Picture Perfect (3 page)

“Sounds like you’re due for a good purging. Come on. Go stick your finger down your throat, and then we’ll go to Armani in Beverly Hills. I’ll have you outfitted in time for your lunch date. Nothing heals a broken heart like a new love. And the only love you’ll be getting in that suit is from an undertaker.”

“Oh, all right,” I concede.

***

I squirt some breath spray into my mouth as I scurry into Spago Beverly Hills, freshly coiffed and outfitted by Giles. Adding a little sparkle to my wardrobe is key, according to Giles, so he hooked me up with a new, beaded, wrap-around blouse (which helps hide the bloated stomach I’m still sporting) and a pair of strappy stilettos courtesy of Manolo Blahnik. The trousers I put on this morning, he decided, would have to do for now as he didn’t want to try to squeeze my protruding gut into anything bigger than a size six for fear that my expanding belly will just keep on spreading if there’s nothing to keep it in check.

I quickly spot Jack Ford grabbing a drink at the main bar in the dining room. Wearing a black leather biker’s jacket, a pair of rugged jeans and a faded Von Ductch T-shirt on his well-muscled six-foot frame, he reminds me of a young Marlon Brando. I rush past the hostess to scoop him up before every other damned producer in this restaurant tackles him and forces him to sign a three picture deal. God, to be young, beautiful and talented.

“Jack! Hi! Good to see you again!” I shout at him while trying not to topple over on my heels as I dodge waiters, busboys, and a small collection of “ladies who lunch” milling about rather aimlessly. The afternoon lunch crowd is often a hodge-podge of Hollywood’s elite pitching story ideas and making movie deals, tourists out for some star-gazing, and blue-haired old women in big hats and sunglasses.

I hate Spago.      

“Hey, Lauren. How’s it going?”

“Just great!” I cheer, grabbing his arm and air-kissing his cheek. Now that I’ve claimed him, no one else would dare try to steal him from me. Well, at least not for the hour that I’ve got him in my sight. It is amazing how far some producers will go to sign the “it” boy or girl of the month. I once lost an actress to another project because the producer on that film offered to marry her Brazilian cousin so she could get a green card.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks me. “Dirty martini, right?”

“That would be fabulous. Is your agent on the way?”

“Nah, it’s just you and me today, babe.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll just go see if our table is ready,” I say a little unsteadily.

This is the third meeting I’ve had with Jack Ford, and if his agent isn’t here, that must mean he’s totally uninterested in my project. All these freaking actors have such a fear of television—like it’s some sort of curse to be on the “small screen.” I’ve got my work cut out for me.

After maneuvering back and forth through the sea of linen-topped tables, begging the hostess for a spot on the patio (I must berate Jennifer for not confirming that), and slipping unnoticed past a party of sightseers eagerly chatting about all the stars in the joint (Jack Ford is not yet on their radar), Jack and I find our way out onto the patio.

After the appetizers have been consumed, the requisite small talk made, and one drink down the gullet each, I get down to business.

“Right now, Jack, you’re in position to make a major career breakthrough. Your turn in that porn flick—”

     “It wasn’t a porno,” he points out, stabbing his steak with his fork for emphasis. “It was about the tragic lives of porn stars.”

“Yes, indeed. However, very few people outside of LA and New York are going to make that distinction. But that’s beside the point. What I’m saying is if you want success, if you want fame, if you want to be more than a flash in the pan, you’ve got to make the biggest impression in the shortest amount of time possible. And nowhere can you find a better venue for that than in television.”

“Yeah, but television? It seems so—common.”

Here we go. I’ve made this argument so many times that I should get a goddamn Golden Globe award for Best Actress. I take a sip of my martini to refresh my palette.

“That’s the beauty of television,” I say to Jack sounding remarkably like a used car salesman. “Everybody and her grandma own a television, but let me assure you that not everybody flocks to the local cinema to check out the latest indie film—if one even comes to their town. America is bigger than LA and New York. And if you want to succeed in this business, you need middle-America rooting for you. Where do you think Tom Hanks or Will Smith would be without Television? Probably still auditioning for crappy student films. America’s television audiences fell in love with them, and that’s why they’re megastars now.”

