BLAME IT ON THE FAME
Genre: “Chick Lit”
by
Tracie Banister
Published by Tracie Banister
Cover Art by Zerkind Veyron
Copyright 2012 Tracie Banister
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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To my mother, for always believing in me.
To all of the amazing women in my life,
who inspire, encourage, empower, and
support me each and every day.
Table of Contents
A group of reporters, cameramen, and photographers jostled for position on the front steps of a sprawling hacienda-style house while two blue-coated security guards glowered down at them from their post by a pair of large doors made from thick planks of wood that were held together by iron braces and clavos. When the doors swung open, the press sprang into action, turning on cameras to film, snapping digital photos in quick succession, and shouting questions at the house’s inhabitants as they emerged.
“I guess I wasn’t the only one who got up early this morning. It’s nice to see all of you.” A slim young woman, wearing a Juicy tracksuit in baby blue, greeted the crowd warmly. She was pretty in a natural, unaffected way with big, dark eyes and a heart-shaped face that was devoid of make-up except for some mascara and peach lip gloss. In her arms, she held a thumbsucking toddler who had hair the same reddish-gold color as hers. The child’s older sister clung to the denim-clad leg of their father, a tall, handsome blond who still looked like the teen lifeguard he’d played on TV almost a decade ago.
“Danielle! How does it feel to be nominated for an Oscar again?”
With a modest smile, she replied, “It’s surreal. I’m just a girl from Kansas after all. I never expected to achieve the level of success I have here in Hollywood. And to be nominated for such a prestigious award two years in a row . . . well . . .” She was so overcome with emotion that she had to pause to compose herself.
“We’re all very proud of her,” said her husband, placing an arm around her shoulders and giving her an affectionate squeeze.
“Logan, what did you think when Danielle decided to do Lucrezia? Were you shocked that she wanted to take on a role so far removed from anything she’d done before?”
“She couldn’t be the Queen of Weepies forever, could she?” he parried with a chuckle.
“Logan knew that I was ready to stretch myself as an actor, and he encouraged me to take a risk on this role. I’m blessed to have such a supportive husband.” She gazed up at him adoringly.
“What do you think your chances are of taking home the gold statue this year?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” Danielle was temporarily distracted when her daughter started to squirm and make fussing noises. Rubbing the child’s back, she continued, “The other women in my category are such talented actresses, and they all gave brilliant performances. I think each of them is deserving and I’m just honored to be in their company.”
“Danielle, how difficult was it for you to play—”
“Which designer will you—”
“What’s your next—”
Holding up a hand to stop the barrage of inquiries, she said, “I appreciate everyone’s interest and I’d love to answer all your questions, but I’m afraid I have two little ones who are late for their breakfast.”
“Pop-Tarts!” shrieked four-year old Sierra. Releasing her grip on Logan’s leg, she began to jump up and down excitedly.
Danielle chortled and pulled the girl close to her. “I’m sure we can come up with something more nutritious than that. Thank you all for coming.” She waved goodbye to the press, and her children mimicked the motion.
“Congratulations, Danielle!”
“We’re rooting for you!”
The Jamison/Rafferty clan slowly backed up to the entrance of their house, smiling and waving all the way, looking like the perfect, all-American family. Their housekeeper, Yolanda, opened the door just long enough for them to step into the foyer, then closed it before prying eyes could make note of what type of tile the celebrity couple had in their foyer.
“Ugh!” Danielle crinkled her nose with disgust and shoved Savannah into the arms of the waiting nanny. “She took a big, stinky dump right in the middle of my photo op. It was all I could do not to gag.”
“Sorry,” the nanny apologized meekly.
“You should be. That child should be potty-trained by now. She’s almost 3 for Christ’s sake.”
“She won’t be 3 for another 6 months,” interjected Logan.
“Whatever. Sierra, let go of my leg.” She attempted to shake the child off. “You’re a big girl now; you need to stop being so damn clingy.”
“You said we were gonna have breakfast,” the tow-headed girl whined.
Danielle exhaled loudly with irritation. “Yolanda, take her to the kitchen and tell Cook to make her some oatmeal.”
Sierra stomped her foot petulantly. “I don’t want oatmeal!”
“We can put raisins in it.” Logan tried to placate her.
“I hate raisins! I want Fruity Pebbles!”
Danielle bent down so that she was nose-to-nose with her obstinate daughter. “Sierra, this is a very special day for Mommy and I’ve got better things to do than deal with one of your temper tantrums. So, stop being such a mouthy, little brat and EAT THE GODDAMN OATMEAL!”
Stunned into submission by her mother’s shouted order, Sierra allowed Yolanda to take her by the hand and lead her off to the kitchen.
“Oh, and Yolanda.” Danielle stopped her servant. “If I find out that you, or anyone else in this house, fed Sierra something sugary for breakfast, I will fire you and send you packing without a reference. The last thing I need around here is a hyperactive child.”
“Si, señora.”
Logan sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t yell at the kids,” he said when he was sure Sierra was out of earshot.
“Yeah, well, I wish you’d get a job so that I wasn’t solely responsible for supporting our family and this household, but I guess we’re both shit out of luck.” Brushing past her husband, Danielle walked into their spacious living room, which looked out onto a gorgeous flower-and-greenery-filled courtyard with a bubbling fountain in its center.
Her husband was right on her heels. “You know my agent’s got feelers out.”
“Yeah, he’s had feelers out since Doheny Bay got cancelled. I’ve done seven movies since then, and you’ve done what? Two Japanese beer commercials and some lame-ass comedy with Seann William Scott?”
“Those residuals checks from Doheny Bay help out.”
“$1500 a month? Woohoo! Call the Lamborghini dealership! I get the same checks, plus 8 million a picture.”
The phone rang, but both of them ignored it, knowing that Yolanda would pick up.
“Do you think I like being out of work, going on endless auditions and getting rejected over and over again? I’d love to have your success, but I haven’t gotten the same breaks—”
“Breaks?” she scoffed. “You make your own breaks in this business. They aren’t handed to you on a silver platter. I’ve worked my ass off to get where I . . . yes, Yolanda, what is it?” she queried with annoyance when she saw their housekeeper lurking at the entryway to the room.
