True Hollywood Lies (28 page)

Had I been making a fool of myself? Had I been kidding myself that Louis could love me, and just me alone?

According to Leo—who made a cameo in my dreams later that night—I was being hoodwinked.

“My God, Hannah, didn’t I teach you anything? This is the kind of guy who will always be tempted by other women.”

In my dream, Leo and I were sitting poolside at Lion’s Den. He was wrapped in one of the many pale blue plush bathrobes that were always found hanging in the cabana. For some strange reason, he was practicing his putting with my telescope. I found that even more irritating than his accusation.

“But I was there for him when he needed me most! We have that bond! Doesn’t that count for anything?” I shielded my eyes from the glow emanating from Leo.

“Maybe it did . . . once. A woman like you always brings out the best in guys like us, for a month or two, anyway. And, if we’re lucky, then maybe even a couple of years. But that’s a mighty big maybe. Look, sweetheart, I hate to break it to you this way, but unfortunately for men like Louis and me, the rest of whatever is happening in our lives brings out the worst in us.”

What he was saying sounded so familiar.
Where had I heard that before?

“Well, I think you’re wrong, Leo.”

Looking beyond the pool, he sited a spot somewhere out in the dreamy infinity, then took careful aim with the telescope.

“Hannah, honey, I know it would be easier to just go on believing whatever you’d like. I mean, most women do, God knows why. They hang in there under the assumption that the guy will change, or that they can reform him. Then they get upset when he doesn’t. And that gets them inconsolable, which makes them appear pathetic to us. Why, I remember once, when your mom caught me in bed with a waitress from Chasen’s, she was so upset that she had me exorcised by an Incan shaman. Talk about desperation!”

“But he told me he loved me! Now you’re telling me that it’s already over between us? So, what am I supposed to do, just walk away?”

“Before I answer that, let me ask you this: why are you in this relationship in the first place? Is it because you truly love him and want to save him from himself? Or are you trying to make up for not having been able to save
me
?”

That caused me to tear up. “Sure, I’ll admit it: I will always regret the fact that I couldn’t have done more for you. As for loving Louis, well of course I love him. And yes, I feel I can save him. I’d be a fool not to try.”

“Darling, if that’s the case, then let me be the first to tell you that you are more the fool if that’s what you believe. Because you can’t. No way, no how. Only Louis can save Louis.”

That said, Leo busied himself with setting up his next shot.

This was it? This was his sage advice? Here I was, desperate for his help, for his insider’s tips on how to get Louis to love me forever—and all he could do was tell me that I was wasting my time?

So then why had he shown up in my dream, anyway?

And, for that matter, why was he ruining my telescope?

“You know, Leo, I wish you wouldn’t do that! It’s not exactly a toy. It cost over four thousand dollars!”

He stopped mid-swing. “What do you care? You’ve quit using it, anyway.”

He had a point there.

I’m sure that’s why I woke up crying.

Chapter 15: Out of Orbit

Orbit: The path of one body around another due to
 the influence of gravity

“That is
sooo
smokin’, dontcha think?”

If anyone knew what was smokin’, it was certainly the seventeen-year-old behind the counter of that little hole-in-the-wall boutique on Melrose, what with her butterfly tattoos, sterling silver piercings, and wafer-thin body swathed in sheer chiffon over barely there denim.

The object of her admiration was the dress I was trying on: a simple floor-length aquamarine sheath held aloft by a chain of tiny smooth turquoise stones running from one shoulder and crisscrossing the gown’s open back.

It was definitely beautiful. And I should have known, since I’d spent the past two weeks going to fashion designers’ trunk shows and to personal appointments at their ateliers, to find just the right gown for the Golden Globes.

Was this the one? Because I would have to look perfect for Louis.
And for us.

I never wanted him to regret leaving the perfect Tatiana.
For me
.

“Who’s the designer?” I asked as I reached around the back and tried to read the tag upside down. “It says. . . Axis of Evil? That’s an odd name. Could that be right?”

“Dunno.
Could
be. Like, see, most of our designers are anarchists who work outside the typical capitalist system. They’d rather create just one beautiful perfect something, and not make a bundle off the backs of third world slave labor. That’s why stuff flies out of here so fast. You snooze, you lose.”

