So 5 Minutes Ago Page 5
“Who’s Charles?” says Troy behind me.
“Actually, I’m at the airport.”
It takes a minute for this to sink in. If Charles is at LAX it can only mean that his L.A. tour of duty is over and he’s heading back to New York.
“The airport?” I say dumbly. “You’re leaving? But we never had our lunch and I thought you were supposed—”
“I know, I know,” he says. “And I feel bad about that.”
Does he? Does he really? I can’t tell from his tone of voice. All I know is I’m stuck here wrestling with a stoned, horny client, and the only glimmer of hope in my stupid little life is about to climb into a business-class seat and fly away.
I feel a tug on my skirt. “Who’s Charles?” says Troy again.
I turn and glare at him and hear a click on my other line. Great. Probably Peg calling to ask where the fuck we are. “Uhm, Charles, hang on a second. Let me get rid of this other call.”
“Hola,” Steven says when I answer.
“Okay, you can really drop the Spanish,” I say.
“What am I missing? It sounds exciting there,” says Steven. “And I thought I had the exciting news.”
“Not sure I can take much more excitement, but what is it?” I know better than to ignore Steven. When he says he has news, he has news.
“How’s Val?”
“Uhm, Val’s not really the problem right now,” I say. “Unless you’re trying to get her into a red skirt.”
“With what underneath?”
“What do you mean, underneath?”
“I didn’t want to tell you this before . . .” he says, letting his voice trail off.
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing, except G called the first all-agency staff meeting tomorrow. Their offices. Eleven and, ah, Val likes a fresh breeze where the sun don’t shine. But that’s only a rumor.”
I can either start screaming or I can just fucking solve this, all of it right now. I turn back to the car and reach down and slam the door. Troy looks up at me through the glass with a hurt expression, like I’ve slapped him.
“Look, I didn’t want to upset you,” Steven hurtles on. “It may not even be true. I mean, what have you seen?”
“Nothing on that end, thank God. Look, I’ll deal with Val, but right now Troy’s stoned, Peg’s already here, Charles is at LAX about to get on a flight back to New York, and I need you to tell me how to get Troy in shape for the photographers. You know more about drugs than I do.”
“Eyedrops and food. How much did he smoke?” Steven says, immediately snapping to, but then he always knows exactly where the line is drawn.
“I think more than one joint. But I can’t be sure. Guess rehab really worked.”
“Where is he?”
“In his car. I’m thinking of locking him in there.”
“Okay, get the drops from makeup—they always have them—and get him a water and tell everyone he’s feeling queasy. Something he ate. Isn’t he supposed to go at the end of the shoot? He’s got hours to sleep it off. You’ll be fine, but you might have to stay with him.”
“Yeah, got it,” I say, suddenly remembering Charles on the other line. “But stay by the phone.”
“Charles,” I say clicking over. “Sorry. Some office emergency—”
But he cuts me off.
“Listen, Alex, my flight’s about to board and I just wanted to say I am leaving but I’m coming back next week. I just have to fly back for a few days. So I wanted to ask you, rather than lunch, can we do dinner? I want to make it up to you for all the cancellations.”
I see Judy Garland skipping toward Oz with the chorus, “You’re out of the woods, you’re out of the dark, you’re out of the night,” playing in my head.
“Dinner? Well, dinner would probably be easier,” I say.
“Great, well, I’ll call you and we’ll set it up for right when I get back.”
I hear the Porsche door pop open behind me. Oh, God, he’s getting free. “Okay, that sounds good,” I say, hurrying now. “Have a good flight and call me. Call me.”
The rest of the day is a blur, but I manage to keep Troy’s delicate condition from everyone except the makeup stylist. I tell Peg that Troy’s hungover and sleeping it off in his car. Amazingly she buys it. Or maybe that look in her eye just before she dials the casting director to reschedule his audition means more than I think it does.
“Sleeping it off? In his car?” she says, eyeing me sharply.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding maniacally like some windup toy. “Yeah, well, you know Troy,” I add with a shrug.
