Oh! You Pretty Things (22 page)

S
hopping on Robertson with Eva feels like a girl date, like I'm hanging out with Scout or Megan. Eva drives us in her sleek black BMW 7-series. Everything on the car is matte black—the paint, the rims, the bumpers. Even the windows are tinted a dark charcoal gray, so densely pigmented that inside the car it feels like a wintery New England afternoon and not a blazing Los Angeles summer day.

I ask if she gets pulled over a lot, because here in California it's illegal to have windows so dark you can't see into the car.

“At least once a month,” she says. “I have a doctor's note and usually they let me off with a warning, but I've had to have it stripped and replaced a couple of times.” She laughs. “That's going to be a part of your job.”

I laugh too.

We stop at the light on Robertson and Santa Monica, and a parade of boys streams across the wide redbrick crosswalk. The windshield isn't as opaque as the side windows, and we sit staring forward into space, pretending not to notice everyone trying to see in.

A bold boy in a black tank top and a healthy swipe of eyeliner stops on the center median to get a better look. His face contorts in frustration and he steps out into the street like he's going to rap on the window. On the other side of the street, his friends egg him on with whoops and catcalls.

“Oooo, you nervy, Russell!”

He catches sight of Eva and strikes a pose, leaning forward in an exaggerated bend, like he's frozen in his tracks. “Belinda, girl,” he yelps. “Why you hiding?”

Belinda was Eva's soap opera character's name. When Eva left, Belinda got into a tragic accident on a winding mountain road. They never found the body, which is handy if they want to carry on the Belinda story line, though this is not something that Eva and I ever talk about. In Eva's world, talking about work is much more intimate than talking about a visit to the gynecologist.

The light changes and Eva arcs onto Robertson, a bland smile on her face, eyes shielded behind her mirrored Chrome Hearts sunglasses. She clicks a tiny button on the steering wheel and the syncopated rhythms of the Fugees' version of “Killing Me Softly” drowns out the Adam Lambert lookalike as we pull away.

We glide on in our dark bubble, not talking. I feel like it might make it worse to admit that I noticed the adoration. Eva keeps her eyes on the road, singing along with Lauryn Hill. By the time we pull into the underground garage, the song has ended, and the white-shirted valets whisk our doors open and we step out onto the red carpet that leads to the elevator.

Owen Wilson is talking on his cell phone as he waits for his car, and there's a group of youngish girls circling a braying, skinny girl with bleached-blond hair and a plaid fedora who I'm pretty sure is Miley Cyrus. It's a whole different world down here, and Eva's shoulders visibly soften as she shakes her hair in a cascade down her back and pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head.

“C'mon,” she says, plucking the ticket from the smiling valet and grabbing my hand. “Have you ever had a Red Haute at the Newsroom?”

I shake my head.

“It's this beet and ginger juice thing. I swear to God, it will get you high.”

In my peripheral vision, I see Owen Wilson trying not to stare at Eva, who appears completely oblivious.

“There's spirulina and bee pollen and flaxseed oil,” she says. “It sounds gross, but it'll change your life.”

An hour later, we're heading for Les Habitudes and she's right, I'm still buzzing from the Red Haute. Halfway down Robertson, we run into an autograph guy with stills from everything Eva's ever done, including her first, nonspeaking role on what might as well have been a reboot of
Logan's Run.
I don't know how they do it, but whenever Eva and I show up somewhere—anywhere—there's a bearded dude thrusting a handful of 8×10 or 11×14 photos under her nose and asking for a signature like he's trying to fulfill a kid's last wish.

The autograph guys are almost worse than the paparazzi. A skilled paparazzo can get a shot of every nose hair from twenty feet away; the autograph guys have to get right up on their prey, clutching a wad of black Sharpies in their sticky fists. They're almost always pushing the far side of middle age and significantly overweight, rumpled and acting abashed as they deftly flip each signed photo to the bottom of their stack and beg for another,
C'mon, just one more
. But when you turn off the faucet, those fuckers get as mouthy as the paps, which is unexpected coming from men who look like Santa Claus on a Hawaiian vacation.

There are about a thousand low-key places we could shop that wouldn't entail navigating a bustling sidewalk filled with paps and autograph seekers. And while I will admit that the clothes at Les Habitudes are spectacular, there's something about the request that makes me wonder, especially because Eva insists that it's only because there's one new shop she wants to go to, and
come on, won't you please, please, please?

As if it's in doubt. I mean, I know she's better friends with Scout, but every time she wants me I feel special.

O
ne thing that Eva refuses to confide in me is the fact that she has fake tits. I mean, it's not any of my business, but she doesn't just
not tell me
, she mentions on a regular basis that they're real.

