Beneath a Starlet Sky Read online

  “Chris,” I say, as afraid to know the answer as much as he’s afraid to tell me, “Just how much debt are we talking about here?”

  The answer floats up from the steering wheel. “A lot, Lo. Like three hundred, four hundred thousand.”

  The darkened canyon on the hillside is dotted with those L.A.-centric houses teetering on stilts like a dare. Like my brother. Teetering on the edge of something and taunting Hollywood: “Oh, you just try to knock me down.” Yes, it seems insane in the Land of Earthquakes. And yes, I might be crazy, too. But no one in our family got anywhere by playing it safe—or being sane. So here goes.

  “I think I can help,” I say, reaching for my bag and pulling out my phone. Glancing at my watch I quickly calculate the time difference, then dial anyway. When the thick Russian accent picks up groggily on the other end of the phone, I don’t mince words. “It’s Lola Santisi. Remember you always said you wanted to break into Hollywood? Well, now’s your chance.”

  4

  The colossal billboard on Ventura Boulevard nearly makes me crash my Prius into the car in front of me. I slam on the brakes and crane my neck to get a closer look. My mother is posing like she’s back on the cover of Vogue—shoulders thrust back, the plane of her cheekbone catching the light, red nails curled around a canted hip. The caption above her head reads, BLANCA SANTISI: THE HOLLYWOOD DIRECTOR’S WIFE. Below her silver Manolos runs her tagline: WHO WILL SHE CUT OUT OF THE PICTURE THIS TIME? WRISTWATCH WIVES DEBUTS THIS FALL! It’s entirely creepy to see my mother’s face that large—and that airbrushed—but at least she’s wearing Julian Tennant, which was the whole reason I signed my release in the first place. And it’s amazing to see Julian’s nude sequin-smothered sheath splashed across a 10 × 20-inch canvas. I can’t imagine what Papa thinks when he drives by that surreal image of my mother looming over Los Angeles every day on his way to work.

  I snap a quick photo with my iPhone and e-mail it to Julian. Hopefully it’ll cheer him up. He’s convinced himself he’s lost the Luhrmann gig again since we still haven’t heard anything—even though I’ve been using The Secret and The Secrets of Abraham, and Mom’s phone psychic Lynda did see a wedding dress when we spoke. I can’t think about that now; I need to focus on the fitting I’m about to have with Nic Knight—and my father. Everyone’s going to want the stills of Nic in drag wearing these stunning JT gowns. I still can’t believe my father came through for me—and Julian—in such a big way. Maybe people really can change.

  It’s not that my father hasn’t tried to be supportive in his own limited way. As I wind my way down Ventura Boulevard, I’m flooded by a memory of being eight years old. My father stalked up to me where I was leaning up against the gate of our house in my purple-sequined leotard dress with full tutu and matching slippers. Chris had just taught me how to ride sans training wheels the red, sparkly, banana-seat Schwinn that was the envy of the neighborhood kids. And I was taking a break from my proud moment. My father had been holed up in his office for weeks writing his next movie; he’d surface in silence only for a cup of coffee. He’d drink it while standing over the sink with a glazed look in his dark eyes as he gazed out the window. He wasn’t looking at the jacaranda trees. He was looking into the world he was creating. Christopher and I knew not to disturb him during these phases, tiptoeing by his door on our way to watch reruns of Three’s Company and The Cosby Show, the smell of cigars and the sound of his voice acting out scenes wafting out from under the door. And now here he was, still in his striped pajamas at four o’clock in the afternoon, appearing as if back from the dead, hair disheveled, dark circles under his eyes, and glasses askew. I knew this return to the living meant he’d finished his script, but wondered what he wanted with me.

  “I hear you’re playing Snow White,” he called out from a distance.

  “Yeah,” I nodded nonchalantly. I mean, it was cool to get the lead in the school play, but it was mostly about the blue-and-red silk dress with white puffed sleeves and black wig with red headband that I got to wear. I wasn’t that thrilled about all of the memorization. But the costume—now, that was inspiring. I’d already talked through my design concept with Mr. Fisher, my sewing class teacher. He was my first GDF—Gay Design Friend—and we were totally thrilled about our concept. “The red piping’s going to be a challenge, Lola, but we’ll figure it out. You’re a real talent,” he whispered in my ear as I took my lunchbox to head out for recess. I was supposed to meet Julie Roth for lunch in our usual spot on the grass under the palm trees but I’d have to cancel. I needed some time alone with my sketchbook to sort out my ideas.

