Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  I take a deep breath and do a reframe. I mean, he’s right, we could use that money to get a great place in New York. He’s thinking about us. It’s not a bad thing to have some financial security going into our marriage. Okay, my heart rate seems to be settling.

  “Sorry for overreacting,” I say, realizing that I’m dumping all of my old heartbreak onto him—all of those terrible, narcissistic Actor Boyfriends. Lev is none of those things. “I was really out of line. You have every right to be excited about this. I mean, it’s exciting. Again, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Lev says flatly, pushing away from the table. “Listen, I’m really tired. I’m going to head off to bed.”

  “Aren’t you going to have any more sushi?”

  “No, I’m all done,” he says. “Just lost my appetite.” He leaves the kitchen before I can say another word.

  We barely speak the next morning as Lev drives me to the airport so I can catch my flight back to New York. The second Lev’s car pulls away from the curb I contemplate calling Dr. Gilmore. I seriously regret giving her up. But Lev and I couldn’t both continue to see her, right? I know that she wouldn’t approve of this stupid Eau du Freak-Out that I’m still wearing. It smells so, so bad. Oh dumb, dumb, desperate, panicked me. As I make my way through security feeling terribly alone, with the realization that I’ve lost my therapist for good, my worst fear of all is that I’ll lose my doctor too.

  * * *

  “It’s four in the morning in NYC, what are you doing up?” I’m so grateful to hear Kate’s voice that I don’t even care that she’s yelling at me over the phone line.

  “I haven’t been able to sleep ever since Lev said he was going to take that job on Para-Medic. Did you ever watch that clip I sent you? The worst part is, he’s actually good. What am I going to do, Kate? I’m freaking out,” I say, kicking the covers on Julian’s couch off me.

  “Do you know who’s going to negotiate his deal?”

  “Kate, I’m talking about my fiancé becoming an actor, the worst possible thing that could ever happen to me, and you’re asking who’s going to negotiate his deal?”

  “I’d be willing to do it for five percent instead of my usual ten,” Kate says. “Look, Lola, as long as he’s doing it, he should get the best deal possible.”

  “Kate!” I scream.

  “Oh okay, fine, I’ll do it for free, but only because it’s you.”

  “Kate, I don’t want you to do it at all. I don’t want Lev to act. Period.”

  “Lola, Lev isn’t SMITH. And he’s not Jake Jones. He’s not like any of those other narcissistic asshole actors you dated before. Look, Lo, I know how badly you’ve been hurt. SMITH was the worst—he shattered you. And I’m no Doctor Gilmore, but I think a good therapist would tell you that this isn’t just about the ridiculous actors you’ve been with in the past, it’s about your parents, too. But don’t spray your abandonment issues all over Lev. He doesn’t deserve that. He deserves better and so do you. You deserve Lev. He’s a good guy and he loves you. It’s going to be okay.”

  Maybe she’s right. Lev isn’t the Sexiest Man in the Hemisphere. Or a flaky action hero-cum-asshole. Maybe Lev’s right. Maybe I’m just being a total idiot here. Kate’s always had a way of cutting right through my BS and holding up a mirror for me. Sometimes I wonder if we’re best friends because we’re like the mothers we never had.

  “Thanks, Kate. You’re a good analyst. When do you get to work on yourself?” I joke—kind of.

  “Same diagnosis. I blame my parents. Pretty much works for everyone, wouldn’t you say?” Kate says before getting back to business as quickly as possible. “Does that mean I can do his deal?”

  “Call Lev and ask him. I’m staying out of it,” I say.

  “Okay,” Kate says. “Meanwhile, I have some news that should lift your spirits. I was waiting until you were up to call but you beat me to the punch. Saffron and Markus are doing an appearance on Oprah’s special to promote the movie. And guess who’s going be appearing with them—our own Cricket Curtis!”

  “That’s amazing!” I say breathlessly.

  “You have no idea how insane that negotiation was. Oprah’s specials are the new Holy Grail. I’ve spent the last seventy-two hours getting Oprah’s people to agree to get Cricket and Markus on since Oprah really just wanted to spend the whole hour with Saffron, but I dug in. And Saffron really pushed for Cricket, too.”

