Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  “This quote unquote dark phase you’re in doesn’t suit you. You’re the lover. I’m the hater. That’s Lola-and-Kate. Period. Grab the Sun-In. Let’s go to the beach,” she said, pulling me out of bed by the arm.

  Kate was right about me: the whole “dark” phase was a total front. She was wrong about herself: the whole “hater” thing was her front. For one, I happened to know she was in love with Christopher. I snapped out of my phase by senior year and went right back to my usual: giving people the benefit of the doubt. Kate, well, she was a kid cynic who grew into a Harvard-educated cynic who joined the club of thriving and prospering Hollywood-agent cynics. Kate and Chris, they never really shook each other, even though it took them another decade to find their way back together after that first blush of teen romance. And then it took Kate no time at all to sabotage it. The biggest difference between Kate and me is that I keep expecting the best out of people and she keeps expecting the worst. But here’s where we’re the same: we’ll protect the heck out of the people we care about—until the end. And I think it’s about time Kate gave the human race a little credit, starting with Chris. Scratch that, starting with herself.

  “You know, Kate, you don’t have to be afraid of being honest with Chris about your feelings,” I say. “It’s okay for you to express your—”

  “Gotta run.” She stops me as I’m just getting started. Boom. Kate’s cement-wall-to-the-face. “Talk later.”

  Click.

  Forget it. I have too much on my plate to play Kate’s shrink right now. There’s just too much riding on Cannes to let this distract me.

  “How’s Om’s gown coming?” I ask Julian as he saunters back in with two steaming teacups and hands me one.

  “It’s going to be amazing. She’s going to out-Madonna Madonna. Have Natalie Portman’s people committed to the vegan satin slide yet?” Julian asks.

  I tap a note into my iPhone. “I’ll check on that,” I say. “They’ve been stalling me big time. Has Chili told you how many RSVPs we have so far?”

  “Nope. And he’s still at his trig exam. What is trig, anyway?”

  I always forget that Chili’s some freak prodigy who’s still in the tenth grade. “I’ll send him a text about the RSVPs now,” I say, tapping into my cell.

  When I turn back to the television screen Oprah’s back from commercial saying, “So Saffron…”

  “Yes, Oprah.”

  “The thing that all of America wants to know, and I’m just the middleman here because it’s not me that wants to know, but the audience is dying to hear what’s happening between you and your hunky costar Markus Livingston. There have even been rumors of a surprise wedding in Cannes.”

  “I thought I was already married to Bradley Cooper, according to the tabloids,” Saffron jokes. “Oprah, the only wedding taking place at Cannes is the one onscreen in the movie, and I don’t want to give anything away because Baz is going to kill me, but it’s way more interesting than my real-life wedding would ever be.”

  “Do you want to get married someday?” Oprah asks.

  “Before I made this movie, I might have said no, but yeah, I’d like to get married. I’m a huge romantic, and who doesn’t love being in love?” Saffron asks.

  “Are you in love now?” Oprah asks.

  “Oprah! I can’t believe you just asked me that. Well, um, I’m in love with this movie,” Saffron deftly answers with a wry smile. “We had so much fun making it. And it was such a huge treat to play Markus’s fiancée in the movie. He’s got a wicked sense of humor and the man oozes sex appeal. Am I right, ladies?” Saffron says to the cooing studio audience. “And Cricket Curtis is phenomenal.”

  “Markus and Cricket are both here and coming out in a few minutes, so maybe we’ll be able to pry some more info out of them,” Oprah says. “Back in a minute.” They cut to commercial.

  “What’s the real deal with Saffron and Markus? Did Cricket tell you?” Julian asks.

  “Not a peep. But I haven’t really gotten to talk to her properly since they got back from their trip. They flew straight to Chicago from Greece.”

  “I still can’t believe Saffron and Markus took Cricket with them on their love cruise around the world. That Markus is so hot. I’d like to see him in a Speedo,” Julian says.

  I decide to check out Twitter to see if anyone’s Tweeting about Oprah. I sent out an e-mail blast, Facebook, and Twitter, so I can’t wait for the reactions. Suddenly, a flood of Tweets fills my screen.

  SAW NANO EATING BIG MAC. MEAT IS MURDER.

  MOTHER EARTH IS DYING OF THIRST AND OM TOOK HALF-HOUR SHOWER THIS MORNING.

