“No, Celeste. I know you love Mary Anne. I mean Viève. How do you like working with Viève?”
“She’s very talented,” Cici said.
“Cut the crap. Is she as cuckoo as everyone says?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cici, we’ve been through a lot,” Terri said. “You know that I’ve always been close to Damien’s wives. Or, I should say, former wives.” Terri angled her doughy face toward Cici. “There are always so many rumors in town.”
Anxiety gripped her diaphragm Terri’s innuendo that there were rumors—dirty rumors floating around town made Celeste uncomfortable. Could she know?
“Perhaps I should rephrase my question. Viève Dyson—off the record—how is she to work with?”
“Well, as long as we’re off the record,” Cici said.
*
Cici disliked spending time with an entertainment reporter, but spending time with an entertainment reporter and a publicist was torture. Terri and Kiki, masters at spin, were having a conversation that made Celeste feel like someone had strapped her to the teacup ride at Disneyland. She knew the two aging mavens’ history: They’d been roommates years before in New York when they were young, broke, and struggling. But prior to this meeting, Cici didn’t realize the competitive nature of Kiki and Terri’s relationship. For forty long minutes she listened to Kiki discuss all her superstar clients instead of, as planned, discussing Cici’s Oscar campaign.
“I told Holden he’s a fool to have Mort as a publicist. Especially now, with this luscious little love affair? Such an opportunity! And Mort will completely waste it.”
“I’m sitting down with Holden this week. I’ll tell him he should be with you,” Terri said.
“So how was the Peninsula?”
“Fanfuckingtastic!” Kiki gushed. “The best experience of my life. Thank you so much for passing him along. I’m weekly now. He’s unbelievable.”
“Who?” Cici asked, curious as to what, other than celebrity scandal, could elicit such an enthusiastic response from Kiki.
“I didn’t even ask his name. I was too busy screaming yes, yes, yes!”
“What are you talking about?” Cici looked first at Kiki and then at Terri.
“A special little service for women, of which I am sure you have no need,” Terri said.
“At least not yet. Give it another fifteen years. Then, if you’re unmarried, you, too, can become a client.”
“A what?”
“It’s a male escort service,” Terri said. “For wealthy, older women.”
“Speak for yourself,” Kiki snipped. “It’s for wealthy, single women.”
“Kiki, you can fool some of the people, but we were born the same year. Just because I choose not to surgically deform myself doesn’t mean that you are in fact younger. You just look stranger,” Terri said.
“You bitch,” Kiki said. “You know that I’m younger than you.”
“By three weeks.”
“Still.”
“An escort service? You two use an escort service?” Cici asked.
“Don’t look so surprised, Celeste,” Kiki said. “Once you hit forty, if you’re not married, the dates dry up.”
“Try fifty, and she’s right,” Terri said. “But the desire, the need?”
“That continues.”
“And increases,” Terri said. “But the supply of willing males—”
“—nonexistent,” Kiki said. “Even the ones who were begging for it when you were younger—”
“If they’re still alive—”
“—are disinterested,” Kiki continued. “Viagra killed it for us more mature—”
“—old,” Terri interrupted.
“—ladies,” Kiki finished.
“The men our age go after the girls your age,” Terri said. “And why not? They have plenty of dough, and now, with Viagra, they have staying power.”
“You two don’t need an escort service,” Cici said. “You’re both smart, wealthy women. Men your age must go for women like you.”
“Oh really?” Terri asked. “Just how old is Ted?”
“He’s almost sixty,” Cici said.
“Try sixty-five,” Terri said. “Women aren’t the only ones who lie about their age.”
“Ted isn’t sixty-five,” Cici said. “There’s no way. His kids are only—”
“Get online and check,” Terri interrupted. “I believe his daughter is almost your age, Cici, and his son is thirty-five.”
Cici thought about Terri’s words. Ted? Sixty-five? She was sleeping with a man older than her father would be? When Cici first met Ted, she believed him to be in his early fifties, but if he too, like everyone else in entertainment, subtracted seven years from his age, then he was almost sixty-five.
“Seventy is the new fifty,” Kiki cackled.
Did everyone in town lie about something? Kiki placed her hand over Cici’s.
“You can’t be upset about this? You’re dating one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world.”
“And he is absolutely mad for you,” Terri said. “He was quite a whore for a while after his wife died.”
