They're Not Your Friends Read online

  But she tried dating nonactors anyway. She dated a waiter at Chateau Marmont, but he turned out to be a struggling actor. So was the teller at Bank of America, the mechanic at Texaco, the deliveryman from Chin Chin, her dentist, even the lawyer with Universal. She went out a few times with a pilot and liked the idea of him in a cockpit, navigating a plane. After a few dates, he confessed he really wanted to be a movie star. The next day he quit his job and became an extra in a Tom Cruise movie.

  There. Enough was enough. She’d proved it to herself; and now her therapist would have nothing to say. Lottie could teach that lipless bitch a few things. She’d tell her, “There are two kinds of people in the world: stars and those who want to be around them.” Lottie Love was not going to spend her life around the latter. No way! Everyone in the world wanted to be a star, so why even waste time on anything but the real thing? She thought about how her elementary school principal fawned over the action actor and dismissed her father. That was not going to happen to her—ever.

  But Lottie knew she was getting up there. She was still young enough, but by thirty, she’d be ancient in a town obsessed with youth. She was no dope. When her mother was Lottie’s age, Lottie was already three. Eventually she’d have to get in a relationship that lasted more than a month or two.

  How did she get to be old enough to be seriously called a woman? She wasn’t exactly sure when that happened. But it was like wearing makeup: one day you play with your mother’s blush and eyeliner. A few years later, you wear it defiantly to school, even though it looks more like a clown’s mask. And then, without warning, it’s expected of you—because without it you look dull and anemic. And you secretly wish you were six again, when the compact and lipstick case on your mother’s bureau were like passports into exotic lands that you would never be old enough to enter.

  LOTTIE’S FINANCIAL SITUATION was also a bad subject. When Vince Reggio told her that she was no longer an intern and he was putting her on staff, she was so excited that she forgot to ask about money. Besides, he acted like he was doing her a big favor. Finally, after she thanked him like she was some homeless person he had handed a dollar, he said with a broad smile, “Don’t you want to know how much we’re going to pay you?”

  “Oh, right, of course,” she answered, sounding confused and disheveled.

  “Thirty-five thousand dollars to start—and we’ll evaluate you after a year.” Vince beamed at her like she had just won the door prize at some game show.

  But Lottie was ecstatic. She had gone from making no money to having a real salary! Lottie finally felt appreciated.

  All that changed when she discovered how much Mike was making.

  She’d been in Vince’s office discussing the parties she was reporting on that week when Vince’s phone rang. While Vince took the call, Lottie inventoried his mahogany desk. There on top of an avalanche of press releases and movie invitations was Mike’s contract. Contract! Vince hadn’t handed Lottie any such official document! And it said his salary would be seventy-five thousand dollars. What a crock! All that money for a guy who hadn’t even heard of Bel Air Belles or Marlon Lang or Sebastian Brooks or Ray Young. He was completely lame! Lottie wanted to slam her fist on Vince’s desk and tell him that this was an outrage! Anger coursed through her veins and blinded her.

  Every day since then she’d thought about it, how Mike’s worth was more than double hers. She couldn’t afford her dump of an apartment without a roommate. She couldn’t pay off her debts. She cobbled together a wardrobe from Loehmann’s, Express, and the Personality fashion closet. Every day she considered marching into Vince’s office and telling him he’d made a big mistake. Lipless said it was Lottie’s own fault for being nosy. She had no right to snoop around. But wasn’t being nosy her job? Vince should appreciate her nosiness.

  “You’re a real reporter, Lottie,” he’d say. “We can’t keep anything from you.”

  Lottie Love was pissed. She could barely even look at Mike, with his newborn chick eyes that seemed to be looking at the world for the first time and begging for help. Every time she saw the Hick, anger festered in her. Mr. Hot-Shot New York Reporter—what crap! He couldn’t keep up with her, and he knew it. But Vince had no idea. In Vince’s Gerber Baby brain, she was a big-breasted bimbo and the Hick was the ace reporter.