  “Let’s work on it,” my father said, handing me the pages he’d obviously gotten from Nanny No. 5. I threw my bike up against the gate, and we got to work rehearsing my lines. It was dark outside three hours later when my father finally declared it a wrap for the day.

  “Good work,” Papa said to my four-foot-tall self as he took my hand and we headed back toward the house. “Want some pizza?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Papa,” I said, looking up at him. “And I’d really like to show you my ideas for what I want to wear.”

  “Great,” he said. “Costuming is very important.”

  I got a standing ovation that year as Snow White. And it wasn’t just the costume, which was perfection. Papa will be the first to tell you, it was the best acting work I’ve done.

  “Lola Santisi,” I say to the Warner Brothers security guard as I hand him my driver’s license. “I’m going to the set of the Paulie Santisi movie, San Quentin Cartel.” When the guard points me in the right direction, it occurs to me that I should have called Kate first to make sure Nic Knight is actually on the set and not in the slammer. Kate told me on the drive home from our trayf Shabbat that she had to spring him from jail, yet again, the day before. Nic was cited for indecent exposure. Again. He was buying a wallet at Louis Vuitton in Beverly Hills when he felt the urgent call of nature and peed on a row of one-of-a-kind Murakami bags instead of using the plush marble bathroom on the second floor like every other human being on the planet. Thank g-d it was on his day off and somehow Kate kept it away from the media—and my father. I don’t even want to know who or how much Kate paid to keep it quiet. If Nic wasn’t so supremely talented, he’d be behind the gates of the L.A. County Psych Ward instead of Bel Air.

  Wrestling with the garment bags all the way to Nic’s trailer, I balance them on my knee and knock on his door. Unlike most quadruple-wide luxury star trailers, Nic’s trailer is tiny, all the furniture stripped out save for a small cot at his request. He’s so Method that he decided to replicate the jail cell where most of the movie takes place.

  When no one answers, I go ahead and let myself in, expecting to find Kate pacing with BlackBerry in hand and Nic working on his lines. Instead I find Coz and her protégé little Chili Lu looking awfully cozy on the cot. What are they doing here?

  “Hey Lola,” Coz says coolly, despite the mink vest she’s wearing over her caramel-colored, paper-thin leather pinafore, crossing one chocolate knee-high lace-up stiletto boot over the other. Judging from her outfit you’d never know it was seventy-five degrees outside. I swear she has ice running through her veins. I’ve never seen that woman break a sweat—ever. Unlike me, who is suddenly drenched in sweat thanks to the molten lava coursing throughout my entire body.

  “Hey,” I say, confused, trying to maintain my composure. “Well, this is a surprise. What brings you here? And where’s Nic?”

  “On set shooting still,” Coz says.

  “Yo, I’m Chili,” says a skinny teen from beneath his Flock of Seagulls-esque shiny black hair.

  “Lola,” I stammer.

  “Nice to meet you.” He looks up at me with big, brown, puppy-dog eyes from behind his Buddy Holly black glasses. I would kill for his poreless, perfect skin. In his skinny black jeans, oversized gray T-shirt hanging on his diminutive frame, and red vintage Air Jordans, he actually looks even younger than sixteen. “You look hoot.”

  �
��Thanks,” I say, trying not to wince at the catchphrase that Chili trademarked (because plain old “hot” is so Paris Hilton over) the catchphrase that strides abreast a million Bedazzled T-shirts that practically flew off the shelves of Fred Segal at seventy-five dollars per. And did I mention the kid is freaking sixteen?

  “Nic should be back soon if you wanna hang,” Chili says, scooching over on the cot to try and make room for me between him and Coz. I look to Chili and then to Coz and think there’s nothing I’d like to do less. Suddenly Nic’s trailer feels exactly like a prison, and I’m desperate to break out.

  “I think three’s a crowd on that tiny bed. So, what brings you here?” I try again.

  “Oh,” Coz says, lowering her signature black shades and casually smoothing her platinum hair. “Your father didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” I ask.

