True Hollywood Lies Read online

  After that I skeptically parsed everything he said to me. Doing so wasn’t easy on either of us: Leo wasn’t used to others so obviously calling his bluff, and I was too hurt to realize that my pointed inquisitions were only exacerbating the problem between us.

  To some extent, moving out of his house helped our relationship. He was much easier to love from afar—and far more tolerable when we did get together.

  I also found another way to drown my sorrows: while I might not have been able to trust another woman to like me for myself as opposed to my proximity to Leo, I could always count on the fawning attentions of every sales clerk between Rodeo Drive and Melrose Avenue. Love me, love my credit card—which Leo paid in full—was my motto. We both accepted this as his grudging penance for absentee parenting.

  My saving grace: astronomy, which I discovered through a UCLA extension class. Looking up into a cobalt sky at millions of tiny white dots, and grasping hold of the concept that these other worlds were millions of light-years away and far beyond our reach, put the frailty of our humanity—even Leo’s—back into perspective for me. It’s why I spend hours hunkered over a telescope in the hope of discovering something so spectacular.

  Even Leo got it. Once he surprised me, tracking me down at one of the viewing platforms outside the observatory. I was so engrossed in a star shower that I hadn’t heard him come up behind me. He just stood there, silently watching me until I looked up.

  It would be an understatement to say that my father had a way with words. Coming out of his mouth, the phrase “Pass the salt,” was not a simple request but a truly moving experience of passion, verve, and elocution—which was why most of the world’s renowned film directors had salivated at the chance to pay him millions of dollars to hear him say that or other phrases just as mundane.

  To me, he simply said, “‘You teach your daughters the diameters of the planets and wonder when you are done that they do not delight in your company.’”

  “That’s beautiful,” I stuttered, still surprised to see him.

  “Samuel Johnson said it.” He gave me a kiss on the cheek and took a turn at the telescope.

  It was the only time in my life that I felt my father totally and completely understood me.

  And then he was gone, as unreachable to me as any supernova moving through the cosmos.

  And there I was, alone on planet Earth, with overdue rent, a car payment to make, foreclosure eminent on my telescope, and a very big Fred Segal bill landing in my mailbox any day now.

  Not to mention a lawsuit in the making.

  I’d weathered Leo and survived. How bad could life be looking after Louis Trollope?

  Chapter 2: Supernova

  A rare celestial phenomenon, involving the explosion of most of the material in a star, resulting in an extremely bright, short-lived object that emits vast amounts of energy.

  It took the court exactly two weeks to freeze Leo’s assets so that the disputed will could be reviewed some time within the next six months (God willing).

  However, it took less than 24 hours for Sybilla to shuffle about a fifth of the estate—Leo’s cash stash, family jewelry and heirlooms, and various safety-deposited trinkets—into her own private Neverland, never to resurface again.

  On the seventh day, I rose, came to my senses, and took Jasper up on his suggestion.

  Oh well, better late than never.

  At my behest, Jasper’s Svetlana set up my interview with Louis Trollope that afternoon at four-thirty sharp, then couriered over the formal job description for the personal assistant position. Enclosed with it were a trove of articles that were anything and everything ever written on Louis, as well as an old article in which my father had been interviewed. This quote was circled:

  “Live is a lesson in humility.”

  The reporter thought Leo was being insightful. Apparently, so did Jasper.

  I know better. It was a line from one of his very first movies, in which he played James M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan.

  Not exactly the best role model.

  A placement firm that specialized in such positions had obviously written the job description that was also enclosed. Its criteria were daunting enough to intimidate the unqualified but sufficiently covert to entice a real bootlicking go-getter. In part, it read:

  “PERSONAL ASSISTANT: Seeking an exceptional candidate who can enhance our client’s lifestyle and creative objectives. Must be responsible, flexible, an excellent problem solver, have a strong work ethic, and be the model of honesty and integrity. The ability to maintain the highest level of security and confidentiality at all times is essential. You will be on call 24 hours per day, 7 days per week. Responsibilities will cover a wide range of duties, as you will be overseeing our client’s complex lifestyle issues. Thus, you must have the ability to multitask while still remaining organized and focused on the tasks at hand. If you are an excellent planner with strong problem-solving skills, and thrive in a fast-paced environment, then you may be a great asset for this creative artist. However, you must be prepared to face adversity –

  What does this mean? Should I have trained with Special Ops?

