True Hollywood Lies (30 page)

“I think it’s smart that you’re getting out, getting your mind off the ceremony this evening. Leo liked to do that, too.”

“Don’t worry,” he answered caustically. “I won’t be playing barefoot, like Daddy Dearest. The press would have a field day with
that
.”

“I never assumed you would. You know, Louis, I’m not the enemy. I certainly don’t confuse you with Leo in any way, shape or form—”

“Oh, really?”

He picked up the
Entertainment Weekly
and tossed it at me. Bannered on its cover, over a photo of the two of us, was the headline: “Oedipus Sex?” There was an inset shot of Leo right next to it. The teaser claimed that the article would compare Louis’s movie roles to date with that of Leo’s, as well as their track record with women, and the odds of Louis racking up as many Globes and Oscars.

Great. Just what Louis wanted to see: that Leo, he and I were some incestuous celebrity
ménage a trois.

Still, from the murderous look on his face, now was not the time to remind him why he should not believe his—our—own press clippings.

“That’s nothing.
Variety
says that the Vegas odds-makers have pegged me to come in a ‘distant third.’ Behind Sean—again, damn it!—and that lucky prat, DiCaprio.
Again.
Hell, it’s over. We might as well stay home tonight.”

“Louis, you’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not kidding. Why go? What’s the advantage of being humiliated in public that way?” He grabbed his glass and sucked down the rest of his scotch. “It’s the same old shit, year after year, like it’s rigged or something! Why don’t they let some new blood through? Haven’t I paid my dues, too?”

Uh. . . no. If I wanted to be honest with Louis, I’d have to point out that he
was
the new guy in town.

In a town with a lot of new guys.

And at the same time, competing with a lot of very seasoned, very well-known, well-revered icons, too.

But now was not the time for honesty with the man I loved above all others.

Instead I would say what I knew he wanted to hear first and foremost, now more than ever. So I sat down beside him on the couch and, stroking his cheek in my palm, put on the performance of a lifetime.

“Why, that’s great! Don’t you see? This makes you the dark horse! Heck, we should put a couple of thou on that bet. We’ll clean up!”

The shadow of a smile nudged the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said grudgingly, “that would be a pisser, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Heck,
yeah!
” I grabbed the phone. “I’m not joking. Let’s do it. We’ll laugh all the way to the bank.”

“Or not.” Uncertainty clouded his eyes. “Bollocks, Hannah, who am I kidding? Who do I think I am, anyway? All anyone in this town cares about is what kind of box office I deliver. And all my so-called ‘fans’ want to know is who I’m shagging, how much I’m drinking, or who I’m punching out, not what I can do on the screen. I’m not an actor, I’m a bloody circus act!”

“Louis,” I said seriously, “tell me you don’t believe that
Dead End
isn’t your best performance to date.”

He was silent. Well, of course he
did
.

“Or that you believe that any of the other nominees even came
close
to giving the audience what you gave.” I took his hands in mine. “That’s all that matters. When all is said and done, no one will remember the gossip columns or the headlines. But what they will remember is how you moved them.
On that screen
.”

In his eye was the tiniest glimmer of pride.

That was it. Louis was back.

I hit the 0 on the phone and was immediately connected to an operator.

“Hello, operator? Yeah, for Las Vegas, please. . . Bally’s betting line. . . Thank you.” I turned back to Louis. “Whattaya think, five grand? Ten?”

He threw up ten fingers. I nodded.

After the bet was placed, he scooped me up in his arms and kissed me.

A long, lingering kiss.

A sweet, tender kiss.

A probing lover’s kiss.

Among other things.

And afterward, he said the sweetest thing: “Hannah, darling, please don’t ever leave me. I don’t think I could stand living in this town without you.”

Which was why I could forgive him when he added, “Of course, you should feel free to leave town if I dump
you
. In fact, I’m sure that would be best for both of us.”

* * *

Within the hour, Randy was honking the horn, shouting that they’d lose their Bel-Air tee time to some old fart nobodies if Louis didn’t hurry it up. As Louis waved goodbye, I suddenly felt very happy.

And very tired.

