True Hollywood Lies (25 page)

Instead I reached for the phone. “Don’t worry. Ben is already working around you until your nose heals. And I asked Monique to cancel all the interviews you had scheduled, until next week. Otherwise, any opportunities you have to plug
Dead End
will be squandered in questions about the—the altercation.”

“Oh yeah, great! As if I’m giving Mick any more publicity.” He punched the wrought iron chaise with his fist. “Once again he’s hanging onto my gravy train.”

“Well, Mick did write the screenplay for
Dead End
. I mean, he deserves credit for that at least, right?”

“No one gives a shit who wrote the bloody screenplay! All they care about is the star’s performance:
mine.”
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Why are you so paranoid all of a sudden? Haven’t I done everything you’ve asked of me?”

“I haven’t quit asking,” he shot back. “For example, it would be nice to know why he was there in your house in the first place.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Why is that strange? Before… well, before we were—us, Mick used to come over all the time.”

And you’ve never been there at all. And now you never will.

“But how did he know
you
were going to be there? I just don’t like the timing of that whole scenario.” Louis stared coldly at me. “And by the way you’re acting, Hannah, I’m beginning to wonder if you actually planned to meet him there.”

“Louis, please! Don’t be ridiculous!”

“No? Okay, I believe you… I guess.” He poured an ice cube into his palm, then tossed it into the pool, turning its glassy surface into a bull’s-eye of ripples. Without looking my way, he asked, “Mick didn’t say anything that would make you change your mind about us, did he?”

There it was: the opening I was looking for.

It was my chance to ask him to level with me about Samantha.

But I didn’t take it.

Instead I answered him with a trembling voice. “No, Louis. He just said that—that you’re a pro at using others. And that eventually you’d use me, too.”

The tremor in my voice was a dead giveaway that Louis’s suspicions were confirmed:
I knew about Samantha.

But, for the sake of our relationship, I was going to pretend that I didn’t.

He turned back to me. The mere shadow of a smile acknowledged my obvious lie, as well as his appreciation that I was willing to do that for him.

For us.

He too was willing to make sacrifices for us. He said so in this way:

“I’ll be the first to admit it: I’ve done some things—to the other women I’ve known—that I haven’t been proud of.
But I’m different with you, Hannah!
That’s because I love you more than I’ve loved any other woman I’ve known. You do believe that, don’t you?”

He’d asked me in such a way that I knew his heart would break if I didn’t.

Yes, I want to believe that. I really, really want to.

“Yes, Louis. I know you do.”

“That’s good, love. Very good.” Gently he traced my face with his finger. “But I have to ask this, and I want you to be honest with me, or else what we have here won’t work: Do you feel the same way about me, love? There is no one standing between us, is there?”

Of course, he meant Mick.

Mick, who created the cinematic hero Louis had been born to play.

Mick, Louis’s best bud, his loyal pal.

Mick, who, for all I knew, had shared Louis’s other women with him, but was forbidden by Louis to share me.

Which was why neither of us could now share Mick’s love, loyalty and friendship.

I hesitated about a fraction of a second. “No. I love you more than anyone I’ve ever loved, too.”

I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m a lousy actor. My unconscious blink as I spoke was a dead giveaway, I was sure of that.

But Louis, like the rest of us, only saw what he wanted to see and heard what his ego needed as confirmation:
That I was his.

All he had to do was ask.

“Is that so, love? Then prove it.” He pulled me down onto his lap and moved in for a kiss. His lips brushed mine for a second—

Then he pulled back. “Shit! That hurts! I can’t—I can’t even kiss you now!”

He put his hand to his nose and tapped it gingerly. I rose to get off, but he held me firmly. “That’s okay. Kissing is just the appetizer, right? We can move on to the main course without it—”

“Louis, I don’t think we should do that—out here.”

“Who cares that we’re out by the pool? The gardeners are working in the front now . . . No, don’t worry about the security guard, he’s watching the gardeners! Look, love, we both know that I shouldn’t have to beg for it! I mean, if you’re
truly
being honest with me, right?”

He wanted proof that no one stood between us. Was that too much to ask for?

Not Mick. Not Tatiana.

Not Samantha.

No one.

