Hollywood Girls Club (31 page)

Mary Anne stood by the baggage carousel scanning the passengers of Flight 220 from San Francisco. She prayed that whoever this drug runner was, they hadn’t checked their bag.
For God’s sakes, surely they are smarter than that. I mean, this is L.A.; they have drug-sniffing dogs.
Mary Anne scanned the baggage claim area, searching for German shepherds or a SWAT team.

All she saw was one very big, very bald guy pretending to read a newspaper by the glass doors. Passengers trickled by, an elderly Asian couple and a group of twenty teenage girls carrying pillows and giggling. Where was her connection? She started to pace again. Of course she wanted to help Lydia. She’d do anything for Lydia. But serving time was not one of the things that Mary Anne ever thought Lydia might need.

Mary Anne suddenly stopped. Pacing was suspicious. Especially when you whispered to yourself. It wasn’t as if Mary Anne needed to get home and write. She wasn’t on a deadline—at least not anymore. She’d gotten a call from Josanne Dorfman (or Jojo the monkey-faced girl, as Cici called her) two weeks before. Josanne was very abrupt; in fact, downright rude. She’d told Mary Anne to stop working on
The Sky’s the Limit
, the script of Mary Anne’s that Lydia had found in her slush pile months ago, the one that Worldwide had purchased assuming it would be Lydia Albright’s next film after
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
was complete.

“Mr. Murphy requested that I call,” Josanne said, her tone implying that the fact that the call was at Arnold’s request made it of the utmost importance. “We won’t be moving forward on
The Sky’s the Limit
.”

Mary Anne was speechless. Still relatively new to the entire Hollywood film business, she wasn’t sure what “not moving forward” meant.

“In fact,” Josanne continued in her nasal voice, barely able to contain her glee, “we won’t be moving forward on anything concerning Lydia Albright.”

Josanne paused as if to let the meaning of this statement sink in with Mary Anne. “Except cleaning out her bungalow and shelving her film. That we
will
be doing,” Josanne cackled.

But it was no joke. Mary Anne immediately phoned Jessica. “It’s a huge fucking mess,” Jessica said, sounding irritated.

“What does it mean?” Mary Anne asked, hoping that all her hard work on both scripts wasn’t for nothing.

“It means that Arnold Murphy is a huge prick,” Jessica said, typing on her computer as she spoke to Mary Anne. “And that he’s terrified of Lydia’s success.”

“But—”

“It seems that Arnold and Zymar had a huge fight at the screening. Arnold threatened to shelve the film, so Zymar stole the only print and went to New Zealand.”

“What?!” Mary Anne was shocked. She’d spoken to Zymar the day before the rough-cut screening. He had been locked away in his editing suite on the Worldwide lot working feverishly on the film and had called to tell Mary Anne that she was a fantastic writer and how spot-on her dialogue was.

“Look.” Jessica sighed. “This thing will work itself out; it always does. But for now, Lydia is banned from the Worldwide lot, and all the projects she’s set up there, including
The Sky’s the Limit
, are on hold.”

“Can they do that?”

“They’re the studio; they can do whatever they want. You remember that huge check that they gave you, the one with all the zeros? Well, they own
The Sky’s the Limit
.”

“Forever?”

Mary Anne’s hopes were crushed. She loved
The Sky’s the Limit
. The script was a character piece, very close to her heart. It was, Mary Anne believed, her first piece of truly beautiful writing.

“There is a reversion clause in the contract.”

A glimmer of hope. “How long before I get it back?”

“Seven years. But please, trust me, it’s not really dead. I’ve already started talking to Paul Peterson, the head of Summit, about Lydia getting an overall deal there.”

“So …”

“Mary Anne, don’t worry about this now. It won’t take seven years. And don’t worry about
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
, either. There are things that we are doing, I can’t be specific, but Arnold has only won one battle, not the entire war,” Jessica said, and then she belched!

Mary Anne giggled. The idea of the tightly controlled Jessica letting a burp slip was crazy funny.

“Oh my God, Mary Anne, excuse me.” Jessica sounded horrified. “I’m so sorry. Dammit, I’ve been doing that ten times a day. I don’t know what I ate, but this burping is just disgusting.”

“Don’t worry about it; happens to me all the time,” Mary Anne lied.