“What?” A tremor passed through Cici. She wanted a monogamous relationship. She’d chosen Ted after Damien, in part, because she wanted someone to trust.
“How many models did he date?” Terri asked.
“I lost count after the crazy one from England.”
“The one with the heroin addiction?”
“Right. But that came out after they broke up,” Kiki said.
“You two must have the wrong guy,” Cici said.
“Like there could be any mistaking Ted Robinoff,” Terri said.
“Darling, I’m afraid they are all hounds,” Kiki said. “Besides, what’s to worry? You aren’t married, you have your own money, and he’s forking over a ton of dough for your Oscar campaign. Terri, you should see the money Ted’s shelling out. The parties and the ads. I think he’s going to personally shake the hand of every Academy member who’s still breathing at the Ray Stark Villa.”
“It worked for Harvey,” Terri said.
Cici’s heart beat faster thinking about Ted’s devotion to her. But she loved him, and she didn’t want him fooling around with models, actresses, or prostitutes.
“Oh Cici, stop,” Terri said. “We shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Please, darling, it’s obvious he’s in love with you. It’s not like he’s still taking his Asian sex tours,” Kiki said.
“Asia?” Cici whispered.
“Most of them go to Asia now,” Terri said.
“Keeps everything private, you know,” said Kiki. “They don’t have to read about their fetishes in the tabloids.”
“Really, who cares if you want a golden shower? Sexual preference is none of my affair. And I’m a reporter,” Terri said.
“Sex sells,” Kiki said. “So, Terri, since you’re here. I want your opinion on these shots. I’m not very pleased with them, honestly, but which one do you think we should build the Oscar campaign around?” Kiki placed four publicity stills of Celeste from
California Girl
onto the table.
While Kiki and Terri prattled on about the Oscar campaign, Cici’s mind spun. (She’d already seen the shots, and her opinion seemed irrelevant.) Ted had flown to Hong Kong two days earlier. He’d spent the majority of the last three months traveling between Malaysia, China, Japan, and Hong Kong—Asia. Celeste glanced at her reflection in the window. She could barely make out her face. Was it her age? Did he want someone younger? Was he bored? She had rescheduled her appointment with Dr. Melnick twice and was considering canceling altogether, but now? Now she wondered if she needed to keep the appointment with the plastic surgeon after all.
These two cackling old birds—Kiki’s face looked overdone. One more procedure and any hint of normalcy would disappear. Kiki treated plastic surgery like a weekly mani-pedi appointment. Meanwhile, Terri was the opposite. The jowls on her—she could wrap the loose skin from her chin around her neck and use it as a scarf. Both were wealthy. Both were the definition of success. But were both lonely? Obviously.
Kiki married twice, unsuccessfully. Terri, never, but she had legendary affairs. She’d slept with every A-list male star through the sixties, seventies, and well into the eighties. But now? Children? None. No family. Kiki and Terri rifled through the pictures of Cici. She didn’t want a solitary life when she grew old. She didn’t want to hire a male stud service to satisfy her sexual needs. She didn’t want to rattle around in a giant house with only staff and assistants to keep her company. Where would she spend her holidays? And why hadn’t she thought of any of this earlier?
“Cici.” Kiki tapped her on the arm. “Come back to us, darling. Terri likes this one.” She held up a midrange still of Cici’s face. “What do you think?”
“I thought you wanted to go with a close-up?”
“Well, I did, but sweetie, you’re not twenty-five anymore, and I want to maintain the perception of youth for the public.”
“Look, here,” Terri pointed to a close-up of Cici’s face, “under your eyes. It’s the beginning of bags.”
“Can’t they touch up the photo?” Celeste asked.
“Oh, honey,” Kiki said. “They already did.”
*
“You sure you want to do this? You don’t have to,” Mary Anne said. She bit her bottom lip and held one of Cici’s hands.
“You’ll wait for me?” Cici asked. Vulnerability like cold water washed through her veins.
“Of course.”
Cici clutched Mary Anne’s hand tighter—she closed her eyes and forced calm into her mind. She didn’t have to do this; she knew that. The surgery was elective. But her public expected her to personify youth and to age gracefully. And Cici knew that aging gracefully in Hollywood meant aging very little at all.
“Miss Solange? Are you ready?” Melnick’s nurse stood waiting to push her to the operating suite. This was pure vanity—Cici had no right to be afraid—and yet her palms grew damp as the stretcher began to move.