“Okay, okay. So, TV is the place to be. I get that. But it’s still cable.” Jack gulps down a swig of his imported beer.

“Yes, Timeless Television is a cable network, but it is one of the highest rated for original programming.”

“Higher than TNT? My agent is trying to get me a spot on their new cop drama.”

Damn it. I don’t remember the last time I had to work so hard to sign an actor. Usually I just toss a bunch of big words at them, and they’re so hot for TV you need a fire truck to put out the flames. Jack is no ordinary actor. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s just something different about him.

“That would be an excellent place to guest star, but I’m offering you a lead role in a feature-length production. The screen time you’d have on an ensemble cop show wouldn’t even compare to what you’d have with
A True Heart.
With the kind of exposure I’m offering you, you’d have more than just Hollywood interested in you.

“You’re very good. Did you go to law school or something?”

“Uh, no,” I sputter, thrown by his sudden interest in my education. “I went to film school. UCLA.”

“I know. I checked you out.” He looks intently at me, and I feel my stomach flop. “How old are you?”

“What?”

“If you’re not comfortable talking about your age—”

“I’m thirty-six,” I blurt, not wanting to be pegged as one of those ridiculously shallow Hollywood types too afraid to admit her age. “How old are you?”

“My age range is eighteen to thirty,” he says matter-of-factly. Of course. Actors don’t generally reveal their exact age so that they can be considered for roles both younger and older than what they really are. For some reason,
that’s
not considered shallow.

“Okay, so you know how old I am. Is there anything in particular you want to know about my experience in the industry?”

“No, I got your stats from IMDB.com. It just didn’t list your age.”

Damn the internet! It’s impossible to have any secrets when the freaking International Movie Database is posting all your vitals on the web. I wonder if they’ve posted a blurb on their website about my impending divorce, or if they leave those kinds of details to
The Hollywood
Reporter
.

“So, you’ve done your homework. That means you know I have a reputation for producing award-winning films. Films that people actually watch.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with your track record.”

“And you’ve read the script?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty good.”

“So, what do I have to do to get you on board?” I ask, leaning in for the kill.

And just as negotiations are about to slip into high gear, that idiot I married parks himself at our table.

“Hey, Jack. Sorry to intrude. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Alan Tate. I’ll be working on the marketing and publicity for
A True Heart
, and I always like to get to know who I’m working with before we go into production.

“Thank you, Alan,” I manage to utter between gritted teeth, “but Jack hasn’t signed on yet. We’re discussing that now.”

“Oh?” he replies, tilting his head slightly so that the sun glints off his hair, highlighting the few grey hairs he forgot to pluck this morning. “I thought this was all wrapped up, Lauren.”

“Not quite. We’re discussing it now.”

“And she’s very convincing,” Jack says. “I’m just concerned that I’ll be starting off with a reputation as a TV actor. I just don’t want to get stuck there, you know?”

“I understand your concern, however, this is a feature-length film shot on thirty-five millimeter just like a theatrical film would be,” I say, a tightness in my throat straining my voice. “And we have one of the best directors on board already. You’ll love him. He’s an actor’s director.”

“And not only that,” Alan adds, jumping on my very last nerve, “but we’ll be advertising the picture in movie theatres, at bus stops and on billboards all over the US. Everyone in this country will know your name by the time the film airs in May.”

“May? That’s only a couple of months away.”

“Yes. We have an aggressive shooting schedule. TV moves at a much faster pace than the rest of the industry. You’ll find that there are many advantages to working in television—”

“You can’t lose, kid.” Alan cuts me off, and I want to stab him in the thigh with my fork.

“Would you excuse us for just a minute, Jack?”

He smiles politely at me with a nod, and somehow I know he understands how much I want to throttle Alan.

I grab Alan’s sleeve and pull him inside the dining room where I practically body-slam him against the wall. All heads turn toward us, but I can’t even begin to care what they’re thinking.

