So 5 Minutes Ago (11 page)

“I don’t know, but he asked me to tell you he would be back.”

Oh God. What am I, away from his side for five, ten minutes and he just takes off?

“Okay, thanks,” I say, flashing a steely smile and plunging into the crowd. Find the Harley dealer and find out what’s the deal with the bike. If I can locate the bike, I’ll find Troy. I roam the store a couple of times, but no luck. Where is everyone? I realize the crowd is starting to thin and already there is a steady stream of people heading for the door armed with their white Chanel gift bags. For a brief second I wonder what the gift is. Can’t be the actual Harley bag? Not at fifteen hundred bucks a pop. Okay, forget the gift bag. Focus. Find Troy and the bike before something else gets busted up.

“Hey, Alex,” I hear behind me. I turn and see Mindy, Melinda, whatever, coming toward me carrying three gift bags.

“Oh hey,” I say distractedly. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, they want to close pretty soon,” she says, fumbling with the bags. “Are you walking out? Did Troy already leave?”

“Good question,” I say, and instantly regret my candor.

“Yeah, I heard he took off on the bike with one of the Chanel people.”

“Yeah, apparently it’s a loaner,” I say, backpedaling frantically. “Too bad we all didn’t get them.”

“Well, don’t forget your gift bag,” she says, shaking her stash at me. “It’s a good one.”

I could care less about the damn gift bag right now, but I play along. “Really?”

“Yeah, there’s a key chain—it’s cute, quilted and with the double
C
’s—a copy of
Cycle World,
and a coupon toward the Harley bag. I’m hoping I can use three toward one bag.”

I inhale sharply between my teeth.This is what it’s come to? Hustling for a key chain and a coupon?

“Yeah, I know,” Mindy-Melinda says, misreading my reaction. “It’s a good deal.”

It’s nearly ten and I’m about to pack it in—just the caterers cleaning up and the valets standing around looking cold and bored, a few lingering photographers—when my cell phone rings. My plan—and I have one—is to give Troy until ten and then call it a night. God knows, Peg would have bailed hours ago. Unless it’s an award show, the usual drill is show up, walk the carpet with the client, get them situated, and then split. So what am I doing here hanging around like a White House advance man?

“Hey,” says the voice on my cell when I click on. Troy. Sounding like he’s in a wind tunnel.

“Where are you?” I say casually.

“Well, turn around and you’ll see.”

I hear a roar like a 747 coming in for a landing.

I turn and see Troy coming up Rodeo looking like Steve McQueen trying to take that barbed-wire fence just before he got nailed by the Nazis.

“Hey,” he says, pulling up and giving me a fat, lazy grin.

“Where’s your date?” I holler over the Harley’s throaty idle.

“My date?”

“The Chanel publicist?”

“Oh. I lost her.”

“You
lost
her?”

“Yeah, back there somewhere,” he says, nodding over his shoulder.

I don’t really want to know.

“Okay, so you’re good to go on that?” I say, nodding at the bike, trying to assess Troy’s state of equilibrium. His chances of getting home without some Halle Berry hit-and-run.

“Yeah, let’s go. Let’s take a ride.”

“No way,” I say, shaking my head.

“Come on. Just down the block. Spago. One drink.”

Normally this would be a no-brainer. Client and publicist getting to know each other. Kick around a few ideas. Form a bond. And frankly, a drink is overdue after the day I’ve had.

“Nah, got an early day tomorrow,” I say. I start to add “Let’s do it another time,” when Troy reaches up and pushes a strand of hair off my cheek.

Okay, that’s a little out there. But just ambiguous enough that I choose to ignore it.

“So let’s do it another time,” I say, shaking my hair off my face, when Troy runs his finger down the side of my cheek. Okay,
that’s
a problem. I’m just deciding whether to say something or just let it go when I hear a commotion behind me. The valets.

“Okay, Troy,” I say, fishing in my bag for my claim check when he slides his hand around the base of my neck and pulls me toward him.

Oh God! Troy Madden is kissing me
on
Rodeo Drive.
Oh God! And in front of all the valets or whoever is making that racket behind us.

“So let me get this straight. He kisses you. The guy shoots the picture and then Troy hits him?” Steven says.

“Actually, he only tried to hit the camera. But he missed. Another guy got that picture.”

I’m lying on my bed, a cold washcloth on my eyes, trying to get some early polling data on the night’s events.

