Adulation (17 page)

“Trust me—Joshua Hamilton is a charlatan.”

“And this is based on one twenty-minute meeting in which he chewed you out?”

I felt awful the second after the words came out, especially when I saw the look on his face, as if I’d just garroted him.

“Whatever, Sunny,” he said as he put up a hand to block anything else I might want to say, and turned to leave the stockroom.

I grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute, Georgie. I’m sorry. That was really mean.” He didn’t make eyecontact with me until I asked, “So what happened?”

He rolled his eyes. “Same ol’, same ol’. I’m not being aggressive enough, my quotas are too low, I’m on probation... They do this every quarter, and it’s a bluff every time—you know why? ’Cause I bringin the big bang when it comes to the in-store events. That’s where everything evens out.”

“Yeah, but the thing is, they can’t afford to break even anymore.”

“In this economic climate, they’re lucky to have open doors. Not to mention that the Kindle iskicking everyone’s e-reading ass.”

“You’d better be careful, Georgie. The next time they might really fire you.”

“Please,” he said, rolling his eyes yet again. “Let them. I fucking hate this job.”

“You say that constantly and do nothing about it. Why don’t you quit once and for all?”

“You’re not the only one who’s idling in neutral, Sunny. But at least Marcus and I have a plan.”

What kind of plan?
 
I wanted to ask. This was the first I’d heard of it. But I was so wounded that Iwent on the defensive instead. “I have a plan.”

“No, Sunny, you have a list.” He looked at his watch. “I’d better get back to work. Mr. Wonderfuland his ass-kisser are still in the building. Call me when you get back from your date tonight. And it hadbetter be before midnight.”

Georgie left the stockroom, where I stood, all alone, suddenly feeling swallowed whole by itscontents.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Danny Masters

D
ESPITE THE MINOR
 
backlash from the YouTube video,
 
Exposed
 
continued to top the box office sales andgenerate Oscar buzz for Danny, Paul Wolf, and its cast.

But Danny didn’t care.

After hearing from Sunny, he’d compulsively checked his iPhone and MacBook for notificationsthat she had changed her mind. Each day he logged on to Masterminds and skimmed through the pages ofdiscussion threads, looking for her (the conversations had moved away from the jackass video and aheadto reviews of
Exposed
 
and complaints about why Danny hadn’t bothered to personally respond to any of

their
 
comments). When she didn’t appear, he then spent hours reading
 
every
 
comment and contribution Sunnyside had ever offered, trying to get to know her that way. From what he could tell, she was witty, yet there seemed to be a quiet honesty about her. Unlike some of the other females on Masterminds, she didn’t comment on his appearance or his love life, didn’t quote lines from his shows and films as part of puns and jokes. Instead she talked about the
 
writing
. She pointed out intricacies of character. She quoted only to  note a turn of phrase, a rhythm of delivery. And she was a good writer.

Each day Danny metaphorically opened the door or looked out the window and found no one there.

Little by little, disappointment gave way to anger.

Who did she think she was? Who did she think he thought she was?

On impulse, he wrote and sent her another message asking just that, only to get a rejection notice:
 
The recipient must be a registered member of Masterminds.

Already she’d bailed out?

He punched his fist on the desk, slammed down the screen of his MacBook, and stood up.

“Fuck her,” he said.

Dez opened the door and peeked her head in. “Fuck who?”

Danny looked at her, startled. He didn’t realize he’d uttered the expletive so loud.

“You and Charlene having another row?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said as he stormed passed her. “I need a smoke.”

Danny entered the office of Rajesh Patel, known around Hollywood as the Guru to the Stars. Author of thebestselling books known as the Chakra Series (starting with
 
Root Red
 
and ending with
 
White Light
), Dr. Raj did everything from chakra balancing to feng shui blueprints to guided meditation to good ol’ Freudian analysis. In some cases, he even made house calls—rumor had it that Brad  and Angelina hadhelicoptered him to an undisclosed Caribbean island so he could teach relaxation techniques to one oftheir children who was experiencing separation anxiety.

Normally Danny wouldn’t be caught dead going to someone who practiced what he described as “crackpot psychology,” but Raj was so damn likable. They’d met in the hall outside a parent-teacherconference at Ella’s school (Raj’s son was a student there, although Raj had since withdrawn him in favorof home schooling) and the two surprisingly hit it off. When Raj had suggested that Danny visit him for acomplimentary chakra-balancing session, Danny heard himself saying yes—and not even the “let’s dolunch” sort of yes. And when he accused Raj of having secret powers of hypnosis or sending subliminalmessages, Raj laughed out loud and said, “How did you know about my secret powers? I’m thinking ofhaving a superhero created in my image.”

“You know I think you’re a total quack and a brilliant capitalist,” Danny had said to Raj at theirfirst meeting.

“That’s OK,” said Raj. “I have no ego.”

Yes. Danny liked him. And Raj liked Danny too.