“What are you doing here?” I demand with the kind of shriek that is usually accompanied by a pitchfork and torch.

“I just thought you might need a little help closing the deal.”

“Who told you I was having lunch with him?”

“No one. I just came for lunch myself. It’s a coincidence.”

“Bullshit! It was that little tramp Jennifer, wasn’t it?”

“She’s not a tramp.”

“Aha! So, it was her. What? Are you guys in cahoots now?”

“Cahoots? Have you been reading a lot of westerns lately?”

“Don’t change the subject. Are you and Jennifer up to something?”

“You’re being paranoid, and you’re acting out of control. I don’t want you to fuck this up.”

“I do not need your help, Alan. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and whether you believe it or not, I am actually very good at what I do. One of the fucking best, as a matter of fact. So, just keep your hands off my actors—and the rest of my staff for that matter.”

I turn around to see all of Hollywood’s A-list staring at me, their mouths hanging open in wonder. I smooth my hands alongside my hips, lift my chin and sashay back to my table. I take a seat, fold my hands in my lap, and stare intently at my untouched plate of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes, hoping that by some act of God I could undo everything that occurred in the last five minutes.

“You wanna get outta here?” Jack asks me.

“Desperately,” I gasp.

Jack empties his beer, offers me his hand and pulls me up out of my seat, whisking me through the dining room and out the front door in a matter of seconds.

“Wait! I didn’t pay the check!” I shout, trying to loosen myself from his grasp to go back inside.

Jack pulls me back around to face him. In my four-inch heels, I’m so tall our noses almost touch as he draws me into him. My stomach dives to my freshly painted toes as his gaze penetrates all the way down to my now churning core.

“They know who you are. They’ll find you.”

His full, pink lips are so close to mine that I can almost feel them on my mouth. I fight the urge to lean in and kiss him. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed, I think my lips are operating on their own desire to feel needed for something other than eating!

“Come with me. I know a place,” he says.

Chapter 3

Ordinarily, I would not hop on the back of a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle with a man I hardly know, but the lingering sensation of Jack’s hot breath on my lips has left me far too weak to protest. Like being blind-sided by an eighteen-wheeler, his impromptu kidnapping has completely knocked me off my game. His steady gaze, his firm grip on my hand, the sight of his full moist lips have thrown all my sense of order and rationality right out the window.

Jack jumps on the back of his motorcycle and with a swift and sturdy thrust, kick-starts the bike. He offers me his hand, and I climb onto the back of the seat, pull on the spare helmet he removed from a side compartment, and hang on for dear life as he roars down the street, weaving in and out of Beverly Hills’ bumper to bumper traffic.

I would scream, but I’m too terrified to even open my mouth as Jack dodges potholes, and slips past a veritable convoy of Hummers, Suburbans and other massive SUVs. I nearly lose one of my shoes when a sharp turn tilts us dangerously close to the street, and I bury my head into his leather jacket. He finally screeches to a halt inside the parking lot of a bowling alley in West Los Angeles.

My arms still wrapped tightly around his chest, Jack removes his helmet and hangs it on one of the handlebars. He shoves the kick-stand down with a jolt, and the noisy rumbling of the bike vibrating beneath me comes to a much welcomed stop. Patiently waiting for me to release him from my grasp, he wraps his hand around my right knee, turning my insides to goo.

“Hey. You’re safe now,” Jack says twisting in his seat to pull the helmet off my head. “I’m guessing this was your first time on a motorcycle.”

“Y-yes,” I stammer, still clinging to him like a baby orangutan to its mama.

He tenderly pries my hands from his chest and eases me off the cycle and onto terra-firma. I wobble slightly as I try to find my footing in my all-too-tall heels. He catches my arm as I try to right myself, and once again my stomach plummets. I just may throw up.

“You okay?”

“Yes, just a little shaken up is all.”

“It’s a rush, huh? Takes a little getting used to, I guess,” he laughs, his hand still tightly gripping my arm. “Let’s go in. Get a drink or something.”

“In there?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“It’s a bowling alley.”

“Yeah. My mom’s the bartender. She makes a killer zombie.”