And thankful I’d have the rest of the morning to nap before getting ready for the evening’s festivities. Then, about noon or so, I’d have the sheer girlish pleasure of getting ready for the equivalent of Hollywood’s homecoming dance. (But of course, the Oscars have already secured the more esteemed comparison with the senior prom.)

The turquoise gown had won out over all the others as the fairest in the land. Between its exquisite color, wonderful cut and unique detailing, I could proudly hold my head up and answer, “Why, Axis of Evil!” when, as I glided down the red carpet on Louis’s arm, Star Jones,
E!’
s gushing gadfly, begged to know which couture house had created this heavenly vision for me.

I could see it now: A second after I’d utter that unlikely moniker, an avalanche of orders would swamp the email box of Axis of Evil’s anarchic creative genius, who toiled for prêt-a-porter perfection, albeit one gown at a time. And my thanks for pulling him out of his socialist burrow and into the fascist fashionista limelight would be any cutting-edge frock from future collections that suited my fancy.

Alright!

Truly, what was the value of celebrity if you couldn’t share it with others, particularly those who were so much more deserving of it?

But alas, my role as Lady Bountiful was not to be.

Just minutes after Louis pulled out of the driveway, Ophelia pulled into it—along with a battalion of beauty pros who were to ready us for our big night on the arms of two of Hollywood’s most coveted bachelors. Her SWAT team, commandeered with Louis’s approval but without my knowledge, included the stylist we shared (who came towing a portable wardrobe filled with gowns), as well as two manicurists, a facialist, a makeup artist, and a trio of hair pros from Canale, who were sporting more tattoos than any biker mob this side of Bakersfield and enough hair spray to ensure that our ’dos would hold up under a blast of red carpet hot air.

“Isn’t this
fun?
” she squealed, ignoring my look of shock. “Louis agreed with me that you needed to look great for tonight. I mean, in light of his past with Tatiana and all.”

“Is that what Louis said?” I felt my stomach turn flip-flops.

Ophelia’s smile got even broader (if that had been possible, considering the fact that her cheeks had recently been injected with whatever fat they could find in her previously lipo’ed ass) and her eyes glossed over, both telltale signs that I could take whatever syrupy words came out of her mouth with a grain of salt.

“No! Of
course
not!
My
bad! Hey, if anyone can compete with a supermodel ex-girlfriend, it’s you!”

Darn tootin’.

Omigod! Who am I kidding?

I shook as I sat down in one of the portable salon chairs brought in by the Canale carnival. Immediately, a manicurist attacked my bunions with the rosemary-and-ground cactus-needle scrub that was the first torturous step in my pedicure.

Just breathe. Everything will be okay. Don’t think about yourself. Try to remember that this is Louis’s night, and be there for him.

Louis, who had already crashed and burned once this morning, angsting over whether others thought his craft was worthy of their notice and their praise.

Louis, who had confided in me all of his fears of failure and loss.

Louis, who had chosen me over Tatiana, who was already crowned a princess in that elite aristocracy known as celebrity.

Okay, sure, for Louis’s sake I could quell the overwhelming urge to throw Ophelia out on her cute little ass, along with her stylist and facialist and manicurists and the hair care coven from hell, as well as any other partridges-in-a-pear-tree that were in the trailer out front.

Because I’d do anything for Louis.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ophelia. You’re quite a pal, and don’t I know it. And you know what? You’re absolutely right: for the next twenty-four hours, my role is only that of Louis’s consort: I’ll be gorgeous, serene, and unobtrusive, and as invisible as a mouse.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not in the least. I really don’t want to do anything that might steal his thunder.” I frowned at the thought of his reaction if that happened.

Shocked, Ophelia batted away the manicurist buffing her cuticles in order to point a tapered lacquered nail at me. “Now, Hannah, don’t do anything stupid on that red carpet, like some sort of PA perp walk, do you hear me? You’ve got
to stay
in
camera range
with Louis at all times!”

“Why? What difference will it make if I don’t? I thought we just agreed that this is his night, right?” It was hard to make my case while wearing a facial in which the main ingredient was processed nightingale droppings, but I was bound and determined to do so.

“Be real! Aren’t you afraid that might give the wrong impression?” Ophelia asked.

