They're Not Your Friends Page 17

  “I’m sorry. I’m just doing what I’m told. Please cooperate and make it easy on the both of us.”

  “No,” Lottie snapped. She stood up on rubbery legs as she began racing around her office, unsure of what to do. She pulled too hard at her Bel Air Belles poster, and it tore right down the middle of Lance Caine’s perfectly chiseled face. Lottie jerked her head angrily toward the security guard and flared her nostrils. “See what you made me do?” she barked.

  “Please. You’re just making this difficult for yourself. I’ll take care of everything for you.”

  “If I left this to you, I’d never see my things again. Everyone wants them. Everyone. And do you have any idea what I had to do to get these?” She swept her hand across the room.

  The security guard wore a navy blue blazer with a badge, and EARL was embroidered in light blue slanted script on his jacket pocket. He mumbled something else into his walkie-talkie and slowly walked toward Lottie. “Come on, let’s be adults here,” he whispered. “Let’s not make a scene.”

  Lottie shook her head.

  “Please, Miss Love. Don’t do this to yourself. Let’s just walk out of here nice and calm.”

  Lottie’s heart pounded, but she felt strangely disconnected to the events. It was as if she were watching some psycho lose control. It couldn’t possibly be Lottie Love, Chief Party Correspondent. She was gobbling up popcorn and staring at the screen as an actress unraveled. If she really wanted to make it interesting, she’d pull out a gun right now. Instead, she glared at fat Earl. “I’m not leaving and you can’t make me.”

  “Come on, Miss Love,” he said softly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Lottie looked past Earl and saw that the entire office had assembled outside her door. As she glared at them, they quickly shifted their eyes while their mouths hung open like idiots. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a few framed photographs of herself with various members of the cast of Bel Air Belles, Everwood, That ’70s Show, The O.C. As she stared at the photograph of Justin Timberlake with his arms around her waist, she began to cry. Soon her body was quaking with sobs. She gasped for air. Earl moved closer and put his arm softy on her shoulder.

  “There, there. It’s not that bad,” he cooed, his hot breath hitting the side of her head.

  “It is that bad,” Lottie choked out, as tears seeped down her cheeks. “It is so that bad.”

  “If you don’t want them to see you, we can take the service elevator.”

  “No,” Lottie snapped.

  With a hand lightly touching her back, Earl guided Lottie toward the door and whispered, “Miss Love, you are the most beautiful and talented one in this place. Don’t give these people a show. That’s what they want, a show, because then they’ll feel better about themselves. But we’re not going to let them. Pretend it’s Oscar night and I’m escorting you into the Kodak Theater. You’re dressed in a fine gown with a diamond necklace and earrings that sparkle like your eyes. Come on, Miss Love. Let’s walk along the red carpet while these bystanders watch us with envy, silently praying that we’ll trip and fall. But we won’t because you’re too beautiful, too magical for that.”

  Lottie wiped muddy tears with her fingers, keeping her head cocked as she shuffled along so she wouldn’t have to see any reporters’ eyes. She stared at the metal mouth of the elevator. She mirrored the look she had watched actors give her as they breezed along the red carpet at premieres while she stood on the other side of the velvet rope shouting questions. They seemed to always look ahead at something that wasn’t there, with eyes that were perpetually unfocused. Lottie managed to squeeze out a half smile.

  Earl stooped over and whispered in her ear. “I’m fifty-five years old, and I’ve lost plenty of jobs in my day. Plenty. Let me tell you, it’s going to be okay. Remember, it’s only a job.”

  For the benefit of the crowd assembled near the elevator bank, Lottie cackled as if Earl had said the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She took a deep breath. “It’s not only a job—it’s my life, my whole entire life.” Lottie’s voice began as a whisper and petered into a few decibels below a murmur, until her trembling lips moved without any sound.

  To keep herself from crying again, Lottie imagined that she was outfitted in a red Armani gown, heading into the Oscars while her fans begged for a photograph, some eye contact, some acknowledgment that they did indeed exist in the same realm as she. But Lottie Love was too beautiful and elegant and too good for them so she stared straight ahead, thinking only of the award she was about to receive.

  And the Oscar goes to. . . Lottie Love.

