So 5 Minutes Ago (25 page)

“That’s for sure.” I reach for a napkin.

“But I guess you gotta be here to really understand that,” he says, looking back at me.

“You got that right. Although you seem to be doing okay now.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he says, nodding. “But I also meant the part about making amends.”

“Well, you’ve done that.” I wipe my fingers on the napkin. “Haven’t you?”

“Not all of ’em. I mean, I actually owe you an apology.”

“Wow,” I say, leaning back in the sofa. “An actor who apologizes.”

“Hey, don’t give me any shit about this. I’m supposed to do this.”

“Are you kidding? I love this,” I say, laughing. “I wish I had this on film. ‘How to Be a Successful Star. Lesson number one: Don’t be afraid to admit when you’re wrong. Especially to the little people.’ ”

“Are you gonna let me apologize or are you gonna just give me endless shit?”

I hold up my hands. “Please, proceed.”

“Okay, I apologize for my inappropriate behavior at that Chanel-Harley thing we went to. Getting drunk and riding my bike into the store.”

I nod at him. “Well, thank you.”

Troy reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. “And I believe I owe you this,” he says, handing me two tens.

“Really, that’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. “Let’s just consider it an agency expense.”

“No, take ’em.” He thrusts the bills at me. “Please. And there’s one more thing.”

“There’s more?”

Troy sighs and scans the room. “And I’m sorry I kissed you,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper. “And I’m sorry if it caused you any problems. I mean, when I took a swing at that photographer and we had to go to court.”

“I thought you were just trying to grab the camera,” I say, reaching for my beer.

“Whatever. It got out of hand and it was my fault.” He shakes his head again. “I knew I never should have agreed to do it.”

I practically choke on my beer. “Wait a minute. What did you say?” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“I said it was my fault.”

“After that.”

“That I never should have agreed to do it.”

“Agreed to what?”

“To make a play for you. It was his idea.”

“Whose idea?”

“Doug’s.”

I practically leap off the sofa. At best I’ve been hoping Troy would cough up some info about G’s party. Like why he was there and how he knew G. But this was a fucking home run. “And why would he ask you to do that?” I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

Troy shrugs. “I don’t know. He said it was hazing. A way for him to find out who he could trust at the agency. What can I say, I was still using at the time so it sorta made sense. Besides, I probably would have made a play for you anyway. I usually do. Or I did. And I owed Doug a favor.”

“You owed him a favor?”

“He kind of covered my ass on a movie I did at Sony a few years ago. It was a piece of shit—I don’t think I shot a single scene sober—and he got the studio to throw some extra money at the marketing. Not that it made any difference. But still, it was a gesture.”

“Yeah, Doug’s a prince.” I say, my mind going in a million directions. So G deliberately tried to set me up by having Troy make a play for me in public. But why? It seems a long shot, but what else could it be but the stick of G’s carrot-and-stick plan to line up supporters? If I wasn’t won over by his dangling of financial incentives, I would presumably go along with him if I feared my job was in jeopardy after being caught in a compromising situation with a client. God, G is even sleazier than I thought. Knowing this won’t get me any closer to being able to prove he was engaged in illegal kickbacks with Jerry, but it might be just enough to get the ball rolling, to keep Suzanne’s job.

“You know what, apology accepted,” I say, leaping up. “But I actually have to make a call.” I reach for my bag and start for the door, but impulsively turn back. “Thank you,” I say, bending down and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

I practically fly out to the courtyard, fishing my cell from my bag. I punch up Rachel’s cell. Come on, come on. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

“What now?” she says when she answers.

“I have to meet you,” I say. “Tonight.”

“Is it serious or gossip?”

“Oh, both,” I say, staring up at the giant billboard, the one where the Marlboro Man once towered, blazing in the night sky. “Very much both.”

18 And the Winner Is . . .

                  Christmas is a bit of a bust. Actually, more of a blur. Between the parties and the premieres and the jacked-around awards calendar, what with the Oscars moving up a month and dragging all the rest of the wannabes—Golden Globes, SAG, People’s Choice, Independent Spirit—up as well, it’s amazing anybody gets away at all. Rachel flies back to New York, Steven flees to the Big Island with some of the lads, while I grit my teeth and head home to Philly for all of four days, one of which is spent stuck in O’Hare waiting for the runways to be cleared. Or spring. Whichever comes first. Turns out, spending twelve hours at Gate 21C is twelve hours I don’t have to spend with Amy, who is barely showing but in full I’m-about-to-become-a-mother mode, which means she is even more of a princess than usual.

“All she did was sit around rubbing her stomach with this pious, blissful look on her face,” I tell Steven when I reach him on my cell the second I get back to L.A.

“What kind of a look? I can’t hear you over the blender,” he says.

“Where are you?”

“At the beach bar. It’s still happy hour out here.”

“I hate you,” I say, staring out the limo window as we snake up traffic-clogged La Cienega. “It’s already dark here and supposed to rain tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you fly out for New Year’s,” he says over the roar of the blender. “You can sleep on the sofa bed in my suite.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I say, sighing. Between Troy and the Phoenix and Val, God help us, all going to the Globes, I have way too much work to do.
We
have way too much work to do. “I’m actually going into the office tomorrow.”

