Impossibly Tongue-Tied Page 3

  She was just about to pretend the message light wasn’t blinking, toss her cell phone back into her purse, and stuff the whole kit and caboodle into her locker when it hit her that the call might be from Nathan again, saying that he’d changed his mind about taking the gig because spending a rare night out on the town with her was just too important.

  That was the only reason that Nina pushed the “1” digit on the phone, and heard the following:

  Message #2, 7:44 A.M.: Um, darling Nina, this is Becca…You know, Plum’s mummy. You drove off so fast that the au pair didn’t have time to tell you—er, to ask—a favor…Her English is so bad anyway, so I’ll just ask for her. You see, Ylva won’t be able to pick up the children this afternoon…she’s got to go in and talk to the immigration people. Again…My gawd, considering she’s Swedish and not Mexican, you’d think this wouldn’t happen as often as it does, now wouldn’t you? Sometimes I think Gordon is right and we should just go with an illegal. What do you think? Ooops, so sorry! I keep forgetting that you tough it out without a staff…and you work, too! And such hard work…So noble…I really admire you. Really…Most certainly, Ylva should be home just a few minutes after you…An hour, tops…Um, speaking of your little job at Tommaso’s, before you leave the store, would you be a dear and scoop up some of that fabulous tuna sashimi they have in the deli, for Plum’s dinner tonight? Gordon and I have reservations at Lucques, and I just won’t have time to stop until then…Oh, and throw in some of that delicious roasted bell pepper coulis. You can just add it to my tab there…In fact, I’ll just call in the rest of my order, and you can take the whole thing home with you, you’re such a doll. Ylva will get it from you when she picks up Plum. If my baby girl is hungry when you get her home, remember: She’s allowed fresh fruit only. We don’t believe in unnatural sugars…I assume that you buy only organic, correct? Seems that, working at Tommaso’s, that would be a given. Am I right? You know, I really do admire you! Ciao bella…

  What, was that bitch crazy? This was, like, the third time she’d pulled this au pair no-show stunt.

  As if Nina were on Becca Silver’s staff, too.

  And as if Becca was doing Nina a favor to entrust her darling little Plum to Nina’s care in the first place, when it was so obvious that Becca felt gypped over having to carpool with Sage Oak Academy’s one and only “scholarship family” to begin with.

  All because, unlike Nina, every other Sage Oak “mummy” between Pacific Palisades and Santa Monica was already wise to Becca’s carpool abuses.

  Or at least their au pairs were.

  Nina had once made the mistake of bitching to Nathan about Becca’s treatment. “Well, what do you expect in a school where none of the kids have real names, anyway?” was his comeback.

  From the viewpoint of someone who had grown up in Joyous—where every third girl was named Brittany, if not Ashley or Lauren—it was downright un-American that every female child in their son’s class was named for a fruit-bearing tree. Nina could have easily explained this away by informing him that these “fruity names,” as he called them, were in fact Hollywood’s version of Ashley, Lauren, and Brittany: in other words, a trend that had started with Gwyneth’s highly hormonal whim to name her daughter Apple. Immediately, Cherry, Peach, (not even Peaches, but just one Peach), Pear, Lemon, and in Becca’s devilish little angel’s case, Plum, had been snapped up with fervor.

  Certainly a Guava should make an appearance any day now.

  Why, one couple—he was a studio wonk, and she could have easily passed for Gwyneth’s twin sister—had even named their son Kiwi so as not to miss out on the trend. (And because she wanted to keep looking like Gwynnie, they had stopped at one child.) When Nathan heard that, he insisted that their kid would be scarred for life; that perhaps it would even turn the boy into “a fag.” It didn’t matter that the fruit in question came from New Zealand, the very country that had produced his favorite—and very macho—film idol, Russell.

  “Don’t say that about the poor kid!” Nina scolded him. “Despite what you may have been taught back in Joyous, a person just doesn’t ‘become’ gay. Besides, a tenth of the population is gay! And everyone’s got at least one gay friend, right?”