  AFTER SHE GOT the scoop from the Bar Marmont bartender, Lottie floored it all the way back to the office, where she wrote up her report. At the top of her article, she scribbled:

  Note: This is from Lottie Love.

  Mike Posner will send his report up separately.

  The Truth about Stephanie Winters

  and Sebastian Brooks

  By Lottie Love,

  Chief Party Correspondent

  According to sources who are thisclose to the couple, Stephanie Winters began having a lust-filled affair with a producer on the set of the couple’s recent movie, so ironically titled Til Death Do Us Part. The oh so hunky Brooks has been literally drowning his sorrows at Bar Marmont, where he had been totally living for the past two weeks and ordering many, many martinis with lemon peels in them. Last Saturday, he stripped down to his boxers and sang “Love Stinks” for the bar.

  “He’s a very talented singer, and the women went wild,” said a source.

  According to my extremely exclusive source, he left his latest movie without completing it. The sexy Winters is living with the producer, who is going to sue Sebastian for not finishing the movie even though he is sleeping with Sebastian’s wife. But that’s Hollywood. Movies come before love. “Looks like there’s trouble in paradise for the poor guy,” my close source says. “He is such a mess.”

  Lottie couldn’t wait for Mike to get reamed out for shirking his responsibilities. She expected Vince to call her into his office and confess, “Lottie, we aren’t paying you nearly what you deserve. You’re the best.”

  Vince would see her as she saw herself—as their mouthpiece. Lottie Love: She makes their words sing. It didn’t get any bigger than Personality. It didn’t get better than Lottie Love, Chief Party Correspondent. Seasoned with a year’s experience, Lottie understood celebrity. And she helped the world—the fat, bored, lazy world sprawled on a Barcalounger with the remote in one hand and Doritos in the other—understand them.

  Instead, her hard work went unnoticed—as usual. The next day, Sebastian and Stephanie’s publicist announced that after a brief separation, the couple who had tied with Brad and Jen as Personality’s Happiest Couple of 2004 was back together.

  “We have been so busy working that we neglected the things that are really important to us. We have decided to take a much needed vacation,” the Happiest Couple announced through a press release.

  After a few desperate and breathy calls from Cyndi Bowman about her clients’ privacy, Vince decided to drop the entire article. “Sometimes, we have to take the high road.” He smiled dreamily, most likely thinking of the favors Cyndi promised if the story didn’t run.

  Yeah, and sometimes you have to get laid, Lottie thought.

  “SEE WHAT HAPPENS when you try to be devious?” Lipless droned. “It always backfires on you. Now, if this money issue really bothers you, why don’t you talk to Vince about it? Tell him you feel you’re worth more. Tell him about your contributions, and see what he says. Don’t come across hostile. Approach this in a friendly manner.”

  Despite all the bad advice Lipless had given her, Lottie decided to try it. And of course, it backfired. “As with all the other correspondents, you’ll be reviewed at the end of the year. We’ll make a determination then,” Vince said, picking up the phone so she’d get the hint that the subject was dropped. Lottie stood there, her mouth hanging open.

  “End of story, Lottie.” Vince began dialing a number.

  “But. . . but, I like feel I’ve done a really good job here.”

  Vince exhaled, rolled his eyes, and then flashed a steely grin. “Let’s see how the end of the year pans out and then decide. We’ll see how many
scoops you clinch for the home team, okay? Until then, don’t drop the ball.” He looked back at the phone and finished dialing. Lottie spun around and tore out of the office. Didn’t they get it? Gerber Baby, the Drunk, the Hick, Fat-Ankled Bernie. Lottie Love was better than any of them!

  LOTTIE SCHEDULED A LUNCH with Cyndi Bowman. They met at Kate Mantilini’s, a big, chaotic, barnlike restaurant on Wilshire. Cyndi was sitting at a booth underneath black-and-white photographs of sweaty boxers in midpunch when Lottie arrived. She was on her cell phone but gestured for Lottie to sit down while she finished the call.

