Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  “What if they break up before the issue comes out?” Coz asks icily.

  “They won’t,” I say emphatically.

  “Just like Om and Nano?” Coz says. Thank god she’s still wearing those sunglasses; otherwise I’m pretty certain her steely gaze would vaporize me with the flames of ten thousand suns. “Lola, we’d already sent out an announcement to our advertisers about the Om and Nano cover. We based our ad rates on that cover. Do you have any idea what an embarrassment that whole thing was for me and the magazine?” And me.

  “I still feel horribly about that, but that was a totally freak thing that was out of all of our control,” I say.

  “And who’s to say that another freak thing won’t happen? We’re talking about actors, Lola,” Coz says. She’s right. Which really pisses me off.

  “Saffron and Markus are different,” I insist-slash-fib.

  “So she’s not a lesbian?” Coz asks.

  “Of course not,” I lie. “She’s totally in love with Markus,” I lie again.

  “I don’t buy it,” Coz says. Is it because I’m a bad liar or is Coz’s intuition that good?

  “Coz, they are not going to break up. Every magazine wants this story and I’m giving it to you. Call all of your editor friends and ask,” I say. Last time I bluffed, Coz caught me out. But I think I’ve got a pretty good poker face and I’m just going to keep bluffing until I win this hand. What other choice do I have?

  Coz finally stops pacing and stands directly above my head like the freaking Crypt Keeper, if the Crypt Keeper got his three-thousand-dollar hair extensions at Sally Hershberger.

  “I want it in writing that they’re not going to break up before the issue is on newsstands,” Coz says.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “And I want to shoot a solo of Saffron as an alternative.”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  “And Saffron’s going to wear Chili on the cover,” Coz says. Oh no. Oh no, she’s not. She’s wearing Julian. Period. Exclamation point.

  I stand up to face Coz, who’s still a good foot taller. Even when I’m on my tippy toes. Be diplomatic, I urge myself. Do not rip Coz’s sunglasses off her face and scratch her eyes out with her Tom Fords. “Coz, the main reason for Saffron to do the cover is to promote Four Weddings, and considering that Chili’s gowns didn’t actually make it into the movie, it really doesn’t make any sense as to why she would wear one of Chili’s reject wedding gowns on the cover.” Coz’s nostrils flare. Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word “reject.”

  “R-e-a-l-l-y? Is that so?” Coz says. “Well, here’s why it makes sense: Because I said so.”

  “Coz, Saffron won’t do the cover at all unless she wears Julian and I’m sure Grace wouldn’t want to lose this cover because of Chili.” Checkmate, Coz.

  There’s an eerie silence. The only sound I can hear is my thumping heart. I wonder if Coz can hear it too. Say something, I try and will her. Say anything. The silence is deafening. I feel like I’m back in an elementary-school staring contest, and damn if I’m going to blink first. I’ll let my eyes shrivel up like Courtney Love’s after a bender with Shaggy before I blink.

  “We’ll see about that,” is all she says when she finally speaks.

  “Oh-kay,” I say, confused.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go check out the venue with Patrick, and you need to go get it for me in writing that Saffron and Markus are not going to break up before the issue comes out,” Coz says. Will ink be acceptable or only blood?

  “Okay, so the shoot’s still on,” I say.

  “I think it’d be really beautiful if we had some ostriches running around the lawn for the photos,” Coz says.

  So the shoot is on. “Great,” I say in agreement.

  “That’s not why I’m telling you,” she says flatly.

  “Oh-kay,” I say, starting to understand just how difficult she is going to make this.

  “You need to find them,” she states.

  “Find ostriches?” I ask in dismay.

  “Yes, Lola, find ostriches,” she says. “And not just any ostriches. I want Masai ostriches.”

  “Excuse me, Coz, what makes you think I’m going to be your props master on this?”

  “We only have a few days to pull this off. Naturally I have to spend every moment with Patrick. Or did you think I should simply allow Patrick Demarchelier to wander around La Croisette unescorted?” Coz doesn’t wait for my reply. “I’ll only have a skeleton crew as it is. If you want this to happen, you’re going to have to help make it happen. Is this clear?”