Having made a truly heartfelt political statement and perfect sales pitch, my little socialist shop girl went back to reading the latest by Dave Eggers.

I hesitated just a second before looking back into the mirror.

She was right. The gown was gorgeous.

In fact, in it, I
was
smokin’.

Besides, I could always hedge my bets with another gown. Or two. Or three.

I was finally beginning to enjoy the fringe benefits of dating a Hollywood heavyweight.

“I’ll take it,” I said, as my cell phone chirped. Carefully, so as not to tear the web-thin gossamer strand holding the bodice aloft, I rummaged in my purse until I found the culprit that was keeping the salesgirl from enjoying the darkness of Dave.

It was Freddy, calling to remind me that the Gang was getting together that evening at the Tower Bar, at the Sunset Tower Hotel, to celebrate Christy’s first day (or in this case, night) as an actress on a
bona fide
movie set—if you could call any endeavor involving Donnie Beaudry bona fide. True, the bar was a bit pricey. But because the restaurant had numerous celebrity investors, it was Christy’s contention that partaking in a White Russian and a Caesar salad at the trendy locale might bring her good luck.

Unfortunately, the date had somehow slipped my mind. I groaned so loud that the kid actually looked up from her book.

“Damn—damn it, Freddy! I… well, I just can’t be there tonight! I’m—gee, you see, I have something that I just can’t cancel.”

“Do tell.” Freddy sounded unperturbed, but I knew better.

He was upset that I was blowing them off.

Again.

“I know it may not sound so important, but I’ve got one last private trunk show to go to, for Dolce and Gabbana. I mean, I still haven’t made a final decision about what I’m going to wear to the Globes! I’m so sorry, but it will look really bad if I don’t show up there, after Monique cleared it and all. Please tell Christy I’m sorry, and that I’ll make it up to her somehow I promise.”

The shop girl snickered and shook her head. Whatever panache I had gained by recognizing true cutting-edge genius in this hovel on Melrose, I had lost through the mere mention of the couture team revered by arm charms everywhere.

“Oh, I’m
sure
you will make it up to her,” Freddy leered. “Your friendship is turning out to be priceless.”

Of course, Freddy’s jibe hurt. In his defense, though, since Louis and I had become an item, I had pulled a few no-shows on the Gang. And the few times I had made an appearance, I’d either come in too late to join in on the fun, or I’d had to leave early for some other event.

Granted, I had tried to make it up to Sandy, Freddy and Christy by bringing along some sort of a “forgive me” trinket or two. The last time I’d done this, Sandy had seemed somewhat upset with me.

“You don’t have to feel as if you have to buy our forgiveness with a consolation prize, Hannah,” she sniffed. “We’re your friends out of respect and love, not obligation.”

Now Freddy was questioning whether I felt the same way.

I wanted desperately for him to know that I did. “You know, Freddy, that hurt. I can’t feel any guiltier than I already do about this thing tonight! Okay? I mean, really! Do you think I enjoy all of this bullshit?”

“Since you’re asking my opinion, then, yes, Hannah, I do. So, why don’t you just admit it to yourself?”

I didn’t answer quickly, because he had a point. I
was
enjoying the attention, beyond how it tied me irrevocably to Louis. And I was enjoying it because finally, for the first time in my life, people were paying attention to
me
.

“Tell me the truth,” I asked quietly. “Am I a bad person for—well, for liking it?”

Silence.

Then he answered: “No, sweetums, you’re not. Any one of us would be totally Lady Gaga over all of that adoration. But if you let it consume you, if you become stupid over it, then you’ll become
one of
them
.”

“What do you mean? A celebrity?”

He laughed as only Freddy could: caustically, sympathetically, and soulfully all at once. “You wish! No, my dear sweet Hannah, celebrities have talent for something, even if it’s only for staying in the spotlight. You’d be something worse.”

“You mean—a
Sunset slurpee
?”

“There you go! By the way, how’s your supply of Altoids holding up?”

Without saying another word, I hung up the phone.

