Cut to the Chase (3 page)

If she were ever forced to admit a fantasy crush, it would be on Avalon Randolph. Of course, she had to share that crush with about six million other people. Never mind that Avalon was known for her brash behavior and sharp tongue; she was Hollywood’s darling, with a popular TV series and an impressive string of five successful romantic-comedy movies under her gold-filled Gucci belt. She was the favorite cover girl of Hollywood celebrity magazines and featured on most entertainment news shows fairly often.

Everyone knew that Avalon was hot and beautiful and very funny, but it wasn’t common knowledge yet that she was branching out into action movies. And playing a nemesis, no less.

Paige drummed her fingers on the table as her excitement quickly rose. What a coup it would be if she could get Avalon in her book. It would really help publicize it, not to mention boost sales. And spotlighting Avalon on the cover instead of Bubba or Ricky would make her day.

Hell—she stopped and took a deep breath—who was she kidding? Just meeting her would make her day.

*

The sun gently warmed Avalon’s face as she laid her head back on the convertible’s seat rest. The wind mussed her hair, pulling tendrils back as if almost massaging her head. Avalon was in the passenger’s seat, next to Leah, who was driving. Ivy and Sandy sat in the back. They were all actresses who had remained casual friends over the last few years and got together when they could.

As Leah’s BMW sped north on the Pacific Coast Highway, Avalon closed her eyes and let the cool, brackish smell of the ocean fill her lungs. They were heading to Bui Sushi in the Malibu Colony, and when Leah turned off PCH and onto Malibu Road, Avalon opened her eyes and lifted her head. They left the rocky cliffs to the north and entered an area of tightly knit homes and businesses, all staking their ocean-view claims as if they were concertgoers elbowing each other in front of the stage.

Sunday was Avalon’s only day off on the six-day shooting schedule that the producers of her movie had contracted her to do. She had some free days when she wasn’t in a scene to be shot, but since she was playing the lead role, they were as scarce as chaste casting couches.

They reached Bui Sushi and were led to a table by the sushi bar. The dark wood walls and décor offered a nice and welcoming contrast to the brightly lit day outside.

Ivy always ordered for them all, and soon a number of appetizers were dispensed to their table.

“Who’s going to Cannes this year?” Leah asked as they all helped themselves to the edamame, tuna tartare on wonton chips, shrimp-and-veggie tempura, and spicy scallop rolls. She’d established her career in independent films and had stayed there, opting for more creative control, she often said.

“I go every year,” Sandy, the tallest of the group, replied.

“Every year?” Avalon couldn’t see the reason. Sure, if she were a producer or director, the Cannes Film Festival would be a great place to promote a film. But mostly, it consisted of a lot of rather formal and very restrained cocktail parties and starched screenings for the judges.

“Sure,” Sandy said. “See and be seen, you know?”

The waiter refilled their glasses of water and Avalon almost asked for a Coca-Cola, but didn’t want to fend off the raised eyebrows and snorts she’d get about the constant battle to remain a size zero. For some reason, she always behaved a little differently around these friends. They never drank anything but water at meals and ordered the lowest-calorie plate on the menu, then ate only half. She was sure at least Leah was bulimic, and probably Sandy and Ivy, so part of her didn’t want to gorge in front of them and part caved into the Tinseltown tenet that starving oneself meant more opportunities for work. Even though it would be refreshing and comforting, ordering a sugary drink was tantamount to going off the deep end. She sighed as the waiter poured the water.

“Plus, the deal-making is spectacular,” Leah said. “At the small restaurant tables down at the beach, you can almost smell the money shifting hands.”

“Speaking of that,” Ivy crunched on some edamame, “you know that place on Carbon Beach, close to the Malibu Pier?” She jerked her head toward the restaurant’s front door. “The one that’s called Deal Maker’s Rock?”

“That’s supposedly where studio bosses and agents exercise in the morning while talking shop,” Sandy said.

Ivy nodded. “Not supposedly. That’s where my agent got my last film.”

“Serious?” Sandy looked doubtful.

“That’s what he said.”

