Shooting Star (Beautiful Chaos) (4 page)

“He’s an arrogant prick,” I said, as I lay stretched out on the sofa, with the script of
Skye’s The Limit
held up above my head. We were listening to Will Pharrell’s “Happy.” And I did feel happy. Finally my life seemed to be coming together. “Okay, tell me which sounds better: ‘I told you I was no good,’ or like this: ‘I told you I was no
good
!’ ”

“Who are you talking to at that point?”

“The guy I corrupt, the sixteen-year-old. He’s kind of like the Leonardo character in
What’s Eating Gilbert Grape
, you know? Mentally handicapped? And I make him run away with me and he’s in love with me so does anything I say.”

“You have sex with him in the movie?”

“No way! He’s, you know, like drooling and stuff. But he’s sweet.”

“Who’s playing him?”

“This new actor that nobody’s heard of yet. This is going to be big for him—it’s an amazing part.”

“So he was at the read-through the other day?”

“No, he’s still in London. He’s finishing up a play in the West End. I mean, when I say ‘nobody’s heard of him’ he’s huge in England, in the theatre world. Everybody’s talking about how talented he is—I forget his name though.”

“Cute talented, or like, just talented?”

“He’s a baby. Only seventeen. Maybe one day he’ll be cute but for now he’s just plain talented.”

“So who’s Meryl playing?”

“The psycho prison warden.”

“And Ian McKellen?—he’s the Lord of the Rings guy, isn’t he?”

“My grandfather.”

“De Niro?”

“A cameo role: a peeping Tom pervert who I murder in the first scene.”

“So your character is pretty fucked up?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, she’s a serial killer so I guess you’d say that’s pretty fucked up. Although in a weird way I identify with her, you know?”

“You say that about all the parts you play—that’s what makes you a good actress. This is
so
going to be the perfect role for you, Star.”

I squinted my eyes at her. Sun was pouring through the huge picture window, lighting up her thick red hair like a halo. “Yup, that’s why I moved mountains to get the role,” I said.

I’d gotten my hands on the script via my agent’s sister’s assistant, who, in turn, had sneakily scanned a few pages when the script was fresh but hadn’t been sent out yet. I prepared the shoot. Hired a studio for the day and got an actor friend to do the scene with me. I paid the best make-up artist in Hollywood to bruise me up (as was required at that point in the script), an amazing lighting cameraman I’d once worked with on an Oliver Stone movie, and we shot the scene. I knew that there was no way Jake Wild was even going to consider me so I pitched it to the moneymen behind Jake’s back, managing to seal the deal with my “will-work-for-peanuts” offer. It worked. I’d once read that was how Nicole Kidman won the role in
To
Die For
. She made a home movie to convince them—after they’d told her she was wrong for the part. Sometimes directors don’t have faith in you and you have to prove yourself. Even if you’re already a big star like me. In fact, sometimes even more so. Being a star (no pun intended) does have its problems—people think you’re all celebrity and no talent. I had to show them they were wrong.

Janice was tidying up a pile of magazines and books. My face stared at me from two of the covers. It was always surreal seeing photos of myself and watching myself on screen. Like I was a totally different person. And I was.

“So why did Jake Wild ask you how you got the role? Doesn’t he
know
?” Janice asked.

“Apparently not. I guess they never showed him my homemade film clip. He was so dead against hiring me from word go.”

“And you think you convinced him at the read-through you’re right for the part?”

“Maybe. But I think I’ve got to sweeten him up in other ways. Get him more on my side.”

Janice raised a neat, shapely eyebrow. I’d been trying my whole life to raise just one eyebrow and had never managed. “Seduce him?” Janice said warily.

I didn’t answer. Just gave a little smirk. She knew me so well.

“That’ll be easy, won’t it?” she said. “Hasn’t he fucked half of Hollywood? Like every single beautiful actress that he’s ever met and worked with? I heard he slammed—who’s that A-list actress with the big boobs and pouty lips?—I heard he fucked her in the elevator at the Golden Globes.”

