True Hollywood Lies (23 page)

He kept stroking my sweater.

And his eyes never left my face.

Suddenly, I noticed that Louis’s eyes were the same shade of blue as Leo’s.

That startling turquoise blue.

How ironic.

Softly, I added, “It would be wonderful if we could save the ones we love the most from themselves. But we can’t.”

That in turn released a flood of other memories of my father, and I started to cry.

It was Louis’s turn to cradle me; and to cry with me.

And to kiss me all over, as I dreamed he would, so many times before.

And then to undress me, slowly, lovingly, desperately.

And to trace every curve and crook and ingress of my body with his hands, then with his lips, then his tongue.

And for me to do the same to him, before exploding with him—
inside of me
.

Again.

And again.

So many times, over so little time:

Alas, a mere 22 hours.

Because, by the twenty-fifth, a very sober Louis was back on the set: clear-eyed, refreshed, relaxed, and ready to go to work . . .

with me—the one person, as he professed so ardently in those 22 hours, that he just couldn’t live without—at his side.

Chapter 12: Worm Hole


Hypothetical shortcut through the space/time continuum.

Sheer bliss.

Each day of the next four weeks of our lives took on a dreamlike quality.

At daybreak, cocooned together in Louis’s trailer, our senses were awakened: by the mournful conversations between the owls that hovered in the branches overhead; and the soft shimmering shafts of the sun’s rays that warmed our faces and our bed, somehow making it through the sentry of tall trees that surrounded the trailer; and most certainly by the musky aura of our lovemaking from the night before.

Once aroused, the inevitable happened: Our bodies hungered—insatiably, obsessively and uncontrollably—to be joined together again.

Our lips, thirsting for passion, could only be quenched from the liquid lust that flowed out of each other. My fingers, tantalizing the tip of his penis with gentle strokes, were instantly rewarded for their endeavors when, inch by glorious inch, a hardened Louis fervently unleashed himself inside of me with an obsessive zeal that awakened my broken soul and brought me to joyous tears.

Ah, sweet, crazy, rapturous delight!

In other words, all the rumors were true:

Louis Trollope was one hell of a lover
.

And now, he was
my
lover.

Mine alone.

Elated, we were also anxious to get on with the rest of our day. We’d quickly pull ourselves together, and show up on the set early, where Louis was courteous, alert, prepared, professional, insightful and inspiring—to the awe of all who watched.

Then, when Ben was satisfied with the last scene of the day, we’d watch the digital dailies.

It was during one of these sessions that Louis realized that this could be the best performance of his professional career. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him watching me. When I turned to face him, he squeezed my hand and whispered, “I could not have done this if it weren’t for you.”

After viewing the dailies, we’d sequester ourselves in Louis’s trailer for another night of blissful lovemaking—

—Followed by a late-night stroll through the jet-black woods, me leading with a flashlight while he carried my telescope, over to the water’s edge, where the roar of the river was the symphony that accompanied our stargazing.

Away from any city lights, the thick blanket of stars was multiplied twenty fold beyond what we were used to seeing in L.A. They were layered in such a way that they seemed to float away, and us along with them. After adjusting the telescope, I’d invite Louis to look through it as I divulged the science and myth that was our rationale for their existence.

As he learned about the stars, I learned about him: his impoverished, wretched childhood in a home dominated by a father who’d drowned his love and sorrows in bottle after bottle of scotch; his mother’s frustration with her own predicament, and eventual resignation to it; and Louis’s own fears and insecurities in light of his innate talent, exceptional looks, and the guilt over his own good luck.

“Oh sure, I’m lucky. I’ve been blessed,” he noted ruefully. “But sometimes our blessings are also our curses.” He turned from the telescope to look at me. “I never know if my friends love me for me, or my fame. The women I meet only see Louis the star, not Louis the person. Hell, even when I’m a monster to them, they love me all the more! It seems that they can’t get enough of that Louis.”

“I think you’re wrong. I think they are sad around that Louis, but keep hoping for a glimpse of the real you; the Louis who is here with me, right now.”

