How to Sleep with a Movie Star (22 page)

After all, why wouldn’t she have run to
Tattletale
once she had damning evidence. They’d pay her big money for a story like this. It would increase her status with them. It would likely thrill her sister Estella. And it would take me down a notch or two. I knew she hated that I was already a senior editor at twenty-six. She had always taken my success as a personal affront.

Basically, I was screwed. Obviously, Sidra hadn’t told Margaret about Cole yet, but no doubt Margaret would have been alerted to the
Tattletale
article by the time she got into the office today. After all, the name of her magazine—not to mention my face—was splashed across the cover of one of the country’s most prominent tabloids. And although Margaret pretended to be aloof and high-class, we all knew she secretly loved everything from
Star
to the
National Enquirer. Tattletale
was always spread across her desk on Tuesday mornings. How could she miss it?

I gulped back the lump in my throat as I realized that I would be fired today. Tears sprang to my eyes at the unfairness of it all.

Even worse, what would Cole think? He’d surely think I had something to do with this. I was suddenly stiff with embarrassment and disappointment. Sure, he was a liar, but now it would look like I had lied too—and to a trashy tabloid. I was sure he would think I was behind the horrid story of our alleged affair.

I looked up, realizing I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk and that passersby were looking at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was. I quickly snapped the tabloid shut and hurried back down the street to my apartment, still in panic mode.

Forty minutes later, after a tortuously long subway ride to Brooklyn—during which I’d memorized the entire article with a rising sense of panic—I was pounding on Wendy’s front door. It seemed to take her forever to answer, but she finally did, dressed in a T-shirt and flannel pants, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

“Claire!” She yawned, her eyes finally opening all the way. She reached up and smoothed down her frizzy red hair, which had developed into a cross between a halo and an Afro as she slept. “What are you doing here?”

Without a word, I thrust my copy of
Tattletale
at her. She took one look at the cover, and when she looked back at me, she was wide-awake.

“Oh no,” she said softly. “Is it as bad as it looks?”

I nodded slowly.

Wendy quickly flipped the magazine open. She gasped as she saw the two-page spread. Her eyes scanned the short article; then she looked up at me in horror.

“This is awful,” she said softly.

“I know,” I said. She took one last look at the magazine and handed it back to me. “What am I going to do?”

“I don’t know,” she said. We just looked at each other for a moment; then she straightened up, gesturing for me to follow her inside. I felt like I was in a trance.

“At least it’ll piss Tom off,” Wendy said helpfully as I followed her down the hall to the kitchen. I tried a weak smile.

“At least there’s that,” I agreed. I sighed and looked back down at the tabloid in my hands. “This is Sidra’s work.” Wendy and I sat down at her kitchen table. When she looked up at me, her face was hard.

“It has to be,” she agreed.

“Why is that woman out to get me? It isn’t enough that her sister stole my boyfriend?”

“Actually,” Wendy clarified, “her sister did you a service, if you think about it.”

“True,” I said sourly. My hands felt icy, and I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. My body was suddenly tense.

“I have to do something,” I said. Wendy looked at me and nodded. I looked down at
Tattletale,
then back at her. “But what? What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Wendy said quietly.

*

We weren’t any closer to reaching a solution when we boarded the subway to work thirty minutes later, but at least I felt better knowing that I wasn’t alone. I knew I’d have to brace myself for stares and whispers as I walked into the office, but Wendy had promised to walk in beside me and shoot deadly looks at anyone who said anything inappropriate.

“I’ll probably get fired today, you know,” I said miserably as the subway rattled on belowground. Wendy and I were wedged together between a portly woman in an oversized suit from the ’80s and a tall man who had a pointy nose and suspenders pulling his pants up above his waist. All around us, newspapers flipped open and closed as New Yorkers prepared themselves for a day at work. I tried to look down and hide my face as I noticed a few copies of
Tattletale
open in the car. Who knew so many people read that trash?

“You don’t know that,” Wendy said firmly. But her words weren’t much comfort.

