The Seeds Of A Daisy: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book One (Women's Fiction) (3 page)

Everyone was mesmerized by what was happening. At one point a man with an armload of clothes he had just looted from a neighborhood store ran over to the camera, and, I kid you not, said, “Man, you gotta go over there and get yourself some; they got clothes in every size.” As if the store had a fantastic sale going on.

I laughed, and in my defense, some of the members of the crew chuckled also. Mom came over to me and with one swoop lifted me out of the chair and brought me outside into the hallway.

“Lily, this is
not
something to laugh at. What happened to that man Rodney King is a travesty of justice, and what is happening in the streets at this moment is horrendous. Do you understand that these are stores in their
own
neighborhoods, stores they shop in every day?”

Mom went on to explain that riots were horrible and illegal but stemmed from years of frustration and rage. They lived with the history of slavery and injustice and had spent years being oppressed by ignorant bigots. This was the proverbial
straw that broke the camel’s back
. She asked me if I understood the gravity of the situation. Even though the rage and frustration were real, she emphasized that violence never solved anything. I nodded, knowing it must be serious, but not really grasping what she was saying.

She went on to predict that before the riots were over, people would be hurt and maybe even killed. Clearly tragic acts like that are never funny.

I was so ashamed that I had laughed. I’d never seen my mother’s face look that way—angry and sad at the same time. I was truly sorry. Mom kissed me, then went over to speak with the director and producer.

I don’t know what she said to them, but within thirty minutes, the entire film had been shut down on a temporary hiatus. Mom and I found ourselves in the back seat of a town car speeding to LAX in order to catch a plane home to NYC.

On the ride to the airport, I looked at the street signs—Sepulveda, Century Boulevard. Black and grey smoke billowed in the distance. The driver immediately pulled the car over and stopped. I covered my ears as, one after another, police cars and fire engines screamed past us. I held on tightly to my mother’s hand, knowing that as long as I was with Daisy Lockwood, nothing could ever happen to me.

When we boarded the plane, the first class cabin was packed and I recognized numerous celebrities. I wondered if they were leaving LA because of the riots or if it was a coincidence that they all had flights back East that particular day. I settled into my seat next to the window and Mom pulled out her book. She always read a book during takeoff—her version of my Xanax. Her face seemed more relaxed and I felt relieved that she looked like my mother again.

I noticed the title of the book she was reading:
You’ll Never Eat Lunch in This Town Again
. I asked Mom what the story was about. She told me it was an autobiography written by Julia Phillips, about a woman who bullies her way up the ladder in Hollywood.

Years later, I read the book. My mother should have said that she bullied and
screwed
her way up the ladder. She went on to tell me that this woman, Julia Phillips, had received the Oscar at age twenty-nine for
The Sting—
which I knew was one of my mother’s favorite movies, along with
Out of Africa
. Robert Redford had starred in both pictures.

So, of course, Mom turned this book into a life lesson. She looked into my eyes and said, “Remember, Lily,
star
is a four-letter word. If you are blessed to be working as an actor in this industry, that’s what you are—a working actor, do you understand?” I nodded very seriously.

A few minutes later, Mom grabbed my arm. She whispered, “Lily, look who’s sitting over there!” I craned my neck and looked a few rows ahead of us. In the aisle seat was a man. I couldn’t see his face, but my mother’s vicelike grip was a pretty good indication that he must be someone important.

When I noticed the man turn sideways, I nearly jumped out of my seat. It was Robert Redford! He was alone, with no one next to him in the window
seat. His tray table was down and his attaché case open. It looked as if he had pictures taped to the inside of the case. Mom had a better view, and she said they were probably photos of his kids. She was beside herself: Imagine reading about Redford in Julia Phillips’s autobiography, only to have Redford materialize so magically at that very moment.

