True Hollywood Lies (7 page)

“Yep, she’s the one.” It was Mick’s turn to be embarrassed.

“Why? What did you say?” I asked Mick, confused.

“He said, ‘I almost ran over the best piece of ass I’ve seen in a long time.’ Of course, had I known he was talking about
you
, Hannah, I would have said, ‘Too bad, because you can’t have her, she’s mine.’” He laughed. “By that I mean only during your waking hours. The last thing I am is a slave driver, right?”

I knew better than to answer honestly. With calm precision, I picked up the loaded tray and carried it into the living room.

* * *

I did my best to stay out of the living room for the rest of the evening. Even when I was called to bring in more poi blinis with smoked salmon (care of Wolfgang Puck takeout), wheat-free tofu-topped pizza (ala Cheebo) or British Columbia salmon (Zone) with a pitcher of Goji Himalayan Juice or Lagunitas Draft Micro-Brew to go with it, I ignored Randy’s jibes, Louis’s sudden attentiveness, and most certainly Mick’s apologetic glances.

To keep myself busy, I went over Louis’s itinerary for the next day with a finetooth comb, making notations as needed:

5:00 A.M.: Wake-up call

6:00 A.M.: Limo to Columbia Pictures

6:30–7:00 A.M.: Make-Up, Bldg K

7:00am-6:00 P.M.: On Set (
Breakneck
), Studio 1002

12:30 P.M.: Lunch in Dressing Room (Zone!) and
Entertainment Tonight
interview with Mary Hart

8 P.M.: Premiere of Ethan Blount’s latest film,
Tales of the Crystal Universe
at the Arclight on Sunset

10:30 P.M: After-party for
Crystal Universe
at the Viper Room

Does the guy ever sleep? I wondered. Apparently he did not, which meant that I wouldn’t be getting much shuteye either for the next couple of months. Or time with my telescope, which was an even bigger crime in my book.

Sighing, I then put my mind to perusing Louis’s itinerary for the rest of the week. Based on that, I would have to coordinate the following:

Leave Sunday for New York, via the studio’s private jet, to promote
Dead End
.

Monday: in the early afternoon, Louis would be photographed by Annie Leibovitz for a
Vanity Fair
cover; in the early evening he would join James Lipton for an “Inside the Actor’s Studio” interview, which was to be taped in front of an audience filled with film students and cinephiles.
(So that Louis could prepare a full arsenal of appropriate responses and interview postures—unabashed modesty, unwavering intensity, wise cynicism, perhaps a faraway glance that bespoke a bittersweet longing—Monique, Louis’s publicist, had included several DVDs of previous “Actor’s Studio” interviewees for him to study. This stash included interviews of the two Toms, Harrison, Johnny, Sir Ian, Benecio, Sir Anthony, Paul, Colin, and the pinnacle of all Lipton interviews, as determined by the “LGF”, a.k.a. the Lipton gush factor: the Barbra interview. It would be my job to study the tapes beforehand and make notations that might be of interest to Louis.)

Book him into the Ritz Carlton, and accept
only
the “Ritz Carlton” Suite;

(Oh, just great. And what if the Ritz Carlton Suite was already booked? Would Louis stand in the lobby and pout until it was made available? Or, as his “person,” would I be made to stand there and pout in his place?)

Book Prudence K. for an in-room massage. Ask for “Barry” at the concierge desk; he will know how to find her. DO NOT ASK VIA SWITCHBOARD!!!
(Hmmmm. . . .)

Have four dozen yellow tulips sent to Tatiana, via her modeling agency.

Have a late albeit romantic supper brought up to the suite—Zone, of course.
(Can Zone meals
be
romantic? If not, should I switch the menu to South Beach? I mean, South Beach
is
more romantic sounding than Zone, so would it not follow that it would taste more sensual, too? Hard to say. )

Next day: fly Virgin Air, upper class, to Heathrow, where Louis would complete voice-over production on his last British film, a dark take on Daphne du Maurier’s
Rebecca
, starring Louis in the Olivier/Maxim de Winter role. It’s considered edgy because it ends with Louis’s character actually being tried and hanged for killing his first wife. (This was Louis’s idea: “Updates the plot somewhat, don’t you think? Besides, it makes the role Oscar-worthy. . . well, it’s at least a shoo-in for an Olivier, right?”) (Would he want me in London with him? At least my passport is current, thanks to Jean-Claude’s insistence that, as a girlfriend of a jet setter, I should always be at the ready for a transcontinental jaunt on any given whim. That was another way in which our relationship did not live up to his promises: the furthest I ever got with him was Cabo San Lucas—and on my dime, surprise, surprise. . . )

