Hollywood Girls Club (13 page)

“Should we call an ambulance?”

“Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Did you see that idiot?”

“Did anyone get a license plate?”

The valet knelt beside her and tilted his head. “Ma’am. Are you okay? Can you move?”

Mary Anne rolled to her right side. Her head hurt. And the palms of her hands stung. “Yeah. Umm. I can move.” She sat up. Three guys lifted her from the pavement.

Mary Anne glanced at the crowd. She was embarrassed to get so much attention. She looked down at her feet. She was missing a shoe. An older man handed her the Chloe leather sandal (a gift from Cici), which he’d retrieved from the center of La Brea.

“Thank you,” Mary Anne whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “Come inside. Do you want an ambulance?” the valet asked gently.

“No. Inside please?”

A woman handed Mary Anne her Stella McCartney bag. “Thank you,” Mary Anne said as she clutched her purse and hopped along in one shoe.

Mary Anne sat in the general manager’s office holding a tepid glass of water between her knees, gauze wrapped around the scrapes on her palms. Her head ached. The manager wanted to call an ambulance, but all Mary Anne wanted was for somebody to find Lydia.

Mary Anne glanced at the mirror across the room. Her hair was a mess, and there were black streaks from her eyes to her chin, not from asphalt or dirt but from crying. She couldn’t stop the tears, even when she talked to the cops. She was alive. No permanent damage, no stitches, nothing serious. Mary Anne didn’t remember diving out of the Trans Am’s path, but it happened so fast, and she felt as if she’d come so close to something truly terrible. The irony wasn’t lost on Mary Anne: How cruel to get everything you’ve ever wanted and then get killed outside the hippest restaurant in L.A.?

Mary Anne heard the clipping of stiletto heels on tile.

“Where is she?” Lydia asked.

But Lydia wasn’t alone; it sounded like a herd right outside the office door. God, she didn’t want an audience. Mary Anne just wanted to tell Lydia and leave.

“Has anyone called the police?” Jessica demanded.

“She’s already spoken with the police. They’re interviewing people out front now.”

“What about an ambulance?” Lydia asked.

“Ms. Albright, she refused. We offered.”

Mary Anne sat motionless, listening to them discuss her. It was just like being a seven-year-old again, vulnerable and wounded. The door opened.

Cici rushed to Mary Anne and grabbed her out of the chair. “Oh my God. Baby, are you all right?!”

“Yes,” Mary Anne whispered. She pulled away from Cici and sat back down.

Lydia sat in the chair next to Mary Anne. “Sweetie, I think you should go to Cedars just to get checked out. We’ll take you to the celebrity suite. You’ll be in and out in forty-five minutes. I promise. Just to be on the safe side.”

Jessica stood at the door talking on her cell phone. “Get me Mayor Rosenman. Yes. Tell him that it’s Jessica Caulfield. I need him to get the chief of police on the phone. I don’t care who the fuck he’s with. We’ve got some crazy guy trying to run over people in Beverly Hills. Uh-huh. Well, you tell him when he’s finished with his
massage
to give me a call. Yeah, he’s got my number.”

Cici rifled through her Prada bag and pulled out a brush and a tiny makeup clutch. “Here. I can fix you up in two minutes. I know I never feel good when I don’t look good.” Cici unclipped Mary Anne’s hair and started to brush it back into an up-do.

Lydia leaned forward. “So, Cedars?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Really, I think I’ll go home. I just wanted to see you before I left.”

“Home? No way. You’re coming and staying at my place,” Cici said, putting a turquoise rhinestone clip into Mary Anne’s hair. “What if you’ve got some brain thing or something? If you won’t go to the hospital, you have to at least come and stay at my house.”

“I really just want to go home and go to bed—”

“Cici might be right,” Lydia said. “Besides, you guys only live a half mile from each other.”

“It will make us all feel better,” Cici said.

“I cannot believe this shit,” Jessica said, pacing in the doorway.

Cici leaned forward and whispered in Mary Anne’s ear, “Don’t mind her. Jessica likes control. It’s tough for her when she can’t fix everything.”

Lydia handed Mary Anne a tissue. “Don’t worry. I got shot once. You’ll stop crying in a couple of days. The near-death thing is really a wallop.”

“Shot?” Mary Anne asked.

“Story for another time. Promise.” Lydia glanced over Mary Anne’s head and gave Cici a half smile.

