Hollywood Girls Club (7 page)

The rage in Celeste’s body bubbled. Damien Bruckner was a liar, a cheat, and… her husband. Gross points! He’d convinced the studio to give his new tart gross points. Brie could make much more than Celeste’s $20 million quote with first-dollar gross points. The fucker.

“No, you’re right, Jess,” Celeste said, tossing her blond mane. “It’s much better that I know. Maybe not so good for Damien, but much better for me.”

Chapter 6

Lydia Albright and Her Black Alexandra Neel Calfskin Pumps

Lydia pulled her black Range Rover through the gates of Hollywood Forever Cemetery. The Disneyland of death. Here lay the heavy hitters of the past—Rudolph Valentino, Cecil B. DeMille, and Douglas Fairbanks; a Who’s Who of Hollywood history fertilized the perfectly manicured grounds. Now it was the final resting place for Weston Birnbaum.

Lydia parked her car behind a long line of Mercedes, Bentleys, and BMWs. She picked up her three-inch black Alexandra Neel pumps from the passenger seat, wary of the high-heeled torture device. She hoped her feet hadn’t swollen on the way over from the studio; she couldn’t go barefoot to a burial.

Lydia checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then set her cell phone to vibrate. It would be very bad form, even in L.A., to roll calls at a funeral (not that she hadn’t seen it happen).

Lydia hated graveside services. Morbid reminders of a finite life. She slid into a chair and scoped out the scene. The service was total L.A. Multidenominational—first a rabbi spoke and then a minister from the Hollywood Church of Science. Betty Birnbaum (Weston’s first wife) and Elizabeth Birnbaum (his third and current wife) sat in the front row holding hands and crying. Weston’s three sons (two of them film agents and one a painter) sat next in the row, and finally Weston’s oldest and favorite child, his daughter, Beverly. A producer and former man-eater turned lesbian, Beverly had given Lydia her first real job in Hollywood (after Lydia’s failed attempt at acting) as a script reader at Weston’s production company, Birnbaum Productions. It’d been Beverly who told Lydia, “You know more about story structure than you ever will about acting. Stop starving and get smart. Come work for me.” Lydia took the job and never looked back. Maybe that was why Weston said yes to
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
. Well, that and the blow job.

Lydia wondered what Bev would think about Lydia blowing Weston in the celebrity suite at the Four Seasons. Maybe she’d be surprised that it had taken this long for Lydia and Weston to rekindle their romance. There had always been a connection between them. In the beginning of Lydia’s career with Birnbaum Films, Weston gave Lydia pointers and helped her with story structure. He taught her how to get a studio to say yes to a film and begin writing checks. At the time, Weston was on wife number two and was twenty-five years Lydia’s senior. He kept trying to fix Lydia up with any one of his three sons. That never happened.

Lydia and Weston’s original affair began just before Lydia left to produce her first solo film, a tiny independent called
My Sad Silly Face
. Lydia had found the script and cobbled together $2 million of financing (with Weston’s help, of course). One night Lydia was in Weston’s office, and when she leaned over his desk to look at a note he’d made on the script, he turned his face toward her—and kissed her. The magnetism was too intense to repel, and the affair went on for years. No one knew. They met in non-industry places. The affair wasn’t something they wanted to be an “open secret” for a number of reasons, not the least of which was Weston’s failing marriage to multibillionaire investment banker Oren Highley’s daughter.

When the divorce was final, Weston came to Lydia with the biggest diamond she’d ever seen. It had to have been ten carats. He begged. He pleaded. He said she’d be happy forever. And, she thought now, she would have. But something … something—Lydia never really knew what—made her say no. And so they parted. Soon after came wife number three.

It hadn’t been until recently, just two months ago, that Lydia and Weston reignited their affair. Neither was surprised that the passion still buzzed between them. The sex, although not as hot as the first time around (Weston was over sixty, after all), was exceptional.

That evening at the Four Seasons, Weston had watched Lydia undress, his lustful eyes roving over her. First she removed her tight-fitting black slit skirt, then her white silk Donna Karan shirt. Weston barely blinked, his eyes never leaving her body. Finally, Lydia stood naked in black Versace stilettos. Weston told her to keep the heels on and get on top. Lydia happily complied. It was her favorite position. Halfway through the sex, he’d flipped her over onto the bed. His vigor surprised her and a small giggle escaped her lips.