  “I can’t believe how unprofessional you are,” Cyndi huffed into the phone. “We’ve had to do all the work. You should be cheering to have this kind of access to such a major, major star. Instead, we picked the location for the photo shoot. We had to arrange hair and makeup, and you’re not even buying the clothes for her! Quite frankly, I’m about to have a complete meltdown over this whole article. Period. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  Lottie watched Cyndi’s lips flex and made a note to find out the name of her lipstick.

  “What?” Lottie watched as Cyndi’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. “That is completely ridiculous. She is twenty-seven and that’s final. I won’t have you writing that she is thirty-three despite what her mother told you. Her mother is wrong! Completely wrong. What does her mother know anyway—they’ve been estranged for years. . . I’m not even having this conversation with you. . . What?. . . If you print that she is in her thirties, I’ll shut down all access by your magazine. You’ll never interview another one of my clients again. She is twenty-seven! Two-seven, get it? Got it? Good. This conversation is officially over.”

  Cyndi punched the End button with a bloodred fingernail and threw the cell phone on the table. “These journalists. We get them an interview with one of the biggest, hottest celebrities on the planet, and instead of kissing our ass, they want more and they want to print things that just aren’t true.” Cyndi shook her hands in the air as if she was wringing a writer’s neck. “Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with my mundane problems. Just another day in the exciting life of Cyndi Bowman. By the way, you look so good and thin. You’re practically anorexic.”

  “I wish. I feel as fat as a house next to you. You’re emaciated,” Lottie gushed. “You so completely look Third World.”

  After they ordered identical Chinese tofu salads with low-cal vinaigrette on the side, Cyndi handed Lottie a thick white envelope. “I’ve put together a package for you with all my up-and-coming clients. If you ask me, they’re all worthy of cover stories. So, take a look when you have a chance, and see if you can get Personality to do some articles on them. They’re all going to be like the Next Big Thing. My advice to you is to catch them now, while you still can, because believe you me, they’re going places. They won’t want to have anything to do with Personality in a few months.”

  They munched on their roughage.

  “So how’s Vince Reggio doing?” Cyndi asked, curling a piece of hair around her finger. “By the way, you’ve got vinaigrette all over your chest.”

  Lottie grimaced and began rubbing her camisole with water. Why hadn’t she brought a cardigan?

  Cyndi’s phone trilled. “Ugh,” she sighed, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “Don’t ever run your own company. It’s more trouble than it’s worth, believe you me.” Cyndi jabbed a button and put the phone to her ear. “Hullo,” she sighed, sucking her cheeks. “Oh, God, what is it this time? Oh my God, no. FUCK. No! Jesus. Okay. I’ll be there right away.”

  Cyndi poked the End button and tossed the phone down. She buried her head in her hands and roughly rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “Fuck,” she snarled. Then she stabbed her fork into a chunk of baby greens.

  “Is everything okay?” Lottie asked.

  Cyndi held up a finger and chewed on the lettuce. Then she chugged down some ice tea. “My father,” she said into the glass, staring at her brown lipstick stains. She drained the remainder of her drink. She rested her head in her hands.

  “Oh, is he interfering with how you run the company?” Lottie groaned, twirling a strand of auburn hair. “Don’t even get me started. My father is Hank Love. You’ve probably seen his trucks barreling around town? I mean, how could you not? Talk about completely humiliating. He’s got these humongous billboards of himself on both sides of the truck. He wanted to paint me on the side, too, but my mom talked him out of it. I’d be in therapy like every minute of my life instead of every other minute.”

  Lottie leaned into the table, a breast resting on her dish. “I think you’re doing such a fantastic job. You guys are amazing. You have like every Next Big Thing. And you have Chris Mercer. I’d do anything to do an interview with him.”

  Cyndi raised her finger to the waitress to summon the check. “I’m going to have to go now.” She hoisted another batch of lettuce to her mouth.

  Lottie studied her. Maybe she should start dressing in stylish professional suits like Cyndi, who was wearing a taupe Calvin Klein jacket and skirt with an ivory silk shirt underneath. All of a sudden Lottie felt ridiculous in her clunky shoes and stained spandex shirt and little swatch of a waist-tied pleated skirt. She had felt sexy when she left her home this morning, but now she realized she needed to overhaul her wardrobe. Maybe she and Cyndi could go shopping together at the Beverly Center. As soon as she finagled that raise.

