by Maggie Marr
“I had to walk Shasta,” Boom Boom said, referring to Kiki’s pet teacup poodle, who sat on a silk pillow on the corner of Boom Boom’s desk. “I haven’t changed back.”
“You walked Shasta in those?” Kiki asked, horrified. How embarrassing for the dog. “Change them,” Kiki said, a wicked gleam in her eye, “and then walk Shasta again.”
“Again?”
“Did I stutter?” Kiki looked up and appraised her assistant from head to toe.
“But—”
Kiki gave Boom Boom a withering gaze, forcing her to be silent. Kiki then looked at her computer screen and clicked through her e-mail in-box. She felt disappointed—she’d yet to hear any news from Sherman.
“But …”
Kiki looked up. Boom Boom still stood in her office doorway. Perhaps there had been some spinal cord growth in the girl.
“Yes?” Kiki asked. She peered over the tops of her Louis Vuitton glasses.
“I can’t walk Shasta again.”
Hmm, was that back talk or an excuse? Either way it was a step in the right direction.
“And why not?”
Boom Boom stepped into Kiki’s office, glanced over her shoulder, and pulled the door shut.
“I’m waiting for a messenger,” Boom Boom whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m waiting—”
“Boom Boom, I heard you. There are a dozen assistants and three interns in the office; someone else can wait for a package. Go walk the dog.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Kiki, this is a special package. It’s from Sherman.”
“What? He called? When?”
“Late last night. He left a voice mail around two A.M. saying to expect something very confidential around eleven. For your eyes only.” Kiki’s heart beat fasther with the possibility of confirmation of the salacious secret. Had he found it? Proof? She squinted her eyes and glared at her assistant, “When were you going to tell me Sherman called?”
“When the package arrived.”
“And since when do you decide which calls are important and which aren’t?” Kiki clicked on her computer screen. “I don’t see Sherman Ross on my phone sheet.”
“He didn’t need you to return the call—”
“That’s not your decision!” Kiki screeched. Boom Boom wilted before her. “I decide who I’m going to call, not you.”
“But—”
“But what?”
“I didn’t think you’d want a computer record of Sherman Ross contacting you. The voice mail is bad enough, but the phone sheet automatically backs up onto the hard drive, and I didn’t think you’d want that.”
Kiki deflated a tiny bit. Boom Boom might be dowdy, but she was also clever. “Still,” Kiki said, remaining stiff, “you should have told me.” She glanced at her computer screen again. “He said this morning?”
“Before lunch.”
Kiki glanced at the clock on her phone: 11:45, and Kiki had a 1:00 P.M. lunch at The Grill with the head of CTA, Tolliver Jones. Kiki didn’t care much for Jessica Caulfield-Fox, no matter what Celeste Solange had to say about her, and Kiki shed no tears in seeing Jessica depart from the presidency of CTA. Tolliver truly understood the idea of “you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”
At lunch he’d most likely throw Kiki some nasty little bits about CTA’s A-list stars, which Kiki would feed to Page Six or Defamer. For that favor from Tolliver, Kiki would let him know which of her clients (or anyone else’s she heard about) was looking for a new agent. And Defamer or Page Six would owe Kiki a favor, repaying her by placing a piece for any of her stars the next time they needed some press. Every move Kiki made fed the Hollywood publicity machine.
“Do not open the package,” Kiki said. “Do you understand?”
Boom Boom looked at the ceiling, no longer cowed and obviously annoyed. “Yes, Kiki.”
The familiar beeping noise of two of her office lines pierced their conversation. “Don’t stand there.”
Boom Boom bustled out of Kiki’s office and Kiki put on her wireless headset. The caller ID flashed Steven Brockman, and Kiki sat straighter in her chair. Aside from Celeste Solange, Steven was her biggest client, as well as her most difficult. He was demanding, and of course there was always Steven’s little “secret” named Billy, a secret Kiki continuously worked to keep under wraps.
“Brockman on one,” Boom Boom called to Kiki. Kiki cleared her throat.
“Celeste Solange on two,” Boom Boom called out.
