Beneath a Starlet Sky Page 12

  Two feds wired with ear buds spring to their feet at his approach. “Doctor MacArthur—how did it go?”

  “Very well. I don’t get too many chances to work on six-chambered hearts. Where’s this guy from, anyway?” Lev/Dr. MacArthur asks.

  “Sorry, doc.” The first fed shakes his head curtly. “Need-to-know basis only. So, what’s the prognosis?”

  Lev/Dr. MacArthur grins. “Oh, excellent, I’d say. Considering he was dead for more than three days.” He reaches into his pocket and holds out a tiny cylinder that pulses with a gentle green glow. “I removed this from his aorta.”

  “Let me take a look at that, doc,” the second fed demands.

  As the second fed reaches for the device, Lev/MacArthur deftly palms it back into his pocket. “Not so fast,” he says. “I thought you’d want to know that I’ve removed one of these before … from a certain presidential candidate.”

  “Who?” the first fed demands.

  Lev/MacArthur smiles raffishly. “Sorry. Need-to-know basis only, gentlemen,” he chuckles.

  Now, Lev is a nice-looking guy. A Paul Rudd type. But he’s the sort of guy whose personality makes him exceptional. Kate once said to me when I was in a depressive Actorholic collapse that the dashing good looks of actors were overrated. “A guy should be: Sexy. Funny,” she told me. “That’s it. You don’t want him to be too good-looking. Trust me.” And I didn’t fully understand until I met Lev. But all of a sudden, looking at the small computer screen, it’s as though my brain is malfunctioning to the point of: cannot compute. Lev is sexy. As in Clooney/Duchovny sexy. And then a one-word message is flashing across the screen of my brain: Telegenic. He has that “it” factor they call telegenic. And another horrible, horrible truth dawns on me: He’s a natural.

  7

  “Welcome to Gasp, Lola,” the hostess says. “I’d be happy to escort you to your table as soon as you…” She looks down meaningfully at my feet.

  “Oh, oops, sorry!” I say, slipping off my black patent leather Mary Jane Jimmy Choos and placing them in the woven willow box the hostess holds out. She shudders slightly as she hands them off to be shuttled outside. No animal products are allowed inside the hot-hot artisanal breatharian restaurant in West Hollywood, the latest brand extension of Namo.

  “You can retrieve them later,” the hostess tells me a bit frostily, “if you still want them. For now, please follow me.” I scurry to keep up with her as she threads herself expertly among the tables where couples seem to be tinkering with some kind of laboratory equipment.

  “Since this is obviously your first time at Gasp, let me tell you a bit more about our philosophy,” the hostess tells me as she seats me at my table. “Gasp is a platinum LEEDS-certified restaurant dedicated to promoting Nano and Om’s life mission of leaving minimal impact on the earth. We’ve teamed with some of Hollywood’s most caring celebrities to help us with our outreach. Our seat cushions are made from one hundred percent reclaimed Chip and Pepper and Seven jeans from Alicia Silverstone and Darryl Hannah. Our tableware has been reforged from the models David Lynch used in Inland Empire. The tables are hammered steel from Sean Penn’s old motorcycles. And our menus are printed using beet juice ink from Suzanne Somer’s personal compost pile.” She hands me one to peruse. “I’ll let you know as soon as Nano and Om arrive. Enjoy your lunch!”

  While squinting at the menu—the dim lighting suggests the solar panels outside need adjustment—I nod my head along to the infectious whoosh and drone of “Buzz Buzz Ting” as it pipes in over the loudspeakers. Nano and Om’s latest hit—a mash-up of a tinkling Nepalese prayer wheel and buzzing bees “personally rescued from Colony Collapse Disorder by the musicians themselves” according to the press materials—has displaced Lady Gaga and Katy Perry as the favorite of dance clubs everywhere.

  “Lola? It’s so lovely to finally meet you!” A pale hand is placed across my own. I look up to find a young woman who can only be Om beaming at me. She’s sporting the requisite shaved eyebrows, bone-china-white cheeks, and painted geisha mouth that is her signature look, along with a simple organic cotton black sheath wrapped around her phthistic limbs. Battered vegan flip-flops skim her delicately arched feet. She’s so skinny I swear I can see the blood pulsing through her veins. By her side is an equally slender six-foot-tall beanpole whose long, pale limbs are barely contained by the unconstructed black organic cotton jacket and coolie pants he wears. Nano reaches out a hand to me.

