Cut to the Chase (12 page)

“Hi,” Avalon said when Paige opened the door. She looked radiant in a short off-white dress and matching heels. Paige was glad to have picked a tight blue skirt and white blouse because she wasn’t over- or under-dressed in comparison.

“Hi. Come in?”

She watched Avalon survey her place, wondering what she thought of it. She had the great fortune to rent an apartment in the North Harper Avenue Historic District, which was one block below the heart of the Sunset Strip. A home in such a quaint and quiet part of West Hollywood was quite a find.

Avalon walked around her place, lightly touching the furniture and taking in the room with the reverence of a visit to a museum.

“The Villa Primavera,” Avalon finally said of the apartment building. “This is terrific.”

“How did you know?”

“That architecture dream, remember?” Avalon stopped next to the tufted-back Chesterfield sofa. “This building is also called the Hidden Hideaway because the dense landscaping keeps it virtually concealed from the street. And this whole block is on the National Register of Historic Places. During Hollywood’s Golden Age, do you know who lived here?”

“Katharine Hepburn and James Dean.”

“It’s quite a step back in time.”

Avalon seemed transfixed, which helped lighten the weight of Paige’s anxiety.

“This French parlor-style bronze chandelier, is it original to the apartment?”

“It is, yes.”

Paige had fallen in love with the elegant light fixture as soon as she saw it. The entire apartment had a classy but sentimental feel. After researching 1940s interior design, she’d repainted the room in lavender with thin black trim and cleaned every crystal drop hanging from the candelabra-shaped chandelier base.

“Absolutely lovely.”

She was sure Avalon heard her relieved exhale but, thankfully, she didn’t acknowledge it. Suddenly, it was very important that Avalon like her. She tried to discern whether it was because she was famous or because Paige was attracted to her. Being fascinated with Avalon’s celebrity status could overshadow the person she was, so she needed to ignore the former and concentrate on Avalon, the woman.

“Are you ready to go?” Avalon said. “I’ve made reservations at the Hotel Bel-Air.”

This was just a date with a new person, she reminded herself, but her nerves weren’t listening. She quickly rubbed a slight layer of dampness from her hands and cursed inwardly for not brushing her teeth again, just in case. Were sweat stains already forming in her armpits? Were her heels high enough to encourage a colossal stumble out on the sidewalk? She cleared her throat to restrain any embarrassing, high-pitched response. “I’ll get my purse.”

*

Although it was a very short drive from her apartment, down Sunset Boulevard and north on Stone Canyon Road, Paige had never been to the Hotel Bel-Air. Her hunger usually drove her to Gelson’s Market or to one of the many practical ethnic eateries dappled about West Hollywood. She’d never considered frequenting a place that catered almost exclusively to the Hollywood elite.

The valets swiftly and efficiently took Avalon’s Mercedes, and Avalon led her through a large tropical garden exploding with the purple blossoms of jacaranda trees and the pink flowers of a huge floss tree. They crossed an arching stone bridge that looked down upon a stream filled with swans so white, they had to have been hand bleached and then placed there to gracefully traverse the waters with effortlessly poised sophistication.

A pink-brick path led them past grand sycamore trees and broad expanses of bougainvillea to a regal dining room whose centerpiece was a roaring fireplace standing guard amid magnificent framed art.

They were shown to a beautiful outdoor Spanish courtyard with quaint booths. In the farthest corner they sat in a very private alcove overlooking a lake inhabited by even more exceedingly refined swans. The maître d’ closed the curtains around their alcove, which left them bathed in the sultry glow of a stunning seeded-glass pendant light.

The menu featured an amalgamation of French and Californian cuisine, all touting the best in all-natural, sustainable seafood, poultry, and beef, accompanied by freshly harvested vegetables and fruit.

While Paige could have ordered one of every scrumptious-sounding item on the menu, she picked the seafood salad. Avalon ordered the same, and they waited for dinner by sipping the lemon water that the waiter quickly delivered before he retreated behind the curtain.

“So what made you pick
Cut to the Chase
as the title of this book?” Avalon asked.

“Other than the reference to action scenes, I just like the phrase.”

