So 5 Minutes Ago (8 page)

Amy and I hardly ever speak anymore. Not since e-mail. Such a chickenshit way of staying in touch. Not since she and Barkley moved out from Philly, bought a house twenty minutes from Mom and Dad, and she quit working full-time. Not that what she’d done at the design center or wherever she worked had been all that taxing. Still, she had to get up in the morning and look at fabric swatches or something. Now all Amy does is ride her horse, go to lunch, and help her friends decorate their houses. The only girl in captivity who wants to live like it’s 1950, and she happens to be my sister.

Actually we’ve never been close. Too much like Jo and Amy in
Little Women
without Beth and Meg to balance us out. Once I left for college, that was pretty much it for us. Her marriage to Barkley the same year I left for L.A. was the capper. Officially we have nothing in common now except Mom and Dad, and as far as I can see they’ve always been on her side. Now calls between us are reserved for our birthdays or holidays but since we aren’t anywhere near any of them, unless you count Rosh Hashanah, which we don’t, this call from her now can’t be good.

“Mom wants us all to spend Christmas together this year.”

“We just did Christmas together. Like we do every year.”

“She wants to do it in L.A. this year.”

Instinctively, because every family trip has turned into a David O. Russell movie, I head for the refrigerator and the half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio I pray is in there.

“Mom won’t leave Bucks County,” I say, pouring myself a glass and reaching for the box of crackers that I keep in the cupboard for emergency meals.

“She and Dad took you to France.”

“Dad needed someone to help with the driving and neither one of them spoke French.”

“You didn’t either.”

I pause and bite loudly into a cracker, which Amy interprets as anger. Not that she’s wrong.

“Mom’s serious about coming,” she says, sounding wounded. “She’s even got Dad talked into it and you know how much he likes to spend the holidays at home.”

“Why?” I say, and I realize I’m starting to whine. “I mean, they could have asked me.”

“She thinks it’s going to be a nice surprise.”

“Because I don’t come see you? Thanksgiving and Christmas last year. What am I missing? Labor Day?”

“I just wanted to let you know before Mom called. She’s already got some ideas mapped out.”

I feel my chest tighten. That cramped, claustrophobic feeling I get when someone wants me to do something that I don’t want to do. That trip to France. Joining the Girl Scouts. Buying jeans that don’t fit because the saleswoman at Fred Segal likes them.

“And I’ve got a few requests. Like Barkley wants us all to go to Mr. Chow.”

I see a Disneyland of bad rides in my future.

“Nobody goes to Mr. Chow here unless you’re trying to be ironic.”

“Well, Barkley read about it in
W
and he wants to go.”

“Barkley’s reading
W
?”

“
I
read
W.
Barkley looks through it sometimes. Anyway, we both want to go.”

I hear my other line click. “I have another call.”

“It’s probably Mom,” we both say at the same time.

“She was very hopped up about this.”

“Hang on,” I say, clicking over. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey, am I catching you at a bad time?”

“Mom. I’ve got Amy on the other line.”

There’s a moment of silence that I uncharacteristically let hang uninterrupted.

“Well, have you almost finished? Or has she totally ruined my surprise?”

“Mom, hang on a minute.” I need to lose Amy rather than risk upsetting Mom anymore than she already is.

“It’s Mom. I’m going to talk to her.”

“Well, don’t tell her I told you about L.A.”

For the next thirty minutes, I sit on the kitchen counter, cradling the phone, drinking wine, and eating almost the entire box of crackers minute bit by minute bit so she won’t hear me chewing, nodding and smiling as if my mother were right here in the kitchen with me. Of course I’m thrilled with her idea of Christmas in L.A. Don’t be silly. It saves me a plane ticket, doesn’t it? And the Four Seasons is lovely at the holidays. Almost as pretty as Rittenhouse Square, where Grandma and Grandpa used to have their annual Christmas party and where after all the guests had gone, leaving the living room smelling of pine and bourbon, Grandpa would put on his Louis Armstrong records and he’d dance with us, balancing me and Amy on his shoe tops, the glow of the tree lights reflected in his glasses.

I feel my eyes blur. I try to focus on the kitchen clock. Ten past ten. One in the morning in Bucks County.

