Starstruck Romance and Other Hollywood Tails

by Julia Dumont

  “Wheeze!” squealed Margie as the phone cut off.

  “Oh my god,” said Jack. “I thought I was bad.”

  “No,” said Cynthia. “They’re going through an actual tunnel. That double entendre was unintentional.” She thought about what she just said for about two seconds and said, “No, you’re right. Totally intentional. Oh my god, I don’t want to think about this. Back to work.” She returned to checking and writing messages to other clients.

  Jack weaved around some slowpoke drivers and realized they were avoiding something . . . a man pushing something along the shoulder. Jack craned his neck as they flew by.

  “Hey, Cynthia,” he said, accelerating up the hill into the Palisades, “wasn’t that Max, your brother, back there?”

  “Back where?” asked Cynthia, looking up and around.

  “He was pushing a scooter or something. With a hot girl and a little dog.”

  “No,” she said, looking at him like he had lost his mind. “That was definitely not Max. He’s gotta be on his way back to Fiji by now.”

  Day 2, Chapter 19

  By the time the happy little Max-Lolita-Wilfredo team rolled into the Shell station in the pristine downtown section of the Pacific Palisades, they weren’t so happy. Max was exhausted and Lolita was tired of his singing.

  “Oh my god, I’ve lost my wallet,” said Max.

  “Wilfredo!” scolded Lolita, opening her purse and of course producing the filched item. “Sorry, he’s a compulsive thief.”

  “No problem,” said Max, rubbing Wilfredo’s chin, “I’m just glad it’s not lost. Onward!”

  Lolita really appreciated Max’s good natured enthusiasm. He seemed to effortlessly rebound from setbacks.

  Once they filled the tank and started puttering along again, they both felt a whole lot better. Having an operating motor vehicle——something usually so taken for granted——suddenly felt like a super power.

  They sped off toward the Sternberg estate, Max singing again, and Lolita actually liking it again, especially with his arms locked around her chest again. Wilfredo was grinning, his huge triangular ears catching the wind like little furry spinnakers.

  Lolita had said from the beginning that she had been to the Sternberg house so she knew where it was, but actually finding it was easier said than done. She cut up one hill, absolutely positive she was almost there, only to come to a dead end at a water filtration plant, possibly the only ugly location in the entire town. Desolate, crumbling, it felt like they’d taken a turn into a rural slum despite the fact there wasn’t a slum of any kind within thirty miles of there.

  “Fantastic, Miss GPS,” said Max, chuckling. “Why did I have a feeling this would happen?”

  “Watch me, sled dog. I’ll find it.”

  She circled around the gravelly end-of-the-road and dipped back down the hill to Sunset. She realized that they must have passed Sternberg’s street when they were walking into town. She was almost sure.

  As soon as she zipped up Amalfi Drive, she was completely positive. “Almost there,” she called back to Max.

  “How are you going to recognize the place?” he asked.

  “Oh, believe me, I’ll know.”

  And she was right. She remembered it was the last house, on the very top of the hill, with panoramic ocean views that went on forever. It also helped that the street was jammed with luxury cars and black-and-white vested valets. Everything except searchlights.

  She pulled her little pink Vespa up behind a gigantic black hummer, out of which stepped a couple she recognized but could not identify off hand. “I wish Peterson made a field guide for celebrities,” she said.

  “Yeah,” laughed Max. “Like a bird book. An odd-bird book. ‘Oh, look. A red-breasted Amanda Seyfried nuthatch!’”

  “A yellow-bellied Woody-Harrelson woodpecker!” she whispered, but then, noticing a valet with a clipboard greeting the couple enthusiastically, checking their names off his list, blurted, “Max! How are we going to get in there? We don’t have an invitation. How did we not even think of this?”

  “Maybe you didn’t think of it,” said Max. “No problem. I’ll handle it.”

  “What do you mean, handle it?”

  The valet approached them, looking at the scooter, then at Wilfredo. “Name?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Hi,” said Max, sliding off the seat and reaching over to shake his hand. “I’m Max Ramsey and this is Lolita. She’s more of a one-name type. I’m actually Mrs. Sternberg’s broker. I’ve been traveling, so I don’t actually have an invitation, but I’m quite sure I’m on the list. I always am. It’s kind of automatic at this point.”