“What?” he yells.

“I said,” I say, raising my voice so loudly the driver eyeballs me in the rearview mirror, “I’m going to the office tomorrow.”

There’s a blur of static that I take to be Steven’s response.

“What did you say?”

“I said, what are you doing for New Year’s?”

“What I do every year,” I say, practically shouting. “Ignoring it.”

The days leading up to the Globes are an even bigger blur. But then they always are, given that they’re basically the kickoff to Hollywood’s Super Bowl. The endless meetings and phoning and arranging of limos, dresses, shoes, hair, jewelry—all for three hours of televised self-congratulation. If you think Hollywood secretly winks at awards handed out by a bunch of photographers and part-time “reporters” from Israel, Germany, Spain, and South Africa, think again. Actors will take anything for free. Especially if they can be photographed receiving it. Just when you can’t take one more call from a stylist or an assistant or an
E!
producer, you remind yourself that it’s only going to get worse before it gets better. If that doesn’t work, you comfort yourself with the fact that at least the Globes serve booze, so there’s always the hope someone famous will do something outrageous, like Harvey Weinstein publicly flaying his publicists in the hotel lobby, and make the whole endeavor worth attending after all.

“Okay, so let’s review our plan of attack,” I say to Steven. It’s Friday afternoon, two days before the award show on Sunday when, blow-dried, Botoxed, and even more high-strung than usual, two-thirds of Hollywood will converge on the Beverly Hilton dressed in black ties in the middle of the afternoon. All week there have been endless meetings during the day and cocktail parties and events at night, and I still have to confirm two limos, sit through a conference call with the Fox publicists, and have a final confab with the Phoenix’s stylist. A confab because the Phoenix is, for the moment, still our client, this year’s Lifetime Achievement winner or whatever they call it, and, as of two days before the show, undecided about what to wear. As far as I can tell, the Phoenix is either dressing as a statuette in a Versace gold-lamé number and her white wig, or she’s going for Vegas showgirl in a black satin-and-lace number she’s designing herself. Not that it matters. She’ll stop traffic just by showing up.

I also have to get myself in gear. Such as it is. Publicists fall into two groups when it comes to award shows: those who think of themselves as perpetual bridesmaids who accompany their clients dressed in floor-length gowns and looks of blissful beatitude; and those of us who take the White House security detail approach, who come in black pantsuits and a don’t-fuck-with-me look. Buying a new black suit and having my hair blown out Sunday morning—because you never know when even a publicist might wind up on camera—are as far as I’m willing to go.

“Okay, but I still don’t get how we’re going to ride herd on three clients at once,” Steven says, staring at the itinerary—actually the third revised itinerary—the Foreign Press Association has e-mailed over. Other than photo shoots and junkets, award shows are the one time assistants can come out from behind their headsets and work with the clients.

“I told you, the Fox publicists are taking care of Val because the series has been nominated for Best Comedy,” I say. “We have to do Troy because he’s nominated as a guest star. So you and I will double-team Troy and the Phoenix. If all else fails, think of it as the running of the bulls at Pamplona. Just try and stay ahead of it and not get trampled.”

“You know, I did that once,” he says.

“The bulls?”

“Well, close. The White Party out in Palm Springs.”

“Look, are you sure you’re up to this?” I say. “We’ve never had this many clients at an award show before.”

“Are you kidding? And miss the chance to see the Phoenix in person? I want to see if she shows up in that ballerina outfit she wore to the Oscars a few years ago.”

“You’re getting her mixed up with Lara Flynn Boyle.”

“Oh, please,” Steven says, rolling his eyes. “I can tell the divas from the wannabes. Besides, I’m really rooting for the Hindu princess getup she wore during her farewell concert last year.”

“What are you talking about? You know stars never wear the same outfit twice.”

“Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?” he says. “So what do you want to do—flip for who handles who?”

“No, we’re not flipping,” I say, trying not to sound as exasperated as I feel. Steven is a genius behind the scenes, but he’s less reliable in the field. “Suzanne wants me to help her with the Phoenix on the red carpet, so you get Troy. But we can trade off on the parties because Suzanne said she didn’t care which of us helped her then and God knows I’ll have had my fill of the Phoenix by then.”

“Okay, so I’ll, what, ride with Troy in the limo at . . .” He pauses to scan the itinerary again. “Three?”

“God, yes, you’re going in the limo. I know Troy’s sober now, but I still don’t trust him to show up anywhere on time. Besides, you can get him to wear a tie.”

Steven scans the list again. “Okay, so I guess we’re good. By the way, do we know yet if Charles is flying out?”

“No, we do not,” I say crisply. Ever since our disastrous phone call before Thanksgiving, my relationship with Charles, however vague it had been, has become even vaguer. Vague and existing solely in cyberspace—a series of totally businesslike e-mails. As far as I’m concerned the whole thing is dead. Or on hiatus, which in Hollywood everyone knows means “dead but we don’t want to take the heat for its death just yet.”

“What’s his problem, anyway?” Steven says.

