True Hollywood Lies (11 page)

“Yes. I know the feeling,” I growled.

I punched in the reservation number for the studio’s private jet on the gray cell and walked out of the room.

Chapter 6: Penumbra

Means, literally,
dim light
. It most often refers to the outer shadow cast during eclipses.

It’s true, for actors at least, that all the world’s a stage. And since my primary assignment put me front row center in Louis’s world (apparently, the job description wasn’t fooling when it said 24/7), there was a part of him that pined for an ongoing standing ovation from me.

Well, as far as I was concerned, that morning he wasn’t going to get it.

I was still fuming when Malcolm picked us up and shot us over to the private airfield at Van Nuys. Did this deter Louis from coveting my affections? Oddly, no, not in the least. At first he was a bit annoyed, however, and decided to show it in the best way he knew how: erotic flippancy. “What say we drop the icy indifference, eh love? Where I come from, we call that foreplay.”

When that didn’t work, he pretended to ignore my pouting altogether under the assumption that he could charm me into forgiving him. In the 40-minute trip from his house to Van Nuys, he chattered away: on industry gossip, the Posse’s post-party antics; he even tossed me a bone about missing me in the Viper Room.

“I’d hoped you’d stick around and save me from all of those horny panting women. Not that I blame you for calling it a day as early as you did. Wish I could have done the same, but, hey, you don’t make it in this town by clocking out after eight hours.” He was hoping that would win him a grudging acknowledgement.

No go. No words were uttered through the polite, albeit frosty, smile on my lips.

Louis smiled, not one to give up so easily. “You left so early, I was sure you’d have had plenty of sleep by the time I called this morning.”

“Oh, sure. I’m
always
up before the sun,” I muttered. “If you must know, Louis, I’d been out all evening, too, catching up on some—some personal business.”

“Of course. Understandable.” He patted my hand sympathetically. “Hmmm. Mick must have been doing the same. I didn’t see him, but Randy claims he was there, at least for a few minutes. Did you run into him?”

He asked it innocently enough, but the way his eyes bore into mine like two heat-seeking missiles, I suspected he already knew the answer to that.

If not, I’m sure the flush on my neck confirmed it. Still, I answered as noncommittally as I could. “Yeah, I saw him.”

Nothing more. From either of us.

The rest of the ride was taken in silence.

The limo drove straight onto the tarmac, stopping next to the stairwell descending from the plane’s forward door. We were greeted by the pilot and his navigator, both of whom looked as if they had been hired by the studio’s casting department, because they so perfectly fit their roles of stiff-backed flinty-eyed flyboys. After making congenial small talk based around their enjoyment of Louis’s last film and the weather patterns we might possibly encounter en route to New York, they then assisted Malcolm with the luggage.

As we boarded the plane, Louis insisted that I go first. Then, quite solicitously, he steadied my hand when I reached the top step. Ignoring the fawning flirtatiousness of the flight attendant, he introduced me to her as “the one woman in my life I could never do with out” (which had her practically curtseying to me).

From what I could see, the studio’s jet, a Boeing Business Jet, was tricked out with all the bells and whistles, including (as requested) a Zone smorgasbord, to be served once we reached our cruising altitude on Vera Wang’s “Empress Jewel” Wedgwood pattern; a fully stocked bar, with Brut Réserve chilling in a William Yeoward crystal champagne bucket; a custom-made Collezione-Divani built-in sofa and four captain’s chairs, all upholstered in leather so soft that you’d have sworn it had been marinated in butter for a month prior to being hand-sewn onto their frames; the prerequisite in-cabin screening room with a 4700-lumens high-definition digital projection system and a film library that included every new release available, as well as every film the actor in transit had ever made, and every cinema masterpiece attributed to the studio; a dining aft-lounge with a high-gloss Michael Graves-designed mahogany table that could be electronically adjusted for height but was currently set to accommodate that of the typical leading man, who is—according to most studio publicity departments—five-feet ten (but is actually, if that same source could be shamed into admitting it, more like five-feet seven, and
that’s
stretching it); and last, but not in any way the least, a “master suite” for the weary world traveler, which boasted a round Cal-King feather bed.

