True Hollywood Lies (27 page)

Funny how familiar that all sounded.

Yeah, well, you’ll have plenty of time to do that, now that
Mindbender
is off your calendar,” said Ethan offhandedly.

Louis’s touch went cold. “What? What do you mean?”

Ethan froze as the realization that he was breaking bad news suddenly dawned on him. Randy blinked twice, indicating his own knowledge of this. Ophelia, although totally in the dark, caught the subtle change in temperature around the pool and shivered.

“Um, well… well, I just happened to be over at Paramount the other day, and the guy I deal with in development let it slip that Mick made the deal—”

I barely contained my gasp. Whenever Louis and Mick had gotten together, they had talked nonstop about that project. Mick had written it with Louis in mind. And, despite having been asked by several other A-listers to see the script when it was finished, Mick had been too loyal to show it to any of them. After the fight, however, Louis had naively (or egotistically) assumed that Mick would just shelve the script. Besides, Louis had reasoned, Mick would never be able to find a producer to finance it, what with the $140-plus million dollar budget it needed to do it justice.

Louis was silent. Then he added, “
Without my permission?
”

“Well, Randy never formally optioned a first look deal for you, right? And you and Mick haven’t actually been talking since… since—”

“Paramount, eh? Well, they won’t put any real money behind it, not without any star power already attached. It’ll die of natural causes. So what else did he say?”

Ethan, looking uncomfortable, mumbled, “Just that Mick came in with Cruise, who’s coproducing. The studio’s slating it for Memorial Day weekend, the year after next.”

Cruise’s name was all that was needed to put a deal over the top.

Randy, Bennett, Ethan and Ophelia exchanged glances, waiting to see how Louis would respond. He didn’t say another word. He just walked to the edge of the terrace and stood there, staring up into the inky sky overhead.

“Getting late,” grunted Bennett. Ethan nodded. Ophelia scooped up her Prada Venice print bag and Hermes scarf from the teakwood settee and hobbled after the guys, who were already scurrying back into the house without saying goodnight.

Why should they? Louis wouldn’t hear them, let alone respond.

I didn’t know what to say, or do, either, but I walked over to him.

Louis felt my presence behind him, but he didn’t turn around.

Instead, he simply said, “This is
your
fault, you know.”

Part Three: Resolution


The amount of small detail visible in an image (usually telescopic); low resolution shows only large features, while high resolution shows many small details.

Chapter 14: Absolute Magnitude

If all stars were placed at the same distance then their apparent magnitudes would only be dependent on their luminosities.

Thus, absolute magnitudes are true indicators of the amount of light each star emits.

In the world of celebritydom, I had arrived.

The proof was in black and white, and read all over the world.

Vogue
put me on its cover. To indicate that I played muse to the men in my life, I was photographed by Steven Meisel in a sheer frothy ethereal concoction by Christian Dior, with hair extensions cascading down my back in ringlets, making me the Über-Boticelli goddess.

When Freddy heard about that, he laughed and said, “You’re more like a conscience, or better yet, a pain in the neck!”

On the other hand, Louis’s reaction was a pout. By the way he carried on about
Vogue
’s policy to use only women on the cover, I could tell he was more upset that he couldn’t be there than the fact that I was.
I think.

According to the
National Enquirer
, I demanded that Louis dress up in Leo’s old clothes so that I could sit on his lap and call him “Daddy.” (For the record:
Not
. I mean, come on already! I never even called Leo “Daddy.”) Oh, and by the way, the
Enquirer
also clamed that Louis put up with this because he thought doing so would help him beat Leo’s Oscar wins. (For the record, two.)

InStyle
gushed over our “love lair,” which, it declared, “is decked out like a Moroccan sultan’s harem, accommodating both her obsession for richly-hued sensual fabrics—velvets, damasks and silks—and his fondness for pleasuring playthings...” (Correction: the stylist Monique hired to decorate the bedroom prior to the photo shoot had much better taste than I could ever claim; and unfortunately, we didn’t have time to hide Louis’s treasure box of sex toys before the editor and photographer got to the house.)

