Beneath a Starlet Sky Page 16

  “Hello,” I say groggily, turning on the video. I struggle to focus my eyes and sit up. “Oh my god. What happened? Are you okay?” Lev’s face and scrubs are covered in blood. He looks like something out of Saw IX.

  “Oh this,” he says, wiping at the mess. “It’s fake. I’m on the set.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying not to visibly shudder despite the chills running down my spine. It’s just one season. As soon as he hears back from Lenox Hill hospital he’s going to move to NYC and forget all about Para-Medic and this whole acting thing. It’s not like I’m marrying Ben Affleck, right? I need to be supportive. Say something supportive, I urge myself. “The blood looks so real. You totally freaked me out.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. The makeup artist went a little wild. It’s this crazy scene where what looks to be a tumor I’m removing from a patient’s belly turns out to be the spawn of an alien and a vampire and it attacks one of the nurses and I have to try and stop the bleeding before the baby turns the nurse into a vampire,” Lev says.

  “Vampires are the new black,” I say. “I mean, who even heard of Stephen Moyer or Robert Pattinson before all this?”

  “Who?” Lev asks.

  That’s my Lev. The only guy in the world who’s never heard of Twilight or True Blood or The Vampire Diaries.

  “I really miss you,” I say. “I can’t wait to see you. I’m so happy that you’re coming in a couple of days.”

  “Me too,” Lev says. “I wish I could have been there for Christopher’s premiere. How’d it go?”

  “It was amazing. He got a standing ovation. I’m so happy for him,” I say.

  “I’ve been so nervous. I didn’t want to call him until I spoke to you but I can’t wait to talk to him. That’s such great news,” Lev says.

  “Kate thinks he could win the Palme d’Or.”

  “Kate was there?” Lev asks.

  “Yeah, she snuck in after the lights went down. I still can’t believe she came.”

  “How’s she doing?” Lev asks.

  “You know Kate,” I say. “She’s pretending like she’s okay but I know she’s not. I know she’s still in love with my bro—”

  “Hey man,” a man’s voice interrupts our conversation from out of the camera’s view. I can just make out the man’s hand patting Lev’s shoulder. “You were really great earlier. Let me know if you want to come by my trailer and run lines for our next scene.” I try and place the man’s voice. It sounds so familiar.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’d love to,” Lev says.

  “So what’re you up to? Working on the cure for cancer between takes?” the man teases Lev. That voice. How do I know that voice?

  “I was actually just Skyping with my fiancée,” Lev says.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” the man says. “Sorry about that,” he says, popping into frame to apologize to me. “Hi, I’m Patrick.” Dempsey. Oh my god. Lev is going to run lines with Patrick freaking Dempsey. McDreamy himself! What’s next? An onscreen kiss with Ellen Pompeo? This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening.

  “This is Lola,” Lev finally says after a few very awkward beats.

  “Hi, sorry, I don’t usually get starstruck, you just took me by surprise,” I say.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you, Lola,” Patrick says, flashing me one of his famous smiles. He exits the camera’s frame.

  “Bye, Patrick. It was so nice to meet you!” I yell, feeling like a refugee from Tiger Beat with Bieber Fever.

  “See you in five in my trailer, Lev,” I hear Patrick say.

  “Sorry about that,” Lev says to me. “Is everything okay? You were kind of weird to Patrick.”

  “Really?” I say. “I guess I was just so shocked to see him. I didn’t realize he was on the show,” I say.

  “He’s doing one episode as a favor to Chandra. His character from Grey’s comes over to do a special neuro consult on a patient,” Lev says. “And it’s gonna turn out that the patient has two brains—one human, one alien—and they’re gonna ask me to operate with him assisting. But the alien brain is psychic, so the patient knows all about it already and he’s gonna try and kill us both by using telekinesis to stick the anesthesia needles in our arms from across the room. But don’t tell anyone, ’cause we’re all sworn to secrecy, okay?”

  “That’s just so … great,” I say, forcing a smile and trying to act as if I’m a supportive fiancée and not some loony mess who’s spiraling into a massive panic at the thought of her doctor fiancé acting opposite Patrick Dempsey. What if Lev wants Patrick at the wedding? What if he wants him to be a groomsman—or best man!—instead of his own brother! Jump. Off. The. Crazy. Train! I order myself.