  – You must also be fluent in etiquette and proper protocol when dealing with business and personal associates of our client. Exposure to European graces is a plus! You will be responsible for all details that allow your employer to stay focused, on time and on track by ensuring that creative and personal needs are met. Must feel comfortable working out of a home in an exclusive area of Hollywood. Duties include phones, some Internet, travel arrangements, and general organizing. Must have reliable transportation and valid driver’s license. Some travel, light cooking, and running errands. Experience in personal training and interior design would be beneficial . . . ”

  There was more, running almost as long as the U.S. tax code, but I won’t bore you with the rest. Suffice it to say that a combination of Mother Teresa, Miss Manners and Mary Poppins would be a perfect candidate – maybe.

  Who was this guy, anyway? The pope?

  And Jasper thought this gig was up my alley? It was worth it to interview, just to prove him wrong.

  * * *

  My appointment with Louis Trollope took place at his house, which sat high in the Hollywood Hills. It was a typical actor’s bachelor pad, which is to say it was a ramshackle stucco cottage with a Spanish tile roof, hidden deep inside a grove of madrone trees and overrun with bougainvillea. And, while it was merely adequate in the area of creature comforts, it received exceptionally high points for its breathtaking views of the city and the ocean beyond.

  I had zigzagged my way up Mulholland Drive then turned back south onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I was going faster than I should have, but only because my Beetle was running on fumes. Already the winter sun was setting, and I wanted to get there and back as fast as possible, reasoning that it would be better to coast downhill on empty in twilight than after dark.

  Svetlana’s directions ended at a nondescript driveway on a tiny dead-end lane off LCB. A tall wooden gate blocked the driveway. I pressed the security phone’s intercom button three times before getting a response: something garbled came out, but it ended with, “—love.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The last thing I was expecting was a term of endearment. I prayed he could hear me better than I had heard him.

  “Shit!” came his response. At first, I didn’t know what to think. Had my question offended him in some way? Or did he have Tourette’s Syndrome? Or was this just a sneak preview of his usual demeanor?

  “Sorry, love, that wasn’t meant for you. Somehow I—I disconnected my cell phone by mistake. Bloody piece of crap! Please, come up the drive and park anywhere.”

  “No problem. I’ll be right up.” The Beetle had been idling in neutral, which was supposed to conserve its last pitiful vapors of gas. I waited until the gate swung open far enough for the Beetle to squeak by and crawl toward the house.

  In the driveway were a Humvee, a Prius, a deep
red Ferrari Millichili, and a Harley Davidson custom CVO Fat Boy: the right accessories to suit any mood or event. These were the prerequisite toys of the male célébrité dans la mode, evidence that Louis Trollope had arrived, at least by Hollywood’s standards.

  The front door was wide open.

  “Hello?” I called from the foyer.

  At first I didn’t see him. Walking boldly through the entryway and into the living room beyond, I barely missed stumbling over a khaki camel-hair ottoman. Coming in from the outside, it took a while for my eyes to adjust to the cool semidarkness of the room. With its rough-hewn beamed ceiling, dark stained batten-and-board walls, large suede chairs and several oversized leather settees clustered around a carved antler coffee table piled high with movie scripts, Louis’s cottage was so obviously Beverly Hills designer Dodd Mitchell’s take on a gentleman’s hunting lodge.

  Finally I made out his silhouette. And although Louis hadn’t said a word, I just knew he had been watching me from the moment I had entered, clearly relishing the opportunity to observe without being observed himself—a rarity for him, I’m sure.

