Beneath a Starlet Sky Page 18

“Jesus, Kate, do you have to be so crass?” I say.

  “Oh please,” Kate says. “I thought Saffron was in love with Markus. Isn’t she?”

  There’s an eerie silence in the room.

  “No, she’s in love with me,” Cricket says.

  It’s way too much for my brain to comprehend. I feel like I’m trying to put a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle together without all the pieces. The only piece that’s clear is playing like a marquee in flashing bright neon: There is no way that Saffron and Cricket are going to agree to pose together for the cover of Vain now.

  “Just so we’re clear, you’re telling me that the biggest female movie star in the world—who also happens to be my client—is gay and in love with you?” Kate says.

  “Yes,” Cricket says, her voice so soft it’s barely audible.

  “That’s just freaking great,” Kate says.

  “Oh my god, Cricket,” I gasp. “Are you in love with her?”

  “I … I … I don’t know,” Cricket says.

  I look over to Kate. Her steely façade seems to be cracking. I guess this is just too much to digest—even for Kate. But just when I think she’s full-throttle Humpty Dumpty, she puts herself back together again. I can practically see the wheels inside her head turning.

  “We’ll do what we always do: deny, deny, deny,” Kate says. “Everything will be fine, I promise.” Fine for whom exactly, I wonder. Is it really such a big deal that Saffron’s gay? Now that I’ve had a moment to think about it, I’m wondering why Kate’s having such a major freak-out. Kate claps her hands together briskly. “Now, I’ve got to get to Nic’s premiere and so do you, Lola. Let’s go. Cricket, do not pick up the phone. Do not answer the door. I will handle everything from my end, okay?”

  “Okay,” says Cricket, but she’s staring off into space.

  “I don’t feel right about leaving you here,” I say to Cricket. “You know we love you no matter what, right?”

  “I know,” Cricket says. “I’m fine. I’m just … I’m fine. Go, you have to go, we can talk more after the movie.”

  “Are you sure?” I say.

  “Yes, go, please,” Cricket says. The final glimpse I catch of her as I close the door behind me is of her sinking helplessly into the gigantic chair.

  * * *

  My father is basking in the glory of all the bulbs exploding around him, puffing away on his cigar from the red carpet of the Palais steps, trying to ignore my mother scurrying about with her cameras in tow. She’s dressed in a magenta silk chiffon Chanel couture gown that’s displaying a little too much cleavage. Just as I try to duck behind the hordes of journalists waiting for a turn with my father, my mother spots me.

  “Sweetheart,” she calls out in that newly acquired stage voice. “Come, come,” she says, waving me over as though she’s Dame Judy Dench and the red carpet is the Old Vic on an opening night.

  “Not tonight, Mom,” I whisper as she tugs me toward her, but not before I wriggle free from her grasp.

  “Oh, you’re such a poor sport, Lola” she singsongs after me as I make my way over to my father.

  “Congratulations, Papa,” I say, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Thanks, Toots,” he says, distracted by a sudden shift of attention from him to ten feet up ahead of him.

  “Nic! Over here! Nic!” the photogs and journalists shout in a mad frenzy as the star of Papa’s movie is lit up by the explosion of flashes going off all around him. Suddenly the scrum around my father evaporates and he’s left without a single camera aimed at him. Even my mother’s cameras are jockeying for a shot of Nic Knight, hidden from view by the throng shrouding him. “Nic! Over here! Nic!” the crowd continues to yell.

  “How nice of him to finally show up,” my father says. “Forty-five minutes late. I’m going inside. This is ridiculous.”

  “Wait, Paulie,” one of the photogs says, grabbing my father by the arm. “Can we get a shot of you and Nic together?”

  “Fine,” my father says as Nic finally breaks free of the frantic swarm and is face-to-face with my father. Papa instantly turns seething red. Nic’s in full drag, wearing a floor-length shimmery silver halter dress that looks like molten metal suspended from a thick crystal choker. His eyelids are painted a pale violet pastel, and his lips are in a matte red pout. His dark chocolate Lauren Bacall soft-waved wig is blowing in the slight night breeze. He actually looks—pretty. And so is that dress. If it weren’t for all the cameras surrounding them, I’m certain my father would knock Nic out.

