How to Sleep with a Movie Star (24 page)

“You really think so?”

“Enough is enough,” said Wendy firmly. “This is definitely defamation of character, or libel, or slander, or one of those things. I’m sure of it.”

I looked at her for a moment. My mind was spinning.

“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll do it.” I was quiet for another moment as I realized what else I had to do. I stood up and looked sadly at Wendy. “Now I have to go quit.”

“Me too,” said Wendy. She threw an arm around me. “At least we can be unemployed together.”

“You don’t have to quit!” I exclaimed.

“But I want to,” she replied instantly. “This was a really terrible thing for them to do, and I can’t work there anymore knowing they’d treat you like this.”

We were silent during the elevator ride up to the forty-sixth floor. I don’t know what was going through Wendy’s mind. I was trying to keep mine on the task at hand, but it kept drifting dangerously back to Cole, and I realized with a sinking feeling that if he didn’t hate me already after the
Tattletale
mess, this
Mod
article would certainly seal the deal.

What was worse, he would never know. He’d probably always think I had set out to hurt him. It looked like I had used him to get ahead. He had trusted me, for whatever reason, and taken care of me in a way that no man had before or since. And look what had happened to him because of it.

“I’ll let you go first,” Wendy said softly as we stepped off the elevator and through the reception doors. “Good luck,” she added as we rounded the corner. She handed the rolled copy of
Mod
to me.

“Thanks,” I said under my breath. We turned another corner and came to Margaret’s outer office, where Margaret’s assistant Cassie sat smirking at me, a copy of the August issue in her hand.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” she said coolly. I ignored her.

“Is Margaret in?” I asked.

“Yes, but she’s on the phone,” Cassie said, but I was already blowing past her on the way to Margaret’s pretentious oak doors. “Hey, wait, you can’t go in there like that . . .” Cassie yelled behind me as I yanked Margaret’s doors open and stepped inside.

“Claire!” Margaret exclaimed as I slammed the doors behind me, tense with anger. She said something quickly into the phone and hung up. “Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” she said. She sounded a bit nervous, and I didn’t blame her. “Have a seat,” she added, gesturing graciously to the chairs in front of her desk.

“I think I’ll stand,” I said slowly, clenching my left fist and squeezing the copy of
Mod
hard with my right hand. Margaret looked from the magazine to me. She opened and shut her mouth wordlessly. Silence hung thick and heavy over us while she squirmed.

“Um, good news!” she said brightly, trying to break the uncomfortable stillness that had descended. “That was the president of the company. Circulation is already shooting through the roof. The issue is creating major buzz. We’ve already gotten calls from CNN, Fox News, the
New York Times,
the
Los Angeles Times
, and Reuters. This is huge. Congratulations, Claire!”

She looked at me hopefully, awaiting a response. It was clear from her expression that she wanted me to be as excited as she was, to spring forward and congratulate her. But as I continued to glare, she started to squirm again. It seemed to dawn on her that I wouldn’t be popping any bottles of celebratory bubbly with her today.

“Why?” I asked finally. I’d had it. She looked at me in confusion for a moment.

“Why did circulation go up?” she asked, tittering nervously. “Well, Claire, your article was just wonderful, and it’s the talk of the town, and—” I cut her off.

“No,” I said slowly. “I’m asking why you did this to me.”

She looked worried again.

“Why did I do what?” she asked, sounding confused.

“This,” I said. I held up the magazine and jabbed my finger at the screaming headline below Cole’s picture. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Why, Claire,” Margaret said innocently. “I thought you’d be pleased.” I simmered in silence for a moment, formulating my next words carefully.

“You thought I’d be
pleased
?” I asked, nearly choking on the last word. “Margaret, this is a
lie.
You’ve libeled me. You’ve libeled Cole Brannon. There’s no excuse for this.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Margaret weakly. Concern appeared to be creeping onto her face. “Sidra told me you’d be a little upset, but she assured me it was true.”

“But I didn’t sleep with Cole Brannon,” I barked.

Margaret laughed. She actually laughed.

“Claire, dear,” she said patronizingly. Her artificially light tone wasn’t doing enough to mask the nervous expression she still wore on her face. “Is that what this is about? I know you’ve slept with Cole Brannon. You don’t have to lie to me about
that,
dear. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I didn’t sleep with Cole Brannon,” I said, drawing each word slowly out. “I didn’t shack up with him. I didn’t kiss him. I didn’t even bat my damned eyes at him. Do you understand that? I can sue
Mod
for millions. Do you understand that you can’t do this to someone?”