“Not bad for an old man,” Weston gasped out between pumps, the strain of wanting to come showing on his face.

“Not bad at all,” Lydia whispered into Weston’s ear just before he climaxed.

But Weston, Lydia knew, loved the ladies. And though his ticker could take Lydia, the gathering today was testimony to his heart’s inability to stave off the Asian twins. Lydia pulled a tissue from her Alexandra Ned lace-up bag. Trying to force herself to stop her free-flowing tears, she continued to survey the scene.

Behind Weston’s two ex-wives and children sat five of the biggest stars in Hollywood. It was a lot of wattage. And in the middle of those five sat Cici.

 Celebrities liked to travel in flocks, perhaps a self-preservation tactic—protection against the agents who traveled in wolf packs. And there was the pack, seated directly behind the stars. The uber-agents. The four founders of ACA, the nine partners of DTA, and the president of CTA—all respectfully distanced from one another lest a fistfight erupt.

Lydia glanced at Jessica, who pulled down her Dior sunglasses and winked at Lydia, tilting her head to the right. Lydia looked.

There he was—Lydia’s leprechaun, Arnold Murphy, sat in the fourth row next to his minion Josanne Dorfman. Once a tremendously fat woman, Josanne had become a well-known anorexic-bulimic. It was rumored that she hadn’t eaten in three years, and that her stupidity was a direct result of her body feasting on her brain. Hollywood didn’t like ugly people (especially in the executive suite), and ugly people knew it—especially the ugly women. Josanne had stabbed and clawed to get as close to the top as she could; a former assistant of Arnold’s, she’d attached herself to this angry little man, riding in the sidecar of his success.

“In God we trust in all things,” the minister droned on. Weston was a dedicated Jew, so Lydia wasn’t sure why a Catholic priest was speaking at the funeral. So L.A. Maybe next they’d read from the Kabbalah.

Seeking comfort, Lydia shut her eyes and visualized the first day of production on
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
. The director, the actors, the set. She was deep into her meditation when she realized that the seat beside her was no longer empty.

“I hate these things,” a gruff voice whispered in Lydia’s ear.

Lydia opened her eyes. To her right sat a sandy-blond outdoorsy guy who looked as if he should be hiking in Big Sur instead of attending a funeral in L.A.
Did she know this guy?

“Jeff Blume,” he whispered and held out his hand. “We met years ago, when Weston had his production company and you were still working for him.”

Okay. There were so many people she met since beginning her career in the film industry.

“I was Arnold Murphy’s assistant,” Jeff continued. “I was there while you were
both
working for Weston.”

“Oh, Jeff. I remember now,” Lydia whispered. “Were you there when …”

“When the shit hit the fan? Oh, yeah … I was on the call.”

Lydia muffled a giggle. It was all a little funny. Arnold here, celebrating Weston’s death and taking Weston’s job as president of Worldwide. Lydia making a movie that Arnold hated and Weston loved. And now this, sitting at Weston’s funeral next to Arnold’s former assistant who had been privy to the whole event that triggered Lydia and Arnold’s infamous feud.

“You know he’s never forgiven me,” Lydia whispered.

“Forgiven
you
?” Jeff cocked and eyebrow surprise on his face. “You’re kidding, right?”

Everyone around them stood. The service was finally finished. Lydia turned to Jeff. “What do you do now? You obviously aren’t an assistant any longer.”

“Acquisitions and distribution for Galaxy.”

“I never realized that you were the same guy who was once Arnold’s assistant.”

“Yeah, well, I try not to advertise. I hear you’re going into production. I love the final draft of
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
. Great writer.”

“We got lucky. Found her writing. sample in the slush pile. Can you believe it? Never happens. You should come by set. We’re at Worldwide, stage thirty-six. Let me know, I’ll get you a drive-on.”

“Love to. Good seeing you Lydia,” Jeff said.

“You as well.” Lydia edged toward the Birnbaum family, where Celeste and Jessica stood waiting to speak with Beverly.

“Who’s that hottie?,” Celeste asked and tilted her Versace sunglasses down to check out Jeff. “He looks like Redford when Redford was young.”

“Jeff Blume,” Lydia said.

“Acquisitions and distribution at Galaxy,” Jessica said while typing an e-mail on her BlackBerry. It was part of her job as an agent to know every “player” in town and where they were currently employed.

