They're Not Your Friends Page 12

  No sign of Mercer, and he was getting nothing while Lottie flipped her hair back and chatted with Robin Williams. “Oh, you are so like the funniest man alive,” she squealed.

  It had to be nearly a hundred degrees out. Sweat cascaded down Mike’s face as he scanned the crowd of celebrities ambling along the sprawling lawn of some media mogul who donated his property every year for this event. Stars of megawatt caliber, right in front of him, but Mike didn’t even know what to ask. Their faces were a tabula rasa, and Mike felt no connection whatsoever to them. It was like trying to make small talk with that costumed Mickey Mouse. “So, how’s Minnie? Do you feel rodents get a bad rap in Hollywood?” Lottie flitted about, easily conversing with some greasy-headed guys whose photos had been in the pages of Personality. Mike headed down the sloping lawn to the awning-topped bar. He gulped one Sierra Nevada after another, until the beer, coupled with the searing sun, left him slightly dizzy.

  He was beginning to feel like a full-fledged goober, aimlessly shuffling about, notebook in hand, not knowing what to do or what to say. He headed to a table piled high with Spago pizza and grabbed a piece with mushrooms on top. Then he wandered around the periphery of the tent where the celebrity-manned booths were scattered. Lines for the hottest celebrities—Jack, Robin, Heidi, Drew, the cast of The O.C.—snaked along the tent and down a green sloping hill.

  Lottie, probably intoxicated and therefore friendlier than ever, bounced up to him wearing mangy cutoff jean shorts, a very, very tight hot pink tank top, and Uggs that ended at her calves. “I’ve lit-rully talked to almost every single A-list celebrity here. Chris Mercer’s publicist told me he’s a no-show. He’s busy filming. . . What have you done?” Mike opened his mouth, but she continued, “Don’t even bother with anyone from the WB. I’ve talked to everyone. I’ve gotten some incredible stuff. Adam is soooo cute, but what’s with the facial hair? I told him that he looks much, much better without it. I swear he was so completely hitting on me.”

  Adam? Mike had no idea who she was talking about. He occupied his mouth by cramming in pizza. “Well, it looks like there’s no work left for me. Who haven’t you talked to?”

  Lottie grabbed Mike’s beer and took a long sip.

  “Are you supposed to be doing that?” Mike asked. Lottie shot him the finger. Then she pointed to the ring-toss booth. He squinted his eyes but had no idea who the celebrity was. Mike made a note to get out and see more movies.

  When he reached the booth, he stood a few feet back. In Mike’s distorted vision, the celebrity appeared blurry around the edges, so Mike narrowed his eyes and focused. Then he scanned his brain’s index for movies and television. Nothing hit him. He turned his head to make sure Lottie had flitted away, but she was staring up at Mike, arms akimbo, watching him intensely, as if she knew he had no clue what he was doing. She wanted to see him run away. Instead, Mike moved closer to the booth.

  “It’s always a pleasure,” the celebrity boomed, smiling broadly and patting a girl on the back. “Keep watching the show.” Then he turned to Mike. “Do you want me to sign something for you?” He reached out for Mike’s reporter’s notebook.

  “Hey, he cut in line,” a child’s tinny voice chimed behind Mike.

  “Yeah. Wait in line like the rest of us.”

  Mike pulled his notebook closer to him. “I’m Mike Posner, with Personality magazine.”

  “You wanna interview me or something?”

  “Sure,” he said. “So, ahh, why are you here?”

  “Well, Chas Notto just died of the disease. So I feel like I understand, on some level, what these people are going through.”

  Mike’s eyes blurred as he scribbled the quote in his notebook. “Was Chas a good friend?”

  Silence.

  The celebrity’s beaming smile collapsed into a frown.

  “Huh? What?” He turned to the short, thin, bald man standing next to him. “He doesn’t know who Chas was.”

  “Of course I know who Chas is. . . was. I was just wondering if you were good friends.”

  “YOU DON’T KNOW WHO CHAS IS!” The short, thin, bald man—most likely this guy’s publicist—roared as spit flew out of his mouth.

  A murmur rippled through the teen and tween crowd. “OhmyGod, he so completely doesn’t know who Chas was.”

  “Du-uh.”

  “Live in a cave much?”

