How to Sleep with a Movie Star (17 page)

When the meeting adjourned three minutes before noon, I left feeling relieved that I had a whole pile of work to distract me, and glad that in the last hour I’d thought of Cole Brannon just once. Okay, maybe twice. But the second time hadn’t counted. Donna had brought him up.

Not that I cared. It would be ridiculous to care.

Movie Stars

The Starlet

T
hursday morning’s press conference for Kylie Dane’s new movie,
Opposites Attract,
was in a conference room at the Ritz. As I passed the entrance to Atelier, a parade of designer clothes too expensive for me to even consider streamed in and out around me. I tried not to think about Saturday’s brunch, but trying to ignore the memory of Saturday was like trying to make your way to the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree in December without getting swallowed in a sea of tourists. Exactly, impossible.

Of course I knew there was no Cole Brannon hiding beneath a Red Sox cap in Atelier today. Heck, he was probably backstage at the press event, making out with the married Kylie Dane. I tried to block out the offending mental image.

The press conference was in the meeting room at the far end of the first floor. I took my seat inside, nodding to the other writers I saw at most similar events. I wondered vaguely, as always, whether any of them realized what an exercise in futility all this was. A quick glance around the room at several eager faces confirmed what I suspected—most of them had long ago been seduced by the glow of Hollywood. I felt a bit left out. Sure, the whole Hollywood thing was fun and glamorous to an extent, but I’d never been all that impressed. I sometimes wondered what was wrong with me.

Today’s interview session was a small one, geared specifically toward magazines with more than two months’ lead time, like ours. Newspapers and weeklies like
People
would get their first crack at Kylie and her costars two weeks before the film’s Labor Day Weekend release, to whet moviegoers’ appetites at exactly the right time. Reporters for the major monthlies—
Mod, Glamour, In Style, Maxim, Cosmo
, and the like—had been invited today so that our presumably glowing praise for the film’s stars would appear in our September issues (which actually came out mid-August) at precisely the same time moviegoers were making Labor Day Weekend plans. Amusingly, we wouldn’t actually
see
the movie, which was still being assembled in a studio somewhere in Burbank. Yet we were supposed to review and recommend it sight unseen. As I often did at these events, I wondered if a crystal ball had been included in the press kit.

The whole dance with the press had been carefully choreographed and planned for maximum benefit to the studio. It was a formula that rarely failed: Take one big star, mix with a fair-to-good movie, limit press access to pique interest, and provide senseless snippets from the stars. It all equaled major buzz around movies that, well, weren’t even movies yet.

As I waited for the press conference to begin, I told Victoria Lim,
Cosmo
’s entertainment editor and a friend of mine after four years of attending silly press conferences together, that Tom and I had broken up. As I filled her in on the details, I couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed, as if I’d done something to invite his infidelity. Had I?

I was secretly pleased when Victoria admitted that she’d never really liked him in the first place. She and her husband Paul had once double-dated with us, and Tom had spent the entire meal lecturing Paul about “those damned capitalist pigs in Washington.” They had never gone out with us again.

“Well, I could have him whacked, you know,” Victoria said seriously once I’d finished. “I mean, I know people. I’ve never heard of anyone who deserved a good whacking more.”

“A whacking?” I asked. Victoria grinned.

“Sure,” she said. “Mob-speak, you know? Don’t you watch
The Sopranos
?”

“Do they actually call them ‘whackings’?”

“Well, I don’t know. I always fall asleep during
The Sopranos.
But really, I know people. We could have him offed.”

“So now it’s ‘offed’?”

“Offed, whacked, rubbed out, whatever,” she said. She shook her head. “Although I think that Lorena Bobbitt had the right idea. One might argue that was better than a whacking. It’s like a specialized whacking.”

“That I could live with,” I said seriously.

“Me too,” Victoria agreed.

