Hollywood Ass. (6 page)

Down in the kitchen I found Elena cleaning the floor. She had her permanently disappointed facial expression on and I knew she wouldn’t try to start up a conversation. She rarely did. I silently wondered what her plan was, she was nearing 60 and was still working as hard as ever. I didn’t know much about her, only that she came from small-town Russia with her son twenty years ago and that he was struggling to find a job as an actor (and enjoying the LA party life a little too much), while she was making floors shine in already successful actors’ homes. It was maybe not what she had imagined when she came here, but I wouldn’t know, as we had never talked about her feelings. Her skinny and veiny body did all the talking as the broom squished across the marble floors.

I took a bite out of my ham and cheese sandwich and pretended to read the newspaper, while I was really too anxious to focus on anything. I wanted Cesar to call me and tell me where
B
was so I could move on with my life and do other things. It was while sitting at the kitchen bar that I realized how much I cared about her. I always knew we had a bond, a friendship, some kind of chemistry, but my feelings had never been tested like this before. One minute I wanted to quit and the next I felt so sorry for her, that it felt like I could
never
leave her.

So it was with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I heard the phone vibrate on the table. The display read “Cesar”. I jumped on it like a cat on a light reflection.

“What have you got?” I burst out.

“Not even hello? LA broke your manners, dude. Anyway, her last transaction was at a restaurant, a
La Rosetta
. In Rome.”

“In Rome?!” My mind went numb for a second. This was apparently trouble on an international scale.

“Yes, the two previous transactions also happened in Rome. So my guess is that's where she is, unless someone stole her credit card.”

“Oh, shit!” Cesar exclaimed, before I got the chance to reply.

“What? What is it?” My heart was now ready to unleash itself from my chest, which was far from my usually quite a cool character.

“Crazy lady spent 1300 dollars. 1300 dollars in a restaurant!”

I sighed a breath of relief, “Believe me, on this level of fame, it's not that much.”

“Are you kidding? That's almost a month’s rent and I live in New York.”

“So you're positive she's there? In Rome?” This was a new level of
B
’s spontaneity, so I had to make sure.

“I bet you 500 dollars.”

“If you’re right, I’d owe you big time. This is nuts. I have to call her husband now, thanks for being the C in CSI.”

“CSI is some bullshit.”

It was a shame I couldn’t stay on the phone with Cesar, because we hadn’t talked in a while, but I had bigger fish to fry and husbands to call. It took about ten rings before
A
picked up his phone. He didn’t strike me as over-eager to hear about where his wife went, but maybe it was my imagination.

A
didn’t have even a hint of a clue of why
B
had decided to visit the capital of Italy. She had been there only once before, two years ago for a cover shoot, he remembered, but he didn’t know anything beyond that. Then he said something which hit me hard.

“You have to go.”

“What?”

“You need to go to Rome and talk to her, Darryl. I can't do it, I've got a movie to finish. And you’ve got this friend of yours to help you too. It’s the only solution.”

“You seriously want me to fly to another continent and track her down? I’ve called her like twenty times, she’s not answering. It’s not going to be easy, because she obviously doesn’t want to be found.”

“It's the best we can do. I'll pay you extra, whatever you need. I really need you to do this, you seem like the only one who can talk some sense into her.”

It's not great when your husband thinks the only guy who can talk to you, is some other guy, in this case me. But I knew he was right. If anyone had a chance of reaching out to
B
it was yours truly and that’s why I couldn’t give him no for an answer either. And not only for his sake, but for
B
’s sake and mine, as I was genuinely worried about her.

Not that Rome was the worst place to go celebrity hunting either.

I packed my bags as fast as I could, checked the flights online and bought a last-minute ticket with my glimmering expense card. It was going to be one impromptu trip, but I have to admit I was a bit excited to go to Rome a second time. I thought it might be the break I needed, even if it was going to involve some kind of detective work. I ran down the shining marble staircase and at the end I almost bumped into Elena.