When we entered the office at just past 9 a.m., all eyes were indeed on me, as I’d expected them to be. I was totally mortified. Wendy squeezed my arm gently as we began the long walk down the corridor to our adjoining cubicles.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered as copies of
Tattletale
lined our way. Dozens of pairs of eyes peered at me from over the top of the tabloid.

It was like walking into that dream where you show up at your office naked. But somehow it was worse—and I was wide-awake.

I wanted to run, screaming down the hallway that it wasn’t true, that it was all a lie. But as Wendy had reminded me, protesting too much would only make it look like I had something to hide. So instead, I settled for holding my head high and pretending I didn’t notice the stares, the whispers, the eyes burning holes in my back. Wendy kept a gentle hand on my arm until we reached my cubicle.

“Just ignore them and try to get your work done, okay?” she said softly as I sat down. I nodded. Easier said than done.

As I picked up my phone to play my voice mail, I was surprised to hear that I already had twelve messages. It was only just past nine in the morning. I blanched as I listened to the first one.

“Hello, Ms. Reilly,” the voice began. “This is Sal Martino, a producer at
Access Hollywood.
We’re very interested in your story. As you of course know, Cole Brannon is huge news right now. Call me back at 212-555-5678 as soon as you can.”

The second message was from
Hollywood Tonight.

“This is Jen Sutton from
Hollywood Tonight,
” she began in a high, chirpy voice. “Like, what a great story. We love it. Young, high-powered editor swept off her feet by Hollywood’s hottest hunk. We’d love to get Robb Robertson out there to interview you right away. You’re hot news right now, girl! Call me at 212-555-3232.”

The remaining ten messages were along the same lines. Sal Martino had called back twice. The
National Enquirer
was offering to pay me for my story.
Access Hollywood
wanted to send Billy Bush out to interview me. Page Six wanted something exclusive. Even the city’s NBC affiliate wanted in on the action, requesting that I let them send a camera crew to my apartment that night to do a live shot for the eleven o’clock news. I groaned as I hung up the phone in horror. I could practically feel my world crumbling beneath my feet.

I was about to stand up and walk over to Wendy’s cubicle when my phone rang. I grabbed it quickly.

“
Mod
magazine, Claire Reilly speaking,” I answered.

“Oh, Claire, I cannot believe I caught you in,” chirped a voice that I instantly recognized from my voice mail. “This is Jen Sutton, from
Hollywood Tonight.
” She paused, waiting for me to respond.

“Hello,” I said finally.

“Hey, girl!” Jen continued cheerfully. “I am, like, so jealous of you. This is so cool! You’re, like, one of us. A journalist, breaking all the rules to sleep with the hottest guy in Hollywood. That’s so awesome!”

“But I didn’t—” I started to protest, but Jen rambled on like she hadn’t heard me.

“Robb Robertson is so excited about this story,” she chirped. “You know Robb, right? He’s, like, our most well-known reporter, and he is so all over this story. You are so hot right now, girl.”

“But I didn’t—” Again, my protest was cut off. Did she ever stop for air?

“Everyone wants your story,” she went on, her voice climbing an octave—perhaps from lack of oxygen. “We can promise you star treatment. We’ll make you up, send you through wardrobe, the whole nine yards. It’ll be so glam.” Finally, she stopped and waited for a response. I drew in a breath.

“No,” I said. “I didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t sleep with Cole Brannon. Nothing happened, I swear.” Jen was silent for a minute.

“We’ll even let you see the questions ahead of time,” she bubbled on like she hadn’t heard what I’d said. “I know Robb seems kind of tough on TV and all, but we’ll let you see the question list, and I’ll make him promise not to spring anything on you, okay?”

“No,” I said firmly. Was she deaf? “Not okay. There’s no story! I didn’t sleep with Cole Brannon.” Jen was silent for another moment.

“Whatever you say,” she said, her voice suddenly icy. “But we’re going with the story whether you cooperate or not.”

“But how? There’s nothing to support it!”

“We’re a professional news organization,” Jen snapped back. “We’ll find something. Give me a call if you change your mind before four p.m.” Then she hung up. I was left stunned, holding the handset.

“What was that?” Wendy asked over the cubicle, looking concerned.