Before I could get too lost in the fantasy, a bleached blonde in a skintight, knee-length red Prada dress appeared on the stage with a sheaf of papers in her hand. Her hair was slicked back and clipped in a twist at the back of her head, and she wore a small name tag that identified her as a publicist on the production company’s staff. The whispers and murmurs in the small group of eleven journalists quieted, and we all looked at her expectantly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she addressed us formally. I nudged Victoria, who rolled her eyes. She was obviously new. The veteran studio publicists were well accustomed to treating the press like children who needed to be spoon-fed information. They would never address us as ladies and gentlemen, for in their eyes we were
not
ladies and gentlemen—we were gullible children who could and should be manipulated. Hence, the Ritz staffers wandering throughout the room with trays full of canapés, Perrier, and soda—thinly veiled bribes for positive movie reviews. “My name is Destiny Starr. (Beside me, Victoria stifled a giggle.) Welcome to the Ritz. We have a very exciting morning planned for you today. In just a moment, we’ll bring Kylie and Wally out to meet you, but first I’d like to tell you a bit about the plot of the film.”

I zoned out as Destiny launched into a monologue about
Opposites Attract
. I wasn’t sure why publicists always opened press conferences this way since presumably, all of us had received a) press packets in the mail weeks in advance with pages of flashy prose about how this would be the best movie of the year, maybe the decade, b) press packets upon arrival at the press conference that told us in more compressed (yet still flashy) prose about how this would be the best movie of the decade, maybe of all time, and c) several phone calls over the last few weeks from studio publicists, allegedly calling to see if we were planning to attend the conference (despite the fact that we’d already agreed by e-mail, fax, and telephone), who would then launch into glowing monologues about how the movie was sure to sweep the Academy Awards and go down in history as the best movie of all time.

Believe me, we’d heard the Academy Award hype speech at every press conference since the dawn of time—even at the junket for
Gigli,
and we all know how that turned out. As you might imagine, this considerably diminished our faith in the speech.

Indeed, as Destiny described
Opposites Attract,
I could see eyes glazing over around the room as we all slipped into zombie mode, with the exception of a newcomer to our group, a young intern from
Teen People
. She was staring at Destiny with fascination from her seat in the dead center of the second row. She reminded me of myself when I started at
People
four years ago, before I learned that press conferences did little good, except for the opportunity to snag canned quotes from stars—and the free mini quiches, stuffed mushrooms, and chocolate-dipped strawberries that circulated throughout the room. Some press events even offered champagne, but I supposed that 10 a.m. was too early for that sort of thing, even for this Hollywood cast of publicists.

Besides, considering my track record this week, perhaps it would be better to avoid alcohol for a while. At least in the general vicinity of movie stars. Although Kylie Dane’s costar in the movie was no Cole Brannon, he did have undeniable sex appeal—and a slightly shady reputation to go along with it. Wally Joiner, a twenty-six-year-old import from Great Britain who was being called the next Hugh Grant, had gotten his share of press over recent exploits involving an affair with a pop star, a threesome with two
Playboy
models, and a night with a roomful of Vegas strippers.

When Destiny finally finished telling us, in fascinated tones and matching canned facial expressions, that the romantic comedy (boy meets girl, boy screws something up—boy must win girl back, boy wins girl back—boy and girl live happily ever after—big surprise) was the early favorite for several categories in this year’s Academy Awards, she paused dramatically and announced that the “talent” would be coming out shortly.

There was silence for a moment, and then we all started chatting again, as if Destiny had never stepped onstage. None of us (save the enthusiastic
Teen People
intern) had taken a single note, as Destiny had read almost verbatim from the press release we were all handed upon entering the room.

Destiny was back less than three minutes later, having refreshed her deep red lipstick. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce the two stars of
Opposites Attract,
who of course need no introduction.”

“Then why is she introducing them?” I whispered to Victoria, who giggled.

“Ms. Kylie Dane and Mr. Wally Joiner!” Destiny said dramatically. She paused, presumably expecting us to clap, but none of us did. It was bad form. Journalists weren’t supposed to show any emotion or enthusiasm whatsoever during press conferences, premieres, sporting events, et cetera. In fact, I don’t think we were officially supposed to have any feelings at all.

