by Joan Rivers
Dr. Bob shook his head as if none of that had been working.
“Good Lord!” I whispered to Drew.
Drew held up a finger and got Dr. Bob’s attention. “My mother wants to pray. She’s going to be praying all night long.”
Dr. Bob relayed the message to the interventionist on the phone, and we waited. Then Bob said, “Good. Splendid. Yes, we don’t want to upset her spiritual…um…flow. No.” He gave us a thumbs-up. “I promise. I’ll camp out in front of her hotel suite all night…. No? Okay, I’ll go with her into her suite and stay on her sofa.” He listened. “I hear you. I certainly won’t allow Max to have any access to her substance until we can bring her to Wonders in the morning…. Good. Thank you so much.”
Drew shook her head in admiration as Dr. Bob disconnected from the call. “The third-best celebrity intervention counselor on the West Coast—he’s a ballbuster.”
Dr. Bob nodded. “Don’t kid yourself. These guys are cutthroat out here. You’re a big get, Max. He’ll be making a move up to number two on the basis of your recovery alone.”
“So, Mom,” Drew said sternly. “Stay off your damned substance!”
Dr. Bob looked stricken. “Which reminds me—what substance is it going to be, Max? I have to write up a diagnosis tonight.”
They both looked at me.
“Can we just say I’m addicted to…Sweet’n Low?”
“Mother! Be serious!”
Dr. Bob raised an eyebrow. “Sweet’n Low? You mean the little pink packets?”
Drew stared. “You plan to say you’re addicted to artificial sweeteners?”
“Well”—I looked at both of them defensively—“I have been meaning to cut down.”
12
Best Exit
I heard Malulu Vai calling my name, her bell-like voice echoing through the vast and gilded Great Hall in Buckingham Palace. Her Samoan-accented “Mrs. Livingston!” floated over the parquet floors, past Prince Philip, past Queen Elizabeth—who was at that very moment smiling and nodding over a rather clever joke I had just made—past my exquisite Harry Winston emerald earring, through my ear canal, and down, down into my brain. “Mrs. Livingst—”
I opened one eye. It was pitch-black outside my window. The readout on the digital clock next to my bed read 4:17.
“Sorry, sorry, Mrs.,” Malulu said, bending over me as I lay tucked sweetly under the lace-edged Frette sheets. “It’s a big emergency. On the telephone. So sorry, Mrs. L.”
Oh my Lord. Had they arrested Burke? Never mind Burke, had they arrested Drew?
I shot awake, swatting at several pillows, stuffing them all behind me as I sat up in bed. “Who’s on the phone?” I asked, my middle-of-the-night voice sounding not a bit croakier than my middle-of-the-day voice typically sounds.
Malulu took over the job of tucking in pillows and straightening the comforter. “It’s your Mr. Lukes.”
I tried to open my eye. My manager was on the phone at 4:17 a.m.?
Steve Lukes had achieved that rarefied personal talent manager status where he had only a few clients now, all of us working hard. He’d dropped several dozen midsize names over the years and specialized in representing only his closest pals. Steve and I had been together forever, through the good times and the meh times. He was larger-than-life in personality as well as in his waist-band, the sort of man they built Big and Tall men’s stores for, and a good day for Steve was checking the sale rack and finding Hawaiian shirts in size XXXL.
Steve had been out of the country for the past ten days, off on some cockamamy vacation on tiny Bazaruto Island. He was having the time of his life, I’m sure, but I was becoming less and less happy. Look, I had a storm of publicity to manage, a ton of interview requests, and where was Steve? His latest vacation destination was a pristine speck of sand forty kilometers off the coast of freaking Mozambique. It was so far off the map that Steve had virtually no cell reception, was in a time zone that made me dizzy trying to compute it, and, to top it off, held the promise of fairly atrocious, shell-laden souvenirs to come.
Malulu turned on the bedside light and handed me the phone.
“Emergency?” I squawked at Steve, skipping any intros. “It better be that you are being currently turned over a spit.” I imagined headhunters, and it gave me a little satisfaction.