“
Hollywood Tonight,
” I said, looking at her in horror. “They’re going to report the story whether I cooperate or not. And I have messages from just about everyone else on my voice mail.”

“Oh no,” said Wendy softly.

“Oh yes.”

*

My heart nearly stopped when my intercom buzzed at ten o’clock. It was Cassie, snarling at me that Margaret wanted to see me immediately. Apparently my boss didn’t want to waste any time putting me in my place.

“Want me to come?” Wendy asked.

“No.” I sighed. “This is something I have to deal with myself.”

I stood up slowly from my chair and started down the hallway to meet my fate.

The Cold-Hearted Snake

M
y walk to Margaret’s office was somewhat anticlimactic, as I’d made a similar trek just last week, when I’d also been convinced I was about to be fired. Today, I felt a grim certainty that this really would be the end of the line for me.

I’d probably never work in magazines again.

Instead of keeping me waiting, Margaret had Cassie usher me in immediately.

As I sat down in one of the huge chairs facing her desk, shrinking down to the size of a child, the fear that I’d managed to push away started to return. Margaret looked down at me, perfect in a rose tailored suit, her dark hair blown out. We sat in silence for a moment. By the time she finally opened her mouth to speak to me, my heart was beating so hard I was afraid she could hear it. To my own ears, it sounded like the pounding of a battle drum, although I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t actually going to battle. It sure felt like I was.

“So I assume you’ve guessed by this point that I’ve seen this morning’s
Tattletale,
” Margaret said flatly, opening our meeting without any ado.

“Um, yes.” Boy, I was articulate this morning.

“And I assume that you, too, have seen it,” she added unnecessarily. This time, I just nodded, unable to speak, thanks to the lump that had risen in my throat.

“Uh-huh,” I finally gurgled, because she seemed like she was waiting for a verbal response before going on. She looked me carefully up and down as my heart pounded more quickly. My palms felt sweaty, and I could feel droplets of nervous sweat cropping up along my hairline. The hair on my arms was standing up, and I was trying hard not to squirm. I felt like crawling under my chair and hiding from what was to come.

“You’ve been working for me eighteen months now,” Margaret said slowly, as my heart continued to pound. “So I’m quite sure you know that when I assign a story for
Mod
magazine, I expect my writers and editors to conform to certain standards.” I nodded again.

“Uh-huh,” I gurgled again. She was silent for another moment. I could feel rivulets of sweat starting to drip down my back.

“This article in
Tattletale
would not have been my idea of how my writers and editors should be behaving, however,” she said slowly, her dark eyes boring into me. I squirmed uncomfortably.

“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry. But I swear I didn’t sleep with Cole Brannon.”

Margaret waved her slender hand dismissively. She looked like she hadn’t heard me.

“In any case, I’ve given this a lot of thought,” she said. She held up a copy of
Tattletale,
and I looked away. I closed my eyes and braced myself to be fired.

“Claire, this is pure genius,” Margaret said from somewhere off in the distance. I sat there confused for a moment, my eyes still scrunched closed. I felt sure I had become delusional or, at best, that I’d heard her wrong. But when I finally opened my eyes, blinking twice, I was greeted by a big grin splashed across Margaret’s face.

“Huh?” I asked, dumbfounded. Margaret’s smile just widened. Had she gone crazy? Maybe it was that Mad Cow disease I’d heard about.

“This is the best publicity we could have asked for, Claire!” the mad cow enthused. She tapped the cover of
Tattletale
for emphasis. “This is wonderful! When the magazine comes out next month, everyone will rush out to buy it and get the story behind your romance with Cole Brannon! It’s not what I would have expected from you, Claire, but I love it.”

I couldn’t grin back. I was flabbergasted.

“But I didn’t do anything,” I said finally. This was too bizarre to take in. I wrinkled my brow and studied her in consternation.

“Oh, Claire, no need to be modest with me,” Margaret pushed on, steamrolling right over my words. “I must admit, I am a bit disappointed at being scooped by a tabloid, but what a great way to get the
Mod
name out there. I’ve already gotten calls from some of the company’s biggest investors, and they’re all terribly intrigued.”