The flight attendant, aptly named Caresse, was a five-feet-eleven-inch raven-tressed Amazon tricked out in a way that would make any Hollywood player’s flight less stressful, if not downright enjoyable. Her outfit included a form-hugging, jersey-Lycra Versace-designed catsuit with matching paperboy cap (both imprinted with the studio’s logo). She had a tendency to hover at an arousing closeness, with a scent so enticingly musky that any airborne VIP wouldn’t mind in the least when she did so and a soft, breathy voice emanating from lips plumped into a tantalizing liquid pout. She was trained as a sous chef, should Louis care to ditch his diet and indulge in a craving for, say, pan-seared tilapia with chile lime butter; and she was licensed in shiatsu massage, as well as the Heimlich maneuver
and
mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And last but in no way least, her breasts were buoyed with so much of the requisite silicone that they could have qualified as flotation devices. In fact, I had no doubt that Louis would be clinging to them if, God forbid, our plane should end up in the drink. (I’m sure he was disappointed that this portion of our trip was over land.)

Frankly, I was thankful that the studio had been thoughtful enough to provide so many diversions, since I was in no mood to play handmaiden to Louis. Too little sleep, not to mention coitus interruptus, has a way of making me a bit peckish.

Prior to take-off, Louis insisted that
I
spread out on the sectional.

“That way, you can curl up and doze off if need be, love,” he murmured. Taken with his sweetness, Caresse gave me an envious look that said, “You lucky, lucky girl!”

With a stony nod, I plopped myself down on the couch as if I owned it and picked up that month’s edition of
Esquire
, which Caresse had so considerately left on the coffee table. She was fully aware that its cover—which featured Louis in a white Armani suit sans shirt, four models dressed as mini-skirted nuns praying at his feet, and sporting the headline “Why Women Worship This Guy, and Not You”—would certainly be appreciated by the studio’s precious cargo.

Clucking her tongue in shock at my apathy, Caresse commiserated with Louis, who was feigning crestfallen martyrdom, in the best way she knew how: After suggesting that we buckle ourselves up as comfortably as possible, she surreptitiously slipped him a business card containing her cell number, then made a geisha-worthy getaway to the galley.

As if his having it would have mattered to me!

Or
that he would have given a damn if I did care.

Louis acknowledged my barely stifled guffaw at this contemporary comedia dell’arte with a knowing grin and a slight bow. I shrugged and went back to my magazine.

His A.D.D.—adoration deficit disorder— was now so great that he decided to take a more diplomatic tact to win my forgiveness. After flopping down beside me on the sofa (close enough to have scored well on that portion of the studio’s flight attendant exam), he cleared his throat and began his new pitch with a serious tone.

“Hannah, my love, since this
is
a four-hour flight—”

“Five hours, twelve minutes, and forty-two seconds to be exact.”

“Yes, right, excellent assessment. Be that as it may, I’m hoping that, at some point in those 312.7 minutes you will find it in your heart to put aside any reason you may feel justified in being disappointed in me—”

“I’m sorry. Did you say something? I must have dozed off. In my dream, it was a lazy hazy Saturday, and I was enjoying the fact that I had been granted a day off by my lord and master.”

He sighed, then hung his head in shame. “You’re right. I’m a self-centered bastard. I had absolutely no right to ruin your one day off. Who do I think I am, anyway? Tell the truth: I’m becoming one of those insecure, egotistical wankers who are so ubiquitous to Hollywood, aren’t I?” He searched my face for any trace of forgiveness.

Well, yes, of course he was all of that, and more . . . which is why just the thought that Louis felt he needed clemency, from
me
of all people, put that much-coveted smile on my lips.

Pleased to have gotten the response he was looking for, Louis practically glowed. He was loved! Once again, all was right with the world.

Or so he thought. But I wasn’t going to let him off so easily.

“Let’s just say I was a bit surprised at your change of heart. Well, even if I don’t appreciate it, I’m sure Tatiana will.”

“Who? . . . Oh, of course, my beloved.”