  Now that I was standing there in front of him, he gave me his complete and utter attention: the equivalent of 1,000 watts of unadulterated star power.

  “Hello to you, too. I’m quite charmed to make your acquaintance,” he said, offering his hand to me.

  I had to admit, the celebrity magazines have Louis Trollope pegged right: “For being a guy’s guy, it’s easy to see why he’s such a chick magnet. . . ” (GQ), what with his being “ruggedly handsome and roguishly charming. . . ” (Ladies’ Home Journal) and possessing “startling azure eyes that, when focused on you, make you feel that you are the only person in the room–-not to mention cheekbones to lust for. . . ” (Redbook) as well as “. . . the cutest bum on either side of the pond” (British Vogue). Over all, he’s “just a wicked wet dream!” (Cosmopolitan).

  And there I was, bathed in the spotlight of his smile.

  It would have been easy to bask in its warmth, but my intuition warned me not to get too used to it, or I might get burned.

  I shook his hand, and I swear, when I touched him a current ran through me like a bolt of lightning. It was all I could do not to melt into a ball of jelly at his feet.

  If Louis felt it too, he didn’t show it. I was surprised just how much that disappointed me.

  The soft, insistent moan of his cell phone broke the spell.

  “Damn! It never stops!” he muttered again. “Why doesn’t the world just leave me alone?”

  He looked as if he wanted to throw the phone through the plate-glass window and into the pool that lay just outside. Then he thought better of it. Instead he sighed and tossed the phone into the piles of pillows nestled on one of the humongous leather couches, where the buzzing was immediately muffled in buckskin-encased goose down.

  I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him, knowing as I did that, should his wish ever be granted, he would rue the day.

  “Jasper claims that you’re the answer to my prayers.” His voice was warm, the words silken.

  I blushed, not knowing how to answer him. “I’m sure it was said simply out of kindness,” I murmured modestly.

  “God, I hope not! I’m in a jam. Tell me you’re my angel of mercy. Please.”

  His eyes locked onto mine again with what he intended to be a soul-searing gaze.

  “Well… well I—I don’t know if I can live up to all of your expectations. That was quite a daunting job description.”

  “It’s rubbish. It was dreamed up by one of those agencies that finds zookeepers for spoiled, pampered Hollywood brats.” He raised one eyebrow skyward and leaned back suggestively. “Our relationship would be a bit more low-key, casual. You’ll come to know me intimately—of course, I don’t mean that in an incestuous way. More like a doting sis, mind you.”

  My god! He’s flirting with me!

  Noting that his charm had brought about the desired result, Louis chuckled conspiratorially then eased me onto the settee alongside him. I fell between the cushions—thankfully not onto the cell phone, which had finally stopped growling.

  “Things are going crazy around here. I’m finishing up a film right now, and I’ve been offered three more movies, all wanting to go into production immediately. And, just my luck, they’re all great roles, but different, you know? That’s why you are so important to me.”

  You had me at “Hello to you, too”. . .

  Stop it! Been there, done that!

  To break his spell over me, I nodded my head, as if to indicate that, if it mattered to him, then it mattered to me, too—which he already took for granted.

  “One is the lead in the Terminator reboot: instant box office, of course, before the first frame is even in the can. But I’m dying to work with Brownstein, you know, that kid who ran away with all the offers at Sundance this year? He and I are talking about something small, edgy . . . smarter than the usual garbage thrown out by the studios.” His face took on a faraway look. Then a self-satisfied smile appeared. “And, I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors that I’m considering the lead in the remake of the Mad Max series.”

  I nodded again, enthusiastically, although, in truth, I hadn’t heard.

  “They were such classics! It was such a breakthrough role for Mel Gibson,” I said encouragingly. “I’d imagine it would be that for you, too.”

  “What do you mean, ‘breakthrough role’? I’ve already broken through.” The smile faded. His eyes went dark with wariness. Flippantly he added, “You know, Fleming’s estate wanted me for the lead in Bond reboot, but I passed. Ha! Terminator with Cameron is going to be my penance.”