“Yes. I do know Troy,” she says pointedly, and I realize if anyone has seen Troy at his worst, it’s Peg. Suddenly all her massive bulk, her ability to mow down obstacles at will seems a source of strength, not terror. No wonder people hire her. “Call me if you need me,” she says, giving me a rough pat on the arm before clamping on her shades and her headset and heading for the door. “But I know he’s in good hands.”
I swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ll call, and then I fly into action. Water, eyedrops, and a turkey on whole wheat that I grab off the craft services table. I head back to the parking lot, where Troy is still in the Porsche, fumbling with the CDs.
“Okay,” I say, slapping in some Bill Evans that he happens to have. “Take this and this and this in this order,” I say, handing him the eyedrops, the water, and the sandwich. “I’ll take this,” I say, fishing the baggie of pot out of the glove compartment and slipping it into my purse. “And I’ll be back in an hour.” With any luck, Troy will just pass out. Now, I have to see to Val.
I’m just heading into the studio when I catch sight of her down the hall. She’s dressed in the blue outfit, the skintight sheath, and singing to the catering guy, who’s unloading trays of sliced vegetables and pita sandwiches. Grabbing a couple of carrot sticks, Val twirls off, humming the refrain from Grand Hotel.
By the time I catch up with her, Val’s in the studio posing playfully for the crew. She’s the only one of the actresses remotely ready, and given the woeful sounds coming from the dressing room, she will be for some time.
“Let’s shoot some of Val since she’s here,” says Blake’s assistant, looking at his watch. Blake shrugs and picks up the Polaroid. “Okay, Val, let’s get sexy with the sofa.”
Somebody throws some Frank Sinatra on, and the sounds of “I’ve Got the World on a String” fill the studio as Val preens and poses and Blake snaps away.
“Make it a thong string,” I pray, as I watch Val move this way and that behind the sofa. She’s in the middle of doing what looks like a vague imitation of Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch—vague in that Val’s dress is so tight it wouldn’t blow over her waist with a wind machine—when Blake suggests Val lie down.
“Try balancing on the back of the sofa,” he says, standing up and positioning her so that Val’s feet are suddenly at eye level. I feel the blood rise in my temples.
“I think she looks great right where she is,” I venture, my voice all but drowned out by Frank. If Blake even heard me, he’s choosing to ignore it.
“Yeah, good, lie down even more. That’s it,” he says, crouching and snapping away.
I stand for a minute just behind Blake, who’s facing the sofa where Val lies horizontally across the back. Frank is deep into “You Brought a New Kind of Love to Me,” when I notice most of the crew has moved to the far end of the sofa, where Val’s feet are plying the air with little kicks. Oh God.
I start to move in the direction of Val’s feet, dreading what I’m about to see. By now she’s in full vamp mode, her head thrown back, mouth open, eyes blazing as she stares at the camera. The crew guys are rapt. I stand there watching for a few minutes before it hits me—Val is the star of this show in a way she’ll never be on TV. For a minute, I almost feel bad for her. But then, with a little arch of her back so her knees part ever so slightly, Val flicks her legs in the air.
Sharon Stone never did it any better.
“Like something from Wild Discovery. Grown men angling for a glimpse of fur,” I say in a half whisper.
“So the rumors are true.”
“Don’t gloat too much.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? Val’s an exhibitionist.”
“Drew Barrymore flashed her breasts at David Letterman and everyone loved it.”
“I don’t think beaver shots count.”
“Hey, just call her agent, tell them Val’s a natural.”
“For what?”
“The Vagina Monologues.”
“Very funny,” I hiss.
“Why are you whispering?” Steven says. “Where are you? In a closet?”
“Troy’s car. Watching him sleep it off.”
“You know, in some countries that would be a stoneable offense.”
“Yeah, well, luckily Hollywood’s not one of them,” I say. “I’m giving him another half hour and then it’s into the makeup chair. I figure I’ll be out of here by six.”
