Bleak (5 page)

I don’t know how to stand. Keeping two feet on the ground while remaining upright—that I can do. But I can’t
stand,
not like models and movie stars and debutantes whose entire life is lived in the bright lights of a camera flash, the shoulders-back, hips-forward, eyes-smoldering stance photographers beg for in the dark silence before the click.

All I can do is stand like a dead weight, like a fallen soufflé, my smile as wide and clumsy as a hyena’s. A predator among gazelles, I wait frozen as paparazzi call my name over and over again—Ricki, Ricki, Ricki, Ricki—until it starts to sound like nonsense, gobbledygook, an onomatopoeic sound meant to convey gracelessness.

Over, amid and through the clumsiness and petrified jaw is giddy astonishment that I’m standing—wrongly, yes, but standing still—on the red carpet as men with rough voices take my picture. This is happening to me. I’m in Hollywood, California, in front of Boodle’s, where Bono likes to play pool when he’s in town, being photographed by every major wire service in the country.

I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Time stops under the blinding glare of a Klieg light. Moments exist side by side with each other, so that Katrina is introducing me as the author of
J&J
at the very same instant a statuesque blond wraps her arm around my shoulder and poses.

The world is a fucking strange place.

Reporters assembled behind a velvet rope ask me questions as I go down the line, Katrina at my elbow introducing me to everyone like the social chair at a country club cotillion. Each asks me the same question about Moxie so that by the time I get to the end, my sound bite is honed to a fine, sharp edge. Film is a collaborative medium, I say, and I’m delighted to pass the baton to the next participant. I gloss over the eleven years that separate Moxie Bernard from Ada Clare Jarndyce. A tepid smile, a demure blush. What does a girl like me know about translating a novel to the big screen?

Katrina tells me I’m doing great as she escorts me through the somber halls of Boodle’s to the Biddle’s Lounge, a dark-wood-paneled room with a gilded bar, red banquettes and thrashing music. Beautiful people are gathered around tables, the bar, the DJ. Snifters with caramel-colored brandy sweep past my nose. Katrina leads me to an oak desk piled high with books and hands me a black marker.

As soon as I sit down, a line forms. Dozens of women rush forward to say how much they love my dress. I return the compliment whatever they’re wearing. It isn’t a lie. Everyone is gorgeous. Hair smooth, makeup perfect, bodies svelte and tanned limbs. I sign each book simply, with their name and mine, because I don’t have time to write anything more. The line keeps growing. Person after person gushes how incredibly eager they are to read my book. Kitty Dunleavy, who played the youngest sibling in the short-lived hit drama about homeless children in Seattle,
The Home Brigade,
shoves her surprisingly large chest in my face (poor Stephanie with her cello lessons and her angst) and says she can’t wait to read it. A fashion designer in a white silk scarf tells me he wants to discuss a project. The editor of
Gossip
magazine promises to do an item on me. The reporter from
Variety
who broke the story about Moxie starring in the film drags over a chair and asks how it feels.

Beyond real, I say. Absolutely beyond real.

Through it all,
Access Hollywood
keeps a camera focused on me.

Lester comes up just as I’m signing the last book. “You look like you’re having fun,” he says.

I’m not sure that’s how you’d describe it.

Katrina pulls me to the side. “Lloyd’s here.”

I don’t know what this means other than I have to leave the relative safety of my table and venture further into the room. I take a deep breath and follow her to the other side of the bar, where another backdrop for photos has been set up. Lloyd Chancellor stands imposingly before it in a beautifully tailored gray sharkskin suit, his overly thick lips pressed together in a sexy pout. On his right is the statuesque blond; on the left is a statuesque brunette. Everyone looks famous.

Katrina brings me to Lloyd’s publicist and says, “This is Ricki Carstone, the author.”

The woman nods and leads me to Lloyd. “The author,” she says, positioning me between the producer and the beautiful blond.

Cameras snap as we stand there.

“Now with Lloyd and Ricki alone,” the publicist says.

More cameras snap. It’s so strange to stand there dumbly and not talk.

“Thank you for the party,” I say, keeping my eyes forward.

Snap.

“Thank you for a wonderful book,” he replies.

Snap.

“Thank you for your vision.”

