So 5 Minutes Ago (5 page)

“Can I show you the clothes?” Val says, right on cue, tightening her grip on my arm and steering me toward the bulging racks. “I’m just not sure.”

Not sure
in this case means a knee-length flared red satin skirt Val is supposed to wear during one of the setups. There are to be three group shots of the three stars, each with its own color scheme—red, white, and blue, and the last two involving the red sofa. The white clothes are apparently fine with everyone, and Val especially likes her blue outfit, a tight, short sheath, but she hates the red skirt. It makes her look like a “fat cheerleader,” she says, yanking it from the rack.

I close my eyes and take a breath. I’ve only been here what, five minutes, and already Val is on me to fix something? “Let me talk to the stylist,” I chirp. “There must be another red thing you can wear. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

I pry myself away from Val and head down the hall, keeping an eye out for Troy as I hunt down the stylist. The one thing I’ve learned: Never get between an actress and her wardrobe. So far Troy seems to be running late. As usual. I’m about to pull out my cell and call his manager, when I almost collide with the stylist wrestling with some sweaters on the floor. At least she seems even more exasperated than I do.

“Don’t get me started about Val,” she hisses. Not only is Val throwing a fit about the red skirt, which is meant to somehow evoke
Happy Days,
but the show’s anorexic star—whom Steven dubbed “Leggo” during one of his more inspired moments—is freaking about the entire wardrobe. Too DKNY and not enough Dolce or something. She is now locked, suspiciously, in the bathroom after inhaling three muffins in a row. “I’ve got to get her out of there and into some different outfits,” the stylist mutters with a shake of her head.

“Prada?” I say helpfully.

“Sleeves,”
she says, giving the sweaters a shove. “I mean, she’s so fucking thin. Airbrushing isn’t going to take care of it.”

I make noises about one less cook in the kitchen, and head off to look for Troy. Val will just have to deal with the clothes on her own. I’m about to take another detour by the craft services table to bolster my flagging energy when I spot not Troy but Peg, his manager, coming through the door. She’s dressed for battle, with her shades clamped on, something like three cashmere sweaters wrapped around her shoulders, and her headset wired for sound.
Fuck.
What is she doing here before Troy’s even arrived?

“Davidson!”

Love being called by my last name. So needlessly butch. Like being back on the intramural field hockey team in college.

“Hi, Peg,” I say, mustering a smile as I pick my way back over the lighting cables. Peg is one of the female leviathans Hollywood secretly breeds. You’d never know they exist unless you dig below the surface, but their numbers are legion among agents, managers, and publicists. Tough as nails, most of them could run a small country, and none of them are above just fucking with you because they can. Between their bulk and their need to control things, including whoever crosses their path, they are giant vortexes that just suck you in.

“What’s the holdup?” Peg snaps, dispensing with any pleasantries as well as any acknowledgment that I’ve landed her client the damn shoot in the first place. “I thought Blake was one of the pros,” she adds, glancing at her watch.

“Holdup?” She knows as well as I do no shoot ever starts on time. They’re like the Caribbean, or Mexico: things start and stop with no relation to the clock. Besides, Troy isn’t even here yet and he’s supposed to go
after
the girls.

“Troy’s been here an
hour,
” Peg snorts, unhooking her earpiece. “I told him to get here early, because he’s got an audition this afternoon. He called me when he arrived.”

Troy’s been here an
hour
and I haven’t seen him? As far as I can tell, no one has seen him. For all I know Troy is out in his Porsche getting stoned.

I feel my pulse jump. Actually that scenario isn’t that far-fetched.
Oh Jesus, let Troy have enough sense not to be getting stoned at his first photo shoot in more than two years.
“Uhm, where did Troy say he was when he called you?” I ask Peg. “Where,
exactly
?”

“
Here.
At the shoot.” Peg gives me a look like I’m speaking in tongues. “I thought you’d be with him.”

“Yeah, well, I’m actually headed in that direction now,” I say briskly. The more I think about it, the more I fear Troy has to be in the parking lot.

“I’m going to check in with the stylist and see what she’s got lined up for him,” Peg says, moving off. “Grab me a water, will you?” she says, nodding at the craft services table. “And a muffin.”

Like that’s going to happen. Ignoring her directive, I head toward the bathroom. I don’t want Peg on my trail and I need to clear my head. If I hadn’t quit smoking under the misguided assumption that L.A. was obsessed with health, I would have two cigarettes in rapid succession. Now, a pee and fresh lip gloss will have to suffice.

