True Hollywood Lies (33 page)

“Is it? I thought my first priority is to be your girlfriend, remember?”

His eyes narrowed as the smile vanished.

“How can I forget? If
you
don’t remind me, some godforsaken magazine cover does.”

* * *

In the weeks leading up to the Azkaban banquet, neither of us would give in on our respective stances about attending. Still, we were civil to each other. In fact, for our performance as lovebirds while on the pre-Oscar party circuit, the Academy Awards should have awarded us a special statuette.

Alas, these very public displays of affection were inevitably offset by Louis’s less than discreet flirting.

Many times, sometimes even at the same event.

Like the time we were at a rooftop pool party at the Standard downtown, celebrating T’s latest release. Using the thickening crowd as cover, Louis disappeared into one of those lipstick red, cocoonlike waterbed cabanas with the most recent acquisition of T’s label. She was sultry-voiced, underage, and agile enough for her MTV video to be banned after one showing.

I took the elevator back to the lobby and called a cab.

Louis never came home that night.

On that memorable evening, I couldn’t fall asleep. I just cried uncontrollably until dawn. When he finally walked through the door claiming that he’d fallen asleep in his studio bungalow but smelling of a fragrance more pungent than my own signature scent, I called him a liar, threw something expensive and irreplaceable, and locked him out of the bedroom.

That was all the excuse he needed to stay away a second night. Before a third rolled around, our negotiator, Jeremy, secured from me a solemn promise that I would, as he so delicately put it, “act somewhat humane in Louis’s presence.”

Act somewhat humane?

How could I do that if Louis never let me feel human in his presence in the first place?

With my sullen permission, Louis moved back into the bedroom, but we were still as emotionally distant to each other as two wooden horses on the same merry-go-round: We might be moving in the same direction, but we always kept our distance, and we certainly never touched.

Unless it was for sex.

A dispassionate if-not-for-this-than-why-is-this-relationship-worth-the-hassle kind of sex.

Ironically, we weren’t the only ones who were questioning whether it was. Later that week, the Page Six column
in the
New York Post
predicted “Trouble in the Tropic of Trollope.”

* * *

When the call came in from Freddy asking me to join him and the rest of the Gang over at Simone’s Beverly Hills mansion for cocktails, believe me, I was out the door as fast as my legs could carry me. By now I welcomed any excuse to get away from the sense of dread that hung over Louis’s estate. The way we politely ignored each other when occupying the same room, we might as well have been two ghosts whose only connection was that we were sharing the same haunt.

Not that Simone’s place wasn’t any less otherworldly, thanks to its décor: retro Eames, intermixed with some original French Provincial sideboards and settees, the total effect of which created an ambiance worthy of
Peyton Place
. And Freddy, decked out in a smoking jacket and ascot and shaking up martinis, looked right at home.

“Here, have an hors d’oeuvre,” said Sandy, motioning to a butler who held a platter laden with such delicacies as steamed pot stickers, Dungeness crab cakes, Polynesian chicken skewered with pineapple, and shitake mushroom puffs.

“Butlers? Hors d’oeuvres?
Ascots?
Wow! What’s the occasion?”

“Got me beat. For once in his life, Freddy is actually being discreet.” She gulped down her martini and grabbed another off the butler’s tray before popping a crab cake into her mouth. When a crumb escaped her, it was immediately sucked up by the ever-watchful Bette, who hovered at our feet for just such an occasion.

Just then Christy walked through the door, breathless and excited. “So sorry I’m late, but hey, gang, it was worth it!” Her eyes glowed brightly. “My acting teacher kept me after class. He says that I’ve got real potential! In fact, he’s offered to coach me in private sessions!”

Freddy sighed heavily. “Girl, we need to keep you on a
very
short leash. Haven’t you learned anything by now?”

It had been a long time since we’d heard Christy’s sweet giggle, but there it was, fully restored in the echo of her most recent conquest. “That’s just the point, Freddy. I
am
learning. And just think what I’ll know when I get through with
him
. For free!”

No, Christy
, I thought,
there is
always
a price to pay for the most important lessons we learn in life.

