They're Not Your Friends Page 16

  “Hello, Lottie. I’m Chris Mercer.” He stuck out his hand and she shook it. “I just wanted you to know that what you said was so eloquent. It’s like you were talking about me.”

  “Really? Sometimes I couldn’t feel more alone,” she said. The truth was she had found out online that he’d given almost this exact quote to some obscure European newspaper.

  “Well, you’re not alone. I know I don’t know you at all, but ever since you started coming to these meetings, I feel like I know you really well. It’s like you’re my long-lost sister.”

  Sister? She didn’t want to be his sister.

  “Really. You couldn’t be more sweet.”

  He pulled out a card. “This is my cell phone. Call me when things are too hard to take. My only request is that you don’t give this out to anybody. I’m gonna be going into hiding at the Chateau Marmont for a few weeks to prepare for a role. I’m an actor. If you need to call there, ask for Johnny Malibu. Here, I’ll jot it down for you.”

  He grabbed a pen from his pants pocket and scribbled. Lottie smiled, thinking about tucking the card into her bursting Rolodex.

  “Call me anytime you need help. Or even if it’s just to talk. I know exactly the place you’re at.”

  SHE SMILED AT the memory, the modest “I’m-an-actor” comment. The flirtatious “Call me anytime.” Now she was in a conference room facing a group of people who thought they were so superior to her. But not one of them would ever have a conversation with the likes of Chris Mercer.

  Suddenly Bernie was staring right at Lottie.

  “Hello, Bernie. It’s good to see you again,” Lottie said, beaming at her.

  Bernie squeezed out a half smile and squinted her eyes. “And you are?”

  Lottie had been introduced to Bernie nearly a half-dozen times by now, but the woman always forgot her. Purposefully, Lottie was certain. Who’d want to remember someone who reminded you of how ugly you really are?

  But Lottie knew that introductions were everything, even if it was the sixth introduction. So she imagined she was Cyndi. She paused for a few seconds, looked Bernie straight in the eye, and boomed, “I’m Lottie Love. . . Chief Party Correspondent.”

  Bernie gasped, bugged out her eyes, and held a hand to her breast. “Chief Party Correspondent?”

  “Yes. That’s me,” Lottie said proudly.

  “Now that’s a fun job I wouldn’t mind having.” Her voice oozed sarcasm while the room tittered. “Do we actually pay you to go to parties?”

  More laughter.

  Lottie’s faced burned. Fun? Like Lottie waltzed around a ballroom sipping champagne and feasting on caviar. Fun? She’d like to see Bernie—or any of them—clomp around, trying to work a crowd. That bag acted like anyone could do Lottie’s job. It took a knack and talent and an understanding of celebrity you couldn’t glean from an employee manual. And here they were laughing at her. All of them. They all made double what she did and she worked harder and longer than any of them! Maintain composure, Lottie told herself.

  Lottie cleared her throat and said between clenched teeth, “Actually it’s lit-rully such hard work.” She stared squarely into Bernie’s squinty eyes and beamed a quick, full-tooth smile.

  With a voice dripping condescension, Bernie said, “I’m sure it literally is, Miss Love.” Again, she pinched her cheeks and rolled her eyes for her little audience of frightened journalists. “I’m sure it is. But let’s all get back to business, shall we?” She looked right at Lottie as if waiting for a response, so Lottie nodded.

  “Now, as you all know, our Most Gorgeous Man in the Universe issue is always a top seller. But that’s only if we have the right man on the cover. We can’t have Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise on the cover again, although I wish we could.” Bernie breathed deep and sighed loudly. “And Ben was perfect when he was with J.Lo. She really upped his sex quotient. But, quite frankly, I never thought that relationship had what it took to go the distance.”

  “Absolutely, Bernie,” Vince piped in. “He’s a salt-of-the-earth guy still very much of his backstreet Boston roots. She’s high maintenance and desperate to disengage from her past.”

  Lottie had to laugh. These people had never even talked to J.Lo or Ben, and they were discussing them as if they were all best friends.

  “Well, let’s have a Gorgeous Man think tank right now,” Bernie said.

  “Robert Redford. I still think he’s the sexiest, no matter what,” Veronica Sullivan said, as if she knew sexy. Puh-lease, Lottie thought. The woman wore long floral dresses that smelled like mothballs.

