Ted sat on the edge of the marble tub. “I know. Lydia told me. You girls are very crafty—if Billy and Nathan hadn’t already sold the DVD out from under you, I’m sure they would have handed it over to Jessica and Lydia this afternoon, in exchange for the file on Viève.”
“But how did Billy even get the DVD in the first place?”
“Hollywood is a small town,” Ted said. “I hear Damien’s divorce attorney traded it to Billy for drugs. I’d be surprised if Janice isn’t disbarred.”
“How did you find out about the tape?” Cici asked.
“You mean what was you ladies’ biggest mistake?” Ted asked with a tiny smile on his face. “Lydia gave Briggs Montgomery the letters before she knew about your film, and before you met Nathan. So she didn’t have any idea the letters were connected to it.”
Cici sank deeper into the bubbles. “And the letters were from Billy.”
“So it seems. Sherman told me his revenge theory as well. Once I read the letters, I became concerned for Lydia’s safety and, tangentially, yours. So I upped the security on Lydia. And, well, you guys may be secretive with the rest of the world, but when you’re together you jabber, jabber, jabber. And Jay may be Lydia’s security guard, but he works for me.”
“I see.”
“And the house.” Ted pointed around the room.
“Cameras?” Cici gasped, sinking farther into the tub.
“No cameras, Cici. Not in the bedrooms or bathrooms. But on the outside of the house, the entrances. And microphones in all the public rooms.”
“The phones?”
Ted nodded. “The landlines.”
“There is no privacy in this world,” Cici said. Her heart felt heavy.
“No, honey, especially for an international superstar. But listen to me: I promise, I do these things to protect you, not to exploit you.”
Celeste looked into Ted’s eyes. She felt the truth coming from him. He wanted to keep her safe. She loved Ted, but didn’t yet want to cede all her privacy to him. “No more tapping the phones,” she said.
Ted hesitated. “Fair enough.” They sat in silence for a moment. “This isn’t Lydia’s fault,” Celeste said.
“I know, but she’s not staying at Worldwide.”
Cici looked at Ted. “You can’t fire her. She was doing what was best for the company, for you for the quarter of a billion dollars’ worth of my films that you’ve invested in.”
“Celeste, you misunderstand,” Ted said. “She doesn’t want to stay.”
“What?”
“Look, I said the exact same thing you did,” Ted said. “I would have handled it almost the same way. In fact when I found out about the DVD, I became just as paranoid and secretive as you two.”
“Four,” Cici said.
“Four?”
“It was four. Mary Anne, Jessica—”
“Right, right.” Ted held up his hands. “I know the usual suspects.”
“So what do you mean Lydia isn’t staying?”
“She wants to leave,” Ted said. “After awards season she’ll announce her departure. She’s keeping her overall deal at Worldwide, and of course I’ll make any film she brings me. But she’s finished as president of production.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No. I offered to raise her salary. She declined.”
“I thought she loved making movies,” Cici said.
“She does love making movies. But, Celeste, the job of president of production isn’t about making movies. That job is about politics and steering the ship. As president, the success or failure of every film rests on your shoulders. The entire future of the studio. Lydia loves movies, but she loves making them. Being on set with the director, the actors, the writer—that’s making movies. That’s the part she misses.”
“So what about
Vitriol
?”
“What about it?” Ted said.
“That’s a pretty hefty loss.”
“No loss. We’ve got a new director.”
“Who’d direct a film with only five shooting days left? And Nathan’s coverage is shitty.”
“What director would do that for Lydia?” Ted asked.
“Zymar,” Cici said.
“Exactly. And you’re now employed for another four weeks. Zymar thinks he can salvage the film if he has another twenty days.”
“That takes us right up to the nominations,” Celeste said.
“Almost,” Ted said. He loosened his tie and started to unbutton his shirt.
“So,” Cici began. She was nervous. “I need to ask you about Hong Kong.”
“What about it?” Ted asked.
“Why do you go?”
“For business.”
Cici watched him from behind the bubbles. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust him so badly. But she’d spent the last three months attempting to do damage control on embarrassing footage of her that her first husband had filmed. She realized that Ted and Damien were completely different, but she also remembered Kiki and Terri cackling about Ted and his sex trips to Asia. It was so hard to trust anyone in this town.
