They're Not Your Friends Page 24
“What’s funny?”
“Everything. You. These trophies. This place. If you want to fire me, fire me. Don’t use euphemisms. Don’t say I’m off to work on projects or that I’ll be serving in a consultant capacity or that I’m moving to the upstairs office. Say I was fired. Yell it. Scream it. Put it in a fucking goddamn memo. Lem Brac was fired.”
Reggio winced. “I was trying to be kind.”
Lem jerked his head back. “Kind? Kind Vincenzo. Don’t insult me by assuming I’m not as clever as you. You and Bernie and the rest of the new establishment don’t want to raise the ire of the old guys on staff. The guys who remember Sir Lem. It has nothing to do with kindness. Nothing. Just remember, one day you’re gonna get old. One day you’re going to be offered a consultancy position or an office upstairs or nebulous projects.”
Reggio closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.
“Call it what you like. In two weeks, I want you out of here.”
“Reggio, you are a truly dangerous man,” Lem said. “A coward. An untalented coward with power.”
Reggio glared at Lem while his temples pulsated. He opened his mouth. The guy who spoke in sports metaphors but who couldn’t throw a ball didn’t know what to say. So instead, Reggio did what he always did when under stress: he picked up the phone and pretended to dial a number.
BACK IN HIS office Lem drained the remainder of his bottle of Smirnoff’s and opened a second. He called Marjorie Bowman.
Her son, Tommy, answered.
“I want to meet her.”
“Who?”
“My daughter.”
There was silence. “I don’t know anything. But Patricia’s visiting my mom. Hold on.”
“No. . . wait.” Lem’s heart beat crazily. “Tommy, don’t.”
“Hello?”
It was Patricia. Lem opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Patricia.”
“Yes?”
“I want to meet her.”
There was silence.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No. I mean, yes, but not much. That’s it. I’m sobering up. It’s not like the old days, Patricia. I went cold turkey for months. I just want to see her. Cathy.”
Again, there was a long silence. Lem heard what sounded like sniffles.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Yes, you do. Please, Patricia, I know I don’t deserve the truth, but I can’t deal with any more lies. Please. I saw. She has my mother’s eyes. She has my mother’s eyes.”
“No, Lem. Please. Please leave Cathy alone. Get help. Go to AA.”
“But I just want to—”
“Lemuel.” Patricia’s voice was suddenly gruff. “Cathy. . . has had a rough time of it. A really rough time of it. If you saw what she went through, you’d understand.”
“So it is true.”
“Leave her alone. She’s had her own problems. She doesn’t need yours.”
“Problems? What kind of problems?”
“Lem, please.”
“Patricia, what kind of problems?”
“Substance abuse.” There was a long pause. “She had problems with substance abuse. She’s recovered now, thank God. But you have no idea what she went through. It was an absolute horror.”
Another long pause.
“God, it’s me, isn’t it? She inherited that from me. I haven’t even met her and I’ve only been a bad influence.”
He hung up the phone. What had he been thinking? He’d never make a good father. Even as an absent father, he was horrible.
LEM SNAPPED BACK to the present as Marlon whistled. “What a street,” he said. To avoid any more inane conversation, Lem opened the file Lottie had given him. Yesterday he’d read all the articles he’d written on Franny and had been impressed. He’d forgotten what a great writer he had been. He shuffled through the articles again. They traced an all too familiar path: a smattering of press follows a star on the rise. Then, in her heyday, every major publication spits out tons of blathering praise. Photographs of Franny with Travolta, Eastwood, Stallone, Arnold. Then the decline, with a few sightings and a few mentions about movies of the week. Then nothing. And now, infomercials. A few product lines. Whatever it takes.
An envelope fell from the folder onto the cab’s floor. He recognized Thom Bowman’s slanted penmanship. It was addressed to Franny Blanchard.
Marlon whistled again as they pulled up to Franny Blanchard’s manse. “Nyyy-ice,” he said. Then he turned his greasy head around to face Lem. “Hey, man, anyone famous live here?”
“No.” Lem’s tongue felt thick and spongy when he spoke. “Not anymore.”
He exited, slammed the cab door, and tossed a $20 bill through the front window. Even though he’d been in America for decades, he still paid cabbies English style.
Then he stood in front of Franny’s house and slowly read the letter Thom Bowman had forgotten to send.