“Your publicist is on the teléfono.”
“Take a message,” Logan instructed.
“Please, like this conversation is more important.” Turning her back on him, Danielle moved over to the cordless phone sitting on the glass table behind the largest of the overstuffed cream couches that decorated the room, then picked up its receiver and pressed TALK.
“What’ve you got for me, Sandra?”
“All the talk shows want you when you’re in New York this week and next. I’ve got you scheduled on GMA and Live! With Kelly on Friday, then Today and Letterman on Monday. How do you feel about cooking lamb with Martha Stewart on Tuesday?”
“Forget it. I can’t cook and if people see me fumbling around in the kitchen, that’ll ruin my image as Wife and Mother of the Year.”
“Okay, scratch Martha. GLADD has invited you to a luncheon honoring Rosie O’Donnell on Friday, but we’ll have to say ‘no’ since you’re already committed to making an appearance at a Kids with Leukemia fundraiser.”
“Are you insane? How many kids with leukemia are members of the Academy? If I want to win this thing, and you know I do, then I need to be courting the gay vote, not wasting my time on sick rugrats. Tell GLADD I’ll be there.”
“What about—”
The theme song from Doheny Bay started to play. Danielle snapped her fingers at Logan and pointed towards the foyer, where she’d left her cell phone sitting next to her purse. Dutifully, he went to fetch it.
When he came back into the room a few minutes later, Danielle was saying, “I want as many magazine covers as I can get in the next month. I need to get my face out there so that no one forgets about me or the movie when those Oscar ballots are mailed out.”
“Who is it?” She indicated the cell phone Logan was carrying.
“It’s Max about the Ron Howard movie. He says it’s important.”
“Sandra, hold on.” Extending her arm towards Logan, she wiggled her fingers impatiently until he placed the cell in the palm of her hand.
“Talk to me, Max. Do we have an offer?”
“It came in less than an hour after the nominations were announced this morning.”
“How much?”
“8 million.”
“8 million?” She was incredulous. “That’s bullshit!”
“That’s your asking price.”
“It was my asking price. I’m a two-time Academy Award nominee now.”
“And if you win the Oscar this year, we can ask for more on your next project.”
“If?” Her voice had an edge.
“When, I meant when, sweetheart. We all know you’re a shoo-in.”
“You’re damn right I’m a shoo-in. Look at my competition — a has-been, a skanky ex-model, a press-shy indie queen, and some British stage actress no one knows. That Oscar is MINE. They might as well go ahead and engrave my name on it right now.”
“I love your confidence, doll. I really do,” he assured her. “But it’s dangerous to count your chickens before they hatch, and we don’t want to piss off Howard or the producers of this film by declining their generous offer.”
“We’re not declining; we’re negotiating. Isn’t that what I pay you 10% to do?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No ‘buts,’ Max. I want 10 million. Make it happen.” She hung up on her agent and tossed the phone back to Logan.
“Sorry, Sandra. What were you saying about Entertainment Weekly? Urrrgh,” she groaned. “The other line’s beeping. Hold on.”
“Hello?”
“Billy Bush calling from Access Hollywood for Danielle Jamison,” a female voice announced.
“Well, isn’t that nice? Put him through.”
“Billy Bush,” Danielle mouthed the words to Logan and pointed at the phone receiver. She heard a click as the line was picked up on the other end.
“How’s this year’s most beautiful potential Oscar winner doing?”
“Billy, you sweet talker,” she cooed. “What can I do for you? Would you like a quote for that little show of yours?”
“A quote would be nice, but seeing as how you’re the favorite in the Best Actress race, an exclusive sit-down interview would be even better. How ‘bout I swing by your place in a couple of hours with a camera crew?”
Somewhere in the front of the house, there was a loud, crashing noise followed by the banshee-like wailing of a child. Danielle flinched and gritted her porcelain veneers.
“Billy, would you mind holding on a minute?” she queried in dulcet tones. Upon receiving an affirmative reply, she pushed the MUTE button on the phone.
Glaring at her husband, Danielle commanded, “Find that little monster and lock her in her room. No TV, no toys . . . no mercy. I’m tired of her acting out, and I will NOT let her spoil this for me.”
“But—”
“Do it,” she hissed.
Logan trudged off, looking miserable.
Taking the phone off MUTE, Danielle said sweetly, “Billy, I am so sorry. The girls and I are baking cookies, and I thought I smelled something burning. Why don’t you come by around eleven and I’ll save you some snickerdoodles?”
Chapter 2
Standing in the middle of a bare stage with dog-eared scripts in hand, two actors ran lines from a climactic scene in the play they were rehearsing. As the dialogue built to a passionate crescendo, the man grabbed the woman forcefully by the arms and—
“No, no, stop!” shouted a voice from the fifth row of the venerable Almeida Theatre.
The performers froze in position, awaiting instructions from their director, a bohemian-looking fellow with a soul patch and a Burberry scarf wrapped around his neck, who leapt from his seat and bounded up the stairs at stage left.
“Okay, Jeremy.” Clasping his hands together, the director placed his index fingers against his lips and gazed contemplatively at the actor for a moment before continuing, “I know you were just following the flow of emotion there, but I don’t think Torvald would become physically violent with Nora. He might be angry, he might bluster and be verbally abusive, but he has too much self-control to take his rage to the next level.”
Nodding his head in agreement, the actor dropped his hands to his sides.
“Philippa,” the director addressed his leading lady, a fair-skinned brunette whose classically beautiful profile looked like it belonged on a cameo. “I liked what you were doing with Nora’s quiet desperation morphing into steely resolve, just don’t be too passive when Jeremy starts ranting and raving.”
“I should move around the stage a bit more then,” she said in a crisp English accent that revealed her upper-crust pedigree.
“Maybe turn my back on Torvald here,” she indicated a passage in the script, “as a symbolic gesture to show that I’m turning my back on his antiquated views of marriage and how a wife should behave?”
“Good. Yes, we’ll try that, but let’s take a fag break first, shall we? We can meet back here in a half-hour.”
