So 5 Minutes Ago (3 page)

Hey, it worked for Tom Cruise—and talk about baggage.

2 . . . and Farther Down

                  I’m feeling very on my game when 4
P.M.
and the BIG staff meeting rolls around. When Steven and I wander in at exactly four-ten, the room is packed. Amazing, since these command performances usually elicit a flood of no-shows. Suzanne and G are nowhere to be seen, but among the denizens there’s the usual flouncing of hair and nervous sidestepping of mules and the hissing sound of Diet Cokes being pried open. On the conference table there’s a giant sheet cake decorated like
Variety
’s front page with the headline
BIG DEAL FOR BIG-DWP
in black icing. At least there aren’t any balloons.

“I forgot to wear my estrogen patch,” Steven hisses, scanning the crowd.

“Be a good boy and work the room,” I say. “I’ll get you a Coke.”

I thread my way to the table, murmuring the usual pleasantries as I squeeze between the bodies. Control Freak Sylphs and Earth Mother Endomorphs and almost all of them north of forty, which in Hollywood is a citable offense. I’m five-five, weigh 125, still have the same unruly brown hair God gave me (plus a few non-God-given highlights), and am at least a decade younger, so where I fall in this house of cards is anybody’s guess.

“So, I hear ten years is the cutoff for equity positions,” Sandy says, right at my elbow, startling me so I spill my Diet Coke. Sandy’s one of the lifers. Blond, and radiates steely self-interest. I trust her as much as I trust Martha Stewart. I’m about to launch into my “synergy” speech when I hear another, friendlier voice at my back.

“Howdy, stranger.”

It’s male, straight, and not wholly unfamiliar. I try vainly to place it but, given my surroundings, I give up and turn in its direction with a smile plastered on my face.

Charles.
Charles!
Jesus, what is he doing here, not that I don’t welcome a friendly face. A longtime DWP publicist out of the New York office, Charles is Stan Woolfe’s most trusted deputy and the office’s most senior agent after the founding partners. I met him during my first weeks at DWP when I worked out of the New York offices on West Broadway before moving to L.A. He seemed nice enough, but those weeks had been a blur and I can’t recall thinking much about him one way or another. I can’t even recall if he’s married, although given that he looks to be in his early forties with a few creases around his startling green eyes and some rather stylish streaks of gray in his dark brown hair, one would assume so. I haven’t seen him in almost three years and, frankly, have no memory that Charles was so . . . so . . . well,
comforting
-looking.

“I see, Ms. Davidson, you’re one of the last to arrive. As usual,” Charles says with a grin as large as my own. “This won’t do. Not when there are BIG people waiting. So to speak.”

Jesus. A good-looking straight male
and
a sense of irony. How could I have been so oblivious to Charles back in New York? Maybe it’s another Hollywood miracle. You become so inured to all the mutant males here you forget there are actually nice guys in the world. Nice guys who smile at you without it seeming like a come-on and whose starched blue shirt and soft brown herringbone jacket and green rep tie—Christ, a tie? When’s the last time I saw one of those?—make the world seem worth living. Like a weekend sail off Nantucket. Or opening presents on Christmas morning. Or a cab ride through Central Park during one of winter’s first snowfalls.

“Yes, well, I don’t suppose I could convince you I got lost,” I say, and I feel my cheeks flush.

“Actually, I think you took a wrong turn off Broadway,” he says, his smile deepening. “By the way, how is Hollywood treating you?”

“About the way it treats anybody. With great indifference.”

“That’s not what I hear,” he says.

I’m about to ask him what he means, what
exactly
he means, and of course why he happens to be here and not in New York, when there’s a commotion at the door. Suzanne and G, looking like the bride and groom. Except she’s taller. There are also two blondes. Bridesmaids. Or maybe G’s bodyguards.

“Thank
yew
—everyone—for such a great turnout,” Suzanne says, quickly moving to the center of the room. She’s in another one of her white suits, and with her short, gray-blond hair and Southern drawl that she refuses to lose, she could pass for Tom Wolfe.

