Hollywood Scream Play (11 page)

“I’m willing to bet you can’t hit the side of a barn.” Justin blows a perfect smoke ring in my direction.

My knife flies through the middle of it, and so close to his cigarette that he ducks.

His head hits the table.

Unfortunately, there’s no script to cushion it. He’s out like a light.

“What the hell, Donna?” Jack groans. “You’re going to chase away this screenwriter, too?”

“Addison told us to be brutal. He wants the script as authentic as possible.”

“He also said he needs it delivered by the end of the week, or else production is cancelled. If that happens, we lose this cozy little safe house.” Jack reaches over to slap Justin’s face, but this doesn’t revive him. “Aw, what does it matter? One way or the other, the jig is up. The last two script doctors have already complained to the Writers Guild. If this one does, too, no one will touch the project no matter how much money Addison offers, and he’ll have to shut down production, anyway.”

“Maybe it’s for the best. The kids are beginning to think that all meals should be served under sterling silver domes on room service trays.” I walk to the window, where I have a bird’s eye view of the hotel’s terrace. “Can you believe it? Poor Mary can’t catch a few rays by the pool without some guy trying to pick her up. Can’t they see she’s underage?”

“It doesn’t help that she looks over-age in her bikini.”

“I suggested a burqa. That recommendation went over like one of Morton’s wet farts.” I tap on the window, as if the man-boy leaning over my daughter is going to actually look up and see my scowl. I guess I’d have more clout if I’d kept the knife in my hand.

Before I can retrieve it from the pillow it has pinned to a wingback chair, Jack puts his arms around me. “She seems to be able to take care of herself.”

He’s right. Whatever she’s said has the guy moonwalking away.

“She’s depressed. I think she misses her friends. So do Jeff and Trisha.”

“They stay in contact.” He knows this because we’ve been monitoring their cell phone and iPad activity, as well as Mary’s Facebook and Instagram accounts. Arnie was able to put GPS scramblers on our phones and all of our WiFi devices.

Mary lowers the brim of her sun hat and goes back to reading her iPad. I presume she’s reading 
Age of Innocence
, which is the lit homework due tomorrow. Through an untraceable server, I emailed all my children’s teachers to tell them that we were taking a family sabbatical, but that our children would still be accountable for classwork.

Despite their parents’ happy faces, my kids aren’t dumb. They know there’s something we aren’t telling them.

I grab a broad-brimmed hat and my sunglasses and head down to the pool, so that I can get some fresh air.

Really, I need a hug. My guess is that Mary does, too.

The pool on the terrace level of the Sunset Tower is the place to see and be seen, especially on a beautiful afternoon.

Do my children recognize the many stars within spitting distance of them? My guess is no—unless they’re wearing a super-hero costume, or still look as girlish or as boyish as they did in the teen movies they made just a few years ago.

Hanging by the pool days on end won’t keep your skin forever twenty-one, but hanging by the Sunset Tower’s pool says you’ve arrived.

Trisha splashes in the shallow end with the hotel’s on-call au pair, a twenty-something adorable enough to have her own sitcom. But hey, in this town, the stardom competition is tough, to say the least. I don’t envy the young and talented who stay to play, and certainly not those who are paid to pass.

While we’re working, Aunt Phyllis supervises the children’s studies. Afterward, she takes them on outings—to movies, the local parks and libraries, or the Farmer’s Market.

When the kids hang at the pool, Aunt Phyllis parks herself in the hotel lobby with her knitting bag. From there, she can tune in on conversations. Lately she’s been passing along gossipy tidbits to the TMZ hotline. It’s one way of subsidizing a measly Social Security check. Or as she puts it, “No one expects the little old lady in the lobby to be their worst paparazzi nightmare.”

Even Lassie and Rin Tin Tin have adjusted to hotel living. They sleep on little hotel beds, get walked in William S. Hart Park adjacent to the hotel, and enjoy the hotel’s “pet dining menu,” which includes chopped sirloin, grilled boneless chicken breast, and New York steaks, rare.

My youngest waves at me, but she’s having too much fun pretending to be a porpoise to come over. I spot Jeff, sitting on a lounge chair that backs up to a cabana. He’s writing furiously on his iPad. Without Morton and Cheever to distract him, it seems he’s become focused on his studies. At least one good thing has come from this situation.

I ease myself down onto the lounge chair beside Mary. “You’re getting quite a tan.”

She shrugs. Her eyes don’t move from her book.

I try again. “Is that your assigned reading?”

She clicks off the iPad. “Mom, tell me the truth: why are we here?”

So much for small talk. I force my lips into a grin. “Don’t you remember? Your father has been asked to consult on a movie script. The plot revolves around the banking industry.”

She juts out her chin. Since she was two, this was the telltale that she doesn’t like what she is hearing.

“Really? You expect me to believe that?”

I’ll match her disbelief then raise it with my own tone of indignation. “What are you trying to say, Mary?”

“Babs texted me. She asked if I was upset—
about our house blowing up!
 Mom, I didn’t know how to answer her! You and Dad hadn’t said anything. But you must have known about it…right?”

Ah, the moment of truth.

I nod. “We got the call from the fire department the afternoon we were at the movies.”

Her anger propels her into an upright position. “You knew—but you didn’t say anything?”

“Yes, we knew. But I didn’t want you and Jeff and Trisha to be as upset over it as I am. And since we have to be here at the hotel anyway, I told your father I thought it would be best for us to settle in before we broke the news to the rest of the family.”