“Well, apparently—I heard this through the grapevine—he’s not coming near me.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because
Skye’s The Limit
is his big break and he doesn’t want to ‘screw with the talent.’ ”

“So fine. Leave him alone, then. Do your job and don’t get involved. Isn’t that better for you?”

“I have more control when they’re lapping at my feet. You know, one time I didn’t get along with my director. And guess what? I ended up on the cutting room floor.”

“But they can’t omit bits of the script and cut your part short once you’ve started filming!”

“Oh yes they can. In that particular movie? This two-bit actress with three lines suddenly ended up being one of the most important elements of the storyline. Why? Because she was fucking the director and he was obsessed with her—” I took a swig of Diet Coke and went on—“Not that
I’m
fucking any of the directors—believe me—I mean, some of them are old enough to be my grandfather—but if that’s the case I still sweeten them up so they’re like father figures to me. Men either need to feel they have to protect me, or fuck me. And even if they’re treating me like ‘Daddy’s little girl,’ their secret fantasy is to have sex with me. They’re men. That’s how men think. Trust me, I’ve been working in this business since I was two years old.”

“What about when you worked with that woman director—what was her name?
She
didn’t want to fuck you.”

“Maya? Well Maya was like a mother to me. With women it’s easy. They’re like your big sister or mom.”

Janice plumped up the cushions around me and folded up a cashmere wrap, laying it gently behind me. “Interesting theory.”

“Except, oh yeah, when I was nine years old and shooting in Mexico? Before Mom died when she was in the hospital, and they gave me that lesbian freak as my chaperone, who I had to share a room with who, P.S., tried to freakin’ rape me.”

“Jesus, how awful! How come you never told me about her?”

“Because it’s a memory I would rather bury. And you know what my agent asks before I sign? She makes sure there are no bull dykes because there is no way I’m working with some she-man who’s going to try and get into my panties.”

“But you kissed—no,
tongued
—what’s-her-face—last year at the Grammy’s? What’s her name again, that singer?”

“She’s a lipstick lesbian and I did it just for show. I was off my head, anyway. You know what the problem with Jake is? I don’t know if he even finds me attractive.”

Janice walked over to the window and looked out. “Of course he does—he’d have to be blind not to. Jesus, they’re still out there. I can see one, like half a mile away, up in that tree at the Dufays’ house. What
is
it with these paparazzi? Don’t they have anything
better
to do with their time?”

“Well, when Jake looked at me the other day? He like
drilled
his eyes into me. It was scary. As if he was challenging me to a duel.”

Janice turned around. “You find him sexy?”

“Well . . . I’m intimidated by him, although I’d never let him
know
that, of course. I respect him. And yes, he’s drop-dead gorgeous with that husky British accent, not to mention his gorgeous body—of course I find him sexy—I’d be blind not to.”

Janice smiled, knowingly.

“I don’t think he’s into me at all, though. I think he thinks I’m a spoiled, underage brat.”

“You’re over eighteen—you’re not underage.”

“I’m too young to drink legally.”

“Well now you’re
sober
that won’t be a problem, will it, Star?” The ‘will it Star?’ was a glaring threat, Janice’s sharp eyes locked onto mine and now she wasn’t smiling.

I took a deep breath. “Look, this time I mean it. This time I have something to fight for.”

“The part of Skye, you mean?”

“Exactly, I don’t want to screw up. This is a once in a lifetime role. This could do for me what
Monster
did for Charlize or
Taxi Driver
did for Bobby. I cannot fuck my chances up.” My cell started ringing and I stared at it. Very few people had my number. “Answer my phone, will you, Janice?”

She strolled over towards me and fished it out from under a cushion on the sofa. She looked at it and raised that eyebrow again. “Hello?” she said and then mouthed to me, ‘Speak of the Devil’—“uh, I’m not sure if she’s available right now—” there was a booming voice down the line that I couldn’t decipher and then, “okay, okay, I’ll put her on.” Janice capped her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s pissed.”

