They're Not Your Friends Read online

  Whatever, asshole. Lottie was ready to argue, but when the door opened, she gasped. Cory Jones. Although he hadn’t been in anything of note, Lottie was certain he was the Next Big Thing. Her heart fluttered, her mouth went dry. “Hi,” she said. “Sorry.”

  He brushed past her and slammed the door.

  Lottie Love, Chief Party Correspondent, stood outside the bathroom trembling. Getting a quote from Cory Jones, The Next Big Thing, would be a major coup. He was a bad boy who never spoke to the press, flashing the finger instead. If she could just nail a phrase from him, Personality would be ecstatic. Who knows? Vince might even promote her to associate bureau chief.

  She stood in front of the door with her brand-new digital recorder in hand, waiting and waiting. She phrased the questions in her head. “What do you think of the party? I love your work. What movies are you going to be in? Why the goatee?” She shuffled her weight from one wobbly leg to the other, her Payless stilettos scraping along the hardwood floor. Finally, the door opened and Cory emerged.

  She breathed heavily and shut her eyes. “I’m Charlie. I mean, I’m Lottie Love, Chief Party Correspondent with Personality magazine? I know you probably don’t want to talk to me and you don’t have to. You can so just completely walk away right now and get back to the party, but it would be really the greatest, most fantastic thing in the world if I could get a quote from you. A sentence would be so perfect. Even half a sentence. How about a word or something?”

  “Jeez, you talk too fast.” Cory laughed. “I’ve never met someone who talks that fast in my life.” He shook his head and started to walk away but halted in midstep. “My grandmother reads that shit wipe. It’d probably make her fucking day if she saw a quote from me in there.” He ran his fingers through his greasy, highlighted hair. “What do you want to know? I think I must have missed a question or something.”

  Lottie cocked her head, smiled, and twirled a piece of hair between her fingers. “Umm,” she said, scrunching her face as if in deep thought, but her mind was blank. Her heart caught in her throat. “Umm. I guess, like, how’s the party? Are you having fun?”

  Cory laughed. “Are you for real? That’s the lamest question a reporter’s ever asked me. Usually they want to know who I’m fucking. But believe it or not, I’m not with anyone tonight. I’m single and loving it.” He smiled at Lottie, grabbed her hand that held the recorder, and pushed it in front of his face. He spoke into it. “That’s why this party’s so great. There’s so many beautiful women here—the possibilities are endless.”

  His touch electrified her—she was beginning to think her trembling legs wouldn’t hold up anymore. She had been too afraid to venture into his love life. Afraid he’d walk away and say nothing to her. But then Cory kept answering questions she hadn’t even asked, acting as if she was an old friend.

  As she stood there, Terri Max sidled up to Cory. Her new movie, Detours and Dead Ends, had just opened. Terri was a twenty-eight-year-old action star with a killer body who had already been divorced three times. With her last husband she had adopted an Uzbek baby girl, who dangled from her arms at Disney premieres and then vanished into the ether until the next big photo op. She and Cory had been photographed together constantly several months ago, but Lottie hadn’t seen shots of the couple in weeks.

  “Got a match?” she asked, ignoring Lottie while sticking out a Marlboro Light.

  Cory grabbed Lottie’s recorder. “I’ll give you a light, but first tell this reporter girl, ummm. . .” He looked at Lottie.

  “Lottie. Lottie Love.”

  “Yeah, tell Lori why this party is great, and it’ll be in the next edition of Personality.”

  Terri swatted at the air. “That rag?” Then her eyes grazed Lottie’s breasts. “Amazing titties. Who’s the architect? I bet it’s Doctor Gene.”

  Cory stifled a laugh as Lottie’s face reddened. “It’s all me, thank you very much.”

  “Bullshit,” Terri said. “Anyway, your rag did a story on me once and called it ‘Talent to the Max.’ They misquoted me about a dozen times. I used the word ‘fucking’ and they changed it to ‘darn.’ I said ‘pissed’ and they made it ‘bothered.’ Is that completely lame? Puh-lease. Jesus, Cory, give me a light or I’ll have a complete and utter nicotine fit right here. I’ll tell Lori some really ugly things about you.”

  Cory pulled a Zippo from a pocket of his ripped jeans. He dangled it in front of Terri. “Come on. Tell Lori how much you’re in love with me.”