  “That’s enough. No more pictures,” my father says, breaking away. Moments later my mother steps into his place to pose with Nic, pulling in her ex-flame Mick Jagger for a three-shot. My mother could stand here all night posing for the cameras, but I can’t bear to watch her for even one more second. I head inside.

  When the lights finally go down forty-five minutes later, my body is in the plush red velvet seat in the Palais but my mind is on Cricket. It isn’t that San Quentin Cartel isn’t brilliant; it’s that I just can’t stop worrying about whether Cricket is strong enough to withstand the waves of prurient publicity rolling her way. It isn’t until somewhere in the middle of the movie when the projector cuts out suddenly and I hear my father yell, “What the fuck is going on?!” that I’m startled back into my body. All the lights in the theater come on, and a thin gentleman in a tux rushes to the front of the theater.

  “Mesdames and Messieurs, please forgive this interruption. Our projector just broke but we are trying to get it fixed immediately,” he says in a thick French accent. Oh dear. Poor Papa.

  “How could this happen during my movie?” my father rants.

  “I’m sure they’ll get it fixed right away, darling.” My mother tries to calm my father, placing her hand on his knee. “Are you still rolling?” she whispers to Alex, who’s seated on her other side with a tiny video camera tucked in his palm. How on earth did she smuggle Alex’s camera inside the theater? If she gets thrown in jail for pirating her own husband’s movie, I’m not bailing her out. As my father gets increasingly upset, and the crowd becomes more restive with every second that passes without the projector being repaired, I watch as my mother’s face fills with a twisted pleasure at the potential ratings windfall this could create.

  I pull out my phone to check on Cricket and see the following text message.

  JUST LANDED IN CANNES. MEET ME AT NIC’S AFTER-PARTY. ASSUME YOU’VE READ TABS. GRACE REQUIRES IMMEDIATE CONFIRMATION THAT THE SHOOT IS ON. COZ.

  11

  “Did you know that Cricket and Saffron are the most Googled people in the world right now?” Kate says over the phone line from her room at the Du Cap. “They have more hits than Nano eating that steak or that baby panda sneezing.”

  “I’m still not sure if my brain has fully computed the fact that Saffron Sykes is gay and our best friend is her lesbian lover.” Even as I say the words, I’m not sure I really believe them.

  “That’s because Saffron isn’t gay, and neither is Cricket,” says Kate. “I spoke to Saffron. We’re just going to put it out there that they lost themselves in the role, full stop. Anyway, Cricket’s … just confused.”

  “But what about Saffron? Are you saying she isn’t gay or are you saying you’re just going to deny it?”

  Kate’s tone turns instantly steely. “We are talking about the biggest movie star in the world here,” she says. “I’ve got her career to protect. That’s my job. If Saffron were gay, do you know what that would do to her box office? She’d be DOA.”

  “Kate, that’s ridiculous. No one cares about that kind of thing anymore. Look at Ellen DeGeneres. Portia de Rossi. Anne Heche. Wanda Sykes. Everybody loves them!”

  “Lo, please give me the name of a single actress who’s had any kind of decent movie career after coming out.”

  “Jodie Foster!” I announce triumphantly.

  “Four words,” Kate intones. “Mel Gibson. The Beaver. Case closed. Look, Lo, you know me. I don’t care who�
��s doing whom, I really don’t. But I do care about keeping my clients at the top where they belong. And right now my job is to stop Saffron from sabotaging her career, and I’m going to do whatever I have to to make that happen.”

  “Kate,” I begin, then pause. I’m not quite sure how to say what I want to say.

  “What?” Kate demands.

  “It’s just that … I mean … maybe this is the right time for this to happen. I mean, I think it’s awful—and I know you think it’s awful—that directors wouldn’t cast a leading lady because she’s a lesbian. That’s got to change. And isn’t Saffron the perfect person to lead the way? The whole world loves her. It just isn’t right that she can’t be who she is and do what she wants and be accepted for it. Look at Ellen, she’s the face of Cover Girl for crying out loud. Why shouldn’t Saffron join her in paving the way.”