If only that were true, life—and unexpected sleepovers with movie stars—would be much easier.

“Okay, then,” Destiny said, recovering from the apparently unexpected lack of response. She looked back toward the curtain draped across the back of the stage. “Kylie, Wally, could you come on out?”

Kylie Dane stepped out first from behind the curtain, looking stunning, even in blue jeans and a black shirt. Granted, the jeans were distressed Paper Denim & Cloth, and the shirt was a tiny, glittering number that hugged her curves perfectly, dipping low enough to reveal her tantalizing cleavage and ending high enough to show off her perfectly toned cinnamon-tan stomach. She was wearing impossibly high Jimmy Choo stilettos, making her legs look like they went on forever. She was so slender that I feared we’d lose her if she turned sideways. Her mane of blond hair (which sparkled and bounced in a way mine never had) was professionally tousled and filled with random ringlets that somehow looked perfectly playful and flawlessly sexy at the same time. She smiled demurely as she stepped onto the stage.

“Hello,” she said softly, smiling at the room without really looking at any of us.

I disliked her instantly and tried to convince myself that it was because she seemed aloof. She did, of course—most of them did—but I knew the real reason was that I couldn’t erase the image of her walking arm in arm with Cole, grinning up at him with the promise of sex and seduction, from the pages of
Tattletale.
Didn’t she have enough already without adding him to the collection?

After all, she was married to Patrick O’Hara, a striking actor twenty years her senior. Her glittering engagement ring, which was roughly the size of a disco ball, sent tiny rays of light flying around the room as she sat gracefully on the velvet-cushioned chair center stage. I squirmed uncomfortably in my hard-backed folding chair and tried not to hate her as little beams from her ring blinded me temporarily.

He is a liar,
I reminded myself.
Cole Brannon lied to you. And he’s helping Kylie Dane cheat on her husband. He’s no different than Tom.

I gulped and tried to focus on something other than how beautiful and perfect Kylie Dane looked. Which was not easy.

“And Wally Joiner,” Destiny announced. The British actor strode onto the stage, exuding confidence and raw sexiness. His face was unshaven, his gait was purposeful and relaxed, and his faded Levi’s and crisp white shirt, with the top three buttons open, worked perfectly together.

“’Ello,” he said, sounding so British the accent almost seemed artificial. He slowly laid eyes on each female reporter in the room, smiling devilishly each time he locked eyes with one of us. I heard Victoria next to me emit a little schoolgirl giggle as his burning gaze fell on her, but before he could lock eyes with me, I focused intently on the blank notebook page in front of me.

Sexy as he was, I’d already had my fill of actors for the week, thank you very much.

“We’ll just go ahead and take questions, then,” Destiny said after a brief pause, allowing Wally to finish visually assaulting each woman in the room. She looked around the room until her eyes alighted on Karen Davidson from
Glamour,
whose pencil was raised in the air. “Yes, you,” she said, pointing to Karen.

“Karen Davidson,
Glamour
magazine,” said the sleekly bobbed brunette, identifying herself as we were all asked to do at every press conference. As if the stars cared. I was sure the names went in one ear and out the other. Kylie nodded politely, and Wally leaned forward and winked flirtatiously. Karen tittered. “This question is for Wally.” She was blushing now. “You play a nuclear physicist in the movie. Was it difficult for you to learn the ways of nuclear physicism in order to play your role convincingly?”

I leaned over to Victoria.

“Nuclear
physicism
?” I whispered. “Is that a word?” Victoria stifled another giggle and shook her head.

“Excellent question, love,” Wally said, settling back into his seat, his starched shirt crackling audibly. He appeared to be undressing Karen with his eyes as he talked. And she appeared to be enjoying it. “Nuclear physicism has always been a passion of mine, you know. So I already had the background, of course. I bloody love all that technical shit. So it was easy for me to just read along with the script and get it all right,” Wally concluded wisely. “Nuclear physicism is such a vital field.”