“Mom. It’s late.”

“Well, honey, think of some things you want to do as well when we’re there.”

“I will, but right now I have to go,” I say, my mind already drifting off, back to New York, to the little apartment near Gramercy Park where Josh and I moved after we came back from Israel and he bought a really great diamond, I had to admit, and then there was our engagement party at the Russian Tea Room. Afterward, I’d stood in the tiny kitchen looking down Twenty-second Street, gazing at all the people hurrying home in the dusk.

I’d looked at them for several minutes until they were just shadows. Then I’d turned and gone in to Josh, who was laying out our gifts in the other room, all the boxes and the bags, all of it proof of my new life, the person I was about to become.

5 You’re Not in Kansas Anymore

                  “You look awfully perky for someone not on medication,” Steven says when I hit the office the next morning wearing my favorite Piazza Sempione suit and with my hair perfectly blown out. Outside it’s pushing ninety at barely nine o’clock with a hot, searing wind out of the desert, but I’m dressed for my favorite season—fall. Actually, it
is
fall, September, in fact, but in L.A. it’s indistinguishable from July.

“The mind is a powerful organ,” I say, breezing by his desk. “Even when left to its own devices.”

“And she comes complete with attitude,” Steven says, following me into my office. “So how was Sis?”

“Threatening to come for Christmas. With Mom.”

Steven gives a little shudder.

“Yes, well, in the even-worse-news department the word is Suzanne just lost Carla. I think G’ll have bigger fish to fry at the meeting this morning than you and Scooby.”

“No
shit,
” I say. For weeks everyone at the agency has been following Carla’s latest hissy fit—and Suzanne’s increasingly ineffectual attempts to control her. Carla was the agency’s prize client—one of our only hot clients and one of Hollywood’s only bona fide Latin stars. If you don’t count the Sheen clan, which nobody does. Carla came out of nowhere—well, Dallas, where she was a Cowboys cheerleader—but that’s close enough. Now she is, amazingly, an A-list star. She’s done it in something like three years and four movies—only one of which, a
Scream
-like horror film, did any business—and with one rapper boyfriend, who actually did some time on a weapons charge.

At first, handling Carla was like selling cocaine. There wasn’t a magazine or talk show that wouldn’t take her and on her terms. Rose petals need to be scattered down the hallway before Carla’s arrival? No problem. No eye contact from any staff member shall be permitted? Consider it done. Will only travel accompanied by a massive entourage? We’ll make it happen. Carla was one of DWP’s great success stories, one of their only success stories, and they totally overshot their mark. They’ve created a monster.

But Carla understands what even Hollywood doesn’t—that the movie industry is actually late to the Latin party—and she has no intention of limiting herself to its whims. As the new Latin queen, she is a one-woman industry ready to launch her franchises—recording an album, designing a line of sportswear, opening her restaurant. She is even in discussions with Nike about getting her own sneaker. And like Cher and Madonna, she’s about to launch her brand name—“C.Se.”

Unfortunately, the studio releasing her latest film,
Hack Attack,
a romantic comedy about a pair of computer hackers starring Carla and Charlie Sheen, hasn’t caught up with this fact. The movie is scheduled to open in two weeks and Carla is insisting the studio pull its print advertising—all the posters and billboards, newspaper and magazine ads—and change “Carla Selena” to “C.Se.” It is an absurd request, of course, impossible to pull off and costing something in the neighborhood of $1 million. Suzanne has tried to run interference, but Carla is insistent. The whole thing has dissolved into a series of increasingly abusive memos among the studio, Suzanne, and Carla’s manager, Jerry “Paco” Gold that were already widely circulating around town on the Web.

“The latest salvo,” says Steven, dropping a sheet on my desk. “For your reading enjoyment.”

“You printed it out?”

“Suitable for framing.”

To: Jerry Gold

From: Suzanne Davis

Re: Issues

Jerry, how can I put this? The studio’s bottom line (and they’ve got backup on this): she signed onto the project as “Carla Selena.” And she is going to be billed as “Carla Selena.” The studio is adamant about this. As they conveyed their sentiments to me: “We can’t help it if she’s decided to get a diva transplant.”