Great turnout?
Yeah, like any of us could have not showed for this dog-and-pony show?

“I know a lot of
yew
have already met Doug,” Suzanne drawls on. “But we wanted to officially welcome all of
yew
—all of
us
—to BIG-DWP.”

There’s a brief round of applause followed by a buzzing that I realize is G addressing the crowd. I have to stand on my toes to see him. With his big head, tiny body, and orangey Bob Evans tan, he looks like Mr. Potato Head. Only with a better tailor.

“I look around this room and I have only one question,” G says, a smile gripping his face. “How did I get so lucky?”

Lucky?
G is being unbelievably patronizing, but a titter of laughter sweeps the room along with a few self-conscious glances. I look over at Charles to see how he’s taking all this but his face is unreadable. Well, he’s been a publicist longer than I have.

G runs a hand over his hair and plunges on. “I mean, I look at this group of amazing women,” he says, turning to Suzanne, who’s grinning like an idiot, “and I wonder why we didn’t join forces before. Can anyone tell me?”

There’s an awkward silence like he’s actually waiting for someone to answer him. “Well,” G finally blurts out, raising his plastic glass of Coke. “All I know is we’re going to make one beautiful agency.”

There is a smattering of applause and I feel a hand creeping across mine for the Coke I’m holding.

“Word is you get nada,” Steven breathes into my ear. “Too new.”

“Already heard that piece of good news,” I say, yanking the Coke back. “Equity cutoff positions or whatever they’re called.”

“Well, have you heard the contract’s a killer?”

I whip around.

“Publish or perish, my dear.”

“We’re already on commission,” I whine.

“It’s the BIG new way. More commission, less salary. And you gotta make your quota.”

“Great. Suzanne gets to retire and I get a quota.”

“Well, she’s not exactly retiring,” Steven adds, dropping his voice. “Not yet, although Stan’s supposedly leaving by the end of the month. Taking his money and running. Suzanne’s sticking it out.”

“Because she loves the business so much?” I can’t imagine staying in Hollywood if somebody pressed half a million into my hand. Or whatever Suzanne’s getting for selling the company she cofounded to G.

“Think it’s some future deal G has cooked up. The longer she stays, the more money she gets, or more equity. I don’t know. Don’t go by me.”

“Why not? You’re the one with your own portfolio,” I say. “I just have Barneys bills and a lease.”

“And your new contract!” Steven says, flashing me his best fake smile.

G is nattering on, but I’ve heard enough. Or at least enough to know Suzanne isn’t the only one whose cherry just got popped. My three-year introduction to Hollywood is officially over. This is The Show, like it or not. When you break it all down, all the bullshit, all the covers, the photo shoots, the premieres, the schmoozing and the lying, it all comes down to a sleazy guy trying to sell you something.

When G finally quits buzzing, the room erupts into the chaos of exiting and a mad rush for the cake. “I’m going to forage,” Steven says, plunging into the crowd.

“So, as I was saying,” Charles says at my elbow, startling me. “Congratulations on being a member of the BIG new team.” His tone is difficult to read, but it seems, or perhaps it’s only wishful thinking on my part, to be entirely ironic.

“Thanks ever so much,” I say, aiming for the same barely detectable irony. “So you’re here because . . . ?”

“Actually I’m in town for the transition,” he says, taking my elbow and steering me into a slightly less crowded corner of the room. “I’m making the rounds of our publicists, easing them into the new agency, as it were. Which means I have to schedule some time with you.”

He gives me a knowing look and I realize I know next to nothing about him other than he looks totally out of his element. Like he should be on a boat. Or in a Ralph Lauren ad. He’s also not wearing a wedding ring, I notice. Perhaps I’m not the only one whose life took a wrong and unexpected turn.

“Shouldn’t you be in a law office somewhere? Or Boston?” I blurt out and instantly regret my familiarity.

He gives me a quizzical but not wholly unpleased look. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says. “Meanwhile, given my current corporate duties, when can you pencil me in?”

