Cut to the Chase (2 page)

Avalon ordered and paid and then made her way to the pick-up end of the coffee bar. She’d heard that this particular Starbucks was the best place to be left alone. It was secluded in an upscale neighborhood off Beverly Glen and Mulholland, and most people looked like they were from the neighborhood. A few over-Botoxed middle-aged women and the usual smattering of wannabe screenwriters sat tapping away on their laptops. The baristas were all attractive in the way that suggested they were only working at that location so they could get connections for a job in entertainment.

Sure enough, an exchange between two seated customers close by confirmed her observation.

“Any forward motion on that script you showed me last year?”

“Yeah. I think it’s getting hot. It’s at Ben Stiller’s office but I haven’t heard back. And my Pilates instructor is going to see if Seth McFarlane wants to read it!”

“Wow. Seth McFarlane.”

The two teenagers must have ordered because they were now standing right beside her. What came next was the uncomfortable silence that preceded some giggles and then hurried whispers. Avalon wasn’t a neophyte at this routine, but it never became any less awkward.

“Excuse me?” one of the girls said. She sounded as meek as a virgin bride.

Avalon turned and smiled. She knew what was next.

“May I have your autograph?”

“Of course,” Avalon said as the teenager thrust a pen and Starbucks nutrition guide at her.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Paula, and I love your films! I’ve seen every one! And you look beautiful in person! I told my friend, Valerie, here, that you would be nice and you are!”

Valerie joined in and they were talking at the same time. “I knew she’d be nice. You can tell by the roles she plays.”

“We can’t wait for your next movie, but I got everything else on DVD. I’m keeping them forevs! And I saw your interview about the movie you’re shooting now. It looks so cool!”

Avalon could tell that others around them were looking up from their drinks and conversations. A few cell phones came out of purses and pockets. She wrote a quick note and signed her name. The excited girls were still talking when she handed it back.

“I graduate from high school this May,” Paula said, “and I want to start acting. I should go to college and maybe I’ll go to film school, but my parents want me to study economics or something like that.”

One of the attractive baristas handed Avalon the espresso.

“No matter what college you choose, just get a good education,” she said.

As she walked away, she counted to four and, perfectly on cue, an eruption of giggles came.

Most of her actor friends not only loved the attention but sought it out. They’d walk up and down Melrose, drinking in the ardor and fervor of the public as if it were the Mojave Desert getting a long-awaited rainfall. Avalon would rather keep to herself more than not, but true moments of privacy were now scarce. And given the choice between awkward fan encounters and a paparazzi blitz, she’d take signing autographs for enthusiastic girls any day.

Plus, those teenagers were rather cute in their excitement, and she was grateful for their admiration. It hadn’t been that long ago that she would have acted the same way around a celebrity.

*

Paige and Chris sat on bar stools that looked out over the Lucky Strike bowling lanes. Though it was normally a heterosexual hangout, many Hollywood businesses included homosexual nights on their schedule since a buck was, in fact, a buck. So the third Friday of each month was lesbian bowling night. The place was crowded and Paige sipped her whiskey sour as she watched the playful bowlers fist pump and laugh at their varied athletic skills.

The ultra-plush contemporary décor would seem out of place given the retro shabbiness of the bowling lanes, but state-of-the-art lighting and fantastic music made it all come together nicely.

Paige had to admit that it was nice to get out of her apartment. She’d deliberately stayed away from bars and other nighttime activities to avoid running into her ex. But tonight, she felt a little stronger. The humiliation of being cheated on still simmered like a pot of thick, stewing soup, but the level was low now, just a roiling of crusty yuckiness clinging to the bottom.

The women at Lucky Strike were as diverse as Los Angeles, white, Latina, black, and Asian women mingled with jovial spirits. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, and none of the typical incidents of arm-waving, drunken drama were erupting from the crowd.

She checked her watch. Of course, it was still early.