  “Lola! It’s so totally cool that you came all the way out from New York to meet with us!” he says. “And thanks for being down with paying for the carbon offsets for the flight. We love the idea of performing at Julian’s show! Hold on a sec, I have totally got to Tweet this.” Nano brandishes a pointy stick. “It’s a bamboo stylus for my BlackBerry. Totally sustainable. Next year Om and I are teaming up with Apple for a whole line of PDAs made from completely recycled parts. Leo says we can start with his old Priuses.” He starts tapping on the PDA.

  “We’ve got more than a million people following us on Twitter,” breathes Om.

  “Check it!” says Nano, brandishing his PDA.

  MEETING CEO FOR BRILLIANT DESIGNER JULIAN TENNANT! SO EXCITED!

  “Wow! Well, we’re so excited that you’re excited,” I say.

  “As soon as I found out that Julian’s vegan, I knew he’d be the right one to design the clothes for our next tour,” Om tells me. “His clothes are so ethereal, it’s like you could almost disappear in them!” Looking at Om—what is she, a size 00 tops?—I can see this is a major goal for her.

  DESIGNER JULIAN TENNANT OUR NEW VEGAN HERO!

  “You know, Cannes works out perfectly for us,” says Nano. “Since we’re going into the movie business ourselves next year.” He squeezes Om’s arm. “We’re going to be making a series of documentaries with Sir Paul and Stella to promote more sustainable practices in the music and fashion industries. You know, Lola,” Nano says urgently, tapping the motorcycle table for emphasis, “we each have to bear personal responsibility for the size of our footprints on the planet. We’ve got to make them smaller … if we have to make them at all.”

  I think longingly of my Jimmy Choos. Really, those little stilettos hardly make a dent. “I think it’s wonderful, what you’re doing,” I say, but Om and Nano are already looking down at their PDAs.

  LOOK FOR US AT CANNES! PERFORMING FOR JULIAN TENNANT!

  SHOULD STELLA AND JULIAN DESIGN TOGETHER? TELL US WHAT YOU THINK!

  A waitress materializes next to us. “Are you ready to place your orders, or do you need a few more minutes to decide?” she asks.

  Decide? On what? From what I can tell, there’s absolutely nothing on this menu.

  “I think we’ll have the tasting menu,” Om tells the waitress. “Lola, will you join us?”

  Tasting? Tasting what? “Um, of course, I’m just not sure I … I mean, what exactly is—?”

  “Oh, you’ve never done breatharian?” Om trills. “You’re going to love it. It’s the ultimate in sustainable noneating. The tasting menu is awesome. You breathe into these test tubes, and the condensate from your own lungs is passed through liquid nitrogen, then—” She stops short and furrows her nonexistent brow. “Oh, Nano, you know what I just thought of? Is nitrogen, like, alive?”

  Nano pats her forearm consolingly. “No way! It’s totally a nonliving gas thingey.” Om exhales, then bends over her own PDA.

  USE MORE NITROGEN! NOT ALIVE, NO CARBON FOOTPRINT!

  “So, okay,” Nano continues. “So then they use the liquid nitrogen to freeze your breath, and then they mist it over all these, like, ancient herbs: chia, quinoa, and epazote. Then you do, like, these breath mist shots. You’ll love it. It’s a total rush.”

  “And it does amazing things for your skin,” says Om, stroking a cheek with the ghostly pallor of Morticia Gomez. “I tell all about it on my blog, Squoosh. Um, hold on a sec.” Om taps on her PDA again.

  GASP! OWN BREATH NATURE’S BEST CLEANSER


  “It’s better than locavore,” pronounces Nano. “It’s lungavore.”

  “It sounds … amazing!” I say, hoping my trill will float up to the mist-filled heavens and mix with their trills. “I can’t wait to try it!” The waitress rushes off for our test tubes while Nano taps into his PDA.

  ORGANIC CORIANDER BREATH SHOT ON THE WAY—SO TOTALLY AWESOME!

  Om grabs my hand and starts stroking my forearm. “We really see Julian as the linchpin to our brand extension. Our music put us on the map, but there’s so much else Nano and I need to do. After Cannes and the tour, I see Julian redoing the uniforms for our restaurants—we’re definitely looking to franchise—and designing the wardrobe for our documentaries and videos. Plus we’re going to want him to help us design a line of cruelty-free organic cotton clothes. Time is running out to save the planet. Julian is going to be such an important part of our team!”