“Thanks. Okay, now just continue working on
The Duo
. It’s at Summit and Lydia will do it next if
The Sky’s the Limit
gets pushed.”

“I’m finished with it.”

“What?” Jessica sounded surprised.

“Jess, I’ve done all the notes Lydia gave me. I handed it in to her three days ago. It’s not like Lydia. She usually calls the day after I give her a script to read.”

“Then I’m going to get you another assignment to keep you busy. Or do you have an idea for a film? I can get you mid, maybe high, six figures for an original.”

“Well, I do have an idea that I’ve been working on….” Mary Anne’s voice drifted off. She’d been toying with an idea but didn’t have the story hammered into a three-act structure yet.

“Great, come in and pitch it to me. Later this week. Lauren!”

Jessica yelled at her number one assistant. “Hop on this line and schedule a time for Mary Anne to come in and pitch to me.”

“What happened to Kim?” Mary Anne asked. She’d gotten so used to dealing with Jessica’s first assistant over the phone that she hadn’t known the other two by name.

“Don’t ask!” Jessica said, again typing away on her keyboard. “And don’t be shocked if she calls you and asks you to lunch, either.”

“She left?”

“Long story,” Jessica said dismissively. “So how is everything going with your family?”

No matter how busy Jessica was, and Mary Anne knew she sometimes fielded up to three hundred phone calls in one day, Jessica always asked Mary Anne about Mitsy and Marvin. In fact, since Mitsy moved in with Mary Anne, Jessica had called several times just to check on Mary Anne’s family status.

“Good. Not good. I don’t know.”

Mary Anne felt a pang of sadness surge through her.

“If you ever need someone professional to talk to, please, let me know. I know the most brilliant psychiatrist.”

“Thanks, Jess. Maybe in a couple of weeks. Right now it just feels too fresh.”

“I get it,” Jessica said. Mary Anne could once again hear Jessica’s fingers flying across her computer keyboard. Time to go. Mary Anne understood that every agent had ADD and that there was a maximum attention span of perhaps ten minutes.

“I’m going to take this other call. Lauren, are you on this line?” Jessica yelled out. “Mary Anne, Lauren is going to schedule a time for you to come into the office.” And with that Jessica was gone. Jumping onto another call and spinning more business in the Hollywood phone web.

Now it was Tuesday and Mary Anne stood in the Burbank airport, waiting for a stranger. She glanced at her watch for the sixth time. According to the arrival board, the plane had landed almost seven minutes ago.

“You looking for someone, Miss?”

Mary Anne glanced up at a very tall man with a beard and a Dodgers baseball cap. He wore aviator sunglasses and a nondescript olive-colored jacket. But his voice sounded vaguely familiar. The stranger pulled his sunglasses down and peeked over the top, giving Mary Anne a wink and a great view of his stunning blue eyes. Zymar placed his index finger to his lips and shifted his eyes to the left and to the right.

Mary Anne cleared her throat and calmed herself. “Yes. Actually, uh, my roommate sent me to pick up a dear friend of hers, whom I’ve never met.”

“Ah, you must be Mary Anne,” Zymar said, extending his hand and continuing the charade.

“You must be … uh …”

“Patrick,” Zymar said.

“Patrick, yes. So sorry. Well,
Patrick
, do you have luggage? Anything I can help you with?”

“No, just this.”

Mary Anne glanced down at the rather large, hard plastic overnight bag Zymar rolled behind him.

“Well, shall we go, then? My car is right outside.”

“Great,” Zymar said.

Zymar glanced around the airport one more time. He walked beside Mary Anne, and under his breath, without moving his lips or removing his smile, said, “Mary Anne, ‘as that big fellow over there pretending to read the paper been there the ‘ole time?”

Mary Anne casually glanced to her right, where the big bald man with the newspaper still stood fifteen feet away. He glanced up, his eyes locking onto hers. Alarm bells within Mary Anne instantly went off. Whoever he was, that guy was not a nice man.

“Since I got here.”

“Okay,” Zymar said, still moving forward. “I need you to laugh like I’ve just whispered something very clever.”

Mary Anne tipped her head to the side and gave Zymar what she believed was her most coquettish look. She tossed in some enthusiastic giggles and grabbed Zymar’s arm.

