True Hollywood Lies (34 page)

In truth, our final destination was further than the town of Twentynine Palms—renowned as the home of the largest Marine Corps base in the country—and even beyond Desert Hot Springs, a resort built around a natural underground river, the hot mineral water flows out of the earth at a scalding 207 degrees.

In fact, we were going even further out than Pioneertown, a remote movie set built in the 1940s to accommodate the number of Westerns Hollywood was shooting at the time, including anything starring Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, the Cisco Kid and Roy Rogers. As we drove by this tribute to the Old West, I thought it was appropriate that we’d be only a few miles from the site of many a Hollywood shoot-out, since Louis and I would also be facing down the demons that were killing our relationship.

I pointed to a dirt road that ran adjacent to the entrance to the mystical 800,000-acre Joshua Tree State Park. We turned into it, and within two miles we came to a gate that I opened via remote control.

We had arrived at our destination: “
Le
Shack,” Leo’s “high desert adobe castle.” At least, that was how it was being described in the eight-page, four-color brochure put out by the realtor who now had the listing.

Although the 28-acre property had been put up on the market when Leo’s estate had finally been settled, its $8.2 million price tag, coupled with the fact that it was forty minutes beyond the tonier gated enclaves within Palm Springs’s city limits, was making it a hard sell.

It was for that very reason that Sybilla had never used it. So, thank goodness, it was free of any of her negative karma.

The house itself was one of those 6,000-square-foot midcentury modern monstrosities: white-on-white and angular, with a flat roof, a huge wraparound verandah that separated a massive salon and master bedroom from two additional guest suites, and an oasis of a playground that included a fire pit, tennis courts, its very own nine-hole golf course, and a 70-foot infinity pool that butted out over the mesa on which the estate sat.

Some of my most treasured childhood memories had been formed when I’d visited Leo there: he had taught me how to swim in that pool and, roaming through the scrub brush that surrounded the outskirts of the property, I’d caught a whole menagerie of lizards, on which I’d then bestowed ridiculous nicknames like Esther, Horatio, and Geraldine.

And it was there that, under the cool, cloudless canopy of night, I’d taught myself the names and origins of various stars.

Here I was, once again, focusing on one star in particular:
Louis.

Getting him to join me for a mini-holiday at
Le
Shack really hadn’t been all that difficult. For Louis, the Oscar nomination had created an emotional pendulum, weighted on one side by euphoria and on the other by unfounded insecurities. Out in the desert, a hundred miles away from Los Angeles, we’d be trading in a very frenzied Team Louis, the stalkarazzi, and the media’s pre-Oscar infogasm for leisurely games of golf, interspersed with sunbathing and exhilarating swims, followed by poolside massages that (I assured him) would inevitably culminate in some passionately unbridled lovemaking.

I had left strict orders with Jeremy not to call us, for any reason whatsoever.

Then I left my cell phone behind, to ensure that he couldn’t break this one and only rule.

I’d sworn to myself that sometime within the thirty-six precious hours we’d spend here at
Le
Shack, Louis and I would recapture the attraction we’d felt for each other that afternoon in Soho. And while these few precious hours certainly couldn’t rival Oregon, where we’d first professed our love to each other and lived without secrets and lies, I had all the confidence in the world that it just
might
allow us to rediscover why we’d loved each other in the first place.

As we followed the sentry of palm trees to the portiere that fronted the frosted glass double-door entrance of the house, I saw Louis give an imperceptible nod of approval. The realtor, having fully comprehended the added advantage of being able to say “Louis Trollope slept here” had followed my directions to a tee in readying the house. A bottle of Château Lynch-Bages 2000 Pauillac had been brought up from the wine cellar and uncorked. A tin of caviar rested on a bed of ice, beside a platter with a sliced loaf of fresh-baked Tassajara bread, and organic fruit. Vases holding fragrant flowers were strewn about the sunken living room, which was adorned with classic Eames chairs, Le Corbusier sofas, and curtainless floor-to-ceiling windows that boasted breathtaking panoramic valley views.