  “I called him because I had this mind-blowingly brilliant idea that we should put Nic on the cover of Vain in full drag,” Coz says.

  “Isn’t it strawberries!?” Chili chimes in. Oh God. The other patented Chili catchphrase. According to him, “Strawberries are so much hooter than bananas.” “It’s going to be the hootest cover ever.”

  “Wait, what? That was my idea, Coz. Remember, when I called you right after you came to the loft? I pitched that idea to you about putting Nic on the cover of Vain in Julian Tennant. I told you that Julian was designing the gown for the prison break scene, the most pivotal scene in the movie, and that everyone would be talking about it. You turned me down. You told me Grace would never put a man on the cover.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lola,” Coz says.

  Am I being gaslit here? Am I actually losing my mind? Or is Coz out of hers? And then it dawns on me. Nic Knight is going to be on the cover of Vain in Julian’s gown. Who cares whose idea it is? Let Coz have all the credit. All that matters is that it’s happening. Maybe Coz isn’t the devil’s spawn after all. Breathe, Lola, breathe.

  “Well, it is an awesome idea, Coz,” I say neutrally. “Nic is going to look fantastic on the cover in Julian’s gown. It’ll be amazing publicity for both of us. Here, we actually made several gowns for the scene; let me show them to you,” I say, starting to unzip the garment bag in my arms.

  “You seem confused. Nic’s going to wear one of Chili’s gowns on the cover. That’s why we’re here,” Coz says flatly.

  “Sorry? Why would he wear one of Chili’s gowns when Julian designed the gown for the movie?” I ask.

  “Because Julian didn’t. Chili did,” Coz says. She seems to be deriving immense pleasure from every viperous word.

  “Do you want to see them, Lola? They’re so hoot. You’re going to go strawberries,” Chili says, oblivious to the drama swirling above his five-foot-three head.

  This has to be a bad dream. I’m going to wake up any second. Please let me wake up.

  “There must be some misunderstanding,” I insist, looking around the trailer as if I might find the very tiny answer there hiding in a very tiny corner. Or at the very least a Lilliputian Candid Camera?

  “Your dad is smart and wants to be where the buzz is. And the buzz is with Chili, not Julian. It’s all about reality TV,” Coz says. “And Chili rules reality TV. Did you know that Bravo’s thinking of doing a spinoff? Hoot Chili. Aldo says that Chili’s numbers are through the roof.”

  “Who’s Aldo?” I ask. “What numbers?”

  “Oh, you don’t know Aldo? Aldo Threepersons the cool hunter?” Coz says. “I’m surprised. Isn’t it part of your job to know the latest trends?” Coz sounds almost bored as she slides the knife in and twists it. “Aldo has brilliant ideas for the fourteen- to nineteen-year-olds.”

  “Yeah, your dad’s hoot, Lola,” Chili chimes in, “but Aldo says I’m totally kicking his ass in the prime demographic. Plus Aldo’s totally down with my designs. I’ve already licensed them to Second Life so Nic will totally be the first drag avatar. Isn’t it strawberries!”

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask. It’s true Papa wouldn’t know a Twitter from a woofer or a tweeter, but why is he ceding creative control to a kid who couldn’t recognize “couture” if he saw it on the PSATs?

  “Aldo’s work is genius. He came up with the new counter show to NYC Prep. It’s called NYC Un-Prep. It’s the downtown high schoolers’ response to those dull Upper East Siders,” Coz says, as if this guy were Einstein. “And to think he’s only fifteen.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll be even more genius when he hits puberty,” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to dash.”

  I barely notice the welter of extras and PAs and ADs and grips as I make my way through the set to find my father. All I’m seeing is red. This was our job. And we didn’t waste our time on these gowns for nothing. When I finally find my father talking to the script supervisor, I don’t hesitate. I will risk his wrath because I’m fuming.

  “Can I talk to you for a second,” I tell him. It’s not a question. The script supervisor bows her head and backs away, like she’s departing a royal. Which I suppose, in her universe, Papa is.

  Papa raises an eyebrow at my impertinence. “What’s up?” he asks curtly, clearly preoccupied with the entirety of this movie on his shoulders.

  “Did you forget you gave Julian the job of designing Nic’s gown for the reshoots?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “I just found out that you gave the job to Chili Lu instead. Why would you do that? You promised me! You knew what that publicity meant to my company! You knew how hard it was for me to ask you for help!”