I stare at myself in the mirror. It’s not even one yet, but I already look exhausted, with mascara pooling under my eyes and my hair a mess. Wiping away the smudges, I root around in my bag until I find a pen to anchor my hair in a makeshift ponytail. I need to hunt down Troy and assess the damage. If he’s halfway sober—or can fake being halfway sober—and Peg throws her weight around and manages to snap everyone in line, I might get away after the first setup and salvage something of the day.

Heading out of the bathroom, I pass one of the emergency exits propped open and catch a whiff. Oh God, I was right. I push open the door and scan the parking lot. It’s a sea of cars gleaming in the midday sun. Across the lot, the red-vested valets are milling around the entrance like birds waiting for a handful of seeds. I can follow my nose, or I can cut to the chase and ask where Señor Troy’s car is parked.

“Excuse me,” I say, shielding my eyes from the glare as I pick my way toward the valets. “Excuse me, but do you know where Mr. Madden’s car is parked? I need to leave him something in it.”

“Maadaan?”

“Yes.
Troy
Madden. Tall, young guy. Blond. I think he drives a Porsche.”

“Many Porsche today, lady. Many, many.”

Yes, there would be many Porsches. Okay, let’s try another tactic
. “Troy Madden. The movie star?”

Blank stares. Yes, many, many movie stars today and bigger ones than Troy. Quick, which of Troy’s movies would these guys have seen? God, even I’m blanking for a minute, it’s been so long since he had a bona fide hit.
“’Blow Your Mind’ Games?”
I say in desperation.

Bingo. Maybe I don’t need to know Spanish after all.

“Sí, sí, sí. Señor Troy!” There is a flurry of laughter and a frantic hunting among the keys on the valet’s board. Finally I am pointed in the direction of the far corner of the lot. I set off, the blister on my foot springing to life with each step. I’ve bailed my share of clients out of tight spots before, but it usually involved a phone call to an editor or a few choice words with a hotel concierge. I haven’t had to physically intercede on anyone’s behalf since I used to baby-sit for the neighbors’ kids back in Upper Darby and for a time became very experienced at wiping up other people’s shit.

Any hope I’m harboring that Troy is just—I don’t know—
napping
in his car, dies when I hear the thudding sounds of some techno anthem penetrating the air. I sidle between a gleaming SUV and one of the old-model oversized BMW’s and come up on Troy’s Porsche from the rear. It’s rocking slightly from the music and from what I can see is Troy’s frantic drumming on the dashboard. He’s in the passenger seat with a lit joint in his mouth, his eyes closed, fists pounding to the music. And he was supposed to be A-list at one time? I take a deep breath and knock on the window. Either Troy can’t hear me or he’s too out of it, but he keeps on pounding. Oh, fuck it. I yank open the door. A cloud of smoke, a crashing of drums, and Troy’s entire right side hits me simultaneously.

“Hey, what the hell,” Troy says, flailing for the door frame to pull himself upright. “Hey, man,” he says, turning in my direction and squinting up at me. So far I’m not registering. “Oh hey, Alex, isn’t it?” he says, a sleepy smile crossing his face. “Yeah, Alex. Hey, come on in, the party’s just starting.”

“Actually, Troy, the party’s inside,” I say, shouting over the music. “What do you say we go in and join the others? I’ll go with you.” Suddenly Val and her stupid skirt issues are looking like a cakewalk compared with getting Troy in photographable shape. His eyes are completely red and he seems even more unable to focus than he usually does. You’d think after all the dope he’s done he wouldn’t be so wasted.

“Party?” Troy says dumbly.

“Actually, it’s the
photo shoot,
” I yell again. “For the magazine.” The music is starting to get on my nerves. Actually all of it’s getting on my nerves, but the music is the easiest to fix.

“Listen,” I say, ducking down and reaching into the Porsche and across Troy to turn down the volume. “Listen, they’re waiting for you inside and it’s my job to get you in there,” I say, fumbling for the knob. At least one problem is solved. I’m just backing out of the car when I feel Troy’s hand on my thigh.
Okay, just don’t go there, guy. Just don’t
fucking
go there.