The moment I said the word “sue,” all the color had drained from Margaret’s face. She suddenly looked terrified and uncertain.

“Claire, you can’t be serious,” she said uneasily. She had started to tremble, and the false British accent had slipped away. “Sidra told me she caught you with Cole Brannon in your apartment. That you’d slept with him.”

“I’ve told you, time and time again, that I haven’t,” I said firmly.

“Yes, I know,” said Margaret quickly. “But I thought . . . well, I assumed . . . that you were just being modest, or that you were worried about your job. Besides, by the time it came up, because of that
Tattletale
thing, the magazine was already at the printer.” She tilted her head and looked at me in nervous confusion. “Are you really telling me you didn’t sleep with him?”

She looked genuinely surprised. For a moment, I felt almost sorry for her. She was way out of her league. It hadn’t even occurred to her that the article could be a lie. She had known I’d be mortified, but she hadn’t cared.

But now that she knew she was in potential legal hot water—very hot water—she looked like a frightened child.

“I’m really telling you I didn’t sleep with him,” I said softly. She looked shocked and scared. “Which I would have told you again that day if you’d bothered to ask,” I added.

“But Sidra said . . .” she protested weakly, looking sick.

“Sidra wants the executive editor position—not to mention the salary bump and the power that go with it—more than anything in the world,” I said quietly. “This was how she planned to get it. Look, circulation is through the roof. And it looks like it’s because of a story she edited.”

“But . . .” Margaret’s voice trailed off and she stared at me. “But you wrote this article.”

“No,” I said firmly. “I wrote a profile of Cole Brannon. Sidra completely rewrote it by combining it with that stupid one-night-stand article you assigned.” It was the rudest I’d ever been to Margaret. I had always longed for the day that I could tell her how ridiculous she and her assignments were. I just never thought it would happen like this.

“No, that can’t be,” Margaret whispered, looking horrified. I stared her down.

“I’ve got the original—the version that I signed off on—saved on my computer and printed out in my files,” I said icily. “I’ll get it for you if you need to see it.”

“No,” Margaret said finally. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I believe you. But why would she do this to you?”

“Sidra has hated me since the day you hired me as a senior editor,” I said, giving her the short version. “On top of that, Sidra’s sister was sleeping with my boyfriend. Sidra came by to pick up her sister’s things one morning, in time to see Cole Brannon in my apartment. He was there because he knew I’d caught my boyfriend cheating on me, and he was making sure I was okay. He’s a nice guy. I’ve never slept with him. I’ve never even kissed him. Sidra knows that.

“But it gave her the perfect idea for how to get promoted,” I continued. “After all, she’s been lying about sleeping with George Clooney for years. It wasn’t a major leap for her to come up with this and pull all the right strings to make the lie sound real.”

I paused, and Margaret stared.

“But why would she do this to
me
?” she asked in a very small voice. I could tell that she believed my explanation about Cole, at long last, and was now scrambling to save her own hide. But it was too little too late. I shrugged and thought about it for a moment.

“She doesn’t care about you or anyone else,” I said slowly. “She wants to be the executive editor, and she’ll do whatever it takes to get there.”

“No, that can’t be possible,” Margaret whispered, looking frightened and pathetic. But I knew from her expression that she didn’t believe her own words. It was, in fact, very possible.

“I’m suing the company,” I said, ignoring the horrified expression that crossed Margaret’s face. I suddenly felt calm. “And I’m going to sue Sidra directly, too.” The plan was crystallizing as I said the words. Margaret’s flat eyes flickered a bit. “You’re going to have to testify against her, because it needs to be clear that this was her doing,” I said firmly. “Otherwise, you’re going to be the only one who’s in trouble for this.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Margaret mumbled. I felt very weary.

“I’m going home now,” I said finally. I dropped the magazine on her desk. It was over. Just like that. Everything I’d worked for.

“Claire, I don’t know what to say,” Margaret said hastily, trying to smooth things over. Her eyes shone with pathetic desperation. I knew she was terrified of losing her job, which was probably Sidra’s plan all along. “I can make it up to you. I swear. How about a promotion? Managing editor, maybe?”

