True Hollywood Lies (2 page)

To my chagrin, once they married, she did her best to keep the two of us from seeing each other, or else she readily excused herself from our get-togethers. So as not to feel like a third wheel, Jean-Claude made it a point to bow out as well, which is probably why our Thursday-night dinners were so comfortable—that is, until Jean-Claude made it his life mission to produce Leo’s next movie, which is why Leo made it his goal to avoid Jean-Claude’s entreaties in every possible way.

Speaking of Jean-Claude, where was he? I wondered. Sybilla’s wailing was excruciating. Since the moment she had heard of Leo’s death, Jean-Claude had taken it upon himself to give her a shoulder to cry on, so I couldn’t really blame him for finally ducking out.

I tapped gingerly on the bedroom door. No answer. I tried again, a little bolder this time. Her convulsions only grew louder.

Wow, I thought. I guess she really
did
love Leo!

That was where I was wrong. Peeking through the bedroom door, I was able to confirm that, yes, Sybilla
was
hysterical with emotion—however, it was the ecstatic kind that only happens when you’re enjoying illicit wild monkey sex with someone who makes it his business to play women as if they were Stradivarius violins.

That virtuoso was none other than Jean-Claude.

Both of them looked up at the same time. It was as if the three of us were suspended in a time warp. Then, in slow motion, the desire in their faces melted into guilt. Still, it was no match for my own look of horror, I’m sure.

I ran out the front door, ignoring Jean-Claude’s pleas as he grappled with the pants tangled at his feet. He caught up with me as I was unlocking my car door. “Hannah, please—” he stuttered. “It’s not at all what you think!”

“What, are you crazy?” I screamed. “I know
exactly
what was happening in there.”

“I was just—consoling her! It meant nothing, I swear!”

“It may have meant nothing to you, but
she
was sure enjoying herself! Believe me, Jean-Claude, that was no performance. Sybilla isn’t that good of an actress.”

He nodded resignedly. “All-right, Hannah, you want the truth, you’ll have it: Sybilla and I—we love each other.”

“You—you what? Since when?”

The thought suddenly struck me:
Had Leo known about it?

“I won’t lie to you. We’ve been in love for quite some time. We were just waiting—well, for the right time to tell you.”

“And Leo, too?” I spat out the words.

He frowned. “Yes, we were going to tell the both of you.”

I couldn’t speak. It was as if someone had knocked the air out of me. Finally I murmured, “When would that have been? After he completed your film?”

Jean-Claude didn’t answer.

“Well, then maybe he was right not to want to do it.”

“Don’t be so sure he wouldn’t have. Sybilla would have talked him into it.”

I winced at the inference: that
she
could have made Leo do something that I could not.

“In fact, we were planning it as a comeback vehicle for her, too.”

“For
Sybilla
?” The thought was so ludicrous that I laughed in spite of my anger. “Why, she couldn’t act her way into an infomercial! Marriage to Leo saved her from having to be turned down for—for a position as a QVC hostess!”

“You’re cruel, Hannah.” With that, he turned and walked back toward the cottage. I wanted to call out—I don’t know, I guess I wanted to curse him, curse them both . . . or, maybe, ask him what I had done to deserve
this.

Instead I got into my car and fumbled to put the key in the lock. I couldn’t quite keep my hand from shaking in order to achieve that goal, so instead I sat silently, watching the fronds on the stately palm trees scattered throughout the hotel’s lawn rustle to and fro in a gentle breeze.

My cell phone beeped. The caller ID showed that it was Jean-Claude calling. A shiver of hope ran through me:
Maybe it was all just a big mistake, a bad, stupid dream! Maybe he realized how much he’d hurt me, how much I really meant to him. Maybe—

I clicked it open.

“Hannah, my sweet—” Sybilla.

I almost dropped the phone. “What do you want, you conniving bitch?”

“Just to warn you,” she cooed. “The will is being read tomorrow, and if I were you, I wouldn’t make any trouble.”

“Don’t threaten me, you two-timing stepmother-fucking whore.”

“Ouch. That hurt—
you
, dearest, and tomorrow you’ll find out
exactly what I mean.”

