True Hollywood Lies (20 page)

“It’s important because I’m so tired of him standing between us, Hannah,” he shouted angrily. “I meant what I said, about us! And whether you want to believe me or not, Mick
does not
deserve you.”

“I know you find this hard to believe, but he’s nothing like you. He’s never given me any reason to—to doubt him. Face it, Louis, you’re jealous. Of
us
.”

“Me?
Jealous
?” He snickered. “Look Hannah, I’ll accept whatever you want to think of me. And if you want to keep things ‘professional,’ then okay, sure, that’s fine by me! But I care enough for
you
to see that you don’t get hurt. And Mick
will
hurt you.”

“Cut it out, Louis,” I said darkly. “I’m in no mood for your games.”

“Oh, love, this is no game,” he growled. “If you don’t believe me, go see for yourself. Mick’s at the Hotel Bel-Air. The Courtyard Suite. And believe me, he’s
not
working on his golf game.”

With as much dignity as I could muster, I headed for the door. Louis had already turned toward the mirror, where he was scrutinizing the very visible handprint outlined on his face.

“Oh, and love—the next time you want to play rough, let’s pull out the paddles instead, okay? That is, if you don’t mind being the bottom, because I always insist on being the dom. It’s an ego thing, I guess.”

Although he shrugged apologetically, his eyes never left the mirror. “Damn it, I wish you’d given me fair warning that you were going to slap me. I think you knocked a tooth loose! When you get back, if you’re not
too
torn up, call Bill Dorfman’s office and set an appointment for first thing in the morning, will you?”

* * *

I asked the valet at the Hotel Bel-Air to keep my car on the curb since I would not be staying long. I’d coordinated many of Louis’s media interviews in the hotel’s Courtyard Suite—it was his favorite—so I knew to follow the narrow garden path that rambled through the hotel’s exquisite flora until it dead-ended at the boudoir’s entranceway. I did not knock but instead went around to the double French doors that overlooked its very private terraced courtyard. As I suspected, it had been left open to take advantage of the mild fall breezes.

Mick’s voice could be heard from inside. I couldn’t make out what he was saying—only that it sounded, well, kind and gentle.

Similar to how it sounded when we made love.

Even that did not prepare me, though, for what I saw as I peeked through the door: Mick was on the bed, cradling Samantha, who lay naked in his arms.

Rocking her back and forth, he kissed her forehead tenderly.

Dazed and upset, I stumbled back out onto the garden path, but I only made it a few steps before I keeled over, gasping for air.

Why had I been stupid enough to believe that he had cared for me?

I don’t know if it was the sense of betrayal I felt, or my anger at myself for having believed that Mick was any different from Louis—or Jean-Claude, or even Leo, for that matter—but suddenly, a wave of nausea swept over me. As I heaved all of my hurt and pain and crab cakes into one of the hotel’s exquisitely pristine white rosebushes, the thought came to me that I owed Louis an apology.

I’d start by making that dentist appointment the minute I got back to the car.

* * *

“The biggest problem with Denny’s,” groused Christy, “is that it doesn’t serve booze.”

“You can say that again,” I said, pushing away my untouched platter of eggs. “Frankly, I’d be more inclined to think that the Grand Slam lived up to its name if I were smashed before I ate it.”

After what I’d told them of what I’d seen that afternoon, no one blamed me for having lost my appetite. However, my promise to ask Jasper to write a cease-and-desist letter to Chelsea’s producers on Simone Cavanaugh’s behalf had restored Freddy’s, who’d cleaned off his dish of French toast in just a few quick bites.

“Well, if living with that old diva has taught me one thing,” he said, winking slyly, “it’s that it’s just as easy to carry a to-go cup
into
a restaurant as it is to take one out.” Rustling through the bag in which he carried his constant companion, Bette, he came out with a thermos. “Who wants a cocktail?”

The Gang of Four downed its water glasses to make room for his expertly mixed martinis.

Ever appreciative of a host’s generosity, Sandy raised her glass. “Well, here’s to Miss Simone. May she survive yet another exposé of her poor pathetic life—and may other exposés follow, if only to grant her the satisfaction that the spotlight will never dim.”

“Hear, hear!”