“Yes, and Arnold Murphy’s former assistant,” Lydia said.

“Not
that
Jeff Blume,” Celeste said.

“The one and only,” Lydia said.

“No wonder the little leprechaun can’t take his eyes off you, Lydia,” Jessica nodded in the direction of Arnold Murphy and Josanne. “I’m sure he thinks you’re plotting something. He’s such a paranoid freak.”

“I’m going to need a drink after this,” Celeste said. “I hate funerals.”

“I’m up for it.” Lydia pulled a tissue from her purse and again dabbed under her eyes.
Why did she keep crying?
Celeste wrapped a protective arm around Lydia and squeezed.

“Fine,” Jessica said, scrolling through her e-mails on her BlackBerry. “Where?” She started tapping away.

“Let’s do Spago for Weston,” Celeste said.

They watched as the knot of people speaking to Beverly Birnbaum untangled. Six feet tall with closely cropped black hair, Beverly was a commanding presence. She’d inherited her father’s amazing taste in scripts and movies as well as his deep, infectious laugh. Beverly was also sincere and truthful; both qualities were unfortunately rare finds in the film business. She was one of Lydia’s favorite people in the industry.

Celeste threw her arms around Beverly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks, Cici.”

“He was so much damn fun! Look, I’m going to cry again,” Celeste said, pulling a tissue from her clutch.

Beverly turned her gaze to Jessica, who’d discreetly slipped her BlackBerry into her purse. “Jessica, thanks for coming. I know you two could really go at it sometimes when you were negotiating a deal, but my dad had tremendous respect for you. He said there was never a better agent in this town. He loved how you fought for your clients.” She leaned in and hugged Jessica.

“You know I loved him—we all did,” Jessica said.

Beverly looked at Lydia. “I know.”

Lydia looked at the ground, her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Celeste gently took Lydia’s hand. “We’ll see you there, okay?” She and Jessica drifted away toward their cars.

Lydia nodded. She didn’t know if she could speak. “Bev …” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know—” Lydia couldn’t hold back the flood of tears. Her chest tightened and finally the sobs she’d held so tight burst from within.
It was too much. Everything.

Beverly put her arm around Lydia’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. “He loved you. You were the one for him. I knew it the first day you came to the office. I’m just glad you two reconnected before all this.”

Beverly
did
know. Maybe she’d always known. “Thanks,” Lydia said, wiping her eyes.

“Here comes trouble,” Beverly said. She patted Lydia’s arm and nodded her head toward Arnold and Josanne, who wove their way toward them. “That little shit, I can’t believe he had the nerve to show. Especially after what happened. Listen, Lyd, you get
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
made no matter what Arnold tries to do. Dad loved that script. And let me know if I can help.”

“You got it.” Lydia sniffled.

“Call my office and schedule a lunch,” Beverly said as Lydia backed away.

“I’ll have Toddy do it tomorrow,” Lydia said.

Lydia walked to her car, wondering if she’d always feel so alone.

Deafening silence greeted Lydia at the front door of her Mulholland Drive home. She’d long ago (perhaps the day she refused Weston’s marriage proposal) surrendered the shimmery thoughts of children, big holidays, a house bursting with chatter, music, and laughter; that life was a casualty to Hollywood combat. Lydia didn’t mourn the loss. Her success in film and the life she’d created for herself, although different from that of most women, were what she’d always wanted. But even knowing her choice was correct, every night when she came home the silence roared in her ears.

Lydia climbed the curving staircase. The house was big for one person, but it was a tax write-off (according to her accountant) that she needed. She spent less than half her time here, sleeping five hours on a good night. The majority of her waking hours were spent in her bungalow on the lot, or on set, and set could be—anywhere in the world, for months at a time. No, this place wasn’t a home, it was a house. A big, cold house full of marble, granite, and stainless steel. She’d never had the time (or the right partner) to turn it into a home.

She slipped her silk shirt off and let her skirt drop to the floor, thus creating the only mess in the entire ten-thousand-square-foot spread—a puddle of clothes at the foot of her bed. When she awoke in the noiseless morning, that testament to the house’s habitation would have been whisked away by Vilma as if by magic, wordlessly replaced by the
New York Times
, the
Los Angeles Times
, the
Hollywood Reporter
,
Daily Variety
, and a carafe of hot coffee. The clothes would reappear in Lydia’s closet exactly three days later, freshly cleaned.