Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  “Yes she does. It’s like she wants to be the next Caroline Manzo. Don’t worry, we’ll find a way to rein her in,” I say. Poor Christopher. He looks so distraught. “How are things with you and Gigi?” I ask with trepidation.

  “Good, I guess,” he says. “She’s good for me. She … supports me.”

  “Kate supported you. She was your biggest fan.” I can’t help but interject in my best friend’s defense.

  “It’s different with Gigi. Kate was always pushing me to do more. She thought I was wasting my time on all the commercials.”

  “No, she thought you were wasting your talent. She thought you were better than all those commercials. Which you are,” I say.

  “Gigi doesn’t push me. She lets me be me and she’s not always rushing off to make a million phone calls or scream at her assistant. That’s new for me.” I can’t tell if Christopher’s trying to convince me or himself.

  “Do you love her?” I ask.

  “It’s still so new, I don’t know,” he says. “Have you talked to Kate? Do you think she’ll ever forgive me? I’ve left her a bunch of messages but haven’t heard back. Did she hate the movie?”

  “Everyone loved the movie, including Kate. Look, Chris, your film is really, really good. This is just the beginning for you. I’d hate to see you not able to soak in all of this because of Kate. Because you really deserve it. You’ve worked hard,” I say, stopping myself there. But I could go on. Because it’s true. Chris has worked hard. His whole life, not just at work, but at being a good person. And that’s why he’s not letting all this buzz around his movie affect him. My brother may be exceptionally cool looking on the outside, but he doesn’t care about any of it—he knows it’s all just a passing show. He’s my brother, so I’m biased, but there’s a thing or two I know about men since I’ve been around so many doozies. He’s one of the rare ones. So I start making excuses for Kate because I’m holding out hope. “I think Kate’s just got a lot going on with Nic Knight and Saffron and Cricket,” I say, unable to bring myself to show my brother the story on Perez Hilton. I’m not ready to talk about it out loud yet.

  “So what? She’s always got a lot going on with work,” Chris says.

  “Chris, you know Kate; she can’t talk about her feelings,” I say.

  “Stupidly, I guess I thought it was different with me.” My brother’s voice is tinged with sadness.

  “I know she still loves you,” I say. And as I look into my brother’s eyes I am certain that he’s still in love with her.

  “Don’t start, La-La, please. She ended it with me, remember? Listen, let me know if you talk to her. And read Mom’s script but make sure all the windows are closed first. You’re gonna want to throw yourself out of one. I’ve got to run, I’m meeting a reporter from the International Herald Tribune.”

  “Wow. The Tribune. I’m so impressed,” I say. “You know, I really think you have a chance to win the Palme d’Or, Chris.”

  “No way,” says Christopher. “My money’s on Papa, unanimous first-round vote from the judges. I’ll see you at his screening tonight, right?”

  “Yep. I’ll be there,” I say, walking my brother to the door.

  “Bye, La-La,” he says, planting a kiss on my cheek before heading out.

  “See you later, Chris.”

  I close the door behind Christopher and walk back over to my laptop. When I refresh the Perez Hilton homepage a new story pops up. It’s a picture of Nic Knight with the caption: “What’s that up his nose??”

  Perez has drawn his trademark squiggly circle around a damning close-up of Nic’s face. I continue reading.

  “A very happy Nic Knight—with what appears to be white powder in his nostril—stepping off a yacht party in Cannes at 4:00 A.M. Maybe it’s just snot? Or perhaps ‘frosting from his most recent tart’? When will the pAArty stop? What a waste of his talent!”

  Where the heck was Nic’s AA sponsor? Or NA sponsor? Or parole officer? Or Kate? I grab my cell and speed-dial Kate. Not surprisingly, her voice mail picks up. I wouldn’t be answering my phone, either, if I were her. Heck, if I were her, I’d be on the first plane out of here.

  I continue scrolling down, trying to get back to the story on Saffron and Cricket.

  “Meet the new McDreamy—McSexy!” catches my attention.

  I feel like I’ve just been punched in the gut by Chuck Liddell. There’s a picture of Patrick Dempsey and—Lev, my Lev—together, and Perez has scrawled one of his infamous hearts around Lev’s face.

