Hollywood Scream Play (16 page)

“I don’t know just another of my revolving-door interns.” He picks up the cup on the table beside him. “Wow. I’m impressed. The kid makes a mean cappuccino.” He motions toward it. “Would you like one?”

“Frankly…yes.” Jeff made that? Why hasn’t he made one for me before now? 
Grrrrr
. “I mean, no! I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, everyone in this business starts out as an unpaid intern. But hey, since it’s your kid, I guess I can swing at least minimum wage for him.”

“No, that’s not why I’m…I mean, yes, of course Jeff should get paid for being your lackey!” All of a sudden, I miss the surf, and the sand and the sun. But no, this is why I get paid the big bucks—to knock heads. “What I mean to say is that I’m here because I don’t approve of Willow Higginbotham as the actress to play Donna.”

“Oh?” Addison takes a loud slurp of his cappuccino, then licks the foam mustache from his upper lip.

Classy.

“Sorry, but she just won’t do,” I insist. “Granted, she’s a pretty woman, but let’s face it—she can’t act her way out of a paper bag. Not only that, she doesn’t have the chops to pull off the gravitas and pathos of a thriller with this depth.”

“I see.” Addison nods sagely.

“Good! Then we’re in agreement that she goes.”

“Sorry, no can do.” He looks at his watch.

I’m oblivious to broad hints. It’s time he learned this first hand. “She goes, or we shut down production.”

“Nowhere in the contract that you signed are you given approval of the actress to play you on the screen.”

Ah, hell, he’s got me there.

“How can you compare her to Amy Adams, or Jennifer Garner, or Jennifer Lawrence—let alone to me? She’s the furthest thing from me!”

“You’re right. You’re a hard act to follow.” He’d be easier to believe if he weren’t yawning when he says it. “But Jeff thinks she’ll grow into the role—”

“Who? You mean my son, the intern? Since when do you listen to a damn intern?”

“What can I say? He’s got his finger on the pulse of the twelve-to-twenty-nine-year-old males who like movies where things go bang and boom.” Addison wags his finger at me. “By the way, I thought we were doing away with the expletives.”

“You’re right, we are.” A mother sets the example for others to follow. Addison, that asshole, is the perfect case in point.

“Listen, ‘Mrs. Smith,’ let’s be honest with each other, okay? You’re getting paid a pretty penny to put up and shut up. So, go lay on the beach. Or take in some target practice. In other words, do whatever it is you paid assassins do to unwind, okay? Now, would you like a cappuccino?” As he stands up, he pretends to brush imaginary lint off his producer’s standard-issue black tee-shirt. In truth, it’s a broad hint for me to get out of his face.

Even my son knows it, because as I stalk out of the room, he ducks his head in shame.

“Really, Jeff? You think that—inflated Barbie doll can play me in this movie?”

Jeff’s head pops up. He squints as he contemplates the best way to answer the woman who gave birth to him after nine months of a pregnancy that straddled the hottest summer in California history, followed by a sixteen-hour natural labor. The best he can come up with is, “Granted, she’s bigger on top, but I thought women like it when men think they’re young and pretty.” He shrugs. “Besides, she’s not really supposed to be you. She’s Jane Smith, the spy.”

I guess for an eleven-year-old on the cusp of puberty, this is what passes for a compliment.

He’s right about that. At my stage of life, I take them no matter how small. It’s the thought that counts.

Still, I have to ask, “When the heck did you learn how to make a cappuccino?”

“Mom, if you’re going to survive in this business, you have to pull out all the stops,” he says mournfully.

He’s right.

Okay, time for me to lead by example, to take control.

Maybe if I take Willow under my wing, she’ll grow into the part, exceed my minimal expectations—

And earn that Oscar the role certainly deserves.

She came here a B-film rom-com queen, but she’ll leave here a star. I’ll see to that.

Chapter 9

Reality Bites

“Sex is the quickest way to ruin a friendship.”

—Janeane Garofalo, as “Vickie”

Is that really her—you know, your favorite actress? Oh my God—yes! Since it’s just the two of you in the ladies’ room, she’s now your captive audience. Your goal: to be just as captivating to her as you find her onscreen. With that in mind, here are a couple of things you never say to a celebrity when you see them for the very first time:

Wrong Sentence #1: “Hmmm. For some reason, you look much younger onscreen.” Yeah, duh, that’s because she has an army of hair and make-up people who work on her for hours fussing and gussying every inch of her face, body and hair. She doesn’t need a perfect stranger to remind her that she’s less than perfect.

Wrong Sentence #2: “Hmmm. For some reason, you look a lot thinner onscreen.” You would, too, if you wore three sets of Spanx under every outfit, and the few extra pounds on your thighs were removed, thanks to digital movie magic.

Sadly, in real life, what you see is what you get.

You know this, just by looking in the mirror.

I guess that’s why you’d shoot anyone who has the nerve to say these sentences to you, too.

When I get to the set, I find Jack is there, too. He must have the very same idea about encouraging Willow to bring her A game because he’s chatting her up.

Yeah! He likes her! He really, really likes her!

From what I can tell, he’s turning on the charm he’s so famous for: the deep laugh, the naughty grin, that way in which he leans in close, as if he’s known you all his life.

No woman leans away.

Take Willow, for example, not only does she lean in, she reaches up—

And pulls him down, into a lip lock.

Um…no.

I tap her on the back. “Miss Higginbotham?”

Jack’s eyes open wide when he sees me. He tries to shake his head, as if to tell me what I can see with my own eyes: 
It’s all her fault.

