Hollywood Girls Club (8 page)

Lydia shivered. The temperature in the house was fine, but she was cold. It’d been a long, emotional day. She climbed to the middle of her king-size bed (the trick to sleeping alone—take up the whole damn bed) and slid under her down comforter. She’d already cried … her tears were gone. Like Weston. All that remained were too-fresh memories of their rendezvous, both recent and long ago. She reached for the remote and aimed it at the plasma television hanging on the wall, but she didn’t want to watch TV. She dropped the remote on the bed. Lydia glanced around her bedroom, a tribute to a child-free lifestyle, all white and silk. Her gaze landed on the pile of scripts on the floor next to her nightstand. She could read. A lesson learned from both her father and Weston: Read, read, read. “Not enough people in this town read, you’d be surprised,” Weston had told her. “And the ones that actually read the scripts, well, they quickly rise to the top.”

They were both right. It’d been that very pile from which Lydia had pulled Mary Anne’s script. Lydia smiled. Mary Anne was a bright spot. Like a hapless puppy floundering around on oversized paws, Mary Anne bounded through the preproduction unable to contain her excitement and enthusiastic grin. Her talent was undeniable. Within three pages of starting to read her script, Lydia had gotten the tingly sensation at the base of her spine brought on by what her sixth sense always told her was exceptional writing.

That tingling sensation (aside from a good orgasm or a hit film) was the moment she lived for. She loved finding the great story. She knew it could pop up anywhere—an article, a book, a script, or a tale told to you in the doctor’s office. But the one commonality was the tingling sensation Lydia got when she stumbled onto the narrative that would support a film.

“It’s a gift,” Weston had told her while she was working at Birnbaum Productions. “Not everyone has it. Most of them are guessing, flying in the dark. Use it, don’t overthink it. You know, your dad had it, too.”

So her high cheekbones and dark hair weren’t the only things that Norton Albright passed down to her. She rolled toward the nightstand and reached for the light, flipping off the switch, then settled back into the bed, pulling the comforter up around her neck.

She listened for a sound, any sound. The house settling, the wind blowing, a board creaking … but there was nothing. Silence. As silent as a tomb.

Chapter 7

Jessica and Her Fuchsia Balenciaga Heels

Jessica walked down the red carpet at the premiere of
My Way or the Highway
knowing that she looked amazing (Pilates three times a week and yoga daily could do that for a body). She prayed she wouldn’t trip in her fuchsia Balenciaga heels. This was a CTA packaged film (or rather a Jessica Caulfield–packaged film). One of Jess’s actor clients, Maurice Banks, starred; another client, Rowyn Hertz, directed; and finally Steven Fabian, a third client, had written the script.

Flashbulbs popped. Matt Damon walked in front of Jessica. Her eyes were blinded, and all she could see were spots. A television cable snaked just ahead of her on the red carpet. Jessica picked up her left foot to clear the cable but dragged her right.
Damn.
She felt it catch. She could see the picture and the headline tomorrow: ÜBER-AGENT TAKES TUMBLE ON THE RED HIGHWAY.
Fuck!
Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed her arm.

“Gotcha.”

“Thank y—” Jessica turned, her eyes focusing. A bolt of adrenaline surged through her body. There he was.
The
man; the one who taught her to play it safe with men. Mike Fox. He was alone, or he seemed to be alone.

Jessica hadn’t seen Mike Fox since the day she left I M FOX Productions to become an agent at CTA, which was shortly after their sordid little love affair (which they pretended nobody knew about) ended. Between the private jets, supermodels, and blow, Jessica couldn’t compete, Mike couldn’t commit, and Jessica couldn’t stay. The parting was neither amicable nor angry; their affair just ended. But the longing—the “what ifs” and “what could have beens”—popped into Jessica’s mind every time she read about Mike’s successes in
Variety
or
Hollywood Reporter
.

“Jess, smile,” Mike whispered into her ear. “They’ll never know.”

More flashbulbs popped, the lights again exploded in Jessica’s eyes. The spotlight always felt brighter when she was with Mike. He pulled her closer, not letting go of her arm as they strolled down the red carpet.

“You smell good and you look even better,” Mike whispered. Jess giggled.
Giggled!
She hadn’t giggled in … well, since she’d stopped sleeping with Mike.