“So what do you think?” I say.

“That he’s channeling Alec Baldwin.”

“Thanks for that comparison,” I say miserably. “Alec doesn’t have a publicist anymore.”

“Or a career.”

“Oh, that cheers me right up.” Five hours ago, I thought Scooby was going to be my big problem. Or Val. Now I’m costarring in an episode of
When Good Stars Go Bad.

“Look, if the guy presses charges, it’s a thing for Troy’s lawyer. Not you,” Steven adds.

“Except I’m in the shot and there’s no way that’s not going to wind up all over the tabs and
Access Hollywood.
I’m fucked.”

Steven doesn’t say anything for a minute. Which only depresses me further.

“You know, if it was still just Suzanne, I could explain it,” I say. “But G. I swear he’s just looking for a reason to cut me loose. Cut any of us loose.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely getting ahead of yourself. Look, get some sleep. Things will look brighter tomorrow. It’s not like
you
hit the guy. Besides, you know what they say.”

“If you can’t afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you?”

“All publicity is good publicity.”

“Keep reminding me of that,” I say. “Better yet, remind G.”

I hang up and realize that in all the excitement, I forgot to tell him about Charles. My date with Charles. A call which already seems like a lifetime ago.

8 Facing the Music

                  Morning arrives way too early, the way it always does in L.A. You’re barely cogent at 7
A.M.
but everyone in New York has already read the
Post
and is going at the world hammer and tongs. I pull the pillow over my head to stifle the noise. Upstairs in the kitchen, I hear the phone ring and decide to change tactics. Hide out in the shower, where I never hear anything except my own inner ravings.
Get a life, get a life.
Or its variant:
Get a haircut. Get a haircut.
I roll out of bed, late before I’ve even started.

By the time I pull into the DWP garage, I’m at least awake, although there is an unpleasant spasming somewhere in my nether regions that is proving to be not the chorus of choice to my inner closing arguments. There’s no way the
Post
had my little
amuse-bouche
with Troy. And the attendant fisticuffs. Not yet. I don’t know exactly when the
Post
closes, but it has to be before midnight, and given that Troy went off his rocker somewhere around 10
P.M.
PST, well, Counselor, you do the math.

My theory lasts as far as the office.

“I have two words for you:
digital images,
” Steven says, dropping the
Post
—open to page ten, where “Page Six” for some reason inexplicably runs—onto my desk.

“Those
fuckers.
”

As if last night weren’t still vivid enough in my mind, now I’m confronted with wall-to-wall photos. “Boy Toy Troy” with his unnamed “Secret Gal Pal.” And “Bad Boy Toy Troy” taking swings at everything in his path. The fact that I am unrecognizable but the Chanel sign is clearly visible does not improve my mood.

“And they say there are no more useful inventions in the twenty-first century.”

Normally, I would whip out some snappy retort, some acidic Nora response to Steven’s WASPy Nick commentary—all we needed was little Asta nipping at our heels—but this is a little too close to home and all I can get out is “Those
fuckers,
” again.

“That much is clear, but I actually have to say, as Bad Boy Troy’s Secret Gal Pal, your hair looks great.”

Really? I lean over his shoulder to get a better look. He’s right. My hair does look surprisingly good. Especially in the second shot, where my head is flying back as Troy takes a swing at the photographer.

“Wow,” I say, before I can stop myself.

“But black-and-white is always kinder than color.”

Okay, this is not the day for Nick and Nora. This is serious. This is bad. This could really be putting the bat in G’s hands. As if he doesn’t already have his own weapons cache.

“Oh, and before I forget,” Steven adds, pulling out a stack of pink “While You Were Out” slips and dropping them onto my desk like confetti. “Your fans.”

I look at the slips.
Access Hollywood. ET. Variety.
Peg. Oh
great.

“How do they know it’s me?” I mew, sinking into my chair. “I’m not ID’ed. Not even in the cutline.”

Steven looks at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses.

“You’re his
publicist
! Who else would they call? Actually,” he pauses a little too theatrically, “a few of them did call Suzanne. And G. They both would like a word.”

Like a word?
I feel like I am skidding on ice. Yesterday, I was a girl in love, heading for the date of my dreams with only the speed bump of an annoying PR event in my path. Today, I’m all over the
Post
—or my hair is—and in a dog fight for my career. And Steven’s little bitchier-than-bitchiness is not helping.