The threesome dispersed with the men heading to the nearest exit so that they could get their nicotine fix in the alley behind the theatre. As Philippa didn’t smoke, she retired to the solitude of her dressing room, where she prepared a hot cup of Earl Grey with a squeeze of lemon. After taking a few satisfying sips, she curled up on the brocade-covered couch that was tucked into the corner of the room and grabbed the pencil she had stuck behind her ear earlier. She then proceeded to make notes in the margins of her script, carefully writing down every fresh insight into her character and the playwright’s words that she’d gained from the day’s rehearsal. So deeply engrossed in her creative process was she that Philippa didn’t even notice when Hannah, the Wardrobe Mistress, bustled in through the half-open door of her dressing room, carrying several just-basted period dresses, nor did she hear her mobile phone when it began to ring.
“Are you going to get that?” wondered Hannah.
Philippa looked up. “Pardon?”
“Your phone.” The other woman scooped up the mobile, which was hiding behind a large can of hairspray on the vanity table, and handed it to her.
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Philippa checked the caller ID and saw that it was her agent. “Hello, Nigel,” she answered.
“Are you sitting down?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve got some very big news for you.”
“I’m listening . . .”
“Philippa Sutcliffe, star of stage, screen, and television, it is my honor and privilege to inform you that you’ve been nominated for an Academy Award.”
“Hmmmm, you don’t say,” she remarked distractedly. “Hannah, would you be a love and hand me that packet of crisps sticking out of my purse? I am famished all of a sudden. I shouldn’t have skipped lunch.”
“Crisps?!?” Nigel was incredulous. “I tell you that you’ve been nominated for an Oscar for the first time in your career, and you’re more interested in snack foods?”
She ripped open her bag of Cheddar & Red Onion Chutney-flavored potato chips before responding, “You know how I feel about awards, Nigel, especially the Oscars. Who wins them is based more on popularity and studio politics than talent. Look at all the brilliant British actors who’ve never even been nominated for an Academy Award, much less won one . . . Charlotte Rampling, Michael Sheen, Gary Oldman, Derek Jacobi, Alan Rickman for heaven’s sake.”
“Well, now you don’t have to worry about being on that list of people who were snubbed.”
“I suppose, but it’s not like I stand a chance of winning. I’m not that well-known in America.” She bit down daintily on the edge of a crisp.
“Whether you win or not, this nomination will raise your profile in the States and open up doors for you, plus it will give The Brownings more press, which will lead to an even bigger box office take. The studio is thrilled that the film received four nods from the Academy.”
“Four?” She perked up. “Did Oliver get one?”
“Yes, he’s a nominee in the Best Director category, and the film is up for Best Picture.”
“Rightly so. It was an amazing film that stood head and shoulders above all the other rubbish the big studios released last year.” Needing to wash the salty taste out of her mouth, she reached for her tea. “What was the fourth nomination for? Costume Design? Cinematography? Daniel really does deserve accolades for the way he shot The Brownings. The Italian countryside’s never looked so gorgeous.”
“No nomination for Daniel I’m afraid.”
Swallowing a sip of her now-lukewarm tea, she murmured, “That’s a shame. It must have been the Score then. Lily’s music was so stirring, so full of emotion and—”
“It was Miles,” Nigel interrupted. “He was nominated for Best Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role.”
Hearing the name of her co-star and former lover made Philippa’s hands tremble violently, whether this reaction was caused by anger, distress, or God forbid, latent desire, she had no clue. She only knew that she hated the effect Miles McCrea had on her, even in absentia.
“Philippa, are you still there?”
Purposefully, she set her rattling tea cup down on the table in front of her. “I’m here. I was just momentarily dumbfounded.”
“Despite your differences with Miles, you can’t deny that he was quite good in The Brownings. He showed a range no one thought he was capable of.”
“True enough,” she acceded, “and if the Academy wants to acknowledge him for that, then so be it. I was just a bit surprised since he was overlooked by the BAFTAs.”
“Perhaps, but he just won the Golden Globe.”
“Did he?” she feigned ignorance. There was no need to tell Nigel that she’d stayed up half the night watching the program while sitting on the floor of her living room in her flannel pyjamas with a bowl of burnt popcorn between her legs. Not because she was hoping to catch a glimpse of Miles (He’d been outfitted in a custom-made Armani tux that had made him look quite dashing and Bond-like, and his wavy, black hair, which had been a bit too long and wild-looking the last time she’d seen him, was now cropped close to his head.), but because she was curious to see who won the Leading Actress in a Drama award.
When Miles’ name had been announced as the winner in his category, Philippa had almost choked on a kernel of popcorn. He’d accepted his trophy with a rakish smile and a witty, off-the-cuff speech that had made the hard-to-impress audience chuckle with delight. After thanking the director, the producers, the crew, Nigel, his mother, his personal assistant, his dog-walker, and his stylist, he’d started to back away from the podium. Only then had it occurred to him that he’d left one very important name off his thank-you list. Grabbing the microphone, he’d quickly said, “I share this award with my better half in the movie. I couldn’t have done it without you, Phil!” as the orchestra had played him off-stage. Two weeks later and it still galled her that she’d been a bloody afterthought who’d ranked lower in his estimation than the girl who picked up his Basset Hound’s poo.
“Yes, and a lot of industry insiders think that the Globes are a bellwether of the Academy Awards, so Miles is a frontrunner now. The studio wants to take advantage of all the Oscar buzz about The Brownings, so they’re going to open the film in more theatres both here and in the States next week.”
“From arthouse to multiplex; it’s a Cinderella story,” was Philippa’s droll rejoinder.
“Of course, with the film going into wide release, the studio is expecting its stars to get out and do more publicity.”
Philippa groaned. “Haven’t I already fulfilled all of my
obligations to this movie? When The
Brownings came out in the fall, I did dozens of press
conferences and interviews, I went to premieres and film festivals
all over Europe, what more do the producers want?”
“They want
you and Miles to do publicity together.”
She gasped in outrage. “Impossible!”