To: Suzanne Davis

From: Jerry Gold

Re: Nonissues

Maybe you and the studio can play these games with some of your other “stars.” But Carla is not just another star. She is the world’s preeminent female celebrity. She has more talent in her ass than most people have in their tiny finger. C.Se is not just an actress. She is not just a celebrity. She is a movement. (Why do I even have to say this?) She feels extra-determined that “Carla Selena” is not where her movement is at these days. She is C.Se. Unless this is acknowledged, Carla will not be available for studio publicity events.

“So, Suzanne finally got hit in the cross fire?”

“Jerry called her this morning,” Steven says, dropping his voice to a mock whisper. “Since DWP can’t protect ‘C.Se’ from these kinds of ‘absurd demands,’ they’ll find someone who can.”

“Like who, Benny Medina?”

“Well, God knows he’s in the market since J. Lo fired him.”

“Good point,” I say.

“So, does G know?”

“Oh, I think we can assume he does. Someone from Richard Johnson’s office already called.”

“God, he’s fast,” I say, shaking my head.

“Like I said, I doubt your name will even come up this morning.”

I’m about to suggest Steven laminate the e-mail and FedEx it to my mother as proof of the absurdity of my job, when my phone rings. “I’m only taking calls from Rachel, Suzanne, and, of course, Charles, and I need the Scooby file,” I say, tossing the e-mail in the wastebasket, yanking my hair into a ponytail and anchoring it with a pencil, and heading for my desk.

I hear Steven on the phone and then
Peg
flashes on the Amtell.

No way!
I type back. It has to be about the shoot. Peg had seemed oddly human yesterday but I’m not about to push my luck. The one thing I don’t need before my meeting with G is Peg’s usual blistering harangue. Not when I also have to deal with Scooby in less than four hours.

Way!
comes rocketing back.

Okay, I can dance with the devil if I have to. Besides, if there is any fallout from Troy’s latest reefer incident, I better know it before G does.

“Peg,”
I say expansively when I click on.

“Troy’s ecstatic.”

“Then I’m ecstatic. Remind me why we are ecstatic.”

“He loved the shoot. And so did Blake. Forgotten how photogenic Troy was, et cetera, et cetera.”

I have no idea where Peg is going with this, but knowing her, I could still get blamed for something.
“Great,”
I say, hoping to forestall any bad news with my continued exuberance. “
Glad
to hear it.”

“Actually, Troy is very pumped up. Being back in the game, et cetera, et cetera.”

By
pumped up,
I assume she means
sober,
but what’s her deal with
et cetera
? “Well, I’m working on more where that came from,” I say. “I should have a few more story commitments in a couple of days.
L.A. Times, USA Today.
Et cetera,” I add as casually as I can.

Peg ignores me. “Actually, there’s something you can do sooner than that.”

Ah, the fucking shoe finally drops.

“You know the Harley-Davidson–Chanel event?”

Harley-Davidson and Chanel? Throw a rock any given night in L.A. and you’ll hit half a dozen celebs posing for the paparazzi at some nonsense promotional event:
Join the editors of
Vogue
for a special event at Burberrys. Join the editors of
InStyle
for a special event at Barneys. Join the editors of
W
and fill-in-the-blank celebrities for a special event celebrating fill-in-the-blank fashion product at fill-in-the-blank boîte of the moment.
There are so many of these celeb-studded shucks to advertisers that no one bothers to keep track. Unless one of your clients is involved or the gift bag is rumored to be better than normal. But Harley-Davidson and Chanel? What PR genius cooked up that combo? And what is it promoting? Chanel’s new line of biker chains? A new limited-edition Harley—“the Coco”—with a quilted seat and fourteen-karat-gold accents?

“You know Troy’s a big Harley fan. He owns a couple and he’s actually been involved in this from the beginning. He’s friends with the local dealer.”

I’m sure he’s friends with a lot of dealers, but at least motorcycles are legal. “Okay . . .” I say, suddenly realizing where this is heading. “And you want me to cover it with him?”

“I meant to mention it before. Anyway, Troy reminded me this morning. And he specifically asked if you could go.”

I know Peg is lying. If anything, she reminded Troy of the damn event and she probably had it down to go with him. Or more likely her assistant was to go. But now that I’m Troy’s official press minion, I get to do the public hand-holding. Carry the hem of Troy’s robe while he parades down the red carpet.