  This seems like as good a time as any to just go for it. “I know that you don’t do magazines because of the carbon footprint they leave, which I totally respect,” I say. “But I know that Vain would love to put you on the cover—and just think of the people you could reach with your message of a more sustainable future,” I say, hoping not to sound too desperate. “The piece could be on Julian’s vegan and sustainable designs for your tour. The whole emphasis will be on how you’re changing the way people think about fashion and consumption of precious resources.”

  “You know, it’s not a bad concept,” Om says turning to Nano. “I think we should consider it.”

  “We’ve never done a magazine cover before,” Nano says. “But Julian would definitely be the right designer for us to do one with. The message is right, the partnership with Julian seems right.” I’m more hopeful than I’ve felt in a long time. I’m going to get Coz that damn cover because I have to get that feature piece in Vain for Julian. My life depends on it.

  An hour and seventeen Tweets later, I’ve reclaimed my Jimmy Choos (I caught Om peering at me intently as I slipped them back on my feet) and am heading back to Lev’s house. I can’t tell whether I’m lightheaded because of the incredible coup with Nano and Om, or because I’m completely starving, even after five shots of my own frozen breath, or because I got stuck with a $525 bill for—air? Whatever, Julian is going to freak.

  I dial Julian’s cell and he picks it up, screaming.

  “Are you following Nano and Om’s Tweets? I’m all over them! They love me! Lola, you’re a miracle worker! Listen to this: JULIAN TENNANT MAJOR NEW STAR. THANK YOU, LOLA, GENIUS CEO!

  “Oh, Julian, isn’t it terrific? One more thing nailed down for Cannes. And more business to get LVMH off our backs. This thing with Nano and Om could be huge. How’s it going on your end?”

  “I’m exhausted. I think I bought out every bugle bead M&J Trimming has ever made. But the collection is really coming together. And I sent Chili to the post office to mail those invitations you addressed. I swear, Lola, it’s a full-time job babysitting that boy. Isn’t there anything else you can do to keep him busy?” I picture Julian raking his fingers through his feathered black locks.

  “Julian, you know I’m trying and he is working for us for free and we could really use the extra set of hands. I asked him to make five hundred veils by hand as party favors for each guest. This time he wants to incorporate some doohickey that will download the entire bridal collection via Bluetooth to an iPhone or BlackBerry.”

  “But Lola, we only have space for two hundred fifty people,” says Julian.

  “Chili doesn’t know that,” I say. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I want to call Stefano and tell him the good news about Om and Nano.”

  “Honey, you’ve been incredible,” breathes Julian. “Ooh—wait! Just got another Tweet from your new BFFs. Listen to this: CAN’T WAIT TO BE NEW VIRGINS FOR JULIAN TENNANT! Isn’t that amazing? Add that to your to-do list: Sign up for Nano and Om’s Tweets.”

  “Will do. Bye, Julian, I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” I hang up and before I can dial Stefano my cell trills.

  “What about the Kobe beef? Nadia is waiting for the JPEGs.”

  I grit my teeth to keep an exasperated sigh from expelling. “Ivan, you can’t be serious.”

  “Honey, I’m very serious,” says the booker from IMG Models. “If you want Nadia to walk your show, she needs her beef. And after that dreadful episode with Fendi—can you believe they tried to convince her that Tuscan tenderloin was any kind of substitute?—Nadia insists on seeing photos of the actual Wagyu cattle so she can make her selection.”

  The sad thing is that Nadia’s latest demand isn’t even her craziest one. I’ve already had to agree to have her hotel room stocked with Flintstones chewable vitamins—Wilma only—a dozen acai berry suppositories, a case of chilled Cristal, ten pounds of carrots, a ginseng root “pulled from the ground by a real native,” whatever that means, and an entire watermelon. Each. Fricking. Day. I take a deep breath and remind myself that Nadia is the biggest supermodel du jour. This is the woman who single-handedly caused a run on PF Flyers and Carharrt shortalls after she wore them to the Met Costume Gala. We desperately need her, now more than ever. I will a smile into my voice.

