Point, Click, Love (18 page)

“Oh, yes,” said Maxine. Did Susan really think she wouldn’t find the Chateau Marmont adequate? Maxine figured this woman, with her three-thousand-dollar suit and three-hundred-dollar haircut, was probably the type who would find something wrong with the most perfect of places. She wondered where the vaguely European accent was from.

“Good. We like to keep our artists happy.”

“So do you always bring artists in for their openings?”

“As much as we can. Although I should say we tend to favor certain of our artists. I can already tell you’ll be one of those.”

“I hope so,” said Maxine, trying to be modest but not too self-deprecating. She could tell Susan Shackelford liked confidence.

“No question about it,” said Susan. “Ted, how many of Maxine’s works have already been bought?”

“More than half,” said Ted.

“Seriously?” said Maxine.

“I was shocked,” said Susan. “You’ve definitely hit on something, Maxine, and I want to take advantage of it. Your work is bold and different but not too outlandish. Frankly, people can justify the purchase as not only collecting but decorating. I’m afraid in this difficult market, we must consider such things.”

Maxine wasn’t quite sure how she felt about being told her paintings were decorative, and she could tell Ted was a little uncomfortable with the remark.

“I mean, dead pigs floating in formaldehyde are hot in flush times, but we’re in a recession now,” said Susan. “People are looking for lower price points and art that works in their homes.”

“Of course,” said Maxine.

“But I have a feeling that those prices will be going up if we keep selling like this,” said Susan, who offered her first smile. “Ted, I’ve got to jump on a call. Why don’t you and Maxine take a walk through the gallery and show her what we’re thinking in terms of positioning?”

After a few hours of going through Maxine’s paintings and discussing the merits of multiple sequences, Ted suggested they go out for lunch. He took her to a nearby vegetarian restaurant filled with people wearing high-priced designer sweat outfits and sipping on soy lattes and yogurt smoothies.

“I love L.A.,” said Maxine as she dug into her tofu scramble. “Everybody’s so relaxed and healthy.”

“Relaxed?” said Ted. “That’s just part of the façade. They’re all nutso.”

“Where are you from?” asked Maxine.

“Bloomington, Indiana.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“I went to UCLA film school and decided to stay. I didn’t want to be gay in the Midwest.”

“Makes sense. So what happened to filmmaking?”

“I worked as a production assistant for a while, but I hated feeling like I and everyone else in the entire city was in the film business. I guess I wanted to be different.”

“Do you like working for Susan?”

“Yeah, she’s great. A little annoying at times but a good person.”

“It was awfully nice of her to bring me out here.”

“She wasn’t trying to be nice. She knows her clients like to meet the artist at the opening. So, really, you’re doing her a favor.”

As Maxine looked up from her plate, she noticed a woman out of the corner of her eye carrying what looked to be a script. In a room full of thin, pretty women, this one was thinner and prettier than all of them. “Oh, my God!” she practically shouted, as if an armed gunman had entered the restaurant.

“What?” asked Ted with alarm.

“That’s …” said Maxine, gesturing with her head over Ted’s shoulder. Ted began to turn around, but Maxine whispered, “Wait! Don’t look!”

“I have to look!” said Ted, carefully turning around as if he was searching for a friend. “Calista Flockhart?”

“Oh, my God!”

“She comes in here all the time,” said Ted, turning back to his lunch.

“That’s so cool!” exclaimed Maxine, still staring at her with wide eyes and a big smile.

“Maxine, I never would have pegged you as a star worshipper.”

“I’m not! I … well, okay, I do have a thing about celebrities.”

“That’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”

“No! Maybe? Listen, I’m confident enough in myself to admit it. But I’m not a worshipper. It’s not like I think they’re better than everyone else. They’re just … different. Like a different species.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m fascinated with them in a sociological way. You know?”

“You want to study them,” said Ted.

“Yes! In their own natural habitat.”

“Well, you’re staying at the right place. Didn’t you see any at the Chateau Marmont?”

“No. I ate both dinner and breakfast in my room, so I haven’t been out much.”

“Don’t worry, you will. Maybe I can even get us into a party this weekend.”