  “I have to call Cricket immediately and get her to wear Julian,” I say.

  “You don’t think we’ve already thought of that? What do you take us for?”

  “Oh of course, sorry. Kate! This is so fantastic! I have to get Cricket a slew of outfit options. Where is she? Where do I send them?”

  “I’m e-mailing you the shipping address in Chicago right now,” Kate says.

  “Great, I’ll get on that immediately. This is going to be huge for us! I mean, Lady O. Come on, it doesn’t get any better than that. There’s no amount of money LVMH could even spend to rival the kind of exposure—and god willing, sales—we’re going to get from Cricket wearing Julian on Oprah,” I say, starting to feel a shift on the horizon. Things are looking up. First Om and Nano. And now this. Even more good news to pass along to Stefano and less likelihood that they’ll pull our financing. This may even get them off my back about the Cannes budget, which they’ve been making me slash like I’m freaking Timothy Geithner. “Kate?”

  “Oh sorry, what’d you say? I’m just reading The Hollywood Reporter online.”

  “Kate, this is just so fantastic,” I say again.

  “Forgetting Petunia Holt,” Kate says emphatically and then repeats the refrain with more emphasis, “Forgetting Petunia Holt!”

  “What?!” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

  “Forgetting Petunia Fucking Holt! Jesus, Lola, why didn’t tell me?”

  “What are you talking about, Kate?” I say.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Lola,” she says, her voice arctic. “It’s right here in black and white. ‘Christopher Santisi is in negotiations with Fox Searchlight to acquire his directorial debut, Forgetting Petunia Holt, a dramedy that’s Easy Rider meets Into the Wild meets The Hangover. After being dumped by the love of his life, Justin Cooper goes on a road trip to the desert to forget Petunia Holt.’ Should I keep reading?”

  “No, stop. Please stop. Kate, I had no idea,” I say. What has my brother done?

  “You had no idea?” Kate says.

  “No!”

  “None?!”

  “Well … uh … umm … Christopher did tell me he was making a movie inspired by you. He was calling it Into the Woods. He started it when you two were together and he swore me to secrecy because he wanted to surprise you. He must have changed the name of the film after you broke up with him.”

  “So you’re saying this is my fault?”

  “No, of course not. Look, Kate, I’m sure the movie isn’t as bad as the title seems. I mean, Easy Rider meets Into the Wild meets The Hangover—what does that even mean? Maybe it doesn’t really have all that much to do with you. And nobody knows that Christopher used to call you Petunia.” Nobody except Kate, myself, Lev, and Christopher. And Holt is Kate’s mother’s maiden name.

  “So you haven’t seen the movie?” she asks.

  “No. Not a single frame,” I say.

  “I just can’t believe he’d do this to me. How could he do this?” she says in a soft voice. It’s the most vulnerable I’ve heard her since she and Christopher broke up.

  I suddenly realize that this is a nightmare for Kate, who can barely even deal with her private life privately. And now it’s going to be up there on the big screen for all the world to see? But this is fantastic for Christopher. I hate this feeling that something that’s so good for my brother can be so bad for my best friend. What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to console Kate? “Maybe you should call Christopher,” I say, “talk it through.”

  “No, I can’t do th
at,” she says. God forbid Kate should talk about her feelings. Especially to Christopher.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Lola, I’m sure. And what’s he going to say anyway?”

  “I’m having breakfast with him tomorrow. He’s in town shooting a music video for The Killers. I’ll try and get more info on the movie,” I say and regret it immediately. I’d rather wear an acrylic bodysuit than be in the middle of this thing between my brother and my best friend.

  “Thanks, Lola,” Kate says. “I wonder how much Fox Searchlight is offering him for the movie and who’s doing the deal,” she says and just like that, Kate is back to being Kate.

  “I’ll call you after breakfast,” I say.

  “With details. And preferably numbers.”

  “Goodnight, Kate.”

  “Goodnight, Lo.”

  Click.