“You know, I always loved making you laugh,” his deep voice breathed into her ear.

“I always loved it when you did,” she whispered.

The red carpet ended as they crossed the threshold into the theater lobby and joined the mass of Hollywood’s who’s who.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mike said. “I wondered how many of your clients I had to hire to get to see you again. You’re coming to the after party. Find me there.”

Jessica turned to smile, but in an instant, Mike was engulfed by the sea of handshakes and backslaps that were bestowed on a producer at his premiere. For even though Jessica had packaged the project, it was Mike’s film. He’d found her writer’s script, set it up at Summit Pictures, and quickly hired her actor and director. Mike Fox’s ascent to the top of Hollywood, like Jessica’s, had been meteoric; he’d moved rapidly from producer to studio head (a position often reserved for balding middle-aged men) to rehab to producer. Meanwhile, she had stayed at CTA and collected hot male stars, fancy directors, and award-winning writers.

Jessica’s thoughts were deep in “what ifs” when Lydia Albright walked up behind her.

“You know, I think he still fancies you,” Lydia said.

“Mike will always fancy Mike,” Jess said, landing with a thud back in reality.

“Maybe. But you know he’s cleaned up. No more supermodels or actresses. I hear he’s interested in getting into family entertainment.” Lydia raised her left eyebrow.

“You forget I have a man.”

“Yes. When was the last time Phil was home?”

“That’s a little low, Lyd. He’s working.”

“I’m just
saying
. Phil’s great, but he needs to be working less on software and more on getting married. He better get with the program before someone else catches you.”

“You saw my graceful entrance?” Jessica asked.

“Nice save. I don’t think anyone who knows you saw it.”

“Lyd. Everyone here knows me.”

Lydia smiled. “Come on. Sit with me. I hear this thing is pretty good. Should make a ton of money at the box office this weekend.”

They walked into the theater. People milled around the rows of seats, talking and smiling, laughing the anxious laughs that come before the start of a film at its premiere.

“Move fast, here comes the leprechaun,” Lydia said, trying to weave her way past a Corinthian column.

“Arnold is here? But this isn’t a Worldwide Pictures film.” Jessica whirled around, looking for the telltale red hair.

“Pre-studio head. He’s an executive producer on the film.”

“Liideeeaaa!”

Lydia shook her head. “Let’s pretend we didn’t hear him. Keep moving. The ladies’ room. He can’t follow us in there no matter how feminine he is.”

Jessica cut through the crowd, heading to the side staircase leading to the basement ladies’ room, but Lydia trailed after her, caught behind a slow-moving executive.

“Liideeeaaa Albright, I
know
you hear me.”

Jessica watched as Lydia took a deep breath, turned around, gritted her teeth, and plastered the professional-producer-who
-
loves-everyone-no-matter-how-much-she-really-hates-them smile across her face.

“Yes, Arnold, I
hear
you. How could I not? But you know, you’re so short, it’s difficult to
see
you and know which direction your voice is coming from.”

Josanne, ever present at Arnold’s side, let out an audible gasp. Jessica heard a few snickers to her left.

“Liideeeaaa, you are
not
making your days on this film,” Arnold said loud enough for everyone two rows in either direction to hear. Public humiliation—so that’s what Arnold wanted.

Lydia leaned forward and bent slightly as if addressing a toddler. “Arnold, is this really the correct time and place to discuss my film?”

“I am the head of the studio, Liideeeaaa. I will decide the correct time and place,” Arnold said. “If you’d return my calls, then we wouldn’t have to discuss this now.”

“You know, Lydia,” Josanne said, “you’ve been very negligent in returning Mr. Murphy’s calls. We’ve left word for you three times today.”

“Really? I must scold my assistant; she had down that you called
four
times.”

“I will not allow you to waste the studio’s money,” Arnold snarled.

“No, Arnold, I don’t expect that you would. But we aren’t wasting anything.”

“You are. I haven’t seen any dailies and you’re now six days into your shooting schedule.”

“No, Arnold, we’re still in preproduction. Our start date got pushed back three weeks.”

