The First Assistant (37 page)

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” I smiled.

“You mean we’re not having sex tonight?” He looked forlorn. I shook my head. “We’re not having sex ever again.”

“Is it something I’ve done?”

“No, Jason. It’s not you. It’s me.” I giggled. I’d always wanted to say that but had never had the pleasure of dumping anyone before. And as breakups went this had to be one of the most enjoyable for both parties. I was on a roll.

“I hear Carmen does this thing with her thighs, they’re supposed to be rock-hard.” I headed toward the door. “If you ask her nicely she might show you.”

“Christ, I know. It’s fucking amazing.” Jason’s eyes watered at the memory.

“Thanks for not lying to me.” I waved and opened the door onto the balmy LA night. “See you at the junket tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Jason said, then called after me, “If I find any of your panties, can I keep them?”

“Sure,” I shrugged. “And if I find any of yours can I sell them on eBay when you win your Oscar?”

“Be my guest,” Jason said proudly, probably before rushing to his bedroom and putting a couple of pairs of his boxer shorts into a jiffy bag for future generations of movie fans to cherish.

Twenty-two

Hollywood is a place where people from Iowa mistake each other for a star.

—Woody Allen

The week before the Oscars, a strange sort of malaise settles over Los Angeles. Before the pandemonium of the ceremony itself hits, there’s a period of desperation beyond compare. It’s known as Oscar Fever. And no matter how important, how cool, or how indifferent a person appears to be to the whole Hollywood circus for the rest of the year—they find themselves sucked into a swirling vortex of hope, shamelessness, and humiliation during that week.

Thankfully I’d never really given too much of a damn about the Academy Awards before my own nomination. When I lived in D.C. I’d hear about who won and who lost on my car radio on my way to work. I also had a vague recollection of some of the sillier Oscar frocks— Celine Dion’s backless tuxedo, Björk’s swan costume, and Lara Tin Foil’s ballerina dress all left me bemused. But that was before I arrived in Hollywood and exchanged the sound of one hand clapping for the lo-cal mantra of choice: “All publicity is good publicity.” Then I understood why people would willingly embarrass themselves in front of an audience of millions. For the entire week the town was governed by three simple rules:

If you’re not invited—lie your way in. If you get in—get noticed.

If you don’t get noticed—make a total ass of yourself until you do.

I have to say that even as an assistant at a talent agency I’d never really succumbed to Oscar Fever. Mainly because I was just too far down the ladder to even be able to see over the fence into the pen where the people-who-live-in-hope-of-an-invite were. I was about as likely to be invited to an Oscar event as a mailman in Michigan might be. Hell, my first year in LA Lara had to beg some friends of hers in Sil-ver Lake to let me come to their Oscar party. You’d have thought that Steve McQueen would be making a guest appearance, their door policy was so tight. But when I got there it was just a bunch of wannabes whose big talk couldn’t disguise the fact that everything they knew about the entertainment industry could be learned from the
National Enquirer
and their red carpet commentary on everyone from Angelina Jolie to Billy Zane was so damning they made Joan Rivers sound like Shirley Temple.

Last year I got it right. If you aren’t nominated, spare yourself the depression of feeling like a total loser in a town where clearly you’re no one if you’re not a nominee and don’t circulate. Because there is no in-between strata—the wannabes of Silver Lake are nobodys; but the TV presenters are wasting their Harry Winston–borrowed sparkle and Badg-ley Mischka gowns, too, because they’re just common bystanders as well; even the winners of two years ago start to look like has-beens when Oscar Fever strikes—not unlike yesterday’s slightly curling, unappealing sandwiches left out after the celebratory Women In Film lunch.

Best on Oscar night to forget you have anything to do with the industry, put on an old pair of pajamas, grab a blanket, and get bulimic with the carrot sticks. ...I know, it should be Ben & Jerry’s, but to be honest watching those women when you have a pint of ice cream inside you is such a one-way street to self-loathing that you might just welcome a “relationship with food” with open arms and then head straight for the bathroom. Best stick to carrots and pretzels, trust me.