“Maxine, my lovely,” said Steve, his cheerful booming voice coming through the phone receiver as loud and clear as if he were calling me from Brentwood. “Malulu tells me it’s O-dark-thirty over there by you in Bel-Air. Sorry to wake you.”
He was sorry to wake me?
He piped on, “Don’t worry, my darling. I have been making merry plans for you, even whilst on my vacation.” He proceeded to tell me all about the mind-numbing difficulties he had overcome in dealing with the avalanche of offers that were simply pouring in on my behalf. “Here I am, all the way around the world, and you are so hot, Max, the world is barking at my door, desperate. They found me here on Bazaruto and will not leave me alone.”
“But, Steve, how is this possible? You keep telling me you have no phones,” I said, suspicious that he had miraculously been accessible to everyone but me for the past week and a half.
“My iPhone is worthless here!” he beamed across the ether. “There are no phones at all in my simple hut above the sand, but has that stopped the world, Max? I have been tracked down. The poor manager at the Indigo Bay has simply had to turn over his office to me for the past twenty-four hours. You are hot, my darling!”
“How hot?”
“They want you to do the next Bond movie hot.”
I gasped, now fully awake. “As M?”
“They’re thinking up a new letter,” Steve said airily. “There have been calls from all four networks. There are guest shots. There are pilots. Do you want to host a game show, my love?”
“What’s going on?” Only two days ago, I was fairly sure I was going to have trouble negotiating with Glam-TV for the next three years of Red Carpet Specials. But game shows? Pilots? Bond, James Bond?
Steve explained, “You are sitting on the hottest story in the world. Hell, Max, even here in Africa everyone is speculating about what happened to Halsey. Do you know?”
“I will know a lot more in a day or so.”
“Good. The more you know, the more valuable the deal I will make for you to spill it all. Don’t say a word to anyone until the deal is done.”
“That goes without saying.”
“And then, my dear Max, your wonderful and brave admission of addiction.” I could hear the awe in his voice clearly. “You are braver than Amy Winehouse.”
Wait a minute. He was lying on a hammock under a palm tree in the middle of the goddamned Indian Ocean, and he had already heard about that? “You know?”
“It’s so damned hip, Max. You are fresh. You are youthful. You’re going to rehab. Do you have a tattoo?”
“Yes, of a large, hairy man being roasted by natives in coconut oil.”
“Hell, I wish I’d thought this up myself. And your timing couldn’t be more perfect. Look, you go and dry out. Get all better, sweetie. And leave all the deals to me.”
“Uh, Steve, do you actually think I’m on drugs? I mean, we’ve worked together for twenty years. Have you ever in your life seen me…?”
“No need to explain. You certainly fooled me.”
I punched a pillow. “I’m not an addict, Steve. This is just…well, it’s just a little game.”
“A game? You sly fox. You are a genius. I always knew it. But, please, just keep that your little secret and have some fun in rehab. I’m about to make some major moves, and I don’t want you spoiling anything by showing up somewhere, God forbid, sober.”
“Okay.”
“Will you do Larry King before you check in?”
“No, Steve.”
“Where are they taking you?”
“Wonders in Pasadena.”
“Make them give you the Passion Fruit room,” he advised. “Morn
ing sun and not near the noisy tennis courts.”
“You know the place?” I asked, amazed.
“Sweetie, don’t ask.”
We talked a little more business, then I hung up. Wide-awake now, I decided I might as well get up and pack my bags. Ah, what to take for a few days in recovery? This was a new wardrobe challenge. I thought my gray velvet yoga pants and hoodie might hit just the right note of sorry-but-sporty and jumped out of bed to find it.
A tap at my bedroom door, and then Malulu peeked her head in. “You still up, Mrs. L?”
“I need my luggage.” I opened my underwear drawer and considered which bra looked the most penitent.
“Yes, I get your bags. But you have another phone call now. It’s Sir Ian calling from England. Dat mon he is very worried, I think.”
Ian. Oh, shoot. How was my proper British boyfriend dealing with the breaking news that his lady was, unbeknownst to him, hitting bottom? I should have called him. I should have warned him.