Another audible gasp from Josanne and this time Arnold’s face turned red. The crimson wave began at his neck, just above his collar, and rolled upward, emphasizing the vein in his right temple, which bulged and began to throb. He looked as if he might stroke out.

“Liideeeaaa Albright, who the
fuck
at my studio gave you permission to push your start date?” Arnold screeched.

Bad behavior was common in Hollywood. Name calling, screaming, hurtling phones across the room, all were considered very acceptable forms of stress release. And the whole town talked about the fights afterward. But almost always, disagreements took place behind closed doors, so this display of anger and animosity in such a public setting hushed conversations for ten rows all around them. Jessica saw people in the balcony shushing one another. Suddenly, Arnold Murphy and Lydia Albright (and their ongoing feud) were more important than the film that was meant to unspool.
They
were the entertainment. Jessica knew that Lydia knew that at this moment, she and Arnold were the center of the Hollywood Entertainment Universe, and how Lydia played her next card would determine her viability as a producer and the viability of her film.
God, I hope she’s holding aces
, Jessica thought.

Lydia smiled. She again tilted her head toward Arnold as if addressing a petulant child who’d thrown himself to the floor in the checkout line at the grocery store when denied a chocolate bar.

Very clearly and very loudly, Lydia said, “Arnold, it was Ted Robinoff, the chairman of your studio, and I do believe your boss, who approved the delay of my start date. Perhaps you should call me less and Ted more?”

Royal flush.

The vein in Arnold’s head throbbed as the snickers around them grew louder.

“You bitch,” Arnold muttered under his breath. “This doesn’t end here.”

“No, Arnold,” Lydia whispered. “I doubt that it does. But this moment must be very embarrassing for you.”

*

The glitteratti was out in full force. Everyone in Hollywood wanted to work with, sleep with, or just be near Mike Fox, and after watching his latest film, Jessica understood why. Stars and studio executives hoped he’d sprinkle them with his gold dust—the license to print money that Mike Fox seemed to have.
My Way or the Highway
was going to be another hit.

Mike Fox sure could throw a party, especially on the studio’s dime. He’d rented out Havana Vin Vin. Jessica and the movie’s star, her client Maurice Banks, followed William White (the megastar) and Julie Jensen, megastar in her own right and William’s wife in name only (they both had same-sex partners on the side), into the club. The room was draped in blood red swaths of velvet. The lights glowed red. Even the Cristal and Absolut had a touch of red food coloring.

“We were going for an Asian/James Bond feel,” Jessica overheard the party planner say to an interviewer for
Entertainment Express
. Sushi and proscuitto, Camembert and Thai dumplings—California fusion cuisine.

“This thing is crazy. I’ve never been to a premiere party like this,” Maurice said as Taryn Reed, the film’s female lead, grabbed Maurice by the other arm and steered him toward the bar. Most premiere parties took place at the same tired restaurants where tepid egg rolls and over-iced drinks were served.

Go-go dancers stood on tables, performing what looked like a cross between lesbian porno and a striptease from Girls, Girls, Girls Gentleman’s Club. But the trendiest bit (and the nearest to an X rating) was the sushi display. Six
Maxim
models wearing two tiny red strips of cloth lay in erotic poses on a buffet table. The sushi sat on their skin. Guests circled the table with chopsticks, lifting pieces of salmon sushi, albacore sushi, and California rolls from patches of bare skin. The wasabi and soy sauce sat (thankfully) off to the side.

Jessica smirked.
Nothing like presentation … or flouting one’s conquests.
She suspected that Mike must have slept with at least five of the six models.

“Jess, Maurice was phenomenal,” Paul Peterson, the head of Summit Pictures and the guy financing the film, the food, and Maurice’s $17 million fee, shouted over the music. “This thing is going to make barrels of money. We really want to do Maurice’s next film,” he said, pointing his chopsticks at Jessica. “I have the perfect script for him. I’ll send it over to your office tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. But you know Maurice’s next two slots are filled. He’s booked for a year.”

“Jess, I promise when you read this script you’ll push the other two films. This is a fantastic script. You are going to want Maurice to do this film.”

“Who’s producing?” Jessica asked.

“You put Maurice in it, and we’ll get whomever he wants,” Paul said.

“What about Lydia Albright?” Jessica asked.