“Really? How?”

“My boyfriend’s an agent. Knows all those people.”

“That would be amazing.”

“You crack me up, Maxine.”

Maxine wondered if she was wrong to let Ted in on her secret, but she liked and trusted him. “Don’t say anything to Susan about this, okay?”

“No worries.”

When Maxine returned to the hotel that evening, she went to the gym, took a long shower, and had a massage in her room. Afterward, as she sat in her robe, still smelling of almond and lavender, she thought about her family back home for the first time all day.

She had texted Jake that morning, letting him know that everything was fine. Then he left two voice messages during the day, but Maxine couldn’t bring herself to call home. She wanted to talk
to the kids, wanted to tell Matthew about her chauffeur-driven limo ride, Abby about Susan Shackelford’s expensive red suit, and Suzanne about her almond-scented bubble bath. But as much as she wanted to hear her children’s voices, Maxine didn’t want to hear Jake’s even more. So she texted him again: “Sorry not to call … been busy busy busy. Going out tonight. Hugs and kisses to kids. Will call soon.”

Maxine then turned to the other thing that was occupying her mind: going down to the hotel bar and looking for more celebrities. Seeing Calista Flockhart at lunch was like taking a hit of marijuana. It felt good, and now she wanted more. Not only that, but she wanted the stronger stuff. She wanted movie stars—the bigger the better.

Maxine blew her hair dry and put it in a high ponytail, because someone once told her she looked younger that way. She put on a gold lamé strapless dress that she had bought ten years ago in Berlin for one of Jake’s medical conferences and a pair of four-inch-high strappy sandals. Then she headed down to the plush red bar, taking a seat that gave her a full view of the room.

She couldn’t remember ever having sat in a bar by herself before but decided she didn’t care what anyone thought. She didn’t bring reading material so she could look busy, didn’t keep her cell phone out for some strategic texting. She just sat and nursed her drink, unafraid to blatantly watch and observe.

Maxine thought back to her earlier sighting, trying to figure out why it thrilled her so much. When she saw the pretty little starlet, she immediately remembered all the details she knew of her life—her marriage to the older Harrison Ford, the adoption of a child, the talk about a possible eating disorder. Maxine realized that she knew more about Calista Flockhart than about anyone else in the restaurant, even the person sitting across from her. The actress seemed more real than everyone else—like a massive dose of hyperreality. All the images Maxine had seen of her, the
articles she’d read, the television shows she’d watched, came rushing back, allowing her to form an intense vision of this person she’d never met.

Hollywood was supposedly the land of make-believe, fake and phony, superficial and shallow. But to Maxine it felt so much more real than Kansas City. Back home, the people Maxine saw every day appeared flat. She was rarely given a glimpse into the complexities of people’s lives, except for those of her good friends. Everyone interacted on the most superficial of levels, carefully presenting themselves to others.

Maxine used to log on to her Facebook account and read the news feed, searching for a real glimpse into people’s lives. But everything seemed so labored over—so unreal.

The stars also tried to carefully construct their personas—using Facebook and Twitter and publicists and stylists to ensure they came across in exactly the right way—but they were constantly failing. As much as they tried to control the image, a tabloid or a photographer or a gossipmonger would destroy it all.

After a while, Maxine stopped going to Facebook to observe the constructed lives of her friends and acquaintances and instead spent all of her time trolling for information about the stars.

Deep down, Maxine knew she should probably feel shame about her obsession. But the more she understood it, the more she could justify it. In a world of pretense and fakery, she was simply looking for some unbridled truth.

So when Maxine looked over at a table of people in their twenties being particularly boisterous, she suddenly felt that familiar charge. She was sure she recognized a few of them from one of those dramas geared toward teens on one of those upstart networks she never watched. They wore flamboyant clothes, smoked cigarettes, and had large bottles of premium liquors scattered about their table.

“Nicky’s wasted!” shouted one girl, who looked far more wasted than the other girl she was pointing at.

“Shut up, bitch!” said Nicky.