  I make myself read the accompanying text.

  “Patrick Dempsey had hearts swooning outside of the U2 concert at the Rose Bowl in El Lay where he was spotted with Luke Levin, the sexy new doc on Para-Medic. Ya, Luke may not have McDreamy’s lovely locks, but he’s a doctor in real life, which makes him even sexier!”

  I slam my laptop closed and make a solemn vow never to look at Perez Hilton ever again.

  Compartmentalize, Lola, compartmentalize, I tell myself. Be the CEO of JT Inc. now, not the daughter of crazy narcissists, friend of beleaguered starlets, or fiancée of The Next McDreamy. I check the desk clock. Aria should be here by now. I phone the front desk to see if she’s checked in yet, but she hasn’t. I try her cell; there’s no answer. I call the car service I arranged to pick her up at the airport, and the driver tells me that he hasn’t seen her yet. Too early to call Ivan in NYC. I finally decide to call the concierge and ask him to call the airport to see if Aria’s plane landed on time and to make sure she was on said plane.

  It feels like forever before the concierge finally calls me back.

  “Mademoiselle Santisi,” he says with his très adorable French accent.

  “Oui,” I say. “Have you located Mademoiselle Fraser yet?”

  “I’m afraid she’s being taken to prison,” he says.

  “Prison?” I wail.

  “Oui, prison,” he says. Even with a French accent there is nothing pleasant about the word “prison.”

  “I don’t understand, what happened!?”

  “I’m not entirely certain, but it seems Mademoiselle Fraser punched a passenger when they were trying to take a photo of her in the middle of the flight. They wouldn’t tell me anything else,” he says.

  This officially could be one of the worst days of my life. And it’s not even noon.

  “Can you take me to the prison? This has to be some miserable misunderstanding. We need to get Aria out immediately and make sure that the press doesn’t know about it,” I say, my mind racing at the potential damning press.

  “Let me talk to my boss and see what can be done,” he says.

  “We have to get her out of jail is what needs to be done,” I say. “Please, you have to help me. Your boss will know what to do, right? I mean, she can’t be the first celebrity that’s stayed at your hotel to be thrown in the slammer, right?”

  “We will do everything we can to help you,” he says. “I’ll call you back as soon as I know anything.”

  Click.

  * * *

  As the seconds turn to minutes and the minutes turn to hours, I’ve gnawed my fingernails to the nubs and Aria is still behind bars despite everything I’ve done to try and get her out. Apparently the passenger she assaulted was a minor who allegedly required a few (seven) stitches on her face. That means there is nothing, and I mean nothing, that I can do to get her out today. I even tried to bribe the unfriendly police officers with premiere tickets and a private dinner with Saffron Sykes and Nic Knight at La Columbe d’Or, which frankly might have actually worked if we were in L.A.

  As we’re driving along the windy road back from the precinct in Nice, I can’t help but fantasize about asking the driver to plunge his Mercedes straight off the seaside cliff and into the Med. I wonder how you even say that in French? Just as I’m thinking about whether my funeral would get more RSVPs than Julian’s show so far, and if my mother would allow her cameras to film my memorial, my cell trills.

  “Cricket, finally! How
are you?”

  “I’m freaking out, Lola,” Cricket’s whispering. “I’m not prepared for any of this.”

  “Where are you?”

  “We just got to the Du Cap,” she says quietly. “Can you come over?”

  “Yeah, of course. I’m supposed to be at my dad’s screening in an hour, but I’ll be right there,” I say.

  “Thanks, Lola,” Cricket says. “Oh, and I’m staying under Cameron Streep.”

  “You have an alias?” I say.

  “Yes, I have to because the press keeps trying to call my room and someone knocked on my door pretending to be room service and it was a paparazzi. Please hurry, Lo, I need you.”

  Click.

  * * *

  Minutes later my driver is pulling up to the sprawling, immaculately landscaped palm-shaded grounds of the Hôtel du Cap, the Riviera’s most outrageously expensive hotel, hidden away in a twenty-five-acre pine forest on the rocky coast of the Cap d’Antibes. It feels for a moment as if all my woes are lost among the delicious-smelling pines. And then I spot a paparazzo trying to climb through said pine trees. I look around. There’s a whole phalanx of them, sneaking among the trees, lurking outside the jewel box of a chateau. Each one of them armed with telephoto lenses thick as Louisville Sluggers. I picture all of them aimed at my Cricket and feel a rush of protectiveness.