I shook my head slowly.

“I quit, Margaret,” I said slowly. “There’s no way in the world I’d work with this magazine again.”

I walked calmly through the big oak doors and found Wendy standing there.

“Did you do it?” she whispered. “Did you quit?”

I nodded. Wendy stuck her head inside the office, where Margaret still stood, shell-shocked.

“I quit too!” she singsonged. Margaret just looked at her with eyes that had already glazed over, and Wendy pulled the doors closed behind her. Cassie stared at us with an open mouth.

“Oh, and you?” Wendy addressed Cassie like she was an afterthought. She grinned at me and looked back at the slack-jawed assistant. “When Margaret loses her job, which is a pretty sure thing once Claire files a lawsuit against the magazine, you’re going to be out of a job, too. Everyone here knows you’re a worthless suck-up. All those times you’ve deliberately misplaced copy that we’ve sent to Margaret, all those times you’ve conveniently forgotten to pass important messages along to assistant editors, all those times you’ve smirked at editorial assistants and told them it didn’t matter how hard they worked because you’d be promoted before they were . . . Well, don’t think any of us will forget about that. I give you three weeks before you’re crawling back to your daddy.”

I laughed as Cassie’s eyes widened.

“But it was quite a pleasure working with you, Cassie,” Wendy added brightly. I laughed again.

“All right, that does it,” Wendy said cheerfully, turning back to me. She patted me on the back. “Let’s clear out our desks and go get a drink.”

I smiled at Wendy. I may have lost my boyfriend, my job, and my reputation, but at least I still had the greatest friend in the world.

Actual Malice

M
y whole world had just come crashing down, and I didn’t have the faintest idea of how to rebuild it.

I felt numb as I sat alone in the backseat of a taxi headed down Broadway. Wendy had stayed behind in midtown to meet Jean Michel, but after a few drinks, all I wanted was to go home.

I closed my eyes and let the world swim around me as I pressed my forehead against the cool window.

As the cab rolled on, I suddenly knew what I had to do. I had to call Cole Brannon and apologize. For everything. For all the things I’d said and done. I needed to tell him that I hadn’t written the article in
Mod.
That I hadn’t had anything to do with the article in
Tattletale.
That I’d made a horrible mistake by pretending he didn’t mean anything to me. That my sense of professional ethics had been useless and misguided. That I was basically the biggest fool on the planet.

As soon as I walked into the privacy of my apartment, I dialed Cole’s cell number with trembling fingers and held the phone up to my ear.

It rang once, then an automated message told me that the number was no longer in service, blaring in my ear.

My eyes filled with tears. I didn’t know why he had disconnected his cell number. Had it been because of me? Because he hated me so much after the
Tattletale
and
Mod
stories that he never wanted to hear my voice again? That was ludicrous. But I had no idea how else to reach him.

I sat there for a second and considered what to do. The only connection I had to Cole was through Ivana, his publicist. But the last time I called, I’d caught them in bed together. The thought made me sick, but I knew I didn’t have a choice. I
had
to get word to Cole that the
Mod
thing hadn’t been my responsibility.

I flipped through the notepad from Cole’s interview to find Ivana’s cell number, which she had given to Margaret when she set up the interview between me and Cole.

She answered the phone after the first ring.

“Ivana?” I said timidly. There was silence on the other end. “It’s Claire Reilly, from
Mod.
”

The silence, almost stifling, dragged on.

“Claire Reilly?” she asked finally. Her voice sounded cold and shaken. “I thought I told you never to contact me again.”

“I know,” I said softly, trying not to react to her words. I had to reach Cole. Even if it meant swallowing my pride. Come to think of it, I didn’t have much pride left anymore, did I? “I was calling because—”

She cut me off.

“You bitch,” she said flatly. My eyes widened, and I sucked in a deep breath as she continued. “I hope you don’t think you can get away with this. Cole Brannon would never sleep with a woman like you.”

“I know,” I said miserably. Boy, did I know. “I didn’t . . .”

“Fuck off,” she said coldly. Then she hung up, and I was left staring at the phone.

I slowly set down the handset and sat there numbly for a moment. Okay. That had gone a bit worse than expected. I didn’t know what else to do, only that I had to get to Cole.