At that point, Maxine realized that the fact that these youngsters were famous didn’t automatically imbue them with the profoundly satisfying hyperreality she craved. First, she knew nothing about them. Second, she didn’t want to know anything about them.

“Come on,” said the boy who had his arm around Nicky. “Let’s go up to Ashton’s party.”

Ashton, thought Maxine. There could be only one Ashton.

“No way,” said Nicky. “I heard it’s all Demi’s friends. Bunch of old folks.”

Perfect! thought Maxine.

“Well, I’m not hanging around with you losers,” said the girl who was drunker than Nicky. “I’m going.”

When this girl, who Maxine thought was one of the stars of the mystery show, got up, the others all got up too. Maxine quickly pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, placed it next to her drink, and discreetly followed them.

Two elevators arrived simultaneously and the group split up. Maxine went in the one with Nicky, her boyfriend, and two other girls. The boyfriend pressed the button for the penthouse floor. Then all four of them looked over at Maxine as if to say, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“That’s my floor too,” said Maxine with as much confidence as she could muster, but she knew she wasn’t convincing.

Nicky gave her a withering look and then rolled her eyes.

When the elevator door opened and the two girls started to exit, Nicky conspicuously held them back and said to Maxine, “After you.”

“Thanks,” said Maxine disdainfully. She hated Nicky and was sure she was not famous in the least.

Maxine decided to go left. When she turned the corner, the hallway was filled with people. Doors to several rooms were open, people spilling out, leading Maxine to think there were multiple parties going on. But which was Ashton and Demi’s?

Maxine squeezed through the masses of people, trying to choose which room to go into. She settled on the one that seemed the most crowded. As she pushed through the entryway into the living area, she felt like she was back in college, making her way through the basement of a fraternity. Music was blaring, smoke filled the room, empty bottles and glasses were scattered everywhere, and people were packed in like sardines. Maxine was disappointed to find no one even remotely recognizable. But she continued on, thinking that there must be some inner sanctum, some terrace or salon where Ashton, Demi, and their closest friends were hanging out.

After scouring the entire suite and then doing the same in two others nearby, Maxine decided there was nothing there to find. If there were any stars present, they weren’t lending any otherworldly magnetism to the proceedings. These were just parties like any others. Maybe the guests were dressed a little better, the alcohol they were drinking was a little more expensive, and the joints they were smoking were a little higher quality, but they were regular old parties just the same.

Maxine felt stupid. People had brushes with fame all the time and never had any grand epiphanies because of it. Did she think seeing a star would somehow make a difference, give her the answer she was looking for?

The next morning before going to the gallery, she decided she’d better call Jake. It was ten o’clock his time, when he was usually in the middle of surgery, but he answered right away.

“Hi,” Jake said. Maxine was amazed at how he could convey a delicate mixture of happiness, surprise, and annoyance in one syllable.

“Hey, I’m sorry it’s taken so long to call.”

“It’s okay. I realize you’re busy.”

Maxine knew it was crazy to think she couldn’t have called him sooner, and she knew he thought the same thing. So she decided she’d leave it at that. “How’re the kids?”

“Fine. Having fun. Lots of playdates.”

“They’re probably psyched I’m gone.”

“I don’t know that they’re psyched,” said Jake. “But they’re enjoying the change of pace. I’m sure you are too.”

“Yeah, I have to say I am.”

“Good. You deserve it.”

“Thanks. Thanks for taking care of everything. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. You’ve done it for me many times.”

“Well, you’ve also got a medical practice to run.”

“It’s fine. So what’s going on there?”

“Just getting ready for the show, you know. The gallery’s beautiful, the owner’s really nice. It’s great.”

“Look, Maxine. I know things haven’t been so great between us lately. But it doesn’t help that you keep avoiding me. I wish you would talk about it.”

“I’m sorry, Jake, but talking with you doesn’t help. I don’t feel like you ever tell me anything.”

“What am I not telling you? I tell you everything.”

“I don’t want to get into this right now.”

“Right, of course. You never want to get into it.”

“I think maybe I need some more time. To figure things out.”

“That’s fine, Maxine. Take your time,” he said, his annoyance coming through clearly.