  But then her eyes slipped away from the elevator and accidentally landed on Mike. He was watching her. She stepped into the elevator with Earl and a seething red hate coursed through her body. She was not a movie star; she was only Charlie Love from Tarzana.

  It wasn’t until the elevator landed at the lobby that she realized she’d left behind her most prized possession: her Rolodex.

  California

  PUB LS CT

  CHAPTER 10

  AFTER A FEW DAYS OF UNEMPLOYMENT, OF FIRST MOPING AND then pampering herself with facials, manicures, massages, and yoga, Lottie had a revelation: she didn’t need Personality or Vince or Bernie or any of them. She had been wasting her time breathing polluted office air and working for pennies. It was as if God himself had orchestrated the firing to remind Lottie that she was bigger than Personality. Reach your potential, Lottie Love! She had a more important agenda than Chief Party Correspondent.

  “One day, I just decided that I’d had enough of that horrible place. I was so like totally stagnating there. It just didn’t allow me to express myself creatively,” she told Cyndi Bowman over apple martinis at Lola’s.

  “Bravo, Lottie Love. Bravo. You empowered yourself.”

  “I so did.”

  “No offense, Lottie, but I really don’t understand why anyone with even half an intellect would want to work at that rag.”

  “You couldn’t be more right.”

  “Personality just looks for the negative. The writing is horrible, and its audience is pure trailer trash. It never focuses on the positive things celebrities do.”

  Cyndi reached across the table and, with both hands, squeezed Lottie’s wrists. “Personality is perfect for a loser like Lem Brac.”

  “And Mike Posner. He’s such a fraud. He just makes things up, but everyone believes everything he says. His word is gospel there. He can do no wrong. It couldn’t be more disgusting.”

  With each word, Lottie became more and more animated, until her hands were a blur, sawing and hammering the air. Red-faced and exhausted, she sunk in her chair, sighing as she patted down her hair.

  Cyndi leaned her head toward Lottie and smiled. “But he is kinda cute.”

  “Cute? That’s revolting. Mike Posner is so not cute. . . You think he’s cute?”

  Cyndi smiled. “Let’s talk about you. How can we empower Lottie Love?”

  Lottie blinked as if suddenly remembering where she was. For a moment she had been back at the elevator, arm in arm with fat Earl.

  “You could not be more right,” Lottie said, slapping her hand on the table. “I need to become. . . empowered.”

  Cyndi foraged through her Murakami bag and pulled out her Honey Nut Brown lipstick. She smacked her lips together and blotted them with a napkin. “The reason I invited you for a drink was, of course, to see how you’re doing since you made your big escape.” Cyndi patted Lottie’s arm. “And, of course, you’re doing fine, just as I suspected.”

  Cyndi paused and scrunched her face at Lottie, as if she were about to pinch out some great news she’d been constipated with.

  “Now that you’re a free woman, I wanted to offer you a chance of a lifetime: How about coming on board at Cyndi Bowman Publicity? My business is expanding daily. My staff puts in eighteen-hour days, and I’m literally working round-the-clock—twenty-four/seven. It’s never enough. There’s so much to do. Our client base is growing
and growing.”

  Cyndi began ticking off a list with her fingers. “We need someone well connected. Someone who’s a people person. Someone who understands celebrity. Someone with your Rolodex.” Cyndi nodded her head at Lottie, paused, and added, “Cyndi Bowman Publicity needs someone like Lottie Love.”

  Lottie felt a jolt of warmth race through her body. Her heart galloped wildly. Already the offers were pouring in! Cyndi stared at her, waiting for a response. But Lottie forced herself to remain silent. And speaking of her Rolodex, she’d called Melissa, the office assistant, a dozen times about getting her stuff. Fat Earl lied just like she knew he had. No Rolodex. No files. No Brad Pitt poster.

  “I don’t expect an answer right now,” Cyndi said, her velvety whisper suddenly metamorphosing into an icy staccato. “But, in my opinion, it would be the biggest mistake if you didn’t jump on this offer. This is a much better side to be on. And what better place to work than the best? You’ll still be able to write. And I encourage my staff to be creative in their press releases. It’s not like Personality, where everything is rewritten. Of course, I have to tweak things a bit, but I try not to quash a writer’s personal style. . . I love writers who use lots of exclamation points. I hate writers who use the word ‘said,’ when there’s plenty of other options, like ‘exclaimed,’ ‘extolled,’ ‘announced,’ ‘annunciated. . .’”