“That was great. Now, when we’re right in front of him, I need you to turn to me, tell me that you love me, and throw your arms around me.”

“But Zy—” Mary Anne checked herself. “Patrick, you and my roommate are dating and I don’t think that—”

“Mary Anne, this isn’t about your roommate. This is about getting past this guy without him calling a goon squad. I don’t have time to explain. So please—”

And with that, Mary Anne threw herself into Zymar’s arms, nearly knocking him to the ground.

“God, I’ve missed you. I love you so,” Mary Anne said, giving Zymar a long, lingering kiss. She pulled away and blushed.

“Wow,” Zymar said, putting his arm around Mary Anne’s waist and grinning at the goon standing next to the door. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Chapter 31

Celeste Solange Barefoot

If you lie nude on a private beach, you don’t have any tan line, and if you make love on a private island for six days, you don’t have any stress. A private beach, a private island, a private life, all in the middle of the Pacific with an exceptional man. What more could a superstar ask for? No shoes, no bags, no cell phones. Barefoot and wearing cotton sarongs. Fresh fruit for breakfast and grilled fish for dinner. It was, unquestionably, paradise. Celeste gazed out at the brilliant blue ocean in front of her. A warm tropical wind breezed through her hair. She was addicted to these early-morning walks, the only time she spent without him on the island. She savored these moments, the quiet joy of solitude, a gift that before this week she had never allowed herself.

Celeste turned and looked at the cottage that squatted forty feet back from and above the beach. It seemed to be an organic part of the island, sculpted to be an integral part of the view. The indoor-outdoor floor plan gave the impression that you were camping on the beach. The ever-present pounding of the surf felt like a heartbeat. An incredible private getaway. Celeste couldn’t believe that he’d rarely used it, that he hadn’t been to the house since his wife died years ago.

She’d learned about the wife and the rest of his life over the past six days, and shared her own journey. His story, a dramatic rise from poverty to become a millionaire five hundred times over. Hers, having fled from a trailer park in Tennessee to become one of the world’s biggest film stars. Two different paths to success, but Celeste was surprised to discover that they bore similar battle scars from their relentless pursuit of it. A myopic and ever-present desire to succeed overshadowed the simple nuances of life.

He’d spent most of his children’s childhoods chasing success. Money, a relentless taskmaster, kept him running about the globe. When finally he felt a sense of career achievement, his daughter was finishing graduate school and his son was college bound. Neither child really knew their father. Unforgivable, according to him, that he squandered that time.

Soon after, he recognized his folly and finally started spending more time with his family. Then his wife, after finding a medium-size lump in her breast, began a long and drawn-out battle with cancer. She’d been a great warrior, he told Celeste, his voice cracking. The death of his wife, he believed, closed his heart forever. Until he
met
Celeste.

At first he shrugged it off as a schoolboy crush on a larger-than-life fantasy. Every man in America adored Celeste Solange at one time or another. But then he’d met Celeste. His heart actually skipped, he said. His palms began to sweat, and, he remembered, he could barely speak. Celeste had a vague memory of their first meeting but nothing so steadfastly vivid.

“It was at that moment that I knew I had to get to know you,” he told her the second night over snapper.

“That was years ago.” Celeste smiled, sipping her wine. “Why didn’t you get in touch?”

“I like to be sure about things. I’m methodical.”

Celeste remembered very little about their early meetings. She had, however, spoken with him often over the phone, about various scripts his company had for films they wanted her to star in, and she had always found his tone endearing.

“People never understood when I told them you were always so sweet to me on the phone,” Celeste said.

“Most people don’t get that treatment, Celeste,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“I can’t picture you being mean-spirited.”

“Not mean, never mean. But tough. You can’t succeed in business without being tough.”

“But with me—”

“I don’t have to be,” he said, looking into Celeste’s eyes. “Besides, I know you can be just as tough as me.”

And there was the understanding between them. He’d never been the recipient of Celeste’s hard edge nor she his, and their relationship nurtured the usually unexposed soft spots of their assertive personalities.

Celeste entered the bedroom from the beach. He lay on the luxurious seven-hundred-thread-count white sheets, his silver hair mussed but still beautiful. He was delicious in every way. She couldn’t get over the fact that this was the first time in a life of luxury, stars, exclusive parties, and clubs that she felt happy and whole.