  “Oh my God, he’s like older than my father,” Lottie burst out, shaking her head and smiling at Bernie as if they had some secret understanding.

  “Harrison Ford. He’s gorgeous and sexy and appeals to a broad spectrum of our readership,” someone piped in. “Focus groups show our audience loves him.”

  Lottie burped out a throaty laugh and tensed her brows. “Could anyone be so much more boring? And, please, what’s with that earring? It’s not fooling anyone, Harry. You’re still OLD.”

  “Arnold. He’s the thinking man’s sex symbol. The sexiest governor ever. And maybe he’ll run for president one day.”

  “Have you seen him in a bathing suit lately? He has saggy breasts,” Lottie snapped. From the corner of her eye she saw Vince shake his head at her and purse his lips. Lottie didn’t care—she wanted to make an impression on Bernie.

  Bernice crossed her arms. “Well, Miss Love, since you’ve vetoed every suggestion thus far, do you have anything to add to the mix?”

  When Lottie had received the memo announcing Bernie’s visit to discuss the Most Gorgeous Man issue, she imagined what Cyndi Bowman would do. She prepared. She devoured newspapers and magazines for attractive celebrities. She analyzed the posters in her office and bedroom, and, most important, she perused her pink Rolodex. Lottie stood, slowly put on her new eyeglasses, and slid out a piece of paper from a manila folder. She cleared her throat, paused, and scanned the room. “I’ve done some research and compiled a list of possible candidates for the Most Gorgeous Man in the Universe issue.”

  Again, Lottie cleared her throat, paused, and scanned the room. For some reason, her eyes settled on Mike Posner, who was smirking at her. She thought about how he had stood over her at the beach. He thought she didn’t know he was there, but she felt his presence the whole time. Why did it excite her? There was no way she could like a hick like Mike. An overpaid hick.

  Remember, this is a performance, Lottie. And you were born to be an actress, she told herself. She thought about the applause at her lush meeting.

  “Marlon Lang. I’m so cognizant of the fact that his movie, Blind Love and Other Handicaps, didn’t do very well at the box office, but at this point in time, he’s still so on his way to being the Next Big Thing. I heard he’s in negotiations to star in a Titanic-type movie. Cory Jones. He’s working on a book of poetry. He’s lit-rully such a Renaissance man. I also think Raymond Young would be like a perfect choice. He’s the misunderstood pool boy from Bel Air Belles. He’s going places. And my inside sources tell me that he is about to sign a mega-huge deal to star in a movie about a misunderstood lifeguard. . .”

  Bernie cleared her throat and threw up her arms. “None of these people are big enough. They don’t have cover caliber.”

  “Well, my sources tell me that they’re the Next Big Things in Hollywood.”

  Bernie harrumphed. “We’re not interested in the Next Big Thing. Personality magazine is interested in the Now Big Thing.”

  Lottie cleared her throat. “But if we focus on the Next Big Thing before they’re the Now Big Thing, we’ll be on the cutting edge. We’d be ahead of our competition. ”

  There was a gasp. No one—not even Vince—dared argue with Bernie. Bernie’s face pinched. She drilled Lottie with her eyes.

  “Those boys seem better suited for magazines like Tiger Beat-off and Teen Cream Dream.”

  Bernie cackled. Vince cackled. The
staff tittered.

  Lottie exhaled and tried to stay focused. She remembered a slogan someone had said at AA: Don’t be interrupted from your goals by external forces. So Lottie stared straight at Bernie as if none of the others were in the room. “Well, I was saving this for last, but how about Chris Mercer?”

  Bernie laughed. “Well, that’s the obvious choice, but he won’t talk to us.”

  “Well, I discussed this with him last night.”

  “Really? You discussed this with Chris Mercer.” Bernie leaned into the table, not quite knowing whether to believe Lottie or not. She looked at Vince. “Vince?” Vince shrugged his shoulders. Bernie turned toward Lottie.

  “And? And? And? Were you able to convince him to do a sit-down with us?”

  “Well, yes. . . just about. . . I’m almost there.”

  Bernie stood up. Her eyes shot daggers at Lottie.