“Good, now that’s better! . . .
Right . . . Right
. . . um, now,
that’s
therapy . . . Damn, I wish you could get a hold of a naughty nurse’s uniform somewhere . . . ”

* * *

Despite my trying to appease Louis in every way possible, his incarceration made him grumpy.

I have to admit that I had a bad case of cabin fever, too. In fact, I couldn’t run the simplest errand without having a swarm of paparazzi on my tail as I bobbed and weaved down Laurel Canyon Boulevard until I ducked down one of the many side streets that dropped me onto Sunset, where, if I was lucky and the lights worked in my favor, I was granted anonymity in the form of three lanes of traffic.

I was somewhat miffed, however, to discover that my new problems garnered no empathy whatsoever from the other members of the Gang of Four.

Showing up late for our infrequent confab at Central Casting Denny’s, I undid my scarf and took off my glasses only after the waitress—plump, timeworn and smacking her gum loudly as proof that she had better things to do than to worry about who I was—sauntered off with my order of poached eggs on rye.

“Hey, what’s with the Mata Hari couture?” asked Freddy, as he sliced up a sausage for the ever-ubiquitous Bette.

“The press,” I answered miserably. Then I threw down some Fred Segal swag bags. “Go ahead, open them.”

Christy and Sandra pounced, while Freddy gave a raised eyebrow before opening his bag and squealing out loud. Each bag had a trove of goodies unique to that elite boutique. For the girls, designer perfumes, scarves, earrings, and metallic hobo totes. And for Freddy, aftershave, a cashmere scarf and some angora socks.

“I was in Fred Segal picking up some shirts for Louis, and for some reason the salesclerk insisted that I take some items from their VIP closet for myself. I thought you guys might not be so mad at me for being late if I came bearing gifts.”

“Oh, sweetie! You didn’t have to do that,” murmured Sandy.

“Bullshit. I, for one, would have never spoken to her if she hadn’t,” teased Freddy. “Now we’ll be expecting these goodies every time we meet. So, tell us the truth, girlfriend: why the need to come bearing gifts?”

“It’s just my humble way of saying thank you. I’m beginning to realize that you three are the only ones whose friendships I can count on. Particularly in light of all that’s happened this past month.”

“Works for me,” said Freddy. “So, how
is
life in the fast lane?”

“Frightening.” I sighed. “I can’t go anywhere without a paparazzi escort. I just know I pissed off the security people at Fred Segal.”

“Well,” sniffed Christy, “they must not be too upset at you to give you all this VIP stuff.” Even as she dabbed the store’s signature cologne behind her ear, it was obvious to everyone at the table that Christy was having a hard time with my sudden fame.

But not as hard a time as I was.

“What, do you think I enjoy living in a fishbowl? That this is how I want to spend the rest of my life?” I asked her incredulously.

“Don’t be such a little drama queen,” laughed Freddy. “You’re proof positive that Warhol was right. So sweetheart, now that the clock has started running on
your
fifteen minutes of fame, why settle for the kiddie table when they’re inviting you to sit with the adults?” He patted the banquette. “Don’t worry. Your spot will be waiting right here, after you’ve had that inevitable fall from grace.”

Well, I had to admit it had been a while since I’d had others treat me so deferentially.

And offer me nice pretty things.

And fawn over me, as if my every word were suddenly golden.

Although my work as Louis’s PA had meant running into stores all over L.A. to pick up and drop off items that had caught his fancy (or ones the stores hoped would), those tasks had been for business, not pleasure. However, since my metamorphosis from Hannah-the-PA to Hannah-Louis’s-Girlfriend, I was once again encouraged—no, make that
required
—to shop.

And shop well. Yep, my favorite Rodeo shop girls had missed me (or at least my Amex card), that was true; and once again, I was on a first-name basis with the girls at the Grove.

But now, not only was I back,
I was back with a vengeance
.

Better yet, I was back with the kind of cachet that came only through celebrity.

Just like Leo.

Just like Louis.

“You don’t have to feel guilty about it, Hannah,” Christy echoed then added, “but just don’t make us feel bad if we follow in your footsteps.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that—well, it means that I’m going to reconsider my stance on Donnie.”