  “Chas Notto is. . . was a character on Raymond’s show, Bel Air Belles.” The bald man spoke in a rapid gunfire staccato. “It was only the most important story arc of the season. Do you even know what you’re talking about? I keep telling the magazines not to send anyone our way unless they’ve done their research. Quite frankly, it’s an insult. And it makes your magazine look very unprofessional.”

  “Hey, he butted,” the chorus of kids continued.

  “I was next.”

  “No, I was.”

  The publicist glared at Mike, demanding an explanation. Then he squeezed Raymond’s shoulder. “You have to be living in Siberia not to know about the Chas Notto story arc.”

  “I was next. I was next,” the kids continued.

  The publicist—like all publicists—was a man with no distinguishable facial features. His remaining hair was dirty blond, and his eyes, nose, and mouth were soft and nondescript, as if his face were the host of a convention on banality. If you looked straight at him, you couldn’t describe him, and once you turned away you could no longer recollect him.

  Mike realized that this was why the two had chosen each other for their symbiotic relationship. With his looks, presence, and power, the celebrity is the shark. The publicist, on the other hand, is the insignificant pilot fish, eating the crumbs that fall from the shark’s mouth while guiding the shark through the murky waters of fame. By associating with a man whose features are as formless as cottage cheese and whose personality is as bland as melba toast, the shark/celebrity’s jagged dark features appear more striking and beautiful, his charisma more charismatic. In return, the publicist/pilot fish swims so close to the shark that he comes to believe he is the dangerous predator. He watches the other fish eye him with fear and awe and he forgets who he really is. All he knows is that he is no longer a tiny crumb-eating pilot fish. He is a shark!

  “This is Raymond Young,” the publicist whistled through his teeth. “He plays Lance Caine, the misunderstood pool boy with a past on the hit drama series Bel Air Belles. Helll-oooh! It’s only the number one show on the network, and Raymond’s the break-out star of the series.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Ray huffed. “I’m here for the children.”

  Ray Young. He looked familiar. Then Mike flashed on the Emmys. This guy had been Lottie’s date!

  The publicist took a deep breath and massaged a kink in his neck as if to emphasize that this conversation was causing him undue stress. “Raymond has been working eighteen-hour days for the last few months. This is the first day he’s had off in ages, and look what he’s doing. Helping others. If I were you, I’d tell my editors to do a positive, inspirational-driven story on Ray.”

  Mike wiped the sweat from his face with the bottom of his polo shirt. “You might be on to something there,” he said.

  “I know I’m on to something. You wouldn’t believe what wonderful things Raymond does. He visited this one girl who was dying of cancer, and, I swear, he cured her. She went into remission. That’s a story for your magazine. Look, I’m doing all your work for you. You should put me on retainer. I’ll show all of you how it’s done.”

  “Come on, I was next. I was next. I can’t wait any longer. Ray! Ray! I love you, Ray. I love you so much. I’d die for you, Ray. I mean it. I mean it. If God said you must die so Ray can live, I’d give my life.”

  The publicist threw his arms out as if embracing the pleading fan.

  “Now, I must get back to the fans. That’s why we’re here today,” he said, sweeping his arms toward the phalanx of photo seekers behind Mike. “I’m glad you had the opportunity to t
alk to Raymond. He rarely gives such extensive interviews. You should be very grateful.”

  Mike laughed. The pilot fish had no idea that it was he, and not the shark, who had done all the talking.

  “OhmyGod, I’m next. I’m next. I’m going to be sick,” someone squealed. Mike took a step back as a sixteen-year-old girl threw her arms around Ray, tears streaming down her face as her body convulsed. “I love you, Lance. I love you so much. I. . . OhmyGod, I can’t believe it’s really you. I’m with Lance Caine!”

  MIKE WALKED DOWN the undulating hill toward another refreshment stand. His body felt numb, and his legs were rubbery as he treaded over the grassy berm.

  “Mike?” someone yelled. “Mike.” He kept walking, pretending he heard nothing. He was sure it was Lottie checking in with him. He needed another drink before he dealt with Lot A Love.

  “Mike?” He realized it wasn’t Lottie, for the voice had no San Fernando Valley question-mark cadence. But what other woman would call out for him?