  Kate sighs. “Lo, you know I agree with you. And yes, I wish we lived in a less stupid world. I hate Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. I hate those assholes who don’t let gay people marry. I hate that anybody gives a shit whether an actor’s gay or straight. But I’ve talked with Saffron about it all, and she’s just not ready to be any kind of poster child for the cause right now. I get where she’s coming from. She gets the final say here. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

  “Okay, okay, I hear you,” I say. “I just feel queasy about the whole thing.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Kate says. “That’s all I’m feeling at the moment.” I hear the sound of furious tapping on computer keys. “Shit. You have to log on to usmagazine.com right now,” she says. “They dredged up Cricket’s prom picture. Did you know that she was the homecoming queen? You should see the crown.”

  “I’ve gone cold turkey off online gossip sites after yesterday,” I say, staring at my closed laptop on the hotel desk. “Do you see anything on there about Aria? Actually, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. Listen, Kate, Coz has already called me like fifty times this morning. I know this is the worst possible time, but have you talked to Saffron about the cover? Cricket said she’d do it, but I really need them together.”

  “Oh my god,” Kate exclaims. “TMZ has an interview with some woman who claims to have kissed Cricket in the third grade and the guy who popped Cricket’s cherry. Poor Cricket. This is crazy.”

  “Where do they find these people?” I say, stunned. “Wait, forget TMZ, are you even listening to me? This is really important. Julian and I need this cover.”

  “Gawker just posted that Saffron’s high school boyfriend is saying that they never even had sex and Defamer interviewed Saffron’s devout Catholic mother, who believes being gay is a sin and lobbied for Prop 8,” Kate says.

  “What?” I say, taken aback. “That’s awful! Do you think she really said that?”

  “Defamer isn’t exactly The New York Times, but who knows? Saffron and her mother haven’t spoken ever since she auctioned off Saffron’s childhood diaries and her baby clothes on eBay.”

  “That’s disgusting. So not-WWJD,” I say.

  “Well, lucky for Saffron’s mommy there isn’t anything in the Bible about eBay,” Kate says.

  “Kate, so about the Vain cover—”

  “Jesus, where the hell is Adam? I’m getting more calls than the Pentagon. Hang on,” Kate says.

  I look down at my iPhone resting on the hotel desk, which has also been buzzing off the hook, all thanks to Coz. There’s a new flurry of texts.

  CALL ME!!

  CALL ME!!

  CALL ME!!

  WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU??

  911!!

  I’M CALLING GRACE!

  I shove my cell into the desk drawer. What’s taking Kate so long? My neck is starting to cramp. I switch the hotel phone receiver from my left shoulder to my right.

  “That was Anderson Cooper. He’s in town and wants an interview,” Kate says.

  “What’d you say?” I ask.

  “I told him when he comes out publicly, he can have an interview,” Kate says.

  “What’d you really say?” I ask.

  “That,” Kate says. “And then I tried to pitch him a Nic Knight story.”

  “Did he go for it?” I ask.

  “No. No one wants to talk about Nic without talking about his stints in jail, drinking and drugs, and if he’ll ever be able to stay sober. I spent hours this morning with his publicist. We’re putting out the story that that white powder in his nose from the yacht party was a new naturopathic cold remedy. Not that I know what the hell it really was; Nic won’t take any of my calls. God, I’m going to kill Adam. Where the hell is he? I put him on babysitting duty with Nic and he’s still not back. This is a disaster,” Kate says.

  “So … um … about the Vain cover,” I try again.

  “Look, Lola, I’m sorry but I can’t let Saffron pose with Cricket,” Kate says. “I just can’t.”

  “What? No! You have to. You can’t do this to me!” I say in disbelief.

  “Do this to you? This isn’t about you, Lola. This is about protecting my biggest client and doing what’s best for Saffron.”

  “Kate, you know how much I’ve got riding on this cover!”

  “Vain will understand; they can’t possibly expect that Cricket and Saffron would pose together now,” Kate says matter-of-factly.

  “They’re already on the cover of every magazine, what’s one more? And we’re talking about Vain, not Maxim. I can tell Coz that she can’t broach the gay thing. It will be strictly about the movie,” I say. “Please, Kate. I really need this.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is business, Lola,” Kate says, no trace of my BFF, speaking solely as Saffron’s agent.