“My money’s on seven,” Steven says. “But the big question is will he call you in the morning?”
“My money’s on him not remembering anything.”
Troy begins to stir next to me.
“I think Sleeping Beauty’s coming to,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”
I hang up and turn in the seat to face Troy. His hair is plastered damply to his forehead and a small spittle of drool is creeping down his chin. Suddenly, I’m embarrassed for him, even a little sad. Troy doesn’t look any different from half the guys I dated in high school. College too, for that matter. Good-looking guys who got it all a little too easily and a little too early and didn’t have a clue how to hang on to it, how to keep it from slipping through their fingers.
Troy stirs again, twisting now toward me, trying to get comfortable in his sleep. He moves his arms restlessly and suddenly drops his hand into my lap. I look down at his bitten nails and calloused fingers and then back up at him, but he’s still out. I should wake him. Wake him and just get the day over with. Instead, I reach down and gently wrap my fingers around his. And I sit there. I sit there for many, many minutes, holding my client’s hand while he sleeps.
4 It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To
Driving back from Smashbox—actually, driving is a bit of a stretch given the parking-lot state of La Cienega—I impulsively decide to call Rachel for a drink. I’m so wiped from the shoot, I’d intended to head home and collapse. But suddenly the idea of a friendly drink seems a better exit strategy. Besides, I want to fly the whole day by Rachel. Get her take on Troy, Charles, and Val. Especially Val. Troy’s hand on my thigh was one thing—as I predicted, he remembered none of it once he came to—but Val’s little animal act is sure to light up the gossip mill. It’s only a matter of time before it turns up in one of those nasty blind items “Page Six” loves to run. “Just asking . . . what sitcom star flashed a beaver at her recent photo shoot—to the delight of the crew and the consternation of her publicist?”
Or what if US got wind of it? Val’s sitcom is hot, and that is the kind of juicy rumor they love to get their hands on. Exhausted as I am, I know I need a plan. But before I can speed-dial Rachel, the cell burbles. The William Tell Overture. Rachel’s signature.
“So how was the lovely Val?”
“Funny you should ask,” I say, stomping abruptly on the brake as the black Explorer in front of me comes to a sudden stop, a move that sends my bag hurtling to the floor, spewing the contents, including an apparently loosely opened bottle of water, onto the carpet. “Fuck!”
“You are in a bad mood.”
“Photo shoots will do that to a girl.”
“Photo shoots will do that to anybody.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you,” I say.
“You are talking to me.”
“In person.”
“Is it serious or gossip?”
“Both. What are you doing tonight?”
“Tonight? What am I always doing? A screening. I’m driving there now, but we can meet afterward.”
I have almost twenty minutes to kill at Le Dome, nursing a white wine, sucking down olives, and leafing through the trades waiting for Rachel. Le Dome is Le Dead Zone—nobody comes here anymore—but Rachel’s screening is in the building next door and it’s technically on my way home from the office.
“So, how was the shoot?” Rachel says when she finally shows, flopping onto a chair, dropping her tote, heavy as a suitcase, and reaching for my glass. “God, I hate wine,” she says, taking a slug and twisting around to look for the waiter. “You’re the only one who’s still into that eighties wine thing. Why don’t you get on the fruit-of-the-month martini bandwagon like the rest of us? Makes life so much simpler. You’re sober, you’re drunk. You’re working, you’re partying. Wine’s just a hazy, in-between thing where you’re pretending to have a real conversation but you’re really getting hammered. Frankly, it’s too much fucking stress,” she says, swiveling back around, tugging at her black leather jacket, which is still facing the direction of the waiters’ station.
Rachel’s body has that effect. She’s always tugging things into place. Like the men in her life. Not that there are many of those. At least not in L.A. Rachel sports a rack enviable even by Hollywood’s silicone standards, but her New York persona is the price of admission—and outside the tristate area it’s deemed a little high. Like so many transplanted New York women who haven’t mastered the L.A. vibe, which, depending on the decade, consists of varying amounts of prescription drugs, plastic surgery, and a well-honed passive-aggressiveness, Rachel’s place in Los Angeles is that of the lonely, workaholic expatriate.