Only this year I couldn’t hide my light or my unwaxed legs beneath any bushels or blankets, I had a date at the Kodak Theatre and it would have been un-American of me to spend fewer than seventeen hours getting dressed for the big night. I had to abandon myself to the Zen of the Oscars with a pure heart. By the way, the Zen of the Oscars is evident

everywhere you look. It was as if Zac had been coaching the whole town on the subject. Because during Oscar Week the present is all that matters. Last year counts for nothing. Next year’s nominees are probably as yet undiscovered or waiting to be rediscovered, not even making it to the top of their agent’s call sheet. The power of now is all that counts.

Each year there is a slight variation on the parties that one has to be invited to in order to be socially viable. This year, I heard from Jason so it was undoubtedly meticulously researched with no margin for error, it was Barry Diller’s lunch party on Oscar Saturday; Daniel Rosen’s house party on Saturday night; and the
Vanity Fair
party on Sunday as ever. That was the queen, king, ace of parties, and if you weren’t holding the royal flush then you might as well wrap yourself in bandages, carry a bell and rock up to the Ivy and declare yourself unclean before your peers, like the social leper you are.

Of course it was already Friday night and somehow my invitations to this hallowed trinity of events still hadn’t turned up in the mail and I was becoming increasingly concerned. But like a nasty outbreak of blisters on an intimate part of your body, you don’t exactly want to advertize the fact that you’ve been overlooked. Until the eleventh hour that is, when you realize that it won’t actually matter if you share your dilemma with a close, trusted friend because by this time tomorrow the whole town will know your sordid secret anyway.

“Jason,” I whispered as we sat with our heads under foil at the Frédéric Fekkai Oscar suite on Saturday morning (yes, this was a free cut and highlights and of course I was excited but I was trying to blend in so couldn’t nail my excitement to the mast quite as eagerly as I wanted to in public), “I’m not sure what I’m doing tonight.”

“Well, you’re coming to Barry’s party, aren’t you?” he said as he sipped his complimentary chamomile tea. Apparently he’d been in pretox all week for his big night. I had tried to cut out alcohol and adhere to the old faithful Brussels sprouts diet, but after just one day of boiling water in saucepans and a kitchen that smelled like a Victorian sewer, I’d given up and headed for Pinks on Melrose for a celebratory chili dog and fries. This was, after all, supposed to be the time of my life; I wasn’t go-ing to blight it by spending my days running to the bathroom instead of

taking advantage of all the fabulous free massages, haircuts, and manicures that were being doled out to nominees.

“I haven’t been invited,” I said, moving my head tightly into his, so that our foils rustled together.

“Of course you have, honey. Your invitations are at my house.” “They are?” I nearly leaped out of my seat with joy. I hadn’t acknowl—

edged even to myself how miserable I’d been by my Oscar ostracism. If I couldn’t get arrested when I was nominated for best producer, then there was no hope for me.

“I’ll call Carmen and ask her to bring them with her. She’s coming in for an Indian head massage at eleven.”

But unfortunately all was not quite so simple. Primarily because Ja-son was dating an unscrupulous egomaniac with a sense of entitlement that usually only accompanies heiresses to billion-dollar fortunes not a former model-turned-actress whose only talent seemed to be to make her skirt mysteriously disappear every time she sat down.

“Here are the invitations.” Carmen handed me a couple of battered bits of card as she made a beeline for Frédéric and crushed her chest against him when they air kissed. I looked at my coveted treasure with a sigh of relief, until I realized that the ace in my pack was in fact missing. “Jason, she’s forgotten my
Vanity Fair
one,” I said as I ironed out the

abused invites.

“It’s probably in her bag.” Jason shrugged. “Carmen honey, c’m here a minute.”

“Coming!” Carmen kissed a little more ass with the manicurist and makeup artist to ensure her goody bag later and then returned to her walking, talking, breathing Academy Award ticket, aka Jason.

“Carmen, have you got my
Vanity Fair
invitation?” I smiled, trying to look past her numinous bosom as all six feet of her zaftig frame towered over me.

“Oh no, I gave that to a friend,” she said as she moved in close to the mirror to scrutinize a nonexistent pore on her nearly as nonexistent nose. My head twitched involuntarily and I wanted to say something but I didn’t have the capability, I was so stunned.

“Oh, come on, baby, you didn’t really, did you?” Jason said as he pondered which of the male nail polishes he’d be wearing tomorrow night. It wasn’t quite the alpha-male anger I needed from him at this juncture in my weekend.

“You did what?” I couldn’t help myself.

