So 5 Minutes Ago (6 page)

I see Judy Garland skipping toward Oz with the chorus, “You’re out of the woods, you’re out of the dark, you’re out of the night,” playing in my head.

“Dinner? Well, dinner would probably be
easier
,” I say.

“Great, well, I’ll call you and we’ll set it up for right when I get back.”

I hear the Porsche door pop open behind me. Oh, God, he’s getting free. “Okay, that sounds good,” I say, hurrying now. “Have a good flight and call me. Call me.”

The rest of the day is a blur, but I manage to keep Troy’s delicate condition from everyone except the makeup stylist. I tell Peg that Troy’s hungover and sleeping it off in his car. Amazingly she buys it. Or maybe that look in her eye just before she dials the casting director to reschedule his audition means more than I think it does.

“Sleeping it off? In his car?” she says, eyeing me sharply.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding maniacally like some windup toy. “Yeah, well, you know Troy,” I add with a shrug.

“Yes. I do know Troy,” she says pointedly, and I realize if anyone has seen Troy at his worst, it’s Peg. Suddenly all her massive bulk, her ability to mow down obstacles at will seems a source of strength, not terror. No wonder people hire her. “Call me if you need me,” she says, giving me a rough pat on the arm before clamping on her shades and her headset and heading for the door. “But I know he’s in good hands.”

I swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ll call, and then I fly into action. Water, eyedrops, and a turkey on whole wheat that I grab off the craft services table. I head back to the parking lot, where Troy is still in the Porsche, fumbling with the CDs.

“Okay,” I say, slapping in some Bill Evans that he happens to have. “Take this and this and this in this order,” I say, handing him the eyedrops, the water, and the sandwich. “I’ll take this,” I say, fishing the baggie of pot out of the glove compartment and slipping it into my purse. “And I’ll be back in an hour.” With any luck, Troy will just pass out. Now, I have to see to Val.

I’m just heading into the studio when I catch sight of her down the hall. She’s dressed in the blue outfit, the skintight sheath, and singing to the catering guy, who’s unloading trays of sliced vegetables and pita sandwiches. Grabbing a couple of carrot sticks, Val twirls off, humming the refrain from
Grand Hotel.

By the time I catch up with her, Val’s in the studio posing playfully for the crew. She’s the only one of the actresses remotely ready, and given the woeful sounds coming from the dressing room, she will be for some time.

“Let’s shoot some of Val since she’s here,” says Blake’s assistant, looking at his watch. Blake shrugs and picks up the Polaroid. “Okay, Val, let’s get sexy with the sofa.”

Somebody throws some Frank Sinatra on, and the sounds of “I’ve Got the World on a String” fill the studio as Val preens and poses and Blake snaps away.

“Make it a
thong
string,” I pray, as I watch Val move this way and that behind the sofa. She’s in the middle of doing what looks like a vague imitation of Marilyn Monroe in
The Seven Year Itch
—vague in that Val’s dress is so tight it wouldn’t blow over her waist with a wind machine—when Blake suggests Val lie down.

“Try balancing on the back of the sofa,” he says, standing up and positioning her so that Val’s feet are suddenly at eye level. I feel the blood rise in my temples.

“I think she looks great right where she is,” I venture, my voice all but drowned out by Frank. If Blake even heard me, he’s choosing to ignore it.

“Yeah, good, lie down even more. That’s it,” he says, crouching and snapping away.

I stand for a minute just behind Blake, who’s facing the sofa where Val lies horizontally across the back. Frank is deep into “You Brought a New Kind of Love to Me,” when I notice most of the crew has moved to the far end of the sofa, where Val’s feet are plying the air with little kicks. Oh God.

I start to move in the direction of Val’s feet, dreading what I’m about to see. By now she’s in full vamp mode, her head thrown back, mouth open, eyes blazing as she stares at the camera. The crew guys are rapt. I stand there watching for a few minutes before it hits me—Val is the star of this show in a way she’ll never be on TV. For a minute, I almost feel bad for her. But then, with a little arch of her back so her knees part ever so slightly, Val flicks her legs in the air.

Sharon Stone never did it any better.

“How’d it go with Val?” Steven asks when I call him later. It’s going on four and I’ve been sitting on the driver side of the Porsche for the last hour, watching Troy sleep it off. His head is angled back on the headrest, his mouth is open, and he’s snoring softly.

“Like something from
Wild Discovery.
Grown men angling for a glimpse of fur,” I say in a half whisper.

“So the rumors are true.”

“Don’t gloat too much.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad? Val’s an exhibitionist.”