  Lottie nodded. “I couldn’t love exclamation points more.”

  Cyndi stared at Lottie. “The best part about it is that you’ll be on the other side. You’ll be the manipulatrix instead of the manipulated. And it’s an all-woman staff. We look out for one another, and we’re all the best of friends. I like everyone to bond. It’s actually mandatory. We all go to Kundalini yoga together Thursday nights.”

  Lottie thought it sounded nearly too good to be true. She’d still be on the inside—even more so. Celebrities would put their complete trust in her. She’d create and promote their image. She’d hold strategy sessions with Leo and Brad and Tom and Joaquin.

  “Lottie, Brad Pitt is on line one. He needs some advice. Lottie, Johnny Depp is on line two.”

  She wouldn’t have to grovel for interviews and quotes, but she could make Mike and Lem and Vince beg.

  I’ll take it, she nearly shouted, but she choked back the words. After all, she wasn’t born yesterday.

  “It sounds like so completely fahn-tas-tic, but the last few days have been like so lit-rully crazy. The phone has been going hysterical, and I need a couple of days to sort this madness out.” Lottie breathed deeply.

  Cyndi narrowed her eyes and knitted her pencil-thin brows. She sighed loudly, while her Honey Nut Brown lips remained taut. Then she flashed a steely grin.

  “Well, we’ll see,” Cyndi chimed, raising her voice in tinny fulsome merriment. “My phones are ringing off the hooks, too, Lottie. There are a lot of people who would do anything to work at the fastest-growing publicity firm in Los Angeles. I mean major executives from major studios who are willing to give it all up and take a pay cut to work for me. I thought I’d give you the first shot, but. . . if you’re not interested. . .”

  Lottie’s eyes widened. “No. I am like so completely interested. I couldn’t be more interested.”

  “So, why can’t you jump on it, Lottie?” Cyndi asked, drumming her fists at the air. “What is Lottie Love so afraid of? Has your time at that rag turned you against publicists?”

  “It is so not that.” Lottie’s voice was more high pitched than usual.

  “So then, go for it. Car-pee diem. Seize the day. Do something proactive for Lottie Love.”

  Lottie’s heart stampeded up her throat. She gulped hard and exhaled. “OhmyGod. Why not? When do I like begin?”

  California

  ROL O DX

  CHAPTER 11

  MIKE CHECKED HIS WATCH. EIGHT O’CLOCK. HE’D BEEN SITTING at his desk doodling for hours. Finally Vince’s door slammed shut. Then Vince did his bed check around the perimeter, determining who was among the truly dedicated. Mike had even seen Vince go into darkened offices and touch lamps to check if they were still warm. Vince poked his face into Mike’s office.

  “Mike, go home. Get a life.”

  Mike laughed. But truth was, if you wanted to get ahead at Personality you weren’t allowed to get a life. This was your life. The later you stayed, the better—even if you were actually burning CDs rather than the midnight oil.

  Mike listened to the ting of the elevator. The office was officially empty. This would be easy. Why then did Mike feel a little nervous?

  LAST NIGHT HE’D been on his first date since Liz. He and Catherine went to Stella’s on Melrose. They sat underneath a bougainvillea-covered trellis and ate pasta and never ran out of things to talk about. Catherine was smart and caring, the type of person he didn’t realize existed anymore—at least in Los Angeles. He knew she’d had some problems with booze, but she hadn’t touched a drop in years. There was something safe about Catherine. She didn’t stay out late. She didn’t get drunk and rowdy. Plus, she probably didn’t sleep around much, which meant maybe he wouldn’t seem so inadequate. She was an interior decorator. She was working on two houses in Bel Air, but she’d put a lot on hold while she tried to cure Lottie Love.

  “Lottie’s an amazing person. I’ve never heard someone speak so honestly about her addiction. When she talks to the group, this surprising vulnerability comes out. She spends so much of her life hiding it from the world. But when she shares herself, you see her goodness.”