Entranced, Louis walked out onto the patio to the pool’s edge, breathed deeply, then moved on through the doors leading into the master suite, where the slow-moving overhead fan nudged the early afternoon breeze over the large kingsize bed. Its white chenille duvet was already turned down, and its smooth, lavender-scented sheets called out to be rumpled in the heat of passion.

“You’ve thought of everything,” he said finally.

“I hope so.” I jumped on the bed, pulling him down onto it with me.

He needed no other invitation.

We undressed each other, slowly at first, then furtively, as if we would burst if we couldn’t feel each other’s skin beside our own.

As if we’d die if we couldn’t consume each other: body, mind and soul.

The first orgasm, a magnificent, spontaneous combustion, was followed by a mutual and exacting exploration of each other’s longings and desires. Tentative and oh so tender at first, our love play grew hungrier as the afternoon shadows grew longer, finally voraciously raging into a wet, throbbing passion that left us both weak as we collapsed side by side.

Afterward, neither of us could speak. When he finally caught his breath, Louis murmured, “I’ve missed you.”

A tear rolled down my face. I sobbed then answered, “I missed you, too.”

We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

When we awoke, the sun had already fallen beneath the horizon, and the evening desert chill had settled in. We tossed on some robes, grabbed the wine and caviar platter and headed out to the pool.

“I’m a cruel sod, aren’t I?” Louis stared off into the shadowed hills, but by the huskiness of his voice, I knew his thoughts were with me, not out there, or even back in L.A.

“Thoughtless perhaps. Yeah, okay, and cruel. No doubt about it, you are both.” I put my arms around him.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you, eh?” A crooked smile pierced his lips.

“Yes, I was duly warned.” I turned to face him. “I guess I know the score.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Because having to break in a new girlfriend every few months is a pain in the arse.”

“Boo hoo hoo. I feel so sorry for you.” I took off my robe and dove into the pool. By the time I resurfaced, he had joined me. We kissed underwater. Then, gasping for air, we came up once more.

He jumped out first. “Bollocks!” Scalded by the hot Mexican pavers that encircled the pool, he reached for his robe before offering me his hand. Pulling me up beside him, he held the robe open so that I could share its warmth.
His
warmth.

We sat together in a cabana chaise as Venus appeared to join the moon in a celestial duet. Soon other less luminous objects in the evening sky surrounded them.

This starry promenade danced above our heads as we talked the whole night through.

I listened as he opened up: about his concerns over how poorly the Brownstein project was going; his fears that if it bombed it would irreparably damage his career; his realization that his reputation was fragile and that any destructive move might bring it down; and his inevitable qualms over whether that Oscar statuette was truly going to be his next Sunday night.

At dawn, I made him his favorite breakfast of bangers and mash. I no longer did Zone. That was Jeremy’s job now, and Jeremy wasn’t here.
Thank God.

And of course we made love again, as if nothing else mattered.

Not his past cruelties, insecurities, or infidelities.

Not my fears of abandonment, or my anger at his betrayals.

It was almost as if all was forgotten.

Perhaps even forgiven.

Afterward we just lay there in bed, his body spooning mine. Drifting off, I realized he was whispering something in my ear, but I didn’t catch it.

“What?” I asked. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I said, don’t go. Blow it off.”

I sighed and turned around to face him. “We’ve already gone through this. It’s important to me. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

His face was caught in the one shaft of early morning sunlight now seeping through the drapes. He stared at me blankly. Then it registered so clearly on that face of his that was like a moving canvas: Finally, for the first time since Louis had professed his love for me, he understood how there could be something just as important to me as him.

He would have to share me with the galaxy.

But he couldn’t.

In Louis’s mind, there should only be one star in my life.

Him
.

Then and there, realizing that this would never be the case, Louis sighed, shook his head sadly and turned his back toward me.

It was my turn to sigh.

* * *

All of Hollywood had Oscar fever, including me.

This time, I was organizing my own transformation from ugly duckling to swan. It would go something like this:

Oscar Blandi would come in to do my hair. He does not sport any tattoos, thank goodness. Any
visible
ones, anyway.