“How sweet,” I say. “But when is it?”

“Well, that’s the unfortunate part. It’s tonight.”

“Tonight?” Between our all-office meeting and my meet-and-greet with Scooby, my day is already stressful enough and, frankly, after bailing Troy out yesterday, I’m not all that keen to see him so soon. No telling what he’ll do when liquor is available. I flip open my calendar, praying I’ve forgotten some can’t-miss event. My own birthday. Someone’s funeral. Nothing except a yoga class penciled in. It is either a big lie—
Aw, wish I could but I’m flying to Hawaii and never coming back!—
or bite the bullet.

“You know, it’ll be fine,” I say, dropping my head into my hand. “E-mail me the details and tell Troy I’ll meet him there.”

Peg barks a response that I take as “Thanks”—or as close to “Thanks” as I’m likely to get given that’s one of the words everyone in Hollywood tries never to say, along with “Excuse me” and “Please”—and I hang up before her mood or medication wears off.

“Told you,” Steven says, sticking his head around the door.

“Told me what?” I say grouchily, all too aware that my annoying day now stretches into the night.

“Told you it was good news.”

“You call being made to go to a last-minute PR event good news? You know, I could technically make
you
go.”

“Yes, you could but we both know you’re not that kind of vindictive, small-minded boss,” Steven says.

“I think I need to learn to be,” I say, reaching for my headset. I still have a few million calls to make before the meeting at BIG’s offices and I still have to prep for my drive-by with Scooby.

“Think happy thoughts. Think about the gift bag,” he says, dropping a folder on my desk. Scooby’s autopsy report. “By the way, Suzanne’s scheduled your meeting at their house in Hancock Park and not their manager’s office. She has the idea you could start there.”

“Where?”

“At the house. They put like a million into it and Suzanne thinks
InStyle
might be interested. Just a couple of gals at home. I mean, the magazine’s done Melissa Etheridge like a million times.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that although everybody knows it’s so five minutes ago to be gay, you can still fool the public into thinking it’s hip.”

I stare at the folder and for a second my New York fantasy flashes in my head. A big expense account, my name high up a masthead and a job that consists of going to lunch. I would be cultivating vision. Girls got to have vision in Manhattan. Out here the best you can hope for is a good pair of tits. I would also be living in the same city as Charles. Speaking of Charles, why hasn’t he called? He said he’d call today and it is already—I check my watch—coming up on 2
P.M.
in New York.

“Any calls?” I say to Steven as casually as I can.

“No one you want to speak to.”

If it’s that kind of a day, it’s that kind of a day. I sigh, redo my ponytail, and gamely attack the folder. It’s a grim file of memos and e-mails, a litany of complaints and countercomplaints between Scooby and her various B.I. PR agents. There’s also an old press kit on Scooby back when she was a rising young star. Back when she was in the closet. Those were the days, I think, flipping through the glossy cover stories—
Ladies’ Home Journal, People, TV Guide, US.
All of them had embraced Scooby as a bracing new breed of woman in Hollywood. A woman who dared go where no man had gone: a woman who did not trade on her looks, her sex appeal, or even her acting chops to fuel her film career. Wit, intelligence, and sheer chutzpah were her calling cards. Scooby was Jodie Foster, only funny. Whoopi Goldberg, only white. Scooby was such a maverick, she even took roles that had been rejected by male stars like Martin Lawrence and Martin Short.

But Scooby was also restless. Her career was stalling—she was bored playing the plucky-single-gal secondary roles—and she was sick of showing up at premieres with some guy on her arm. At first, her agents suggested she do a series. TV was a lot kinder to women. Or at least less brutal. So many actresses come crawling to the networks when their film career tanks that prime time is like a battered women’s shelter. “If you’re in a studio film you’re basically there to prove that star has sex,” one of my clients told me in a moment of despair. “On TV, you’ll never have sex but you can at least play a
character.
”

But Scooby was also in love. With Scrappy, another Hollywood starlet, who had a reputation for hitching on to older heretofore male stars. Now Scooby wanted to share her love with the world. “No,” Scooby decided, “the answer is to come out.”