“If you say so.” I plucked the card with Caresse’s cell number on it from his shirt pocket. “And I’m sure you took little Miss Coffee-Tea-or-Me’s card out of mercy, right?”

“If I hadn’t, it would have broken her heart, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Then how very considerate of you.”

“Goes with the territory. What’s a sex symbol without sex?”

Nonchalantly, he took the card out of my hand. He started to put it back in his pocket but then thought better of that idea. Instead, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and inserted it there.

“I couldn’t tell you, Louis. No such animal has ever crossed
my
path. I live in Hollywood, remember?”

It was Louis’s turn to laugh. “That’s why I’m falling in love with you, Hannah. I don’t have to sugarcoat anything for you because you already know the score, don’t you?”

I laughed, too. Yes, Louis, I thought, if anyone knows the score, it’s me—which is why I refuse to play the game.

The plane had started down the runway. Encouraged by my response, Louis tried another compliment—if you could call it that.

“You’ve got a great smile. Granted, you’ve got a bit of a space between your two front teeth, but personally speaking, in certain situations it can be a real
asset.”

“Thanks. I
guess
.” What, was I a horse or something? Overspaced teeth is an asset? As it dawned on me that his remark might have been less equine than carnal in its inference, I blushed more than a bit. Having toppled me off my pedestal, he laughed heartily.

Primly, I retorted, “Now, if you’d like me to keep smiling, then you’ll review these DVDs Monique sent of
The Actor’s Studio
interviews. According to her, the last actor invited who’d starred in a film backed by this studio felt that dropping his drawers would gain him more empathy from James Lipton than some well-chosen anecdotes. She’s assured them no similar antics will come from you, but—well, you
do
have a reputation for irreverence. Just think of it as another one of those ‘sex symbol’ obligations.”

(Actually, Monique’s exact words to me were, “While they’re taping, make sure Louis keeps his cock in his pants. I mean that both literally
and
figuratively.”)

He groaned. “But there’s a Manchester soccer match scheduled today, and we can pick it up via satellite!” Then he paused, struck by some more alluring idea. Smiling mischievously, he countered, “Tell you what: I’ll skip the match and go over the tapes, on one condition.”

“And what would that be?”

“That we play our
own
little game between each interview. Say, Twenty Questions. You have to answer anything I ask.”

Louis, curious about
me
? Hmmm. Sure, it was flattering. And scary. And
very
thrilling.

I hoped I was a good enough actress to hide the fact that I was pleased he was even interested. “Okay. You’re on. But I have to warn you, it won’t be half as exciting as Manchester, I’m sure. In fact, at any point if you get bored, as I imagine you will, we’ll end it and you can switch over and get the Manchester score.”

“Oh, I don’t plan on getting bored,” he teased.

“We’ll see. By the way, I have a condition, too.”

“Name it.”

“That I get to ask a question for every one I answer.”

He leaned back, thoughtfully. “Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Neither do I,” I said, with a bit less bravado. “Who’s up first, Depp or del Toro?”

* * *

The first three questions weren’t so bad. In fact, I’d say we both found them much more entertaining than the tapes. His questions to me were: (1) What did I like best about my childhood (my answer: growing up on the waterfront); (2) What were my first impressions of Los Angeles (that it was hectic, hot—the weather; and cold—in regard to the people); and (3) What would I be doing if I weren’t (in his words) babysitting him? (Planet hunting, full time!)

I thought his questions were quite thoughtful, so much so that I used them on him. At first, to avoid giving answers, he accused me of cheating, but I would have none of it.

“A deal is a deal, remember?” I reminded him.

With that he shrugged and gave in: His best childhood memories were “sneaking into flicks with me mates”; (2) When he first landed in L.A., he said, “I thought it was heaven: the sun, the palm trees, all the great-looking birds—”(a.k.a. the pretty young things who couldn’t resist him).

The third question—what would he have been doing if he hadn’t been an actor—wasn’t so easy for him to answer. Staring off into the clouds through one of the cabin’s windows, he muttered, “I’d probably be a lazy good-for-nothing tosser, like me old man.”

Acknowledging the pity I’m sure he read in my face, he shrugged and turned back to the television monitor. “How many more of these do we have to go?”