How did this always happen? No calls for fifteen minutes, and then suddenly her two biggest clients phoned within thirty seconds of each other.
“Tell Celeste I’m in a meeting,” Kiki said. “I’ll have to return.” Cici would wait. Now what could Brockman be complaining about this time?
“Steven!” Kiki smiled, knowing that her biggest client shouldn’t hear her frown over the phone. “Darling, how are you?”
“Kiki, have you seen the L.A. Times today?”
“Darling, no, still working my way through the trades. Up to two hundred million on your film, congratulations, my love. All the studios are slobbering to be in business with you.”
“I’m not on it.”
“What darling?”
“The new and hot list.”
“What?”
“In the Los Angeles Times today, I am not on the new and hot list.”
Kiki pressed mute on her phone. “Boom Boom,” she hissed, “get me the L.A. Times new and hot list, NOW!” Releasing the mute button, Kiki forced a smile. “Darling, how can that be? You are very, very hot.”
“Exactly why I’m calling you.”
Boom Boom rushed toward Kiki with her outstretched hand holding a copy of the list. Kiki grabbed it and scanned it. Everyone on the list was under the age of twenty-five.
“Darling, I’m looking at the list right now, and it’s obvious why you’re not on it. It’s completely beneath you. I mean, come on. Most of these people haven’t even been in a film, much less starred in one. They’re TV actors.” Steven failed to notice that all of these actors were all fifteen years younger than him.
“Kiki, I’m not getting enough exposure.”
“Steven, you just did Esquire and GQ. Vanity Fair wants you for a cover; we’re finalizing the logistics right now. Letterman was ten days ago. What else could you want?”
“But the pictures in GQ! Awful. Billy hated them. He tried to help at the shoot, but that asshole photographer just wouldn’t listen. I ended up looking like someone’s dad.”
Ah, the real problem emerged—Steven Brockman felt old.
At forty, a male star like Steven had at least another ten, possibly twenty, years of market viability if he picked the right roles and gracefully moved into the older mentor character in the action flick. Women? Unless you were Meryl, Diane, or Susan, your career happened when you were young. Once you started showing age, you might do some television, or a film every three years. Some great indies. But the paydays, the really sexy roles opposite the male stars? Those plum roles dried up at around age thirty-five.
“Who did the shoot?”
“Some British asshole, Nathan something.”
“I think that’s the same photographer who’s working with Worldwide on print ads for Cici on California Girl.”
“She did that piece-of-shit movie? I read it. They wanted me for the male lead, but it was complete tripe. Billy hated it, too.”
Billy, Billy, Billy. The very reason Kiki worked so hard for Steven Brockman. Time to change subjects. “How’s the baby?”
“Good. She and Kathy left to visit Kathy’s mother today. Took the jet. Gone for four weeks. Poor Kathy; her tits won’t ever be the same. She’ll have to get a mommy makeover if she ever wants to work again.”
“Well, she certainly won’t have to work,” Kiki said, referring to the $40-million agreement Steven had made with Kathy for her to pose as his wife, go through artificial insemination,
and carry their baby to term. The contract fixed the faux marriage for ten years. And then? Well, Kathy and Steven could renegotiate, or Kathy could opt out. She’d receive the full $40 million for herself plus a bonus payment for making it to the ten-year mark and alimony on top of that. Of course Steven had created a huge trust fund for his daughter, Sylvan. He was a very doting father.
“And how is Billy?” Kiki loathed Billy, but every publicist, agent, manager, and attorney who worked for a star knew to keep the spouses close, since they were the ones whispering into the celebrity’s ear.
“Peeved at the coverage in the Times and the pictures in GQ. Kiki, did you ever find out about Billy doing the Vanity Fair shoot?”
The bane of Kiki’s existence, Billy fancied himself a photographer instead of the trophy wife he was. A former male model and London club owner turned Hollywood spouse, Billy had started photography as a hobby. He had a book that was okay, but he lacked hustle. He hadn’t done any real photography work. And now Billy wanted his first paying job to be shooting Steven Brockman for the cover of Vanity Fair?