“See where you going,” she muttered in her sour voice.

“I’m flying to Rome.
B
is there. Why I don't know.” I burst out.

Elena shook her head and sighed, “I know she run away. Her husband never home and she drink like animal. Not happy relationship.” She stabbed a finger at me like I was responsible for the whole thing. This was as animated as I’d ever seen her.

“I'll call you when we’re coming back,” I said and I was out the door before Elena had a chance to reply.

***

Rome hadn’t changed much from my journey there ten years ago, it was still picturesque, the people beautiful, the coffee fantastic and the wines made you want to practice the ancient religion of alcoholism. The city’s amazing heritage led you to expect an architectural wonder every time you turned the corner on the worn cobblestone streets. I knew I could live there if I learned the language, that’s how connected I feel to the Roman look on life, with their food, wine, music and women. It wasn’t hard to see why
B
had picked this as her escape route.

Thanks to Cesar and his persistent follow-up on her transactions, I already had a great clue when I landed. Her credit cards indicated that she was staying at Hotel Hassler, an impeccable five-star hotel on top of the famous Spanish steps. It was a beautiful spring day in Rome and although the flight had been long and I was tired like a dog, the excitement of being back in one of my favorite cities brought me some extra energy.

I hailed a cab and when I sat down in the car and told him the address of the hotel, I felt very calm all of a sudden, like I knew things would work out. In all seriousness they didn’t look great at that stage. What would happen when I found
B
? She wouldn’t suddenly be all happy and ready to work on her relationship and the world would still not have forgotten about the vomit and suddenly be ready to land her major roles in epic dramas. Things were far from easy.

I thought back to Cesar always giving me crap for my job, saying it wasn’t really dignified to be an “assistant”, his immature feedback being that he would never get a job with “ass” in it. I knew I should take him with a pinch of salt, especially since he thought the whole celebrity world was ridiculous - a figment of crazy people’s imagination - and thought higher of me and my abilities, but sometimes I couldn’t help but think that four years was a long time to be someone’s assistant. I wanted more.

After the driver had dropped me off at the hotel, I decided to walk over to the steps and look at the crowd in the
Piazza di Spagna
. The square was crowded and the slanting steps leading up to where I was standing were full of street merchants and tourists, just taking a break in the sun. Life in Rome seemed simple.

I turned around to walk to the hotel across the street from me, when something unexpected happened.

An evil-looking black Lamborghini drove up with a screech in front of me, and suddenly, like it all happened in a split second, a stylishly dressed woman in a navy-inspired dress, high-heels and over-sized shades walked out from the hotel at the same time a man in long black hair and a pinstriped suit climbed out of the Lamborghini and opened the door (upwards) for her. She smiled at him like they were old friends and sat down inside the shining monster of a car. All this happened before I realized...it was
B
!

I stood there dumbstruck for a while and when my brain finally jolted to life, it was too late too shout her name and the car was already speeding away from me with a scream, leaving me standing there wondering what the hell I’d just witnessed.

That instant I felt anger rise up through me: anger at
B
for making me chase her to a foreign country just to see her drive away with her lover. Anger for how relaxed she looked, while I worried like crazy. Anger at how stupid it had been of me to miss her.

***

I did the only reasonable thing after that experience and got myself a room at The Hassler. The receptionist looked quite happy to slide my credit card in her little machine and empty it from hundreds of euro. I was happy too, because it wasn’t my money and the hotel looked absolutely amazing. I was obviously getting used to this kind of standard after four years, but I tried to remind myself to really enjoy it every time, because it’s when you start to take things for granted that you lose them.

While I filled up a foamy bath in my room I noticed a twinge of jealousy creaking in my bones. I felt like
B
wasn’t only cheating on her husband, but on me too, breaking some kind of unspoken promise and hurting our friendship.

