I'm Glad About You (41 page)

L
AST
S
TOP
CAME
and then it went. All the wrangling with the studio had taken its toll; the air of trouble had settled on the movie itself, and the critics generally categorized the whole enterprise as an entertaining mess which didn’t live up to the fun of its premise. Lars was lightly rebuked for making yet another cynical action movie. On its opening weekend the movie cleared forty-two million domestically and a hundred and twelve worldwide, which was considered a disappointment for the studio and an embarrassment for Gordon.

And then an article appeared on an entertainment website, a scandalous exposé of the real reason that the promise of
Last Stop
had floundered and then fallen into chaos. The fault, apparently, lay with Alison Moore.

It was a good old-fashioned character assassination. According to the blogger—who Alison had never heard of—the reviews missed the truth of the matter, which was that Alison’s lack of talent and experience was actually what sank the film. Alison was an arrogant, narcissistic flirt who thought that everyone was in love with her. After failing publicly to seduce the movie’s star, Colin Cudahy—pictured with his wife and their newborn baby—she tried to seduce every one of the young bucks playing the black-op sidekicks. One of those young bucks was anonymously quoted as saying, “It was embarrassing! She was in a relationship with Lars—who got her the job—and then she was all over the rest of us. We didn’t know
what
she thought she was doing.” Someone in hair and makeup reported that Alison was completely unprofessional, always showing up late and eating up hours in the makeup trailer, and that it was impossible to please her with regard to her costumes. “She totally thought the movie was about her,” this person whispered. “We were all like—sorry, isn’t this your first film?” Of course the wig incident was recounted, and new, more damning stories were told. One nameless source described how Alison endlessly tried to suck up attention from the press. “Anytime there were reporters around, you could lay money that she would be falling all over them,” this person claimed. “Colin was really nice about it. This was a big picture for him, he’s a producer on it! And actually they did not want to hire her but he said no, she’s the one. But I don’t think he’ll ever work with her again.” An unnamed studio executive delivered the coup de grace. “Her performance was just bad. Why do you think they did so many recuts? The whole editing process turned into a hash.”

And so a sloppy piece of so-called journalism sprinkled with the unholy perfume of insider gossip was blasted onto the internet, where it was picked up and re-reported and retweeted tens and hundreds and thousands of times.

Alison first heard about the story from Ryan. “We need to talk about a publicity thing that’s come up,” he said.

“What kind of publicity thing?” Alison asked. She assumed it was some red carpet event, a gala or a screening, some party that they wanted to sprinkle with young celebs.

“It’s actually this thing that’s just come up on the internet. Nothing serious, but I don’t want you hearing about it the wrong way.”

“A thing?”

“A story. It’s just a lot of very negative stuff about
Last Stop.
You need to be prepared, there’s going to be some noise coming at you.”

“The movie’s been out for three weeks, isn’t that ancient history?”

“Absolutely, that is the position to take. The whole thing is stupid, and no one’s even heard of the reporter, who is clearly some sort of complete hack. And it’s on a website no one’s ever heard of. It will come and go, you really have to just ignore it.”

“Why, does it say mean things about me?” Alison managed to make this sound like a joke even though she already knew this was not going to be funny. Ryan continued to speak in a voice that was ever more soothing.

“It’s just not anything you need to worry about. And I seriously don’t want you reading it. You have nothing to gain from even giving it that much of your attention, Alison. Anyone who calls you about it, you direct them to me, or the studio’s publicity people. You should not even be answering your phone for the next week. Let it go to voice mail, and then send anything that needs attention to me.”

“What did they say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Who said it?”

“No one would talk on the record.”

“So they printed a bunch of shit about me and didn’t talk to me, and I don’t even get to know who is saying what?”

“Alison, it is going to disappear by the end of the week. Just turn off your cell phone and let us handle it.”

Alison felt sick. The lead-up to the release of the film had been grueling enough, and now this? So many days and nights and months going to screening after screening, giving hundreds of interviews to reporters who all asked the same questions, being handed off from one underling to another, makeup artists constantly in your face, stylists flinging you in and out of dresses, before-parties, after-parties, everyone drinking too much champagne, waking up with a headache every morning, half crippled from those fucking shoes they always insisted that you wear, Lars no longer speaking to her,
he never even bothered to break up
, even the fun of the gang from the set evaporated because all the guys were already moving on to other jobs—
plenty of parts out there for boys
, she was told,
it’s different what you’re trying to do, you’re a leading lady, that’s a much bigger deal, they’re going to wait to see how the movie does, then the parts for you will start rolling in.
That promise was still out there,
you’ll be able to do whatever you want
, but every time she made it through one obstacle course another magically appeared.
Wait until the movie comes out, and we’ll see how you do.
Well, she did just fine, the movie tanked but that wasn’t her fault. And movie offers did come in but the payoff was so much smaller than she had been promised. A couple of indie films that were all right but little more, and none of them had their financing. When she pointed this out to Ryan, he laughed. Nothing, apparently, had its financing anymore. The movie industry was in the toilet! Nothing decent is getting made!
So why would I want to be a movie star?
she wondered. She knew better than to ask.

And now this. There was nothing else for it; she turned on her computer and read the story trashing her and her talent and her work ethic and everything about her—everything Alison Moore was or ever hoped to be.

Seth knew about the piece a full twenty minutes before Alison did. Fat Schaeffer had texted him, in a rage.

some bitch on line is trying to take down our alison
, Schaeffer wrote. He was a terrific writer, but Schaeffer was one of those dudes who had forgotten how to punctuate. Seth had thought it an annoying affectation until he started doing it himself and realized how much faster you could write if you didn’t worry your little head about capitalization or commas.

????
Seth responded.

Schaeffer sent him the link.