  “Oh geezus, Lola, it’s just a fucking dress,” he says, strumming his fingers on the notebook he’s gripping.

  “It’s just a fucking dress to you, but we spent a lot of time and energy redesigning several gown options for you.”

  Papa pinches the bridge of his nose at the tiresome business before him. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve been told that everyone’s talking about this Chili kid and I really need the younger demo. Our test-screening numbers were in the shitter for the kids who buy the most tickets. I’m sorry,” he says matter-of-factly, turning back to his work. “Business is business.” Discussion over.

  As I make my way through the set back to my car, I can’t help but feel like I’ve taken a giant leap backward. I thought I’d grown out of feeling crushed by my father. But he’s just as self-centered as ever. I can feel the smoke coming out of my ears as if my head might explode. I’m so furious that it doesn’t even occur to me that I left the gowns in Nic Knight’s trailer until I’ve left the lot and am speeding back down Ventura Boulevard. I don’t even consider going back for them. They’re of no use to us now.

  My phone trills and I click on my Bluetooth. Oh thank god, it’s Kate. “I was just about to call you! Did you know that Nic is going to be in Chili instead of Julian for the reshoots? And the cover of Vain! That Coz is such a conniving bitch. How could you not tell me, Kate—”

  “Look, I just found out twenty minutes ago myself, and I’ve been on calls every second since. I’m sorry. But there’s great news! Cricket got the part! She’s going to be in Baz’s movie!”

  “Kate, that’s amazing! Is Cricket thrilled to pieces? You must have lobbied so hard for her,” I say, my emotions whipsawing as I struggle to feel happy for my friend while still crushed by Papa’s self-absorption.

  “Actually, we got lucky. Vanessa Hudgens was his next pick, but she dropped out when she got the chance to replace Amanda Seyfried, who dropped out of Mamma Mia 4 so she could replace Anne Hathaway in Footloose 3, who dropped out to replace Beyoncé in Chicago 2. And I have to confess that it was actually as much Saffron’s doing as mine. Apparently she saw Cricket’s headshot and tape and totally went to bat for her. She said she loved the way Cricket glows on screen, thinks she’s a knockout.”

  “Well, this is great for Cricket. She really needs this. How did she react?”

  “I called you first, because guess what else! Guess who’s making tho
se two wedding gowns? Julian!”

  I can’t help it. I’m squealing like a contestant on Rock of Love. “Omigod! Omigod! Kate! How did you pull that off?” Finally! Finally we get a break! This is just what we needed!

  “Saffron and I really put the screws to Baz. He’ll be calling Julian any second with the news, so just pretend you don’t already know it.”

  “Oh my gosh, Kate, this is fantastic. You don’t know how badly we needed this news after having Chili steal the San Quentin Cartel design gig away from us.”

  “I wouldn’t blame Chili, that kid’s clueless,” says Kate. “But your dad and Coz? Two pieces of work. Anyhow, I’ve got to go make more calls. Remember, when Julian calls you, act surprised.”

  It’s almost impossible to keep my excitement under wraps ten minutes later when he calls. “Julian,” I say, “what’s new?”

  “Hey,” he says glumly. Guess he hasn’t gotten the news yet; I debate whether I should just go ahead and tell him when he adds, “Katy Perry just signed a two-million-dollar deal with Target for a line of doggie sweats. I can’t believe it. I did all that work on the Dogshmere collection and Tom Ford’s groomer never even got my designs to Barbara Walters. We should have had that deal.”

  I feel like I have to tell him about Baz’s movie now. He sounds so distraught. This will cheer him up. I’m about to tell him when he says, “Oh, and we’re designing the wedding gowns for Baz. We got the gig.” He sounds like he’s just been told they’ve stopped making Dolce & Gabbana underwear.

  “Why don’t you sound more excited, Julian?”

  “Because guess who I’m stuck with as an assistant? Chili. Coz has somehow convinced Baz that it’ll be more great publicity for the film. I think she’ll do anything to protect that little freak. She wants to stop all the bad buzz about how Baz fired him because his designs were so ridiculous. Why risk embarrassing gossip, which could only distract from the movie? I have no choice but to go along.”