Diana Ayala would be there for my makeup. No nightingale droppings, thank you very much.

Ophelia would be nowhere near Louis’s place. In fact, if she showed up, I would order the now omnipresent guards to shoot on sight and ask questions later.

Despite being deluged by calls from every couture house on the planet begging me to take anything from their showrooms for my walk down the red carpet, I had already made up my mind about what I’d wear. This time, the ethereally elegant turquoise Axis of Evil gown would have its shot at stardom.

And despite any traumas Louis might incur prior to the event, I’d be wearing a smile on my face, too.

And yes, I
would
be by his side as he walked into the Kodak Theatre and into Oscar history.

Hey, not that I was adverse to
all
loaners: The House of Harry Winston had the perfect pair of aqua-hued sapphire-and-diamond earrings and a matching bracelet for my gown. In fact, now that my trust fund had been fully reinstated, I might even consider the bling worthy of a splurge after the big night.

* * *

On the day of the Azkaban dinner, Malcolm picked me up at two o’clock in the afternoon to take me to the airport.

Louis was home, but he stayed out by the pool all morning while I pulled together the few things I needed for my overnight stay. I knew he was still upset at my decision to leave, because he didn’t even get up to see me off when Malcolm rang the doorbell. I stood there for three or four minutes, hoping that he wouldn’t make this so hard on me, but he didn’t move. I couldn’t even tell if he saw me blow a kiss good-bye, because those stark turquoise eyes of his were shielded by his pitch black Ray-Bans.

I’m guessing he did.

* * *

The whole trip took less than twenty-four hours.

My name was called, and the tiny role I’d played in making Azkaban’s whereabouts known was lauded with hoops, hollers, and claps from a roomful of eggheads delirious over their newfound notoriety, an additional outpouring of grant funding, and too many bottles of Cristal. As I walked to the speaker’s podium to collect my plaque, all I could think about was the fact that no one I loved was here to celebrate this with me.

I wished Leo were still alive.

I wished Louis wasn’t so selfish.

I wished Mick was still in my life.

* * *

In the Hollywood you know, here’s how the love story ends:

As she steps off the plane, there he is, waiting for her, contritely, with a bouquet of roses in his arms and a lopsided grin on his face.

She smiles beatifically, runs into his arms, and kisses him longingly.

The camera pulls back, the shot fades to black, and the credits roll, validating what the audience has been conditioned to believe:

All endings are happy.

In the Hollywood I know, here’s how my love story ended:

My plane was met by Jeremy, not Louis.

And he was not carrying a bouquet of roses. He did, however, have a copy of Liz Smith’s column
in his hand,
which carried the item “Rebound! Louis and Tatiana Give It a Go, Again!” Next to it was a file photo of the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Louis feels it’s best that the two of you go your separate ways. He no longer feels that you are loyal to him, or that you even care about him and his career.”

Jeremy’s tone, albeit tinged with the right degree of sincerity, was stern enough to indicate that he would brook no form of emotional outbursts.

I was too stunned to emote, anyway.

Realizing this, Jeremy immediately launched into his canned spiel—something I was sure he’d have plenty of opportunity to practice in the future.

“Obviously by your current actions you no longer put Louis first in your life. While that hurts him deeply, he will weather this disappointment and move on with his life as best he can.”

He
was hurt deeply?
He
was disappointed?

He was moving on with his life . . .
without me?

“I took the liberty of packing your things and sending them to your Venice residence.”

As I stood there staring at the newspaper item, Jeremy scurried away as fast as he could.

This is where you learn that not all Hollywood endings are happy.

Which is why I had to grab my gear and get the hell out of Hollywood that very minute.

* * *

Despite being home to the sprawling Joshua tree, which derives its name through biblical reference, the thousands of square miles that comprise the Mojave Desert certainly is no promised land. Not only is there no Ritz Carlton in which to flop and order room service, but there isn’t even an EconoLodge in which to hang your hat—that is, unless your destination is Edwards Air Force Base Shuttle landing or the tourist-friendly Red Rock Canyon.