth more than mere entry into a party that, while glamorous, didn’t, let’s be honest, feed guests more than a spoonful of fish.
“How much?” asked the lovely Sibyl. She had out her BlackBerry and was taking notes.
“A lot.”
Graydon scoffed, “We clearly have a difference of opinion on the value of this story. We’re not a daily rag, as I’m sure you know. We are a prestigious monthly, and I’m not sure it would even be worth it for us to talk numbers.” Pretty Sibyl frowned. They were both suddenly not as amused.
The movie stars and moneymen around us hummed with good cheer, but I was wasting my time here. “I’ll be going now. Thank you for your kind hospitality.”
“Oh,” he said, perhaps startled I had ended our discussion. “Did you get a chance to taste the—”
But I would never hear what astonishing culinary treat I would have no chance of sampling since, at that moment, the crowd around us started hushing one another, and that included us.
An elderly actress seated at the banquette nearest to us said, “Turn the volume up, won’t you?” and a young waiter came rushing over to do so.
On the several huge TV screens in the room was featured a close-up of local reporter Nick Tostado. He was no longer standing on the curb outside Craft, where last I’d spoken with him a half hour or so earlier. It appeared that Nick was now positioned in the street in front of Cedars-Sinai hospital, only a few miles away. The party was still too noisy to hear what he was saying, but perhaps his exact commentary didn’t really matter. Because the words on the bottom of the screen, under the reporter’s handsome image, read, HAMILTON ACADEMY AWARD NIGHT TRAGEDY.