  NANO TEST-DROVE ESCALADE. NO OIL FOR BLOOD.

  CAUGHT OM CARRYING JIMMY CHOO SHOPPING BAG. LEATHER LIAR.

  NANO ATE GRAPES FROM PERU. BIG STOMPING CARBON FOOTPRINT.

  OM THREW OUT CFLS BECAUSE SHE SAID THEY DIDN’T “FLATTER HER SKIN TONES” AND WEARS MAKEUP TESTED ON HELPLESS BUNNIES.

  I scroll down the screen. What the hell is going on? Nano and Om are lobbing electronic spitballs at each other at lightning speed. “Omigod, Julian, Nano and Om are having some kind of Twitter war. I don’t know what’s going on. Look at this,” I practically yelp, handing him my iPhone.

  Julian just stares at the screen, mouth agape.

  “I’m sure it will blow over,” I say. “It’s probably nothing. I mean everyone fights over Twitter these days, right? Aren’t Anderson Cooper and Ashton Kutcher always getting into epic battles?”

  “Yeah,” Julian says, though it’s clear he doesn’t really mean it.

  “Oprah’s back on,” I say, relieved for the distraction. Saffron’s now seated beside Markus.

  “It was a nice change of pace to be in a movie where I didn’t kill anyone or have to jump out of a plane at twenty thousand feet,” Markus is saying, flashing that heartbreaking smile of his that’s surrounded by photo-shoot-worthy stubble.

  “I think fans of The Suicide Squad are going to be quite surprised that you can sing,” Oprah says.

  “Well, I’m no Justin Timberlake, but I tried my best,” Markus says in his super-sexy gravely voice, running his hands through his legendary brown locks.

  “Are you enjoying this? Having the number-one grossing action film of all time with The Suicide Squad, a Golden Globe nomination, and now starring opposite Saffron Sykes. Are you enjoying this? Because you look like you are,” Oprah says.

  “Oprah, I am loving it,” he says, flashing a huge grin. “Loving it. I wake up every morning thinking, ‘you lucky bastard.’”

  Oprah lets out a hearty laugh and then says, “We’ll be right back with Cricket Curtis.” Yes! Finally.

  During the commercial break I check my iPhone again. No more Om and Nano Tweets. Thank heavens whatever the hell that was blew over.

  “Please welcome newcomer Cricket Curtis,” Oprah howls and I look up at the TV screen.

  I grab Julian’s hand. As the camera pans across the stage to reveal Cricket from behind a stage door suddenly the screen goes black and then—

  “We interrupt this program to bring you breaking news,” Diane Sawyer says. What?! No, no, no, no, no. Not now. Not when Cricket is on Oprah and she’s wearing Julian! What’s happening? What is happening? The camera pulls back to show an angry mob scene behind Diane’s shoulder. Punches are being thrown, cars rocked and—good lord, did somebody just set fire to that bench?

  “A riot has broken out in Los Angeles. Police are on the scene, and we’ve received reports of a death. Let’s go to Naomi Walker of local affiliate KABC-TV for more on the story.”

  The local reporter’s voice is barely audible over the screaming crowd. “It’s a nightmare, Diane. I’m standing in front of Cut, Wolfgang Puck’s famous steak restaurant in the Beverly Wilshire hotel, where a paparazzo has just been reported stampeded to death. More than an estimated four hundred people have gathered here based on reports that megastar and diehard vegan and animal activist Nano was spotted eating red meat,” she says.

 
A grainy video shows Nano flailing wildly at the mass of paps flanking him outside Cut while cops circle him wielding batons. “Jesus bleep Christ!” he screams. “Get offa me! All I wanted was a bleep steak! That bitch’s been making me eat twigs and berries for four bleep years!”

  “As hundreds of paparazzi clamored to get a shot of Nano eating a New York strip, one man may have lost his life,” Naomi intones. “Police are attempting to disperse the crowds, which as you can see continue to grow.” The reporter flinches at the sound of breaking glass behind her.

  “That is horrific. Do they know what set the whole thing off?” Diane asks.

  “The crowds apparently arrived on the scene after a text swarm. Om and Nano have over a million Twitter followers, fifty thousand in Los Angeles alone, and this was in response to a very public altercation that started just minutes ago.”

  “Death by text and Tweet. Just one more sobering example of the brave new world of new media we live in,” says Diane. “And now I understand we have L.A. police commissioner William Bratton on the line to comment on today’s fatal development. Commissioner Bratton?”