“Celeste, come on. We both have a past. But do you think those two old birds really know anything about my business?” Ted said. “I go to Asia for business and business only. I know about the sex tours. Billy went; he used to go for sex tours, and that’s how he got started with the DVD piracy, meeting shady characters over there. I know what goes on. But the only reason I’ve been going a lot recently is because of this piracy investigation.”
“So you’ve known—”
“Almost the entire time.”
“And you never told me?”
“Like I said, Cici, I kept tabs; you were watched.” He gave her a sly smile. “Nice eyes, by the way.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about your finding out that kind of thing without my knowledge,” Cici said, frowning. She watched as Ted dropped his pants to the floor.
“Then I guess we’re even, because I’m not sure how I feel about being lied to.”
“I didn’t lie,” she said, sinking deeper into her bath. “I just omitted some details.” She watched as Ted climbed into the tub.
“Hey … why so glum?” Ted asked. “Seems like you four came out virtually unscathed.”
“I guess,” Cici said. Her insides felt raw. “Are you sure you want this? I mean us? Because this isn’t going away.”
“What are you talking about? The bad guys are in jail. And I got the girl,” Ted said.
“Right, but we never got the DVD,” Cici said, close to tears.
“Who told you that?” Ted asked, settling into the tub and wrapping his arms around her.
“Sherman Ross,” Cici said.
“Oh, you mean that
you
never got the DVD,” Ted said.
“Yeah, I mean me. Me and the girls. Who else?” She looked at Ted. A smile slipped onto his face. Her heart thumped. “You got it,” she whispered. “Ted, you got it, didn’t you? You bought the DVD from Sherman.” She felt tears forming in her eyes.
“I told you, Celeste, you are my priority, and I want you to feel safe.”
She held Ted’s face in her hands and looked into his eyes. He’d spent millions of dollars and countless hours cleaning a mess she had made long before they’d met. “Thank you,” she said. It was the only thing she could think to say. “Thank you.”
Rule 28: Take a Vacation Whenever You Can
Lydia Albright, President of Production, Worldwide Pictures
Lydia felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Finished. Her chest relaxed and she could finally breathe. In eight short weeks, the weight of Worldwide and its slate of films would no longer be her concern. She still wanted to make movies, just one picture at a time. She stood on her front drive waiting for Zymar. She had given everyone on the production of
Vitriol
a short break. All the agencies and production companies had closed a week before for the end-of-year break, and Zymar had promised he could rework the script in two weeks, with only minimal reshooting. Lydia believed him—she’d seen him work magic before.
Ted had asked her to stay on as president, and Lydia was thankful he wasn’t bouncing her out on her ass. He could have. She’d lied to him, even if it was a feeble attempt to protect Cici. Instead, Ted had offered to keep her on as president of production and raise her salary. But she’d come to realize over the last months that she was better suited for the intricacies of a film set, not an executive suite.
The job had changed her. Changed her in ways she thought nothing ever would. She had felt fear and bitterness and anger and rage—feelings she’d experienced at times, of course, but never as strongly as she did as head of a studio. Perhaps it was because of the responsibility and lack of control—she was responsible for every film Worldwide made, good or bad. She could say yes to a movie and have Worldwide cut the check, but she couldn’t pick the scripts (the producers brought her those), she couldn’t control the actors (she was a slave to their whims), and she couldn’t force anyone to do good work. And yet, at the end of the year, when all the receipts were counted and ticket sales added up, it was her career that was judged based on the numbers. Lydia was willing to cast her lot with the stories she loved, the directors she respected, and the actors she wanted to work with. But she wanted to work with all that enough to feel ownership over it … one film at a time. She simply was not an executive.
“Hey, pretty lady, ready to take a ride?” Zymar called from his Harley.
“Where are we going?” Lydia took the helmet he handed her. She tucked in her brunette locks and straddled the back of the bike.
“Lady’s choice,” Zymar said. “Seems this is your last-minute trip. I’m just the driver.”
Lydia clasped her arms around Zymar’s waist and pressed against him tight. She felt good. She felt free. And for the first time in a long time, she felt calm. “How about anywhere but here?”
“The open road then. Sounds fantastic to me,” Zymar said, revving the engine and zipping down the drive. “A little non-destination oriented for an overachiever such as you. But I can roll with it.” Zymar laughed.