  Terri narrowed her eyes at Cory and clenched her jaw. “Okay. Okay. I wouldn’t go anywhere near Cory because he has the smallest cock in the whole world! Now, light my fucking—I mean, darn—cigarette, goddamnit.”

  As Terri leaned over with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, Lottie peered at the back of her faded blue jeans, trying to read the label.

  Terri swiveled toward Lottie and barked, “You’re totally checking out my ass.” She shook it at Lottie. “J-fuckin’ Lo, eat your heart out.”

  “I couldn’t be checking it out less. I was just trying to figure out the brand—for my story.”

  “James. That’s all I own. I have a closet full of them.”

  Cory handed the recorder back to Lottie. “Here you go, Lois Lane. You know Terri was just joking before, right?”

  “Was not,” Terri yelled.

  “Terri, tell her it’s not true.”

  “It’s totally true. I call it the gnat. That’s why I dumped him.”

  “She’s lying.”

  “Pull down your pants and prove it, gnat-boy!” Terri yelled, stomping upstairs.

  Cory started to follow Terri and then stopped and turned toward Lottie.

  “I so completely believe you.”

  “No, you don’t. And you’re gonna tell all your friends that I have a small dick. It’ll probably be one of those items in your magazine where you don’t name names but everyone knows who you’re talking about.”

  “I promise I so won’t.”

  Cory wasn’t listening. He unzipped his pants.

  “Please, I so completely don’t need you to show me your thing.”

  “Terri is a complete headcase.” He pulled down his pants.

  “Oh my God, it’s so not gnatlike.”

  “Print that, Lois Lane.”

  LOTTIE LOVE SPENT the entire evening in front of the bathroom. Everyone had to pee now and then, she reasoned. By the end of the night, Lottie had quotes from almost everyone who mattered. It was after 2:00 A.M. when she headed back to the office to write down her observations and quotes. She replayed her interviews, embarrassed whenever she heard her helium-saturated voice. As much as she tried to quash her Valley speak, it always trickled out, especially when she was nervous or excited—even after countless nights of practicing her diction, speaking in flat, even tones.

  “OhmyGod, I love your body of work.” Where did that phrase come from? “You are like the best actor in the entire universe, without a doubt.” “OhmyGod, it’s you. I love you!” “You were so completely amazing in Dead Dogs that I feel like you’re still in character and going to poke my eyes out right now.” Lottie covered her ears and fast-forwarded the recorder whenever her effusive vocals rang out.

  She wrote a novella, omitting that she had never ventured five feet from the bathroom. Her fingers, still buzzing from celebrity, whirred against the keyboard in a dizzying frenzy.

  It was literally a star-studded event in Bel Air when all the beautiful people turned out for a party celebrating the opening of the Hollywood chapter of Pet Rescue, a shelter for abandoned and abused animals! Celebrities in literally everything from tuxes and gowns to ripped jeans and T-shirts were there to show their support.

  Sexy heartthrob Cory Jones, wearing vintage Levis, a Von Dutch hat, and a Jesus Is My Homeboy T-shirt that hugged his oh-so-buffed body, said he was solo. “I’m not with anyone tonight. I’m single and loving it!!! That’s why this party’s so great. There’s so many beautiful women here—the possibilities are
endless.”

  The possibilities seemed to end with couldn’t-be-cuter Terri Max, starring in Detours and Dead Ends. She was wearing a black tank top and faded James jeans. “That’s all I own. I have a closet full of them,” the toned Max confided to me. Max and Jones seemed to be literally thisclose with each other. Perhaps a reunion is in the stars? “I’m so horny,” she confessed. . .

  Lottie wrote and wrote until her fingers felt leaden and arthritic. From her windowless cubicle she didn’t see the sun’s forehead peek out. She didn’t hear her colleagues lethargically trickle into the office. It was after 9:00 A.M. when Lottie, clutching twenty pages, realized that she understood what it must be like to be Judith Krantz, Jackie Collins, Ernest Hemingway! She had never been so inspired in her life.

  Lottie could tell that Vince was pleased, even though her work was quickly whittled away to a few words underneath glossy photos by Matt Selig, one of the many Personality photographers on contract. “Decent reporting, Lottie. You got behind Cory Jones’s pretty-boy facade. Good work.”

