Hollywood Girls Club (6 page)

“No worries. I fly out at ten,” Damien called.

Celeste stopped and turned. Damien lounged on the chaise like a snake soaking up sun.

“New Zealand again,” Damien said. “Problem on set.”

“How long?”

“Couple of days, maybe a week. They only have ten more days to shoot.” He sipped his juice and reached for the
Enquirer
. “
Great
picture of Brie, don’t you think? Good publicity for the film.”

Celeste’s eyes teared, but she didn’t want him to see her cry. She had to get away from him.

“Have a safe trip,” Celeste said, and turned toward the house. The largest, most luxurious house in the Hollywood Hills; twenty thousand square feet of unhappy home.

*

Celeste sat alone at a table on the patio behind Factors Deli. Not her first choice, but she knew Lydia had an affinity for this spot (her father often brought her here for lunch when Lydia was a little girl and he was still producing), and it was close to Jessica’s Beverly Hills office. Only for these two women would Celeste Solange wait. Her days of waiting for anyone had ended the same time her acting quote rose to eight figures.

The waiting was mildly irritating but she didn’t mind being alone. She’d never acquired the usual set of gadflies and hangers-on that some celebrities collected.
People as trinkets
. She had her “team”: agent, stylists (makeup, clothing, and hair), publicist, attorney, business manager, accountant, and trainer—but everyone had a job, a place in her life, each contributed their part in the multinational corporation that was Celeste Solange. A corporation that in a good year could gross upward of $100 million although she hadn’t had a “good year” in almost two—thank you, Damien.

Not a bad climb from poor, white Tennessee trailer trash to multimillionaire (she didn’t even have a GED—few people knew that). Thanks to her brilliant business manager, Jerry Z, her assets were many—real estate, stocks, jewels, a restaurant in Tribeca, two clubs in L.A. Who knew (other than Jerry) what on any given day Celeste actually owned? Her overhead was low (well, relatively; compared to most celebrities, she spent like a pauper). She’d never rented a private island or purchased a jet. Damien had his own money and he paid for their living expenses—the house, the cars, the staff.

The one luxury she did indulge in was shoes, very expensive shoes. This past month she’d gorged herself with twenty pairs of Louboutins, five varieties of Choo stilettos, and a limited-edition pair of Prada mules encrusted with diamonds a pair that easily cost thirty thousand. Celeste’s eyes sparkled—she would pay nothing; but Damien? She couldn’t wait until he opened
that
Black Card bill.

Celeste’s personality (she could barely admit to herself) was just as multifaceted as her holdings. You didn’t get to the top in Hollywood without stepping on some fingers and toes … perhaps throwing a few elbows to the ribs. But the softer side of Celeste, the gentler interior, was there, too. The little girl who grew up without a mother (no one ever mentioned her father) still existed; Celeste had just hidden her away for safekeeping.

Very few souls witnessed that vulnerable girl; she could think of two total: Jessica and Lydia.

Celeste glanced at her unopened menu. There was no need to read it; she was having greens with lemon and a side of tuna for protein. The studios paid her
not
to eat. She’d never subscribed to the idea that the waiflike, heroin-addicted look was sexy. In fact, some of her counterparts might even call her full-figured (if you thought five-foot-seven, one hundred eighteen pounds with a thirty-six-inch bust was fat). No, Celeste had curves; great, full, rounded, luscious curves. No fat, not an ounce, but definite curves. Still, she stuck to the tuna before films to keep the curves in proportion.

Celeste sipped her tea (super sweet—some things from the South you never gave up) and looked around the patio. Two tables to her left sat one of her (many) former lovers, an actor, with Brad Grey, the former manager and owner of Brillstein-Grey and now the head of Paramount. That actor had a penchant for asses, Celeste remembered, and not just cupping them. She’d wondered if it didn’t suggest a latent desire, as he’d never seemed particularly interested in her breasts, either. But who in Los Angeles didn’t swing the other way, at least on occasion? Her dead grandmama in Tennessee must have rolled over in her grave at least a thousand times since Celeste had moved to Los Angeles. The things she’d seen? And done?

Celeste heard the slapping sound of the screen door between the patio and the restaurant slamming closed, and she looked up to see Jessica scanning the patio and tucking her BlackBerry into her Chanel purse. Celeste was always impressed by just how powerful and put together Jessica appeared (even if her personal life was messier than Celeste’s). Wavy auburn hair with loose curls framed Jessica’s face, and she wore an Armani suit, Dior high heels, and Dior sunglasses that covered her emerald green eyes.
A modern-day Katharine Hepburn
, Celeste thought,
but with a better nose.