  “I think I understand,” Mike said, but he didn’t. Who was this Lottie Love she was talking about? Only someone special could see goodness in Lottie Love. He didn’t tell Catherine about the Lottie Love who’d humiliated him in front of his coworkers.

  “That’s why I won’t quit. She keeps pushing me away, but I’m going to help her every way I know how. If someone didn’t do it for me, God knows where I’d be today.”

  Mike searched for a flaw. Catherine had pale skin, blue almond-shaped eyes, and the reddest lips he’d ever seen. She almost looked familiar, as if he’d known her for years. He smiled as he watched a group of guys stare at Catherine and whisper. He was with the best-looking woman in the place. This woman was too good to be true. Maybe this was someone he wouldn’t have to lie to. He looked into Catherine’s eyes and thought, This woman can save me. I can be good again.

  “You can’t be this good,” he said.

  “Trust me, I’m not.”

  “So tell me what’s wrong with you before I start to really like you,” Mike said.

  Catherine looked down at the table. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do.”

  She took a gulp of her water. “I’m gonna change the subject quickly. You think you could do me a little favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Lottie’s devastated that she left her Rolodex at the office.”

  Mike stopped chewing. “Her Rolodex?”

  “Yeah. It meant everything to her. You have no idea. Everything she knows is on that thing. She was promised all her stuff would be sent to her. But so far, nothing. You think you could get it for her? I completely understand if you say no, but, well, I just thought I’d ask. . .” Catherine touched his arm. “You just seem like someone I could ask. I hope I’m not imposing. I mean, it is rightfully hers.”

  Mike stared into Catherine’s eyes. And he believed it when he said, “Sure. No problem. I’ll do it.”

  MIKE WAITED A few more minutes. He went into Melissa’s cubicle. The tiny space was crammed with cat memorabilia. There were small porcelain cats, beanbag cats, stuffed cats, and photographs of Melissa and her cats. Bumper stickers covered her corkboards: KISS A CAT. FORGET MEN—ADOPT A KITTEN. HONK IF YOU’RE A CAT LOVER. WHISKERS FOR PRESIDENT. ALL I NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED FROM MY CAT. GOT PUSSY? Melissa had the mailroom guy fired for sexual harassment, yet she had a GOT PUSSY? bumper sticker in her office.

  Mike had been locked out of his office so many times now t
hat he knew exactly where the master key was. Melissa hid it in the soil of her cactus plant. She’d do it right in front of Mike. The man-hating cat lover didn’t think she’d have to worry about that wide-eyed kid from the boondocks. Mike smiled. He grabbed the key. A few needles pricked his fingers.

  Mike’s heart galloped crazily as he twisted the key in Lottie’s office door. He glanced right and left. Then he opened the door. He felt as though he was entering a teenager’s inner sanctum. A bare-chested, long-haired Brad Pitt, circa Legends of the Fall, stared disapprovingly at him. Someone named Marlon Lang looked really pissed. Ashton Kutcher seemed oblivious to all of it.

  There on her desk was her hot pink Rolodex. Glinting and fat. Ten times thicker than his. Mike grabbed it, shut the door, and headed for the elevator.

  HE RIFFLED THROUGH the Rolodex as he sipped a Sierra Nevada at Houston’s. There was a message from Catherine on his cell phone.

  “Hey, Mike. I had a great time last night. . . Not to bug you, but any luck with Lottie’s Rolodex? The girl’s going nuts. She wants to break into the office, but I’m afraid they’ll have her arrested. Let me know. Thanks.”

  Mike hadn’t stopped thinking about Catherine. He wanted to see her again. And part of him really wanted to call and be a hero. He’d stop by and hand it over. She’d thank him, they’d talk, and who knows? He felt she’d never laugh at him.

  But the Rolodex was incredible. He knew Lottie Love had access, but home numbers of A-list celebrities? It was like reading a diary. Marlon Lang got three stars. Ray Young was “gay as a kite.” There were asterisks and exclamation points next to Ashton Kutcher’s name, whatever that meant. Ben Affleck got three stars. Matt Damon one and a half. Sure, he wanted to give it to Catherine, but he had to Xerox its contents first. Besides, didn’t he owe it to himself after what Lottie did to him?

  Mike glugged his beer and shook his head. If he deceived Catherine, wouldn’t he ruin any chance of a real relationship?