  “Kate, you said you would make this happen for me,” I say.

  “That was before,” Kate says. “It would be PR suicide for them to pose together now when we’re denying that they ever had any involvement.”

  “But what about the pictures?” I ask.

  “What about them? It’s called Method acting and we’re going to say that they were rehearsing for the movie,” Kate says.

  “But they were taken after the movie ended,” I point out. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Markus was on that trip, too; maybe they were reenacting a scene from the movie for fun. Who cares? The point is, we’re saying that Saffron is in love with Markus and we’re denying the gay thing. And posing with Cricket on the cover of Vain doesn’t factor into that,” Kate says. If she had a gavel I imagine she would bang it.

  “I can’t lose this cover, Kate. I just can’t,” I say desperately. “What if Saffron posed alone?” As I say the words I can’t help feeling like I’m betraying Cricket. But this isn’t going to be her last chance to grace Vain, though it may be mine. She’ll understand, right?

  “I’m just not sure how it helps us right now. It’s not like Saffron needs the extra publicity,” Kate says.

  Think, Lola, think. And then another idea strikes me. “What if she posed with Markus? She’s never publicly admitted that they’re a couple. We could give Vain the exclusive.”

  “Now you’re sounding more like me,” Kate says. I don’t know whether to be proud or scared. But what I do know is that I’ve worked too hard to let this cover slip through my fingertips.

  “So should I call Coz and pitch her the story?” I ask.

  I can practically hear the wheels in Kate’s head turning through the phone.

  “Yes, tell Coz she can have the exclusive with Markus and Saffron,” Kate says finally.

  I let out a long sigh and expect to feel more relieved than I actually do. Please let Coz go for it. Please.

  “And Markus is on board?” I ask, trying to avert any potential problems.

  “Please, Lola, wake up. Sure, Markus was a big action star before this, but now he’s Markron.”

  I wince at the mash-up; it’s no Brangelina or TomKat. But it’s not like Saffkus or Smarffron would have been any better. So: Saffron and Markus on the cover of Vain. I know tha
t this is what’s best for me and Julian, but I can’t help but wonder if this is what’s best for everyone else. I push the thought and the sinking feeling in my gut away.

  “Great. I’ll call Coz now,” I say. “Thanks, Kate. And listen, have you talked to Christopher?” I ask, even though I know from my brother that Kate still hasn’t returned any of his calls. “I know that he really wants to talk to y—”

  “That’s my other line again. I’ve gotta run,” she says quickly. And before I can even say good-bye, the dial tone does it for me.

  * * *

  “We’re not the Enquirer, Lola, we’re talking about Vain,” Coz says after I pitch her the Markron cover. She uncrosses her mile-long translucent legs and peers at me over her trademark black sunglasses. We’re sitting on the balcony of her oceanfront suite at the Martinez. The Med sparkles just beyond us, lined with yachts gently swaying on the water. I spot Paul Allen’s superyacht, the Octopus, a twenty-four-hour-a-day party palace. The sound of the Microsoft mogul jamming with Bono wafts toward us. I look longingly at the bikini-clad women sunning themselves on the upper deck, their only care which cocktail to sip. How I’d love to trade places with one of them. Coz stands up on her chunky woven leather sandal stilettos and repoufs her purple-and-white printed super-short, tiered lampshade skirt. Class is about to be dismissed. “In its hundred-eighteen-year history, Vain has only had three men on the cover.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And we both know that Markus has every bit as much heat as Clooney and Gere. You put Beckham on because you wanted controversy, and controversy sells copies. Don’t tell me a little controversy with Saffron and Markus won’t sell. Besides, you were willing to put Om and Nano on the cover.”

  “Om and Nano are both style innovators and they’re launching their own clothing line. Or at least they were. Who knows what’s going to happen to that now. Anyway, it’s totally different,” Coz says, pacing around the balcony.

  “It’s not like I’m asking you to put Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom on the cover. Saffron is the biggest movie star in the world,” I say. “Look, Coz, do you want to sell magazines or not? ’Cause I’m pretty certain we both know that a Saffron-Markus cover would sell out.”