  Cyndi swirled out a signature on the receipt. She gulped her iced tea and cleared her throat. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything. But that was my secretary. . . my father just died.”

  Lottie choked in the middle of a gulp of her iced tea. “OhmyGod,” she shrieked. “I’m so sorry.”

  Cyndi pursed her lips, running a thumb and forefinger along their rims.

  “Are you okay? Can I do anything? Maybe you shouldn’t drive in your condition.”

  Cyndi smiled, reached over, and squeezed Lottie’s arm. “I’m fine,” she said. She pulled out her lipstick and slowly smeared it on. She sniffed dramatically.

  “I’ve just got to go. Head to Santa Barbara and have a good cry. I’m so completely numb right now. Maybe it will hit me when I get there. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell. No, I’m sure once I get there, I’ll be bawling like a baby. I’ll be inconsolable. I better go now or I’ll start to lose it.”

  As she spoke, she waved the tube of lipstick through the air. Honey Nut Brown, Lottie noticed.

  Cyndi stood up and Lottie followed her. “I feel like I should like do something for you,” Lottie said. “I’m like so on the verge of crying just thinking about how you must feel.”

  “No. I’m fine,” Cyndi said, leaning in with a hydrofoil kiss. “What you can do for me is read the packet I gave you. Get some of those actors in Personality.”

  “Okay,” Lottie said as she gave Cyndi a quick hug. “If you need anything, just call.” She tilted her head at Cyndi, narrowed her eyes, sniffled, and pinched her face in sadness. “I’m, like, soooosoooooo sorry.”

  BACK AT THE office, Lottie ran into Lem at the fax machine. He was staring at its buttons trying to figure out what to press, listlessly clutching his cup of Starbucks. From the back, he looked sad and vulnerable. His gray hair was cut to the base of his head and stubble was growing out along the top of his neck where the barber must have shaved it. Lottie felt sorry for Lem Brac. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d been run over by the world. She remembered him saying at a few meetings that he was good friends with Cyndi’s father.

  Should she tell him?

  “Umm. . . Lem,” she said softly.

  Lem turned and squinted at her, as if trying to place her. She realized she hadn’t really spoken to him since their lunch when she first started. She’d never really looked at him before. There was something familiar about those eyes. She suddenly felt like she knew him.

  “Yes, Miss Love?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, but Thom Bowman is. . . ah. . . dead?”


  “Thomas Bowman? Dead? Thom. Dead. Dead?” Lottie noticed that his bottom lip started quivering. “I just saw him. Just the other day.”

  Lem stared beyond Lottie as his eyes misted over. “Thomas,” he said. “He was one of the last of the real men. A true friend. My only friend. He’s the one who told me to always remember that they’re not your friends.”

  Lem’s papers fell out of his hands and drifted to the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice. Lottie saw the cover page—They’re Not Your Friends by Lem Brac, it said. Maybe Lem was scamming them all, working on a book while getting paid to do nothing at the magazine. Maybe he wasn’t such a loser.

  Lem cupped a hand to his mouth and stared intently at something beyond Lottie, but when Lottie turned her head to see what it was, nothing was there.

  Lottie felt foolish standing there, but she didn’t know what to do. Like a zombie, Lem picked up the papers and then staggered back to his office. Lottie considered following him and asking if there was anything she could do. But, truth be told, Lottie didn’t want to set foot in that dim, creepy room filled with pictures of has-beens unknown to Lottie Love, who was aware of all Big Things.

  Besides, Lottie already had a plan. She’d head to Santa Barbara for the funeral. Maybe if Cyndi saw her there, supporting her through her grief, she’d hand her an exclusive with Chris Mercer. She’d attend the funeral, tell Cyndi that she’d lost her mother a few years ago and understood her pain. Then she’d have the rest of the day to soak up the sun. She’d convince Vince to let her expense a hotel there. After all, she was Lottie Love, Chief Party Correspondent. And she was highly underrated.