Avalon nodded. “It’s become part of our everyday vernacular.”

“Do you know how it came about?”

Avalon shook her head. “I know it comes from the movies, but strangely, it’s never used on the set.”

“In the 1920s, the formula of many of the silent films had obligatory romantic story lines, but they always ended them in chase sequences. The first reference I found in my research came from a script direction for a movie based on the novel
Hollywood Girl.
It said something like, ‘Jannings escapes…cut to chase.’ It became popular later when an article about screenwriting came out. Helen Deutsch—”

“Helen Deutsch who wrote
National Velvet
?”

She was relieved that her diatribe was at least holding Avalon’s attention. “Yes. Helen had a note on the wall where she did her writing. Time was important to her because it said, ‘When in doubt, cut to the chase.’”

“So, cut to the chase by cutting to the chase.”

She hadn’t heard it put that way and laughed. “Yes.”

Avalon bent slightly forward. “Are you the kind that likes to get to the point?”

She wasn’t sure what that meant and couldn’t tell by the look in Avalon’s eyes if it was a simple question or a double entendre. The fact that her mind went there made her quickly scold herself. Yes, they were on a date, but they hadn’t even been served their dinner rolls yet.

“I suppose,” she said, “I don’t beat around the bush…” She suddenly flushed at what could be misconstrued as another innuendo. “I mean, I usually get to the point, yes.” As embarrassed as if she had just spilled ketchup on her boobs, she quickly took a drink of her water.

“I would imagine you do.” Avalon’s expression was adorable and she regarded her with what looked like amusement.

“What about you?” She resorted to obvious subterfuge, but she was going to choke on her water if she didn’t redirect the conversation.

“Do I get to the point?” Avalon’s amusement lingered in her half smile. “Too often, sometimes. I’m not known for my shyness.”

“Have you always been that way or do you think Hollywood changed you?”

“I suppose a little of both. You can be the most outgoing, self-assured person, but this industry has a way of hypnotizing you with a spell that can threaten your ego. It can certainly activate the dark and dangerous side in all of us.”

“Do you think everyone has a dark and dangerous side?”

“I didn’t used to think so.” Her face changed as she sat back and looked skyward a moment. “I was eighteen when I first moved here, the stereotypical girl just off the bus from Indiana. I had read in some old Hollywood book about all the superstitions that actors believe in order to get famous or remain famous. So the first thing I tried was the one that seemed the most magical. I went to the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street and found the five stars they mentioned in the book—the ones of Katharine Hepburn, Gene Autry, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, and Cecil B. DeMille. At each of the stars, I walked around it five times, counterclockwise, and stopped where I could look down and read the name on it.

“Then I said three times, ‘I want to be a great star, will you be my friend,’ bent down, and patted each point of the star saying, ‘Thank you.’

“I’d read that if the spirits liked me, I’d become a big star and never have any problems in Hollywood. The book said ‘if,’ because if I hadn’t asked with sincerity, these same spirits would have driven me out of Hollywood permanently.”

“You actually did that?”

“I did.”

“It looks like they all became your friends.”

“It was a little silly,” Avalon said, “but at the time I believed it with all my heart. I look back on that and I know I’ve changed from that first day. Hollywood pushes you to be perfect and shoves challenges and temptation in your face. All that stress makes you change and you find out about your dark side. I guess that’s why this town relies on silly little superstitions.”

“People need protection from the bad, I suppose. Like, you’re never supposed to say the name of a play backstage and you never wish anyone good luck.”

“Break a leg.”

“Exactly. You never bring peanuts backstage and, of course, you never, ever whistle there either.”

“Carmen Diaz says she knocks on wood all day long.”

“And I heard,” Paige said, “that Lady Gaga won’t have casual sex with people because she thinks it will steal her creativity.”

“Wow.” Avalon’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t know that creativity comes from the vagina.” She made a face that looked like she’d seen an alien and stared down at her lap.

Paige laughed out loud. “That’s why she’s at the top of the charts.”

“She’s very smart, that one.”

They both laughed and a wave of calmness washed over Paige. She was beginning to forget who she was dining with.