“Great,” I said weakly. I was baffled. I forced a wan smile.

“Do you know what this means, Claire?” Margaret asked, leaning forward hungrily. I shook my head slowly. She licked her lips and grinned at me. “It means we’re going to pass
Cosmopolitan,
Claire. For the first time in
Mod
’s history. We’re going to pass
Cosmopolitan
in circulation for our August issue. Thanks to your fling with Cole Brannon, Claire,
Mod
will fly off the newsstands.”

“But . . .” I tried to formulate a response, but my brain didn’t seem able to connect with my mouth.

“Because of your hard work, Claire, I’ve decided to give you another raise,” Margaret said, beaming. I started to protest, but Margaret interrupted me. “I wish more of my editors would take your kind of initiative, Claire. Well done.”

I opened and closed my mouth wordlessly a few times, like a fish. Then I just kept it closed as Margaret chattered on about circulation figures, flings with celebrities, and her own crush on Robert Redford that she always wished she’d pursued. I sat stunned until she was finished. I valiantly issued one last denial, then sat back mutely as she rolled over that one too, dismissing it with a tinkling laugh. I was completely flabbergasted by the time she ushered me enthusiastically out of her office, asking me to keep up the good work.

*

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” Wendy rushed out of her cubicle to embrace me in the hallway as I walked back to my desk like a zombie. I didn’t respond right away, because I was still in shock. Wendy took my silence and my battle-weary demeanor to mean the worst. “Oh my gosh, she fired you, didn’t she? God, Claire, I am so pissed off. I’m going in there right now to quit myself.” She looked angry and defensive, and she reached down to give me another tight hug.

“No,” I finally said. I felt like I was walking in a fog.

“No what?” asked Wendy confused. “Hey, are you okay?” I didn’t answer. I looked down and then back at Wendy.

“No, I didn’t get fired,” I said finally. I watched her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“What happened, then?” she asked. The answer to this still confused me.

“I got another raise,” I said slowly. “I don’t know what just happened.”

*

By noon I’d stopped answering my phone, because every single call I had taken was from a reporter or a producer looking for the “real” scoop on my love affair with Cole Brannon.

I realized by lunchtime that the calls were much more than just an annoyance. None of the dozens of people I’d heard from today took me seriously. In the space of a few hours, I’d somehow gone from being a reporter worthy of respect—even if you didn’t believe
Mod
was a bastion of great journalism—to a common tramp who was bent on climbing the ladder of celebrity, who’d gotten lucky by landing Cole Brannon on the first rung.

It was my biggest fear come true. I had always worried, being the youngest senior editor at the magazine, that people would think I was sleeping my way to the top. It was certainly a pattern that had repeated itself on other rungs of the ladder at our magazine and other women’s and entertainment magazines, many times over. In other areas of the corporate world, women sometimes made their way to the top by sleeping with their bosses. In the magazine world, it was just as effective to sleep with someone powerful or prominent outside the company—an actor, a politician, a rock star—and let them pull the strings for you.

And now, the world was sure it was true in my case. I had been so careful to always be and appear appropriate. And now it looked like I’d just climbed the ladder with the help of Cole Brannon—instead of my own hard work.

During lunch, which I took alone at my desk after silencing the ringer on my office phone and turning off my cell phone, I thought about Cole Brannon and wondered whether he’d seen today’s
Tattletale
yet.

He was probably furious at me. I chewed nervously on the nail of my index finger. He would be mortified. He didn’t date women like me. He certainly didn’t sleep with women like me. And now he probably thought that I’d lured him into the bathroom just to get a good shot for the cover of
Tattletale
.

I shouldn’t have cared, of course. He had lied to me and was probably off somewhere sleeping with a married actress. But I couldn’t let it go.

Breathing hard, I pulled open my desk and rummaged through until I found the notebook I had used as a backup when I interviewed Cole last Saturday. I flipped through until I found the cell phone number he’d given me. The one I swore to myself I’d never use. But this was an emergency. I had to tell him the
Tattletale
story wasn’t my doing.