Snap. Snap.

“Thank you for your appreciation.”

His publicist puts the brunette back in the picture.

After another minute, I’m released. Disconcerted, I head to the bar and order a Manhattan. It’s strong and bitter and tastes like home. I have one quiet, calm moment before—to my utter amazement—Moxie arrives.

I know the second she enters the building. Her presence has a texture, knotty and rough, and everyone feels it. Even with the music thrashing, a hush falls over the room. Her megawatt smile shining brightly, she floats across the floor in a long, slinky red dress. With her hair pulled back in a simple twist, she looks like old-fashioned Hollywood glamour, a very proper starlet who wears panties wherever she goes.

Every step she takes is record by cameras.

After a starstruck minute people return to their conversations, but they keep one eye on her. Every single person in the lounge knows where Moxie is the entire time.

I finish my drink and get another.

Katrina finds me by the bar and introduces me to Kevin Sands, the representative from Maire Haircare, which, along with Sunset Press and Sky Lab Vodka, underwrote the party. I’ve never had to schmooze a sponsor before but it comes easily. I gush about the fabulous party and how great Maire products are. I’ve never actually used any, but it doesn’t feel like lying. Graciousness is about making the other person feel comfortable. How you do that doesn’t matter.

Lloyd’s publicist taps me on the shoulder. “They want one with you, Lloyd and Moxie.”

Holy shit.

Neither Lloyd nor Moxie acknowledges my presence as I join them in front of the backdrop. I stand first next to Lloyd, then between him and Moxie, then on the other side of the superstar. Photographers call our names and say, Look here, look here. I try to follow Moxie and Lloyd, so I can be in the same pictures as them, but I don’t know if I succeed. I remember my prom stills, with all four of us looking in different directions.

Lloyd moves to the side out of the shot, and now it’s just Moxie and me. I smile woodenly and try to remember what I mapped out. I have conversation prepared. I’m ready for this moment.

But I’m not. In my head we have a one-on-one chat in a quiet room like regular people. I didn’t calculate hot lights, loud music, busy publicists, distracting photographers, enthralled spectators. Or her vapidity. Up close, she’s nothing but gorgeous smile.

“I’m Ricki Carstone,” I say softly.

She looks at me but there’s no recognition. “I wrote the book.”

Still nothing.

“
Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
”

She blinks.

It’s very possible she has no clue why she’s here.

I glance around the room and suddenly it seems very possible that nobody has a clue why they’re here. This launch is just another reason for them to dress up in their glad rags and take pictures against a backdrop. It has nothing to do with me. I’m simply the excuse Lloyd needs to get Maire to underwrite this lavish affair.

Even that, I realize, as lightbulbs flicker, is giving myself too much credit. This party is happening around me, not to me. My presence is the happy result of scheduling, not planning. The book’s the excuse. No, the
excuse
is the excuse.

Far from being disappointed, I take remarkable comfort from this realization. Everyone is here to further their own ends. Somehow adapting
J&J
to the big screen helps all these people build better lives for themselves. This is also a reassuring thought. It gives the movie a sort of a de facto inevitability.

For the first time ever, I believe we’re really, truly, actually making a movie.

Holy fucking shit.

I spend the next hour mingling with well wishers, Hollywood types and studio execs. Conversation is easy when people heap compliments on your head. I finally meet Nadia, Lloyd’s assistant who planned the event and drove Elaine crazy with twice daily telephone calls to talk about the gift bags and signage. She introduces me to Hamilton Frisk, the president of Chancery and the guy who actually gets things done. I pitch
J&J
as a television show. He laughs but doesn’t dismiss it entirely.

Through it all, I keep one eye on Moxie, fascinated by her every movement. She goes from one pose to the next without stopping. Even when she steps away from the backdrop, she continues to model. People jockey to get near her. They’re subtle but smothering, giving her just enough room to breathe in but not to exhale. Eager acolytes pose around her like she’s a cardboard cutout of herself. Maybe she is.

If this party isn’t about me, it’s not about Moxie either. She’s just another juicy morsel to feed on.

No wonder she’s flashing her hoo-ha across forty-eight languages. It’s an act of violence and aggression, like cutting your arm to make yourself bleed.