I took the phone gingerly from her hands. I looked at the screen. It was Jake. My stomach flipped. Why the hell was I getting butterflies when I thought he was such a jerk? “Yes?” I said coolly.

“Skye,” he said.

“We’re not on set yet, so you can call me Star.”

“I’ll get straight to the point. In your contract it stipulates that the studio has the right to determine your accommodation for the duration of the shoot.”

“Yeah?” I answered, wondering where this was leading. On location I’d stay wherever they had organized—we’d be in the Badlands for a while, and Mexico. I wasn’t worried—I always ended up in amazing hotels with twenty-four hour room service. And now, with my home about to be remodeled, I thought a luxurious stint in The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills would be a great idea—better than a rental. The truth was, I’d spent my whole life in hotels and they felt more to me like home than my own house. No responsibilities. I
loved
hotels.

Jake’s gravelly voice went on, “And they reserve the right to have any bodyguard of their choice, or any person deemed suitable, to offer you twenty-four hour security and vigilance.” ‘Vigilance’ was a polite term for ‘spying.’ But still, it was that or nothing. I was hardly in a position to negotiate, so fresh out of rehab. There were other heavier, legal terms that went on for pages and pages in small print in the airtight contract I’d signed. I didn’t bother reading it—I was so desperate to get the part of Skye that I didn’t even go over it with my lawyer. She went ballistic, but with a list as long as my arm of all the A-list actresses vying for the part of Skye, there was no time to procrastinate.

“So they get to spy on me and have a bodyguard outside my door to make sure room service doesn’t send me up a bottle of Stolichnaya . . . so . . . what’s your point?

“You’re not staying at a hotel while your house is being remodeled, Star.”

“Oh no? So where the hell am I going to stay? In a bed and breakfast? I’ve already taken a ridiculously low paycheck so they can damn well get me a decent hotel!”

“You’ll be staying with me. At my house.”

My mouth parted in shock.

“I don’t like hotels,” Jake explained. “I’ve got all my work gear at home so I’m not budging and the producers are insisting that I keep an eye on you. Basically, they want me to be your nanny. I won’t lie, I’ve got better things to do with my time but . . . well, I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter. Very unorthodox that’s for sure. Why they couldn’t just hire someone specific for the job, I have no idea.”

“Obviously you’re the only one they trust to do the ‘job’ properly because you have a vested interest in keeping me sober. However, Jake, if you’ve got so much to do, like you say, how will you have
time
to keep such an eagle eye on me?
Me
? Star Davis? who’s been known to rappel out of windows in the dead of night by tying sheets together? who has bribed bodyguards and hotel cleaning staff to bring booze and drugs and even dancers and male strippers—”

“Exactly. Under my roof it’ll be a little bit more tricky for you.”

“Look, Mr. Clean.
Not
. I have no intention of screwing this up. So why don’t you just give me a chance before assuming I’m a lost cause, okay?”

“I’ll need you to be ready by Monday,” he said, ignoring my little tirade. “Pack your stuff, and if you really want to make a fuss about it? Take it up with the studio, not me. What kind of food do you like?” he suddenly said, switching direction.

“I’m vegan.”

“Great. Really easy-going, aren’t you?”

“Do you know that nineteen thousand animals are slaughtered every MINUTE in the USA alone? and just because I don’t want to be a part of this
evil
—knowing I’m swallowing a big mouth of suffering tortured pig that’s been living in a concrete cell—where the poor creature can’t even turn around—or eggs from chickens that live packed together with their beaks sawn off in their own stinking feces in a metal cage and—”

“I’m not judging you, Star, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, I’ll get my cook to sort something out. So what do you do about shoes, then, just out of interest?”

“Shoes?”

“Most shoes are made of leather.”

“I wear Stella McCartney,” I said quickly, remembering that I’d worn some Jimmy Choos to the run-through—a hundred percent leather. They were old ones—ones I’d bought before I turned completely vegan. But still. “Stella McCartney doesn’t use any animal products in her collections,” I added haughtily.

I could hear him smile through the telephone line and it bugged me. He’d already caught me out.