The Globe
insisted that Louis and I were into hot sex with little woodland creatures. (A retraction was requested. What we got instead was a reprint of that photo of Louis touching my naked breast—but this time the shot was widened to show that a couple of owls had been watching from a tree branch. The retraction’s headline: “Louis and Hannah’s Kinky Wild Kingdom!”)

Life & Style
made us number two on their list of “Most Beautiful Couples”. For that photo, the photographer suggested that we re-enact the bare-breast-in-woods shot. Louis was up for that, but it was only after I threatened to walk off the set that the photographer agreed to drop the idea. The compromise: Yes, we were photographed in the woods. No, I was not naked. And to put your mind at ease, no woodland creatures were harmed in the making of the photo, let alone were there animals anywhere
near
any vulnerable body parts.)

And
Page Six
intimated that I was pregnant with Louis’s child.

That was wrong, too.

Sort of.

You see, what happened was this: My period was six miserably wretched days late. And so, for six long, sleepless nights, while Louis snored beside me as contentedly as a newborn babe, I’d wake up awash in sweat and ask myself why I was so terrified at the thought of being pregnant with Louis’s child.

Didn’t I think we’d make beautiful babies? Yes, yes, of course I did!

Didn’t I know I’d make a wonderful mother? Totally! Why, I’d be June Cleaver, Carol Brady and Lorelei Gilmore all wrapped into one. My impishly adorable child would always know love, inspiration, security… and happiness.

Didn’t I think Louis would make a great dad? Yes, eventually, because he certainly did not want to make the same mistakes his father had made with him.

Didn’t I think Louis would be happy to hear I was pregnant?

That was the question that made the sweat bead up on my forehead and a cold chill crawl up my spine.

And then I’d throw up.

Bad sign.

By that sixth night I couldn’t stand it any more. Sure, I could wait for the morning, then go see my gynecologist—and read about my visit the next week in
The Star
. Instead, at two o’clock in the morning, I got out of bed quietly so as not to wake Louis, shoved a baseball cap on my head, and ran into the CVS Pharmacy on Wilshire to pick up a home pregnancy test.

I was naïve enough to assume that no one else would be in the store. Or, if someone was there, that he or she wouldn’t recognize me anyway.

Well, someone was, and that someone did, which was how
Page Six
got its scoop the next day.

To my immense relief, however, the pregnancy test showed me that I was due a retraction.

Within a few days, my bleeding finally started.

“Bollocks, you’re on the rag?
Again?
Weren’t you just on it last week?” asked the ever oblivious Louis. “I think you’re just creating an excuse to avoid making love.”

“Louis, we make love every night! Come hell or high water. No matter what my mood, or even if I’m, you know, bleeding.”
Or cramping. Or bloated. Or feeling used.

I could not turn my head quick enough. He saw my grimace and matched it with one of his own.

“Complaining, love?” His eyes narrowed. “Well, if you’re so bloody worn out, then maybe you’ll finally find a PA that meets your high standards. Because if you haven’t figured it out already, Priority Number One is making me happy.”

He flopped down on the bed and flicked on the LED HDTV with the remote. “Or better yet, maybe you need to lower your standards, because heaven knows my libido isn’t going anywhere. And we both know you wouldn’t accept the alternative.”

“The alternative?” I felt my heart jump into my throat. “What does that mean, exactly? Are you asking my permission to go to bed with other women?”

He was silent. Then he said, “Of course not. Don’t be so melodramatic.”

We both knew that the only reason he wasn’t asking had nothing to do with whether or not he felt he needed my permission in the first place.

Needless to say, neither of us enjoyed our lovemaking that night.

In truth, we hadn’t had great sex since the Altercation. In fact, Louis had been distant—emotionally and physically—since the night he’d found out about
Mindbender
.

Even the Hollywood Foreign Press Association’s formal announcement that he was a first-time Golden Globe nominee for best actor in a dramatic movie for his performance in
Dead End
did not change his mood—most certainly because, a few moments later, it was also announced that Mick had been nominated as well for the movie’s screenplay.

I cannot honestly say that we made love the night of the nominations.

Not unless you can call a marathon of raw copulation devoid of any tenderness whatsoever making love.