“You know, I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, he knows you went and groveled to the Phoenix. And that she’s at least delayed her departure from DWP. What else does the man want?”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t
know.
” I may have no idea where things stand with Charles, but I do know that between the chaos of award season and the coming showdown with G and Suzanne, my nervous system is about topping out at “Manolo or Jimmy Choo?”

“Well, maybe the stiff will come around when the last piece of the puzzle falls into place on, what, Monday?”

“I don’t know, and really,” I say, dropping my voice and eyeing my door, which is only partially closed, “we can’t talk about it. Not here. It’s done and when it comes out, I don’t know. Rachel doesn’t even know.”

“Okay,” he says, raising his hands and heading for the door. “Fine, but if I see that guy Sunday night and he does not have you locked in his arms, I’m going to throw a drink in his face.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “God knows in this town that counts as chivalry.”

The day of the Globes dawns gray, damp, and cold. Might as well be Seattle except for the helicopters already buzzing over Beverly Hills. The capper is that rain is predicted, which means the clear plastic awning will go up at the Hilton and my hairdresser has to use the flattening iron to give my hair a fighting chance. By the time I head out in the Audi, a light drizzle is falling and I feel like Cinderella. Not because I’m going to meet my prince, but because the clock is ticking on when my ironed hair turns back into the unruly pumpkin.

I’m driving because the Phoenix has insisted on coming in a Toyota Prius limo—the first limo made from a hybrid car, or so I’ve been instructed to tell the press—which means there’s only room for the driver, the Phoenix, and her outfit. Instead, I’m to meet her and Suzanne at the entrance to the red carpet. Which is like saying you’ll meet somebody in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

By the time I hit the parking garage in Century City, wedge myself into the hotel shuttle bus that’s packed with the other nonceleb funeral guests—grim-faced, dressed in black, and reeking of perfume and Altoids—it’s just past three and a steady rain is falling. Nearly two hours until the show begins, but it’s already chaos, between the rain, the screaming fans, the limos, and the helicopters. Just getting
on
the carpet requires pushing through the crowd to the layer of cops ringing the hotel driveway, flashing my credentials, having my bag searched, and being waved through a metal detector.

Finally, I am squirted out onto the plush red runway and under the clear plastic tent. I shake the rain from my hair and scan the crowd. Everyone’s pretty much in place except the A-listers—aka this year’s Oscar hopefuls and the HBO stars—who will not arrive for at least an hour. But everyone else is here. The press and photographers are jammed into their booths, cordoned off to the sides. Media outlets are assigned their own minute square footage that they zealously guard and from which they scream like carnival barkers at a county fair.
“Step right up and try your luck with Joan Rivers!”
“
Right here, folks,
Access Hollywood!”

Later, they’ll be herded into the press room, one of the hotel’s ballrooms that has not been rented out to a studio or a network for its after-party, where they’ll scream out their questions to the winners. So much for the glamour of the Hollywood press corps.

As for the river of celebs, it’s still early. Mostly careers-on-the-wane-or-rise presenters like Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Hilary Duff anxious to milk the moment, a few long-in-the-tooth TV stars like David Caruso and Kelsey Grammer and their wives. Wives are their own special category, falling into one of two camps: sylvan or porcine, both of which merit close study and raised eyebrows.

But mostly the carpet is populated by the folks you can’t tell without a scorecard—dour-looking agents, executives, and producers. There are also fleets of my colleagues already looking panicky, expressionless security people in headsets and sunglasses—even in a downpour, sunglasses are de rigueur—and the requisite eye candy, the portfolio-free pretty young things in pastel evening dresses and expressions of great self-possession. Well, they’re still young.

I check my watch. Just past three-thirty. The Phoenix won’t arrive for at least half an hour—other than the Best Actress nominees, she’s the queen of this ball—so I decide to hunt down Steven and Troy, who for all I know are stuck in the limo line out front. I reach in my bag for my cell and try dialing, but can’t get a signal. Figures. I fish out my new BlackBerry. It’s our latest gizmo from the office, but I still can’t get the hang of typing on a keyboard the size of a credit card. I scrunch up my thumbs and type,
Qgwew r U
?

Shit. I try again.
Where r U?

BH 90210
comes flying back.

Fk U,
I type back.
WHERE?

“Actually, we’re right behind you,” Steven says so suddenly that I drop the damn thing as I whip around.

“God, these things are great,” he says, waving his BlackBerry. “How’d we ever get by without them?”

“Yeah, they’re great,” I say, diving to retrieve mine from under a security guard’s feet. “So, you look nice,” I say when I resurface, shaking my hair from my eyes. Actually, he looks better than nice. New Armani tux, slicked-backed hair, and the remnants of his Hawaii tan. “God, if I didn’t know you were gay, I’d assume you were an agent.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Steven says, straightening his tie. “Although I wouldn’t try that line at CAA.”

“Right,” I say, glancing around. “So where’s Troy?”

Steven nods over his shoulder. “Back there somewhere. He got snagged. By Merle, I think.”

“He got
snagged
?” I can’t believe Steven is being this casual. “Then we’re going back there and unsnag him.”