  The valet looked down, flipping through pages. “Oh, yes, here we are,” he said, checking the name with his red pen. “Go right in. There’s a shuttle if you want it. Otherwise, just stay on the path and wind around through the woods. You can’t miss the house.”

  They chose to walk, Max taking Lolita’s arm in his, she holding Wilfredo like a furry football, following a bunch of other well-healed guests like a wedding procession up the steep walk.

  Lolita looked at Max out of the corner of her eye and spoke in a murmur. “What the heck? How did you cook up that story? Who is the real Max Ramsey and what if he actually shows up?”

  “News, flash, Miss GPS, I am Max Ramsey. I don’t work as a broker much anymore——just for favorite clients.”

  “But what was that Mrs. Sternberg thing? You’re only her broker, not his?”

  “Yeah, well, he has a whole team, a whole company, working for him. I help her with her discretionary stuff. We have been old friends for a long time. Don’t mention it to Steven, by the way. He doesn’t technically know about it. I knew her before he did.”

  “You mean . . .” began Lolita.

  “Yes,” said Max. “In every sense. Not anymore, though. Water under the bridge. Maybe don’t tell Cynthia either.”

  They were passing one of the smaller buildings on the estate, a large single-family house to most people.

  “That’s his home office,” said Lolita. “I got a tour of it way back when. But wait a minute, how come you didn’t even know how to get here if you’re always on the list?”

  “I’ve been invited many times, but never came. I’ve been to the place in the Hamptons a bunch, but never, you know, when he was around.”

  “Right,” she said.

  They crested the hill and came to the main house, which looked more like a small, modern museum——actually, more like a medium-sized museum. It was perched on a parcel of land hovering above the ocean. To the right was a sparkling pool filled with frolicking, half-naked, gorgeous people. It was a Hollywood cliché, but a very, very attractive one. Their perfect bodies were busting out of their perfect bathing suits. It was so much sexier than nudity, Lolita had to restrain herself from just leaping in, clothes, dog, and all.

  The expanse of blue sea and sky was Hollywood make-believe beautiful. The moment reminded Lolita of something, and then, when she noticed James Cameron standing nearby, chatting up a semicircle of rapt sycophants, it came to her. Dicaprio was holding Winslet as she spread her “wings” and soared above the waves on the prow of the ship in Titanic. Being on Sternberg’s lawn was like flying.

  “Max,” she said, feeling a bit out of place, “I think I need a drink.”

  “Now you’re talking,” he said, heading for the bar. “I shall return.” Wilfredo leaned in Max’s direction as he left. Lolita tightened her grip on him and scratched his head. He really did seem to be attached to Max.

  She surveyed the party, looking for Cynthia and Jack, or at least Sternberg. She did see a number of other celebrities, some of whom brought their dogs into her shop, or at least had their dogs brought in. She had met several of them before, but it was still thrilling to see them in social setting . . . in the wild. Emma Stone was standing with some hot guy she didn’t recognize. Oh, to have that field guide, she laughed to herself. A small band of musicians played quiet, but
exquisitely grungy blues over near the edge of the lawn where the land dropped off into nothingness. Lolita, a little afraid of heights, hoped to hell the drummer wouldn’t forget himself, pull some kind of wacky Keith Moon-ism and hurl himself backwards off the cliff.

  She looked back over to where Max had muscled his way up to a beautiful young barmaid. They were laughing. She was amazed at how fast Max charmed people. He had certainly charmed her. She’d gotten the distinct impression that she had done the same to him. Cynthia could have her Jack Stone. Max was hers, for the moment anyway.

  And then she saw Mrs. Sternberg, AKA Molly Hannigan, a famous actress in her own right, walking across the lawn, making a beeline for Max.

  She looked slightly agitated, glancing from side to side, as she approached him from behind and tapped him hard on the shoulder.

  Max smiled when he saw her, but his smile disappeared almost immediately as they talked. She was gesticulating and clearly intent on conveying something important. Lolita was instantly jealous of Hannigan, even though Max had told her their affair was over. This was like watching a scene in a movie unfold. Wilfredo was watching it intently too. Lolita turned her head, taking in a sweeping view of the property, hoping for Max’s sake that Sternberg wouldn’t come upon them.

