So 5 Minutes Ago (10 page)

“We’re just trying to be truthful,” Scooby says, sounding like she might burst into tears. “But we’ve learned this is a hard town to be truthful in.”

Truthful?
Truthful?
It’s a fucking tissue of lies out here in case you haven’t noticed.

“Well, I recognize that,” I say, knowing I have to say something more. Offer some balm, some salvation. After all, I’m the publicist. The one with answers. So I do what anyone does in Hollywood when her back is against the wall.

“I’ll call you,” I say, grabbing my bag and fleeing for the exit. “I’ll call you and we’ll do lunch.”

7 The Invasion of Troy

                  I have barely an hour at home between Scooby and meeting Troy to change out of my battle fatigues into something sexier but that still screams
I’m really working so don’t getany ideas.
Which in my case means replacing my black suit with a pair of black pants, a black sweater, and my black leather jacket—leather jackets are now as ubiquitous in Hollywood as the baseball cap once was. What can I say, black makes me feel safe.

I grab the Pinot Grigio out of the fridge and pour a glass as I dial up my messages on my cell. The usual nonsense. A couple of editors. A studio publicist. Mom with more details about Christmas. Oh God. Deal with that later. Rachel saying she’s bored, call her. Steven saying he’s going home but call him later. Steven again, saying sorry but here’s Charles’s cell phone number. Finally. Charles.
Charles!

“Hi, it’s me. Sorry I missed you. Your assistant gave me your cell phone and told me you were doing your meet-and-greet with Scooby. Can’t wait to hear about that. So listen, I’m coming back to L.A. on Saturday and was wondering if you can do dinner that night. I know it’s kind of last-minute and you probably have plans but I thought I’d take a shot. I’m sick of work getting in the way of this. So leave me a message at the office. Or try me on my cell.”

It takes a second for this to sink in.
I’m sick of work getting in the way of this? This?
Our dinner is a
this,
not work? I play the message again just to make sure. But yes, I heard right. Our dinner is a
this.
Jesus, that’s almost a date. I think it’s a date. If it’s not work, it’s a date, right? I mean, why would he suggest dinner instead of lunch if it’s not really a date? I think it’s a date. I’m going with date.

I punch up Steven’s cell to fly all this by him but hang up before he can answer. Can’t check in with nanny every five seconds. Besides, it’s seven o’clock—ten in New York—and given that I have less than half an hour before I’m due to meet Troy, I’d rather talk to Charles than Steven. I start to dial Charles’s cell but stop. Wait, what am I going to say if I get him?
Of course I have no plans on Saturday? I
never
have plans on Saturdays because I have no life and anything I was planning on doing on Saturday is just killing time before I die?
Fuck. I forgot there’s a party Rachel was dragging me to. Oh, fuck it, there’s always a party. I’m going to dinner. I take a breath and dial again.

Rats.
His
voice mail. Oh, well. “Hey, it’s me. Got your message. Yeah, Saturday is actually good. I mean, there is a party. There
was
a party, but you know, there’s
always
a party and I’m with you, let’s do this.”

Let’s do this?
What am I saying?

“Let’s do this
dinner
,” I say quickly. “And yes, I, ah, can fill you in on Scooby and also my meeting with Doug and Troy because my day is not over yet.” I’m starting to ramble. Get out. Now. “So, yes, Saturday’s good and call me. Call me and, uh, and I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up and realize I’m short of breath. An hour ago I was ready to open a vein and now I’m Dorothy waking up in a snowstorm sent by Glinda the Good Witch. Even the thought of spending the next three hours riding herd on Troy doesn’t dampen my spirits. I drain the last of my glass, grab my jacket, and head out to the House of Chanel. To my evening, which is most definitely not a date.

Even before I make the turn off Santa Monica, I see the klieg lights raking the sky. This seems a little overkill for a retail event. Who’s coming to this thing besides Troy? Should have checked. Oh, well, too late now. I turn left onto Rodeo and spot the clutch of valets and the crowd already forming in the glare of the video cameras down the block. I glide down the street past the glowing windows—Prada, Ralph Lauren, Armani, Hermès—and the sidewalks empty of the usual Eurotrash tourists, slip into the valet line, and wait my turn.