  “Thank you for trying to be supportive, Lola. I really appreciate it—even if you don’t really mean it,” Lev says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you really are a terrible actress,” Lev says.

  I feign mock shock. “Well, maybe you can give me some pointers,” I tease.

  “I still have no idea what I’m doing,” Lev says.

  “According to Patrick, you were really great.”

  “I wouldn’t say great. I think he’s just being kind,” Lev says. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to run.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you go, no worries, good luck rehearsing with Patrick,” I say.

  “Wait, I feel badly, I haven’t even asked about you. How’s it going there? Is everything okay?” Lev asks.

  “It’ll be a miracle if Julian and I don’t kill each other. He fired the DJ we flew in from Hotel Costes in Paris because he thought his rendition of ‘Here Comes the Bride’ was too techno, so now I’m trying to get Sam Ronson. I’ve had to redo the seating chart a dozen times because the French Gwyneth Paltrow has broken up and gotten back together with one of the Monaco royals at least twice over the last week. Orchestrating the seating so that everyone’s happy is harder than putting together a UN resolution for Iran. We only have one hundred RSVPs—we sent out over two hundred fifty—and the Next Giselle murdered the finale gown at her fitting yesterday. She decided to breast-feed her kid in the ivory chiffon hand-beaded goddess gown and got breast milk all over it.”

  “DOB, huh?” Lev says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Dead On Breastfeeding.”

  “Very funny. This is serious,” I say.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” Lev says. “You’re going to find a way to sort everything out. You always do.”

  “I hope so. That was only the Spark Notes from the last forty-eight hours,” I say. “I can’t wait for you to get here.”

  “Me too. I’m sorry again that I couldn’t be there tonight. Please give Christopher a hug for me and tell him I’ll call him later. And I’ll be there for your mother’s party.”

  “You mean Cirque du Santisi,” I say. “I don’t think I could survive it without you! Anyway, you should go; you don’t want to keep Patrick waiting and I need to get changed.”

  “I’ll Skype you later,” Lev says. “I love you.”

  “Love you too,” I say, shutting down Skype.

  10

  “Hope you’re decent in there, Julian,” I say, tapping on his bedroom door. “I know you’re exhausted, but we need to go over a few things before I head out for the lattes. And I’m going to get you a special treat because you’ve been working so hard. I tracked down a patisserie that does vegan croissants and mille-feuilles.”

  Silence. The poor dear. He must be completely worn out; I could hear the sewing machine whirring late into the night. I tap again. “Julian? Julian?” I’ll just sneak inside and make sure he didn’t fall asleep on top of any of the wedding gowns, like he did the night before. I ease the door open.

  Julian is standing there in a blindingly bright gold swimsuit, tucking copies of Voici, Closer, and Choc into a bamboo tote.

  “Julian, what are you doing? Why are you wearing a Speedo?
! You can’t go to the beach—we have so much work to do!”

  “Honey, it’s a Tomas Maier and in case you haven’t noticed, we’re on the French Riviera. And I’m gay,” he says. “Besides, I was up until four undoing all the so-called work Chili did on the gowns back in New York and I need a break. You don’t want me to develop carpal tunnel syndrome again, do you? Come on, Princess, we both need a break. Go put on your Missoni bikini and come join me Med-side. We’ll order Bellinis and check out the French tabs. Which are sublimely filthy. One of them has a shot of the most gorgeous man having sex with a scorpion. And wait till I show you the topless shots of Kate Moss—goodness, how our little waif has grown!”

  “No, Julian,” I say. “Did you forget that the Martinez charges fifty euros just to step on the sand? And no Bellinis before eight a.m. Actually, at thirty euros a pop, no Bellinis at all!”

  “I’m still trying to digest the Vain news,” he says. “And a Bellini and Jacques, the très adorable bartender on the beach, are going to help me do that. Princess, you just have no idea how stressed out I am.”

  “Fine, but only one. Aria’s plane should be landing in a couple of hours, and I scheduled a fitting with her at noon and I’d very much like it if at least you were sober since I’m sure Aria’s going to be completely Klonopined out from the flight.”