  * * *

  “Forgetting Petunia Holt?!” I say to Christopher over French toast with caramelized apples at the Mercer Kitchen. “Please tell me it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “I didn’t make the movie to hurt Kate, La-La,” Christopher says. He runs his hands through his thick mop of messy light brown hair. I can still see some lingering fragments of pain in his pale blue eyes. Pain that my best friend caused him and I’m still not certain I’ve forgiven her for that. “I was originally making it as a fucking love letter to her, you know that, but then she ended it.” He pushes the scrambled eggs around on his plate and takes a sip of fresh-squeezed OJ. “It just kind of evolved into what it is now and it’s actually been very cathartic. I don’t think I would have survived this breakup without this movie, and no one’s going to know that it’s Kate. It’s much more about me than it is about her.”

  “I just wish you would have told me so I could have warned her it was coming,” I say. “You know, you really should have called her yourself.”

  “I know. I know. But it’s so hard to talk to her, you know how she can be,” he says, fidgeting with the zipper on his gray hoodie.

  “So when do I get to see the movie?” I ask.

  “Well … I just found out an hour ago that I got into competition at Cannes!” he exclaims. “So I guess you can see it then.”

  “What?! Christopher, we need to celebrate immediately. I can’t believe you let me go on and on and didn’t say anything. This is the most amazing news! I’m so happy for you.” I reach over the Wenge wood table to give him a kiss on the cheek. My phone vibrates on the table. “Chris, it’s Mom calling; let’s tell her about Cannes,” I say as I click on the speakerphone. “Hi Mom, I’m with Christopher and you’re on speakerphone.”

  “Hi darlings,” Mom says. “I have some really exciting news. I’m so happy you’re both together.”

  “Christopher just told me the most amazing news as well. Chris, tell Mom,” I say.

  Chris leans over the cell phone. “I just found out that my film is going to be in the dramatic competition at Cannes.”

  “Your film,” my mother exclaims in shock. “What film?”

  “The film Chris has been secretly working on for the last—how long’s it been, Chris?” I ask.

  “A long time,” he says quietly.

  “Oh darling, that’s incredible, I’m so proud of you,” Mom says. “Both my men, together at Cannes!”

  “Mom, what are you talking about?” No. No no no. I have a sinking feeling.

  “That’s my exciting news, darling. We’ve just learned that your father’s movie got into the dramatic competition too! Can you believe it! Two Santisis at the same competition! Think of the publicity! I’m going to have to throw the most spectacular party at Cannes! I better call Alex right away and make sure we can add more camera crew. There’ll be some amazing footage for Wristwatch Wives. Darlings, isn’t this the most happy day?”

  I look over at Chris. His face is ashen, his mouth set in a tight line. “Yeah, Mom,” I say. “We’re all just so … happy.”

  8

  “I’d like to welcome the lively, the lovely Saffron Sykes,” Oprah bellows in her trademark O style, enunciating every letter of Saffron’s name to a cheering crowd as she takes to her killer stingray stiletto’d feet and claps. From behind a closed stage door Saffron appears in all of her Amazonian glory, striding across the stage in a sun-bleached silk floral dress that exposes those golden gazelle legs.

  Saffron beams at the audience, waving and smiling. With her glossy raven hair pushed back in a loose knot she embodies that elusive, carefree “done but undone,” effortless vibe that’s become her signature; that she’s just like you—if you were an Oscar-winning screen goddess blessed with phenomenal genes. Oprah and Saffron embrace like they’ve been best friends since preschool. As Oprah tries to quiet the applauding studio audience, I try and get Julian from the other room where he’s been manically working on Om’s gown. I’m totally terrified he’s going to get carpal tunnel again from the nonstop sewing.

  “Julian, get your ass in here! Oprah’s on!” I yell.

  “One sec. I just have to finish this pleat,” he shouts back.

  “Hi Oprah,” Saffron says settling into the cream sofa and crossing her mile-long legs. “I’m so excited to be here.”

  “You look fantastic. Love the dress,” Oprah says. Please love Cricket’s outfit just as much—I beam her telepathically. Lady O and I are deeply connected. She just doesn’t know it.