By the looks on both Sandy’s and Freddy’s faces, they were thinking similar thoughts, but they said nothing—which was unusual for Freddy. Had he suddenly realized that discretion was indeed the better part of valor? Hardly. He was just antsy to get the ball rolling, which he did by waving the butler away, and closing the door behind him.

“Well, my graceful girlfriends, I’m sure we’ll hear more of that saga as it plays itself out. In the meantime, I have good news, too. And I’m glad you all were able to take a few minutes out of your very busy days in order to celebrate it with me.”

“Enough already, Freddy!” sighed Sandy, her mouth filled with a mushroom puff. “If you don’t get to the bottom of all of this, I’m going to burst!”

“Now, now, we can’t have you regurgitating those fine vittles all over this antique Persian carpet”—he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then continued—“because, as the executive director of the Bette Cavanaugh Humane Foundation, I’d have to get the butler in here to clean it up before Bette decided to make it her dessert.”

“A foundation? For—for the dog?” Like the rest of us, Sandy was flabbergasted.

“You got it. According to what I heard this morning at the reading of Miss Simone’s will, li’l Ms. Mutt there is as rich as Croesus.”

“Rich? But I don’t get it.” I had to sit down. Gingerly, I found my way onto one of the many gilded Louis XVI chairs scattered about the room. “I never heard of anyone who was tighter with a dollar than Simone.”

“You can say that again!” Christy echoed.

Freddy nodded. “No argument there. Apparently that old diva saved practically every dollar she ever made since the Second World War—and then put it in little things like telecommunications, banking and Microsoft stocks. Who knew, right?”

Christy blinked twice. “Let me get this straight. All of that money now goes to
the dog?”

“You betcha. And as the executive director of Bette’s foundation, I’ll be in charge of making sure that Bette is kept in the style to which she has never had the luxury of being accustomed. It’s about time, too, eh, baby?”

He scooped up Bette in one hand and scratched her under her chin with the other.

“Besides making sure she lives high on the hog for the rest of her life, I’ll be administering to the foundation’s other mission, which is making sure that five percent of its interest, compounded annually, is distributed to animal shelters and sanctuaries in need—
and
collecting a six-figure salary for all my time and trouble. Pretty nifty, huh?”

I smiled. “Yeah, I’ll say. But, Freddy, that dog isn’t going to live forever. What happens after she, uh, joins Simone in the grand hereafter?”

“Miss Simone thought of everything. My gig is for life, or as long as I want it. And who wouldn’t?” He winked. “After fifteen years with her, I guess I proved I could be just as resourceful as she was. And I certainly do love this little dog. This was her way of taking care of both of us.”

Christy was still confused. “But, if that’s the case, why put it in the mutt’s name in the first place? Why not just leave it to you outright?”

“Who cares, honey? Heck, my diva might not have shown it while she walked among the living, but in her own way, she loved me. And she certainly recognized love and devotion when she saw it, too. Maybe she was worried that whatever was left of her adoring public wouldn’t understand what she shared with a prissy black man with a little stardust in his eyes. But I’m certainly not one to look a gift corpse in the mouth.”

Christy and I both laughed, but Sandy didn’t. As Christy proposed that we raise our glasses one last time in honor of Simone, two large tears rolled down Sandy’s cheeks, not out of fondness for Freddy’s dearly beloved boss but for something she was now too obviously holding inside.

I caught Freddy’s eye and motioned with my head for him to find some reason to keep Christy busy. The ever-astute Freddy knew what would fit the bill. “Hey, how about a tour of all forty-eight rooms in this hovel?” That was catnip to Christy. Off they went.

Once they were out of earshot, I took Sandy’s hands in mine and moved her to the silk settee in front of the salon’s blazing fireplace. We sat there silently for what seemed like forever, just listening to the fire crackle and pop, until she was ready to speak. Finally, gulping back her anguish along with another mushroom puff, she began.

“Rex got passed over for that Grazer project.” As she dusted her hands of crumbs, Bette pranced at her feet. “But that’s okay. He’s been asked to star in the newest
Law & Order
series.” She emptied her glass again.

We both knew that TV was a step down for Rex’s career. “Is he going to take it?”