“Drew Barrymore flashed her breasts at David Letterman and everyone loved it.”

“I don’t think beaver shots count.”

“Hey, just call her agent, tell them Val’s a natural.”

“For what?”

“The Vagina Monologues.”

“Very funny,” I hiss.

“Why are you whispering?” Steven says. “Where are you? In a closet?”

“Troy’s car. Watching him sleep it off.”

“You know, in some countries that would be a stoneable offense.”

“Yeah, well, luckily Hollywood’s not one of them,” I say. “I’m giving him another half hour and then it’s into the makeup chair. I figure I’ll be out of here by six.”

“My money’s on seven,” Steven says. “But the big question is will he call you in the morning?”

“My money’s on him not remembering anything.”

Troy begins to stir next to me.

“I think Sleeping Beauty’s coming to,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”

I hang up and turn in the seat to face Troy. His hair is plastered damply to his forehead and a small spittle of drool is creeping down his chin. Suddenly, I’m embarrassed for him, even a little sad. Troy doesn’t look any different from half the guys I dated in high school. College too, for that matter. Good-looking guys who got it all a little too easily and a little too early and didn’t have a clue how to hang on to it, how to keep it from slipping through their fingers.

Troy stirs again, twisting now toward me, trying to get comfortable in his sleep. He moves his arms restlessly and suddenly drops his hand into my lap. I look down at his bitten nails and calloused fingers and then back up at him, but he’s still out. I should wake him. Wake him and just get the day over with. Instead, I reach down and gently wrap my fingers around his. And I sit there. I sit there for many, many minutes, holding my client’s hand while he sleeps.

4 It’s My Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To

                  Driving back from Smashbox—actually,
driving
is a bit of a stretch given the parking-lot state of La Cienega—I impulsively decide to call Rachel for a drink. I’m so wiped from the shoot, I’d intended to head home and collapse. But suddenly the idea of a friendly drink seems a better exit strategy. Besides, I want to fly the whole day by Rachel. Get her take on Troy, Charles, and Val. Especially Val. Troy’s hand on my thigh was one thing—as I predicted, he remembered none of it once he came to—but Val’s little animal act is sure to light up the gossip mill. It’s only a matter of time before it turns up in one of those nasty blind items “Page Six” loves to run.
“Just asking . . . what sitcom star flashed a beaver at her recent photo shoot—to the delight of the crew and the consternation of her publicist?”

Or what if
US
got wind of it? Val’s sitcom is hot, and that is the kind of juicy rumor they love to get their hands on. Exhausted as I am, I know I need a plan. But before I can speed-dial Rachel, the cell burbles. The
William Tell
Overture. Rachel’s signature.

“So how was the lovely Val?”

“Funny you should ask,” I say, stomping abruptly on the brake as the black Explorer in front of me comes to a sudden stop, a move that sends my bag hurtling to the floor, spewing the contents, including an apparently loosely opened bottle of water, onto the carpet.
“Fuck!”

“You
are
in a bad mood.”

“Photo shoots will do that to a girl.”

“Photo shoots will do that to anybody.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you,” I say.

“You are talking to me.”

“In person.”

“Is it serious or gossip?”

“Both. What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight? What am I always doing? A screening. I’m driving there now, but we can meet afterward.”

I have almost twenty minutes to kill at Le Dome, nursing a white wine, sucking down olives, and leafing through the trades waiting for Rachel. Le Dome is Le Dead Zone—nobody comes here anymore—but Rachel’s screening is in the building next door and it’s technically on my way home from the office.

“So, how was the shoot?” Rachel says when she finally shows, flopping onto a chair, dropping her tote, heavy as a suitcase, and reaching for my glass. “God, I hate wine,” she says, taking a slug and twisting around to look for the waiter. “You’re the only one who’s still into that eighties wine thing. Why don’t you get on the fruit-of-the-month martini bandwagon like the rest of us? Makes life so much simpler. You’re sober, you’re drunk. You’re working, you’re partying. Wine’s just a hazy, in-between thing where you’re pretending to have a real conversation but you’re really getting hammered. Frankly, it’s too much fucking stress,” she says, swiveling back around, tugging at her black leather jacket, which is still facing the direction of the waiters’ station.

Rachel’s body has that effect. She’s always tugging things into place. Like the men in her life. Not that there are many of those. At least not in L.A. Rachel sports a rack enviable even by Hollywood’s silicone standards, but her New York persona is the price of admission—and outside the tristate area it’s deemed a little high. Like so many transplanted New York women who haven’t mastered the L.A. vibe, which, depending on the decade, consists of varying amounts of prescription drugs, plastic surgery, and a well-honed passive-aggressiveness, Rachel’s place in Los Angeles is that of the lonely, workaholic expatriate.