“Okay, so the hair and makeup are good. Come on, let’s get you a drink,” Cici said.

“I want to go home.”

“The manager is calling my driver, but it’s going to be twenty minutes at least. He’s playing poker with some buddies in West Hollywood. I told him I’d be here all night. So until he gets here, let’s go back to our room and have a drink.”

“But I look, so—” Mary Anne glanced across the room into the mirror and stopped speaking. Actually, she looked …
amazing
.

Cici leaned in and placed her hand on Mary Anne’s shoulder. “Had to do my own makeup and hair on some of my early movies. I know a couple of tricks. Let’s get that drink.”

There she is. Our little survivor!” Zymar said, and hugged Mary Anne. “You going to make it, then?”

A weak smile lifted the left corner of Mary Anne's mouth. She’d met Zymar in person only twice before, but she’d spoken to him on the phone about character and script notes five times a day since his return from Bali. Next week, on set, they’d see each other every day. She liked him. He was quick and fun and full of mischief. Mary Anne suspected that Zymar had eyes for Lydia, but she didn’t think Lydia had figured that out yet.

“Vodka tonic for this one, light on the tonic,” Zymar told a passing waiter. “You know, I was once run over by a truck.”

“And you’re still alive?” Tears stung the back of Mary Anne’s eyes.

“Story for another time.” He squeezed Mary Anne’s arm. “So the lot is here. At least all the important ones.” Zymar and Mary Anne turned and surveyed the guests.

Across the room stood Bradford Madison. Mary Anne tried not to stare. The son of a superstar father and an exotic European model, Bradford was entertainment royalty, the third generation of Madisons to be Hollywood leading men. Zymar caught and followed Mary Anne’s gaze.

“There’s Bradford,” Zymar said, grinning. “‘Ave you met him, then?”

“No, not really,” Mary Anne mumbled, mesmerized by the star. She’d seen him at the most recent read-through, but they’d never spoken.

“Eh, Lyd. Don’t monopolize the boy,” Zymar called. “‘E’s never met the writer. Bring ‘im over.”

Bradford sauntered toward Mary Anne, Lydia trailing behind.
God, he was beautiful.
Perfect teeth. Perfect smile. Perfect dark hair and chocolate-colored eyes. Mary Anne felt her legs start to tremble. She hadn’t been this starstruck since she met Cici.

“Bradford Madison, meet the woman who’s been putting words in your mouth. Mary Anne Meyers,” Zymar said, grinning.

“Mary Anne. Beautiful name. My first crush in grade school was named Mary Anne.”

Mary Anne couldn’t speak. She knew the silence was painful, but she couldn’t think of anything to say and doubted that even if she did have something clever to talk about, she would be able to form the words. Mary Anne stared at Bradford, the uncomfortable silence growing.

“Well, so what ‘ave you two been talking about?” Zymar asked, trying to cover for Mary Anne.

“Seems Bradford just bought himself a new toy,” Lydia said, smiling.

“Yeah, you know I’ve always wanted one, and when I saw this beauty in perfect condition, I just had to have her. And the price was right. Man, she can really fly.”

“Fly?” Zymar said. “I didn’t know you flew. That used to be me ‘obby, too—well, until the crash I ‘ad in ‘97. Since then I just let the professionals keep’m in the air.”

“No, man, no. I’m talking about my sweet new ride,” said Bradford, a grin lighting up his face. “You a
Smokey and the Bandit
fan?” Bradford looked at Mary Anne. “Figure as good as you write, you must have seen that one. The Trans Am, man. The hot ride. I just bought an exact replica. Set me back—”

Mary Anne couldn’t hear any words. There was a roaring in her ears. The room became dark and started to spin. She felt cold; she was slipping, slipping. …

“Mary Anne!” she heard Cici scream.

Mary Anne’s head throbbed. Her tongue felt swollen and stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Did I drink that much?
She shifted her weight and felt a tug on her right side. As she opened her eyes, she glanced toward where the clock normally rested on her night-stand. But there was no clock. This definitely wasn’t her room. The sensation was one of being in a different life.
Where was she?
She glanced at the navy blue velvet drapes on the window and soft pink marble tile.
How did she get into a hotel?
She looked around the room.
Why did a hotel have a heart monitor and an IV bag? And why was she connected to both?
Her eyes finally focused on the darkened far corner of her room, and there, slumping side by side on a plush couch, were Zymar and Lydia. Mary Anne blinked, her eyes seeing into the darkness. Zymar’s head was thrown back over the couch, gurgling snores emanating from his open mouth. Lydia’s dark hair spilled over Zymar’s chest as her head rested on his shoulder.