“To whom? Louis?”

“
No, silly.
Other women!
If they don’t see anyone on Louis’s arm tonight, the rumors will start. Everyone will assume that he’s up for grabs. Other women will envision that
they
should be there, if you’re not.” She shivered involuntarily. “I’d certainly be scared to let him walk alone!”

“Well, I’m not,” I answered defiantly. “Tell you what. I’ll leave it up to Louis whether or not he’d like to walk ahead a bit. I imagine he’ll say no, but it will be his call.”

At least, I
hoped
he’d say no. I mean, wouldn’t he
want
me by his side, to share his moment in the sun?

Of course he would.

Right?

“Besides, even a wedding ring means nothing if the guy is looking every which way but yours.”

“Tell me about it! But, hey, personally, I’d never be stupid enough to give up on collecting that ring, no way, no how! That ring means power. And it means financial security,” she sighed despondently. “Hell, I’ve been with Ethan for over a year now, and I still can’t get him to pop the question. In fact, just yesterday I gave him an ultimatum: I told him I need some
real
show of commitment, or I’m walking. Well, at least now he’s agreed to take part in a Rabi snip.”

“A snip? What’s that? You don’t mean a rabbi, you mean a mohel, right? Like some sort of bris?”

“No, it’s not Jewish or anything. It’s that ceremony from the te I-Matang people, in the Rabi Islands.” With an arched brow, she dismissed a hot pink frothy gown held up by the stylist for her approval and pointed to a copper satin concoction instead. “You see, a holy man snips off a bit of Ethan’s foreskin. Then he takes some of my breast skin, and we toss both into a fire, where it burns up together. The ashes and smoke intertwine as proof of our eternal love.”

“Jeez, I’ll say! Won’t that, uh,
hurt like hell?
”

“We’re anesthetized, so not initially. I think it’s
ever
so much more spiritually binding than exchanging vials of blood, like Angelina and Billy Bob did, you know, right before their divorce. That was
so
creepy!”

She tossed her head with that declaration, causing the hair designer working on her golden locks to cut a tendril a quarter-inch too short. I watched the poor man bite his lip in fear of her wrath. Luckily, she hadn’t noticed his
faux pas
.

“But, yeah, for a few days we’ll be smarting. More so Ethan than me, I guess. You see, I’m going to get the holy man to clip a skin tag that my dermatologist missed. I mean, this crap wouldn’t be worth doing if I were going to be, like, deformed afterward, right? Besides, I’m getting my boobs redone anyway. I’m going up a cup size. My operation is scheduled for later that week.”

“Can’t you both just clip a toenail or something, or maybe some hair?”

“You know, Hannah, you just don’t get it! True love is a give-and-take. And sometimes what you have to give must be
really
painful.”

Oh yeah? That was easily said, coming from someone who had nothing more to lose than a skin tag. As for Ethan, well, I wondered why he felt it was worth the price of some foreskin. Perhaps he’d been informed by his attorneys that, when it came to appeasing Ophelia, the Rabi snip was the less painful way to get shafted than a pre-nup.

Yanking the copper dress out of the fashion stylist’s hand, Ophelia roused me from the salon chair and held it up to me. “Whattaya think of this one? Stunning, right?”

“Well, um, gee. . . I don’t know. I sort of had something else in mind already.”

As carefully as I could with two undercoats of polish on my nails, I opened the dress bag hanging in the foyer closet and brought over my gown for her to see.

Her eyes immediately went to the label.
After all, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that couture zing.

“Axis of Evil?” she sniffed. “What, is that some kind of joke?” Gingerly, so as not to get infected with any off-the-rack cooties, she tossed it into a corner, where it slid under the makeup artist’s mobile cosmetic cart.

In the movie that was my life, my role as Lady Bountiful now lay on the cutting room floor.

Ophelia draped the copper gown over my shoulders. “With the right highlights, you
just
might be able to pull it off.” She turned to her hair patrol: “Coco, pray tell, what do you think? Too too red?”

“Honey chile,” purred the SWAT leader, so designated because he was the one with the most tattoos “Can there ever
be
too much red in a girl’s life?”