  Day 2, Chapter 20

  Cynthia and Jack had arrived at the party much earlier, but they’d gone straight into the house. Cynthia had found a quiet corner to check her phone. She had a couple of noteworthy voicemails.

  Merriweather: Beep. “Cynthia, this Daryl is a riot. He’s certainly the funniest trial attorney I‘ve ever met. He told me an anecdote that has movie written all over it. We’re back at his place writing the treatment right now. I’ll get it over to Ryan Gosling tomorrow. It’s a perfect fit. Speaking of which, you must be a matchmaker and a talent agent. Anyway, just wanted to say thanks. Oh, and thanks for dealing with the babysitter. And for finding one who’s willing to stay late. I might call and ask her to stay the night. Thanks again. Bye.”

  Okay, one from Roger: Beep. Great call on the restaurant change. One question. What kind of love spells are you casting anyway? Our chemistry is so perfect we literally kissed before we travelled the seventeen steps from her front door to my car. That has never happened to me. We’re already finishing each other’s sentences, for god’s sake. Gotta go. And I don’t mean leave. Adios.”

  Beep. “Hello, Cynthia,” someone whispered. “Pick up, pick up, darlin’.” Obviously Donald Griffin O’Brien. “I don’t know what the hell is happenin’ around here. This Casbah place is beyond a trip. This Adriana has me mummified. I’m drenched in all kinds of oils and vinegars or somethin’, like I’m about to be served up to a bunch of bloody cannibals. And it’s as hot as summer vacation on Venus in here.”

  Cynthia laughed, but was slightly concerned. She wasn’t completely confident that Adriana had his best interest at heart.

  “I’m lying on my back in some kind of fantasy Hobbit forest with an erection the size of Carrickfergus Castle. And all wrapped up like Boris Karloff meets Christo meets Ron Feckin’ Jeremy. Not to mention my Blarney Stones. They’re basted and marinated and ready to feckin’ burst. Not sure what’s coming next, but I have the distinct impression it’s going to be me. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Cynthia, she’s sexy. I’ve seen her around the neighborhood, but never up close, in her element here, wearin’ you know, next to nothin’, just an almost invisible robe. Wait . . . here she comes. Oh, look, she’s lost the robe now. Oh, hello, darlin’, so what’s next on the program?”

  Cynthia listened carefully, hoping beyond hope that the next sounds she heard were happy ones.

  “Hello, Cynthia, it’s Adriana. You’re just in time for the unwrapping.”

  “Oh, yes, the unwrapping,” said Donald, sounding simultaneously elated and a bit terrified. “Oh, and look, you’re using your teeth to do it. Watch it, now that’s a sensitive area, dear. Oh, Jesus, you’ve got a talented tongue, my dear. Oh, Jesus. God. Fuck. Jesus. Fuck. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.”

  “Okay, baby,” she said with some effort in her voice, “I’m climbing aboard now. Wait, wait, hold it, hold it . . . I said, hold it, baby . . . ahh . . . ahh . . . ahhhhhh . . . dios mio . . . ahhhhh . . .”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Ah . . .”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Darlin’, maybe we should hand up the phone. Don’t you think this next part is just slightly private?”

  “You’re right, baby. This part is private. That’s why they call it a private part. But I’m, you know, letting you in on my private things. But please, por favor, Donald, baby, sit up and coma mi chichis. My breasts. They are mucho jealous of my coochie-coochie coño. My pussy. My pussy is purring. Pero mi chichis are so sad, so lonely. Poor chichis. Oh, si, si . . . mucho mas mejor. But now I change my mind. Mi coño wants eating. To be eaten. Like a taco, sweetie. Do they do the 69 in Ireland? Porque mi tongue is wanting your hard, hard burrito, my baby. Please, my baby. Si, baby, si . . .”

  “OH. OH. OH.”

  Click.

  Oh. My. God. Wait. Oh, goodie. Diego.