  “I’d love to be on the Chris Mercer team,” she blurted out.

  Vince smiled at the floor. “Thanks, Lottie, but you stick with the parties for now. In a few years you’ll be ready to go to bat with the A-listers. In the meantime, read all the staff files, especially Mike Posner’s. That’s the best way to learn.”

  “Sure.” Lottie forced a smile and turned quickly before Vince could see her rage. Was he really such a fucking moron? Clearly celebrities liked talking to her. Besides, she had read all the staff files.

  Every piece a correspondent wrote—a file—was available on the computer system for everyone to read. If Personality was doing a cover story on Brad Pitt, about ten correspondents would be assigned to report on every aspect of his life—Jennifer, rumored love interests, movies, friends, beauty regimen, exercise, nightlife. Each reporter would send his file to New York, where a “trained” writer or team of writers would disassemble the files and somehow assemble a story. Reporters would spend days or sometimes weeks gathering quotes from people who worked on movies with Brad or saw Brad eating lunch at The Ivy or buying a T-shirt at Fred Segal. Then they’d spend hours crafting a well-written file. In the end, they were lucky if a quote or two turned up in the finished product. The reporters who’d been in the L.A. bureau for more than five years had already given up—their files consisted of pages of quotes with no attempt at a narrative. Either way, Lottie wasn’t impressed.

  She went into her office and sought solace in her acid-pink Rolodex. Even though most of the world had Blackberries, Personality reporters liked to display bulging Rolodexes atop their desks. It was the journalistic version of “whose is bigger?”—a game Lottie knew she would win. She flipped the cards, admiring them. She knew it was just a matter of time before she amassed more contacts than anyone on staff—more than Vince, more than Mike Posner. She’d be the one to get Chris Mercer.

  Chris Mercer. He was the Now Big Thing—as big as Leo after Titanic. But no one knew anything about him. There was a fan frenzy at the premiere of Ark, the movie in which he played a modern-day Noah, but Chris didn’t show up. He just vanished. Paparazzi were staked out at all the hot spots, but they always wound up with pictures of Britney or Ashton or Paris instead. Personality hired an investigator who couldn’t even find a home address.

  There were theories. He’s a recluse. He’s got acute agoraphobia. He’s single-handedly trying to reinvent the perception of actors—from stars to craftsmen. He’s covered in acne that is camouflaged by makeup on screen. He was molested as a child. All this was pure speculation, most of it from oblivious outsiders like Vince and Bernie, the executive editor.

  Lottie would get the scoop. She could see it now:

  CHRIS MERCER REVEALS ALL, BY LOTTIE LOVE

  If you asked her, Lottie probably wouldn’t be able to say when she started to feel comfortable around celebrities. It was gradual. For months she stood right next to the bathroom, then near the bathroom, then in the foyer, then close to the door of the main room, then peering in the main room, then in the main room itself. Her hands still shook and her wobbly legs still threatened to collapse, but her stomach didn’t somersault and spew its contents anymore. Like a child taking her first steps, Lottie finally pried her knuckles off the rim of the toilet and entered the kingdom.

  Initially, she envied the other journalists who seemed to effortlessly mingle with celebs. They were brash. “Are you gay? Who are you sleeping with? How do you feel about your movie tanking?” She thought that with enough practice, she’d develop the Teflon coating necessary to be an ace reporter. But then she realized something: they weren’t getting any of the answers. Their questions were greeted with icy stares, chilly rejoinders, silence, the finger. Meanwhile, Lottie, in her awkwardness, was harvesting pearls.

  “I mean, I know you probably think I’m totally some psychotic fan, but I’m lit-rully the Chief Party Correspondent for Personality magazine. Can you tell me what you’re doing here? Are you having fun? By the way, I’m like such your biggest fan. Seriously, you couldn’t have a bigger fan than me.”

  And the stars would open their mouths.

  IF BECOMING CHIEF Party Correspondent was Lottie’s first big break, meeting Marlon Lang was the second.

  Lottie was covering the premiere party at the El Rey for Marlon’s debut movie, Blind Love and Other Handicaps. Vince wanted a few quotes for the magazine’s party page. So Lottie squeezed herself into a tiny suede skirt and beige cardigan and expertly maneuvered through the party, talking to anyone whose face looked vaguely familiar.