  “Oh, really?” I feigned belief, but lacking the performance skills of even a reality TV show contestant, I don’t think I fooled him. He really couldn’t blame me for doubting the claim.

  “I’m for real, I swear! But my sodding agent at the time talked him out of it. Said I was too young for the role. That guy had it in for me because I fired him the year before! I’m now at ICA, with Zimmerman.” He ran his fingers through his golden tendrils, spiked with just enough hair goo to flop forward on cue.

  “Yes, I know Randy.” Randy Zimmerman had also been Leo’s agent, and was one of Hollywood’s most notorious man-ho’s.

  Yep, a real pig.

  On the many occasions in which I’d pointed this out to Leo, he’d responded by paraphrasing his favorite president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt (and, needless to say, with a spot on accent): “He may be a pig, but he’s my pig.”

  Any way you shake it, in Hollywood, your ability to negotiate several $20 million deals earns you that kind of loyalty.

  However, diplomacy (and credit card angst) gave me reasons to keep my mouth shut while Louis rationalized that bit of fate.

  “That’s okay. The Bond franchise wouldn’t have worked for me anyway. The producers didn’t get it when I suggested a major rewrite. I mean, what was that whole mourning-and-revenge plot line in Solace? Craig came off as a pussy. Too many women, so little time, right?”

  It was a line taken straight out of the Leo handbook. Ah, how some things never change!

  “They should have begged me to take it—at least, that’s what they said in The Hollywood Reporter.”

  To prove my empathy, I tossed off this lame consolation: “Oh, well, as they say, ‘don’t go believing your own press clippings.’”

  “Why? What have you read? What have you heard?” Louis turned deadly serious.

  “Oh—uh, nothing. Nothing! Really.”

  “You can tell me. Believe me, you won’t hurt my feelings.” He purred the words, but that famous smile had frosted over. I shivered unconsciously.

  “Nothing, I swear! I never even look at the tabloids. Or the trades, for that matter.” Oh well, no more fun and games, I thought.

  My chagrin must have been obvious to Louis, because suddenly he was the Sun God again, all warmth and smiles. “That will change quickly enough when yo
u work for me.”

  Didn’t I know it! One of my first memories of Tammy, Leo’s assistant, was of her hands, ink-stained from having scrutinized tall stacks of tabloids for articles about Leo, which she would then cut out and paste into a scrapbook. “For posterity, babe,” Leo would murmur to me, winking coyly. Then, as an excuse for this egocentric ritual, he added this cautionary note: “My legacy is yours too, you know.”

  Yeah, right, sure.

  Even if I hadn’t believed him, Sybilla must have, because the only things she had released to me thus far had been Leo’s twenty-four scrapbooks, a half-century of Tammy’s handiwork. Sybilla’s limo driver had unceremoniously dumped them on the front porch of my Venice Canal cottage on an unseasonably scorching hot morning. I had been at UCLA, so by the time I’d gotten home that night, rivulets of Elmer’s glue had already cascaded down the steps into small gooey puddles strong enough to pull my left sandal off my foot as I’d stumbled over Leo’s legacy in the dark. The clippings, yellowed and brittle, had either stuck together like Siamese twins or dissolved into shreds of confetti. It had been another week before the porch had finally lost its eau-de-Montessori-preschool fragrance.

  When you work for me, Louis had said.

  Suddenly I bolted upright at the implication. “I beg your pardon?” I murmured politely.

  He took my stupor for the usual shock and awe he invariably elicited from the masses, all in a day’s work.

  “I have a gut feeling about you. I think you’ll work out. It’s a go, then? You won’t break my heart, I hope?”

  Break his heart? If he kept up this level of charm, he’d be calling an ambulance for me.

  Don’t be a fool. It’s Leo all over again.

  So here he was, practically begging me to take the job. Yet, as flattering as that was, I knew deep down inside that Louis would have made the same offer to anyone short of a two-headed circus freak who had walked through his front door.

  At the same time, he had called me his angel of mercy.