  “I’m on it,” I say through gritted teeth. Do Masai ostriches even exist, or did she just make that up?

  “Great,” she says, though it’s clear the subtext is: “I’m going to make your life a living hell and relish every single solitary moment of it.” “I’d also like six dozen Bornean orchids,” she says with a conniving Cheshire grin.

  Yeah, I saw Adaptation too and I know those will be impossible to find, but I say, “No problem.” Does she want a partridge in a pear tree too? Or maybe the freaking Ring? Or Cher’s old lips?

  “And the sand on the beaches here is too beige; I want pink sand. It has to coordinate with the ostriches’s legs and the orchids or the shoot won’t make any sense at all,” she says. I’ll give her this; she deserves an Oscar for keeping a straight face for that one. I want to hurl her over her balcony. But instead I’m going to focus on the fact that Julian’s gown is going to be on the cover of Vain. And considering we’re only on the second floor, propelling her over the balcony wouldn’t harm her nearly enough. With her tarantula legs, Coz could practically touch the ground from here.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “I’ve really got to run. I’ll e-mail you the rest,” she says.

  “Perfect,” I say, with clenched fists. God, I hate this woman. I hate her even more than Bill O’Reilly, Ann Coulter, the inventor of MBT shoes, and the way my ass looks in boyfriend jeans all put together.

  After doing a quick check-in with Julian to make sure that all of the fittings with the models are going okay, stopping by the concierge to check on the status of Aria’s release—hopefully later this afternoon—and leaving Cricket a very long, rambling apology message, I decide to step outside for some fresh air and another latte. As I walk along La Croisette, it feels like no amount of air is enough to calm the snake I feel writhing in my stomach. I set the intention to start doing yoga again, to start sleeping, and to get off the coffee. I just can’t believe that this is my life. How did this happen? I can feel that I’m hanging on by a thread—from a Julian Tennant dandelion yellow chiffon sheath. And it doesn’t help that Lev still isn’t here. I really miss him. When I see Julian’s dress on the cover of Vain, it will all be worth it. Right?

  I decide to set another intention right here, right now: no more private pity parties. As I resolve to stop feeling sorry for myself, I spot Adam, Kate’s assistant, on the street.

  “Adam, hey, where have you been? Kate’s freaking out,” I say when we come face-to-face.

  “I’ve been up all night with Nic. I still haven’t slept,” Adam says. He looks like crap. His tux and shirt are completely rumpled and his bowtie is missing. He’s wobbling slightly beneath the weight of several huge shopping bags.

  “Adam, you were out shopping? You were supposed to be babysitting Nic! Where is he now?”

  “Oh these,” he says gesturing toward the bags. “These are for Nic. And don’t worry, he’s back at his hotel, out like a light. Tucked him in myself.”

  “You went shopping for Nic at Petit Bateau?” I say. What does a forty-something Method actor want with twee French $180 rompers and $80 hoodies?

  “Nic’s going to adopt a baby,” Adam says casually.

  “Nic Knight is adopting a baby?” I gasp. Who in their right mind would let him do that? I wouldn’t even trust him to babysit Julian’s dog—for five minutes. “Does Kate know about this?”

  �
��Kate doesn’t know yet and you can’t tell her. Please, Lola, I’m begging you not to tell her. She asked me to handle Nic and that’s what I’m doing,” he says.

  “By letting him adopt a baby?” I say in horror. “What happened on that yacht last night, Adam? Did Nic force you to take acid?”

  “I’m not on acid, Lola. I’m totally sober. Nic hooked up with one of the Jolie-Pitt’s nannies a few nights ago and it got him thinking. Angelina is practically a saint in the eyes of the world because she’s adopted all those kids. No one even mentions that she’s a husband stealer who used to wear a vial of Billy Bob’s blood,” Adam says. “Nic and I realized that if Nic adopted a baby, it would totally change the public’s negative perception of him.”

  “Adam, this is insane. Please tell me that you realize that you sound even crazier than Nic,” I say.