“Philippa,” her agent adopted a stern, paternal tone, “I’ve done my best to keep you and Miles apart since you finished shooting The Brownings last summer. I knew you both needed a cooling off period after your relationship ended, but it’s been six months now. Surely, enough time has passed that you can—”
“Absolutely not. I refuse to see that man.”
Nigel sighed wearily. “I’m sorry, but you don’t have a choice. Either you and Miles team up to promote The Brownings, or you’ll be in breach of contract.”
“What about my commitment to the Almeida for this play?” she asked, grasping desperately for straws. “We just started rehearsals, and I’m needed at the theatre every day.”
“I’ll speak with the director and work out a schedule that will make everyone happy.”
“Everyone except me,” she grumbled.
“You’re a professional; you can handle this.”
“Of course, I can, but what about Miles? You know what a loose cannon he is, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me anymore than I want to see him.”
“When I told him that Eye on London wanted to interview both of you on tomorrow’s show, his exact words were, ‘Excellent! What time should I be there?’”
“Did he?” The bastard was being agreeable just to make her look like a temperamental diva. Fine. If he had no qualms about meeting her in a public forum, then neither did she. “Go ahead and book it then.”
“Good. The studio heads will be very pleased.”
“The studio heads can jolly well jump in the Thames,” she retorted hotly, then hung up on Nigel and hurled her mobile across the room, barely missing poor Hannah’s head.
Chapter 3
Deep in an alcohol and marijuana-induced sleep, Anaya Reynolds was suddenly roused by a very loud buzzing noise. Thinking that it emanated from a fly or some other equally obnoxious insect, she shooed at the noise with her hand then rolled over in hopes of escaping it. But the buzzing was persistent, and it seemed to be growing in volume as if her change in position had somehow brought her closer to its source. With an irritated groan, she lifted her head, which couldn’t have felt any heavier if it had been made of concrete, and opened her mascara-crusted eyes to find that she was lying on a brown leather couch she didn’t recognize. What she did recognize was the Sidekick wedged into the crevice where the side of the sofa cushion met the furniture’s arm. The lime green device, detailed with her initials spelled out in Swarovski crystals, was vibrating like crazy in an effort to get her attention, so she retrieved it and flipped up the display screen, which told her that she had a ridiculous amount of text messages.
Yawning, she pulled up the most recent one. ‘Where the hell R U?’ it asked.
She pressed the MENU button on the keypad, then CALL BACK before bringing the Sidekick up to her ear.
A man with an agitated baritone picked up on the first ring. “Jesus, Ny. I was about to call out a search party. Where are you?”
“I have no idea,” she croaked in response.
“Well, you’d better figure it out because the car is here at the hotel to take you to the set. You had a 10:30 call time this morning, remember?”
Not really, but then that’s what she had him for. Robert Garza had been Anaya’s manager/caretaker since the day he’d ‘discovered’ her shoplifting a candy bar from a bodega in East Harlem. When he’d asked the tall, exotic-looking teen if she wanted to be a model, she’d thought he was a pimp, trying to recruit her, and it’d been a reasonable assumption considering her youth and his slick appearance complete with designer suit and perfectly-gelled hair. Despite her skepticism, she’d taken his business card and given it to her grandmother, who’d called the Elite Modeling Agency to confirm that he was indeed one of their talent scouts. To her surprise, Robert had turned out to be exactly who he’d said he was, and Anaya had been letting him run her life ever since.
“Hold on.”
Leaning over the side of the couch, she shook the shoulder of the bleached blonde who was passed out on the floor next to it and shouted, “Hey! Do you know where we are?”
The girl mumbled something unintelligible about collagen and Twinkies, but that was all she had to offer.
“You’ve been a big help,” Anaya snarked as she rose woozily to her feet and surveyed her surroundings.
She was in a nice apartment, spacious by Manhattan’s standards and fairly new with cherry wood flooring and contemporary décor. Unfortunately, it had been trashed by what appeared to have been one hell of a blowout the night before. Items of clothing, CDs without jewel cases, empty Veuve Clicquot bottles, joints with lipstick imprints on them, and trays of half-eaten hors d’oeuvres littered the floor and tabletops. Anaya stumbled through the debris, doing her best to circumnavigate a huge red stain on an Asian throw rug that she hoped was wine and not blood. When she finally reached the large windows on the far side of the living room, she pressed her face up against the cold glass and peered outside.
“I see the river,” she told Robert. “It’s only a few blocks away, so I must be somewhere in the East 50s.”
“I’m getting in the car and we’ll head in that direction, but
you’ve got to be more specific. Retrace your steps last night. Who
were you with?”
Anaya rubbed her temples as if that would
somehow stimulate her memory. “It was just me and some of my old
modeling friends, Jessica, Selita, Alessandra. We club-hopped for a
while, then that got boring and we followed a group of people from
Butter to a party . . . after that, I got nothing. I must have been
drinking tequila. I always black out when I drink tequila. Remember
that time we were in Cancun shooting a swimwear spread for Vogue
and I tried to beat the record for Most Consecutive Shots in the
hotel bar, but they didn’t tell me that every shot of tequila had
to be followed by a shot of sangrita. I got so wasted! I still don’t
know how I ended up naked on the—”
“Ny, stop rambling and listen to me.”
“I’m listening. My head’s spinning, but I’m still listening.”
“Good, then I want you to march your skinny black ass downstairs and ask the doorman for the address of the building you’re in.”
“Mmmmkay, but my ass is not skinny,” she grumbled, turning her back on the view of the city and making a beeline for the front door. “I have a great ass, an ass that sold eight million pairs of True Religion lo-rise jeans. My ass brought dark wash denim back,” she reminded him as she left the apartment and staggered down the corridor towards a bank of elevators.
“I stand corrected. You have an amazing ass. We should have it bronzed for posterity.”
She pressed the down arrow button to summon the elevator. “I think JLo already did that with hers and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna copy that uppity, no-talent heifer. Did I tell you how she and that twerpy ex-husband of hers dissed me at last year’s Grammys?”
“Repeatedly, and as I’ve said before, I’m sure it was all just a big misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding, my bodacious, jeans-selling ass. She’s still pissed that I beat her out for that Pepsi endorsement two years ago. It’s not my fault I appeal to a more youthful demographic than she does. She needs to get over herself.”