Celeste knew that Jessica was one of her true friends (a rarity in life; all but extinct in L.A.). Jessica had seen the best (infectious laugh, wicked sense of humor, and talent) and the worst (bitchiness, rage bordering on mania, and insecurity) that Celeste had to offer and still Jessica loved her.

The first time they’d met, years before, Celeste remembered being unimpressed. She wasn’t sure she liked the look of this hungry young agent. It was Ezekiel Cohen, Celeste’s first agent and former owner of CTA, who introduced them, just after Jessica landed at CTA. Ezekiel was a brave man, lunching with two alpha females. Ezekiel, Celeste learned, wanted to add Jessica to Celeste’s “team” of agents at CTA, a proposition that had it been made by anyone but Ezekiel, Celeste would have flatly refused. The lunch had been less than smooth; Jessica talked too much and seemed too brash. But Celeste trusted Ezekiel’s business judgment. He’d found Celeste, worked with her, and at that lunch seven years later, Celeste’s career was just starting to take off when he requested that Celeste at least return one of Jessica’s fifteen calls.

Thank God for Ezekiel Cohen.

 Celeste leaned forward and air-kissed Jessica on both cheeks.

“So how’d it go?” Jessica asked, taking off her sunglasses.

Celeste cocked her right eyebrow (a signature Celeste Solange look that could stop men dead). “Aside from no director or costar, I’d say pretty good.”

“No,” Jessica said, horrified.

“As I live and breathe, I swear this girl is not telling a lie.”

“Lydia must be pissed.”

“Pissed is an understatement.” As if on cue, Lydia arrived, pulled out the chair next to Jessica, and sat. “Do you know where my director is? Have you heard?” Lydia’s voice crested near a decibel that caused other diners to glance toward their table.

“Still in Bali,” Jessica said.

“I need him back here now,” Lydia said.

“Zymar always goes to Bali between films,” Jessica said. She reached for the bottle of Pellegrino and poured some into her glass.

“Between Arnold, Zymar, and Bradford Madison, there won’t be a film. What the fuck is wrong with these guys? Isn’t Zymar repped at CTA? Doesn’t one of your hotshot lit guys have him?”

“I’ll get you an address,” Jessica offered, “but I don’t think Zymar takes his cell.”

Lydia looked toward the heavens. “How do these people function?”

“They don’t, that’s why they’re here,” Celeste said, a smile crept across her lips. “The land of broken toys, wayside waifs, and dysfunctional divas; some talented, most not. They all made the pilgrimage to movieland seeking to fill the void within.”

“Order?” Lydia asked, skimming the menu.

“Done,” Jessica said. “I had Kim phone it in.”

“How do you know—”

“She called Toddy,” Jessica said, interrupting and silencing Lydia. “And she”—Jessica nodded toward Celeste—“if I’m not mistaken, is on her preproduction greens-with-lemon-juice-tuna-on-the-side diet?”

Celeste smiled. “Am I that predictable?”

“Only with your diet. With everything else you’re still a surprise.”

It was good to be known so well. These two were perhaps the only two left who didn’t blow smoke up Celeste’s rear (even her family in Tennessee was a bunch of ass kissers).

“So the director and the costar were a no-show. How’s our baby writer holding up?” Jessica asked, taking a bite of bagel chip. “You know, Lydia, you’re putting a whole lot of faith in a first-timer.”

“She can hang.” Celeste eyed her agent. “She won’t crack.”

“Really?” Jessica leaned back in her chair. “That’s strong praise from one Ms. Solange, who has in fact seen it all.”

“She’ll be good. Today she even called me Cici.”

“Only took four meetings, but yes, we have broken Mary Anne of the habit of calling you Ms. Solange,” Lydia said as the waiter set down her chopped Cobb salad with blue cheese dressing on the side.

“What?” Jessica asked.

“Starstruck,” Lydia said. “No more than normal, right, Cici?”

“She’s a pro. A little Midwestern, but a pro. Hasn’t asked me for an autograph.”

“It’s early. Just wait till the family in Minnesota wants something signed.”