Good evening, good evening. Yes, yes, I’m here for the event. Yes, thank you. Yes, yes, I will have a good time.
I take the ticket from the chattering, smiling valets and head toward the crowd. My heels sink into the red carpet—that familiar cushiony walk of fame—when I feel one of the pangs I feel whenever I attend one of these things now. That feeling of what? Guilt? Fear? Or maybe it’s just that gnawing sense that it’s all a little too let-them-eat-cake. I mean, don’t the valets ever get sick of telling perfumed, blow-dried, high-heeled chicas like me to have a good time at a party that they will never in a million years get closer to than where they are now? That there are limits to what even Carla Selena—the Latina queen—can do with a wave of her pop-cultural wand?

I move into the crowd, which is already packed with the usual pretty young things waving and smiling at the screaming photographers, trying to shake off my unease—
think of Charles, think of our date
. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a cameraman heading in my direction and I duck quickly to get out of his way. Actually he’s chasing some willowy blonde in a leather jacket up the carpet. Is that Charlize? Actually, it could be. Jesus. I look around, squinting in the glare of the lights, and realize there are a number of stars—Christian Slater, Daryl Hannah, Courteney Cox—on the carpet chatting with reporters. Why didn’t I know this was a thing? Somebody else in the office had to know this was a thing. Why didn’t I? For a brief second, I feel another stab of fear. That I’m being set up. I’m being set up by Peg, who is in cahoots with G.

Okay, I’ve already had enough paranoia for one day. I don’t need to see ghosts everywhere.

“Hey, Alex!” I look over and recognize another publicist, from BOB, I think. Melinda, I think. Or Mindy. A million publicists in the big city. I can’t know them all. Who would want to?

“Hey,” I shout back and give her a wave like she’s my best friend.

“Hey,” Melinda or whatever-her-name-is says, wriggling through the crowd toward me. “Did you know this was going to be this big?” she says, shouting over the roar.

“I don’t even know what it’s for,” I shout back. “I just got a call from my client’s manager asking me to be here. A last-minute thing.”

“Who’s the client?”

“What?” I practically scream but my voice is all but drowned out by the crowd and some engine roar from the street. Some star’s limo or maybe it’s the Harleys arriving.

“Who’s the client?”
Melinda yells again.

“Oh!”
I say. “Troy Madden.”

“Troy Madden?” She sounds incredulous.

“Uh, yeah. Why?”

“Isn’t that him?” she says, nodding over my shoulder toward the street.

I turn around in time to catch the crowd parting like the Red Sea and Troy, astride a gleaming Harley and with a lit cigar in his mouth, rocketing up the carpet, through the open front door, and into the Chanel boutique.

By the time I claw my way through the crowd and into the store, they’re pretty much done sweeping up the glass. Apparently Troy managed to stick his Evel Knievel landing—his little stunt was actually planned, or as planned as Troy plans anything—but he did collide with one of the waiters, an accident that sent a tray of filled champagne flutes flying. Fortunately, none of the merchandise was hit by the spray; there are only a few slightly damp guests who are doing their best to laugh off the accident. At least it looks like they’re laughing in the midst of all those towel-bearing Chanel minions. God knows Troy’s feeling no pain. Blowing smoke rings while leaning against the Harley, which is parked now in the center of the store, Troy is all but holding court in his leather jacket and T-shirt. Like Steve McQueen in
The Great Escape.
A man who never looks better than when he’s in some sort of trouble.

“I’ve ridden these for years,” I hear Troy say in his unmistakable drawl. “And don’t call ’em hogs. They resent that, you know,” he says, giving the Harley a pat. “Best bikes money can buy. Shit, I rode one all the way from Des Moines to Tampa one spring break. Better than a car.”

Well, at least he’s not going anywhere for a minute. I take a second to glance around the store. What the hell is this event? More important, whose idea was Troy’s rocket-from-the-crypt arrival? I hope the dealership’s, although considering the Chanel gift bags lined up by the door, this is a Chanel event to promote its new “Harley” bag, which, judging by all the Plexiglas displays, is a slouchy shoulder bag in navy or black leather, with a rather nasty-looking chain available in stainless steel or vermeil.

“What do you say we fire it up?” I hear Troy say. My cue.