“Well, if they’re waiting, let’s give ’em a reason to wait,” Troy says in his slow drawl. For some reason all I can think of is how many women would love, just
love
to be in my position right now—bent over Troy Madden with his hand on my naked thigh.

“Okay, Troy,” I say, wriggling backward. “Troy, look—” But my wriggling only causes Troy’s hand to crawl further up my thigh. “Troy!” I say, reaching back to dislodge his hand, a move that causes me to lose my balance. I feel myself start to careen toward the dashboard, where the right side of my face lands with a thud, and I whack my head on the edge of the steering wheel.

“Ow. Okay, Troy—” I say, fumbling for my balance with my free left hand, which I realize has no other place to go than onto Troy’s own thighs, which are thankfully fully clad in denim. I’m just righting myself when I hear my cell burble.

“Is that you or me?” Troy mumbles sleepily.

“It’s me and actually I’m going to take it,” I say, finally shaking myself free of him and up out of the car.

“Hello,” I say a bit breathlessly.

“Alex?”

“Charles?”
Charles!

“Alex, where are you? You sound out of breath.”

“Oh, me? Uhm, at a photo shoot. With a client. I was, uhm, just lifting a few things,” I say, turning away from Troy and rubbing my head, which is starting to ache where it hit the steering wheel. “Just helping the stylist carry a few clothes, you know. Where are you?”

“Who’s Charles?” says Troy behind me.

“Actually, I’m at the airport.”

It takes a minute for this to sink in. If Charles is at LAX it can only mean that his L.A. tour of duty is over and he’s heading back to New York.

“The airport?” I say dumbly. “You’re leaving? But we never had our lunch and I thought you were supposed—”

“I know, I know,” he says. “And I feel bad about that.”

Does he? Does he
really
? I can’t tell from his tone of voice. All I know is I’m stuck here wrestling with a stoned, horny client, and the only glimmer of hope in my stupid little life is about to climb into a business-class seat and fly away.

I feel a tug on my skirt. “Who’s Charles?” says Troy again.

I turn and glare at him and hear a click on my other line. Great. Probably Peg calling to ask where the fuck we are. “Uhm, Charles, hang on a second. Let me get rid of this other call.”

“Hola,”
Steven says when I answer.

“Okay, you can really drop the Spanish,” I say.

“What am I missing? It sounds exciting there,” says Steven. “And I thought I had the exciting news.”

“Not sure I can take much more excitement, but what is it?” I know better than to ignore Steven. When he says he has news, he has news.

“How’s Val?”

“Uhm, Val’s not really the problem right now,” I say. “Unless you’re trying to get her into a red skirt.”

“With what underneath?”

“What do you mean,
underneath
?”

“I didn’t want to tell you this before . . .” he says, letting his voice trail off.

“Tell me what?”

“Nothing, except G called the first all-agency staff meeting tomorrow. Their offices. Eleven and, ah, Val likes a fresh breeze where the sun don’t shine. But that’s only a rumor.”

I can either start screaming or I can just fucking solve this, all of it right now. I turn back to the car and reach down and slam the door. Troy looks up at me through the glass with a hurt expression, like I’ve slapped him.

“Look, I didn’t want to upset you,” Steven hurtles on. “It may not even be true. I mean, what have you seen?”

“Nothing on that end, thank God. Look, I’ll deal with Val, but right now Troy’s stoned, Peg’s already here, Charles is at LAX about to get on a flight back to New York, and I need you to tell me how to get Troy in shape for the photographers. You know more about drugs than I do.”

“Eyedrops and food. How much did he smoke?” Steven says, immediately snapping to, but then he always knows exactly where the line is drawn.

“I think more than one joint. But I can’t be sure. Guess rehab really worked.”

“Where is he?”

“In his car. I’m thinking of locking him in there.”

“Okay, get the drops from makeup—they always have them—and get him a water and tell everyone he’s feeling queasy. Something he ate. Isn’t he supposed to go at the end of the shoot? He’s got hours to sleep it off. You’ll be fine, but you might have to stay with him.”

“Yeah, got it,” I say, suddenly remembering Charles on the other line. “But stay by the phone.”

“Charles,” I say clicking over. “Sorry. Some office emergency—”

But he cuts me off.

“Listen, Alex, my flight’s about to board and I just wanted to say I am leaving but I’m coming back next week. I just have to fly back for a few days. So I wanted to ask you, rather than lunch, can we do dinner? I want to make it up to you for all the cancellations.”