Raj’s office was a magnificent sanctuary of fountains, wind chimes, candles, and exotic plants—something for each of the feng shui elements—encased by loft-style, floor-to-ceiling windowsoverlooking Los Angeles (he had a similar setup in Manhattan). Fluffy velvet and silk throw pillows ofall sizes were strewn about (“What is this, a harem?” Danny had asked the first time he saw it), withbutter-smooth Italian leather couches and chairs conducive to falling asleep, which Danny had done onmore  than one occasion. And although Raj insisted a nap was as good as any therapy, Danny wouldcomplain that if a nap was going to cost him eight hundred dollars an hour, then he might as well get ahooker to join him.

Raj embraced his friend, followed by placing his hands together in front of his chest and bowing tohim. “
Namaste
, Daniel. So good to see you today.” It’d been a lifetime since anyone but his mother andhis teachers had called him Daniel. The name felt unfamiliar to him, but Raj said it with such ease andfondness.

Danny returned the bow. “Good to see you too.” He sat at the edge of one of the couches andkicked off his shoes, something Raj had encouraged on his first visit. “How the hell are you?”

“I’m doing very well. And how are you?” asked Raj, whose accent was more Californian than Indian, although he spoke slowly, almost like Mr. Rogers used to, and politely, hardly ever usingprofanity.

Danny shook his head in tired exasperation. “It’s been a helluva week, man.”

“I saw your film. It was well written and well executed.”

“Thanks,” said Danny. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“So tell me about your helluva week.”

Danny paused, trying to find a good starting place. “Well, of course it’s been interview afterinterview after interview. Advanced screenings at film festivals in various parts of the country, critics’and corporate screenings, premieres at opposite ends of the country, the works. I’ve hardly seen mydaughter at all this past month, and I miss her like crazy.”

“And how is the beautiful Ella?”

Danny appreciated the adjective but frowned when giving the answer. “Dating a drummer.” Hepressed on without giving Raj a chance to inquire further. “I had an interesting encounter at the premierein New York City that turned into a bit of a fiasco.”

“What happened?” Raj’s facial expression was more one of amusement than inquisition; it was theface he wore for just about any topic of discussion.

“It started when I met this woman.”

“I doubt that, but continue.”

“Now you see, when you say things like that, it’s impossible for me to continue because I want toknow where it did start.”

“We’ll get to that. Please continue.”

Danny obeyed. “I was at the Directors Guild Theater on the afternoon of the premiere and stepped out for a smoke break, and there she appeared. I can’t even begin to describe her—I want to say
 
ordinary
, but that makes her sound plain, and she was anything but. I don’t know, maybe
 
real
 
is the right word? Even though I could tell she’d gotten made up for the occasion. But I mean, she’s nothing like Charlene.”

“Charlene’s not real?”

Man, was
 
that
 
a loaded question.

“Funny, I’m wondering how Charlene would respond to that question if you asked
 
her
. Charlene’s become a product of her environment. She’s a brand. And I think some days she has trouble distinguishing the person from the brand. Hell, some days
 
I
 
have trouble distinguishing the person from the brand.”

“Are
 
you
 
a brand, Daniel?”

He let the weight of the words sink in for a moment. “Of course I’m a brand. I became a brand the minute I let them change my name.”

Danny Masters had always hated his last name. Still, after all these years. He hated how cornball it was, how it made him sound more like a weatherman for Fox News than an award-winning writer for television, film, and stage. But fresh out of college, following the overnight success of his first play, he’d been billed as a phenom at age twenty-two and he’d landed an agent who’d started introducing him around Hollywood as “The Master.” When Danny had applied for his Writers Guild card, he learned that there were two other Daniel Golds. His agent pressured him to officially register himself as Danny Masters because it was catchier, more memorable. As easy on the ears and the mouth as Danny himself was on the eyes. “Besides,” his agent had said, “you’re no ordinary writer. You are going to be a
 
star
.”

He hated to admit it, but his agent had been right. However, he’d been Danny Masters for almost twenty-five years, and it still hadn’t grown on him. He wished he’d had the courage to do what John Mellencamp did after growing out of his record company-fabricated “John Cougar” image. “Mellencamp” was far less rock and roll than “Gold” was Hollywood glitterati, and yet Mellencamp still sold a helluva lot of records. The Internet Movie Database and Wikipedia sites had already outed him as Daniel Gold, but it didn’t seem to affect him much. To Charlene and his adoring fans, he remained Danny Masters. To Ella, who went by Gold (as Frannie had when they were married), he was “Dad” or “Daddy” on a regular basis up until  her thirteenth birthday, and that was the only name that sounded like music to him.

But maybe he had so willingly agreed to the name change for other reasons too. His father, Artie Gold, had never been one to proudly point to his son onstage and brag that he was his pop, never went on the record to claim that he had taught Danny everything he knew, and never attended any of Danny’s premieres. And Danny wished Artie Gold had been the kind of intrusive father who wanted a piece of his son’s spotlight, who wanted something, anything to do with his son.