It was at this point that my mother started acting very weird. The stewardess came along and asked Mr. Redford if he wanted a cocktail. He ordered a Bloody Mary. When the stewardess came over to us, I ordered a Coke and Mom ordered a Bloody Mary. I had never seen my mother drink anything but white wine. But here she was with this big old red drink with a celery stalk, of all things, stuck in the middle of it. She put her book down and continued to watch the back of Redford’s head.

Once in a while he turned his face, and she was blessed to see his profile. I remember thinking that good things
can
come out of bad situations. The stewardess asked us to put our tray tables down so she could place a tablecloth on them and set the silver.

When the stewardess asked Redford what he wanted to eat, he said, “Steak—and make it bloody, please.” Then she came over to us, and I ordered a cheeseburger and fries.

“Steak, bloody please,” Mom said.

“Whaaaat? Mom, you don’t eat red meat!” I was shocked.

“Shhh. Lily, today is a special occasion.”

When Redford ordered another bloody Mary—you guessed it, Daisy Lockwood got the same. Redford reclined his seat back to take a nap. So of course Mom leaned her chair back and went to sleep. I remember thinking,
my poor mother, seeing Robert Redford is making her coo coo!

When we landed in New York, we got out and lost track of Redford in the terminal. We were met by a driver, who was holding up a sign,
D & L Lockwood
. We followed him to the car and got into the back seat.

The driver asked us about our trip and about the riots in LA. While the grownups were speaking, I drifted between consciousness and sleep.

Mom asked Jacques, the driver, if she could use his car phone. Already she knew the driver’s name and was talking with him about his family in Haiti, including his children’s names, college plans for one of his children the next year, and the talent for piano that another of his children was gifted with.

Mom picked up the phone and called her best friend, Donna. She wasn’t home, so Mom left her a voicemail message. “Hi, Donz, it’s Daisy; Lily and I are back in New York. We’re in the car on the way to the apartment. Just wanted you to know that I ran into Bob Redford earlier this evening—had dinner and drinks with him—and oh yes, I slept with him. Call me soon—ciao for now.” She giggled and winked at me. I smiled and fell asleep.

A
fter getting out of the plane at JFK, I had immediately called Franny. “You were supposed to call me before you took off. I was worried sick!”

“Franny, what the hell are you worried about? If the plane had crashed, you would’ve known about it. One of the passengers would’ve tweeted it as we were going down.”

“That’s gross and that’s not the point.”

While still on my cell phone, I walked over to the limo driver, who was holding a sign with my name on it.

“I know, I know, my bad.” I got into the back seat of the limo and the driver headed for the eastbound parkway.

“I’m a bitch, sorry. You know how I am about flying. It brings out the worst in me. I was nervous most of the flight, and nauseous, too. Hold on a sec.” I put the phone down and spoke to the driver in the front seat.

“Hey, can I get some air? It’s stifling back here.” He nodded, and I immediately felt a blast of cold air.

“Did you have something to eat on the plane?” she asked. I heard shuffling papers in the background.

“Don’t even talk to me about food. I’ll puke if you do, I really will,” The driver glanced at me nervously in the rearview mirror.

“Where are you now? On the L.I.E.?” she asked, changing the subject.

Franny—a diehard New Yorker transplanted to La La Land only out of the dire necessity to make a living, absolutely loves to say anything that is even remotely New York-related. Anytime I go back East to the city, she begs me, “Please go to Carnegie Deli and have their blintzes—no one makes blintzes like that anywhere else on the planet. They’re crisp and delicious and the cheese oozes their rich flavor. Or please have a bagel for me at H & H. You can’t get
bagels like that in LA. At H&H, they boil their bagels the old-fashioned way. It’s an art form the owners inherited from their ancestors. The bagels in LA are shit!”

I would tell her, “Franny, I grew up in the friggin’ city, so stop playing long-distance Zagat with me!”

I looked out the window to try to figure out by the landmarks where we were. I saw the Commack Multiplex Theater ahead on the left side of the expressway, so I knew we were approaching Exit 53.