“She really wanted to come. She’s never been before.” Carmen turned and addressed not me, but Jason, with a sweet pout. She was clearly a smart girl.

“Oh shit, Lizzie. I’m so sorry,” Jason said, then handed the manicurist the most masculine nail polish he could lay hands on. Obviously a guy has to have good looking nails if he’s going to be manhandling Oscar. However it did make me very glad that we weren’t still having sex, especially when topped off with a head of Malibu male lowlights and an inability to stand up for me, I felt positively repelled.

“Sorry isn’t good enough.” I shook my head. “That was my ticket and I want it back.”

“Not possible.” Carmen shook her already perfect mane over her shoulder as she settled into the chair on the far side of Jason. “She’s already had a dress made for her by Galliano on the grounds that she’s go-ing to be there. Otherwise it would have cost her twenty-five thousand dollars.” Which strangely didn’t make me any more compelled to donate my ticket to Carmen’s friend. Especially as I was going to be wearing an admittedly lovely, but uncouture, sample gown by Chanel that Talitha had found in the press cupboard at work, which had small sweat patches under the arms. And which I had to give back by noon on Monday.

“Jason,” I barked, by way of an order. “What can I say, Lizzie? I’m sorry.” “I’ll be your plus one,” I demanded.

“Also not possible.” Carmen informed me. “My sister has Jason’s plus one.”

“Oh and don’t tell me. She’s already had her dress hand-appliqued by Christian Dior himself.”

“Don’t be stupid. He’s dead,” she said, then turned to the hairdresser who was ready to give her a massage. “I like it very firm.” She giggled. At which point I knew that I had lost Jason’s support. He was barely able to conceal his burgeoning delight at his horny girlfriend, even beneath an oversized, parachute silk hairdresser’s robe. So I took my new

highlights and goody bag of minisprays and shampoos that should have delighted me and instead made me want to swing them around and thwack Carmen on the head and stomped to my car.

By the time I arrived back at Lara’s, I had resigned myself to going to Elton John’s post-Oscar party instead.

“I don’t see what all the fuss about the
Vanity Fair
party is, anyway,” I lied to Lara over lunch. “One party’s going to be just the same as another. And Elton might even sing that song, ‘Daniel you’re a sta-ah-ah-ah-r, and you fell from the sky.’ I love that song.”

“You can’t give up that easily,” Lara fumed. “That pussy-for-rent can-not just give your invitation away. I’ll get Scott to call Graydon.”

“Don’t be silly. The world and his hamster will be calling Graydon, and he’s probably at Barry Diller’s lunch as we speak. He won’t be por-ing over the guest list with a pencil ready to add me to it.”

“Okay, but I swear to God we’ll get you into that party. I’m not going on my own with Scott. That’d be no fun at all. What’s the point of Gwyneth’s postpregnancy boobs if we don’t get to check them out together?” Lara asked incredulously.

Naturally both Lara and Scott were invited to every fannybumper on the face of God’s earth. They were even going to Daniel Rosen’s party at his house tonight, despite the fact that only a year ago Scott had launched a hostile takeover of The Agency and ousted Daniel from his post as president. Daniel was now head of a major new agency and so could afford to be magnanimous—he was still two positions above Scott on the
Entertainment Weekly
Power 100. So he was officially the bigger man.

“Let’s break into their house tonight and steal their invitation,” Lara said.

“I’m going to Daniel’s party. I can’t.” I shrugged.

“Are you kidding, that’ll be over by nine-thirty. Everyone needs their beauty sleep. Why don’t we just leave early and swing by? You still have a key, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t. Anyway, it has Jason’s name on the invite,” I protested.

“That’s okay. We’ll take theirs and hold it hostage until they give yours back,” Lara plotted.

“I’m not sure that I want to go that badly,” I admitted. “I mean, how much fun can it be?”

“How? Much? Fun? Can? It? Be?” Lara was incredulous. “Listen Lizzie, you know me. I don’t rat’s ass about celebrities and all that and since I got fat I don’t even care about clothes that much, but you know what?” She gawped at me.

“No?”

“This will be the most extraordinary night of your life.” She sighed happily. “Have you ever seen more than two movie stars under one roof ?”

“Only at premieres,” I said.

“When they had the same goal—to sell tickets to their movie. This is so different, you can’t begin to imagine.”