“I guess what Donnie says is true: that there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” exclaimed Christy.

“Donnie’s an idiot,” Freddy said bluntly. “He’ll finally realize it the first time he’s caught with his pants down around his ankles and Bethany’s attorneys are gleefully shredding his pre-nup.”

She colored slightly. “Donnie’s not like that. He’s true blue to her!”

Was there a slight disappointment in her voice? I didn’t want to go there, not today.

Not after what I had just seen of Mick.

Just then, all eyes turned to my Coach clutch, where, once again, the insistent buzzing of my cell phone had been beckoning all night long. Although its caller ID indicated that the number belonged to the very persistent Mick, everyone at the table winced reflexively. Personal assistants are the twenty-first century equivalent of indentured servants, and as such our instincts were to leap when summoned.

Well, too bad. At the moment, I was too angry to confront him over the obvious, and to hear any lies he had to explain it away. Instead, I chose to drown my sorrows within a cloistered cocoon of true friendship.

Knocking back my martini, I added my own two cents. “Freddy’s right. You’re a fool to trust him. Or any ‘him’ for that matter.”

Christy sniffed, still unconvinced. “Look, Hannah, you’ve had a rough day—”

“That’s an understatement!” I said, spilling the last of the thermos’s contents into my glass. “They’re all assholes. And the bigger they are in this town, the more they feel justified to use us.” Stumbling over a hiccup, I added grandly, “I almost feel sorry for Samantha, that little sap! Well, she’s welcome to have him.”

Sandy and Christy traded guilty glances. Watching the interchange, I put down my glass. “What? What is it?”

Christy looked as if she was going to start bawling. “We knew, Hannah. Oh, please don’t hate us!”

“About her—and Mick?”

I envisioned the silken strands of our friendship cocoon dissolving in my angry tears.

Watching my reaction, Sandy quickly added, “No, no! Not about that! Just that—that she’d come to town the day before yesterday. Said she was here to ‘work things out.’ We didn’t say anything because—well, because we thought she’d have to go through you anyway, to get to Louis—”

But she didn’t. She went through Mick.

Or, more accurately she went
to
Mick.

Christy interrupted her. “Omigod! You don’t think that Mick—that he’s—”

“That he’s what?”

“You know: the
other
guy?”

In Louis’s threesome.

No, I hadn’t known for sure until that moment.

Watching the color drain from my face, Freddy gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Now that you know, you’ve got to walk away from them, Hannah.
Both
of them.” He stroked Bette under her chin. “Look, doll, it may not be easy, but it will keep you from joining Simone at Betty Ford in a double room, ’cause heaven knows King Louie is too cheap to spring for a single.”

“Don’t worry about me, Freddy. Mick won’t be able to deny what I saw with my own two eyes, so that takes care of him. And as for Louis—well, he and I have come to an understanding of what I’m willing to do—and
not
do, if he wants me to stick around.”

“Just to set the record straight,” Christy said solemnly, “Donnie and I have a similar agreement.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet you do,” Freddy said under his breath.

“It’s important to us, too, that we know where to draw the line,” Christy insisted, “particularly since we’re now going to be working together as peers.”

“What does that mean?” Sandy asked.

“Donnie’s producing a movie, and he’s got a role in it that he says is perfect for me,” she gushed. “It’s not a very big one, but it’s certainly more than a walk-on. That’s okay, because it’s a small film, anyway. You know, an
indie
.” She tossed her head with pride. “And we’ll shoot my scenes at night—so it doesn’t interfere with my day job, because that would make Bethany upset… except, I don’t know how we’ll get back in time, since we’re filming on location.”

“Where?” Sandy asked suspiciously.

“Chatsworth.”

“Christy, sweetheart, Chatsworth is only thirty or forty minutes from L.A. It’s in the Valley.”

“Oh, it is? Well, whattaya know? Donnie made it sound as if it were at the other end of the world.”

Freddy snickered. “That’s an appropriate analogy, by our town’s standards anyway.”

“Why? What do you mean?” Perplexed, Christy took a dainty bite of a link sausage.

I frowned. “That’s where the porn industry is based.”

Gulping hard, she gave a little cough. “Oh . . . no.”

“Something wrong?”