The elevator signaled its arrival with a ding, and Anaya stepped into the empty transport.
“Looks like I’m on the 24th Floor of whatever building this is,” she commented before hitting the LOBBY button on the elevator’s control panel.
“Great. I’ll just stop at every apartment building with 24 stories or more between here and 50th and ask if anyone’s seen a hung-over, six-foot-tall black woman wearing a couture cocktail dress who wasn’t Tyra Banks or Naomi Campbell.”
“Geez, you’re cranky this morning. Do you need a Midol or something?” she inquired, leaning back against the elevator wall because she was finding it increasingly difficult to stay upright.
“I get this way when my client disappears and I have to cover for her with a director who’s already pissed about his leading lady’s chronic tardiness.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m a bad, irresponsible girl, but can’t the lecture wait until I’ve had a smoke and a cup of Brazilian Dark Roast? I’m not even late for work yet. It’s only . . .,” she gazed down at her watch, “10:10. Aw, crap, there’s no way we can get from here to the studio in twenty minutes. Guillermo’s gonna have a shit fit. I hate it when his eyes get all bulgy, and he starts cussin’ me out in Spanish.”
“The movie’s on location in Central Park today, so we might still be able to get there by your call time if you would get me the goddamn address!”
“Okay, okay, chill, here I am.” The elevator doors slid open with an almost imperceptible swoosh, and she lurched forward into the lobby. “Hey, you, Cute Doorman!” she called to the uniformed hottie who was standing by the building’s front door, slack-jawed with surprise at the sight of the former Victoria’s Secret model moving unsteadily towards him in four-inch stilettos. “What’s the address here? I need to tell my driver.”
Incapable of speaking, he handed her one of the glossy brochures that sat in a stack on the edge of the front desk.
“Robbie, I’m at the Veneto, 250 East 53rd.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes. Stay inside the building until you see the car pull up.”
True to his word, Robert arrived in a black Town Car with tinted windows at exactly 10:15. Anaya waited until the driver had come around to open the back door of the car for her, then she waved goodbye to the doorman and wobbled out to the curb. Folding her long-limbed body into the Lincoln, she breathlessly greeted her manager with a quick kiss on the lips.
“Don’t glower, Robbie.” She patted him on the cheek. “You know you still love me even if I do cause you grief sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” He arched a dark eyebrow. “I’m 37, I exercise regularly, I don’t have a family history of heart disease, and the doctor just put me on blood pressure medication because my stress levels are so high that I’m in danger of stroking out. Here.” He shoved a pile of clean, neatly folded clothes at her. “Put those on. You can’t show up at the set wearing the same thing the paparazzi photographed you in when you were out partying last night.”
“Alright, but I don’t see the point since I’ll be changing into wardrobe when I get to the set anyway.” Anaya grabbed the hem of the skintight metallic blue minidress that had been designed exclusively for her by Dolce & Gabbana and pulled the garment up over her head in one fluid motion, leaving herself completely naked except for a black lace thong.
Robert did the gentlemanly thing and averted his eyes, although it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d seen his client in the buff. After years of strutting the catwalk and being used as a human mannequin, Anaya had long ago abandoned all modesty, and she had no qualms about stripping off her clothes in front of anyone, anytime, anywhere.
“There’s going to be a lot of press when we get to Central Park, and it’s important that you look your best.” Robert’s cell phone beeped and he extracted it from his coat pocket so that he could check the incoming text message.
“A lot of press, huh?” Anaya looked at her tri-color Angeline Kingsley tunic and made a face; she’d worn the top once and was already sick of it. “What’s so special about today?”
“Mmmmm, nothing much,” he mumbled distractedly as he typed a response back to his assistant’s assistant in the LA office, “except that you were nominated for an Oscar this morning.”
Her jaw dropped, and the tunic slipped out of her fingers. “What? No freakin’ way! I got nominated for an Academy Award? Are you shittin’ me? This isn’t April Fool’s Day, is it?”
“It’s January, and rest assured, I wouldn’t shit you about something like this.”
With a shriek of delight, Anaya catapulted her almost naked body into his arms, making him drop his phone. “Ohmigod, I can’t believe it! This rocks!”
Chuckling, he returned her enthusiastic hug, pressing his fingers into the warm flesh of her back. “You were a long shot, but sometimes, long shots surprise everybody and come in. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Are you proud of me?” she wondered, releasing her grip on him so that she could look him straight in the eye. Nobody’s approval meant more to her than Robert’s. He wasn’t just her manager; he was the person who’d made all things possible for her, her friend, her family, her support system.
Brushing an errant strand of her caramel-colored weave off her forehead, he said, “Of course, I am. You gave a fierce performance in Civil Unrest. Nobody deserves that nomination more than you.”
“Who knows? I might even win.” She grinned cheekily.
“I’d suggest putting on some clothes first.”
“Oh, right.” Slipping out of his arms, she pulled the tunic on over her head then shimmied into her favorite pair of Chip & Pepper vintage roll-up jeans.
“Did you bring my boots?”
“And your leather jacket.” He handed the items to her along with her cosmetics bag. “You’d better do something about your face,” he advised. “Your eye make-up’s smeared, your lipstick’s worn off, and there’s been an oil spill in your T-zone that should probably be reported to the EPA.”
“It can’t be that bad,” she scoffed, pulling out her MAC foundation compact and opening it so that she could check herself out in the mirror. “Okay, so, it is. Why do I only have one false eyelash?” She peeked down the front of her tunic to see if it was stuck to some covered part of her body.
“It’s one of life’s great mysteries that will have to go unsolved because we’re about five minutes from the park, and at least a dozen photographers are waiting there to immortalize this defining moment in your career on film.”
“No problem. I’ve fixed worse in less time. Brush my hair,” she ordered, turning her back on Robert while she worked on tissuing off the last vestiges of her make-up.
Four minutes later, she faced him again with freshly powdered skin, a coppery shadow on her eyelids that made the gold flecks in her irises sparkle, and a shiny crimson gloss on her full lips. “Perfection, right?”