“What do you think of those two?” Chris pointed her half-f shot glass toward lane number four.

Of the four women bowling, two were obviously together because they had their arms wrapped tight around each other. The other two were probably in their early thirties, and their relaxed, casual body language made them appear to be pals. One was tall with red hair and accessories so bohemian that Paige speculated she might be a poet. The other, an Asian woman, appeared to be a swimmer or volleyball player, judging by the definition of her shoulders. The women were dressed almost exactly alike in black pants and yellow tops.

“The ones that look like twins? I don’t know.”

“I think they’d like to have drinks sent over.”

“Meaning you want to hook up with one of them?”

“Well, maybe.”

Paige groaned out loud. “Can’t we just hang out and watch the supremely amusing sportiness of all these women heaving twelve-pound balls down the lane?”

“You need to get back on the horse, my friend.”

“My last horse had a fit of bucking and threw me into the dirt. I’m not sure my ass has recovered from the impact.”

“Can you tell what they’re drinking?”

“Chris, if you send drinks over, then we’ll have to talk to them.”

“That’s the point, ding-dong.”

A cocktail waitress plopped a shot of whiskey down in front of Chris. “This is for you.”

Paige raised her eyebrows. “That was fast.”

“Who’s it from?” Chris said.

The waitress jerked her head to her left. “Behind you. The woman in the white tank top.”

Paige and Chris turned around. Standing at the pool table, a fairly feminine woman with long blond hair raised her bottle of beer.

As the waitress walked away, Chris looked at Paige and grinned.

“Go on,” Paige told her.

“I don’t want to leave you here.”

“I’m fine. Just let me know if I need a ride home.”

Chris began to get up but hesitated. “No. I’m not leaving my buddy.”

“The twins are on frame seven and they’re neck and neck. I have to see how this game turns out.”

Chris smirked, knowing Paige was full of it.

Paige pushed her shoulder. “Go, already.”

Chris left and Paige raised her own glass of whiskey. She downed the rest of it, wincing at the potent, burnt-oak aftertaste.

She was single again, and that was okay with her. Sure, she’d like to meet someone nice, someone who wanted the same things she did. Marlene was now her ex. That sounded so weird. She really hadn’t ever thought their relationship would end. Especially in the deceitful way that it had. She thought they wanted the same things. And she thought they could work through anything. But obviously Marlene had a different opinion.

She waved to the cocktail waitress and felt the thick molasses of sadness coating her heart. It would eventually pass, she knew, but for now, she wouldn’t pursue any new relationships. She had to put together her thoughts on the next book. Writing and photography would be the twins she’d be dating for a while. They wouldn’t keep her warm at night, but neither had Marlene toward the end. And work couldn’t hurt you.

"It’s a go.”

Paige listened to those big words coming through her small cell phone. She hadn’t expected the news so quickly, but then again, she hadn’t expected the extraordinary sales figures on her last book. “Go, as in start now?”

Carmen Garza, her publisher, minced few words. “Go as in yesterday. I’ll expect a draft in three months.”

“Three months?” Panic rose in her throat. It had taken a year to complete her last book.

“It’s called momentum, darling.”

She hung up and stared at her last two books. They had been exciting to produce, but the hours of photographing the actors and actresses, all on the go as they worked, plus the long nights of writing about each experience, had been an arduous undertaking.

Her first pictorial book,
Once Upon a Time
, told the behind-the-scenes stories of shooting romantic films. She’d gained access to actors and actresses while they were on set or on location and had photographed them as the crew filmed the scenes. Then she’d sat with the actors and more or less interviewed them. It became more or less because most interviews started out with a specific direction and formal questions but quickly went off page and ran the gamut from silliness to bitch sessions to very personal disclosures.