  “If it worked for Angelina, then why can’t it work for Nic?” Adam asks. It’s all aboard the crazy train, but he’s making it out like it’s the most sensible decision in the world, like rotating your tires or doing Master Cleanse for New Year’s.

  “Because for starters no one is going to give Nic Knight a baby,” I say.

  “Nic and I are working on that,” says Adam. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details at the moment.”

  I just stare at him.

  “Lola, this is my chance to finally prove myself to Kate,” he says.

  “Yeah, prove that you’re totally crazy,” I say.

  “Okay, look, I know it may sound a little crazy, but unqualified people become parents every day, I mean look at those kids on Glee, and they let Madonna adopt a baby. Actually two. This story is totally going to transform Nic’s image. Plus, we totally plan on donating all the money from the sale of the first picture to charity.”

  “Nic doesn’t even have a baby and you’re already selling the photos? Are you absolutely sure that Nic didn’t slip you something? You can’t be serious. Have you lost all of your morals?” I ask.

  “Who said I had any to begin with? Morals are overrated. Kate taught me that.”

  “Adam, you know I have to tell Kate, right? I can’t keep this from her.”

  “You can’t do that. Lola, please. I’m begging you. I’ve already leaked the story to the tabloids, and there’s a bidding war for the exclusive story and first pic of Michelle. I’ve already got People magazine up to three million.”

  “Michelle? You don’t even have the baby but you’ve already named it? And did you say three million?” I spit out.

  “Yes. Nic wanted to name her for the first lady. And all of that money is going to go to charity. Please, Lola, don’t tell Kate. She’s already got enough to worry about with Saffron and everything else going on. Please,” Adam says, practically on his hands and knees.

  “I don’t know, Adam. She’d kill me if she found out that I knew and didn’t tell her. Besides, you and I both know that if the People magazine bid is legit, it’s going to be up on TMZ in about two nanoseconds, and then everyone’s going to know. I have to tell her,” I say. “I’m sorry. If you really want to help Nic and his career, why don’t you try keeping him sober, because the only way the press is going to stop writing stories about him falling off the wagon is if he actually stays on the wagon.”

  “Lola, you have to trust me. I know what I’m doing,” Adam pleads.

  “Adam, the only thing you should be doing right now is taking those baby clothes back.”

  “Just don’t tell Kate, okay. She’ll go ballistic and the doctor said she has to try and keep her blood pressure down or she could risk losing the baby,” he says.

  “What baby, Adam?” I ask, utterly confused.

  “Oops,” Adam says.

  “What baby?” I repeat again, still confounded.

  “I don’t know,” Adam says flustered. “I thought you knew. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Thought I knew what?” I ask.

  “You should talk to Kate,” Adam says.

  “Adam, what baby?” I yell.

  “Kate’s,” he finally spits out.

  “Kate’s?!” I repeat.

  “Yes,” he says, looking at the floor. “I thought you knew. I shouldn’t have said anything. Kate’s going to kill me. I—”

  I know that Adam is still speaking, but I can’t hear a word he’s actually saying. This can’t be happening. There is no way that this is happening.

  “Kate’s…” I can’t even say the word. It doesn’t make any sense.

  “Pregnant,” Adam finally finishes my sentence.

  12

  “I’m surprised you even found my room,” Kate says, opening her hotel room door for me. “I’ve dreamed of staying at the Du Cap my entire career, and now that I’m finally here they put me in the fucking annex next to Matt Damon’s personal trainer’s assistant.”

  I didn’t even know that the Du Cap had an annex—a.k.a. the Du Crap—until I read Brett Ratner’s flame of the place in Variety after New Line had the temerity to exile him there. This is where you go, bags in hand (no bellhops for The Annexed) after your comeback movie fails to beat Saw XVIII at the box office. After you’re Exhibit A on www.awfulplasticsurgery.com. After you lose roles to Lindsay Lohan.

  “At least the view is nice,” I joke as I gaze out of the one small window at a dying shrub. The room is so Jeffrey Katzenberg–minute that you can basically touch all four walls at once from the doll-size bed. Kanye West’s hot tub is bigger. I sit down next to Kate on the Pepto pink floral bedspread, the only place to sit other than the floor.