He couldn’t deny she looked gorgeous. She always did, no matter how much she abused herself by not eating or getting more than a few hours of sleep a night, smoking, drinking, and dabbling in recreational drugs. “Yeah, but you won’t be 24 and beautiful forever,” Robert cautioned.
“That’s a depressing thought.”
But not one that would bother her for long, because the Town Car stopped, and she could hear the press clamoring for her outside.
“Your public awaits.”
“Then, I’d better give ‘em what they came for,” she said, unlocking the car door and pushing it open.
She was met by a phalanx of photographers and reporters who descended on her like vultures that had spotted fresh roadkill. She smiled and vamped for the cameras, making sure they all got her good side.
“Anaya, what was your first thought when you heard you were nominated?”
“The Academy has good taste.” She gave a saucy wink to the reporter who’d asked the question.
“How does it feel to be one of only two black women nominated for a Best Actress Oscar since Halle Berry’s milestone win 10 years ago?”
“Has it been that long since Halle won for Monster’s Ball?” she marveled. “If that’s the case, then I think it’s way past time for another sister to take home that trophy. And I have a thing for bald men, so I’m sure Oscar will be very happy with me.”
“Who do you think your biggest competition is?”
“Competition?” She looked amused. “Are there other nominees in my category?”
Chapter 4
Jordan Schaeffer’s heart thudded loudly in time to the beat of her sneakered feet pounding down on the moving surface of her treadmill. She was drenched in sweat and her calf muscles screamed for mercy, but she pushed on, exhilarated by the rush of endorphins coursing through her body. Although CNN news anchor Kyra Phillips’ face filled the large screen of the plasma TV mounted on the wall opposite her, she paid little attention to her report on global warming since it was nothing she hadn’t heard before. Jordan lived in a house with solar paneling and drove a hybrid car, so she felt like she was already doing her bit to save the planet.
Remembering her trainer’s lecture on the importance of staying hydrated, Jordan picked up her water bottle and squirted some of the cold liquid into her mouth. A quick look down at the treadmill’s display told her that she’d been doing her cardio for 44 minutes. She wondered if she should increase the incline or speed for the next quarter hour? Increasing the incline would help her build more muscle mass, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that since lean and athletic was the look she was going for in her next movie, where she’d be playing a woman who becomes an Olympic medal-winning sprinter. She was about to bump the treadmill’s speed up to 4.5 mph when she heard her cell phone ring.
Without breaking stride, she pushed MUTE on her TV remote control and tapped the ANSWER button on her Bluetooth headset.
“Hello.”
“Congratulations, darling!”
“So, you heard already?”
“Of course, I woke up at the crack of dawn so that I could watch the announcement live, and it’s a good thing I did because my phone’s been ringing off the wall ever since. The Times, the Post, all of the entertainment shows, everyone wants a quote from the mother of the nominee, even that attractive young man who lives across the street from you called while he was on air with his radio show.”
Ryan Seacrest ‘attractive?’ Her mother had always had a thing for vertically-challenged men who used a lot of hair product. “Really? What did you say to him?”
“Oh, you know, that being nominated for Oscars is a Merrin/Schaeffer family tradition and how proud Jake and I are that our only child is following in our illustrious footsteps.”
Jordan cringed. “You didn’t actually use the word ‘illustrious,’ did you?”
“That’s what we are, so why shouldn’t I say it? I also said that I expected you to win this Oscar race because you’re a tremendous talent who inherited not only your father’s artistic brilliance, but my charismatic screen presence.”
Where Jordan had gotten her humility was anybody’s guess.
“You’ve spoken with Dad then?”
“What? Oh, no, I couldn’t reach your father on that godforsaken island he’s holed up on. I tried to leave a message at that grass hut he calls ‘a hotel,’ but there was all this static on the line, and I have no idea what language the person who answered the phone was speaking. You’d think that people in French Polynesia would parlez-vous français for heaven’s sake. Why Jake insisted on filming this Gauguin picture in such a remote location is beyond me. Even if he gets my message, he probably won’t be able to get a line out unless he climbs to the top of a volcano and strings two coconuts together.”
“Hiva Oa isn’t that primitive. I’m sure Dad will find a way to contact you when he can,” she panted the words.
“Why do you sound so out of breath?” her mother wondered.
“I’m on the treadmill, working out.”
“I don’t know why you bother. Diet pills and lipo are so much easier. Oh, my Go—” The sound of screeching brakes and the blaring of a horn made Jordan’s heart stop.
“Mom? Mom? Are you okay?”
“Watch where y’er goin’, ya jackass!” the Texas twang her mother had been trying to wrestle into submission since she’d left Lubbock on the eve of her 17th birthday still managed to escape in moments of high emotion, but she quickly regained her cool and reverted back to her polished Bel Air matron voice. “Good gracious, you take your life in your hands when you drive down Sunset these days.”
“Sunset? What are you doing on Sunset?”
“I’m on my way to see you, of course. If someone else doesn’t try to kill me, I should be there in about five—”
Panicking, Jordan ripped off her headset and threw it on the floor without so much as a ‘goodbye’ to her mother, then leapt from the still-moving treadmill and sprinted over to the stairs, taking them two at a time until she reached the main level of her house. With labored breaths, she dashed across the living room, vaulting over an ottoman, where Taz, her orange tabby, was engaged in his morning toilette, then continued at breakneck speed down the corridor that led to the master bedroom. Bursting through the room’s double doors, she shrieked, “Get up! Get up! My mother’s coming! For the love of God, get up!” at the prone, naked figure tangled up in her bed sheets.
“Huh?” her lover queried groggily.
“You heard me,” she replied as she hurriedly gathered up the clothes strewn about on the bedroom floor. “Il diva is en route and her ETA is any minute, so put these on . . ,” she tossed the pile of wrinkled garments at her overnight guest, “. . . and get the hell out while you still can!”
“Alright, alright, but you’re going to have to tell her about us eventually, and this morning’s just as good a time as any.”
“The less my mother knows about my love life, the better,” Jordan said as she yanked off her Nikes. “And today is definitely not the day for any big revela—”
The sound of the front door slamming shut echoed throughout the spacious contemporary-style house. “Darling!” her mother’s voice carried in from the foyer.
