Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club (2 page)

“Okay, let’s stretch,” Liam said, sitting on the exercise mat in front of Cici.

Between the daily six A.M. workouts (Liam was truly a sadist), visits to her nutritionist, whose mantra was “Raw, baby, everything raw; it’ll turn back the clock ten years,” and Dr. Charles Melnick’s magic Botox needles and microderm, Cici remained stunning.

But for how long?

Cici glanced into the long exercise mirror in front of Liam. Maybe she should consider the knife. A small shudder chased a cool tendril of fear down her spine. She didn’t want to end up the spawn of Dr. Spock, with slanty eyes and Vulcan ears, as had so many women in Hollywood. How could those women fail to recognize one stitch too many?

Cici leaned over her outstretched legs, her nose touching her knees. Charles Melnick did excellent work and he performed her breast-lift. But her face? Did she really want Melnick to stretch the skin on her cheeks up to her ears?

No, she didn’t. But time marched on, and Cici didn’t want the boot marks under her eyes. She exhaled, sat up, and raised her arms overhead.

At her last appointment for Botox, she finally brought up the big F. Charles Melnick worked on the majority of female faces that flickered across the silver screen and was used to the face-lift discussion.

“Cici, my darling, how could I possibly improve on perfection?” he’d asked.

He held her jaw with his hand and turned her face gently first to the left and then to the right. “You eat right, you exercise, and most important, you hydrate.”

“Water, water, water,” Cici said.

“Yes, that and sunscreen. Those two things alone could put eighty percent of the plastic surgeons in L.A. out of business.” He perused her skin ever closer. “But I know the demands on a face such as yours.”

Cici glanced past Melnick to her reflection in the full-length mirror behind him. Fluorescent lighting should be banned. Were those bags?

“It’s part of your burden as a celebrity to be an archetype. A testament to beauty. A goddess.” Dr. Melnick traced a line under Cici’s eyes with his index fingers. “Like porcelain.”

He rolled back his chair and turned. He met Cici’s gaze in the mirror. “So, my darling, what is it? What is it that you think my feeble talents can do for you?”

Cici stared in the mirror. The press often touted her as the modern-day Marilyn Monroe. She still looked beautiful. But anxiousness and fear gnawed at her insides. She had lost her ex-husband, Damien Bruckner, to a seventeen-year-old. What did Cici have if not her beauty and the illusion of youth?

“I’m worried about the lines.” She traced a finger along her forehead and mouth. “Here and here.” They were creases that Ted Robinoff, her billionaire boyfriend and the owner of Worldwide, told her were invisible to everyone but her (and of course Dr. Melnick).

“Darling, these are completely under control with the Botox and collagen.”

“What about this?” Cici asked and tapped the hint of sag under her eye. “And this?” She touched the bone under her highly arched brow. She had noticed the beginning of an extra fold of skin touching her eyelids.

“Well,” Dr. Melnick said, turning back to her and leaning in closer to her face. “There are a number of options, but the best and the longest lasting is, of course, a bit of surgery.”

Cici’s heart bounced as if snagged by a taut wire line. She’d contemplated surgery but her face was her most precious commodity.

“Darling,” Melnick continued, “you don’t need it. Most women don’t do it until thirty-two, and you’ve just turned thirty.”

Only Cici knew the truth—she was thirty-six, soon to hit thirty-seven. So she was actually four years past due. No wonder younger actresses looked so good.

“No. I think it’s time,” Cici said. “Better too soon than too late.”

“Well, that does make these procedures less noticeable. If you keep up the maintenance while you age,” Dr. Melnick continued appraising Cici’s face in the mirror. “Working on a face such as yours is like trying to repaint the Sistine chapel. I just cannot do it any better than the original master, but if you insist, Connie can schedule you for, when? Next week?”

Cici’s heart thumped and her throat tightened. She hadn’t prepared herself for the possibility of surgery so soon. This was only a consult—a discussion—she wasn’t yet ready to schedule a definite date. Surgery next week?

“I’ve got press and a photo shoot. You know, this whole month is bad. Can we wait until next month? The end of next month?”

“Done. Connie will call to confirm. You’ll be here, in the office. Same-day service; in and out.”

Cici stood and reached for her bag. With the thought of Melnick slicing into her face nausea bubbled in her belly and threatened to overwhelm her. Cold sweat formed on her lip and trickled down her spine.