  I’ve barely set foot inside the grand, white-and-black, marble-floored, Grecian-columned reception area when a security guard blocks my path.

  “I’ll need to see a room key, Mademoiselle.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have one.”

  “This way, then, please.” He escorts me over to the front desk where another black-suited gentleman greets me.

  “I’m here to see Cameron Streep,” I tell him, trying to stifle a grimace at the ridiculous alias. But if the clerk shares my sense of the absurdity of the situation, he is far too well trained to show it. “Your ID, Mademoiselle,” he says before placing a call to the room. He then waves me in the direction of the ultra exclusive Eden-Roc, an all-suite annex of the hotel nestled in a secluded spot by the water’s edge, which is almost like staying on one of the mega-yachts with the three Tom’s (Cruise, Ford, and Hanks) on the world’s most pricey floating parking lot in front of the hotel.

  As I make my way through the cavernous lobby it feels like I could be in a Fitzgerald novel or back visiting Sofia Coppola on the set of Marie Antoinette. No sign of a recession here. I just pray that I don’t run into my parents, who are also staying here. I’m sure my mother’s been in hair and makeup since 10:00 A.M. getting ready for my father’s screening tonight. The lobby, with its white marble fireplaces, chandeliers, and canary yellow and robin’s egg blue upholstered furniture, is like the living room of some uber-wealthy aristocrat’s country estate if Michael Smith had decorated it before rushing more fabric samples for Malia and Sasha’s bedrooms and Bo’s new doggie bed to the White House.

  I pass by Le Bellini bar, with its limestone Corinthian columns and carved crests, and wonder if one of the white-jacketed waiters serving Bellinis by the dozen to everyone from James Cameron to Diane Kruger to Carla Bruni can make me one to go. Hopefully Cricket will have already ordered a giant vat from room service.

  I exit the lobby and walk along the palm tree–lined wide, gravel walkway to the Eden Roc. As I go past the pet cemetery that’s been here since the 1930s I can’t help but think that I wouldn’t mind spending the hereafter right here. At one of the clay tennis courts I spot Gavin Rossdale rallying with Roger Federer and wish I could take a seat beside a flawless Gwen Stefani and that darling Mirka to watch.

  The scene at the hotel’s saltwater, infinity-edge swimming pool built into a rocky cliff over the Med is straight out of a Helmut Newton photo. I feel like the blond Shrek as I scurry past all the half naked supermodels soaking up the last of the day’s sun and cheering on Chris Pine as he does a Tarzan-like swing into the Med from a jetty down below.

  I finally arrive at Cricket’s suite, a contemporary, airy, white-on-white seaside affair that’s a stark contrast to the rooms in the main hotel with their stodgy Louis XV and Louis XVI furniture. Cricket’s curled up on a cheery floral print armchair, looking the opposite of cheery, practically disappearing inside one of the hotel’s plush terry robes. Her porcelain skin is lackluster and her golden locks are in a messy ponytail. I sit down on the edge of the armchair beside her with a million questions swimming around inside my head. I’d be lying if I said that one of them wasn’t: “Is there any chance in hell that you and Saffron will agree to pose on the cover of Vain?” But right now I need to be Cricket’s friend and not the CEO of Julian Tennant Inc.

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  “I just didn’t expect any of this, Lo,” Cricket says.

  “Are any of the stories true?” I ask my BAF tentatively.

  “Well, um, I wouldn’t say that the stories are … um…” Cricket’s fumbling as Kate walks out of the bathroom.

  “Hey,” I say to Kate. “I’ve been trying to reach you, too!”

  “Are you okay?” Cricket asks Kate, her voice full of concern. “It sounded pretty bad in there.”

  “I’m fine,” Kate says, despite the slightly green hue to her skin. “This is ridiculous. I simply cannot afford to be sick right now. Everything’s falling to shit as it is.” She reaches into her clutch and pulls out another motion sickness patch to add to the four she’s already wearing.