Freddy turned from feeding Bette in order to give Christy the once-over.

“Oh? Do tell, darling! Why the sudden change of heart?”

“It’s not exactly sudden.” She flushed brightly. “I’ve been reconsidering it for quite some time. Besides, if Hannah can do it—”

“Do what?” I asked exasperatedly. The last thing I wanted was to be blamed for Christy doing something stupid—and getting canned for it. “Fall in love?”

“Yes, exactly—
with a star
—well, then, so can I. That is, if he’d ever leave Bethany.” She hit the table in frustration, causing Bette to hide her head behind Freddy. “He’s so unhappy with that bitch!”

“Is Donnie trifling with your affections?” asked Sandra worriedly.

“That’s just it:
he’s not!
I mean, sure, he—well, he’s sweet, and kind, and gentle with me. And yes, I’ll admit it: he does try to kiss me—”

“
Try
?” Freddy guffawed. “How can he mess
that
up when you play the role of Little Miss Ready Willing and Able to the hilt?”

“Well, Freddy, believe it or not, he’s got a conscience!”

“Madame, methinks it is more likely that he’s got a smart attorney who’s warned him not to screw up his very, very generous gravy train.” Freddy shook his head knowingly. “And I’m sorry, but Bethany’s not just a meal ticket: she’s the whole Sunday brunch buffet at Polo Lounge. While you, my sweet, are the stale soda crackers from Cantor’s Deli. That boy has never been on a diet in his life, and he’s not starting now.”

“Once I get in front of the camera, he won’t have to,” she sniffed. “I’ll put us both on the map, and then
that
won’t be an issue.”

I glanced over at Sandra, whose eyes were suddenly rimmed with tears. I patted her wrist. “Sandy, are you feeling okay?”

“It’s nothing.” She shrugged off my hand. “It’s just that when Christy used that term—putting us both on the map—it made me think of this creep who’s been hanging around Rex lately—”

“Gee,” pouted Christy. “Thanks for that! So, now I’m some sort of
creep?
”

“No! Not you! This guy Franklin. He’s done a few commercials and he thinks he can act. Rex has been ‘mentoring’ him. Ha! If you want to call it that. All hours, night and day. It’s just—well, it’s so weird—”

Christy and I decided that now was the best time to scrutinize our silverware. As Sandra sobbed, Freddy put his arm around her.

“—And
so loud
.” She groaned, then buried her head in Freddy’s shoulder.

The waitress’s arrival with my food gave Sandra time to pull it together while the rest of us collected our thoughts. After a decent interval, Freddy spoke up.

“Honey, it’s time you face facts: that closet door of Rex’s is not just cracked open,
it’s revolving.”

“Freddy, believe it or not, I hear you loud and clear.” She turned to face him. “But I can’t just let his career go down in flames! Or
flaming
. He’s up for a big important movie part, and he’s worried sick about it. I’ll just have to do my best to—to keep that boy from distracting him!”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “How can you stop him from being—himself?”

Sandra drilled into me with her large, jade green eyes. “I can do whatever it takes. That’s my job, right? You know what I mean by that. You did what you had to do, too, for Louis. Right?”

No, I thought, I didn’t do it to save
him
.

I did it to save me.

* * *

The party T was throwing for his wife Takiyah’s twenty-eighth birthday at their stately 32-room English Tudor mansion in Beverly Hills came just in the nick of time—on the fifth day after what we now formally (albeit euphemistically) called “the Altercation.” With Louis having been granted a cautionary, but certainly clear, bill of health by the doctors, the party gave us the excuse we needed to put on a happy (albeit in Louis’s case, slightly bruised) face.

We easily outraced the reporters in Louis’s Ferarri Millechili. However, our euphoria was short-lived as we pulled up to T’s place and found another swarm of photographers buzzing around his front gate as well. So that we could slip through without too much interference, Louis honked loudly to get the attention of T’s gatekeepers: two former football-players-cum-bodyguards, both of whom were sporting T’s plum-hued signature suits with the requisite blue bandana as a pocket square. (Some say that this touch was in homage to his former gang, the Crips, although you wouldn’t hear that from T, who, under the guidance of legal counsel, had disassociated himself from these former and most formidable pals.)