To my utter amazement, I find myself feeling sympathy for the young star. My concern for her well-being extends only as far as my own self-interest. I want her to hold on long enough to do my movie; after that I don’t care to what depths of depravity she sinks. I’m like everyone else here—out to get what I can from her and walk away.

I’m still troubled by this notion a half hour later as I order a club soda at the bar. Next to me, a man lifts a martini glass and smiles. “I really liked your book.”

With streaked blond hair, tan skin and bright gray eyes, he’s as sleek as everyone else in the room, but his untucked shirt gives him a pleasantly disheveled appearance. I smile back. “Thanks.”

He shakes his head. “No, that was sincere. I mean, I actually read your book. And I’m prepared to prove it. Ask me anything.”

His earnestness is endearing, and I play along. “All right, what’s Ada’s father’s name?”

“Carlyle,” he spits out in disgust. “That doesn’t count. It’s in the blurb on the back. Give me something challenging.”

I find it impressive enough that he’s read the back copy but think of another question. “What’s Ada’s assistant’s name?”

He pauses a moment to consider. “Trick question,” he says with a snap of his fingers. “She doesn’t have one.”

Amazed, I clap. “You
have
read it.”

“I might be the only one here who did,” he says. “If Lloyd Chancellor had he might have cast an adult in the role of Ada Clare instead of a teenager.”

“Film’s a collaborative medium, a blending of visions,” I say with complete sincerity. Repeat something enough times and it stops being bullshit. “Lloyd’s ideas will work for the big screen.”

He considers me silently for a moment, then smiles. “Sticking to the party line. Smart. I could be a reporter for all you know.”

Although the thought hadn’t occurred to me, it’s entirely possible. Or he could be a friend of Lloyd’s or a guy from the studio or even a relative of Moxie’s. “Are you?” I ask.

“Nah. Reporter requires way too much effort than I’m capable of. I’m an actor. Harold Skimpole,” he says, holding out his hand. “But that’s just for the credits. I much prefer Harry.”

As we shake hands, I examine him for signs of familiarity. I don’t think I’ve seen him in anything, but he has that put-together, famous look.

“Nope, I wasn’t in that,” he says.

I tilt my head. “In what?”

“In whatever you’re thinking I might have been in. I’m still kicking around the back lot waiting for my big break. Mostly, I go to parties and schmooze people. Like you.”

This makes me laugh. “You’re schmoozing me?”

“Yeah, can’t you tell? After complimenting your book, I’m going to tell you how beautiful you are. I’m very calculating in everything I do.”

His cynical tone is belied by the glint in his eye, and I find myself fascinated. “So what else do you do while waiting for your big break?”

He shrugs. “I write screenplays with dashing leading men that I’m perfect for. If I had any real energy, I’d write novels like you, but I’m a lazy bastard,” he says with obvious self-deprecation. One blond curl slides into his eye, and he casually brushes it aside. “You should think about screenwriting yourself.”

The idea is so silly, I laugh. This is the problem with churning out a novel: People think you’re a writer. “I don’t know about that.”

“Absolutely. It’s a great scam. See here, how long is your average book?”

I shrug. “Seventy thousand words give or take.”

“And half of them are descriptions, right? I mean, you have to describe someone walking across the room. You can’t just write, John Doe walked across the room every time he walks across the room.”

Some writers embrace repetition, but even they have to mix it up a little. “This is true,” I say, as the bartender puts my drink on a napkin that says
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
in bright blue letters under the Sunset logo. I’ll have to snag a few of those for my scrapbook.

“That’s the beauty of the screenplay,” he says enthusiastically. “You can write John Doe walked across the room every single time. And it taps out at, like, fifteen thousand words. That’s—what?—a short story for you. Now, some people will go on and on about structure being very important and impossible to master. Don’t let them intimidate you. You can pick that stuff up in no time. It’s easy. I’m telling you, screenplays are Hollywood’s dirty little secret. Minimum effort, maximum reward.”

I can’t figure out if he’s serious. People play down the importance of what they do all the time. I’ll never admit paralegaling is vital and necessary to the legal process but sometimes it very much is. And often it’s hard work requiring more than half a brain (but I’ll never admit that either).