  “Well, if anything could turn a guy gay, a fruity name is right there at the top of the list,” Nathan insisted. “What was that dude thinking, anyway? A father’s got to give his son every advantage, right up front.”

  As Nathan said that, he glanced proudly at Jake: his mini-me, his clone, the heir to his throne. The two of them were headed down to the park, Jake’s tiny glove and miniature bat in hand, for “Team Harte’s” thrice-weekly catch-and-hit game. For Nina, one of Nathan’s most endearing features was how he embraced fatherhood so unabashedly. Heck, he had never even hesitated to change a diaper when Jake was a baby! Like most proud daddies, he reveled in those things that made his son uniquely special, and had made it his mission to encourage Jake’s natural athletic abilities, even going so far as to arrange his work schedule so that it would never interfere with this sacred father-son ritual.

  And because Nina’s all-encompassing love for Jake matched his own, Nathan knew better than to balk at her insistence that Jake attend Sage Oak. After all, she pointed out knowingly, at what other preschool could Jake learn his numbers, letters, and a smattering of Spanish (a great course for those kids with Mexican au pairs), and give Nathan the opportunity to ruminate over the pros and cons of soccer versus T-ball with Patrick Dempsey on Open House Night, or mention to proud mama Felicity Huffman that Jake might actually have a crush on her little Georgia Grace—and then ask either of them: “Oh by the way, is your show still casting for that offbeat guest role?”

  Certainly not the Little Lambs Preschool back in Joyous.

  Because that was in the middle of nowhere.

  And they—Nathan, Nina, and Jake—belonged at the center of that universe.

  In fact, if Nina had her way, Nathan—her sweetheart, her lover, her knight in shining armor—would soon be the center of that universe.

  Which was why she’d work an extra shift tonight, without complaint.

  Having Sam Godwin as an agent is like being blessed by an angel. I never felt luckier than on the day he tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Jenny, I’d be honored to make you a star.” I was, like, “No, Sam, I’d be honored to be one of the stars you’ve made.”

  Jennifer L., in Variety

  When Sam is here at Sundance, his instincts are like a Geiger counter: Any film he’s excited about means that the director and the actors are made—that is, if they are smart enough to sign with Sam and then listen closely to what he says they have to do in order to make it in this business. Of course, they’ll never regret that they did.

  Robert R., in Hollywood Reporter

  When you’re a nobody and all of a sudden your indie flick gets some buzz, a dozen agents will descend on you like locusts, and then tell you how terrific they are and what they can do for you. Not Sam. He’s too Zen for that. He sees his job as your samurai, the one who slaughters all the bad guys so that you can make the movies you want to make. And trust me: The dude wields one bad-ass sword.

  Quentin T., in Interview

  You want to know about Sam as an agent? Let me put it this way: Both Ben and I had the opportunity to sign with Sam, but because people in Hollywood see us as joined at the hip, we decided, “Okay, we’ll sign with different agents. How bad could that be, right?” So we flipped a coin, and I got Sam. Need I say more?”

  Matt D., in Entertainment Weekly

  2

  The Ultimatum

  In Hollywood, everyone has a dirty little secret.

  And Sam Godwin, the managing partner of ICA—Intellectual Creative Agency, one of the biggest talent firms in Hollywood—knew most of them.

  For example, he knew that a certain blockbuster director had recently been arrested in Utah for rolling around a lumpy TraveLodge mattress with the comely, buck-toothed fifteen-year-old daughter of
a polygamist. What do you do in that situation, hold your breath and pray that no overly zealous stringer with the National Enquirer or Hollywood Exxxposé is Googling the court dockets from the Deseret Morning News? Hell, no! It was Sam’s way of thinking that you had to be proactive, not reactive, which was why he convinced his client to make a fairly substantial contribution to the fifteen-year-old’s “college fund.” Sure, it ticked off Mr. Cradle Robber to have to do it, but he anted up. Case dismissed. End of story.