“Why you didn’t go to law school, I’ll never know,” I say, fishing an olive out of the bowl and sliding it into my mouth. “All that anger just going to waste.”

“Hey, you didn’t sit through the piece of shit I just did. Nor do you have to promote it to thirteen-year-old boys, which is even more demeaning,” she says. “Besides, why do you think we’re friends?”

“I don’t think I’m as angry as you,” I say, trying to sound ironic although I’m actually annoyed by Rachel’s assumption. “I’m from Bucks County. I’m too repressed to be that angry.”

“Actually, you’re wrong about my job,” Rachel says, half standing and waving both arms over her head to get the waiter’s attention. “Being a publicist reinforces the cynicism I already have, and the fact it pays shit bolsters my self-loathing. Even my mother thinks I’ve found my calling.”

Rachel may be what the guys in high school called a ball-breaker, but you have to admire her. She still has her fuck-it-all New York ways that I, despite my having spent a decade in Manhattan, have never really mastered. Other than Steven, Rachel is one of the only people I can be honest with. At least about Hollywood in Hollywood.

“So you called this meeting,” Rachel says, after snaring the waiter and ordering a martini with her customary directive:
And supersize it.

“Yes, I did and I appreciate your attendance, but first how was your day?” I say, trying to ease Rachel into a slightly lower gear. “Other than the screening?”

“Great if you don’t count the hour and a half in the dentist’s office this morning and three hours waiting for the Novocain to wear off,” Rachel says, grabbing a fistful of olives. “I spent most of the afternoon looking like a stroke victim. I even had to sip my coffee through a straw. I figure it’s practice for the nursing home.”

It will take an elephant gun, or most of a martini, to slow Rachel down and that’s nowhere in sight. “That’s nice, honey,” I say, skipping to the chase. “Troy got stoned and tried to feel me up and Val flashed a beaver at the photo shoot. Your thoughts?”

“That depends. Did you find it arousing or merely a gratuitous grab for attention?”

I’m about to ask if she means Troy or Val when the waiter suddenly appears, an icy pale green martini dripping on his tray.
“Pour la jeune femme sans cocktail?”
he says, arching his eyebrows. I wonder if that’s his idea or an affectation Le Dome insists on.

“Put her down,” Rachel says, leaning back to make room.

When the waiter skates off after an elaborate bow, Rachel takes a sip and smacks her lips. “Sugar and grain alcohol. My two favorite food groups. Okay, where were we? So Troy’s a pig and Val’s a flasher. Which one’s the problem?”

“Is this a quiz?” I say, surprised at Rachel’s lack of surprise. “ ‘Can you tell the problem client from the one who’s merely an asshole?’ ”

“Something like that,” Rachel says, eyeing me over the glass.

“Maybe I’m just being overly hyper because of G and the buyout, but I think they’re both problems. Or could be,” I say, slumping back in my chair. “I mean, a third of our clients are gay, in rehab, or seriously twisted. The rest are in denial. Those that have a pulse, anyway. But is that what we do? Protect the guilty?”

“Salud,” Rachel says, taking another slug of the martini. “Look, no one’s going to out Val in the media, at least not by name, and you knew Troy was obnoxious from the get-go. Sleep with him, don’t sleep with him, but—”

“I’m
not
sleeping with him,” I blurt out. “He just put his hand on my thigh when I tried to get him out of his car, where he was getting high.”

“Yeah, that’s classy,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes. “Look, I’m just saying he has a reputation and there are probably a lot of publicists, especially those bimbos at BIG, who would fuck him in a heartbeat.”

“He didn’t even
remember
it after he sobered up,” I say. “The whole rest of the shoot, it was like nothing had happened.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like he’s actually boyfriend material.”

“Speaking of that,” I say, reaching for my glass.

“Speaking of that, what?” Rachel says sharply.

Oh Christ, that was stupid. I should have just brought up Charles as a fellow publicist, nothing more. Now, I’d painted myself into this corner.

“Oh, nothing,” I say, aiming for a breezy indifference. “There’s just this cute guy in from the New York office and everyone’s talking about him.”

“Including you?” Rachel flashes me a grin. “Who is it?”

“Charles, the managing director. He’s in for the transition. Supposed to take all the DWP agents to lunch or something.”

“Hey, I know him,” Rachel says, leaning forward. “I met him a few years ago at some industry thing in New York. He is cute. And smart, but I thought he was married.”

“Divorced. Or at least that’s the word.”