  “Almost? Almost?” She boomed like an actress onstage. “When you get a rare opportunity to talk to Chris Mercer, there’s no room for almosts. You either clinch the interview or you fail.”

  “Well, I couldn’t be closer to clinching. It’s just a matter of. . .”

  “Sorry, Lottie, that’s just not good enough for Personality magazine. Right, Vince?”

  Vince nodded his head.

  “Well, I mean, I couldn’t be more closer to clinching.”

  Bernie flipped a hand through the air. “I don’t even know what that means.” She looked past her to Mike. “What would you have done?”

  Mike coughed quickly and his ears turned red. “Well. . . well, I probably wouldn’t have left until he agreed to something. Anything. Even if it’s just a half-hour lunch.”

  “Great suggestion, Mike. Lottie, you should have called Mike immediately for advice.”

  Mike smiled weakly.

  Lottie could see white heat pulsing in front of her eyes. She shut them, but the furious white light flickered inside her head. She hated that everyone listened to Mike’s bullshit as if it were gospel. Her head blazed. She could barely see, barely breathe.

  And then Mr. Hyde suffocated Dr. Jekyll.

  “Puh-lease, you’ve so got to be kidding me. If anyone could make it happen, it’s me. Not Mike. He’s a phony. You all make more money than I do and none of you knows anything. I’m the only one with real access.”

  The words slipped out. Lottie had heard them in her head for weeks now, but she never thought she’d actually say them. Her mouth hung open as if the words had shorted her out. Bernie and Vince stared at her, their eyes wild and their lips clamped down as if stapled to the inside of their mouths.

  Vince coughed to loosen his constricted vocal cords. “Perhaps if you have such a low opinion of your colleagues, you should find a higher calling than our out-of-touch, poorly paying magazine.” Vince spoke through his teeth in a slow, steady voice.

  Lottie’s mouth remained agape. She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t agree with Vince—after all, this job was her life. She couldn’t disagree; she’d look weak. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine what Cyndi Bowman would do in such a predicament. But Cyndi wouldn’t be stupid enough to have a boss. Cyndi Bowman was in charge. With no alternative, Lottie grabbed her notepad and stormed out the door.

  LOTTIE HAD relished the trade up from her corkboard cubicle to a real office, albeit one without windows. She compensated for the lack of a view with posters of Billy Crudup, Ryan Phillippe, Brad Pitt, Stephen Dorff, Marlon Lang, and Raymond Young. She bought a small refrigerator so she didn’t have to share the mold-infested communal one. She shopped once a week at Pavillion’s next door to fill it with Diet Pepsi, frozen yogurt, and carrots. This was her home away from home. She raced inside and slammed the door. She couldn’t even imagine giving this up. It was her life. Lottie Love was Chief Party Correspondent. That was how she had come to define herself. There was nothing left to say.

  Lottie dialed Chris’s cell phone. She got his message. “It’s me. Emote!” She didn’t pause to consider how ridiculous that sounded. She thought about leaving a message but hung up as Lem stuck his ashen face into her office.

  “My advice is to march right into Reggio’s office, act contrite, say you got emotional, and then promise it will never happen again. Speak in sports jargon, if you can. Say you fumbled the ball, but you want to play for the home team. I’m certain you’ll be able to salvage your job if you do your best at humility. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years. . .”

  Lottie banged her head on her desk and groaned. “I know. I know. Fucking-they’re-not-your-friends. Puh-lease. I so don’t need you to tell me anything you’ve learned over the years. It hasn’t helped me once, and, ah, HULL-OH, it hasn’t helped you either.”

  Lem stumbled backward as if he’d been socked in the stomach, Starbucks spilling from his cup to the floor. He leaned on the door frame for support. “I was just trying to help, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte. Nobody but nobody called her Charlotte. Charlotte was a loser from Tarzana. The white lights flickered again.

  “The name is Lottie. And for your information, I’m about to interview Chris Mercer. Me. Not you. Not Mike Posner. Me.”

  “Okay, Miss Love. I was just. . . well, never mind.”

  An hour passed. Lottie figured it had blown over. She and Vince had both said things they didn’t mean. Lottie took out a salad and a Diet Pepsi from her refrigerator and ate slowly, trying to forget about the disastrous morning. While she gnawed on romaine, she imagined Vince and Bernie at lunch right then discussing her. “You know, she’s young and headstrong, Vince, but that’s what we need here,” Lottie heard Bernie saying. “She is underrated. I think she’s justified in asking for more money.”