“You know, I have a lovely deal with the Peninsula for recovery time,” Melnick said. “Back door to back door service. I do house calls to the hotel for post-op follow-up. So easy.” Dr. Melnick pulled open the exam room door. “Next month, my darling.”

That was almost a week ago. Now Cici stared into the workout room mirror, searching for the flaws that she and Dr. Melnick had discussed.

“Okay, then. Finished,” Liam jumped up from the mat and grabbed his gear. “Cici, you do me proud,” he said and kissed both her cheeks. “Hard work and sweat. All natural all the time. See you tomorrow.”

Cici waved and glanced into the mirror. Yeah, all natural all the time.

*

Cici pulled her sky blue convertible Jag, a recent gift from Ted (selected to match the color of her eyes), into the parking lot behind the Nail Hut. No one would guess this nondescript shop on Wilshire Boulevard housed the best manicurists in Beverly Hills. Ever since filming
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
, Cici kept a standing once-a-week date for a mani-pedi with Mary Anne Meyers.

Cici enjoyed her time each week with Mary Anne, who had become a close friend while Cici was filming
Seven Minutes
, almost four years before. Cici could be her true self with Mary Anne. Cici feared each character she played stole a piece of her true self and in return left an indelible mark on her personality. After decades of playing pretend, sometimes, late at night, an uncertainty about how to know who her true self was clutched Cici insides and twisted the very fabric of her soul. Mary Anne grounded her—she steadied the dramatics and grasped at Cici. Perhaps because Mary Anne was the least “Hollywood” of all Cici’s Hollywood friends.

Cool manufactured air blasted Cici in the face as she opened the back door of the Nail Hut. She walked toward the celebrity suite, where she and Mary Anne could gossip privately; another lovely perk to the Nail Hut. Well, semi-privately: Two manicurists would be listening, but Jessica Caulfield-Fox, Cici’s manager, required everyone who worked on Cici to sign a confidentiality agreement.

“Cici!” Mary Anne called from her pedicure throne. “Were you followed?”

Cici pulled off her hat and sunglasses. “Not today.”

She reached for a chilled Diet Coke from the crystal ice bucket sitting on the marble table next to the door and stepped up to flop into the chair beside Mary Anne. Mary Anne was more than pretty, but not necessarily the first woman you’d notice when you entered a room. At first glance she looked like someone you’d met before—at the grocery store or the mall—not that Cici ever went to the mall.

Mary Anne’s beauty, in part, came from the fact that she had no idea that she was beautiful. Tall with fair skin, Mary Anne’s blue eyes contained specks of green and freckles dotted her nose. The freckles, Cici believed, helped Mary Anne appear ageless … what a gift.

“Good to see you.” Warmth eased through Cici with the presence of her friend. “How was the West End? I hear Adam’s play is spectacular.”

“I love it. The West End, I mean.”

“Incredible isn’t it? But the press in London is even more intrusive than here. Really, the only place to get any peace is Paris. Or maybe Africa.”

“I’m only a writer, not nearly as sexy as you. A photo of me exiting a grocery store isn’t worth thousands of dollars,” Mary Anne joked.

“When did you get back?”

“Yesterday.”

“For how long?”

“For good.”

Cici eased her feet into the warm water and glanced at Mary Anne. She assumed Mary Anne would be in LA for a short visit before returning to London.

“I thought you’d stay in London with Adam.”

“So did I.”

Cici hesitated. She wanted Mary Anne to offer up the details, but Cici had never mastered patience. After a minute and a half of watching rose petals swirl around her toes, Cici finally asked. “So what happened?”

“He’s … busy. I left London two weeks ago and went to Ireland and Scotland.”

Cici hated the thought of Mary Anne traipsing around the Scottish moors alone. They were a romantic place when with a lover, but so forlorn and cold when single.

“And?”

“And”—Mary Anne paused but didn’t meet Cici’s gaze—“we’re finished.”

Cici contained her shock. Mary Anne’s eyebrows wrinkled into a frown.

“I see.”

Cici couldn’t tell if Mary Anne wanted to wallow or rejoice with the demise of her relationship. Cici would follow Mary Anne’s cue and do either.