The line went dead.

It was my turn to wail, which I did: loudly, angrily, and only because I knew that the chorus of sprinklers humming up and down the hotel’s emerald lawn was drowning out my sobs.

* * *

The bereavement calls came in all night. No matter who it was from—one of my dad’s many friends, acquaintances, enemies, ex-wives, former girlfriends, new girlfriends, etcetera, etcetera—it started out the same way: asking me if there was anything,
anything at all
that they could do
for me . . .

Very very kind.

Within a sentence or two, however, they’d choke up as they reminisced about the first time they ever met Leo. Then the sniffling began, at which point the tables were turned, and I was now consoling the caller: “That’s okay, Matt—” (or Brad, or Tobey, or Meryl, or Sharon or whomever).“Oh, I know, I know. He
was
the greatest. He always loved you, too. Yes,
really
! He mentioned you all the time. . . Yes, I know, he was like a father to you, too. I guess we can console ourselves that, Leo being Leo, is charming the pants off a different crowd now. . . ” . . . or something to that effect.

Sometime between the second and the seventh call, I got smart and decanted a bottle of Château Lynch-Bages 2000 Pauillac (Leo’s cardinal rule: a good hostess stocks her bar with at least one $100 dollar bottle of wine) and I allowed myself to take a sip before picking up the phone each time.

The final call came about ten o’clock at night. By then the bottle was long gone, and I no longer felt the obligation to man the Mother Teresa hotline, so I let it ring. But whoever was calling wouldn’t give it a break. I finally resigned myself to that fact and picked up the phone.

“Hannah, I’m glad you’re home. It’s Jasper.” Jasper Carlton is—was—Leo’s attorney. He is also the third and only Carlton of the venerable old Beverly Hills law firm of Franklin, Carlton, Gregory, Churchill, Carlton and Carlton who is still living and breathing. As such, in Hollywood his representation is like a rare stock, or akin to buying a thousand shares of Microsoft in ’82; in other words, golden.

I felt an immense flood of relief. I didn’t know what Sybilla had up her sleeve, but whatever it was, if there was someone who could launch a successful counterattack, it was certainly Jasper.

There was another reason I was glad to hear his voice on the other end of the phone: I hadn’t yet taken the opportunity to thank Jasper for his unwavering loyalty to Leo all these many years, despite my father’s errant behavior, including the now legendary tiffs with studio heads, the public bickering and estate plundering by Leo’s four wives, and his innumerable affairs, including the one that had led to the birth of Leo’s “one and only love child” (my most unfortunate nickname, courtesy of
Star
magazine) with the one woman whom he
hadn’t
married: my mother, Journey Sterling.

In many ways, Jasper is not your typical Beverly Hills lawyer, although that isn’t evident by his trendy attire. His suits may be Brioni (his one concession to a client base that considered itself cutting edge), but his heart is very much classic Brooks Brothers, and it showed in the formality and honesty with which he treated his clients.

“Jasper, I’m glad you called,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “More than anyone, you were always there for Leo, and I thank you for that.”

Obviously touched by my kind words, Jasper sighed. “Don’t be so quick to thank me, kiddo.”

“What do you mean?”

“About eighteen months ago, when you first started dating that French fellow—”

“Jean-Claude?”

“Yes, that guy. I saw him at the funeral today.”

I laughed harshly. “Well, you don’t have to worry about him any more, Jasper.”

“I know,” he answered, pointedly.

I blushed hotly, glad that Jasper couldn’t see me through the phone. “How?”

“I’ll get to that. As I started to say, about eighteen months ago, Leo came in to see me. To change his will.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Apparently he was upset, thought this lad was trying to take advantage of you. He felt that, in order to protect you, he should make some changes to your trust fund.”

“What—what kind of changes?” Suddenly I felt cold. I sat down, hard. Thank goodness there was actually a chair behind me.

“Your trust was to continue
only
until his death.” Jasper let this sink in.

I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t known that Leo had felt so strongly about Jean-Claude. In fact, I had assumed we had cleared whatever hurdles had stood between the two men in my life. Obviously I had been wrong.

And once again, Leo had read the situation right.