  He lets out a vexed sigh. “I still can’t believe you convinced me to debut her shoe line on my runway. Why is it that people who merely wear fashion suddenly think they can design fashion? And remember that dreadful line from what’s-her-name, that Hills-billy? And you know I adore Giselle, I really do, but did the world really need her Gazelle jeans? Who has mile-long legs like her, and who pays three hundred fifty dollars for jeans anymore? And god, Dina Lohan’s Shoe-hans? Horrible. Although next to Aria’s shoes, they’ll probably look like Choos.”

  “Julian, no one’s going to focus on the shoes; don’t worry,” I say. “Let me just do a quick food run for us. Then I’ve got to get back to the room and keep calling everybody. It’s the strangest thing. It doesn’t even seem as if half these people even got our invitation.”

  “It’s that damn Chili,” Julian says. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to keep working with him. I thought we were rid of him for good when we left for Cannes.”

  “In a few days, we will be,” I say. “Just keep reminding yourself that your dress is going to be on the cover of Vain.”

  “Only if Cricket and Saffron actually agree to the cover,” Julian says despairingly. “Any word from Cricket?”

  “No. Cricket’s phone keeps going straight to voice mail. But they’re flying in tonight and I’ll handle it then,” I say.

  “What if they say no?” Julian asks, his voice tinged with panic.

  “They won’t,” I say. “Cricket’s the most supportive friend in the world, and she’d do anything for us. And you know she’ll convince Saffron.”

  “But what if she can’t convince Saffron? She could totally say no, Lola.” Julian’s voice is getting an octave higher with every word.

  “Stop being so negative. You’re totally stressing me out and so is that bathing suit,” I say. “I’ve got to go. And remember: only one Bellini,” I say, trying to shake off the image of Julian’s gold-clad backside.

  Five minutes later I’m walking along La Croisette, Cannes’s main palm tree-dotted drag. The famous promenade that hugs Cannes’s coastline is already crowded with gawkers and tourists who are lining up, presumably hoping for a celebrity sighting, of which there promises to be plenty during the festival. I feel a hand on my arm and turn. A young man eagerly pushes a pamphlet into my hand. “Require financing for my film. Can you help me?” The requisite mimes are imitating the tourists snapping photos and jostling for autographs. Oblivious to it all are the grande dames walking their tiny pooches swathed in tiny Hermès coats, twin noses pointed high at the sky.

  Up ahead are bleary-eyed partygoers staggering back to their hotels, stumbling past journos gearing up for the first screenings of the day. And there’s Rihanna, a drink in one hand, flipping off a photog with the other and wearing a sheer black dress sans panties. And here I thought the Moonie Noonie was so fifteenminutesago.com.

  As I continue walking, I’m bombarded with gigantic movie posters of all the films in competition as well as the ones premiering here. I spot a huge promo banner for my brother’s movie ten feet away from one for my father’s film. I didn’t realize they were remaking Shampoo until I see the poster with Taylor Lautner and Emma Stone. And who cast Zac Efron as Ben-Hur?

  I spot Miley Cyrus, who’s playing a young Meryl Streep in the Out of Africa prequel opposite Joe Jonas, being escorted out of the uber-luxe Carlton Hotel by a slew of bodyguards. And is that the real Kate Winslet, or merely her sosie? (Some of the stars or their agents pay for a look-alike to throw the paps off the scent.) It looked like the Carlton beefed up their security ever since Madonna reportedly refused to pay her ninety-thousand-dollar bill because a French TV crew managed to get footage of her suite while she was staying there. I simply had no idea kabbalah water was that expensive, but if that’s what it takes to support the Malawi orphans and keep your complexion that dewy, I’m all for it.

  I do a double take at a newsstand when I pass it and backtrack. The same photo is plastered across practically every magazine and newspaper on the rack.

  I pick up one of the papers to get a closer look. It’s a shot of my BAF and Saffron Sykes. They’re in a lip lock—an outtake from the very scene I saw them filming in Australia! “Saffron Sykes Est Gai!” screams the headline.

  Someone must have leaked a picture from the set or rehearsal or something. I look for a mention of Four Weddings and a Bris or that Saffron Sykes is playing a gay woman in the film, but don’t find any. I wonder if Cricket has any idea that she’s international front-page news. I try her cell but it goes straight to voice mail again. So does Kate’s BlackBerry. Kate must know though, right? Oh my god, what if she’s the one who leaked the photos to create more buzz around the premiere? No, no, no, no, no. She wouldn’t do that. Or would she?