  “Are you sure it’s okay to put so many of those things on?” I ask.

  “These stupid things don’t even work,” Kate says. “I’m wearing one of every brand the drugstore had.”

  “That can’t be good for you,” I say, worried.

  “Neither is vomiting on your clients,” Kate says. “Or letting them go to a party on a yacht without you, like I let Nic do last night.” I debate asking her if she’s seen PerezHilton or whether she’s aware that it seems Nic’s fallen off the wagon—again. But I decide against it. I’m sure she knows. She must know. And besides, we’re here to focus on Cricket now. “If your father doesn’t kill Nic, I just may,” Kate continues. “God, I hate boats. And of course the afterparty is on another one tonight, but we’re not here to discuss my health or my crap life. We’re here to figure out how to handle the Saffron and Cricket situation.”

  I turn to my BAF. “Cricket, you still haven’t answered my question. Are any of the stories true?”

  “Well, um, I wouldn’t say that the stories are … um…” she starts bumbling again.

  “Oh geezus, Cricket, you pulled a Lohan,” Kate says. “Just say it already. It’s okay. You’re not the first actress to have a fling with a costar.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say shaking my head to try and make some sense out of things. “Is Saffron Sykes even gay? Do you think you’re gay? What about Markus?”

  Cricket looks down at her candy-apple-red toes.

  “Saffron Sykes isn’t gay and neither is Cricket,” Kate says emphatically. “Need I remind you of Yoga Guy, who spent eight months realigning Cricket’s chakras? Or that dude from the freecreditreport.com commercial you did? And why would Cricket constantly be hocking me to set her up with all my male clients if she’s lesbian? Or drooling all over Viggo from the pool house?”

  “Cricket?” I say.

  “Look, sexuality is more fluid than that,” Cricket announces.

  “Oh geezus,” Kate sighs and takes a seat as if readying herself for a lecture.

  “I feel like I’m back in Human Sexuality class at Scripps,” I say.

  “Try telling all of those people who can’t get married right now that sexuality is fluid. Call it experimentation if anything. Frankly, it’s insulting,” Kate adds resolutely.

  “I’m very aware of that.” Cricket finally snaps up from her prone position and begins pacing. “But what I find insulting is that I’ve finally done some really good work and this is what the world wants to focus on. These freaking tabloids?! It’s disgusting a
nd … disappointing. I’ve worked too hard for this to overshadow what I’ve done here. And that it’s hurting Saffron! Look, she isn’t like anyone I’ve ever known before, and when we were filming our scenes together, I just felt something that I’ve never felt before and—”

  “Of course you felt something, Cricket,” Kate says briskly. “You are an actress. If you didn’t feel something, you wouldn’t be a very good actress. Look, you don’t have to convince us that you’re not gay.”

  “I think what Kate’s trying to say, Cricket, is that you can be a bit … fickle in this area,” I say. “You do tend to go from … well, it’s been man to man in the past.”

  “I know, I know,” Cricket says, placing her hands over her face. “It’s just been such a whirlwind that I haven’t had time to think about things, I’ve just gotten so wrapped up. I really care about Saffron and I know she’s freaking out about all of the publicity.” Cricket looks like she’s wearing the weight of the universe on her slender shoulders.

  Kate crows with laughter. “Are you kidding? I couldn’t have timed it better myself. Do you realize how much buzz there is behind the movie now?” she says.

  “It’s just that suddenly the whole world is saying that Saffron’s gay and I’m gay and Saffron’s worried about her career and mine … but making this movie and playing a lesbian has really made her think about honoring her true self … and Prop 8 … and she hates all the lying and so do I … but I just wasn’t prepared for all of this,” Cricket says.

  “What are you saying, Cricket?” I ask. “That Saffron Sykes is gay?”

  “Of course she’s not gay,” Kate says. “She’s my client; don’t you think I would know if she was gay?”

  “Cricket? Is Saffron Sykes gay?” I ask.

  Cricket looks at me and then over to Kate. Me. Kate. Me.

  “Yes,” Cricket finally says.

  “Just because you two rubbed vulvas does not mean that she’s gay,” Kate says.