“Let’s roll, baby,” Lydia said. “Let’s just roll.”
Rule 29: The Good Guy Gets the Girl
Mary Anne Meyers, Screenwriter
Mary Anne walked into her dark house. She dropped her keys and purse on the table just inside the door. When production began again on
Vitriol
next week, she’d finally see Holden. She’d dodged Holden’s calls and e-mails, and so far he’d sent flowers only once. He’d yet to stop by the house, but Mary Anne thought she’d seen his pickup turn the corner on Wednesday evening as she pulled into her drive.
E.B. hopped up onto the table and meowed at her. No one had claimed the cat, so Mary Anne kept her and named her E.B. after her favorite children’s author, E. B. White. She and Mary Anne had settled into an easy existence. Mary Anne kicked off her shoes and headed down the hall. The house felt quiet. She flipped on the lights in her bedroom, walked into her closet where she dropped her skirt to the floor, pulled off her shirt, and slipped on her robe. She then headed toward her bathroom and turned on the water for her spa tub. She was so tired. Part of her was-thankful that production had halted for two weeks.
She sat on the edge of the tub and tested the water with her fingertips. Almost right; just a little too warm. She turned up the cold water. She wanted a glass of red wine and a book. She used to sit for hours in the tub reading and drinking wine. Why had she stopped?
She padded back down the hall toward the kitchen. Half a bottle of Cabernet sat on the counter. She pulled the cork and poured herself a glass. E.B. walked across the kitchen island.
“Hey, you, you’re not supposed to be up here,” Mary Anne said, running her hand over the top of E.B.’s back. The cat’s only bad habit she’d discovered so far was walking on the countertops.
She glanced out the kitchen window toward the illuminated pool. The corner of the house was lit up by the motion-sensor lights her brother had installed before returning to Minnesota. As Mary Anne gazed out on her backyard, she heard E.B. hiss and then saw something dart behind her in the window. Adrenaline shot through her. Who was in her house? She didn’t want to turn around. She glanced at the cat from the corner of her eye. Mary Anne still held the wine bottle in one hand and her glass in the other.
“Put them both down.”
Mary Anne felt her heartbeat quicken. She set both the glass and the bottle on the counter.
“Now turn around.”
Mary Anne slowly turned. She held both her hands in the air, a Pavlovian response to an intruder. She looked at the crazy gnome holding a revolver in her right hand. She took a deep breath and stared at the gun. “Viève, what are you—”
“Shut it,” Viève said. She moved toward E.B. The cat hissed again as Viève inched closer. “What did you do to her?” Viève asked.
“What did I do to her?” Mary Anne asked. “This is your cat, isn’t it? You tried to kill her.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
Mary Anne felt a bubble of rage rise in her chest. How easy for Viève to be brave, standing in her kitchen holding a gun.
“Come here, Priscilla,” Viève called, reaching for the cat with her right hand. The cat backed between the refrigerator and the wall, hissing. She swiped at Viève.
“Fucking cat,” Viève said. “Come here.” Viève reached out and yanked the fur behind the cat’s neck, causing the kitty to go limp.
“Hey, you’re hurting her,” Mary Anne said, taking a step forward.
“Are you forgetting I have a gun?” Viève asked, pointing the revolver at Mary Anne again.
“No, not forgetting,” Mary Anne said. She stepped back.
*
“So, how do you want me to do this?” Viève asked. “I mean, obviously we want your death to look like a suicide. Broken heart, that kind of thing. And don’t worry, I’ll do my best to console Holden.” Mary Anne winced. Viève continued, “I’ll give you the choice. I can hit you on the head with this”—she pulled a bat from the black bag she’d brought with her—“and then put you in the tub so it looks like you fell and drowned. Or, you can take all of these”—Viève held up a prescription bottle and gave it a gentle shake—“get into bed and fall asleep. Personally, I think it’s incredibly kind of me to give you a choice. Because what I really want to do is crack you in the skull with the bat. But I am civilized. I’m guessing you’ll go for the less painful of the two.”
Mary Anne stood next to her bed. Was this really happening? In her head she ran through the people who knew she was home. She had spoken with Cici much earlier in the day, and her mother wouldn’t call tonight—Mitsy called on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She glanced at her clock: ten P.M. No one was coming by.