“Why you didn’t go to law school, I’ll never know,” I say, fishing an olive out of the bowl and sliding it into my mouth. “All that anger just going to waste.”
“Hey, you didn’t sit through the piece of shit I just did. Nor do you have to promote it to thirteen-year-old boys, which is even more demeaning,” she says. “Besides, why do you think we’re friends?”
“I don’t think I’m as angry as you,” I say, trying to sound ironic although I’m actually annoyed by Rachel’s assumption. “I’m from Bucks County. I’m too repressed to be that angry.”
“Actually, you’re wrong about my job,” Rachel says, half standing and waving both arms over her head to get the waiter’s attention. “Being a publicist reinforces the cynicism I already have, and the fact it pays shit bolsters my self-loathing. Even my mother thinks I’ve found my calling.”
Rachel may be what the guys in high school called a ball-breaker, but you have to admire her. She still has her fuck-it-all New York ways that I, despite my having spent a decade in Manhattan, have never really mastered. Other than Steven, Rachel is one of the only people I can be honest with. At least about Hollywood in Hollywood.
“So you called this meeting,” Rachel says, after snaring the waiter and ordering a martini with her customary directive: And supersize it.
“Yes, I did and I appreciate your attendance, but first how was your day?” I say, trying to ease Rachel into a slightly lower gear. “Other than the screening?”
“Great if you don’t count the hour and a half in the dentist’s office this morning and three hours waiting for the Novocain to wear off,” Rachel says, grabbing a fistful of olives. “I spent most of the afternoon looking like a stroke victim. I even had to sip my coffee through a straw. I figure it’s practice for the nursing home.”
It will take an elephant gun, or most of a martini, to slow Rachel down and that’s nowhere in sight. “That’s nice, honey,” I say, skipping to the chase. “Troy got stoned and tried to feel me up and Val flashe
d a beaver at the photo shoot. Your thoughts?”
“That depends. Did you find it arousing or merely a gratuitous grab for attention?”
I’m about to ask if she means Troy or Val when the waiter suddenly appears, an icy pale green martini dripping on his tray. “Pour la jeune femme sans cocktail?” he says, arching his eyebrows. I wonder if that’s his idea or an affectation Le Dome insists on.
“Put her down,” Rachel says, leaning back to make room.
When the waiter skates off after an elaborate bow, Rachel takes a sip and smacks her lips. “Sugar and grain alcohol. My two favorite food groups. Okay, where were we? So Troy’s a pig and Val’s a flasher. Which one’s the problem?”
“Is this a quiz?” I say, surprised at Rachel’s lack of surprise. “ ‘Can you tell the problem client from the one who’s merely an asshole?’ ”
“Something like that,” Rachel says, eyeing me over the glass.
“Maybe I’m just being overly hyper because of G and the buyout, but I think they’re both problems. Or could be,” I say, slumping back in my chair. “I mean, a third of our clients are gay, in rehab, or seriously twisted. The rest are in denial. Those that have a pulse, anyway. But is that what we do? Protect the guilty?”
“Salud,” Rachel says, taking another slug of the martini. “Look, no one’s going to out Val in the media, at least not by name, and you knew Troy was obnoxious from the get-go. Sleep with him, don’t sleep with him, but—”
“I’m not sleeping with him,” I blurt out. “He just put his hand on my thigh when I tried to get him out of his car, where he was getting high.”
“Yeah, that’s classy,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes. “Look, I’m just saying he has a reputation and there are probably a lot of publicists, especially those bimbos at BIG, who would fuck him in a heartbeat.”
“He didn’t even remember it after he sobered up,” I say. “The whole rest of the shoot, it was like nothing had happened.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like he’s actually boyfriend material.”
“Speaking of that,” I say, reaching for my glass.