“You know, they’re just not into it,” Kiki said. “Vanity Fair keeps a list of photographers they like to use, and they go to them over and over.” The articles editor laughed hysterically over the phone when Kiki brought up the idea. Let an unknown photographer shoot Steven Brockman for the cover of Vanity Fair? It had to be a joke.
“Then I’m not doing it.”
Kiki stopped flipping through the pages of Variety. “What?”
“Unless they let Billy shoot the cover, I’m not doing it.”
A sucker punch to her gut and the air rushed from Kiki’s lungs. The cover of Vanity Fair was a coup no matter how big a star you were, and you did not want to piss off Graydon.
“Steven, you can’t do that. You’re locked in. We’re just finalizing details.”
“Tell them if they really want me, they’ll take Billy, too.”
For fuck’s sake! Kiki could deliver the Vanity Fair cover if Billy did any real work, but this demand put her in a terrible position.
“Steven, this might get tricky. Billy’s book is good, but he doesn’t have any paid gigs. I know it’s silly, and Billy is nothing if not professional,” Kiki threw in, trying not to gag, “but they want to see some print work he’s done.”
“What about ad work in Japan?”
“That might be okay.”
“Great. We leave tonight. I’ll send you the spread as soon as we’re done.”
“We?”
“I’m going, too. In fact, I’m in it.”
“What?” Her biggest client doing print work in Asia, and no one told her?
“Tolliver got us the deal. Good money, and it’s Billy’s first paying job. Perfect, right?”
“Perfect.” At lunch today she would rip Tolliver Jones a new asshole. How could he not tell her details such as these?
“We’ll send you the photos in a couple of days. But I’m serious about this Kiki. I expect you to deliver.”
“No problem,” Kiki rubbed her temple with her fingertips. “Safe travels, darling. Ciao.” She pressed release and leaned back in her chair.
She hoped the package from Sherman Ross was good, because so far her morning had been most unpleasant.
Rule 12: Keep Your Mouth Closed
Celeste Solange, Actress
Cici sipped her Chianti in a back booth at Dan Tana’s. As a working actress she spent many evenings here pursuing producers for roles, convincing studio executives to green-light films, and just getting drunk with friends. She and Damien used to eat at Dan Tana’s late at night often after a party they had attended. Party was the word that Damien used to describe the multiple-partner sex groups he liked and she went along with. The word party no longer seemed to fit now that she was forced to deal with the dirty aftermath of her lifestyle with Damien.
A shiver, like a thousand tiny bugs, crawled up her back. The inside of her stomach clamped tight—twisting and knotting the fear, the tension, the anxiety all one sour bundle in her belly. She breathed deep and forced a false calm into her body. This meeting with the photog Nathan Curtis was a performance. Cici had one shot to persuade Nathan to tell her where he’d seen the salacious sex DVD in which she starred.
Nathan acted nonchalant on the phone when Cici called—almost as if he expected her call. Why wouldn’t he? On the beach he tantalized her with a bit of information that could destroy her career, her relationship, her entire life. Lydia and Jessica searched and found some background information on Mr. Nathan Curtis but these facts failed to lead them to any conclusions about how or where Nathan might have seen the DVD.
Through a little bit of research, the girls discovered that Nathan grew up in a rough section of London and dropped out of school at sixteen. He began his career as a paparazzo and a “celebrity friend,” someone who provided drugs, press, girls, and anything else young actors and soccer players in London might want. In return, Nathan received access and photos.
After Nathan’s infamous shot of a young prince exiting a strip club with a barely clothed tart on his arm hit the tabloids, Nathan’s name got bigger. Then, suddenly, Nathan somehow made the transition from paparazzo to fashion photog. Perhaps sordid photos of a fashionista or designer had accelerated that miraculous transition. After some work in London, Nathan accepted multiple jobs in L.A. gigs. Nathan Curtis was on the path to somewhere, and Cici needed to know his desired destination. Lydia guessed directing, but you never knew in this town.
What was Nathan Curtis after? If Cici pinpointed Nathan’s career goals, she knew what temptations to use. Did he want to design clothes? Direct? Just live in L.A. amongst stars? Have access to the rich and famous? Cici, Lydia, and Jessica, with their positions and connections, could fulfill all those desires. And would, if Cici could get her hands on the damn DVD.