“Who isn’t divorced these days?”

“Well, you for one,” I say.

Rachel gives me the finger. “So, what happened with him?”

“
Nothing
happened,” I say. “We had to keep canceling our lunch date and now he’s back in New York.”

“Oh, this
is
promising,” Rachel says. “I can see why you brought it up.”

“Well, he’s coming back next week and says he wants to take me to dinner instead.”

“So, it
is
promising?”

“I don’t know,” I whine. “I don’t know anything anymore. Everything used to be so clear. I hate my job. I hate Hollywood. I’m alone. Except for you and Steven. Now, there’s Charles,
maybe,
and Troy’s a pain but I kind of feel sorry for him and want to help him and now with G, I feel like I actually want to
keep
my job—which is really fucked up—just to beat him, you know? Just to prove I am a good publicist.”

“I think that’s an oxymoron,
good publicist,
” says Rachel. “Maybe you could have been a
good publicist
years ago, when Hollywood had some integrity.”

“Oh, please. Talk about oxymorons. You’ve never been able to use the words
Hollywood
and
integrity
in the same sentence without being ironic.”

“Or satiric,” Rachel counters with a wry smile.

“The studio system?” I say, unwilling to let this drop. “That’s your bastion of integrity? You think we’re paid to lie and cover up for clients now? It was even worse back then.”

“I’m just saying I don’t think Hollywood was always this cutthroat,” Rachel says. “There was a time when the stakes were a little less high, the competition a little less nasty, and people seemed to make movies because they really liked the
movies,
not just the money.”

“I think this town has always been about greed and narcissism and conjuring a fantasy by those who think the reality of their lives just isn’t ‘special’ enough.”

“Hey, you’re the one who just said you wanted to keep your job.”

“I also said it was fucked up.”

“Speaking of that, how is G? Playing nicely with his new toy?”

“I guess we’ll know more tomorrow,” I say, raising my glass. “Our first all-agency meeting.” Suddenly I’m anxious to put the day—and tomorrow—out of my mind. “Oh, fuck G. And all of Hollywood for that matter,” I say, balling up my napkin. “Let’s talk about something fun. Are you going to the Barneys sale?”

“Do I look like the kind of girl who enjoys trying on clothes in an airplane hangar?”

Which is how the conversation, several martinis and glasses of wine later, winds up on my late marriage. Actually, it’s a cute story if you like that Jew-shiksa thing, except I wasn’t quite sure where Rachel stood on that.

“Wait a minute. You married Josh because he was Jewish or in spite of it?”

“I married him because I thought I loved him.”

“And because your mother didn’t?”

“My mother wanted me to marry Tad.”

“Who’s Tad?”

“There is no
Tad.
He was just the ideal Bucks County–Rittenhouse Square–Ivy League blond I was meant to wind up with.”

“Oh,
that
Tad. I was supposed to marry Isaac the Rabbi or, if that was too Talmudic, David the Park Avenue Doctor,” Rachel says, downing the last of her martini and running her finger around the inside of the glass and licking it. “Now look at us. I’m bitter and you’re confused.”

“Yeah,” I say, suddenly more sad than angry. “And the really sad thing is that if this was a script, no one would green-light it. Not special enough.”

Dropping the mail on the kitchen counter and not even bothering to check the answering machine, I kick off my mules, grab a fresh bottle of water, and head into the den to fire up the Tivo. Christ, when did my life get so pathetic, so confusing? I sink into the armchair and spiral through the channels wondering, not for the first time, if I did the right thing divorcing Josh. It was hard enough making all those decisions the first time. Career. Mate.
Spouse
. Why tear it up and start all over again? God knows it’s only harder figuring it out now.

Maybe I’d been too quick to bail. Too quick to unlash myself from another mooring. The way I’d bolted out of Upper Darby after high school and never looked back. Put as much psychic distance between me and the Main Line as I could find. As much literal distance between me and my parents’ expectations and my precious, perfect sister, Amy, as I could find. It wasn’t Josh’s fault he’d been the handiest solution when I was looking to get my parents off my case about moving back to Philly after I quit
McCalls
and enrolled in NYU.

In fact, Josh had been one of my best friends. The differences between us were all part of the attraction—first as friends and later as a couple. Meeting his parents out in Brooklyn had been such a relief from my own family. Sitting in their kitchen eating cake and drinking coffee late at night was like stepping into a new world. Like high school sleep-overs: how safe, how exciting it was in the strange kitchen, with their different food smells. Like you could so easily become part of someone else’s family. No history. No baggage. No expectations. Just included. Loved for who you were, not what you represented.