I rushed to the extension next to my bed. “Hello, is that you, Ian?”
“Who else would it bloody well be? You have a problem, a serious problem, and you don’t tell me? I’m hurt. Did you think I would condemn you? Well, I certainly would not!”
Five minutes of soothing and explaining usually do the trick between Ian and me. This time it took ten. Then I threw myself into the packing chores while Malulu, unable to sleep while I was still awake, went off to do a bit of baking.
Killer, unaccustomed to any activity at that time of morning, lay out at my feet and snoozed.
Three hours flew by, and I was seated at the dining room table, nibbling on freshly baked scones, when I heard the chimes at the door to my suite. Killer raised his little head and growled. I felt a momentary clutch in the pit of my stomach. Drew arriving to take me away.
But instead, Cindy Chow, wearing white jeans in February, was ushered in, and Malulu offered to pour her a cup of coffee.
“Max, I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this. At such a time. I mean, you have much more important things to worry about.”
“What, me worry?”
“Well,” she said in a little voice, “it came as quite a shock to me. But I saw Devon Jones’s piece about your personal struggle on ABC this morning.”
“Sit down. Have a scone.”
“Anyway,” she rushed on, “I know things could have gone a little better on the red carpet.” She watched me put down my scone. “Okay. A lot better. But I went home and watched our show all the way through—”
“You mean until that bastard Will pulled the plug on my full interview with Halsey?”
“Yes. What was with him? The moron! Yes, until then. And you were wonderful, Max. Of course, that goes without saying. In fact, I think you may have been the funniest I’ve ever seen you. And maybe that was due to the fact that so much was, you know, whirling around.” Cindy’s euphemism for her inability to hang on to an A-lister made me cough up a little piece of scone.
Cindy looked at her French tips. “I know I let you down.”
“Yesterday’s news,” I said kindly. I had always liked Cindy. But, to be brutally honest, I had to ask myself, had her fangs dulled a bit? Putting sentiment aside, I would have to think carefully about who would best fill the wrangler position for next year’s red carpet show.
“I’m here begging, Max,” she said, putting her hand over her pink stretch T-shirt, over her heart. “Begging for another chance. Can you find it in your heart to let me try again?”
“Listen, Cindy, things always work out. You know what I’m saying? Maybe Glam won’t even pick up my option to do next year’s red carpet. It’s that kind of town. Who knows?”
“But you’re so hot right now. What about the new celebrity fashion series you’re going to do for ABC?” she blurted out. Even I hadn’t heard of that one yet. Oh, rumors of my newly ignited “heat” must be spreading like wildfire across the back lots, setting off little sparks, since everyone in this town needed a job.
I eyed her carefully. “But that reminds me. There is something you could do to help me out.”
“I can? What? Anything I can do, Max.”
“Tell me exactly what you saw in the backseat of Halsey’s limo.”
13
Best Transportation to a Fashionable Detox Clinic
There she was, Max. Bra. No gown. Humming.”
I looked at Cindy, curious. “What was Halsey humming?”
“‘I Kissed a Girl.’ You know how that one goes? First thing I thought was, ‘This girl is high.’”
“Because…?” I asked, leaning forward.
“Because? Because she was high! You saw her. I mean, no clothes. This was a girl who could have literally worn any dress in the universe that night. No designer, no price tag, was out of her reach. And instead she chose to show up in her bra?” Cindy laughed in pain at the wasted fashion op. “So that’s it. She was just sitting in the backseat.”
“No. Give me details.”
Cindy nodded. “Well, the leather was zebra-stripe, black-and-white, you know—”
I held up my hand. “Details about Halsey.”
“Right. She was undressed. Just like you saw her. She was kind of sprawled out in the back there. Very relaxed. And I said, ‘Halsey, are you ready? Max is all set.’ But she…well, Max, she asked me if I wanted to come on in and give her a big kiss.”
“You don’t think she was making a serious pass? She’d been humming that song the kids all like. She was joking.”
Cindy said seriously, “Whatever. If it meant getting Halsey Hamilton for you, Max, I would have gladly kissed—”
You have to give Cindy props for trying to boost her own stock in the retelling of the story.