Book Louis into the Lanesborough. Accept
only
the Royal Suite! (Ah, the hotel of rock stars and fashionistas—which meant I’d have yet another chance to play “My celebrity is more important than
your
celebrity!” Would Louis’s name pull rank? And what would be my punishment if it did not?

Limo Service: Regency Limo, ask for Alfonse. Accept none other!

Ask Alfonse to arrange for in-room massage from Ernestine J. (Considering Louis’s after-flight massage rituals, it shouldn’t be a big deal to get the names and telephone numbers of his favorite masseuses from Barry and Alfonse for the PDA. Make mental note to do so. . . )

Next day limo service to Notting Hill Sound Studios.

Zone luncheon.

Break for
British Cosmo
profile interview: “A Man for All Pleasings . . . ” to take place with a photo shoot by Mert & Marcus, at a King’s Cross Studio.

Back in recording studio, until 6 P.M.

Heathrow to LAX via Virgin.

Limo home.

I could already see that working with Louis was going to put a major crimp in my star search. Oh well, maybe I’d have the energy to sneak out tonight, after the party, I thought.

But first things first. I called the limo service that Genevieve’s directions stated was Louis’s preference, and requested his favorite driver, Malcolm.

“I’m sorry, miss, but Malcolm is already booked for tomorrow morning. However, he will be available later that evening to take Mr. Trollope to the premiere and the after- party.”

“Oh.” I was in a quandary. Was Louis the type to throw a tantrum at things like that? I guess I’d find out the hard way, tomorrow. “Please send the next best substitute, then. Someone—um—unobtrusive.”

Yeah, right,
that
was sure to appease Louis!

Despite the fact that everyone except Randy claimed early studio calls, Louis’s shindig didn’t break up until two in the morning. Mick stuck his head in to say good-bye and (I’m guessing) to apologize, but I would have none of it: I feigned being tied up on a phone call to London (“Yes, yes, Mr. Trollope will of course require the Round Room, on the twenty-eighth. Please put the room under his usual pseudonym, E.A. Presley.”) and dismissed him with an impatient wave.

My message was crystal clear: The game was over. We had both lost.

Louis came in to say goodnight as I was washing the last of the plates and silver. “So, what time will you need me tomorrow?” I asked brightly.

He laughed, as if the question had been a joke. “You’ll meet me here and ride in with me to the studio, of course. My assistant is
always
written into my movie contracts.”

“Sure, of course.” It was a cool trick: My presence on the set ensured that my salary was to be covered by the producers during the weeks of the shoot schedule—a savings to Louis’s bottom line.

Which meant that I, too, would need an early wake-up call—that is, if I went to sleep at all. Six o’clock was only three hours away. If I ran every light between here and Venice, that would still take me, minimally, forty minutes, and forty minutes back—

That was
ridiculous!

As if reading my mind, Louis offered, “Of course, you
could
sleep here—”

(Oh, I get it. And
, no!
)

“Uh, look, Louis, if this is going to work, then I think we should get something straight right up front—”

“Hannah, it’s
okay
.” One eyebrow arched upward, contradicting his angelic countenance. “I thoroughly apologize for that ungentlemanly behavior earlier this evening, at your expense. It was
very, very
cruel of my friends, and of course, of me. You don’t yet know my sense of humor, which, I’m sure, made it even more unseemly.” He paused and ran a hand through his professionally tousled hair. “Look, I’m being honest: I, too, want our relationship to stay strictly professional. I’ve—well, I’ve seen it otherwise, and I know it never works out.
Never.”

His emphasis was comforting—and, I had to admit, disappointing at the same time.

“I know I can be a bit demanding. And with all you’ve been through this week, I’m sure that the last thing you need is some whiney bloke sending you up and down this bloody hillside on a whim.”

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. He joined me, and for once I felt thoroughly at ease with him.