She's not shy about being naked, and her tits are magnificent C-cup teardrops with precisely the right amount of droop. You can't tell by looking that they're gummy silicone orbs, but I knew the first time I hugged her, because there's something unmistakably foreign about the feel of even the best-looking specimens.

Like I said, no big deal. I'm absolutely a fan of better living through chemistry and surgery, although I've been a C-cup since I was thirteen, so a boob job is the last thing I need. But Botox, Restylane, sure. And if I had the money, I'd get my nose fixed to look more like the girls in line at Urth Caffe and Whole Foods.

It's L.A., for fuck's sake.

Because I'm so very discreet, I just flat-out ask Scout about Eva's tits one day when we're driving home from Astro Burger. It's not that we don't talk about this stuff, because we totally do. We are to vagina as Eskimos are to snow—we have hundreds of words and each one conveys a slightly different meaning.
Bird
is our no-nonsense, elevator-friendly go-to;
vag
and
cooch
when we're not in mixed company;
pussy
and
twat
if we're talking about sex.
Va-jay-jay
only if we're trying to make the other person laugh, and always in the Oprah voice. I could go on, but you get the point.

So tits are not a big deal. Except apparently they are.

“Okay,” I say. “I want to ask you something.”

Scout gives me an exaggerated side-eye and grabs a skinny red pack of Djarums from the center console. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh is right,” I say.

I'm talking about the clove cigarettes. Scout loves to rub my face in the fact that I still smoke at twenty-nine, when she gave it up at twenty-one. But every so often, she gets a wild hair and instead of bumming an American Spirit or a Parliament like a normal person, she smokes cloves or Honeyrose cigarettes, which is the weird product that actors who don't smoke use when their characters have to smoke on camera. It's made of marshmallow root, clover leaves, and rose petals soaked in honey, which would be delicious if we were talking about a dessert syrup at an Indian restaurant and not some pretentious hippie product.

They're disgusting. And that's coming from a smoker. But do you know what's worse? Clove cigarettes, which is what Scout pulls out after flicking open the pack with a chipped fingernail.

I don't have the heart to tell her that there's as much tar in a clove as in a Marlboro, but without the filtration. So I just say, “Wow, you're punishing me and I haven't even said anything yet.”

Scout exhales fragrant, toxic smoke through her nostrils. “So what's your drama?”

“No drama. It's so not a big deal.”

“I can tell from the buildup.”

“It's just . . . weird, because Eva keeps mentioning that her tits are real . . .” I let my silence fill in the blank.

Scout flicks a nonexistent ash from her clove out the window. “What do you mean?”

“Eva's boobs.”

“Yeah,” Scout says. “What about 'em?”

“Well, it's none of my business, but she's told me a bunch of times that they're real.”

Scout is an Egyptian sphinx, albeit one holding a brown cigarette.

“Come on, dude,” I say. “You've hugged her.”

Scout shrugs.

“They're bolt-ons,” I say.

“Really?” Her voice is a perfect impersonation of befuddled confusion. “I so don't know what you're talking about.”

“Come on. Are we pretending that Eva's C-cups aren't an expensive gift from Harry Glassman's silver scalpel?”

“Trust me.” Scout laughs. “They're real.”

I grab her pack of Djarums. “Can I have one?”

I take one and listen to a long silence.

“I'm just saying,” I finally tell her, stepping into uncharted girl triangle territory. “I don't get how she's all ‘I believe in owning your truth' and she can't admit that she's had her boobs done.”

“We all have secrets,” she says.

A
few days later, I'm on set waiting for Eva to wrap a scene. I'm sitting on the floor, leaning against a giant coil of lighting cables and clutching the following:

• Eva's iPhone and Android, both of which are amassing text messages at an alarming rate.
  
• A sweating pomegranate-and-ginger juice in a clear plastic cup from Urth Caffe.
  
• Dossiers on three potential new personal trainers, sent over by her publicist, although I already know they're all rejects.
  
• Two peeled hard-boiled eggs, with a paper napkin holding a blend of Maldon sea salt and freshly ground pepper to sprinkle on them when she's ready to eat.
  
• My Moleskine notebook, so that I can take down any requests she has when she walks off set.
  
• My own phone, a white iPhone identical to Eva's, which caused a clusterfuck last week when I accidentally swapped them and got an X-rated text message from a famously debauched musician whom she denies even knowing.
  
• MAC oil-blotting papers, because she likes to blot her own face grease even though there are two people on set for that specific purpose.
  

All the phones are set to silent, of course, but I still notice when a text pops onto mine.

KIRK:
Food trucks. Pro or con?

ME:
Pro, with caveats. Why?

He doesn't answer right away, and I find myself watching my phone instead of keeping an eye on Eva, who is deep in conversation with this week's director, a repurposed actor from an '80s cop show who spends an inordinate amount of time bullshitting with the actors and ogling the scantily clad extras.