“Cici.” Charles Melnick rounded the corner wearing his scrubs, his hands raised to the heavens. “I do this every day; no worries.” Cici attempted a smile. She glanced at Mary Anne.
“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Mary Anne said.
Cici nodded her head and gave her a small smile as Mary Anne’s fingers slipped away.
Rule 23: Never Panic
Lydia Albright, President of Production, Worldwide Pictures
Lydia almost erased the message when she saw the blinking light on her answering machine. Only solicitors called her home number; everyone else called her office or her mobile. But this time, for some reason, she pushed the button—and heard a cryptic message from Ted Robinoff, her boss, the owner and chairman of Worldwide Pictures.
“Call me from your landline at home as soon as you get this.”
Lydia fished her BlackBerry from her purse. No messages. No e-mails. No texts. Ted wanted no trace of this call. Studio security monitored the landlines at Worldwide. Most offices, unbeknownst to their executive inhabitants, contained bugs, and some even had cameras. Security had the capability to listen to all the mobile phones Worldwide purchased for their executives. So, as Lydia dialed Ted’s number in Japan, she realized this call from Ted was different from most of their conversations.
“Lydia?” Though it was deep into the night in Tokyo, Ted answered without a hint of fatigue in his voice.
“Hello, Ted.”
“Where’s Cici?” he asked.
Ted’s question surprised Lydia. Ted lived with Cici. And since she and Lydia were close friends, Ted and Lydia maintained an unspoken agreement never to discuss Cici except regarding film roles.
“I’m guessing either on her way to the set or at home,” Lydia said.
“Then why did I just pick up a message from Terri Seawell asking me how Cici and I are enjoying Fiji?”
Lydia paused, trying to remember why Terri thought Cici and Ted had flown to Fiji.
“Oh, that’s right,” Lydia said, covering, “Cici’s off the shooting schedule for a couple of days and she wanted to be Terri-free.”
“What do you mean Terri-free?”
Lydia assumed Cici had shared with Ted that Terri Seawell was shadowing her during the filming of
Vitriol
.
“It’s for the Oscar campaign for
California Girl
. Terri’s shadowing Cici while we shoot
Vitriol
.”
“
Vitriol
? Terri Seawell is on set for
Vitriol
? Are you sure that’s wise?” Ted asked.
Lydia’s carefully crafted calm zipped away, replaced with a tingling sensation pulsing through her body. What did Ted know? Why would he question Lydia’s decision to allow Terri access to the set?
“Terri’s article gets Cici and Steven Brockman the cover of Vanity Fair before the Academy votes,” Lydia said.
“But where’s Celeste? She hasn’t been home in two days and she’s not answering her cell. I don’t want to appear like a jealous lover, but I haven’t gotten a return call.”
“Did you try Mary Anne?” Lydia remembered that Mary Anne had offered to help Cici after her surgery. Mary Anne would know the cover story Cici wanted to give Ted.
“I’ll try her. And you’ll see Cici today. Tell her to call me.”
Today? Lydia glanced at the calendar on her BlackBerry. Of course, today. She’d blocked out two hours of her day for a lunch visit with Cici, and Ted had access to Lydia’s calendar.
“No problem,” Lydia said.
“Any more letters?” Ted asked.
“So far no,” Lydia said. “I’d tell Briggs if I received more.”
“I’m sure you would,” Ted said and released the line.
*
“He knows,” Lydia said. Cici lay in a bed at the Peninsula, surrounded by pillows and flipping through
Vogue
. Mary Anne sat beside Celeste while, across the room, Jessica spoke with Mike on the phone.
“About the face-lift?” Mary Anne gasped.
“He doesn’t know,” Cici said, still turning pages.
Lydia paced in front of the window. She was trapped. Ted’s tone—the coolness—the bit of edge at the end of every sentence—he knew something. Jessica yapped on her phone.
Vitriol
was already a mess. Mike had arrived on set that morning to find Viève locked in her trailer.
“And it’s an eye-lift, by the way,” Cici said. “Not a face-lift.”
“Not the eye-lift, the sex tape,” Lydia said, exasperated.
“Sex tape?” Mary Anne looked confused.
“I’m bored,” Cici said. “Where is Melnick? He’s late, and I want to go home.”