I rummaged through the box of papers I’d grabbed from my desk at
Mod
until I came across the press release for
Forever Goodbye,
his upcoming movie due out Labor Day Weekend, which had the name and number of the film’s press rep at the bottom. Thankfully, it was an L.A. number. It would only be 3:30 there.

I dialed and asked for the publicist, Leeza Smith. I was connected immediately.

“Leeza? This is Claire Reilly, from
Mod
magazine,” I said, realizing only after the words were out of my mouth that I actually was no longer from
Mod
magazine. That was a strange thought.

My introduction was greeted by a long silence.

“I saw the magazine today,” Leeza finally said, stiffly. “The August issue,” she added, as if I hadn’t understood that the first time. I cleared my throat.

“Then you’ll understand why I need to get in touch with Cole Brannon,” I said. I felt stupid the moment the words were out. I opened my mouth to issue a denial, to tell Leeza that I hadn’t written the article, that I’d never slept with Cole Brannon or even claimed to, but she was already laughing.

Her peals of laughter were high-pitched and squeaky, and she sounded almost hysterical. I could feel myself turning red as I waited for her to finish. When her laughter finally died down, I started to protest, but she cut me off.

“Are you delusional?” she asked sharply. She laughed again. “Do you really think anyone is going to allow you near Cole Brannon again?” She was still laughing as she hung up.

I fought back tears as I put the handset back in its cradle. I tore the press release into little pieces and angrily shoved them into the trash can next to my desk. It was worse than I thought. I shook my head and forced myself to think. I had to get to Cole. I had to tell him that the
Mod
story wasn’t my doing.

“Think, Claire, think,” I mumbled to myself. Then it hit me. Jay, the bartender. Cole’s friend from college who worked at Metro. He’d know where to find Cole. Better yet, he knew who I was, and he knew what had happened that night at his bar. He had to have realized that I hadn’t slept with Cole. I hadn’t even been conscious.

I hailed a taxi outside, asking the driver to hurry. Still, it took us twenty-five minutes to fight through traffic to Eighth Avenue and Forty-eighth, where I immediately rushed inside Metro.

It was much more crowded than it had been the last time I’d been there. It was, after all, the middle of the week, and 7:30 meant the end of happy hour crowds. I pushed my way to the bar and quickly looked for Cole’s friend. I didn’t see him.

“What can I get you?” asked a tall, lanky bartender as I looked desperately around.

“I’m looking for Jay!” I said quickly, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Jay who?”

“Jay.” I paused. I knew Cole had mentioned his last name. I racked my brain. “Jay Cash, I think. He’s a bartender here.”

“Oh,” he said. “I don’t know. I’m new, hang on.” The lanky bartender went and whispered something to a short blonde, who came over once she’d finished pouring a martini.

“You’re looking for Jay?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Please, do you know where I can find him?” I knew I sounded desperate and probably looked crazy. The girl hesitated before shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, but he quit about a month ago. I don’t know where he went.”

“Do you know where he lives? Or how to find him? Or anything?”

“’Fraid not.” The bartender shrugged. “I think he’s opening his own bar or something.”

I thanked her and rushed home, where I flipped open the white pages and dialed every Jay Cash in the phone book. None of them was Cole’s friend Jay.

So this was it. I had exhausted my options. I had no other way to reach Cole Brannon.

*

The next day I visited Dean Ryan, a media lawyer, and was encouraged to see his eyes widen when I told him the whole story about the
Mod
article. He said this sounded like an airtight libel case, because Sidra’s work met the definition—a false statement of fact about a person that is printed or otherwise broadcast to others—without a shadow of doubt.

“If Mr. Brannon wants to sue, he shouldn’t have a problem either,” Dean told me as he looked over his notes. “Public figures, such as government officials or, in Mr. Brannon’s case, celebrities, have to prove actual malice—that is, that the defendant knew the statement was false, or recklessly disregarded the truth. If he can prove that Ms. DeSimon knew she was lying, which shouldn’t be too difficult, then he, too, should have an airtight case against both her and the publishing company.

“Your case will be even easier,” Dean said, his eyes gleaming. “In general, private individuals such as yourself must show only that the defendant was negligent in order to prove libel. Ms. DeSimon was not only negligent, but she obviously acted with malice and complete disregard for the truth. There isn’t an attorney in the world who could successfully defend against a case like this. If you’ll excuse the expression, Ms. Reilly, you’ve got both Ms. DeSimon and
Mod
magazine by the balls.”