“So,” I interrupted, “in the back of the limo, any signs of bottles or needles or pills?”
Cindy shook her head quickly. “No. I mean, the limo had a bar, but I didn’t notice any open booze bottles lying around.”
“No food? No drinks?”
“Oh, she was drinking some bottled water, I think. Yeah, she had a big bottle of Voss water, which was just about empty. But that was it.”
The doorbell to the Herb Garden Suite chimed, and Cindy and I were joined by Drew, looking energized and happy. While the two girls were chatting, I grabbed my cell phone and redialed Unja’s cell for the twentieth time since we’d become separated after the Oscars. Again, no answer. I couldn’t even leave my twentieth pleading message because, naturally by this time, all the message space on his service was full.
Malulu, dressed in a bright orange pantsuit, entered the dining area with Killer in her arms, and I noticed she also had his lead.
“Oh, good,” I said. “You’re taking him on a walk. He needs a little fresh air.”
“No, Mrs. Livingston,” she said, “Killer have an appointment.”
Killer stopped wagging his tail. “He need to go to, you know, dat place.”
“The V-E-T? We can drop you off on our way out of town,” I offered, checking with Drew.
“Of course. We have a ton of room. I got us a limo, Mother. A really large limo to take you to that place you’re going to this morning.”
A morning of unnamed places: Killer was going to the V-E-T and Mommy was going to R-E-H-A-B. Perfect.
“Malulu,” I said, “did you pack up a big box of brownies? I want to bring them with me.”
“Yes, Mrs. I make a big batch. I wrapped them up with the satin bow, like you like. I get them now.” She bustled off, holding tight to Killer.
Drew said kindly, “I think they have gourmet chefs at the…place, Mom.”
“The brownies aren’t for me,” I said, insulted. “I want to bring something with me when I go over to the Hamiltons’.”
Drew eyed me closely. “What’s this? You know we have an appointment at the place. Why are you going to—”
I put a hand on her arm. “We’ll stop off on the way. A condolence call. It’s the least we can do, right?
Now, someone, get my bags.”
Cindy Chow leapt up and called, “I’ll get them.” She had spied the four Louis Vuitton monogram canvas bags at the door, a virtual fleet of LVs and stylized stars and flowers floating across a brown/green sea, and hurried to hoist the packed Keepall, pulling its natural-leather shoulder strap across her chest, and extending the handle on the roller Trolley bag.
“Mother.” Drew narrowed her eyes at the luggage. “The Steamer Bag?”
“I may have overpacked,” I admitted. “Why not look one’s best?”
Outside, the day was beautiful as the sun shone brightly onto the cobblestone paths winding among the pink buildings. The scent of the lemon trees mixed with the aroma of mint and rosemary from the herb garden outside my suite’s door.
“The driver had to park in front of the main entrance,” Drew explained. As she led us down the path past the hotel’s lake, two large swans drifted by.
“This hotel is amazing,” Cindy said, handling all four of my bags without complaint. “It has such a history.”
I said, “Well, not Boston Tea Party history, but Hollywood history. And that’s much juicier. If these pastel walls could talk, do you know what they’d say?”
Malulu muttered her guess: “Sex, sex, sex.”
Cindy giggled. “Anyone really famous?”
Drew said, “Mom knows all the dirt.”
“Well,” I offered, “I read that Ted Danson and Whoopi Goldberg…whooped it up here.”
“Mother!”
“Oprah Winfrey threw her fiftieth-birthday slumber party here. And Nancy Reagan was a lunch regular.”
Drew prompted, “Mom even knows Nancy’s lunch order.”
“Cobb salad with low-fat dressing, no blue cheese,” I offered.
Malulu said, “Dat’s what I must order the next time. Dat first lady is tin.”
“‘Thin,’” I translated when Cindy looked up. “They say Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman met here in secret to hammer out their divorce details. And all the legends used to stay here—Grace Kelly, Cary Grant, Elizabeth Taylor…”
Malulu walked along beside us carefully leading Killer by the leash. “I love dat Liz Taylor.”