  “Hey, Reporter Girl,” Cory Jones said. “Grandma thinks I’m a real actor now that I’ve been quoted in Personality.”

  “I couldn’t be happier that she liked it,” Lottie said brightly, adjusting the buttons on her cardigan to keep them from bursting open.

  Cory grabbed the guy next to him. “Hey, Marlon, have you met Reporter Girl?” He whispered something in Marlon’s ear.

  Marlon Lang turned and his eyes landed right on her breasts. They nearly popped out. He giggled. “Hey.”

  Marlon was gorgeous, with huge blue eyes, fat red lips, and perfectly mussed brown hair. And he was sensitive—or at least his character in Blind Love was. Lottie was sure the two were pretty similar. Marlon’s celluloid equivalent relinquished his pro baseball career to travel around the world with the woman he loved, who had lost her eyesight when a baseball whacked her in the head.

  “Hello,” Lottie puffed out, breathlessly. “Oh my God, you were so brilliant in Blind Love and Other Handicaps.”

  Marlon ran his fingers through his gelled hair. “Thanks.”

  Lottie clicked on her recorder with a sweaty thumb. “Did you always know you wanted to be an actor?”

  Marlon sucked in his lips and smiled. “My mom says I was performing from conception. I was named Marlon because one night my mom was watching On The Waterfront and I kicked during the scene when Marlon Brando says, ‘I coulda been a contenda.’” Marlon jutted out his lips and spoke the line in a raspy voice. “I hope to one day be considered the Marlon Brando of my generation.”

  Lottie laughed, but realized from Marlon Lang’s pinched expression that he wasn’t kidding. She didn’t get it. Why would anyone want to be Superman’s big fat dead father?

  After a few more minutes, Marlon excused himself. “I’ve really got to go mingle or I’ll never hear the end of it from my publicist. But if you stick around, we can wrap up the questions in about an hour or so.”

  “Sure,” Lottie said.

  Lottie mingled too, chatting with frantic publicists who tried to pitch their B- and C-list clients to her. She let the flacks gab away even though their low-wattage stars had no chance of getting in the magazine—unless they committed murder, were killed, contracted a horrible fatal disease, or got arrested for shoplifting. It was difficult to concentrate on the conversations. There were too many actors milling about, distracting her. She couldn’t help bu
t turn her head or shift her eyes. The publicists kept droning on, though, probably accustomed to limited attention spans.

  “So this Lem Brac calls me every day,” said a publicist in a chocolate brown suit. “He desperately wants to write a story on Chris Mercer. But Chris isn’t doing any publicity right now. He’s focusing on his work. I keep telling him over and over, but still, every day, around two, he calls. It’s completely annoying. He sounds like he’s toasted, if you want to know the truth. I’m just telling you this because someone like that completely destroys the magazine’s credibility.”

  “Oh, he’s like the most pathetic man on earth,” Lottie gushed. “He lit-rully does nothing there but go on long lunches.”

  Lottie remembered that when she first started, Lem, a fossilized British reporter who’d been at the magazine since it began, took her to lunch. He gave her this whole they’re-not-your-friends spiel. He laid it on extra thick with a sappy story about some has-been actress from some dumb TV show who he fell in love with.

  Do your job, Miss Love. But remember, they’re not your friends. Never will be.

  “Well, I wish he would stop calling. It’s like, get a hint. Chris Mercer is becoming the biggest star out there.” She smiled and handed Lottie a business card. “I’m Cyndi Bowman, CEO of Bowman Publicity.”

  Lottie pulled out a Lottie Love, Chief Party Correspondent, card from her Hello! Kitty wallet. “I would absolutely love to do a story on Chris. If there’s any way, it would be so great.”

  The publicist, a woman about Lottie’s age, scooped the card out of her hand. “I’m afraid he doesn’t feel Personality’s the right venue for him. He says it’s too mainstream and too intrusive. Your magazine loves to take pictures of celebrities playing with their dog in their living room, but my clients want their privacy. They don’t want their home splashed across a magazine for all the crazies in the world to see. You have no idea how insane the world is. Personality just doesn’t appreciate a celebrity’s right to privacy. But I have some other really, really great clients, real up-and-comers, who would love to be in Personality. I represent Scott Riatta, who plays bad boy Duke Dodge on GH. He’s very involved in charities and is a real charmer.”