* * *

I was hurt when I read, in Ted Casablanca’s column in E! Online, that I was considered “that sublimely tarty Mr. Trollope’s delectable dragon lady. Studio wonks cringe when their assistants inform them that she’s on the line. Her demands, made ostensibly on Louis-poo’s behalf, are too outlandish even for the LaLa Land moguls who have seen and heard it all before. The most recent request, reflecting said bf’s Golden Globe nomination glow, was for the use of a movie studio’s private plane for a weekend jaunt over the pond—just in time to make Stella McCartney’s fashion show, in order to pick up that perfect Globe-worthy gown…”

Wrong!
That was so wrong! And I thought I had a good rapport with Ted! If he had called me directly, I would have told him that I already had my gown and that Louis had already been promised the jet in order to attend the London premiere of the
Rebecca
remake.

Louis was almost cavalier about my being raked over the coals.

“Love, you can’t go through life afraid to ruffle some feathers just because it might get you a few lines of negative ink.”

“That’s easy for you to say! I’m the one coming off like the bitch from hell, not you.”

“I thought you enjoyed running interference for me. Well, you can’t have it both ways: running my life
and
being liked for doing so by those who live to take advantage of me. And as my very public girlfriend, they can take potshots at you out in the open.”

As a concession, he brushed his cold lips on my forehead. “Look, darling, I can just imagine you’ve had a horrendous day. I hate those bullies at the studios, too. You know that! Which, my dearest, is why I truly do appreciate you holding firm on my request for the jet. And hell, with all the box office I’ve made for them, you’d think that they’d have put me on a larger jet, wouldn’t you?”

As he was walking out the door, he added breezily, “And, oh, by the way, don’t feel obligated to tag along. Bad timing, this premiere, coming just a few days before the Globes. You might as well stay and finalize your dress and all, right? In fact, why don’t you tag along with Ophelia? She knows the ins and outs for that kind of thing. Don’t worry, the studio will send someone from publicity to babysit me. Genevieve will fill them in on my routine.”

Not going with Louis meant that we would be apart for the first time since Oregon.

Not going with Louis meant that he didn’t want me along.

As for Louis’s routine: Did that mean he was back to having “massages” in his hotel room?

* * *

In the week prior to his departure to London, I lay sleepless beside Louis.

Sleeping meant visits from Leo, visits in which I was told what I didn’t want to hear:

That I was losing Louis.

Then again, staying awake meant fretting over how, why and when that would actually happen.

What had I done wrong? Why was Louis growing tired of me? Couldn’t I stop it from happening?

Or was it inevitable?

Mulling over these questions was why I couldn’t sleep. And why dark circles were forming under my eyes. And why I was losing weight.

Great for trying on gowns, bad for my self-esteem.

Up until the day Louis left, we were in a holding pattern: by day, I’d fight his battles with all the various forces within the town that pulled at him. At night, after we’d attend yet one more star-studded event, I’d battle my suspicions that he was leaving me, as well as my desire to fall asleep.

On the morning before Louis’s departure, he woke up to find me staring down at him.

“That’s some bloody look, love. You’re giving me the willies! Had a nightmare or something?”

“Or something,” I answered hollowly. “I dream about Leo now. All the time.”

“Damn!” He laughed. “So, now I’m sharing my bed with him, too?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Louis was no longer smiling. He ran his hand through his hair, yawned and stretched. The sheet fell to one side, revealing his omnipresent hard-on. He smiled as I glanced up. “Well now since we’re both up—”

“You have to be at Lion’s Gate in an hour. The Brownstein project, remember?”

“Damn! How did you let me get roped into that one?”

“You insisted, remember?” Since there had been—as Ethan had so eloquently put it—a hole in Louis’s schedule with
Mindbender
going to the wayside, Louis had chosen to fill it with something different. Independent. Edgy. And with a low enough budget—except for his salary, of course—to get it quickly greenlighted.

Besides, it sure beat hanging out on a deserted island with me.

“Saved by the bell, eh?” He rose up from the bed. “You’re beginning to look like a raccoon. Very unbecoming. I think you should see Dr. Manny.”