  “I spoke to the maitre d’ at La Tantra, and it will be his pleasure to make sure Nadia gets her Kobe beef daily,” I tell Ivan, “so I don’t think it will be necessary to ship it in from Japan. And I spoke with the Hotel Martinez and they assured me that all the produce in Nadia’s room will be organic and locavore, so we won’t need to ship it all in from Marin. I know Nadia is deeply concerned about her carbon footprint.” I cross my fingers and pray the earth doesn’t swallow me whole with this last whopper. The only footprint Nadia is deeply concerned with is the one left by the Viviers, Choos, and YSLs she receives gratis by the boatload. I can’t believe I’m actually having this conversation right now. This is not what I signed up for when I became the CEO of JT Inc. “So, do we have a deal, Ivan?”

  I bite my lip while Ivan summons the cicada trill of clacking computer keys. “Oh-kay,” he finally announces. “We’re good. But seriously, Lola, Wilma Flintstones only, okay? Nadia can’t take the blue dye in the Dinos.”

  “I’ll sort them personally,” I assure him, stifling my gag reflex.

  * * *

  It’s nearly 9:00 P.M. when Lev finally comes home. I’ve been so swamped that I didn’t even hear his Prius pull up.

  “Honey,” he yells as he walks through the front door.

  “Lev!” I say, throwing myself into his arms. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’ve really missed you.”

  “Me too,” he says. “Are you hungry? I’m completely starving. Pulled another double shift today. So I picked up a bunch of spicy tuna hand rolls from Katsuya for us.”

  “Thanks. I’m starving, too,” I say, biting into a roll straight out of the plastic take-out container before we even make it to Lev’s beat-up wood kitchen table. “Mmmm, these rolls are amazing.”

  “How’d it go with Giga and Dharma?”

  “Nano and Om. And it went great. They not only agreed to perform for practically nothing at Julian’s show, they basically want him to do all the designs for their tour, their restaurants, their entire empire! And they’re considering doing a Vain cover in Julian, which means that we’d get that feature spread that we need so desperately.”

  “Oh, Lola, that’s fantastic news,” says Lev. “Speaking of which, I have some fantastic news of my own.”

  “Hang on, we don’t even have drinks. Is this something that could require a toast? Did you hear back from Lenox Hill Hospital?” I ask, suddenly flush with excitement.

  “No, I haven’t heard back yet, but hopefully soon. I know how much you hate the commute,” Lev says.

  “So … the suspense is killing me, what’s the news?” I say, reaching into the cupboard for two wine glasses.

  “They want to give my character on Para-Medic an arc,” he says. “They’ve offered me a part.”

  “They what?! Well, you’re
not going to take it, right? You said no. Tell me you said no,” I say, the words pouring out of my mouth before I can stop them, my heart racing. This was not part of the plan. The plan was to move to New York and to get out of Hollywood and all the superficial crap surrounding it. Not to dive in headfirst. It’s as though I’m seeing my world shift before my eyes. I steady myself against the cupboard.

  “Well, actually, no, I think I am going to take it,” he says. “I mean, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re a doctor, not an actor.” I wait for him to say it himself as I stare into his green eyes in shock, wondering if this is really happening. Please. Tell me. This is not happening.

  “Of course, I’m not an actor. I know that. But this thing on Para-Medic isn’t full time and the truth is it was kind of fun. Plus, they’re offering me a sizeable amount of money that I could really use to pay off my student loans and maybe we can even buy an apartment in Manhattan instead of renting. I just don’t see how I can say no. The funny thing is, playing at saving lives pays more than actually saving lives.”

  “Yeah, that’s really funny,” I say, thinking: there is nothing funny about this.

  “I’m doing this for us, Lola. Can’t you just be excited for me?”

  Nauseous, anxious, dizzy, terrified, unable to breathe, is more like it. I just can’t believe this is really happening. “I’d rather rent for the rest of our lives. Lev, I’ve spent my entire life trying to get away from actors and Hollywood and I finally did that when I found you and I love you and I want to preserve you and us exactly as we are.”

  Lev pushes his chair back from the table and shakes his head. “You know what, Lola? I’m actually really bummed by your reaction. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and it’s only for one season. I’ve already explained to Shonda that it can’t get in the way of my practice. I am so sick and tired of working nonstop and still having all these loans to pay off. You obviously have no idea what that feels like. I was actually thinking that you’d be happy for me.” Lev sets his plate down and stares at the kitchen table.