Celebrity Spin Doctor
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Celebrity Spin Doctor
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Celebrity Spin Doctor
Celia Mulder
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Celebrity Spin Doctor
Copyright © 2018 Celia Mulder
All rights reserved.
ISBN: (ebook): 978-1-945910-77-7
Inkspell Publishing
5764 Woodbine Ave.
Pinckney, MI 48169
Edited By Aubrey Bobak
Cover art By Najla Qamber
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Dedication
To Grandma Celia, the National Enquirer, and Queen B, all of whom inspired this book in one way or another.
Chapter One
“No, I don’t think having a baby with my ex is a viable solution. What the fuck does that even mean?” screamed Christy-Anne from the other end of the phone. “Whatever. This isn’t Celebrity Goss Weekly, this is my fucking life. What the hell are you thinking?”
“Christy-Anne, calm down—”
“You’re fired, L. For real this time.” Christy-Anne hung up.
Lucille shrugged and turned on her tablet. It was the fourth time she’d been fired since this morning.
“One, two, three, four, five,” she counted as she checked her email.
The phone rang again. She waited until the last ring, then answered with cool professionalism. “Hello, Lucille Anton, publicist, speak—”
“Don’t give me that shit, L. You know it’s Christy-Anne.”
“Christy-Anne, what a surprise. I take it I’m no longer fired?” Lucille settled into her high-back leather desk chair, wondering how far they’d get this time.
“Yeah, well...I want to hear your fucked-up plan.”
“I know that having a fake baby with Ryan sounds crazy—”
Christy-Anne snorted.
“But here are the facts of the matter. You are a hot, sexy, international pop star, a role model to teen girls everywhere, the cause of wet dreams for men from thirteen to sixty-five. You are the face of teenage romance.” She spoke with the care of someone facing a rabid dog that would jump up and bite her face off at any moment.
“I know, cuz like, I’m me. Duh.”
“Right, so, given all that, how do you think it’ll sound if your fans find out you’d been having an affair with a married man half the time you were with Ryan? And that you weren’t the only one said married man was screwing? So far no one has linked you to Marcus, but you know how fast rumors turn into allegations. Do you really want to be a part of Marcus’s downward spiral?”
Damn, I’m good.
“No.” Christy-Anne’s voice was petulant rather than enraged.
“If people think you’re having Ryan’s baby after a passionate reunion weekend, which supposedly happened at the same time that fan ran into you and Marcus, it’ll distract from the affair. Plus, if they think Ryan abandoned you once he found out about the baby, you instantly become the tragic, jilted heroine. Just think of how many songs you can write about being broken-hearted and pregnant.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. Audiences love a reunion of their ‘it’ couple as much as they love a dramatic break-up. You’ll be giving them both.”
There was a long pause accompanied by the sound of Christy-Anne chewing. “But won’t people notice I’m not pregnant? Pregnant women get fat. If you’re suggesting I get fat, I’ll fire you again.”
Lucille smirked. “Don’t worry. In a month or so we’ll have you lose the baby. Maybe you could travel to Africa and catch dysentery while tutoring starving orphans?”
“I don’t want to go to fucking Africa!”
“Not for real, just for the press.”
“Still. Gross.” Another long pause. More chewing. “Fine. But I’d like to know why you can’t tell me about these things sooner. Maybe I’d wanna know I’m knocked up before I read it on the Internet.”
“Christy-Anne, you know why I can’t. If you knew about the story first, we’d have lost that crucial, honest reaction of heartfelt denial when the press confronted you.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
The door to the study, her temporary office, opened, and James L’Andre strolled in, one eyebrow raised. Lucille glared at him. He pointed to his diamond-studded watch and glared back at her.
Right, the damn movie launch. Just another tedious party full of horrible people that started in less than an hour. If anyone other than Raphael had requested she meet a potential client at a film launch after-party, she’d have laughed. But this was Raphael, her oldest, most consistent client, and he said the meeting would be worth her while. Her interest was piqued. She mouthed “five minutes” to James and shooed him out the door. He went, rolling his eyes, his silk thong in a bunch.
“Wait...” Christy-Anne called Lucille back to the conversation at hand. “Isn’t the asshole your client too?”
“Leave Ryan to me. You just focus on getting lots of rest and throwing in some morning sickness here and there. You’re pregnant now.”
Christy-Anne swore loudly. “You’re fucking lucky I love you, L, or we’d be over.”
“I know.”
Lucille hung up and shook her head. For someone who’d changed her name to Christy-Anne and sang pop love songs to the tweens of America, she had a pretty dirty mouth. It would have made Lucille laugh if she weren’t the one in charge of the smut-talking singer’s image.