My brain churned like a tired engine, trying to think of ways to break this to
A
as objectively as possible. But I needed to talk to
B
first, we were closer friends after all and there was an iota of a chance she wasn’t really sleeping with the suave-looking spaghetti stallion. For some reason the whole thing made me think of my parents, who had created and lived such a stable life in Arlington, Virginia for over 30 years, a life so different from the Hollywood lifestyle I was in the middle of. A part of me had always wanted what they had - the predictability of knowing what’s going to happen tomorrow and the day after and being able to rely on a steady rhythm of life - while another part of me found it horribly boring. There was a reason I was in Hollywood; I was looking for action, excitement and larger-than-life experiences - I wanted the unexpected. Despite coming from a humble background and a quiet, comfortable upbringing, I liked the idea of looking life in the eye and asking it: “What have you got?”

But this extramarital drama was not my cup of tea.

Waiting for
B
to return to the hotel was a tiresome job and as I browsed around the TV channels looking for something to catch my eye or at least keep it open, I felt my body get heavier and heavier, like I was slowly sinking through the soft mattress. It had been a long flight, an exhausting day and no matter how hard I fought it, the inevitable happened and I fell asleep.

It was one of those sleeps that when you wake up, you feel like you’ve been cocooning for months like some weird insect. My head was thick as a brick and my mouth was dry. I sat up in bed and for a second I didn’t know where I was and what time it was. I looked around the room, saw that the TV was on, an Italian farce playing with lots of screaming and giggling, and I wondered how I could fall asleep to that. On the table were leftovers from my room service dinner and half a bottle of Chianti. Everything slowly came back to me and because it was ten to two in the morning, I figured
B
must be back from her nighttime adventures. The only way to find out, I figured, was to head up to her room.

I knocked three times on the wooden penthouse door and waited with my heart in my stomach for some kind of reply, but there was only the growling of my belly. I knew I needed to resign myself to the fact that she might actually be cuddling with a piece of male
penne,
without any intention whatsoever of heading back to her room. I sighed deeply and pressed the glossy elevator button to go down again. It took a very long time. I thought maybe the elevator was stuck somewhere between floors and I was just about to give up and take the stairs when the doors opened and I had the shock of my life.

Standing in the elevator, him with a dazed look on his face and her leaning on his shoulder, was
B
and her macho man.

“
B
!” I cried out and she jolted to life. She opened her eyes, stretched her arms upwards, walked out from the elevator and threw her arms around me. “
Darryyyyylll!
How come you'rrreee herrree?
” she said with a breath that could double as insecticide.

I glanced over at her man-friend and he gave me a disappointed look, telling me I had been there just in time to ruin a possibly nice finish to the evening for him. At least if he was into unconscious movie stars.

“Let’s go to your room and I’ll tell you,” I said, remarkably stern and focused for being so exhausted and surprised at the same time.

After she dismissed the Italian stud with a long hug and a kiss on the cheek, I helped
B
stumble her way into the penthouse, where she laid down in her bed and gave out a loud, toxic burp. I could feel my eyes itch from tiredness, but I was still more attractive than she was at that point in time, which was a first. I should have had a photo taken.

I sat down next to her on the bed, leaving some space between us, in case she was ready for another projectile vomit. I was still angry with her and had loads of questions about the
Italiano
steaming in my brain.

Like she anticipated how I felt, she said, “You hate me don't you?”

“No, of course I don't hate you. I was just worried about you, because the
B
I know doesn’t run away to foreign countries to have late night rendezvous’ with other men.”

B
looked down on her hands, like they were somehow to blame for everything. “I'm sorry, but I had to get away. My marriage, the vomit, it was a new low. I couldn’t stand to look people in the face anymore.” She sounded remarkably sober for...being
B
.

“I understand that, we all do. But you could still have told me, I didn’t think we had any secrets between each other. It’s a bit silly that I have to chase you down in Rome like some kind of private detective. You didn’t answer the phone so I had to track you through your credit card, can you believe that? And another thing, who is that guy? You do remember that no matter how shitty you feel about your marriage, you’re still married, right?”