He thought about that for a while then shook his head in wonder. “Hannah, how do you know that this
is
the real me? Even I don’t know that! In fact, I doubt very much that it is.” He turned back to the telescope. “You bring out the best in me. Unfortunately, the rest of my life brings out the worst.”

Whether I wanted to admit it or not, Louis was right.

Which brought up the question: would this Louis, my wonderful Louis, disappear, like the stars overhead, in L.A.’s hot bright spotlight?

Not if I could help it.

Already we were open with others about our intimacy with each other. Not that our feelings would have surprised the
Killer Instincts
cast and crew: on-location trysts are part and parcel of the filmmaking process. Even before Barnaby’s death, any of the innocuous trips I’d made into Louis’s trailer—to bring him dinner, or to help him prepare for the next day’s scenes—had been met with no more than a raised eyebrow, or at worst, a leering wink and a nod. Besides, with Louis’s legendary reputation as an insatiable cocksman, the real shocker to the others would not have been that we were having an affair but that we hadn’t consummated it until then.

Still, we weren’t prepared for the media hailstorm that met us the day after
Killer Instincts
wrapped.

Shouldn’t the twelve desperate voice messages that Monique left on the red cell the day of the wrap party been some indication?

Perhaps.

Or, how about the thirty or so frantic messages from Tatiana, each one even more shrill than the next, that came in over the course of those final 24 hours?

Didn’t I even suspect what they were calling about?

Okay, I’ll admit it: We were both a little bit in denial. I’d convinced myself that keeping Team Louis on a need-to-know basis about our situation would allow Louis the time he needed to concentrate on the role of a lifetime—

—And for me to do the same, in
my
role of a lifetime:

As the one and only woman for Louis.

Which was why I didn’t return Tatiana’s phone calls, either.

Or suggest that Louis do so.

That policy ended the moment our private plane from Oregon landed in Los Angeles, and Malcolm’s limo pulled up to the tarmac. At Monique’s behest, he handed Louis a manila envelope filled with clippings from the tabloid magazines for the past week.

All of them had fuzzy cover shots of him—
with me.

Flinging them onto the seat, Louis laughed raucously.

One had him holding me in his arms, obviously taken during one of the breaks on the set. The caption read: “Louis’s On-Location Lover Is Leo Fairchild’s Love Child!”

Another, which must have been taken with a night filter, showed us kissing down by the river. The robe I’d been wearing had fallen off my shoulder, allowing the photographer to capture Louis cupping my naked breast, although the photo editor had superimposed a black band over my nipple. The headlined screamed: “British Rogue on the Rogue: Hot Pix of His Wet and Wild Sex Romps!”

Why Louis found that funny was beyond me.

As I flipped through the articles, I noticed that none of them mentioned Louis’s run-in with Marcella, although she did appear in some sidebars, in which her red carpet gowns were praised to the hilt.

So Jerry had gotten his scoop after all.

Having been banned from the set at my insistence, I could only guess who had helped him:

Marcella’s PA.

Her reward: Marcella stayed in her closet, along with all of her designer duds.

A third tabloid cover showed what looked like Louis pushing an irate Barnaby out of his trailer, with me looking on. The headline heralded: “Barnaby’s Mysterious Death: Over Louis’s New Love?”

Upon seeing that one, Louis frowned as he slumped back onto the limo’s leather seat and slapped the paper with his hand. “What, are those bastards crazy? They’re insinuating that I knocked off Barnaby? And over
you
?”

I knew what he meant. And of course, I was just as outraged at the insinuation as he was. But still, it hurt when he put it that way:
As if I would not have been worth the fight.

Pulling up to Louis’s house, we were met at the gate by a flock of paparazzi gone wild, shouting questions while clicking their cameras at the same time.

“Hey, Louis, does your new arm charm know any tribal chants?”

“So, Louis, when Barnaby said ‘Knock it off,’ did you think he meant it literally?”

And then there was this one:

“Over here, Hannah! We want to give Tatiana a good look at who’s been treading on Louis’s runway while she’s been in Paris!”

Neither she—nor I, for that matter—had ever dreamed I’d fit that role.