  Mike swung his head around and scanned the shorts-wearing, lemonade-sipping crowd weaving in and out of the white tents. The booze and sun had taken its toll. His sight was cloudy and his neck felt numb. “Mike.” The husky voice practically tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and there was a pretty brunette woman with familiar eyes in a lime green sundress dotted with bouquets of flowers. Mike squinted to readjust his eyes. He noticed a few other guys looking at her and pointing. She must be an actress.

  “Hello, Mike. My name’s Catherine Lavery. I saw you the other night. . . with Lottie.”

  “Oh, right. You’re her. . . friend.”

  Since Catherine was standing at the apex of a sloping hill, Mike had to crane his neck up toward her. He strained to meet her gold-flecked blue eyes. She reminded him of someone he knew, but he couldn’t place it.

  “I know this isn’t really my place, but I’m worried about her. She made such progress, but I think she’s. . . well, slipping. That’s why I’m here, to check up on her.”

  “What? You paid a thousand dollars to spy on Lottie?” Mike said.

  “Not exactly. My friend’s the caterer. She let me come with her as long as I promised to help clean up after. Anyway, I know I probably shouldn’t be talking to you about this, but, well, you seem like a nice guy. I just wondered if you could keep an eye out for her.”

  She grabbed his hand briefly and Mike felt a warm rush. Maybe someone as caring as this Catherine would be able to overlook his inadequacies.

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you, Mike. When Lottie told me how much she hated you, I knew you had to be a good person.”

  “What? She hates me?”

  “Don’t take it personally. She hates all good people right now. She just wants to be around enablers.”

  They exchanged business cards.

  “I’ll help any way I can,” Mike said. “Maybe we can talk about this over dinner?”

  California

  NMBER1

  CHAPTER 7

  SHE TOLD HER THERAPIST THE STORY. WHEN RAY STARTED TO snore, Lottie slithered out from underneath her log-cabin shelter, collected her stuff, and raced into the cold Los Angeles night wearing only skimpy lingerie. Catherine, of course, had been waiting for her. She followed her home and made her a cup of hot chocolate. She even helped Lottie hang the Bel Air Belles poster she’d stolen from Ray’s closet. Will the real Lance Caine please bend over?

  “I couldn’t be more sorry about the alien thing,” she told Catherine.

  “Forget it. I’ve done a lot worse under the influence.”

  “I doubt it. I’ve never met anyone like you. Sometimes you seem too good.”

  “I’m not. Trust me. My own father can’t stand me.”

  “Yeah, right.” Lottie laughed. “My father’s Hank Love Plumbing. You know, We’ll make your pipes sing. The van with the smiling man in the white outfit painted on it. When I was born, he wanted to paint me next to him.”

  Catherine smiled. “That’s sweet.”

  “That couldn’t be more embarrassing.”

  “Not at all. At least your father acknowledges you. My father has erased me from his life. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “What an asshole.”

  “I don’t know. I think I must have done some screwed-up things to make him hate me so much.”

  Lottie stared hard at Catherine, wondering what this woman could have done to make her father despise her. Catherine seemed like the type of daughter you’d want to show off to the world, not disown. Lottie realized that in her six months at AA, Catherine hadn’t said a word in the meetings. Lottie really didn’t know anything about her.

  “I did all my revealing a long time ago,” Catherine said. “I hate public speaking more than anything. It makes me sick to my stomach. I’d only get up there if someone forced me. Now I’m just there for the camaraderie.”

  Lottie thought about telling Catherine everything, but she was really enjoying her company. She imagined even Catherine would have her limits. She could handle Lottie’s aliens and bar hopping, but the truth would be too much.

  Instead, she loaned Catherine a pair of flannel pajamas and popped up some Paul Newman no-butter corn. Then they flopped on the couch to watch one of Lottie’s all-time favorites, Four Weddings and a Funeral.

  “I love Hugh Grant,” Catherine said.

  “I couldn’t love him more.” Lottie smiled so hard it hurt her cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a girls’ night.

  SHE TOLD LIPLESS everything. That is, everything but the name. “It’s this actor who couldn’t be more on the hottest show on television. But that’s really all I’m going to say.”

  Lottie’s therapist pursed her thin, bloodless lips and sighed. “How does this make you feel, Lottie?”