“Shit! Why did I ever give her a key?” Jordan muttered to herself. “Your car’s in the garage, right?”
Her lover nodded.
“Okay, then I’ll take Mom into the kitchen and keep her occupied there while you sneak out the front door, but be as quiet as you can because she’s got ears like a—.”
“Is all this subterfuge really nece—”
“Darling!”
“Coming!” Jordan shouted, giving her significant other a quick peck on the lips before darting out the door and skidding down the hallway in her sock feet. She reached the living room just as her mother swooped in, all blonde-streaked hair, cleavage, and attitude.
No one entered a room quite like Lisa Merrin. In the thirty-plus years she’d been famous, she’d made an art form out of it by following a few simple rules:
One, always wear a bold, striking color, fire-engine red on this particular day, so that all eyes are drawn to you, and you don’t disappear in a crowd of boring blacks and washed-out whites.
Two, accentuate your assets. Having been blessed with a statuesque, va-va-voom figure that had gotten her cast in the star-making role of alliteratively monikered Bond girl Calliope Cox, Lisa never went anywhere without three-inch heels and an alluringly low-cut neckline.
Three, and arguably the most important, walk into a room as though everyone is waiting for you and no other woman in attendance could possibly be more witty, charming, or beautiful. ‘Confidence is a woman’s most potent charm,’ Lisa had often told her daughter when the latter was a bookish, flat-chested teen.
“Ah, there you are,” she greeted her offspring.
“Here, I am.” Jordan was practically hyperventilating from all the manic rushing around she’d been doing.
“Oh, no.” Lisa advanced on her with scarlet-colored lips pursed disapprovingly. “You cut your hair again. How many times have I told you that short isn’t good on you? You need some hair to cover up your ears. You look positively elfin.” With a sigh of exasperation, she tried to fluff up the sweaty wisps of hair that were sticking to Jordan’s forehead, but gave up a minute later when it was clear there was no hope of improvement. “We’ll have to get you some extensions before Oscar night. And some highlights wouldn’t hurt either. Your natural color is so mousey.”
Jordan had learned long ago not to take offense when her mother started critiquing her appearance. Lisa wasn’t trying to be hurtful; she simply wanted Jordan to live up to her full beauty potential, and she didn’t understand why her progeny had no interest in things like French manicures, seaweed body wraps, and breast augmentations (Lisa had offered to foot the bill for one of these procedures when Jordan turned 18 and her modest B-cups showed no sign of further growth, but had been turned down flat, appropriately enough.)
“I chopped my hair off and let it go brown for my next movie. I’m playing an Olympic athlete, remember? Not some beauty queen. Speaking of women who don’t eat, I haven’t had breakfast yet and I’m starving. Why don’t we go into the kitchen?” Jordan suggested, trying to clear a path to the front door so that her lover could make a break for it.
Lisa frowned, although you could barely see any change of expression on her face since she’d had her bi-annual Botox injections the day before. “I wish you’d do a film where you looked pretty for once,” she said, totally ignoring her daughter’s attempt to lure her out of the room. “You finally get an Oscar nomination, and it’s for what? A movie where you spent 90% of your screen time with disgusting prosthetics on your face. You looked like the Elephant Man!”
“I was playing a burn victim, Mother, and the prosthetics helped me get into character. All I had to do was look in the mirror with them on to understand Tina’s physical and emotional pain.”
“That’s all well and good, but I think the movie would have been better if Tina had met some handsome plastic surgeon who fixed her face in the final act.”
“That wouldn’t have been very realistic. Tina had fourth-degree burns; the damage to her skin was irreparable. Now, what about that break—”
“Reality be damned!” Lisa proclaimed as she flung her two-thousand-dollar limited-edition Louis Vuitton handbag on to the couch. “People want happy endings. Look at the movie I won my Oscar for. My character may have been a drug-addicted prostitute, but she helped Bobby DeNiro catch a serial killer and he fell in love with her.”
“Very romantic,” Jordan snarked.
“At least, I looked good in the movie, and before you make another snide comment, sparkly blue eye shadow and spandex hot pants were a valid fashion statement back in the ‘70s.”
“If you say so.” Jordan glanced nervously towards her bedroom. The clock was ticking, and she just knew if she didn’t get her mother into the kitchen soon, a disaster of biblical proportions was going to occur. Lisa would hear a noise down the hall and want to investigate, or her guest would tiptoe stealthily into the living room, thinking that they were long gone, and the jig would be up.
“I really need to eat, Mom. I think I’m having a low blood sugar,” she said in desperation.
Her mother eyed her closely. “You are pale and sweating profusely. Don’t tell me you didn’t at least have a snack before you worked out? For heaven’s sake, Jordan, use your head.”
Lisa flounced off in the direction of the kitchen, and Jordan followed her, heaving an inward sigh of relief.
“Have you eaten already? Can I fix you anything?” Jordan asked as she moved towards her large Sub-Zero refrigerator.
“Eggs Benedict and a Mimosa would be nice,” her mother replied, taking a seat on one of the cushioned stools positioned next to the granite-topped island in the center of the room.
Jordan opened her fridge and peered inside. “No eggs or OJ, sorry. How about a tofu omelet and some organic apple juice?”
“Dear God, no!” Lisa was appalled. “I thought I raised you to have an appreciation for fine cuisine. When did you start eating such repulsive food?”
“My nutritionist put me on a special diet so that I can get a runner’s body; I’m cutting out bad fats and processed sugars. No caffeine or alcohol either.” Jordan opened the door to the cupboard where she kept all of her boxed non-perishables.
“So, I guess that means I won’t be getting a decent cup of coffee here either?”
“I can offer you herbal tea.”
“I’d rather die of dehydration. What was that?”
“Frumph?” Jordan’s mouth was full of the Honey Oat Flax bar she’d just taken a bite of.
“I thought I heard your front door close.”
Gagging down her dry, tasteless breakfast, Jordan shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “I didn’t hear anything. You locked the front door behind you when you came in, didn’t you?”
“Of course, I did.”