Dean looked up at me and smiled, his bleached teeth sparkling in the fluorescence of his office.

“You’re going to be a very rich woman,” he said.

As I left Dean Ryan’s office, I felt a bit better—but not as much as I had expected to. While I felt I was doing
something,
it didn’t help me out that much. I didn’t care much about the money. I’d already lost my job and my reputation. No amount of cash would bring that back. But I supposed that a successful lawsuit would probably mean the end of Sidra’s career too—and that, at least, gave me a bit of satisfaction.

*

In the next few weeks, I tried to forget Cole Brannon. I really did. It seemed like I would have enough on my mind that there wouldn’t be room to worry about him, but of course that wasn’t true. The fact that my entire life had seemed to crumble before my eyes did little to assuage the guilt I felt about embarrassing Cole.

Wendy got a job as an assistant chef at a new upscale restaurant called Swank that was opening in the East Village, and I knew she was thrilled.

“I don’t miss working in magazines at all,” she told me after her first week. “I can’t believe I stuck it out there as long as I did.”

“I thought you liked the job,” I said.

“I did,” she said. “But I didn’t love it. This, I love.”

I had less luck as I hit the job trail, which was starting to worry me. I had enough money to cover August’s rent, and having Wendy as a roommate certainly lessened the financial burden, but I wouldn’t be able to pay September’s rent if I didn’t find something soon.

I spent hours each day perusing the job listings on mediabistro.com, scanning the classified ads in the
New York Times,
and calling the major publishers, asking about openings. I sent out several résumés every day and followed up with phone calls.

Everywhere I turned, everyone seemed to know who I was. Did anyone
not
read
Mod
? The answer was always embarrassingly the same.

“We prefer to hire people with better reputations,” I would sometimes hear. Or, “The name Claire Reilly might carry a connotation we don’t want our magazine to have.” And those were the people who bothered to explain. I had a few people hang up when I called and gave my name. A few simply laughed me off the phone. One human resources director actually did return my call—but only to ask for the real lowdown about how Cole Brannon was in bed. I was humiliated.

Then the editor in chief of
Chic,
the newest entry into the crowded women’s magazine field, called and asked me to come by her office the next day. I arrived ten minutes early and was shown in thirty minutes late.

“So you’re Claire Reilly,” announced Maude Beauvais as her assistant shut the door behind me. She was in her late fifties and looked like she should have been wearing a housecoat and slippers rather than the tailored suit (two sizes too small) she was squeezed into. Her hair was bleached an unnatural shade of blond, and her makeup was caked on so thick that I wondered how she could move her face beneath it. She wasn’t at all what I’d expected as the figurehead of a trendy new magazine. But she said she might have an opportunity for me, so I was determined to listen with an open mind.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Beauvais,” I said, stepping forward and shaking her hand.

“And you,” she said with a nod. She gestured for me to sit down, and she did the same. “Call me Maude.” I nodded, waiting for her to begin.

“Because you’ve had several years of experience covering celebrity events, I thought we’d give you a try here at
Chic,
” Maude said as soon as we were both sitting down. “That is, if you’re interested.”

“Yes, yes, of course I am,” I said. I probably sounded too eager. But I couldn’t help it. I was. Impending poverty will do that to you.

“I understand you’re having difficulty getting hired elsewhere,” she said bluntly.

“Yes, ma’am,” I admitted. Great. The whole journalism world knew I was a loser.

“That’s why I’m hoping you’ll be open to my offer. I don’t have the budget to hire another staffer right now, but I need someone experienced who can cover celebrity events. You know, press conferences here and there, charity events, things like the Grammys and the MTV Movie Awards.”

I gulped back my disappointment and nodded.

“I’d like to hire you as a stringer, to do just that,” she said. “We’ll pay you twenty-five dollars an hour, and I can promise you at least ten hours of work per week. Most weeks, it will be closer to fifteen or twenty hours.”

“Okay,” I said timidly. I’d never been a stringer. I’d always had a salaried job, and I knew from dealing with the freelancers I’d overseen at
Mod
that the life of a stringer was often difficult and the pay was spotty. But spotty pay was better than no pay. “I’ll do it,” I said. It wouldn’t be work that I loved. I liked to write insightful pieces about public figures, not silly red-carpet fluff.