Jasper continued. “Well, last week he came into my office again, requesting that I draw up another new will. In it, you were to be included again. Sybilla was going to be cut out.”

“I think I know why,” I muttered.

“Yes, I can imagine. Neither Sybilla nor Jean-Claude seems to have a discreet bone in their bodies.”

So, Leo
had
known after all! I dropped my head, ashamed at my own naiveté.

“However, Hannah,
he never got around to signing it.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“For right now, it means that the current Mrs. Leo Fairchild will inherit his full estate. However, you would have every right to contest that will.”

“I can’t even think about that now, Jasper. It’s—it’s just too soon.”

“I know, kiddo. I just wanted you to be aware of the true situation before the will is read tomorrow.”

“So that’s what she meant.”

“Who?”

“Sybilla. I—I just found out about them today, I mean her and Jean-Claude. She told me not to ‘make waves,’ or else I’d regret it.”

“Sounds like she knows she’ll have to accept a settlement of some sort,” he answered thoughtfully. “Still, I think that under the circumstances, we’re going to have to move fast. I’ll ask the court to freeze whatever assets there are. But the way your stepmother is already spending it, there may not be much left when all is said and done. Which brings us to a very important question: how are you fixed for money?”

I grimaced. “My rent is paid up for the month, but it’s slim pickings after that.”

I didn’t mention that I’d recently splurged on my new convertible Beetle with all the bells and whistles, along with a summer wardrobe from Fred Segal to go with it; or that I was still paying off the $4,000 I’d borrowed for my telescope, lenses, mount and other stargazing paraphernalia. “I haven’t exactly been frugal, I guess. And you know I don’t have a job. I’ve been concentrating on my planet hunting.”

Jasper cleared his throat, which I interpreted to mean that he viewed my astronomy project as just another harebrained example of TFB (trust fund baby) busywork.

“Can you type?”

“Sure, slowly, with my index fingers.”

His silence spoke volumes.

“I see myself more as a people person,” I backpedaled brightly. “You know, hostess with the mostess. And I’m
great
with details.”

“I know. You came through like a champ in planning Leo’s funeral. I can’t even imagine how things would have gone off if that addle-brained stepmother of yours had taken the reins. You know, Hannah, I always felt you were the one thing in Leo’s life that made him proud. You were his anchor, whether he was willing to admit it to himself or not.”

A knot formed in my throat. Jasper’s kind words made me both happy and sad at the thought of Leo. “So, what do you have in mind, Jasper?”

“I’ve got a new client who needs some help. Don’t worry, it’s not a lot of office work. His manager can make arrangements to handle that kind of stuff.”

I silently waited for the punch line.

“What he needs is a gopher—you know, someone who can run errands for him, help him run lines, be on the set with him to make sure he’s got everything he needs—”

“You want me to babysit an
actor
?”

“Well, yes, in a way. You’d be his personal assistant.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Frankly, yes I am. It’s Louis Trollope. You know, the one they call the new British heartthrob. He’s a young Hugh Grant, but with a Colin Farrell edge.”

“Colin is Irish.”

“That’s beside the point, my dear. The point I’m trying to make is that Louis is hot
right now
; the wet dream of the month. And because of who
you
are, you’d be perfect for the position: you won’t be star-struck, you understand the importance of discretion, you can’t be intimated—”

“You can say that again.” My mind flashed on all the screaming matches I’d had with Leo. In most cases I had stood firm, to his chagrin. Of course, those times had usually ended with me hiding in a bathroom, upchucking my pent-up inclinations to run, hide, and cry myself to sleep over our colliding obstinacy.

“And—” Jasper continued, “you’re already familiar with actors and their—well, let’s just call it their ‘idiosyncrasies.’ ”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a slap in the face.”

“It’s neither. It’s just a fact of your life. So, why not capitalize on it?”

I saw his point, but I didn’t exactly like it.

Sure, I could handle whatever some up-and-coming actor could throw at me; if Leo had given me nothing else, he had given me a ringside seat on high-profile notoriety. But
that
had been a living hell. Now that I was free of it, why would I want to relive history with a cardboard copy of Leo?