“Okay, look, we’ve got to be up in less than three hours. Go ahead and catch a nap in the cabana. It’s got everything you’ll need. G’night, sis.”

With that he leaned over, gave me a very chaste kiss on the forehead, and headed off toward his own room.

He didn’t need to wait for my answer. He already knew it. Despite the sumptuous amenities in the cabana (feather mattress, down pillows and comforter, and 700-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets on a Dux 8888), I tossed and turned all night, running over my mixed feelings about both Louis and Mick.

Here was my conclusion:

First of all, I could not deny that I was attracted to Louis. And, unless I was totally delusional, he was also showing signs of attraction—which scared me, because, in my book, he already had three strikes against him: in the past five years he had been involved with what averaged a different woman every three months; he was currently dating the number-one swimsuit model in the world;
and
then there was the “actor” factor.

Bottom line: Take the paycheck but pass on any inevitable heartbreak.

Next on the agenda was the issue of Mick: Louis’s best friend was making no bones about the fact that he saw something in me.

Did I mind? Heck, no!

Did Louis mind? Heck, yeah—and he wasn’t afraid to mark his territory.

Should what he want really matter to me? No, not really. . . except that, for some odd reason, I
did
care. It was as if, knowing that Louis just might . . . just
might. . .
I dunno, maybe, like, really like me . . .

I can’t deny the fact that you like me! You really, really like me.

As opposed to Mick, who might actually. . . fall in
love
with me.

And with that thought, I dozed off with dreams of men on motorcycles revving wildly in my head.

Chapter 4: Welcome to the Galaxy!

Galaxy: Vast star system containing millions and possibly billions of stars, dust and gas, held together by gravitational attraction.

Globular Cluster: A spherical cluster of older stars, often found in various galaxies.

Dwarf Star: A star, having relatively low mass, small size, and often below average luminosity.

The limo was late.

Of course, Louis was pissed. This, despite my letting him sleep in an extra quarter hour. (“Whah. . . wake-up time already? Love, you’re yanking my wanker, right? Be a doll. . . another fifteen, eh?”)

And despite refusing the breakfast I made him—Zone, of course. (“Sorry, love, I’m not a morning man. . . no pun intended, so don’t take that in the wrong way, right, my darling? How about something simpler, say, a nice cuppa Jamaican Blue Mountain? What, none in the house? Perhaps you can go down the hill and see if Urth or the Bean or
something
is open at this ungodly hour!”)

And despite my warning that Malcolm would
not
be his driver. (“What do you take me for, love, some kind of Hollywood prima donna pouf? Bollocks, worst case scenario, you’ll drive me down in the Ferrari. . . What do you mean, you can’t drive a stick shift? Wasn’t that in your job description? ...Oh, it
wasn’t
? Not that it would have made a difference, love, because you
know
I can’t live without you. . . ”)

By the time the driver arrived—he claimed to have gotten lost finding the house—Louis was sullen. He did not say one word during the whole ride to the studio. When we finally got there, he jumped out before the driver even had a chance to pull over in front of his dressing room. Stymied, I jumped, out too. Before the door slammed shut, I was able to follow him in.

He was already undressing. Having taken off his leather jacket and T-shirt, he turned toward me, his rippling biceps, expansive chest and washboard abs bare except for a burnished tan, courtesy of his daily poolside vigils. On Louis, these perfect features weren’t just a cliché but primo romance novel cover art in the flesh.

I stood there, speechless and embarrassed at my intrusion on his privacy, and perhaps for my own modesty and in light of none coming from him.

Grinning wickedly, he taunted, “So, you like beefcake for breakfast, do you, love?”

“I’m—I’m sorry. I just thought—well, I thought that perhaps we should talk about what got you so upset.” I blushed and turned to leave. “But I know you have to get ready for your first scene. I’ll—I’ll wait outside.”

“No, I’d prefer you’d stay.” I could hear him unzipping his jeans in preparation for putting on a less movie-star-like/more cop-like pair of pants he was to wear on the set. “Help me run some lines, okay? Say, could you hand me that?”

“What?” I cautioned a peek. He was wrapping himself in a robe, and he grinned devilishly when he saw the relief on my face.

“That script. There.”

I lunged to where he pointed: a bookcase beside the couch. “What page?”