Mary Anne chewed on her bottom lip and continued to stare at her toes. “The relationship hasn’t been right for a while. I mean, it’s been almost seven months since …” Mary Anne’s sentence drifted off as though she couldn’t bare to say the words. Mary Anne’s chin tilted down and her shoulders hunched forward as if her whole body protected her from embarrassment.

“Since?” What could Mary Anne and Adam postpone for seven months that had caused the apparently perfect couple to break up? Cici gasped. “You haven’t had sex with Adam in seven months?” Mary Anne flinched and pulled her hands into a tight ball in her lap. “Sorry,” Cici whispered. She leaned toward Mary Anne. “Seven months? How did you go seven months? I can barely go seven days.”

Mary Anne shook her head. Her fingertips flew to her lips. Her gaze chased around the room as if looking for some answer to Cici’s question. Finally she sighed as if resigned to not knowing for certain “We’re both so cerebral, and that part of our relationship was never quite right.”

Cerebral or monastic?

“But it’s good,” Mary Anne continued. “I’ll be busy. Lydia wants me to do a polish on a script she’s putting into production.”

“What’s the script?”

“
The Sexual Being
. Sean Ellis is attached to direct.”

“Isn’t Holden Humphrey starring in
Sexual Being
after he finishes
Collusion
?”

 A blush crept across Mary Anne’s face.

“And the production work?” Cici asked.

“Lydia wants me to do that, too.”

“I see.” Cici said.

Mary Anne wore her brown curly hair pulled back in a ponytail and her lips twitched into a tiny smile.

“What?” Mary Anne finally looked at Cici.

Mary Anne couldn’t be this dense. There was chemistry between Mary Anne and Holden and a past.

“The rewrite is a lot of money and I like the project.” Mary Anne’s voice pitched high and her head bobbled side to side as she tried to prove to not only Cici but herself that what she said was true. “I couldn’t say no. We go into production in about eight weeks. I’ll be in L.A. and then Brazil for three months.” She paused. “He’s coming to L.A. tomorrow.”

“Holden? But he’s on set in Toronto?”

“He’s got a break in his schedule, so he’s flying into L.A.”

“To discuss
Sexual Being
with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where?” Cici asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Where? Where are you meeting Holden to discuss the script?”

Cici had worked in film for twenty years and you could determine the intent of a meeting by the location. Different expectations came with a lunch meeting at The Grill than drinks at L’Ermitage.

“Shutters on the Beach,” Mary Anne said.

Even sweet-faced Mary Anne had to realize that when a former lover flew from Toronto to discuss script notes at a beachside hotel, certain things
could
happen. Cici angled her head and cocked her eyebrow.

“Holden and I spent
one
night together,” Mary Anne said.

“But quite a night. From what I heard.”

“This is a script meeting,” Mary Anne said. “Lydia and Jessica set it up. Holden has concerns about his character and wants to talk with me before I start the rewrite.”

“Makes perfect sense.” Cici shrugged and tossed her hair. If Mary Anne was this deep in denial then Cici would play along with this little charade.

“So, how’s Ted?” Mary Anne asked.

“He’s in Japan.”

“Japan?”

“All the time. I’m a little bored by his absence. Something to do with film finance and DVD sales.”

Mary Anne leaned across the chair and ducked her chin. “Have you told him?” she whispered.

“About?”

Mary Anne placed both her hands on her cheeks and pulled upward. A giggle escaped Cici’s lips because of the way Mary Anne looked and to ward off the pang of fear that tightened in her gut with the thought of the big ‘F.’

“It’s only an eye-lift.”

“Sure,” Mary Anne sat back in her chair. “What did Ted say?”

Now it was Celeste’s turn to pause. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have with her billionaire lover—he’d hate the idea of Celeste changing one single solitary cell of her skin. Ted was a man—a gorgeous, ageless man—how could he possibly begin to understand the fear that crashed through Cici with each line she discovered around her eyes?

“You still haven’t told him.”

Some secrets were better kept than shared.

“You are going to tell him, aren’t you? There is no way you can hide this from him. You’ll be lucky if you can hide it from the entire world. Celeste Solange, America’s sweetheart, getting her face done? That’s big news.”

Cici glanced at the two women scrubbing her feet with pumice stones.

“I’m going to tell him,” Cici said. I’ve got a photo shoot at the end of the week for
California Girl
.”

“The one sheet?”

Celeste nodded. She disliked photo shoots. Tedious affairs, they became boring long before the photographer finished.