Dinner was perfect, and just as they were finishing, the waiter brought them two glasses of rosolio as their digestif, explaining that the liqueur, invented by a fourteenth-century Catholic doctor and infused with rose petals and lavender, was with compliments from the management.

As they waited for the Hotel Bel-Air valet to bring Avalon’s car around, Avalon slipped her arm into Paige’s.

“Would you like to go to my house?”

She stopped a moment to think. Did that mean more B movies or something much more…involved? Was she ready for that? She’d never slept with a woman on a first date. Was that what she meant? Was Avalon looking for a one-night stand?

“Ahhh…” She hated sounding so indecisive, but suddenly she was dreadfully nervous. Was it okay if they just
did it
? She was a grown woman who could make any choices she wanted. And what would be the harm? She was lucky enough to have been invited out by Avalon. That was the most exciting thing that had happened to her in ages. Still, she felt uncertain and inhibited.

“Sure,” she said, with as much confidence and nonchalance as she could muster.

She couldn’t relax, though, as they drove away from the restaurant. Visions of sex swings, phallic toys, and rubber items flew around her mind. An actress as wild as Avalon was reported to be must take delightful pleasure in devouring her conquests. Would there be any romantic foreplay? Would a video camera be involved? Had Paige shaved everywhere?

She was so caught up running sexual scenarios in her mind that, a block later, she almost didn’t notice that they’d turned east on Hollywood Boulevard.

“We’re heading away from your house.”

“Uh-huh,” Avalon said.

“We’re not going to the Palisades?”

Avalon put a hand to her mouth and chuckled. “Oh! I’m sorry. We’re not going to my house. We’re going to My House. It’s a club in Hollywood.”

“Oh.” Paige wanted to fold herself into her purse and snap it shut. She turned away, hoping Avalon didn’t see the way her cheeks burned. She was sure they looked like ripe tomatoes.

“I need to tell you something,” Avalon said. “There’s that whole intrusive thing with the paparazzi. They’re always there, so I hope you’re okay with that.”

She nodded.

“Just stay close to me and the bar security will help us.”

They pulled up to the curb and Paige watched a throng of casually dressed people milling about, as well as a fairly long line of others in swankier attire behind roped-off stanchions. Two valet attendants opened their doors. In the time it took Paige to exit the passenger side of the car and step onto the sidewalk, a throng of photographers had surrounded Avalon. Paige stepped toward her and instinctively grabbed her arm, pulling her close. The assault of cameras thrust in their faces and questions yelled at high volume was furious and fanatical.

In the middle of the cacophony, her grip slipped from Avalon’s arm and she stepped on someone’s shoe. Among the shouting, she heard some of the same questions from the day on Selma Street.

“Avalon, where’s Jessica?”

“Any more parties at Club Raunch?”

Avalon reached out and grabbed her hand just as two security men in black suits pushed their way through the crowd.

“Who’s your date, Avalon?”

“Certainly not Jessica,” Avalon said, and the paparazzi seemed to move in even tighter.

The only time Paige had ever felt this smashed in and claustrophobic was on her first and only New York subway ride. And it was just as unpleasant.

As the security guards encircled her and Avalon, moving them toward the door of the club, one voice punched through the rest.

“Jessica’s back in town. Did you know that, Avalon?”

Avalon’s hand tightened around Paige’s. She couldn’t see her face but apparently the question had hit a nerve. However, this time she said nothing more and they walked inside.

My House was mind-boggling in its directness. Taken literally, the interior looked like someone’s private, but very glamorous, home. Paige took in the rooms, both classical and contemporary and satiated with textures and architectural details. There was a dining room, a grand staircase that led to a second floor, and a view out to a backyard with an impressive-looking barbeque. The kitchen, replete with marble counters and dark wood cabinets, served as the main bar. From there, the smell of freshly baked cookies wafted unexpectedly toward her.

Avalon took her through the ultrachic crowd that, she swore, smelled not of cookies, but of the posh aroma of money.

They sat on a velvet sofa in the sunken living room. Paige had to reach out and touch the alligator-hide coffee tables to see if they were real. In keeping with the trendy green and socially conscious ethos of Hollywood, they were faux.