“Uhm, I’m sure I have some time this week,” I say, fumbling for my Palm Pilot, when Steven reappears bearing two paper plates of cake. “For those of us not on Atkins,” he says before catching sight of Charles. “Oops, sorry. I didn’t realize you were entertaining.”

“Charles, Steven. Steven, Charles,” I say, giving Steven a “Can we please do the sugar thing later?” look.

“Good to meet you,” Charles says, extending a hand while Steven fumbles with the plates.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see G and Suzanne threading their way through the crowd in our direction. Oh, great.
“Chahles,”
Suzanne drawls at top volume, waving him over.
“Chahles.”

“I think Blanche and Stanley have you on their dance card,” I say, nodding in Suzanne’s direction. Charles gives me a slow smile and I have a sudden urge to grab his green tie and never let go.

Instead, I opt for the door, making noises about finding him later. After G and Suzanne. After my meeting with Troy. After I return to the land of the living.

It takes me most of the drive to the Chateau to get my head out of G and into Troy. Actually, it takes most of the drive to get my head out of Charles and into Troy. How had I been so oblivious to him back in New York? And how long is he going to be in L.A.? I have to give this some serious thought. After I dispatch Troy.

But when I hit the Chateau’s lobby, Troy—typically—is no-where to be found. What now? Sit and order a drink? That bespeaks confidence and a certain casualness and God knows I could use it. Might even put Troy at ease. Or maybe it’s
too
casual. Not enough deference to his place in the pantheon. Oh Christ, who knows what his place in the pantheon is? He’s the one in need of help. He’s called the meeting.
Sit.

I’m eyeing the room, which is filling with insouciant actor types looking like they have too much money and too little sleep, when Troy ambles in. Three trips to rehab but he still has the right look—jeans, leather jacket, 5 percent body fat. He’s also nibbling a half-eaten apple and he has his dog, the requisite foundling from a pound, tugging at his side. The whole thing screams, “cute but dangerous.” I hate it when they bring their animals. Animals are worse than cell phones. But that’s the rule: celebrities are never alone, even when they’re alone. I once saw Marisa Tomei do a week’s worth of shopping at my neighborhood market while talking on her cell, timing it so she said “Okay, call me,” at exactly the moment she pushed away from the checkout stand.

“Hey, meet Miss Sue,” Troy says, when his dog, some Labrador or pit bull type, sticks its nose in the direction of my thighs.
Thank you!
I turn quickly so the dog leaves its wet nose imprint on the side of my black Darryl K pants and not my crotch. “Hey, Troy,” I say, standing and extending a hand. I love doing that. Actors are so unused to being touched. Like they’re the Queen of fucking England: Look but don’t touch. Troy studies me for a second before he shoves the apple into his mouth and extends a slightly sticky paw. “Well, hey, and, hey, thanks for meeting me.”

I lead the way to a corner of the lounge where we sink into a sofa, one of the hotel’s over-upholstered Victorian things that just swallows you. Why can’t the Chateau just have normal tables and chairs instead of this trick furniture? The couch is so deep, I have to wedge a pillow behind my back just to keep upright and, even so, my feet barely reach the floor. I’m still wrestling with the cushion when a spike-haired waitress rolls up and Troy trots out his laid-back famous-actor number. “She’ll have a white wine,” he says, nodding in my direction, “and I’ll have a beer and you know,” he says, winking at her, “that’ll be it.”

I press my toes into the carpet, trying to get enough traction between the floor and the cushion to remain upright. “So,” I say brightly when I finally find my balance. “Tell me what you’re looking for from us.”

Even before he speaks, I know how this will go. That he’s looking to make changes, that he needs to rethink his image, and that he needs to feel a more personal connection to his publicist, “his people,” than he’d had over at Baker, Osterlund and Beadle—BOB, as it’s known—one of DWP’s competitors. The public, he will say in his gosh-and-golly Midwest accent, has the wrong idea of Troy Madden. The wrong idea “after all that’s happened.”