  Julian grabs the remote and starts flicking through the channels. Nano’s face fills every station. “Am I asleep? Please tell me that I’m asleep and this is just a bad nightmare because this can’t be happening. This cannot be happening,” Julian says, his voice cracking.

  I attempt to speak, but no sound comes out of my mouth. A paparazzo stampeded to death? All because Nano ate a fucking steak? Cricket’s appearance on Oprah has been preempted because Nano ate a fucking steak? It’s too much for my brain to process. Diane Sawyer is still speaking, but the only sound I can hear is a deafening buzzing in my ears.

  “We are so screwed. We are so screwed,” Julian repeats over and over and over in a soft whisper. “Cannes is right around the corner. We are so screwed.”

  “Maybe it’ll blow over,” I say, though I don’t believe it will.

  “Blow over?! Lola, Nano is one of the biggest stars in the world and a paparazzo is dead. This is not going to blow over,” Julian shrieks as my cell starts buzzing.

  “Oh god, it’s Stefano,” I say. “He’s in town and I told him to be sure to watch Cricket on Oprah.”

  “Don’t answer it,” Julian says.

  I look at the phone and then over to Julian. Phone. Julian. Phone. Julian.

  “Put down the phone, Lo,” Julian says.

  I look at my cell in my palm and let it go to voice mail.

  “I should have answered that. What are we going to do now?” I say.

  “We are so screwed. We are so screwed,” Julian repeats like a mantra.

  Breathe, Lola, breathe. It’s going to be okay. I attempt to do a reframing. Om and Nano have broken up before. They’ll get back together again this time too, right? And then they’ll perform at Cannes just like they’re supposed to. Maybe the people on the West Coast will still get to see Cricket on Oprah. It’s not like the media can cover Steak-gate all day, right?

  As the minutes crawl by, we hear from three photographers, two stunned onlookers, a paramedic treating some scrawny vegans for smoke inhalation, the manager of Cut, Wolfgang Puck, a few cops. And a one word text from Kate:

  FUCKED.

  “We are so screwed. We are so screwed,” I mutter and wish I hadn’t actually said it out loud because it makes it seem all too real. I just thank god that I didn’t mention to Julian that Om and Nano were considering doing that Vain cover. What the heck am I going to do now to convince Coz to get Julian that spread? And who am I going to get to replace Namo at Cannes? “We are so screwed,” reverberates over and over in my head.

  I’m midcrawl into the fetal position when my cell trills. It’s Ivan from IMG Models. At least we still have Nadia. I walk into the back bedroom to take the call.

  “What is it, Ivan?” I ask as sweetly as I can muster. “Is there something else Nadia needs?” Kangaroo cutlets? Papaya wrapped in twenty-four-karat gold leaf? First-press extra-virgin heroin poppy seed oil?

  “I was actually calling you because Nadia has the chicken pox and isn’t going to be able to do the show,” Ivan says. No! She has to do the show. “She was shooting the new Burberry campaign with Mario Testino and a bunch of toddlers and one of the little nightmares gave her the chicken pox. Can you believe it? I have to clear her schedule for the next two weeks at least. You can’t believe how much money I’m losing on commission alone.”

  “I … I … I,” I fumble. Deep breath. Pull it together, Lola. “Ivan, we were really counting on Nadia. Are you sure there’s no way she’ll be better by then?”

  “I just saw her and there’s definitely no way. She looks worse than Jessica Simpson before the Proactiv. I’m sorry, darling,” he says. Click.

  I hate my life. What are we supposed to do now? I put my head in my hands. I feel like I’m thinking through cotton wool. But I will not give up here. We’re just too close.

  And then it comes to me. I walk back into the living room where Julian is still rocking back and forth in front of the TV. “Who was that on the phone?” he asks.

  “Ivan,” I say. “Bad news. Nadia can’t walk your show. Chicken pox. I mean, you’ve almost got to laugh, right?”

  Julian gives a strangled cry. “Oh my god, what else? Lola, what are we going to do? We are so screwed. So screwed.”

  I walk over to him and grip his shoulders. “Stop it, Julian. We’re not screwed. Not yet. I have an idea. What about Aria Fraser?”