  And Sam was the only person on the planet who knew that a certain up-and-coming television actor whose starring role in his first action film had tested through the roof still slept at home with his mother. No, not just in the same house; but in the same bed with Mommy Dearest.

  Every night.

  Nope, there would be no way in which to resurrect Sonny’s career if that little ditty got out.

  And then there was that veddy aristocratic British actress who was at the top of every film director’s must-have list—you know, the one who comes off as the long-lost daughter of Audrey Hepburn, all fire and ice elegance? Well, her little indiscretions, which took place in her mid-teens, could be found on the shelf of any video porn shop in Germany. But thanks to the fact that she took Sam up on his suggestion that she change her name and find herself a top-notch Swiss plastic surgeon for a nose job, cheekbone augmentation, and let’s not forget the breast reduction, no one else needed to find out about this, either.

  In Sam’s mind, knowing these juicy little tidbits and telling the world about them—or telling anyone, for that matter—accomplished nothing. In fact, it defeated everything he stood for, because keeping secrets was Sam’s stock-in-trade.

  He was, after all, a Hollywood agent.

  Which was why he made every client’s business his own, and worked very hard to ensure that their business became no one else’s.

  It was this kind of sensitivity that had rocketed Sam out of the mailroom of one of the oldest, most revered agencies in Hollywood, and into a partnership at one of the young Turk agency boutiques, and why he enjoyed a client roster that read like a “Hollywood’s Hottest” special issue of Vanity Fair.

  Not all his clients were comfortable about spilling their guts to him—at least, not at first. But once they got used to the idea that they deserved a keeper for their naughty realms, actually they were relieved to share all those embarrassing little incidents—or as Sam put it to them, “life-shaping experiences”—with someone who didn’t pass judgment. He encouraged them to think of him as their very own father confessor, but with none of the hassles that come with converting to some repressive dogma, like $200 red-string bracelets or other sentimental silliness. Whenever his clients found themselves perched on some emotional way-out-in-left-field limb, he was the guy who talked them down.

  Afterward, they actually believed that they’d come through it okay. Best yet, without their adoring public any the wiser.

  And that was all that mattered, he told them.

  Of course, out of sheer desperation, they chose to believe him, because he was their agent, and it went without saying that he had only their best interests at heart.

  Right?

  This was why, at six-forty-five that morning, Sam was cooling his heels in a discreetly placed banquette within the Beverly Hills Hotel’s renowned Polo Lounge, waiting to meet with Lucinda Hardaway, the wife and producing partner of his dearest friend and oldest client, the renowned director Hugo Schmitt. Lucinda was also the only child of and heir to the billions accumulated by the multimedia scion Archibald “Archie” Hardaway. In fact, it was Archie’s millions that financed the small, edgy, intelligent films made by Hugo’s production company, Flagrant Films, which were revered by edgy and intelligent cinephiles and lauded by reviewers the world over…

  …yet rarely made back its investors’ money, no less a decent profit.

  In other words, Archie never saw even a dime back from his investment in Hugo’s films. Did that bother him? Of course! But Archie had learned years ago to suck it up because he’d do anything to make his only child happy. And as long as Hugo made her happy, too, he’d keep writing off Hugo’s losses.

  Which was why Hugo was the envy of every DGA member.

  Now, according to Lucinda, it seemed that Hugo had a secret, too—one that even Sam knew nothing about.

  This he had to hear.

  Lucinda’s arrival was as surreptitious as possible, considering that she swept into the Polo Lounge swathed in floor-length psychedelic Pucci and three-inch-heeled sandals with a runway stride that would have done Kate Moss proud. Now in her mid-thirties, Lucinda used her humongous bank balance to help offset the inevitable Malibu matron’s mid-life depression, the result of living in a town that feared aging almost as badly as the alternative. Then again, considering how it deified those who die young, maybe Hollywood felt that the alternative was better.