“She’s sweet and genuine and as yet unjaded. Do you remember your first gig in this town? How exciting that was?” Celeste asked, squeezing lemon over her undressed salad and looking at her friends. She knew from experience that transplanted optimism withered quickly in the Southern California sunshine.

“I do. It was Mike Fox,” Jessica said.

Celeste watched as Jessica’s eyes drifted past her in a faraway gaze, a gaze reserved for long-ago travels or lost loves.

Mike and Jessica’s torrid love affair left a big mark on Jessica. A mark, Celeste believed, that affected Jessica’s current choice of mate. It’s not that Phil was a
bad
guy; he was easy for Jessica. He was gone all week, letting Jess concentrate on work, and then on the weekends he provided her with a dinner date. Phil for Jessica, Celeste believed, was not a love match but a convenience.

“Learned a lot there,” Jessica said, her tone hardening.

“You?” Celeste asked Lydia.

“It’s all a blur. I’ve been going to movie sets since I was six months old. For me it’s just a way of life. Preproduction, production, postproduction; preproduction, production, postproduction, like spring, summer, fall, spring, summer, fall.”

“You’re forgetting winter,” Jessica said.

“Jess, who does winter? We live in L.A.”

Celeste smiled. “I remember mine. It was two lines in a De Palma film.”

“Two lines. That’s pretty good for a first gig,” Lydia said.

“Thank you, Ezekiel Cohen,” Jessica said.

“Until Ezekiel it’d been cattle-call auditions, absolutely nothing. He got me working in two months—real work. A good agent can do miracles.”

“Yeah, but Cici, you had some God-given talent there, too,” Jessica said.

“These?” Celeste asked, arching her back and pointing to her breasts.

“Not just those.” Jessica laughed. “Real talent! I remember watching your acting reel, all those student shorts you did. You were good. You lit up the screen. Still do.”

Listening to Jessica, Celeste started to tear up.
What the fuck is wrong with me today?
she wondered.
That’s twice in less than an hour and three times in one day.
She never cried; she’d given up the luxury of free tears on her third film (she’d cry for a role but never for herself). It was a waste of time and energy, and nothing was
that
important. She still wore her sunglasses; she hoped neither Lydia nor Jess would notice.

“Cici?” Lydia extended her hand. “What is it?”

Fuck! She hated emotional pity parties; it wasn’t her style.
“Nothing, I’m fine, really.”

Jessica and Lydia shared a worried glance.

“I mean, it’s completely ridiculous, it’s Damien. I …” Her voice cracked as pain barrel-rolled through her heart. “He’s—I know he’s fucking Brie Ellison, and that’s not the part that
bothers
me—I mean, it bothers me, but it
is
Damien, so I’m not surprised. It’s just …” Celeste took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and gathered her thoughts. “I wanted to marry him, I
really
wanted to marry him, and now … I don’t understand how I could’ve been so wrong.” Celeste exhaled. She felt better just saying it, acknowledging that her marriage was a mistake.

“You don’t mean wrong about the person that Damien is, do you?” Lydia asked.

Celeste shook her head.

“You mean so wrong about what you wanted?” Lydia asked:

“Yes,” Celeste said softly. She had thought she really wanted the marriage. For two years she convinced herself (and Damien) that their marriage was what she had to have. But it was completely wrong. Celeste wondered how she could be so unaware of her own needs.

“Cici, it’s so easy to lose perspective,” Lydia said. “They write stories in magazines about what kind of underwear you own.
That
is a little crazy.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m just surprised. I thought I knew myself, knew what I wanted, and when Damien said he was going back to set, it just clicked, you know. That this asshole is not the guy I can spend the next twenty years with.” She glanced across the table toward a surprisingly silent Jessica.

“He’s a dumbass,” Jessica said and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Brie can’t carry the film; I don’t care who he puts opposite her in the male lead. She doesn’t have an audience to support her.”

“She’s cheap,” Celeste said, referring not to Brie Ellison’s tawdry nature but to her acting quote.

“Not that cheap,” Jessica said as their waiter took the remains of their meals. “She got first-dollar gross points.”

“What?! He told me she got a flat fee of a million.”

“Jess, that can’t be right. She’s not a big enough star for first-dollar gross,” Lydia said.

“It’s true,” Jessica said. “Damien pushed it through the studio, told them he wouldn’t make the film with anyone but Brie, and then her agent asked for one million up front and back-end first-dollar gross. I’m sorry, Cici, but I thought you needed to know.”