Avalon played with her rainbow roll. She didn’t feel like engaging in the conversation. She’d almost wished Leah had kept driving up the coast, to nowhere in particular, because the whooshing of the wind had made her feel very nearly happy.

Why was she so mellow? She was starring in a spectacular motion picture, was finally free of her nasty girlfriend, and life couldn’t be better. She looked around the table.

Ivy was at the top of her game in comedic rolls that just kept coming. Sandy had scored big, playing the lead in a superhero film that had made her high kicks a fantasy of teenagers around the world. And Leah couldn’t go anywhere without her indie following and tweeting her every move.

While the four of them often went to lunch or shopped on Melrose Avenue, she couldn’t actually say that any of these women were her close friends. More than anything, they’d thrown themselves together because of their work. It was easier to hang out with other actresses because of the unspoken oath of confidentiality among them. They all understood what problems could arise from the verbal spillings of a well-meaning but overly excited, non-industry acquaintance.

They had a lot of fun when they were together, but honestly, Avalon doubted she could call any of them in the middle of an emotionally bad night.

So why did she keep hanging out with them? Maybe a better question was, who was she closer to that she could hang out with? Her ex had been the one lately, but now that they had split, Avalon hadn’t found much in the way of consistency. That is, except for the reliable bars she was frequenting more often and the unfailing paparazzi that seemed to always be around.

She felt as if she were in a bubble, with her work, her agent and manager, and her fellow sushi-eating comrades forming the shell inside which she dwelled. The paparazzi were the sharp pins that persistently threatened to burst the bubble. And if they did, she wasn’t sure there would be any substance and meaning in what they found.

Leah, Sandy, and Ivy were deep into a conversation about luxury resorts, and Avalon turned away from them to look around the room.

Couples were huddled close and families with children were animated in their interactions. They were all ordering food and laughing and talking as if their meal was just another wonderful pearl in the content and happy necklace of their lives. A flash of metal or something outside made her focus on the restaurant’s front window.

As the waiter came around to check on her table, Avalon recognized the unrelenting and scheming body language of a fistful of scruffy, camera-toting men hovering around the entrance.

Ah, hell, she thought as she turned back to the table and, specifically, the waiter. “Would you please bring me a Coke?”

A rather large group of Avalon’s fans was pushing and pressing into each other to get closer to her. She wanted to shake some hands, but she had on expensive cream-colored pants and a matching sleek jacket that the wardrobe department had just given her to wear for the next scene. She couldn’t afford to get them dirty; if she did, the director and crew would have to wait for them to be cleaned by hand.

The movie set’s security kept the crowd at bay, but Avalon reached around the guards to carefully sign as many autographs as she could.

“I love you,” one male fan in all-black leather called out.

“I love you, too,” she replied, tremendously energized by the adoration. This was evidence that she was a star. She was on top and riding the wave like a professional surfer, and the crowd worshipped her as she shredded the waves of Hollywood.

She relished her celebrity, knowing that there was nothing more powerful than the current status quo of the mighty triple play: fame, money, and fan worship.

“Time to go, Miss Randolph.” One of the security guards motioned toward the set. Reluctantly, she waved good-bye to everyone and was whisked off.

The schedule for the day had the film crew on La Cienega Boulevard shooting a scene between Avalon and Brent Hastings.

Her agent, Billy Woods, had stopped by as she was finishing up in the makeup trailer. Somebody named Paige Cornish wanted to interview her and shoot some pictures of her action scenes for a book she was writing. The always-hyper Billy said it would be good publicity.

“No one reads books,” she said, nodding to Helen, her personal assistant, when she handed her a latte. Well-organized and solicitous, Helen Yang was a firecracker of a woman with impossibly long and thick black hair that was constantly tied back as if being disciplined. She always wore something efficient, like the black slacks and a tight white shirt she had on that day, probably because she had no time to mess about with frills.

“It’s one of those pictorial coffee-table books,” Billy said. “Her first two are doing very well and there’s a lot of PR around them.”

“This and about forty TV interviews before this movie gets done, Billy.”

“Would I ask you if I didn’t think it would be good for you?”

“Ahhh!” she bellowed. “It’ll be a pain in the ass.”

“But it’s a pain in a good kind of ass.”

The latte was perfect. The warmth flowed down her throat and settled in her stomach like a welcomed friend. She knew she shouldn’t have caffeine; everyone always reminded her that she was naturally overly energetic, but she drank caffeinated drinks partly because people didn’t want her to.

She looked at Billy before she took another sip. Sometimes she wondered if he ate every day. He rarely touched his food when they were at business lunches. He couldn’t be more than one hundred and ten pounds, which had to be judiciously spread out over his five-foot-ten frame. His slender shoulders and arms connected to a skeletal torso that attached to his scrawny legs like a marionette held together by string. It didn’t help that he wore tight sports coats and skinny pants, but considering that he was constantly in a nervous fidget, he didn’t need to be concerned with gaining any weight. And just like her sometime lunch friends, Billy succumbed to the emaciated-is-essential expectations of Hollywood. That kind of treacherous propaganda skewed people’s self-perception and cruelly whispered, “You’re not perfect enough,” into the ears of anyone with damaged self-esteem.

“Plus, TV shows come and go. A book stays around forever.”

Narrowing her eyes at him, she said, “In the future when I tell you no, remember that I said yes to this one.”

*

Paige drove up to Chris Bergstrom’s driveway just as Chris’s police cruiser pulled in. The black-and-white was emblazoned with decals of a German shepherd and the letters
K9
on the sides.

“Perfect timing,” Chris said as she let a beautiful German shepherd out of the backseat of her car. His short fawn coat with its black, dusky overlay of fur and black police harness made him look distinguished and ready for business, but it was the distinctively acute pricked-up ears and dark eyes that truly revealed his keen expression and serious intelligence.

“Hey, Abel!” Paige greeted the dog, who came over to sniff her.

“Sit,” Chris said in Dutch, and the dog immediately sat.

“Abel is bilingual. He’s smarter than me.”

“And he behaves better.”

“I picked up steaks.” Paige held up a grocery bag.

As Chris grilled in the backyard, Paige brought out two bottles of beer and handed one to her as she sat at the patio table next to the grill. The yard was overgrown, like those of most of the well-established homes in the neighborhood. Tall, thick trees encompassed the fence line, providing shade for most of the day. A fairly good-size area of grass, lined with a brick walkway, allowed Abel to get some exercise, although he had to be careful of the flower bed that ran along the east side. The slats of the wood awning that covered the patio let in stripes of warm sunshine.

“I just found out I have three months to finish this next book,” Paige said. “It’s about action movies.”

“Isn’t that a bit tight?”

“Yeah. But I had to salute smartly and agree,” she said, watching Abel chew on a rubber ball. “Only three movies are shooting right now that have the scenes I need.”

“That won’t fill a book.”

“No, but I have a plan.”

Abel picked up the ball and walked over to her. Dropping it at her feet, he sat down, his eyes alert as he watched her every move, obviously hoping for a game of fetch. She picked the ball up, feigned a throw to the right, and then threw it to the left. With whip-cracking speed, Abel charged after it.

“I can go much further in depth and dissect the action scenes from start to finish. I can document how they’re planned, rehearsed, and shot. And I can write about all the different camera angles. That way, I can get a book’s worth from only three films.”

“That sounds interesting. I bet people will get a kick out of seeing how moviemakers put everything together.”

Abel returned with the ball and lay down in front of Paige, chewing the ball and eyeing her. “There’s something else people might get a kick out of.”

Chris took a sip of her beer. “What?”

Abel dropped the ball and tapped it with his nose. It rolled toward Paige and she threw it again.

“One of the actors is Avalon Randolph.”

Chris fumbled with the BBQ fork, almost dropping it. “Wild woman Avalon Randolph? Shit, are you kidding me?”

She shook her head.

“Doing an action film?”

Abel returned and Paige pitched the ball again. “Yup.”

Chris stared at her. “Avalon Randolph?”

“You already said that.” But she had said the same thing over and over, too.