  Beep. “Cynthia, you were not kidding about this Tatiana woman. I guess I’ve never really seen a gymnast up close. She did a walkover——you know one of those backward cartwheely things——in the middle of the parking lot at Valentino. She was wearing a long white dress. You know that amazing picture of Martha Graham in that dress, leaning over, gravity-defying, making a crazy arc in the air? Well, this was that, come to life, only backwards, in slow motion, and a hundred times sexier, with lots of leg, and with Nadia Comaneci instead. But a lot sexier. I already said that. I was having such wild fantasies during dinner. I kept knocking over wine glasses. Spilled three, broke two. I mean, she is something, Cynthia. I’m frankly not sure I’m even up to the task. But I’m willing to try. Plus, you know, she’s smart and funny and all the rest. In short, two words: Thank. You. Four more words: God. Bless. Cynthia. Amas. This coming from a devout agnostic, mind you. Maybe Tatiana Delaunay is my new religion. Wish me luck. I mean, pray for me. Ha. Goodbye.”

  Cynthia put away her phone and just savored everything for a moment. It was especially gratifying because Diego was one of her dearest friends.

  Oh, man, I love my job. Now I just need to find the right woman for Jack Stone.

  She caught up with him, who introduced her to Sternberg, who immediately, without even saying hello, asked if she had ever been in a movie and whether she’d be interested.

  “Well, sure, I guess,” she’d said.

  “Okay, Jack,” said Sternberg, “bring her by the studio next week. I think we have a role for her in that thriller.” He turned back to Cynthia. “Have you done any acting before?”

  “No, not really. Not since school.”

  “Good. I don’t want an actress. This is a pretty big role, but it has to go to an unknown and you have the exact look I want.”

  “Listen, Steven,” said Jack, “can I give Cynthia a little tour? Is the bowling alley open?”

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead,” he replied. “Knock yourself out. I mean, don’t really knock yourself out.”

  “Jack is always careful with his balls,” said a guy with a cigar in his mouth.

  “That’s funny,” said a cute young woman with a tiny bikini and gigantic martini, “I heard he was kind of reckless with them.”

  Cynthia and Jack headed through the kitchen door and across the lawn toward the large three-story colonial house known as the “game room.”

  “See what I have to put up with?” he asked. “It never stops.”

  “Poor baby,” she said.

  “Shut up,” he replied.

  “So what’s this thriller he supposedly wants me in?” she said, skeptical, but flattered beyond belief. “Is that even real?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s totally real,” he said. “It’s one of the films I’m producing with him. It’s going into production in three months. That’s the last major role to be cast I think. Yo
u get to kiss me in it.”

  “Lucky me,” she said with the kind of gentle sarcasm that isn’t sarcastic at all. In reality, she felt a little dizzy from the thrill of it all. She wasn’t even looking for acting work. It was the furthest thing from her mind. It was amazing how things happen so easily, at such a whim, among certified grade-A gods of industry.

  “Okay, back to the tour,” he said, moving along. “This was the original home on the property when Steven bought it. He loved it and didn’t want to tear it down. So——voila——the game room was born.” He swung open the door and they entered what seemed to be a normal foyer of a normal single-family house. But when they walked through the entryway, they didn’t come to a kitchen or a living room, they came to a basketball court.

  “He has an outdoor court, but this is where they play when it’s raining. Which, you know, around here is like five days a year, so it’s good they have this because they play on it maybe once a year. Upstairs there’s a dance studio and a badminton court. Third floor is for archery. There’s a widow’s walk on the roof that’s really just for drinking and watching sunsets. They sometimes drink and fly kites from up there too. Drinking works with anything up there. The main thing is drinking.”

  “So, where’s the bowling alley, Ol’ Reckless Balls?”

  “Oh, right. Just around here. It’s my favorite part.”

  They walked across the basketball court and he opened another door, flipped a switch, and lights flickered on. And what lights. Neon and fluorescents delineated the interior space. This was a perfectly reconstructed 1950’s style four-lane bowling alley, complete with swooping atomic-age car-culture lines, fins, all glistening metal and glass and naugahyde . . . a fantasy of Southern California futuristic architecture.

  “Do you feel like doing a little bowling?” asked Jack, picking up a gorgeous swirled ball of aqua and ultramarine.

  “Not really,” she said. “I’d rather do a little talking.” She really had to direct his attention to other women. To the perfect woman she knew she could find for him.