The thing was a hatchet job. It was so poorly written and so generally mean-spirited it was surprising that even a third-rate website would print crap like that. The piece itself was sandwiched between some pretty marginal stuff—funny photos of pets, nonsensical lists about
The Ten Ugliest Celebrities! Who Wore It Worst?
Talk about the detritus of culture. And there was Alison, right in the middle, taking it on the chin.
Where does shit like this come from?
he wondered. Once asked, it wasn’t actually all that difficult to muddle through that one; all you had to do was run down the list of who benefited. Not Colin, not Lars; they had seen worse flops and publicity disasters in their day;
Last Stop
to them was a blip on the radar. One of the producers? Gordon? Unlikely that he would dirty his hands with something like this but it wasn’t out of the question. It reeked of vindictive cunning, someone who knew how to needlessly put attack dogs in motion. And this writer, whoever she was, had smelled her chance. What the fuck. Shit like this happens.

His iPhone blipped. Schaeffer again.

did you read it?

it’s bullshit
, Seth typed.

i fucking want to kill that bitch who the fuck is she anyway

never heard of her

i wiki’d her, she’s got like two bylines what a bitch who would talk to this person?

it’s fucked up for sure but stay out of it schaeffer it will go away.
This should have been unnecessary advice, but Schaeffer was an animal when he got worked up.

how is alison she must feel like shit
, Schaeffer wrote.

haven’t seen her since la when they were shooting that piece of shit, she’s in the demimonde
, Seth replied. He didn’t hit send. That wasn’t what Schaeffer was asking; he wasn’t
asking
for gossip, a tricked-up bit of information about an actress in a muddle. Alison liked Schaeffer for a reason. He was all heart, that guy. Peculiar, for a gossip columnist on the internet. Unheard of, even. Seth deleted his response and wrote another.

i’ll get back to you after i call her
, he typed.
i’ll let her know you were worried and that you think this reporter is a douchebag piece of shit
.

douchebag piece of shit is too nice
, Schaeffer wrote.

If she had any sense at all, she wouldn’t be answering her cell phone, and emails would be off limits too. He tried both anyway, as well as texting.
Schaeffer says douchebag piece of shit is too nice
, he wrote.

He heard back within ten minutes: emoticon heart, emoticon tear.

where r u
, he wrote.

She texted him her address and an hour later he was at her door. “You brought food, thank God. Not that I can eat it. Eating? Food? What a stupid idea, EATING.” She was rattled, rattling; he wanted to reach out and hug her, but she seemingly could not stop moving. “You know what happens to you if you eat like, one bite of carbs? You look like a whale, seriously. That happens! Get that away from me. They’ll say I’m fat. In addition to everything else I’ll be fat after starving myself for five years. This person who is writing complete shit about me online will say I have no talent and I’m fat.”

“You shouldn’t have read it.”

“Somebody is writing complete shit about me online and I’m not allowed to read it? Someone who I never met
I never met this person
and she’s writing terrible things, LIES about me and
publishing
them, but it’s my fault if I read it?”

“Hey hey—”

“Don’t tell me, hey hey. I didn’t do anything except wake up this morning, and now I find out that my career is
over—
”

“Your career isn’t over.”

“What do you know. You’re one of them—”

“HEY!”

“You are, you make excuses for all this bullshit.”

“I’m not making excuses! Would you relax?”

“I don’t
want
to relax. They’re all LIES and they’re printed out there, and who would do that? Who would say those things? Did she make them up?”

“It’s doubtful she made them up.”

“I never—did—any of that—”

“You threw the wig.”

“What is the big deal about the stupid wig? God, the shit they did to me every day, the shit I’ve been putting up with for years, how come nobody reports about the bullshit
they
do? What kind of reporting is this?”

“It’s not reporting,” he sighed. He hated having to explain the world to this actress who, God help her, seemed to still have something of an innocent heart.

“Can I sue? I want to sue.”

“It’s not worth suing.”

“People say that because they’re scared to fight for themselves—”

“People say that because these people who write this shit are the lowest form of life and they can claim that they were just reporting what someone told them and it’s not slander if they’re just reporting what someone said.”

“Well, can I sue the person who said it?”

“It’s doubtful she’ll give up her source.”

“Well, isn’t that FUCKING CONVENIENT.” She grabbed her drink, which seemed to be some huge shot of vodka over ice. God knows he’d been there often enough; the morning after he almost got fired for sexually harassing this very actress, he went to the office, apologized mightily, pointed to the Twitter feed and the two blog posts exonerating him, then went to the bathroom and puked for five minutes.

“I’d be careful with the vodka,” he suggested.

“It’s water,” she retorted. “I don’t drink anymore. I got scared of drinking. All those people drinking all the time. Me too. I was drinking all the time. But I
could
use a drink. Did you bring any vodka?”

“We’re going to stick with water,” he said. He opened one of the cartons of takeout, mu shu something.

“I don’t want any food, I’m serious!” she told him again.

“It’s for me, I’m hungry,” he informed her. She was on the move again, ignoring him. He rooted through her mostly empty kitchen drawers until he located a lone fork, and then followed her into the tiniest of living rooms. She really didn’t have any money. All the dresses and shoes would have been provided, the jewelry too, those girls looked like a million bucks but how much were they really worth? Agents, publicists, stylists, business managers, everyone got a piece, and what were her credits after all? Two seasons on a trashy TV show, and one movie that bombed. Because she was a neophyte film actress they would have paid her pennies. That’s why they hired those girls: because they were all interchangeable anyway, and the new ones were so fucking cheap. They didn’t hire her because she was a star; they didn’t see women as stars. They saw them as fodder, and then they used them up. What had this one done to piss them off so badly that they would send attack dogs after her?

“Who do I talk to?” she asked. “You’re a reporter.”