Why are they in my hotel room?
Mary Anne’s groggy mind worked it over as the door to her room opened.

“She’s awake,” she heard someone whisper, and then she heard a soft beeping noise. “Hello there,” Jessica said, walking toward the bed and slipping her BlackBerry into her purse.

“Where—” Mary Anne tried again to sit up in bed.

“Hey, no, don’t. You’re okay. You’re at Cedars,” Jessica said, placing her hand on Mary Anne’s arm.

Cedars?
“The hospital?” Mary Anne warbled. Her thick tongue wouldn’t move properly.

“You passed out at Koi.”

Mary Anne closed her eyes. Memories of the night began to crawl through her mind.

“What time?” she managed to get out.

“It’s around midnight.” Jessica perched gently on the bed. “The doctor said you should be fine. Slight concussion from the first fall, but the second, well, he caught you,” she said, nodding toward the snoozing Zymar.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, and reached out to brush a stray strand of hair off Mary Anne’s face.

“Woozy,” Mary Anne whispered through her parched lips, “and thirsty.”

Jessica stood and poured water into a glass from a crystal pitcher on the nightstand. She lifted it to Mary Anne’s mouth. “Little sips,” she said, still holding the glass.

The water was cool, the dryness in Mary Anne’s mouth washing away.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Jessica said.

“Bradford, he was the one driving the car,” Mary Anne murmured. She sank back into her pillow.

“Yeah.” Jessica glanced at her hands. “So what do you want to do about that?”

What did she want to do?
Didn’t people who commit a hit-and-run (or a near-miss-and-run) go to jail?

“I can call the police,” Jessica said, then paused, “but if I do”—she looked up and into Mary Anne’s eyes—”there won’t be a movie.”

No movie? How could there be no movie?
“Can’t they get someone else?”

Jessica shook her head. “The new president of Worldwide, Arnold Murphy, doesn’t really want to make
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
, but the studio is already in pretty deep, at least financially, so he doesn’t have much of a choice. But if Bradford gets bumped for violating his probation”—Jessica crossed her arms over her chest—“it’ll push our start date, everything gets rescheduled. Cici has another gig in three months, so we may lose her. Zymar is supposed to do another film later this year, so then he’s gone. If the film doesn’t start on Monday, well, then there might not be a film. It gives Arnold a lot of ammunition to shelve the whole project.”

“And Lydia?” Mary Anne looked toward Zymar and Lydia asleep on the couch.

Jessica sighed. “She’ll be a lame duck, at least at Worldwide. She probably won’t get another film into production there until Arnold leaves. Her overall deal is up after the first of the year, so she’ll move studios, but
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
is the film that’s meant to put her back on top.”

Mary Anne closed her eyes. The pain beat a rhythm inside her forehead above her right eye.

“Also, you won’t get your fee,” Jessica said, shifting her weight on the bed. “You keep the money you’ve gotten so far, and we’ll probably be able to get you paid for a couple weeks of production work because of the late notice, but you won’t get the five-hundred-thousand-dollar production bonus, or the seventy-five-thousand weekly fee for production writing, and…

“And?”

“Well, two things. First, to have written a screenplay that’s actually become a film is a huge thing, as far as your career as a screenwriter is concerned. Both in terms of the work you’ll be offered and the money you’ll make.”

Money?
It somehow seemed silly to talk about money while Mary Anne lay in a hospital bed strapped to an IV.

“And the second?” Mary Anne whispered.

“Well, it’s a small town, and it’s never a good thing for your career to be the reason why a big star goes to jail and a movie falls apart.” Jessica pursed her lips and raised both her eyebrows. “It’s a lot like high school; nobody wants to hang around with a tattletale.”

“A tattletale?” She could feel tears again.
Bradford Madison came a half-inch away from hitting her with his “sweet new ride” and she was the tattletale?

Jessica leaned forward. “Oh, sweetie, I’m not saying that’s what you are, I’m just saying that’s how it might be perceived.”

Mary Anne fought to keep her composure. So these were her choices: ignore her near-death experience, go to work on set with Bradford Madison every day, and pretend nothing happened, or never work in Hollywood again. Mary Anne exhaled.