“Okay, can you just dial down the queeniness here? The guy I called last night seemed to at least understand the magnitude of the problem. Why are you acting like this is a huge joke?”

Steven hunches his shoulders, which I take to be contrition. “Sorry, we’re genetically programmed to default to bitchiness in the face of stress. But you’re right,” he says. “And I haven’t even mentioned the lawsuit yet.”

Of course, there’s a lawsuit. Why not turn the bad dream into a full-blown nightmare? Hell, let’s go all the way and make it a segment on
Jerry Springer.

“Peg called to give you the heads-up. The photographer filed suit against Troy in Beverly Hills court this morning. Assault. Or maybe battery. It’s unclear if he actually struck him or they just collided.”

The skidding gives way to the sound of squealing brakes. Before I can think of anything remotely cogent to say in response, there’s a knock at the door. Leslie or Letty or whoever Suzanne’s latest minion is, sent to fit me for the hangman’s noose. “She wants to see you before you head over to G’s,” the minion says, her voice triumphant.

Even in my altered state, I know that’s a mistake.

“She
knows,
Lexus,” Steven says, whipping out his best fuck-off-and-die voice. I love it when he does that. On my behalf.

“It’s
A-lexis,
” the minion snaps.

“Sorry,” Steven says, not missing a beat. “I keep forgetting people actually named their children after
Dynasty
characters. Well,
Alexis,
I’ll give you a heads-up when she’s on her way.”

The minion tosses her hair and huffs out.

“Thanks,” I say to Steven and I mean it. I’ll take my defenders where I can find them. “Is there anything else I should know? Has Troy called? Do we even know where he is?”

“No, but there is one thing in your favor. The rumor around here is that you’re the gal pal, but so far no one from the media has made you. I’d go with a Chanel flack, but it’s your call. But the bigger news is the Phoenix walked.”

It takes me a minute to switch gears. “The Phoenix?” I repeat uncomprehendingly.

“As in Suzanne’s legendary client. The one you handled off and on when you first arrived at DWP. The one who just signed her gazillion-dollar deal with MTV to star in her own reality series, which everyone says is just a rip-off of
The Osbournes,
but at least it’s not Liza on prime time.”

For some reason, Steven’s chatter is the perfect white noise. I lose the squealing brakes and feel my mind begin to clear. Form actual patterns. I reach for a pencil and anchor my hair. The Phoenix walking—whatever the reasons—is a bigger blow to BIG-DWP than Troy’s stupid antics. The Phoenix is a legend in Hollywood. Half Swedish, half Latina—she is said to be distantly related to both Ann-Margret and Raquel Welch (née Tejada), as if that were even possible—the Phoenix is a class unto herself. Rock star, Oscar-winning actress, QVC queen, the Phoenix has had more careers than J. Lo has had husbands and she has always come up a winner with both the public and at the bank. Now at an age when most actresses shuffle off to the London stage and strip down to their breast-lifted, lipo-ed birthday suits to keep their career flame burning, the Phoenix is heading into her fourth or fifth incarnation with a $20 million TV deal.

Amazingly, the Phoenix has been a DWP client for years, our first and only trophy client until Suzanne signed Carla. Now with her abrupt departure so soon after Carla bolted, G is facing much bigger problems than me and Troy. Actually,
Suzanne
has much bigger problems than me and Troy. In fact, I’m a minor disturbance in this larger exodus of talent. Okay, talent is a stretch, but their checks clear every month. And in the case of the Phoenix’s, they are considerable. Suzanne will have to answer for this, especially given how the rest of the DWP list is basically DOA.

As for Troy, it won’t take much to turn this into a plus. Or at least not a negative. Russell Crowe is always taking swings at photographers. Shit, Sean Penn is always taking swings at photographers. And he went to Iraq and on
Charlie Rose
to talk about world peace. I just have to move Troy closer to Sean’s righteous anger than Alec Baldwin’s loutishness. Beside, isn’t the whole paparazzi thing out of control? Ever since Princess Di died and Disney bailed out Jann Wenner’s annoying
US Weekly
so it could go neck and neck—and dollar for dollar—with
People,
the bar has been unduly raised on the Hollywood celebrity photo. And clearly digital cameras are
not
helping.

“So has Suzanne met with G yet?” I say so suddenly that Steven looks startled.