Unruffled as always, Louis was ready for his close-up: His devilishly handsome, angular face was set in a piercing stare that made love to the cameras even as he muttered out of one side of his mouth,
“Get us out of here, Malcolm. Now.”

I, on the other hand, looked like Bambi caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck: a big, unwieldy eighteen-wheeler that was swerving out of control and crushing beneath its wheels any remnant of privacy I had in my life.

Turning to me, Louis said, “Had Monique given you any inkling about this?”

Guiltily, I shook my head. “I—I guess the crew was gossiping about us in Oregon. It’s my fault, Louis. I should have warned Monique first. But I never dreamed that it would be such a big deal, so I ignored . . . well, I guess I thought it best if we just focused on your performance.”

I tapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “I think you’d best take us to Randy’s office.” Then I turned back to Louis. “I’ll call the private security detail and ask them to clear these clowns out of here for us. I’ll also call Genevieve and Monique and ask them to meet us at Randy’s, too.”

“Call Jasper first. I want to see what legal recourse I can take to stop this rubbish.”

I put my hand over his. I’d hoped he would respond with a comforting pat. Instead, he moved it slightly away from mine and looked out the window again. Although he didn’t show it, he was annoyed. “No doubt Tatiana knows about us now, too.”

My stomach clenched at that thought. I had witnessed the way in which Tatiana perused the tabloids, parsing every photo of her and Louis—or, for that matter, anyone else—particularly anyone who might be conceived as her competition for his love.

Our honeymoon was over.

Did this mean that our relationship was as well?

* * *

Jasper’s advice was the following: Don’t supply. Don’t deny. In that way, today’s tabloid headlines quickly become yesterday’s garbage. “Unless, Hannah, you can say under oath it wasn’t your breast, or that wasn’t you kissing Louis.”

My silence spoke volumes.

“That’s what I mean.” Now he was silent, but I knew what he was thinking: that I had done the one thing I had sworn not to do: fallen under Louis’s spell. “I’ll threaten something, don’t worry. Just don’t expect miracles in light of the truth.”

What
was
the truth about us?

I didn’t seem to know anymore, and I couldn’t imagine that Louis had a clue. By the way in which Louis wrapped his arm around my waist as we entered Randy’s office, or patted my ass so territorially in front of him, or tossed commands at me like so much confetti, it was less than implicit that he saw me as his . . .

His what? Lover? PA? Chattel?

All of the above?

Not that this even mattered to the rest of Team Louis. As we huddled in Randy’s office that afternoon, neither Monique, Genevieve, nor Randy seemed to give a hoot whether Louis and I were in fact in love or not.

All they cared about was that Louis was happy.

And more importantly, that we make the most of the situation that had put him in even greater demand than he had been before.

Which was why
Randy heartily agreed with Jasper’s recommendation—sort of.

“Fuck what the tabloids are saying. The bottom line is that our man is on every one of their goddam covers! Shit, we couldn’t
buy
this kind of publicity!”

He tossed down the latest
People, In Touch,
and
Us Weekly
. “And Fox is ecstatic! Ticket sales for
Dead End
are moving again. It’s back up to third place at the box office! Not bad for a movie that’s been out twelve weeks already.” He slapped Louis on the back, then gave me a once-over that made me cringe. “My only regret is that the photographer didn’t catch you two doing it doggy style over the stump of a sequoia tree! Just think how
that
headline would have read!”

Genevieve, Monica and I blanched at Randy’s crudeness. Realizing it would be best to change the subject, Genevieve touched on one just as sensitive.

“I’m getting calls every fifteen minutes from Tatiana.” She looked at Louis. “She says that no one is returning her messages to your private line.” Then she looked pointedly at me. “How do you want me to handle it?”

Louis smiled and followed her gaze to me. “Don’t worry, Genevieve. Now that we’re back in civilization, Hannah will take care of it. Right, love?”

As he stroked my arm, I saw Genevieve and Monique exchange glances. Randy, on the other hand, guffawed loudly. “Jeez, I’d like to be a fly on the wall for
that
one!”