On the other hand, Willow must be lost in thought because she doesn’t even bother to turn around.

I clear my throat loudly. “Miss Higginbotham, I’m honored to finally meet you!”

She straightens up. Despite the amount of Botox in her forehead that may be masking any frown, her posture says it all: 
I am not happy
.

The cast and crew gasps. Apparently, they’re impressed with my gravitas, too.

Good, I’ve broken the spell Jack has over her—

But when she turns to face me, she’s glaring. “Whitford! Who is this person? Have you forgotten that it says in my contract that no one is to make eye contact with me? Fire her…immediately!”

Whitford is turning fifty shades of gray. “But—but Willow, this is the woman whose life you’re portraying. This is 
Jane Smith
.”

Slowly she turns back toward me. When she does, her stony frown has been transformed into a cherubic pout. “Oh! Mrs. Smith, I’m so sorry!” She takes both my hands in hers. “Do forgive me! You would not believe how, at times, I become overwhelmed by fans.”

There, that’s better. An olive branch has been extended. I’m gracious enough to forgive and forget. “I can see where a lot of autograph requests would get tedious after a while.”

“Well, yes. But that’s not what I meant.” Her chuckle floats on the air like a feather in a summer breeze. “It’s just that I had no idea that ‘Jane’ is…well, middle-aged.” She thinks for a moment. “I envisioned you—her—much younger. You know, my age.”

I’ve read profiles on Willow in 
Vanity Fair
 and 
People
. At the most, she’s a few months, not a few years, younger than me.

If Jack thinks his coughing fit will divert me from the task of testing the brittleness of her not-so-much-younger bones by pummeling her within an inch of her not-so-much-younger life, it’s not working. But before I can throw my punch, Sebastian guides Willow just beyond the range of my fist, and toward the plantation house. “Let me introduce myself—Sebastian Gillingham, your screenwriter and humble servant.” He takes her small-boned hand in his in order to bow over it, grazing it with his lips. “Alas, as much as I’m sure you and Mrs. Smith would enjoy getting to know each other, duty calls. I’d be honored to answer any questions you have regarding the script and my own thoughts on your character’s sensitivity, which no doubt will grow under your gentle touch.”

Willow responds by licking her lips, leaving him no doubt that something sensitive will be growing under her touch.

I presume it won’t be her character.

This is confirmed as Willow purses her Collagen-inflated lips into a pout and opines, “I’ve been such a bad girl, Mr. Gillingham! You see, somehow I’ve lost my script.”

“Yes, that was a very naughty thing to do! A severe dressing-down is in order, to be sure.” His admonishment is more of an alluring promise than any serious threat. “Alas, not today. Your writer and your director await with bated breath your insightful interpretation of your character in her very first scenes, and they’ll accommodate you in any way they can.”

It must be the response she’d hoped for because she rewards him with a dazzling smile. “Will I be able to read it off of cue cards?”

Whitford slaps his forehead with his hand and motions for a production assistant to get right on it. Seeing him on the move, everyone else is, too.

Including me. In three strides, Jack is at my side. “I take it you’re ready to hit the mainland now?”

“The sooner, the better.” I’m too ashamed to look him in the eye. If I was ever Sebastian’s sycophant, I’m not anymore.

I understand why he feels the need to fawn over Willow. She is, after all, the real star of this picture.

At the same time, I don’t have to respect him for groveling to her whims.

By now, Jack and I are practically running to the pier where we’re to rendezvous with Abu.

Time to hit the mainland for a much-needed reality check.

In the streets of Caracas, we duck and dodge to avoid two roving armies: the National Guard and paramilitary troops known as 
colectivos
—both of whom support the current regime.

Serena’s home is located in the Altamira district in the 
Chacao
 municipality of Caracas. Its numerous hotels, restaurants and shopping malls flank Plaza Francia, a beautiful communal park. This upscale upper- and middle-class neighborhood is—or I should say, was—considered a safe haven in this large turbulent and often dangerous city, until the latest round of civil unrest.

After driving into the city, Abu pulls up to a repair shop within a few blocks of the plaza. “We’ll have to walk from here. I’ve mapped out a route I hope is safe, but there are no guarantees,” he warns us. “If we run into any 
colectivos
 or 
motorizados
—those are thugs who do drive-by shootings—keep your heads down. They think nothing of beating, shooting or jailing anyone who looks at them cross-eyed, including the international journalists who are here to cover the uprising. If we get separated, we’ll rendezvous back here at the garage.”

No wonder Addison got the resort location for a pittance.

“How can anyone live like this?” I mutter.

“The middle class has been asking themselves that for the past year,” Abu explains. “The country’s university students have rallied them to speak out for real elections, in light of what the last two regimes have done to the country: crumbling infrastructure, an inflation rate of almost sixty percent, and a crime and murder rate that is the highest in the world. But the money flowing in from Venezuela’s oil wells will eventually drown them out. Serena’s husband, Tomas Marianni, teaches computer science at Colegio San Ignacio de Loyola. He allows the students to use his classroom to access the computers for social networking in support of the protests.”

A few blocks later, we come across the campus of the college. National Guardsmen stand on every corner, rifles at the ready. Abu disappears into a shadow. The soldiers stare at Jack and me as we pass. At first, I’m surprised when Jack kisses me deeply in front of one. Then I remember the movie theater—where we saw 
She’s So Hot
 and I recognize the method to his madness. To play along, I giggle and scold Jack by saying “No, no! 
Vamanos
!”