  “Do you know anyone who has a room here who’s leaving early?” Kate asks. “Bryan’s assistant told me that CAA has an extra room but then he called me back to tell me that Justin Bieber’s mother decided she wanted to stay longer. Think of who you know. I want to pull a Ratner.”

  During the festival, Hotel Du Caps’s rooms are in such high demand that you have to pay, in advance, for all twelve nights—even if you only stay for two. And the hotel can re-rent your old room to someone new who also has to pay, up front, for all twelve nights—even if they’re only staying two. But there’s a get-out-of-jail-free card for the big cheeses who paid in full. Since practically no one stays for all twelve nights, they can send a letter to the front desk and give their permission for someone else to stay in their room after they check out. After serving purgatory in the Annex, Brett wrangled four such letters and sucked up valuable real estate with four primo rooms—an artful dodge that caused the hotel to try to ban him for life.

  “I’ll ask Mom and Papa if they know anyone. But why don’t you just stay with Cricket?” I ask.

  Kate wrinkles her nose in disdain. “No way. The paparazzi are insane. I’d rather stay here than have to listen to Cricket talk about her feelings and Saffron twenty-four/seven. And now TMZ is saying that her mother’s trying to get Joel Osteen to come to Cannes to counsel Saffron.”

  “Where do they even come up with these stories?” I say.

  “That’s not even the craziest one,” says Kate. “Nikki Finke posted—”

  “No more,” I cut Kate off. “Please. Real life is crazy enough right now.… Speaking of which…” I take a deep breath. “Can we please talk about what we’re not talking about, which is the only thing worth talking about? When were you going to tell me about the baby?” I ask softly.

  Kate exhales as if she’s been punched. “I can’t believe Adam told you. Damn it! I really should fire him, he’s completely useless,” Kate says, looking down at her buzzing BlackBerry, then gasping in distaste. She starts dialing furiously. I wonder if they make BlackBerries for babies. Adam picks up after one ring.

  “Hi Ka—”

  “Adam, what are these pics of Nic in a gown?!”

  “They’re—” Adam tries to answer.

  “You’re supposed to be making sure that Nic wears a suit tonight.” For yet another party celebrating my father’s movie. Diddy, who produced the movie’s theme song featuring Ke$ha, is hosting the fe
te on his yacht.

  “I know, but—” Adam attempts to interject.

  “The reporter from The New York Times is going to be there, and Paulie Santisi will serve both our heads on a silver platter if Nic pulls another stunt like at the premiere and shows up in a dress again.”

  “Ka—,” Adam tries again.

  “He cannot wear another goddamn dress. This is Cannes, not the freaking Crying Game.”

  “Ka—,” Adam stammers.

  “Adam, if you do not get Nic to wear the Zegna suit they made especially for him tonight, you’re fired! Do you understand me?”

  “I’m not wearing a goddamn monkey suit,” Nic’s voice booms out of Kate’s speakerphone in his thick, fake Colombian accent he’s still insisting on using until the movie is out in theaters. “And if anyone is getting fired, it’s you, Kate, for not supporting my artistic process or my main man, Adam.”

  “Nic?!” Kate says, the color draining from her face.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you that you’ve been on speaker,” Adam pipes in meekly.

  If looks could kill, Adam would be a goner.

  “Look, Nic,” Kate says, putting on her best kindergarten teacher voice. “I believed in you when no one else did and I’ve always supported your process, but it’s not in your or the film’s best interest to show up in drag again. It’s important for you to try and separate yourself from your character and let the movie stand on its own.”

  “The character is a part of me, Kate, and I can’t release him until after I’m finished promoting the film,” Nic says. Is this guy for real?

  “And I want the audience to see your character, too, Nic,” says Kate. “But if you keep swanning around in gowns and pissing off Paulie Santisi—the only director who would work with you while you were in rehab—that’s all anybody’s gonna write about. Not your incredible comeback performance. Not whether you deserve the Prix d’Interpretation. Just you and Paulie bitch-slapping each other. And then it’s back down to the minors you go. And then if you’re lucky—lucky—it’s Sober House with Doctor Drew for you.”