  “Well, like I said, it was pretty uncomfortable and kind of like, tacky. I still have this huge bump on the top of my head. I seriously almost passed out. How embarrassing would that have been?”

  “Lottie, do you feel used at all? Do you feel taken advantage of?” Then Lipless paused, jotted down some notes, and with a wide-eyed smirk, said nearly breathlessly, “Now who did you say this actor was?”

  Nice try. Lottie smiled smugly and tossed her hair back. Not everyone could be in the inner circle. Maybe Lottie should barter with her. Tell Lipless that she’ll tell all for twenty free sessions or something.

  “I just don’t feel like very comfortable about revealing any more than I have. I lit-rully haven’t told anyone, except. . . a friend. Even my editor doesn’t know, and this would like be such a major scoop for the magazine. I am so not kidding. But how would I look? How totally psychotic is that? Hanging under a bed like a crazy person?”

  “I understand, Lottie, but remember everything you tell me is confidential. Nothing leaves this room. I could never betray a patient’s trust. Now, who was it? Come on, you can tell me.”

  Lottie decided she should be charging Lipless instead of the other way around.

  LIVE! WEDNESDAYS AT 5:00 P.M.: LOTTIE LOVE REVEALS ALL

  ON THE NEXT DR. LIPLESS

  Her therapist breathed deep. “Okay. Okay. I don’t have to know,” she said, wrinkling her face in disappointment. Then she smiled sweetly and cooed. “But if you ever want to tell me, you know I’m here for you. Remember my motto: If you want to heal, you must reveal.” She smoothed out the front of her tan linen suit and coughed into her hand to regain composure. “Let’s see if you can try something for our next session? Okay? I’d like you to go out with someone who isn’t an actor. Can you do that?”

  “Can’t you just prescribe Wellbutrin?”

  Her therapist squeezed her hands together on her lap as if pleading. “Just try. Let’s see what happens and we’ll talk about it next week.”

  “I’m not sure if I’ll do it.”

  But perhaps her therapist was right. Lottie had been dating actors exclusively for nearly a year now, and what had it gotten her? A night hi
ding under a bed. A few flings. A case of crabs.

  She knew her coworkers called her a starfucker behind her back. The women in the office were jealous of her, and the men—even the married ones—were pissed because she wouldn’t do any of them. They imitated her by jutting out their chests and sticking out their asses. She couldn’t help it if she was a 38C or that proper posture gave her a J.Lo booty.

  But in L.A., being a starfucker is neither an insult nor a compliment. Lottie, like most people born and bred there, understood that. The transplants from the East Coast and Middle America acted so above it. But given a chance, they were dying to screw some famous ass, you betcha. As Lottie saw it, the mother pimps the daughter off to a successful oncologist and everyone pretends it’s some fairy-tale union. Nobody calls her a doctorfucker; instead she’s a princess in a white dress. Lottie made all her own choices, and they still called her a slut behind her back. Whatever. Who cared what a bunch of no-name idiots thought?

  But maybe, just maybe, she was ready for something a little more meaningful. Maybe, dare she say, she was ready for a relationship.

  But she didn’t know any nonactors except for the people she worked with. Most of them were married or too old, except that new guy Mike, who definitely had the hots for her. But even though he was older than she was, he seemed much younger. He was cute, but something was not quite right. His face was too boyish—his eyes bugged out sometimes when he spoke, and at other times his heavy lids made him look drowsy. So he either seemed wide awake or half asleep, but never just normal. He was like one of those Claymation characters from the Sunday morning cartoons she had watched as a kid. All big eyes and innocence, and that always translated into lousy in bed. Lottie had a feeling the guy was hung like a mosquito. And she was almost never wrong when it came to guessing penis size. Those guys gave off an aura. Mike had this forced cockiness about him.

  Mike bragged about being a big-shot reporter in Manhattan, but she knew he’d only done that for a few months because he couldn’t take the pressure. He was really a hick from Rochester, and even though he tried to fight his hickness, it was all over him. He looked like he was opening his big dopey eyes for the first time. He even tried to impress her at Bar Marmont with his pitiful newspaperman skills, but he had just humiliated himself and she ended up getting the story. A hick is a few links in the food chain below a Valley girl, Lottie understood.