“He’ll have to,” she said sadly, “now that he’s got a family to support.”

“
What?”
To Bette’s immense pleasure, the pot sticker I was holding fell to the floor.

Yep, you heard it here first—although I anticipate it will be all over town in twenty-four hours. Rex married his agent’s assistant last night.” Her knees buckled, perhaps the consequence of her overwrought emotions, but I had a feeling that her tipsiness was vodka-induced. I gently grabbed her arm to steady her.

“Is that . . . a
woman
?”

“Not just ‘a’ woman. A very, very pregnant woman.”

“Jeez.” Now I’d heard it all. “He’s—
the father
?”

“Get real.” Sandy’s blinders had finally come off, but by the way she grabbed another skewer off the butler’s tray, I was worried that the pounds would start going on in their place. Not that I could blame her for binging through her pain.

“It’s a marriage of convenience. The baby’s father is Rex’s
very
married agent, who will
never
leave his wife, and the assistant—the mother of his child—says that she’ll never have an abortion. Religious reasons.” She stuffed a pineapple cube in her mouth and licked her finger. “But her religion doesn’t forbid her from marrying a gay movie actor who desperately needs a beard.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “The agent paid for their wedding and honeymoon. In fact, his unsuspecting wife planned the whole thing herself! Go figure. And because he’s forever indebted to Rex for getting him out of a jam, he’s making sure that Rex comes up for anything and everything. Can’t allow the bastard to starve, now can he? By that I mean the baby . . . which is how Rex landed the TV gig. I guess it’s a win-win for everyone—except for me.
I’m
out of a job.”

“What? Why? You’re everything to Rex!”

“Not quite everything.” She tossed her skewer into an antique urn.
Bull’s eye.

“Seems that Rex’s boyfriend—you remember, the wannabe actor?—well, he’s got some talents that I obviously can’t measure up to. And since the agent wrote in an assistant’s salary in Rex’s TV contract, Rex has asked me to ‘retire’ so that he can put Pretty Boy on the payroll without raising too many eyebrows.”

“And you’re going to just walk away from a job you’ve done for the past nine years? That just seems so unfair, so cruel!”

Sandy nodded. “Particularly since I . . . ” she paused to clear the catch in her throat—“
I still love him
.”

Even after all that.

On the way home, I thought about how Louis and I had lost our perspective, and how it was affecting our love for each other. I thought about how wonderful we had been together in Oregon, where we had shared trust, and passion and the kind of secrets you only tell the person you love with all your heart.

I’d seen Louis at his worst, and I loved him anyway.

Even when he lied to me.

I’d always believed that he could be a good person—a
wonderful
person—if only he’d realize that he didn’t have to lie in order to be loved.

He didn’t understand that now, and certainly not here in Hollywood, where lies were the currency for success—at least, for those without talent.

But Louis
had
talent, which was why
he didn’t need the lies.

I could convince him of that.

Of course, it would be easier if we were alone, just the two of us. Perhaps under a cloudless night sky, just like we’d had in Oregon.

Most definitely, we had to work things out as soon as possible.

We had to do it
now.

And I knew just the place.

* * *

“We’re in the bloody desert, Hannah!”

“Yes, darling, I know we are. It’s Palm Springs, remember?” The two ends of the Emilio Pucci scarf I had tied around my head whipped across my lips as I turned to face him.

“But Palm Springs is back there. We just passed the turnoff. This looks like the middle of nowhere.” Louis’s words were lost to the wind as the Ferrari zipped off Interstate 10, and, at my behest, up the more desolate Route 62. He was staring straight ahead, trying to get a handle on how the chalky earth, scattered prickly cacti and errant tumbleweeds translated into velvety verdant golf courses, stately Royal palm trees, and undulating kidney-shaped pools with mirrored surfaces that perfectly mimicked the endless clear azure sky above.

“Seems that way, doesn’t it? But don’t worry. Where we’re going is a little out of the way, but it’s still close enough to go into town.—
if
that’s what you want to do. I’m guessing you’ll be happy to just stay put.” I gave him a big smile, which left him even more perplexed.