Now that the love-child story had been picked up by Everyday Fame, called in by her paparazzi contacts, it wouldn’t be long before it caught on. Soon the Internet would be plastered with Christy-Anne’s face, the headlines screaming absurd speculations about Ryan’s reaction, whether he really was the baby daddy, and how long it’d take her to lose the pregnancy weight. The media was reliably thorough in its celebrity trashing.
Lucille smiled as she packed up her office for the day. Any moment, Ryan would call. She’d traced him to Miami, where he was no doubt on a beach with a few blondes and too many beers. With luck, he’d still be there, obstinately drunk, when the press caught up with him. Ryan would be ridiculed for abandoning Chr
isty-Anne in her time of need. He’d have to make a huge romantic gesture to get back into the public’s favor, big enough to leave the scandal with Marcus well and truly forgotten.
James was waiting in the downstairs parlor of the Victorian nightmare she was forced to call home. The parlor had been updated as a den for a family of six or more, with TV hookups, a huge sectional, and built-in bookshelves of dark wood. Though she wouldn’t be there long, it was long enough that those had to go. Now the room was a pale mint, just a shade off from white, with a vanity and salon chair where the bookshelves would have been. She’d gotten rid of the couch and had no need for a TV. The only movies she watched sat on the table by her bed, and all but one were collecting dust. Thus, the former family room now contained a few exorbitantly expensive sculptures, original works of postmodern art, and little else.
“I didn’t think you were coming back,” Lucille said as she sat down in the salon chair facing the vanity. At the last black tie event, James had had the audacity to put her in a peach dress. She’d caused a minor scene when she was close to being on the best-dressed list for her daring gown. The grief she’d given James over it should have made the grown man weep.
James laughed as he whisked a black cover over her casual jeans and silk blouse. “What can I say? I’m a masochistic bastard. Besides, what other stylist would be willing to make last-minute house calls?”
“With the amount I pay you? Just about anyone.”
Lucille’s phone rang. James ran a brush through her dark hair. “If you answer that, you’ll be late.”
Lucille rolled her eyes. “I’m already going to be late. That’s the point.”
“I mean late late. Like, everyone-turns-and-stares-at-you-as-you-walk-through-the-door late. Now, am I doing a full updo or leaving it down?” His comb scraped along her scalp as he teased out the snarls.
Lucille bit back a wince. James may have been rough, but he was a genius with hair. “Down. Since I am neither getting married nor going to the prom, I will, as always, be wearing my hair down.”
James sighed. He was also a master of the updo. His creations had graced the pages of every fashion magazine and runway in town. However, they tended to stand out and, as she constantly reminded him, the last thing Lucille wanted to do was be memorable.
Her phone rang again. It was Ryan. “I’ve got to take this,” Lucille said, trying to pull out of his grasp.
He released her head, scowling. “Fine. But this time it won’t be my fault they notice you walking in. You asked me for a rush job, not a miracle.”
Lucille smiled sarcastically and walked down the hall to the horrendous vintage kitchen.
James yelled after her. “If you mess up that hair, it doesn’t matter how much you pay me. I’ll still kill you.”
Leaning against the butcher block countertop, she answered, “Lucille Anton.”
“Anton, it’s Ryan,” bellowed the voice on the other end. There was a lot of noise in the background, shouting and cheering and the cries of seagulls. He was at a beach then, not, as often was the case, a strip club. Once he’d called from a Miami spring break luau he was crashing, shouting over the partying coeds.
“Ryan, darling, it’s been ages. How are you?”
“Fucked. Everything is really fucked.”
Say what you will about them, Lucille thought, but there was never a couple more perfect for each other than Christy-Anne and Ryan. Thank God they hadn’t figured that out yet. It kept her in a job.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is this about the baby?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Anton. You know it is. What the hell?”
“So you saw that article about Christy-Anne?” Lucille kept her tone sweet and soothing. She wanted Ryan to know she was on his side, but she couldn’t resist messing with him just a little.
“Obviously I saw the fucking article. Not right away, of course. I thought it was more bullshit about her. Then some chick says she won’t fuck me because I abandoned my goddamn baby! I thought she meant Monica and I told her that bitch lied—”
Lucille wanted to bang her head on the counter to block out this conversation. She didn’t, in case it messed up her hair. For a man who couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds, James could be terrifying.
When Ryan took a breath, she jumped in. “I know. It was wrong of me not to tell you first, Ryan. But think about it this way—how did you learn about the article?”
“Um, a reporter showed up at my yacht earlier. He asked me what my reaction was, and when I told him to fuck off, he made me read it.”
“And what was your reaction?”
“I was pissed.”
“And surprised?”
“No shit.”
“Exactly. If you’d already known about the baby, you wouldn’t be surprised when the reporter confronted you, right? This way, the press believes that you honestly didn’t know anything about it. What’d you say to the reporter?” Lucille checked her nails. She needed a manicure but didn’t have the time. They’d have to do.