“No! Well, yeah. Well—it’s just that… well, Donnie mentioned that I—that I might have to do a—a nude scene. But he assured me that it would be shot
very
tastefully.”

“How so?”

“The director—Harry Dickson—is really well known! He’s won all kinds of awards.”

“I’ll say he has,” murmured Freddy. “Have you heard of
Sponge Bobbie’s Square Panties
,
Sex with the City
, or
The Pleasure Locker
?”

Christy squinted in thought. “Uh. . . no. Not really. Should I have?”

“Those are some of the films he’s directed. And you’re right: they’ve won awards, but not any Oscars. We’re talking
Adult Video News
awards.”

“How do you know
that
?” While Christy frowned, I tried hard not to laugh out loud.

“Well, sweetums, it just so happens that I have a boyfriend in Hollyporn, as they call it. He was one of the—er—‘stars’ of
The Pleasure Locker.
In fact, he won an award for that one, too. Ha! He may not recite Shakespeare or Ibsen, but with his kind of talent, he doesn’t
need
to open his mouth. Others do that—
for him
.”

Christy gulped loudly.

“I’ll say! And you wouldn’t believe the size of
his
‘statuette.’ ”

Chapter 11: Moonstruck


Dazed or distracted with romantic sentiment; affected by insanity; crazed.

The good news about
Killer Instincts
—the psychological thriller Louis was filming in a remote location deep within Oregon’s mystical Klamath Forest along the banks of the Rogue River—was that it fit all the necessary criteria for being a hit movie, as defined by Leo: a first-rate director, a great screenplay, and a superb supporting cast.

The even better news was that my immediate departure with Louis allowed me to leave behind Mick and all the hurt he had caused me—at least, for now.

Not that he didn’t try calling me at least four or five times a day after the incident at the Hotel Bel-Air. At first, his voice messages were filled with naive anticipation. (“Hey, babe, didn’t we have a date? Tell that boss of yours you’re calling it a night, and get on over here. I need a Hannah fix.”) They quickly moved on to a mild concern that I wasn’t responding. (“Honey, where are you? Call me, I’m worried . . . ”) Next was his annoyance at my lack of consideration in getting back to him, which was quickly replaced with sullen suspicion: (“Wow. Louis must be keeping you
really
busy. Okay, I get the message.”
Click
.)

And finally, contrition. (“Hannah, please call me. I don’t know what I did, but whatever it is, I think I have a right to know! It shouldn’t be anything that we can’t work out.”)

Oh, yeah?

His final message, sent on the eleventh day after the Hotel Bel-Air incident, was a text message which simply asked
What the Hell happened????

Frankly, I was happy for a change of scenery—not that the set of
Killer Instincts
was any picnic. During the first week of shooting, Louis’s own criteria for making the movie—the assumption that there would be a chance for some on-location hanky-panky with his leading lady, Marcella Kingston, coupled with the opportunity to work with his idol, the legendary Shakespearean British actor and recently knighted Sir Barnaby Chadwick—dissolved completely, like the early morning mists that shrouded the grove of Douglas firs in which the production had set up camp.

This all happened due to a series of misunderstandings on Louis’s part, the first being that the radiantly beautiful and voluptuously proportioned Marcella, whose wonderfully salty sense of humor was all the more delicious for being delivered in her sweet, throaty lisp, would find him as irresistible as he found her.

She didn’t.

But then again, being a lesbian, she wouldn’t.

Louis was promptly informed of this fact by Marcella’s very, very angry personal assistant (who, by the way, also happened to be her very, very butch lover) after he offered to run lines with the actress in her trailer and then suggested that she could reciprocate the favor by running her tongue over his body.

“Dammit, why didn’t that git Randy warn me?” exclaimed a truly disappointed Louis, after being escorted back to his own trailer (at his request) by two brawny grips who, luckily, happened to be passing Marcella’s open trailer door just as her PA lunged at Louis with clenched fists. Marcella’s scornful and incredulous laughter could still be heard echoing through the stately ponderosa pines.

“Why?” I asked. “Would you have changed your mind about doing the movie?”

I could tell that it was on the tip of his tongue to say yes. But knowing that I’d think less of him for doing so, he shrugged nonchalantly instead.