  I grab a stack of papers and head back to my hotel. It isn’t until I’m back in my room that I realize I never even got my morning latte. But these headlines are way more jolting than coffee. I pick up one of the papers and attempt to read the accompanying article. With my rudimentary French I’m only able to decode the following words: vacation, boat, Crete, Cricket, Saffron, Markus, and après filmer. Wait, that can’t be right. After filming? Are they implying that this photo was taken after filming, or is it saying that they took a vacation together after filming, which they did? I’m so confused. I flip open my laptop and decide to search the Web.

  “If She Were a Gay Man We’d Say: ‘The Queen of the Screen Really Is a Queen’,” blares TMZ. “Saffron Sykes Kissed a Girl and Liked It,” DListed declares. “WTF?! Saffron Sykes Is Gay?!” XI7 exclaims. “Markus Livingston nowhere in sight. Seems the real love affair is between Saffron Sykes and Cricket Curtis,” claims JustJared. “Markus Livingston Is Hollywood’s Hottest Beard,” Defamer insists.

  Is this some kind of nutty marketing campaign for the movie? So what’s the deal with Saffron and Markus, not to mention all those other Hollywood hotties she’s been with? But wasn’t Kevin Spacey on that list? I’m so confused. Cricket would have told me if any of this was true. Wouldn’t she?! She’s my BAF, for crying out loud. I force myself to keep reading.

  “Who Likes Vagina?” Perez Hilton asks. “OMG, you guys! OMG!! Can you believe it? Are you hyperventilating yet?? Saffron Sykes is GAY!!” Perez says. “Perez Hilton has discovered the big plot twist in Saffron Sykes’s new movie—and her life. We all thought that Saffron’s character was marrying Markus Livingston’s character in Four Weddings, but sources close to Saffron confirm exclusively to Perez that she’s—gasp—marrying her maid of honor, newcomer Cricket Curtis. And Saffron Sykes, who’s been linked to everyone from George Clooney to Bradley Cooper to Chace Crawford
and we thought was dating Markus in real life is actually playing tonsil hockey with—gasp—Cricket Curtis. Art really is imitating life. The queen of the screen is getting a new crown: Queen of the Va-Jay-Jay!”

  I’m frozen in front of the computer screen. Could any of this nonsense actually be good for Cricket? They say any publicity is good publicity. Maybe it’ll just get her on a bazillion talk shows to deny the rumor, and they’ll play clips from the movie and she’ll get even more offers! On the other hand, I have no idea how Saffron or Cricket will take all this attention. What if they’re incredibly embarrassed or furious about it? How am I supposed to ask Cricket and Saffron to pose together for the cover of Vain now?

  There’s a knock on the door. I toss the newspapers into a drawer and slam my MacBook shut. When I open the door I’m surprised to see my brother standing in front of me.

  “Mom doesn’t actually expect us to follow this script, does she?!” Christopher says, barreling through the door and throwing a sheaf of papers down on the couch. “Have you read this shit?”

  “I buried my copy in the bottom drawer of that dresser the second I got it,” I confess, gesturing toward the 1930s’ dresser the plasma TV is resting on. “I was scared it would throw me over the edge.”

  “Mom’s the one who’s gone over the edge,” Christopher says, sitting down on the couch in a pair of beat-up jeans, a gray T-shirt, a black linen blazer, and his red Converse high-tops. “There’s actually a scene in there where Mom has a heart-to-heart with Gigi and,” Christopher makes air quotes, “welcomes her into our family.”

  “What?! Please tell me that you’re kidding,” I say, instantly thinking of Kate.

  “I wish I was. She sent Gigi her own copy of the script,” Christopher says. He rests his head in his hands and looks up at me with worry in his eyes. “She’s gone too far this time, La-La. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know, Chris, but I’m scared to even ask what she wrote in there for me.”

  “It seems that Gigi is the sister you never had. You two are very close. Which is surprising, given that I think you met for about fifteen seconds last night,” Chris says. What is my mother thinking? Other than about her ratings. “Mom needs to be stopped.”