ME:
I'm bored and you're taking too long. Spill.

KIRK:
I'm at Tyler's. He's talking about you.

KIRK:
Again.

ME:
FYI, he cannot be trusted. Unless he's saying nice things.

KIRK:
He says you're a culinary idiot savant
.

KIRK:
Oops, now he claims he didn't say idiot.

KIRK:
You're right. He cannot be trusted.

ME:
You sound drunk.

KIRK:
Drunk on you, maybe.

I read that last line a few times, scrolling to the beginning and back again and again.

KIRK:
So, that lot in Pasadena I'm looking at seems like a good place for a food fuck.

ME:
Um, what?

KIRK:
Shit. Autocorrect. Food FUCK.

KIRK:
NO. Food truck. FOOD TRUCK. A ravioli-centric food fuck.

KIRK:
I give up.

ME:
Ha. The bottom is when u stop digging. But a ravioli truck isn't a half bad idea, IMO.

I realize I'm smiling at my phone like I'm on a date with it.

KIRK:
What would we call it?

We?
What would
we
call it?

ME:
Dirty Pillows.

KIRK:
??

ME:
You know, from the movie Carrie?

KIRK:
Not a clue.

ME:
Classic Stephen King. Prom. Bucket of pig blood. What's wrong with you?

KIRK:
I know the movie. I just don't get the reference.

ME:
It's a play on breasts, which are kind of ravioli-ish if you think about it.

KIRK:
Not your best work.

ME:
Well, if they were all winners, I wouldn't be playing this shithole.

KIRK:
That's so bad I'm no longer embarrassed about food fuck.

ME:
Truck you.

KIRK:
Laughing. You're redeemed. Okay, are you buttered up?

ME:
?

KIRK:
Tyler asked me to butter you up.

ME:
Uh-oh. Buttered as I'll ever be.

KIRK:
Stand by.

I flip my phone facedown as the assistant director yells cut, for at least the fifth time, and Eva beelines over to me.

“I'm never going to get out of here,” she says.

I hold out the pomegranate juice, which she contorts her neck to reach, taking a minuscule sip from the straw. If she gets even one drop of condensation on her white satin halter top, it will shut down production for at least twenty minutes.

“Going again, people,” the AD says, glaring at me over the back of Eva's head.

I shoot him a saccharine smile. She'll come when she's ready; it's so not my job to wrangle her in that way.

Eva takes another sip and wrinkles her nose. “Will you go put some ice in this?”

“Sure,” I say, eager to escape the darkened tension of the set and spend a few minutes at craft services.

I slip my gear into my grungy messenger bag and tiptoe away before they start rolling again. The craft services trailer is basically deserted, just a couple prop guys scarfing Gino's amazing macaroni-and-cheese bites. Gino, the craft services guy, has mad skills with a mini muffin pan. He turns out baby meatloaves and lasagnas and savory meat pies, all in the perfect bite-size shape of a mini muffin. I pop a macaroni-and-cheese into my mouth before sitting down on the wheel well of the trailer to check my phone.

TYLER:
Jessie! I miss you!

TYLER:
You there? Need your help. I got talked into hosting a fundraiser. The cook wants a sous vide. What's a sous vide?

Weird. Why is Tyler asking me about a sous vide? Is his Google finger broken?

ME:
Hey, you. It's like a water oven. You cook the food inside sealed plastic bags.

TYLER:
That's a thing? Do I have one?

ME:
Yes it's a thing. They're amazing. They make meltingly tender protein. Paleo people love them. You don't have one.

TYLER:
Which one should I get? Will you tell me what I need?

So random. It's flattering that Tyler wants to consult me about a kitchen purchase, even though I know it's just another facet of his agoraphobia: he'd rather ask someone familiar than reach out to a stranger.

ME:
I'm on set right now, but I'll be happy to take a look at what's on the market and give you my completely unprofessional opinion, if you want it.

I fill a fresh cup with ice and transfer the contents of Eva's juice into it, adding a squeeze of lemon and a sprig of mint from the drink condiments Gino has arrayed in white bowls on the counter.

TYLER:
Unprofessional, my ass. You're a pro, even if you don't know it.

TYLER:
Oh, and a candy thermometer? Do I have one of those?

TYLER:
Where do I keep the slotted spoons? I know they're here somewhere.

I spend fifteen minutes answering Tyler's frantic questions, then another ten soothing his panic about his party. I have to say, I miss Tyler a little. In retrospect, that job was simpler than this one. Even the craziness was simpler.

On the other hand, I'm still glad I left. I mean, I may be sitting around acting jaded on set, but I'm pretty much fizzing with glee.