  Sam rose to give her the requisite peck on the cheek, but she wore her D&G shades until after the waiter had taken their order. When she took them off, Sam saw the reason: Her eyes were so swollen from crying that one would have thought she’d just had plastic surgery.

  Not good.

  Before he could ask what was wrong, she opened her Her-mès bag and pulled out an unlabeled CD. He couldn’t help but notice that her hand was trembling as she handed it to him.

  “Hugo is—he’s in love with another woman.” She sighed tearfully.

  Sam blinked once, slowly, before he shook his head in disbelief. “Look, Lucinda, if that were the case, I would know about it.”

  “Yes, I realize that.” She stared at him, as if determining whether his statement was a denial or a cover-up. After what was an uncomfortably long silence, she must have decided that he was telling her the truth because she put her hand over his for just a moment before pulling it away.

  “How did you find out?”

  His question brought a sardonic smile to her lips. “Our accountants.” Seeing his puzzled look, she added: “Seems he’s been making the calls on the company charge card—”

  Jeez, that was stupid, thought Sam.

  “—and according to this recording, I guess he used my own personal card, too.”

  “Calls, huh? Long distance? So, she’s based somewhere other than here in L.A.?”

  “She’s everywhere. She’s a phone sex operator.”

  Just when I thought Hugo couldn’t be any stupider, he proves me wrong.

  Sam put on his game face and said, “So, that’s it? That’s the punch line? Come on, Lucinda, phone sex isn’t real sex. It’s—it’s a naughty little boy’s temporary infatuation, that’s all. Why, I’ll bet he’s never even met this woman.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” she retorted. “Sam, I’m telling you, Hugo is obsessed with her.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because…because he’s not using her simply to—to stimulate our sex life. Believe me, that wouldn’t be so bad. I’ve gone down that path before with him, so I know that. And I know him.”

  Her eyes were getting damp again. Fumbling to put her sunglasses back on, she choked, “If you must know, for over a month now, he’s been abstaining. Which means that he’d rather be with her. And it’s only a matter of time before he is.”

  Just then the waiter came with their coffees and fruit plates. After he departed, Sam asked, “So, do your people have any idea who this woman might be?”

  She shook her head. “I had a PI bug the phones, but her line is untraceable. On the recording, though, he calls her O.”

  “Hmmm.” Sam wanted to laugh but then thought better of it. “Not too original, is it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I mean, if the bulk of your clientele is film industry types, they might get off on the classic cinematic reference.”

  “How do you know that’s the case?”

  “The PI told me that O’s got a rep around the town, and specifically among you boys.”

  “Hey, don’t look at me.
Verbal masturbation isn’t my cup of tea.” He put his hand on hers and looked her straight in the eye. “Listen, Lucinda, you and Hugo are my closest, dearest friends. Hell, I introduced you two, remember? And I was the best man at your wedding. I think I can say that, next to you, I know Hugo better than anyone. And I’m betting that, for the long run anyway, this O person doesn’t really mean anything to Hugo, either.”

  Lucinda shrugged sadly. “Before you put a C-note on that one, listen to it yourself. Then tell me what you think.” She stood up to leave. “Believe me, Sam, I’d much rather it be you who takes care of this, as opposed to Daddy. Because his way to make the problem go away would mean the end of Hugo and me.”

  Don’t I know it, thought Sam as he watched Lucinda walk away, her head held high.

  Not only that, it would be the end of Hugo’s career in Hollywood, period, because no studio would dare cross Archie by distributing Hugo’s films. They couldn’t afford that. Most certainly not for an art house auteur whose films’ net income barely covered the catering costs for the parties thrown to fete any Academy Award nominations thrown his way. Hell, even the DVD rights didn’t make it worthwhile.

  Sam grabbed the check from the waiter and headed out the door.

  One of the classiest features of the Ferrari F430 is its perfectly balanced four-speaker high-end Bose sound system, ideal for listening to the seductive purr of an experienced phone sex operator in the throes of a professionally simulated orgasm: