Hollywood Girls Club (3 page)

Lydia put on her headset and forced a smile onto her face. You could hear a frown over the phone.

“Murph, congratulations! So sad about Weston, but so thrilled to be working with you.”

“Cut the bullshit, Liideeeaaa,” Arnold said through the static of his phone.

Lydia cringed upon hearing Arnold’s voice. She loathed his insistence on always dragging out the pronunciation of her name, the way one might speak to a small child.

“Such a charmer. Murph my love, did someone forget to fill your flask before your morning commute?” He wasn’t even in the fucking office yet and he was calling to shut down her movie.

“We are not making this movie,” Murphy said.

“Yes you are.” Lydia’s heart accelerated.

“No.”

“Listen, you redheaded prick,” Lydia stood and leaned toward her office window. She wasn’t about to let this little-man knock her down without a fight. Blood pulsed through her veins and heat flushed her face. She was a warrior—you didn’t make movies without going to battle. “This studio spent twenty million in preproduction. You’ve made pay-or-play offers to the star, the director, and to me, the producer. If you don’t make this movie, you are seventy million dollars in the hole before you even walk onto the lot to start your first day of work at this studio. Not the best first impression for the board of directors, now, is it?”

Murphy snickered. “Liideeeaaa, your director’s high, your star is in jail, and your luck has run out.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was shutting down
Seven Minutes Past Midnight.

“You and I both know that it pains my heart to make this—”

“Celeste Solange on line two,” Toddy yelled out.

Lydia pressed the mute button on her phone. “Celeste is in New Zealand.”

“What? They don’t have phones in New Zealand?”

“Murph, hold on a second,” Lydia said. Leaving the leprechaun, Lydia, jumped from line one to line two.

“Cici?”

“Lyddy.”

“Cici, where are you? You sound so close. I thought you were in New Zealand.”

“I am close—well, relatively speaking. I can see the ocean and I’m on this side of it.”

“What happened?”

“Have you seen
People
yet?” Celeste asked.

“No, I’m still working on today’s
Daily Variety
.”

“
Damien
is fucking the eighteen-year-old,” Celeste said. “Seems he was much too cozy on set to want me around.”

“Interesting,” Lydia said. “Damien is fucking a child and I’m getting fucked by a leprechaun.”

“What?”

“Have you seen the trades today?
Variety
,
Hollywood Reporter
?”

 “Just the part about me getting bumped from my soon-to-be ex-husband’s film.” Celeste snapped.

“Guess who got the Worldwide gig.”

“Fuck if I know. I’m just an actress—hired help. Marsala, or Walter? Aaah. Wait, a leprechaun … no fucking way, Lydia. It isn’t Murphy, is it?”

“Bingo. He’s holding on line one. Shutting down
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
. First call of what I am sure will be his illustrious tenure as studio head. Little fucker is still in his car, hasn’t even made it into his office yet, and he’s shutting down my film.”

“But I was calling to tell you I’ll do it,” Celeste said.

“What?” Lydia’s heart bounced in her chest—Cici in her movie would be a dream. “I love you and you’ve always been my first choice, but I don’t have it in the budget. Jessica and I discussed it ages ago. I can’t make your twenty-million-dollar quote—I can’t even make half your quote. Besides, this is Murphy. He’s shutting me down, and it’s got nothing to do with the script or the film.”

“We could travel, take it to another studio? What about Summit or Galaxy?”

“Cici, you’re a gem. But Murph isn’t going to let any studio buy this project out. It’s not about the money or the movie. This one is personal. It’s about Murph and me.”

“No worries. I’ve got Robinoff.”

“What?” Lydia looked up from the
Daily Variety
she’d anxiously flipped through. God, she loved Celeste. Ted Robinoff was the ever-elusive CEO of Worldwide Pictures and Arnold Murphy’s boss. A virtual recluse, some executives thought Robinoff had a direct line to God and others thought that the only direct line to Robinoff was through God’s office. “How?”

“Lyd, I’m telling you I can deliver this. Just get your director sober and your star bailed out and don’t tell Murph who did it. We’ll get the movie going through Ted before Murphy gets into the studio. Get off the phone with Murphy before he says no—have your assistant do it. Have Toddy tell him you had to run out, some sort of emergency.”

Lydia looked through her office door at her three assistants, all listening in on her line (there were always at least eight ears on a call, most times more: the caller, the callee, and both assistants. First rule of Hollywood: There are no secrets). Hope blossomed in Lydia’s heart—maybe—just maybe… “You heard the lady. Toddy, get off this line and get on line one. Tell the leprechaun to take a leap.”

“Cici, I’m sure glad you’re on my side. You must have some heavy-duty shit on Ted.”

“Nothing like that, just pulling an old favor. I need a change and there’s no one I’d rather do a movie with than you. Besides, I hear your star boy is a pretty good actor, and when he’s not in the slammer or on set, he likes to be in bed. It’s a great script, Lyddy. I’ll do a really good job for you.”

“Like I said, you were always my first choice; I just knew that Jessica and I could never come to terms on a deal. Just not in my budget.”

“This film isn’t about the money. You’re getting Celeste Solange at bargain-basement prices. All I want is a producer’s credit and a piece of the back end.”

“Just tell Jessica this was all your doing, otherwise she’ll never let me book any talent out of CTA again.”

“I already told Jess.”

“And?” Lydia asked.

“She didn’t flinch. It’ll be the easiest deal you’ll ever make. Give her a call. My attorney is drafting a deal memo right now. Jessica will fax it to you and to Worldwide Business Affairs. It’s pretty sweet.”

“I owe you big.”

“We’re friends, Lyd, let’s go make a film.”

Chapter 3

Jessica Caulfield and Her Balenciaga Sandals

Jessica Caulfield’s brown lizard skin heels pinched her toes as she lounged on the patio at The Ivy in Beverly Hills with one of her many movie star clients. You hadn’t “arrived” in the film biz until you could secure patio seating at the Ivy. Reserved for the deal-makers, power brokers, and stars, the Ivy sat on a nondescript Beverly Hills street. The patio, whitewashed brick with a picket fence and white roses, provided no view for the patrons feasting on crab cakes and chopped salads. But the view from the street—that was something else entirely. Aston Martins, Bentleys, and Jaguars pulled up to the valet, and exiting from these pristinely polished automobiles were the rich, the famous, and the beautiful.

Behemoth SUVs with dark tinted windows, home to the ever-annoying yet ever-needed paparazzi, sought out the parking meters across the street. The valets—clean-cut, crisp-looking young men with the short haircuts and high cheekbones of prep school graduates—lined the sidewalk in front of the patio seating, trying to obscure shots taken with the giant telephoto lenses. Jessica knew this was all part of the dance. If privacy was truly the desire, why not raise the fence? Or enclose the outside area with a hedge? No, this spot was the place to be seen. A statement, made by anyone who entered, that you did in fact belong within the confines of Hollywood and the Ivy. You were a member of the club.

Jessica leaned her head forward in a futile attempt to release the tension that gripped the back of her neck. She sipped her iced tea and her auburn hair fell in waves around her Dior sunglasses. Jessica had dined at the Ivy for close to seven years. She was one of the most powerful talent agents in town and easily commanded lunch on the patio. And this lunch was to finish a deal with one of CTA’s hot young stars, Holden Humphrey.

When Jessica had discovered Holden, she’d just begun her career as a talent agent at CTA. Kiki Dee, a publicist, had begged Jessica to attend an actors’ showcase. Jessica had resisted, knowing that other agents fended off these requests, and if she went, she’d be the only agent in attendance. But she owed Kiki a favor (everyone at some point in their Hollywood career owed Kiki a favor).

When Jessica arrived, the desperation in the air had been palpable. Mostly old actors (anyone over thirty-five) doing scenes from old films, all hoping (as was the case at every actors’ showcase) to be “discovered.” Sure, some of the actors were brilliant and many had talent, but these people were in denial about the reality of the film industry. Hollywood was the Calcutta of entertainment— hundreds of thousands of actors starving for work. The odds against these actors on stage were staggering; they’d have a better chance of winning the lottery than becoming a superstar. That night—oh so long ago—there’d been one not particularly gifted young actor who possessed a spark.

The “It” factor.

“It” was an indefinable quality, a quality for which casting directors, agents, and managers relentlessly searched. ‘It’ wasn’t talent or bravado. “It” was a gift from God, Jessica believed, that very few people received. Or perhaps everyone had “It,” but only a couple of people in the world truly knew how to tap into their “It” reserve. Either way, Jessica knew Holden had “It,” even if he couldn’t act.

Now, five years later, Jessica sat across from Holden Humphrey at the Ivy. The Los Angeles sun burned her scalp and frustration wound through her chest and lodged hard and cold next to her heart.

They discussed any last-minute desires Holden had before Jessica closed the deal for his next film,
Money for Love
, with Galaxy Pictures Business Affairs. Sure, these details could be hammered out over the phone, but a little face time with Holden (a $15-million-per-film star) was part of Jessica’s job.

“Jess, forget the Dom. I want Cristal. Cristal is off the hook,” Holden said between bites of his specially made double cheeseburger (just for Holden the Ivy added an oregano-garlic spice mix and extra cheese). “No one drinks Dom. I hear that Cristal is a deal-breaker for Tarantino.”

Jessica bit her tongue, gritted her teeth, and tried to smile. A Harvard-educated lawyer, Jessica spent the last five years (her most fertile years) negotiating deals for actors, and she was going to spend the next thirty-six hours (while she was ovulating) arguing with the head of Galaxy Pictures Business Affairs for Holden Humphrey’s million-dollar perk list (in addition to his multimillion-dollar fee and profit participation).

“And I want the trailer that Costner gets. You know the one, right, Jess? There are only two in the world.”

Jessica did, in fact, know the trailer to which Holden referred. It was the same trailer that Jessica spent three days arguing with Summit Pictures’ head of Business Affairs for Holden to get on his last feature,
Purple Racer
. At least on this picture there was a precedent. The expansion of a star’s perk list was all about “the precedent.” If one studio gave a star the biggest trailer or cases of Cristal versus Dom, then every other studio had better pony up if they expected a star to do their film. Stars wanted the best, the most elusive, the most expensive.

 Jessica glanced over at Holden, chewing a bite of his twenty-five-dollar burger.
Twenty-five dollars for a cheeseburger?
Jessica remembered when she was fresh out of law school with student loans to pay and interning for free at the studio; twenty-five dollars had purchased her groceries for a month.

 Even with ketchup dripping down his chin, Holden was gorgeous. Honey-blond hair, sultry blue eyes, cheekbones that could cut steel (Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt rolled into one), a jawline that was solid—and that flawlessness was all above the neck. Holden’s body … was just as extraordinary. Yes, Holden was a specimen of physical perfection. Even for Jessica—who’d known him before he was a star— it was difficult to concentrate when Holden flashed his stellar smile. But the one thing Holden could not do, at least not yet, was act. He could barely deliver a line (he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, either).

Jessica prayed that Holden’s business manager was smart about Holden’s money, because the gravy train that was Holden’s career wouldn’t last forever. Holden’s $15 million acting quote wasn’t going up anytime soon, and if the ticket sales from
Purple Racer
were any indication, then Holden’s core audience (preteen girls and middle-aged gay men) was growing tired of paying fifteen dollars a ticket to watch him wiggle his ass and grin. Holden’s career, Jessica feared, was cresting the hill on the entertainment roller coaster and poised for the stomach-piercing descent.

“Holden, did you talk to Gary Moises?” she asked, hopeful that Holden had taken her advice and started studying his craft with the best and most exclusive acting coach in Los Angeles.

“I’m not down with an acting coach,” Holden said and bit into his burger.

“He’s the best in L.A.,” Jessica countered.

“Jess, I want to feel natural. My fans want me; they don’t need that Mizel/Method crap. They want me to do my thing. Viève agrees,” Holden said, putting his arm around the babe du jour to his left.

Jessica glanced at the tiny elfin creature now ensconced in Holden’s embrace. She nearly forgot that Viève was there—the girl had barely moved—she didn’t speak—and the creature definitely didn’t eat. A connoisseur of exotic tail, Holden always seemed to have a particularly unusual woman with him. This tiny creature appeared to be an accessory—much like a Chihuahua or Peek-a-poo or whatever extreme canine mix was the most popular purse pet.

“Viève acts, Jess.”

Doesn’t everyone
, Jessica thought.

“You should take a look at her reel,” Holden said, patting the tiny creature on the head.

Jessica curled the sides of her mouth upward and ignored the irritation that spiked her heart. For the ten percent of $15 million and gross profit participation he threw her way, Holden deserved at least the semblance of a smile. Thank God for sunny days in L.A. and patio seating at the Ivy—both required that Jessica wear sunglasses. Otherwise at this very moment Holden would see
the look
. And if he saw
the look
, then he’d know the contempt that wove through Jessica for having to smile at the tramp Viève and argue for three days for Cristal as opposed to Dom Perignon so that Holden could get paid beaucoup bucks to do the one thing millions of people would give their left leg to do: stand in front of a camera and smile.