For
The End
, her second book, she took the same approach while documenting the filming of movie endings. She knew she’d struck upon a great formula but wasn’t quite sure what it was. Sometimes she felt like a therapist who just listened to her subjects. She could sense when they had something else to say and would encourage them to expound. It might be a certain look or a word they uttered that might normally go unnoticed, but Paige was always so connected with her interviewees that they must have felt her curiosity and empathy. Hilarious anecdotes and very private thoughts filled her pages, and, coupled with the powerful photographs she was blessed to capture, they had become a successful venture.

This time, her book would be called
Cut to the Chase
and she would follow the films that had action scenes. She needed to start her homework, scanning industry periodicals and making phone calls to create a list of the current movies being produced that fit the bill. With the help of the producers whom she’d had contact with from her last books, she would be able to visit the sets she needed and get going.

But all of this in three months? How would she be able to pull that off?

She had to conduct research on what movies would be appropriate for her topic, write and rewrite outlines, call managers and agents, arrange interviews, cull through thousands of images, and spend countless hours at the computer to clean up the photographs. Of course, many times actors would cancel appointments, and then the waiting game would commence. And then she’d have to endure the editing process and reviews with her publisher that would send her back to rewrite text or reassemble photo layouts.

The image of a rising waterline came to mind. Even if she somehow floated up with it, her nostrils might fill and the deluge would overcome her. She knew she didn’t need to, but she took a deep breath and held it.

*

Three hours and four cups of coffee later, Paige had copies of
Variety
and
Hollywood Reporter
spread out on her table, along with
Back Stage
and dozens of pieces of paper with notes of her phone calls to everyone she knew. She sighed heavily. One final call to the Screen Actors Guild had supplied her with useful information. When asking about working stuntmen, she was told that two films listed themselves as action movies. One starred Bubba Densman, a surly stuntman turned actor, and the other featured Ricky Boswell, an actor who wouldn’t do his own stunts, no matter how simple. Only two films. This wasn’t good news. She needed to include actresses as well, since she didn’t want the book to be unbalanced. Angelina wasn’t currently working and Demi was busy producing. Who could she find?

Looking out her front window, she listened as the garden fountain in her complex splashed and gurgled happily like the musings of a little toddler who thinks no one is watching. She loved her apartment, located in a historic area of West Hollywood, which provided her with lots of plants, sunlight, and quiet. It was smaller than most other places she’d considered when she’d looked years before, but it preserved the elegance of old Hollywood to perfection. Plus, other than a bed, bathroom, and kitchen, all she needed was a place to write and edit photographs on her laptop.

She reviewed her notes, scanning them for anything she’d missed. Nothing there.

Then she picked up the phone.

“Phil? It’s Paige Cornish.”

“Paige! How are you? Thank you for the plug you gave my last film in your book. Great work!” Phil Cornwell had generously given her carte blanche to one of the movies she’d covered. They’d developed a nice friendship and she’d sent him a thank-you copy of
The End
when it was first published.

“Thanks. It helped that you produced a blockbuster.”

“Thanks back at you. Your books are selling well, I hear.”

“They are.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Bubba Densman is shooting an action film. Who else is starring?”

“No big names.”

“The Ricky Boswell film is the only other action film I found. Any more that you know of?”

“Yeah. Brent Hastings is shooting around LA. It’s not technically an action film like Bubba’s, but it does have some pretty intense moments. And I hear he’s doing his own stunts.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s Birney Phillips’s film. They’re not yet hitting the PR folks that heavily yet. Don’t know why.”

“Problems with the filming?”

“Nah. Probably just a marketing position. I’d guess it’s because Avalon Randolph is opposite Brent.”

“Avalon Randolph? As a romantic lead?”

Phil laughed. “No. You’d think so. She’s playing his nemesis.”

“She’s a comedic actress.”

“She is, but I hear she’s got some great action chops.”

“Really?”

“You want Birney’s number? I can call ahead and tell him to give you free rein.”

“That would be fantastic. Thank you!”

She hung up the phone and her heart began to pump harder than if she’d had four more cups of coffee.