  “Thank you so much. It’s Alexander Wang. I don’t think I’m ever going to take it off. I just love it.” Saffron coos like a giddy schoolgirl. Lucky, lucky Alexander Wang. I’m sure that dress is going to sell out everywhere.

  Oprah leans forward conspiratorially. “So Saffron, I saw Four Weddings and a Bris last night and loved it. You’ve got some pipes on you. I had no idea.”

  “Thank you, Oprah. It was such a huge honor to work with Baz. I’ve been a fan for such a long time and we’ve been trying to work together forever, but nothing seemed right until now,” Saffron says.

  “You’re premiering the film at the Cannes Film Festival. There’s no place more glamorous than Cannes, is there?” Oprah says as Julian walks into the room.

  “I didn’t miss Cricket yet, did I?” Julian asks.

  “No, not yet,” I say.

  “Saffron looks stunning,” Julian says. “Is that Alexander Wang?”

  “Lucky bastard,” I say as my cell trills.

  “You watching?” Kate says on the other end.

  “Of course I am. Where are you?”

  “I’m here with Cricket in the Green Room backstage at Oprah. She’s getting her makeup touched up before she goes out.”

  “Hi Lo,” I hear her call out excitedly from a distance.

  “Hi Cricket,” I squeal like a five-year-old despite myself.

  “She looks stunning. Really Lo, this dress is incredible. One of my favorites of Julian’s,” Kate says of the black-and-gray Aztec-printed micro-pleat minidress Cricket decided on.

  “I overnighted practically everything we have in the loft and thank god she’s sample size and that something actually worked,” I say, feeling a wave of excitement. “This is such a huge opportunity for us, Kate. Thank you for looking out, as usual.”

  “How’s everything else coming?” she asks. “Any movement?”

  “I haven’t told Julian,” I whisper while he heads toward the kitchen during a commercial break. “I dangled a carrot to Coz that I could get Om and Nano for a Vain cover if she’d give us the spread we need.”

  “But they won’t do magazine covers, Lo,” Kate says nervously.

  “That’s why this is such a big deal. When I met with them they were on board with the idea. They feel like kindred spirits with Julian as fellow vegans. Having them will seal it for us with Coz. It would be their first magazine cover ever. And it would be Vain’s.”

  “That would be huge. I’m sure Coz nearly peed her pants. It sounds like you’re doing everything possible—it’ll all come together,” Kate says. There’s a silence be
fore she asks, “So how was seeing Chris?” I’m not sure how she wants me to answer. That it was great? That I’m ecstatic for my brother? That he’s finally having a shot at his dream? That his movie …

  “Got into Cannes,” spills out of me. “He’s in the dramatic competition—against our father.”

  It’s so quiet I think the phone line’s gone dead before Kate speaks. “Guess it’ll be one big, happy party, huh. This is just great,” she moans. “I’m really not looking forward to this.”

  “Kate, would you just call him!”

  “No, absolutely not,” she says self-righteously. “I don’t have time.”

  “You have time to call me!”

  “Well you—you’re—a necessity.”

  “What does that make Chris?” I ask.

  “A pain in my ass,” she announces. What I want to say is, More like a pain in your heart. But I don’t. Now’s not the time. Instead, I’m flooded by a memory. Kate and I were seventeen and visiting my grandparents in Florida during spring break. We spent most of our days on the beach baking in the sun and spraying Sun-In on our hair until it turned a strange shade of orange. One morning I woke up in the twin bed next to Kate, angsting over some cute guy I’d seen on the beach the day before who had the temerity to ignore my pathetic attempts at flirting. We’d just learned about that Sartre guy in my English class at Crossroads. So I decided to throw down some knowledge that I thought Kate might appreciate. “Hell is other people,” I said coolly, pulling the covers over me and propping myself up on a pillow.

  “Sartre, No Exit,” Kate said without skipping a beat as she slid into her bikini and threw on her Polo shorts. “Good one,” she nodded. Though I knew she really wasn’t that impressed. I was going through one of those phases where I was wearing too much dark eyeliner and throwing around literary references as often as possible. When my mother would ask, “Why are you wearing so much black?!” I’d give her a Chekhov and announce, “I’m in mourning for my life.” Thing was, Kate knew me too well.