I know, on that night,
I
couldn’t.

* * *

To make the most of Louis’s nomination, we hit every must-see party and red carpet event on Hollywood’s celebrity circuit.

Yes, we were at the Tisch School of the Arts West Coast Gala, and Beyoncé’s CD release party.

And there was no way we’d miss either Puffy’s annual Bad-Ass Bowling Party, or MTV’s
Holiday Hip-Hop in the Hollywood Bowl
Christmas special.

And, on the same night, we breezed into both the
Maxim
Celebrity Pajama Party and the premiere of Bennett Fielding’s between-seasons project,
Dude, Where’s My Karma?
Unfortunately, he had picked up that very dated, very tired franchise in the hopes of following Ashton’s flat-footed missteps onto the silver screen.

Would this, Bennett’s third movie outing, be the charm? From the number of people who snuck out before the credit roll, that was doubtful. The word on the street was that ABC was going to cancel Bennett’s show in January, and I’m sure that’s what compelled Bennett to get downright sloppy drunk at the after-party at the Elevate.

Louis, pissed that his friendship with Bennett obligated him to be there, and doubly pissed that neither Ethan nor T felt likewise duty-bound, was not in the greatest of moods when a photographer had the audacity to ask me to turn toward him in order to get a shot of me in my Elie Saab frock, one of the many freebees that had been proffered to me during this see-and-be-seen marathon we were running.

Gritting his teeth, Louis murmured to me, “Don’t bother. He’s just being polite,” and headed on.

Oh, is that so?

Louis’s rudeness—or was it jealousy?—left me angry.

And ready to prove him wrong.

I’ll be the first to admit that I am no supermodel. However, I’ve been around enough star power to know how to turn on the heat.

To ensure that the photographer got more than he asked for, I was provocative. I was captivating. I was hotter than New Orleans in July.

And so was Louis, when he reached the front door of the restaurant and then realized that I was not in my usual place: at his side.

He turned back around, stormed up to the photographer, seized his camera and tossed it up against the wall. Then he grabbed my arm and yanked me along.

The photographer yelled after us, “Hey, Hannah, admit it! Louis is a letdown after growing up around someone with real talent, like Leo, right?”

Louis turned back around, ready to beat the man to a bloody pulp. I grasped him by the wrist and pulled him inside the restaurant. Thank God the retro techno/rave music was pulsating so loud that Louis’s rant could only be heard by me.

“Fucking let me go, Hannah! I
mean
it!”

“Don’t—don’t lower yourself, Louis! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”

Louis took a couple of quick breaths to calm down. He nodded to indicate that he wouldn’t go back out, but his eyes were blazing.

“He’s full of shit, you know.”

“I know, Louis. I know.”

“That’s good.” Looking into the mirrored tiles on the wall, he straightened his shirt and jacket. “Because I’d feel like bloody hell if my own girlfriend didn’t believe in my talent. But of course you do.” Catching my eye through his reflection, he added, “You
do
believe I’m more talented than Leo was, right? You even admitted that, to Barnaby, remember?”

He waited for my response. I hesitated.

Too long.

During that time, his eyes never left mine. At the same time, as the seconds ticked past, his own expression registered each emotion in the order he felt it: assurance; surprise; disappointment; hurt; and finally distrust.

“No, Louis, Barnaby never said that Leo didn’t have talent. He said that Leo
wasted
the talent he had, and I agreed.”

Either Louis did not hear my answer above the restaurant’s raucous din, or he didn’t care to hear what I had to say. In either case, he made his way to the VIP room without me.

* * *

That night, for the first time since the day we opened up to each other at the Marial Lodge, I caught Louis flirting.

When I confronted him, he laughed and called me paranoid.

I called him a liar and told him that I would never put up with it.

He called my bluff.

“You’re imagining things, love! Oh alright, I
may
have given that waitress a little love tap on the bum, but I did
not
exchange phone numbers with the girl. If you don’t believe me, go ask her yourself… If you do, though, you’ll be embarrassing me, so don’t bother to come back here. Things will be
over
between us. That’s a good girl, stay put before you make a fool of yourself.”