Nervously, I dialed the number, noticing abstractly that he still had a 617 area code—from Boston—instead of a 323 from L.A., or a 646 from Manhattan, as I would have expected.

As the phone rang twice, time seemed to slow down. I could feel my heart pounding, my palms sweating, my mouth going dry. Maybe I shouldn’t be calling him. Maybe I should hang up.

“Hello?” a sleepy female voice answered midway through the third ring. I was too surprised to say anything for a moment. I looked down at the phone to see if I’d dialed correctly. Indeed, I had. “Hello?” said the voice again, sounding a bit perturbed.

“Uh, hello,” I finally said. “I’m looking for Cole.” Why was a woman answering his phone? More important, why was it making me feel so jealous?

“Who’s calling?” snapped the woman on the other end.

“This is Claire Reilly,” I said timidly. There was silence on the other end. Finally, the woman laughed, low and deep in her throat.

“Well, if it isn’t Claire Reilly,” the woman said with what sounded like an edge of anger. “Claire, this is Ivana Donatelli. Cole’s publicist. I’m sure you know who I am.”

I gulped and started to sweat. What was she doing there? Why was she answering his cell phone? Maybe I was right, and the
Tattletale
photos of her and Cole together
had
meant something. Now I felt like an idiot. It would look like I was calling him because I was infatuated or something.

“Hi, Ivana,” I said, trying to sound as friendly and innocuous as possible. “I was just calling about—”

“
Tattletale.
” Ivana completed my sentence for me.

“Yes, I—”

She cut me off.

“I was going to call you about that too,” she said smoothly. “But I see you’ve beat me to it.” I couldn’t read her tone of voice. It was very even, not hinting at what she was thinking.

“I was just calling to apologize to Cole,” I stammered. “I swear, I had nothing to do with this. Nothing happened with me and Cole, and I wanted him to know that—”

She cut me off sharply again.

“Cole and I just got out of bed, Claire,” Ivana said smoothly. My heart dropped in my chest. “He’s in the shower, so I’m afraid he can’t take your call at the moment. Besides, I think you’ve had quite enough to do with Cole Brannon.”

“But . . .” I started to protest weakly. My God, they
were
sleeping together.

“I believe he’ll draw whatever conclusions he will about you and your moral character,” she continued smoothly. “As for me, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from contacting either one of us in the future.”

“No, Ivana, you don’t understand,” I said quickly. “I swear, I had nothing to do with this. Let me explain . . .”

“No, let
me
explain,” she said, her voice suddenly taking on a menacing tone. “I am disgusted with you. I am disgusted at your willingness to take such blatant advantage of my generosity in granting you an interview with Cole. You’d better hope to God that your little story in
Mod
is perfect, or I’ll have my lawyers on your ass faster than you can imagine.”

“But—”

“Now you listen to me,” she said, cutting me off, her voice slow and deliberate. “Never call me again. Never contact Cole again. I can’t imagine a reporter behaving more unprofessionally, and I am disgusted by you. If you ever contact either of us, I will make it my mission to make your life miserable, understood?”

“But . . .”

“Cole Brannon would never look twice at a woman like you,” she hissed. “Good day, Ms. Reilly.” She hung up the phone before I could say another word. I sat stunned for a good few minutes. I had no idea what else to do.

Cole Brannon hated me. I was sure of it. And he
was
sleeping with Ivana Donatelli after all. I could hardly believe it. I had just started to believe that it was possible he was telling the truth. But I should have known better.

I fought back the tears that welled in my eyes. But eventually, they overflowed. There’s only so much one person can take in a single morning.

*

At just past 4 p.m., after a dozen more voice mails from various reporters and producers had pushed me beyond the limits of my patience, I did what I should have done a week before. I stood up with all the fury I had accumulated over the course of the day, and, without saying anything to Wendy or anyone else, I marched directly to the fashion department to find Sidra.

“Well, look who’s here,” she purred as I turned the corner into her office. She was wearing a black pantsuit and five-inch heels—she had her long legs stretched out, her feet propped up on her desk, when I stormed in.