  “What about her?” asks Julian. “She’s retired. Presumably sleeping on those huge piles of cash.” Aria was one of the nineties’ most visible icons, one of the original supermodels, who out-Linda-ed Linda by proclaiming, “I don’t wake up for less than twenty-five thousand dollars a day.” Who out-Naomi-ed Naomi with her tantrums, including bashing Grace Coddington’s assistant with a crocodile Birkin.

  “Didn’t she model in your graduation show when you were at Central Saint Martins?” I ask. That was that glorious minute when Julian was being touted as the Next Christian Dior—enough pandemonium to prompt not only Aria, but Naomi, Cindy, Christy, and Linda to forsake retirement for a single afternoon flogging his frocks.

  “Yes, but you know she hasn’t walked since then. And it was a total fluke getting her in the first place.”

  “Well, then, what could be more perfect than having her model in another Julian Tennant show?” I say.

  “Do you know how many requests she gets a day for her to walk? She says no to everyone. Giorgio even offered her a hundred fifty grand and she turned him down,” Julian says. “She doesn’t need the money.”

  “But you know what she does need? Publicity.”

  “For what?”

  “I read somewhere that Aria wants to launch a line of biodegradable stilettos. We could offer to preview it on your runway. It’s a win-win for both of us.”

  “Biodegradable shoes?” Julian breathes.

  I flip open my laptop and tap furiously. “Look. Here are some of her designs. They’re actually kind of pretty. She’s making them out of cardboard made from sustainably grown softwood pines certified by the Forest Stewardship Council. Here’s a quote from her: ‘I want to make beautiful shoes so that women don’t have to feel guilty about buying next season’s shoes now that last season’s are biodegradable.’”

  “Lola, that’s just nutty,” Julian says.

  “Okay, fine, maybe, but that’s what everyone said about Natalie Portman’s vegan line and now everyone loves them! And besides, Natalie’s people aren’t getting back to us and here’s a chance to horse trade for something that Aria actually needs.”

  Julian shakes his head. “I don’t know, Lo.”

  “Here’s the kicker: Grace Frost loves Aria. They go way back. We get Aria back on the runway and we’ll get Vain’s attention. We’re definitely not going to get there with Coz constantly road-blocking us.” I hold out my cell. “So, do I call Ivan or not?”

  This time Julian doesn’t hesitat
e. “Give it a shot, Ms. CEO. It’s totally nutty, but right now I’ll take nutty over nothing.”

  “Wish me luck,” I say. “And keep watching. Maybe they’ll get back to Oprah and Cricket before the end.”

  A half-hour later I emerge triumphant from the bedroom. “I just booked Aria Fraser for the show! How do you like your Ms. CEO now?”

  But Julian just sits still, stone faced, in front of the television. He raises a sepulchral finger toward the screen.

  “Om and Nano just released the following statement on their Facebook page,” Diane Sawyer is saying. “‘To our beloved fans: words cannot express how deeply saddened we are by today’s devastating events. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the family and friends of Stephen Smith, who lost his life today. After four years of collaboration, we have decided that the best way to achieve a sustainable world is through our separate paths. While we deeply love and respect each other, we believe that our new creative journeys are best explored as individuals. We want to thank the fans who have enjoyed and supported our music and express the hope that others will move the breatharian movement forward in the absence of our restaurant. Om leaves tomorrow for her six-month deeksha training. Nano will spend the next six months renouncing all earthly possessions with the sadhus in Nepal. We will keep you posted separately with our new ventures. Peace out, Nano and Om.’ Of course we’ll continue to follow this story as new developments arise. For now we’ll take you back to your regularly scheduled programming. This is Diane Sawyer for ABC News.”

  9

  return to cannes-dy land

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. How may I help you?” the concierge at the ultra chic Art Deco Hotel Martinez asks from his desk anchored within the large marble lobby. Julian and I arrived a couple of days ago. Of course, we had to stay at the Hotel Martinez on the Boulevard de La Croisette since all the fashion folk stay here, all the better to bump accidentally into the writers from Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, Style.com, etc., who might deign to mention Julian’s show in their Twitters or Facebook updates. Or, like Marcy Medina from WWD, tell us that she never received her invitation to the show, which could explain why we have no RSVPs. Chili mailed out the invitations weeks ago and he’s supposed to be calling everyone to follow up. But since he clearly can’t be trusted to do anything, I’ve been making more calls than a Tea Party robocaller to try and remedy yet another epic Chili screwup.