“Hey there, Troy.” I dive into the crowd and surface next to his elbow. “Hey, how’s it going? That was some arrival.”

“Hey, Alex!” Troy says, looking at me in that lazy, unstartled way stars do. Like their every waking moment is just one endless tape loop of
This Is Your Life
—a parade of adoring faces so that the unexpected arrival of anyone from their long-dead mother to the president is greeted with cool indifference because, after all, who wouldn’t want to be with them?

“Hey, did you see me ride up?” he says, tipping his head back and exhaling a series of smoke rings.

Very cute. At least it’s tobacco. “Yeah, couldn’t miss that,” I say, shaking my head and smiling. Stay cool, stay loose, but stay on him. “Is this your bike?” I say, turning toward him and away from the crowd and dropping my voice. The last thing Troy needs is an audience. Here, anyway. “I think Peg said you had a couple of these.”

“This? Nah, my bikes are home sleeping it off. This baby’s brand-new. A loaner. In fact, I was just offering to give test drives,” he says, slapping the Harley’s gleaming belly.

“Well, maybe later,” I say, grabbing Troy’s elbow. “Actually, is the Harley dealer here yet? I think they probably want some pictures of the two of you.”

I swirl into action, grateful to have a task, a toy to shove into the baby’s hand. Find the dealer, find the photographer. Okay, everyone smile. Smile. One more? Sure, why not. Smile, Troy. Smile, Troy. Oh, here’s the Chanel vice president. Oh,
executive
vice president. Sorry. Yes, a few more shots. Of course. Smile. The bags? Yes, let’s get the bags in the shot. Now the Harley. Sure. The Harley. Okay, here’s Courteney Cox. Sure, Troy and Courteney. Daryl. Where’s Daryl? Here she is. Smile, everyone. Smile, Troy.

I look at my watch and realize more than an hour has gone by. My feet are screaming and I would kill for a glass of champagne, but baby-sitting Troy requires at least one of us to have a clear head and even if he were stone cold sober, that would never be true in his case.

I glance at Troy, who’s locked in what looks like a serious discussion with Daryl Hannah and the Harley dealership owner. I decide to chance a run to the bar.

“Long night?” the bartender says, handing me a dripping bottle of Evian.

“Oh God, does it look like it?” I say, instinctively reaching to wipe mascara from under my eyes.

“No, I just saw you with that guy,” he says, nodding in Troy’s direction.

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He’s a handful.”

“Is he your date?”

“Is he my date?” I blurt out. It would probably be a lot easier if he were my date. “No, he’s my client. I’m his publicist.”

“His
publicist
? That guy needs a publicist? Who is he?”

Who is he?
Every photographer here and even the valets at Smashbox know who Troy is, but this guy, who is no doubt a wannabe actor just in from fly-over country, has no idea who Troy is? God, Troy was out of the picture in rehab for what, nine months? And this guy is acting like he’s no more famous than a contestant on
American Idol.

“Troy
Madden
?” I say, snapping into my best
and-you-are
? voice. Sometimes you just have to trot it out. Besides, even I’ll admit Troy looks pretty damn good tonight in that jacket and cigar and the Harley between his legs. “He did a lot of movies. And then he took some time off.” It’s amazing how easily this stuff just falls from my lips.

“Oh, right,” the bartender says, nodding again, and I can tell he’s still clueless. “Well, it looked like you were his date.”

“Okay, well, I’m not,” I say, surprised at how annoyed I am. “This is my job. I’m being paid to be here.”

Okay, that doesn’t sound good. Even I can tell that, but before I can fix it, make it clear to this dimwit just how important Troy and I are at this party, I hear my name—“Alex, is it?”—being called in an accented voice over my shoulder.

“Yes,” I say, whirling around to face one of the Chanel minions, a vision of blond hair and quilted leather. Must be nice, that corporate discount.

“Alex? You are with Troy, no?” she says.

“No. Well, yes. Yes, I am here with him. Is there some problem?” I say, looking past her to scan the crowd. No sight of Troy.

“Mr. Troy asked me to tell you that he was going for a ride.”

“A
ride
?” I feel my pulse start to rise. “Where?” I say, scanning the crowd again, and I realize that the Harley is also AWOL. “What
kind
of a ride?”