Mary eases back into her chair. She lowers her sunglasses, revealing eyes that are red and rimmed with tears. I have no doubt she’s thinking about the house, her room, and all of the things left behind that will no longer be a part of her life. “Is everything gone?”

“Sadly, yes. Nothing was saved.”

“Will we ever move back?” she asks in a whisper.

“The insurers are assessing the damage now. Even if they do a full payout, the time and expense may not be worth it. On the other hand, since there hasn’t been an empty lot in Hilldale for quite some time, it should go for a premium. It might be a better idea to sell it, as is.”

She pulls away from me. “So your answer is no. We’re never going back.”

I place my hand over hers. “There’s another reason why it’s a very strong possibility that we won’t be returning to Hilldale. Your father’s company has offered him a transfer—out of the country. It means more money, and I guess it’s one way to view our misfortune as a fresh start.”

“But I don’t need ‘a fresh start.’ I’d miss my friends! I like my teachers, and my school!”

I place my hand over hers. “What is truly important in our lives isn’t things, or even places, but the memories we have, and the people who love us most, who have helped us create those memories. Mary, we’re the most important people in each other’s lives, aren’t we?”

She nods. “Yes, of course.”

“Should we make this move, we’ll be sharing some invaluable experiences.”

She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes shift to our hands, mine over hers. “Mom, are you telling me everything?”

We tell our children that honesty is the best policy. And yet, when it comes to their wellbeing, the great parenting dilemma is deciding how, and when, we dole out information to them. Will what we tell them go over their heads? Worse yet, will it scare them? Will they understand our motives and respect our decisions?

Mary isn’t an adult. She’s no longer a child, either. She’s right in pointing out that I owe her the truth, especially during these very crucial years in her life.

But she can’t understand that the decisions we’ve made are not only on her behalf, but protect many innocent lives.

Jack’s and my life depend on them, too. The next decision we make will determine our freedom.

All the more reason to squeeze her hands and say with all sincerity, “At this point, there is so much that neither your father nor I know. Mary, sweetheart, we’re taking advantage of all the wonderful things coming our way.”

She’s about to say something when suddenly we hear some woman screaming, “Why, you little snoop! Give me that cell phone!”

The next thing I know, Jeff is running toward us. As he passes us, he drops his cell into Mary’s beach bag, before bounding into the hedge behind us.

The woman comes out of a cabana on the far side of the pool. She’s naked, except for the flimsy towel she’s wrapping around herself. She stops when she sees us. “That boy—did you see him? Which way did he go?”

Mary and I stare at her, then at each other. We both point toward the elevator.

She runs off, tucking the towel around her as it slips.

I wait until we hear the elevator whisk her down into the hotel before grabbing Jeff’s cell. I scroll through the photos he’s taken—all of celebrities, who I guess had been hanging out, poolside, over the past few days.

Jeff pops out from behind a bush. “Is the coast clear?”

“For now,” I say.

He flops down in the chair on the other side of Mary. But when he reaches for her bag, I grab his wrist with one hand. He looks up to see I’m holding his phone with the other.

“You know the hotel’s policy. Why are you spying on these people?”

“Whenever I overhear something juicy, Aunt Phyllis cuts me in for some of her paparazzi fees.”

“What? That’s disgraceful!” I delete all the pictures.

Jeff folds his arms on his chest. “Why can’t I help Aunt Phyllis? She needs me. Sometimes her hearing aid flakes out on her.”

I shake my head firmly. “She’s making enough now that she can afford a new one.”

“Even if that’s the case, she can’t be in two places at once. She’s already paid me twenty bucks for the leads I’ve picked up here, by the pool!”

“The money isn’t the issue. Eavesdropping is hardly a profession. Worse yet, it isn’t polite.”

“Okay, whatever.” But, by his scowl, I can tell he’ll say anything to get me off his back.

Maybe I’m being too hard on him—really, on all of them. Although all the children haven’t come out and said so, they know something isn’t right with our little sabbatical. I’ve cut my hair shorter, and lightened it. Jack doesn’t need them, but he’s started to wear glasses anyway, parts his hair differently, and now sports a scruffy goatee. Whenever we go out in public, we wear sunglasses.

Aunt Phyllis teases us that we’re “living like celebrities, and acting like them, too.” She can think what she wants, just as long as she—or for that matter, the kids—don’t realize the truth:

We’ve gone off the grid.

Well, a Hollywood version of it, anyway.

My children may not miss school, but they miss their friends and the continuity of their lives.

I hope they can soon get back to it.

If and when they do, it will be because Jack and I are sharing it with them.

Chapter 7

Dead Poets Society

“Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

—Robin Williams, as “John Keating”

Now that you have your invitation to your own movie’s premiere in your gelled talons, of course you’re wondering, “What will I wear?”

Hmmm. Great question—especially from someone who has worn the same ratty old jammies since high school. So that your promenade of fame doesn’t turn into a walk of shame, here are three tips to avoid the typical fashion faux pas:

First, dress to compress. Any gown that puts you within spitting distance of your favorite movie stars is worth fighting the battle of the bulge. Just say “Spanx for the memories!”

Next, skip the train. The goal is to make it to your assigned seat without tripping on the hem of your gown. Forget the sky-high heels and the too-long train and you can breeze in and smile pretty for the cameras.

Despite Diana Vreeland’s fashion savoir faire, your first time on the red carpet is not the time to “give ’em what they never knew they wanted.” Your very first time on the red carpet should not be an occasion for a nip slip or your thong doing you wrong, just because you packed your pistol in the wrong place. Better to avoid any dress that begs for a wardrobe malfunction.

Better yet, just this once, leave your gun at home.

You’re just as lethal with your stiletto heel.