  Vince would reply, “You’re absolutely right. There is no one better than Lottie Love, Chief Party Correspondent. You should see who she’s gotten to talk to us.”

  Lottie was replaying the conversation when Vince stepped into her office and shut the door quietly behind him.

  “Hello, Vince,” she gulped, trying to appear secure.

  Vince stood in front of her, arms crossed, eyes squinted, brows furrowed. “Lottie, I’ll make this short. I’d like you to pack up your things and get out of here, ASAP. Your services are no longer necessary at Personality magazine.”

  “What? I. . . I. . . I. . . don’t. . . I don’t want to leave.”

  “I’m afraid the ball’s not in your court. You give me no other choice. How dare you embarrass me, Mike, and the entire team in front of Bernice? How dare you use that public forum for your own personal grievances? Considering your talent, Personality magazine has been more than generous with you.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “I want you out of this office in an hour. If you’re going to give me problems, I’ll have you escorted out by security.”

  Lottie’s lips trembled. She swallowed hard to quash the cauldron of sobs bubbling in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she croaked. “Just give me another chance.”

  “Sorry doesn’t even begin to erase the black mark you’ve put on this bureau and me. I have no other choice then to terminate your association with Personality. Bernice actually demanded it.” Vince spoke like a cyborg—his words were completely drained of expression and inflection.

  “But. . . but I’m meeting with Chris Mercer. I could do a great interview. I’m really good with people. I’m a people person. I’ll get an exclusive for the magazine. Chris Mercer wants to speak to me. No one else. He requested me. Me. I could make it happen today.”

  Lottie watched Vince, waiting for his demeanor to change with the news of her scoop. But he stood at her door, his back straight as a pole, his neck craning upward as if her words were nothing more than the annoying buzz of a mosquito. She knew that in Vince’s eyes, she was already dead. There was just this little inconvenience of the body.

  Her time at Personality flashed before her in a dizzying whirl. She saw Marlon, Adam, Adrian, Cory, Raymond, Jason, Ian, Tom, Tristan, Brad, Ashton, and Leo appea
r like snapshots before her eyes. The parties, premieres, and award shows zoomed by in a dizzying frenzy. Lottie couldn’t leave Personality. Without it, she might as well go back to Tarzana. She might as well be Charlotte Love, daughter of Hank Love Plumbing. She’ll Make Your Pipes Sing.

  Lottie felt like screaming. Blood throbbed at her temples. Her arms and legs trembled. “Please, Vince. I didn’t mean it. Please give me another chance. I. . . I. . . fumbled the basket, but I’m batting for the home team. I’ll. . . score a touchdown with Chris Mercer. I. . . I. . . promise.”

  “Please let’s make this easy, Lottie. Bernie thought that a party correspondent was a frivolous job anyway. And then. . . well, I do know about the dresses you borrowed for the Emmys.”

  “What are you talking. . .”

  Vince shook his head. “Lottie, please. I was going to overlook that breach of ethics, but it seems impossible now. Bernie knows about it, too. Please. I have nothing further to say.”

  Dresses. The Emmys! She should have known! Mike was somehow involved!

  Vince slowly turned around and walked out, his arms rigid at his sides, his eyes staring straight ahead. Lottie closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. Again, she saw the faces of the entire year race past her—Cory and Marlon and Ray and Chris—until they narrowed and collapsed into one another, somehow turning into Mike. Mike, the only one who would have said something about those dresses! Lottie opened her eyes to destroy the apparition.

  There was a knock on the door. Lottie jerked her head up expecting Vince to be there, telling her he had made a big mistake. It was the heat of the moment, but I realize how invaluable you are to the team.

  “Lottie Love?”

  It was a bespectacled, squat black security guard.

  “I’ve been asked to escort you off the premises. Your possessions will be boxed and shipped to your home address.” The guard pushed a walkie-talkie to his mouth and mumbled something into its static.

  “No!” Lottie yelled. “I want to pack my own stuff. This is my life. I want to take down my posters and pictures. I don’t want anyone else touching my things. It’s all mine. I don’t trust anyone else.”