“Ms. Solange.” Nathan stood before her. His accent was surprisingly mild for someone who had grown up on the wrong side of London. He wore a Marc Jacobs shirt and Earnest Sewn jeans; it was too dark to see his shoes, but Cici guessed either Gucci or Dolce.
“Nathan,” Cici purred. She leaned forward and let her low-cut shirt flash some breast as she sipped her Chianti and smiled. “Thank you for meeting me here. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Little old-school for my taste,” Nathan said. He flopped down in the booth, and instantly a waiter appeared. “Guinness,” Nathan barked without a look or a nod.
“So, Nathan. What brings you to L.A.? Other than my shoot, of course?” Cici curled up in the booth.
“Your shoot? I didn’t come to L.A. for that. Your shoot was totally last-minute. The photographer the studio originally booked canceled.”
Cici wanted to kill him, but instead she smiled.
The waiter set down his pint. Nathan took a sip and licked the foam from his upper lip, then scooted closer to Cici.
“Is that why you asked me here, Celeste?” he whispered, his lips almost touching her ear. “So I can tell you why I’m in L.A.?”
“Of course. Why else?” Cici tilted her shoulder and looked directly at him. She spent the majority of her career acting the sexpot; she could do it now, too. “Really, if it wasn’t to shoot me, then what brought you to Los Angeles?”
“I’m moving to L.A. I want to work in film.”
Cici leaned forward. She wanted her body language to convince him that she hung on his every word. “What does that mean, though? PR? Marketing? Freelance for magazines?”
“I want to direct,” Nathan said. He took another swig of beer. Score one for Lydia.
“Really?” She feigned enthusiasm. “Do you have a project set up?”
“Not yet, but I’ve got a screenplay I’m trying to get financed.”
“I’d love to take a look,” Cici eyed him. “Perhaps I could help.”
“I’m sure you could.” Nathan leaned in and lowered his voice. “Does your sudden interest in my career have anything to do with the footage I watched
of you recently?”
Cici stiffened but quickly fought her visceral response. “Perhaps we can be helpful to each other. Our desires might be aligned.”
“Maybe,” Nathan said.
“So where did you say you saw this footage of me?” Cici asked.
A wicked smile danced across Nathan’s lips. “Aren’t you a clever girl? I didn’t say where, but since you’ve inquired, I’m happy to tell you.”
Cici leaned forward. Really? Finding out who had the DVD was this easy?
“A friend of mine had a viewing party.” Nathan’s gaze locked onto Cici’s breasts. “It would seem from the footage that you might be familiar with such parties.”
An oily, slick feeling churned through Cici’s stomach. People were viewing her fucking? At parties? She forced down her feelings and swallowed back the bile and venoumous words that threatened to spew from her mouth. She needed to convey the correct emotions. There were multiple ways to play this scene. She decided on vulnerability. Men were usually terrified of a crying woman. Celeste forced tears into her eyes. “Oh Nathan, what am I going to do?” She dropped her head into her hands and sniffled.
Nathan placed his arm around her shoulder. “Cici, please don’t cry.”
Power surged through Celeste. She was an excellent actress. She added more tears and a sniffle to her performance.
“You’ll introduce me to your friend?” Cici asked, looking up.
“Well, I’m not sure, but I’ll definitely ask.”
“Nathan, how can I thank you?”
“Well, I can certainly think of one way.” Nathan set his hand on Cici’s thigh.
The queer unsettled feeling rolled through her stomach again.
“I suppose,” Cic said still ignoring the churning in her gut, “that you’ve got your director’s reel?”
“In the car,” Nathan said. “and a copy of that script.”
Rule 13: You Need a Star to Make a Movie
Lydia Albright, President of Production, Worldwide Pictures
Lydia scanned the calendar on her computer screen. She had a staff meeting in an hour and a meeting with Briggs Montgomery in twenty minutes. She bent over to grab her Versace bag and pulled out Vitriol, Nathan Curtis’s script that she read the night before.