“We’re near the Sagtikos State Parkway,” I said. I could almost hear the long-distance FPS (Franny Positioning System) at work, calculating my exact route and the time it would take to get to the hospital—taking into consideration how fast the driver was going, of course.

“Is there any traffic?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Excellent, you’ll be at the hospital in thirty minutes. How are you holding up, honey?”

“I’m scared, Franny, about what I’m going to find there. I can’t believe I have to do this alone. I’m so pissed!”

“Honey, I wish I could be there—”

I interrupted her. “No, Franny, I don’t mean you, I know this is a busy time for you. I’m talking about Jamie. It makes me so angry that he’s not here.”

“Well, Lily, you’ve got a lot to be pissed off about with that one, but don’t get me started.”

I knew that if I didn’t say anything, she
would
indeed get started and there would be no end to her “Jamie ranting.” She and my mother have at least that one thing in common: Neither of them can stand Jamie and neither is afraid to say so loudly, and often. I needed to change the subject, fast.

“Should I try calling the hospital to tell Mom I’m on the way?”

“I just tried calling. They couldn’t put me through. She’s in the I.C.U.”

“I need a Xanax,” I told her.

“When you get to the hospital, tell them you need something to calm your nerves. I’m sure they’ll be able to give you something.” More paper shuffling in the background. “How was LAX—any paparazzi?”

“Some…oh yeah, and those obnoxious camera guys from what’s that TV show—TMJ or something like that?”

She laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Anyway, one of the guys asked me if it was true that Jamie and I had split up.”

“Oh dear Lord in heaven—what did you say?” She was afraid of my answer. Her face was probably turning her signature shade of red that slowly creeps up her neck whenever any of her clients dares to make a move without her orchestration.

“I started to cry,” I admitted, knowing she wouldn’t be too happy.

“Shit, shit, shit, Lily! That’s gonna be all over the damn television. Damn it!” I was sure, that at that moment, her face was turning a vibrant shade of purple.

“Oh, gimme a break, Franny. I was upset and he blindsided me with that question. Excuse me for being emotional. My mother was in a horrendous car accident for Chrissakes!”

“I know, I know. I understand.” Even from three thousand miles away, I could hear her wheels turning.

“I’ll call Bette to do some preemptive damage control,” she said.

Bette Maloney is Hollywood’s premier spin doctor. She belongs to an era when publicists ruled, and even though that era has passed, she still does reign supreme. A dictator and a mother hen rolled into one. She controls the public narrative of all her clients, and when they get into a mess—which inevitably happens—Bette takes out her “industry vacuum cleaner” and sucks it up, so that most would never believe a potential scandal had existed. Because of this talent, she’s expensive but is worth every penny. Over the years she’s shaped and fixed more butts in Hollywood than the best Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.

“She’ll leak the story about your mother, but you’ll come out okay.”

“Oh great, leak the story about my poor mother so the world doesn’t think I’m upset over my asshole of a boyfriend!”

“I know, I know, honey, I’m just thinking ahead—you know, with the Emmys right around the corner…”

“Fuck the Emmys!” Yeah, right. I didn’t mean it. And Franny knew it.

Her voice softened. “Listen, Lily, your mother would want you to—”

“Franny, do not tell me what my mother would or would not want. And stop talking about her as if she’s dead.” I pressed the end button on my Blackberry.
Truth be told, I was really upset with myself—not with Franny. I
do
care about the Emmys—a lot. What kind of daughter did that make me?

“Congratulations on your Emmy nomination, Miss Lockwood,” the driver said innocently as he looked at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, and slumped down in the seat.

I thought back to the morning of the Emmy nominations. Mom and I agreed that, even though we were 3,000 miles apart, we’d be on the phone together when they made the announcements. It was our ritual: If we weren’t together in the same room, we’d at least be on the phone together. She was in New York City, so we decided she’d call to wake
me
up, since it was three hours later there. Even if the roles were reversed, with me being in NYC and my mother in Malibu, she still would’ve called, because, well, she’s the Mom. That’s just the way it was.