“I said it wasn’t fucking true, of course. I didn’t even know she was pregnant and I’d never run off on my kid. Again.”
“I know that, Ryan. But see, since you didn’t know about the baby, you were able to deny it honestly instead of only pretending to be upset.”
There was a pause. In the background some people cheered and called to Ryan.
“I’m on the phone, dumbass,” he shouted. To her he said, “So if I had known about the baby, then I would have sounded fake.”
“Precisely.”
“Okay, I get it, right, but like, you’re supposed to be my fucking publicist too, Anton. This makes me look like shit.”
Maybe James would do a manicure. Her chipped nails looked awful. Anyone she spoke to would see the missing polish. “I’m on your side, Ryan. I always have been. Yes, the article didn’t help your image, but that’s where part two comes in. You’re going to Christy-Anne’s—”
“No fucking way.”
Lucille sighed, more to her nails than him. “Hear me out. You go to Christy-Anne’s house, apologize, and—”
Ryan snorted.
“—say that you want to be there for her while she’s pregnant and you’re going to be the best dad ever to this little baby. Christy-Anne will have no idea you’re coming. You’ll look like the saintly boyfriend who doesn’t run from his mistakes, and she’ll look like the conniving hussy who got pregnant just to get back at you.”
She could hear Ryan thinking about it, his living brain cells desperately trying to function despite years of abuse.
“That’s fucking brilliant, Anton,” he said finally.
“I know. Be at the airport by five a.m. tomorrow. Your plane leaves at six.” Ryan started to protest. “If you get there early enough, you may be able to catch Christy-Anne pre-makeup.”
Ryan laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh.
Years ago, Lucille would have thought it cruel to sic Ryan on his ex so early in the morning. Now she didn’t care. Was it cruel she’d booked his six a.m. flight an hour ago, before knowing he’d agree to go? No, that was called being prepared. Perhaps it was mean not to tell Ryan the baby was fake, but after three years of working with him, she knew his acting was terrible at best.
Lucille ended the call with one last reminder. “Don’t forget to play up the redemption and forgiveness. The story will leak by noon tomorrow and be everywhere by Monday. Monday afternoon you’ll once more be America’s favorite boy-band superstar.”
She hung up and rolled her neck back and forth, trying to stretch the elusive kinks.
“James,” she said as she returned to her bored stylist. “How fast can you do a mani?”
James looked up from his phone and let out a long, slow, intentional sigh.
Lucille smiled and sat back down in the salon chair. The party would be starting about now. By the time the polish dried and her hair was finished, not to mention she’d fitted herself into her Span
x and a tight dress, she’d be beyond fashionably late and bordering on rude. She’d sneak in the side door. Her mysterious potential client was the only one expecting her and, while she was dying to find out who Raphael would risk his reputation for, she wasn’t about to show her curiosity by arriving on time.
Chapter Two
There is nothing worse than an actor turned screenwriter. Brett scowled at the melting ice cubes in his empty glass. Correction: there is nothing worse than a party for a stupidly brilliant actor who turns out to be a stupidly brilliant director AND screenwriter.
Brett ordered a refill. It was an open bar, after all.
The Bonne burst with A-listers, B-listers, and some C-listers who hadn’t been caught by the bouncers yet. They clumped together like teenagers at a school dance, too self-involved and cliquey to interact in other social spheres. In the corner lurked the directors, none of them on speaking terms with each other or their former actors. The suits—agents, publicists, and producers—networked the hell out of everyone. They popped from group to group, using casual acquaintances as currency for entry and leaving a cloud of business cards in their wake.
In the midst of it all, beside the vaguely ostentatious ice sculpture of himself and surrounded by a steady stream of jealous well-wishers, lounged the host and honored guest, Raphael DeCarte. To live in LA, hell, to live in the world, and not recognize Raphael DeCarte, was a social faux pas on par with going barefoot in a public restroom. There hadn’t been an Academy Award-winning film in the past ten years that hadn’t had Raphael’s hand in it as actor or producer. Studios had been on his case for longer than that to get him to write and direct. The one that had finally succeeded was media conglomerate Stanton Enterprises, and the patriarch himself, business mogul Lou Stanton, stood beside Don Raphael, accepting his congratulations with a triumphant smirk.
Stanton Enterprises. Not strictly a production studio—that would be too simple for Lou Stanton. A dangerous business man, he had a hand in every type of business imaginable. It was even rumored the man owned the Internet. While that rumor had yet to be confirmed, it was common knowledge Stanton Enterprises owned half the hotels in LA, including the one they were in. To have Lou Stanton attend in person meant that Raphael DeCarte had achieved a level of stardom few could attain. Hell, Brett was related to the guy and that hadn’t stopped Stanton from firing him.