“Uhm, no. I think words were just exchanged over the phone. He’s supposed to meet with her later today.”

“So she’ll be much more focused on trying to finesse the Phoenix’s bolting than Troy’s contretemps, although she’ll try and act like I’m the one whose neck’s on the line.”

“A minute ago you were Bambi in the headlights, now you’re Donald Rumsfeld?” Steven says, arching his eyebrows.

I ignore him. “So we’re not talking to the media until I meet with Suzanne and G. Meanwhile, call everyone back—except Peg, I’ll deal with her—and give them some bullshit statement to tide them over. ‘It’s all a misunderstanding and Troy Madden looks forward to setting the record straight.’

“No, wait,” I say, raising my hands. “ ‘Ever since Troy Madden returned home from rehab, he’s been trying to lead a normal private life, but the constant hounding of the media—and photographers in particular—has made this all but impossible. While Mr. Madden regrets any confusion that occurred last night and he looks forward to setting the record straight, he would like to plead, on behalf of himself and his family as well as his fans, to be given a chance to continue his recovery without the constant and disruptive presence of the media.’ ”

“I’d hire you,” Steven says, grabbing a pen and starting to scribble, “and I know you’re making it up as you go along.”

“Look, this all goes away. It
always
goes away. Jack Nicholson? Halle Berry? It’s just a question of how much money has to change hands and when. Unless someone actually gets murdered.”

“Or gets caught shoplifting at Saks.”

“Yeah, but this is the media and everyone hates the media. Especially photographers. I’m telling you, the public buys the magazines, but they identify with the star. How else do you explain the success of
InStyle
? I’m betting one court appearance and the judge dismisses or Troy writes a check.”

“So there’s just one question, Counselor,” Steven says, smiling. “Who’s the ‘Gal Pal’?”

Right. The Gal Pal.

“Let me see the pictures again,” I say, reaching for the
Post.
My face is a blur but my hair does look good. A Clairol ad.

“It’s not like you actually see him
kissing
me,” I say, thinking out loud. “I’m just
there.
Why wouldn’t I be out with my client? Can I help it if I look like his date and not his mother?”

“Gal Pal,” Steven says, extending his hand. “I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

I send Steven out for coffee, tell reception to pick up my calls while I hit the wires. Judge the damage for myself.

Other than the
Post
and an AP and Reuters item on the entertainment sites, there’s not too much. Not yet.
ET
and
Access Hollywood
will have it tonight. Probably their lead item. The lawsuit will make the legit papers tomorrow, so there’s definitely work to do.

I decide my counterattack of the-media’s-relentless-hounding-of-the-just-out-of-rehab-trying-to-get-his-life-back-in-order-so-leave-my-client-alone tactic is the right one. I just have to make sure Troy doesn’t surface and fuck it up. I try his various numbers and get only his machines. Probably still sleeping it off. I leave messages on them all telling him to stay put and whatever he does, do not—do
not
—talk to anyone. I put in a call to Peg to cover my ass. Thank God you can never reach her even when all hell is breaking loose. I tell Steven to fax her office with our statement—our
provisional
statement—and alert Ms. Lexus I’m on my way.

My plan is to test the waters with Suzanne—find out where on the Richter scale Troy actually registers vis-à-vis the Phoenix—and then face G and spend the rest of the day on the phones doing damage control. Already the word in the hive is that the Phoenix walking is big, but not
that
big. She is making the inevitable “changes” now that her career is taking off again. On the advice of her lawyer. Or her agent. Or whoever has put the bee in her bonnet that DWP, even BIG-DWP, isn’t big enough for her. Normally such musical chairs among clients and publicists isn’t even newsworthy, barely makes
Variety.
Only when
agents
lose clients can heads roll. But given BIG-DWP’s fragile state and G’s take-no-prisoners attitude, any blood loss is cause for concern.

By the time I get to Suzanne’s office, I’m far more anxious to see how she’ll spin the Phoenix debacle than I’m worried about any attempted wrist-slapping of me.

“Let me see if she’s ready for you,” Suzanne’s minion says frostily, waving me toward the sofa. “She just got a call.”

I shoot her a blissful smile—
hey babe, knock yourself out
—and stay standing, not even bothering to pretend to study the ancient Georgia O’Keeffe lithographs Suzanne keeps on her walls. So seventies. So oddly endearing.