“Well, then there’s nothing to worry about. There’s construction going on at my neighbor’s; you probably just heard one of the workers closing a door over there.”
Lisa continued to look dubious.
“So, what do you think my chances of winning the Oscar are?” Jordan sought to distract her. “Thirty-seventy? Maybe less since this is my first nomination and Through the Fire was an indie, so not everyone has seen it?”
“Thirty-seventy?” Lisa’s full attention was once again directed towards her daughter. “Don’t be absurd! You’re Hollywood royalty, darling. Your father and I are one of the biggest power couples in this town; we have more clout and influence than Brangelina and TomKat put together. No one wants to get on our bad side, which means lots of votes for you.”
“I’d like to win on merit, not because of who my parents are.”
“That’s very noble, darling, but don’t kid yourself. Everyone in your category will be working an angle to win that statue. Yours is your lineage and you’d be a fool not to use it to your advantage, so be sure to drop Jake’s name or mine in every interview you do between now and the time those ballots are mailed out and I’ll call in a few fav—”
The doorbell chimed.
“Oh, man, I hope the paparazzi didn’t follow you here.”
“I’m sure it’s just my team. I told them to be at your house at eight.”
“Your team?”
“Hair, make-up, nails, wardrobe . . . I figured you’d be doing a bunch of interviews today, and you can’t go on TV looking like, well,” she fluttered a hand at Jordan, “you. My people are the best; they’ll give you a full glamour upgrade.”
“But I don’t need an upgrade. There’s nothing wrong with the way I—”
“Image, darling, image. You’re an Oscar nominee now and you have to look the part.”
The doorbell rang again.
Lisa stood with regal posture. “I should get that. Why don’t you take a nice, hot shower and wash off all of that yucky exercise grime? The steam will be good for opening up all those blocked pores, too. I hope Josie has time to give you a facial,” she murmured as she walked away, leaving Jordan to stare forlornly at her half-eaten flax bar.
Chapter 5
After she’d slathered on a second coat of SPF 15, Laurel put the cap back on her bottle of suntan lotion and adjusted her straw hat so that its wide brim would shade her face from the strong rays of the midday Caribbean sun. Picking up the Nora Roberts bestseller that had held her in its thrall for the past two hours, she gave the book a shake, loosening the powder-fine grains of sand sticking to its pages, then leaned back in her striped beach chair. Before returning to the fictional world of passion and vengeful poltergeists, Laurel closed her eyes for a minute and opened her other senses up to her exotic surroundings, reveling in the soul-soothing sound of the water as it lapped gently at the shoreline, the faint, seductive scent of night-blooming jasmine, and the feel of the balmy breeze caressing her sun-kissed skin.
She had always felt a special affinity for the ocean. Some of the happiest times in her life were connected to it: she and Patrick, her husband of 21 years, had spent their honeymoon in Maui, frolicking in the surf and feasting on exotic cuisine during the day and making love under the stars in a secluded cove every night, their eldest son, Aaron, had taken his first steps on a touristy stretch of sand in Miami, and they’d been renting a private villa on Parrot Cay for a week at the end of January since the twins had been old enough to swim. On their annual vacations, the Hastings/Goddard family snorkled, para-sailed, waterskied, waded in tide pools, and combed the beaches looking for the perfect sand dollar. Laurel had even been talked into deep-sea fishing once (To her astonishment, as well as Patrick’s, she’d caught a 30 lb. Wahoo, which she’d thrown back because she hadn’t had the heart to eat a creature with such beautiful, iridescent scales.)
Aaron, who was now Pre-Med at Princeton, had been unable to accompany his family on this trip, and Laurel felt his absence acutely. He was her first-born and the child most like her in temperament, having always been highly intelligent, sensitive, and desirous of making a difference in the world. With their mega-watt smiles and irrepressible charm, Sean and Liv took after their father, the PR whiz, whose professional success depended on his ability to razzle-dazzle the masses on his clients’ behalf. Their whole lives the blond-haired, green-eyed twins had drawn attention wherever they went, and they could have easily parlayed their looks and charisma into careers in show business if their mother would have allowed it.
Once, when the family had been at the mall shopping for back-to-school clothes, Laurel had been approached by a talent scout who’d spotted the tow-headed pair and wanted them to audition for a new tween show on the Disney Channel. Although Sean and Liv had been eager to accept the offer, Laurel had turned the man down and dragged the twins out to the car. They hadn’t spoken to her for a week afterwards, but she hadn’t cared. She’d known that she’d done the right thing. Her children would grow up safe and normal, away from the ruinous glare of the Hollywood spotlight, and with any luck, they’d go to college and become accountants or zoologists or even shift managers at Pizza Hut. It didn’t matter to Laurel as long as they never followed her footsteps into acting.
“Laurel.” Her husband’s gravelly voice roused her from her reverie.
“Hey.” She looked up at him, using her hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.” She’d sent him up to the villa fifteen minutes ago to get lunch for everybody. So, why were his hands empty?
“Weren’t you able to find the sandwiches? I thought I put them in the cooler on top of the fri—”
He grimaced. “Sorry. I forgot all about lunch. I got distracted by a phone call from Ben.”
“Ben? What did he want?” She’d given her agent explicit instructions not to bother her while she was vacationing with her family.
Patrick crouched down next to her beach chair. “He wanted to let you know that the Oscar nominations were announced this morning, and your name was on the list.”
Laurel’s mouth went dry, and white spots began to dance in front of her eyes. Up and down, back and forth, round and round until she felt dizzy and sick to her stomach. If she hadn’t been sitting, she probably would have passed out.
“Are you alright? Laurel?”
She had to remind herself to breathe before she could answer. “Uh huh.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.” He clutched her hand reassuringly. “Are you sure you’re okay? You feel kind of cold and clammy.”
She gave him a feeble smile. “I’m fine. Really. It was just a shock. After all this time, I never thought—”
“I guess you haven’t lost your touch,” he teased her.
“Or maybe the Academy just loves a good comeback story? Fifteen years after foolishly turning her back on the film industry and retiring to the suburbs of Connecticut, actress Laurel Hastings is welcomed back into the bosom of the Hollywood community with an Oscar nomination.”