California
LOTALUV
CHAPTER 20
LOTTIE LOVE SAT IN LIPLESS’S OFFICE TRYING TO EXPLAIN WHY she felt so horrible. But she couldn’t get the words out.
“What is it, Lottie?” Lipless asked.
“I need help,” she said. “I am lit-rully an awful person.”
“What did you do that makes you feel this way?”
“I. . . I. . . I. . .”
“Come on, Lottie. You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”
It was too much for her to say. Maybe she’d call Lem. Maybe he could help her.
“We can just sit here,” Lipless said.
So she did. At a negotiated rate of $50 an hour, it was an expensive silence.
“Maybe next time you’ll be ready to talk.”
Lottie imagined Lipless’s mind racing with possibilities. What has my little starfucking patient done this time?
WILL LOTTIE LOVE REVEAL? TOMORROW AT NOON.
“I screwed the hottest star in America to get back at this guy who stole something that is really valuable to me. I hate myself. I thought I’d feel great. I mean, isn’t this what I always wanted? But I can’t even look in the mirror.”
WHEN LOTTIE ARRIVED at the office, Cyndi was exceptionally chirpy.
“Look over the Franny Blanchard material. Isn’t Lame Lem heading there later today to interview her? What a morning! I’ve been trying to get Chris Mercer on the phone, but he’s MIA. By the way, a new batch of Franny’s The Cure arrived. It’s on your desk. You should try Calm. It really works wonders. Trust me.”
Lottie didn’t bother to turn on her office lights. She sat in the darkness and retrieved her messages. Catherine had called to check on her. Lottie felt sick. Catherine had been the only real friend she’d ever had. But it was a friendship founded on lies. Lottie almost wished she really were an alcoholic just to keep Catherine in her life.
Her intercom beeped. Cyndi’s voice filled the room.
“Make sure Lem Bric-a-brac runs that story on Franny Blanchard ASAP. I just found out he’s retiring in two weeks. We don’t want Franny to wind up in some slush pile.”
“That’s gotta be a mistake. Lem so wouldn’t retire.”
“I just spoke to Vincent Reggio. It’s probably just a euphemism for getting fired, but Vince is too classy to say it. Anyway, Franny needs press. So ride his decrepit ass.”
Poor Lem. She knew they wanted him out of there, but what had he done to get himself fired? She called Vince’s assistant, Melissa.
“Don’t ever call here.”
“What?”
“If they know I’m on the phone with you, I’ll be outta here so fast.”
“Please, Melissa, you couldn’t be more drama queen. Just tell me why Lem was fired.”
“Du-uh! Maybe for letting you in the office.”
“What?”
“Like you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Lottie, seriously, everything you tou
ch turns to shit. No wonder your father’s a plumber.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Think about it. Poor Marlon Lang, Lem Brac, and I even heard Mike Posner cursing you out. You’re poison, Lottie. You ruin people.”
“Fuck you, Melissa,” Lottie said as she slammed down her phone.
But as the phone traveled from her ear to its cradle, Lottie had a revelation: it was true. Lottie was poison. She never helped anyone. She just took and took, and she didn’t care about the consequences. She knew Lem could get in trouble, but she didn’t think about him. All she thought about was her Rolodex, her posters, her files. Herself. And then there was Catherine. Lottie had found out later they had called the cops on Catherine at Ray Young’s party. She already had some sort of record and could have gotten in a lot of trouble. And Marlon. She couldn’t even look at him when his movie flopped. She had sabotaged Mike and used Chris Mercer.
Lottie broke the number one office rule: she bawled right at her desk.
Cyndi knocked on her door.
“Oh, honey. You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m getting it together like right now.” Lottie sniffed hard.
“By the way, I finally located Chris Mercer.” Cyndi sucked in her cheeks. Had he told her? Lottie stiffened.
“I know that was completely unprofessional,” Lottie said.
“What are you talking about?”
So Chris hadn’t told her. She exhaled. “Oh. . . I mean, my crying at the office.”
“Forget about it. Someone’s always crying here. A good cry is like an orgasm,” she said. Then quickly added, “Guess what?”
“What?”
“You’re never gonna believe it.”
“What?”
“He’s. . . in love,” Cyndi chirped.
“Oh. Who?”
“Chris Mercer. Who do you think I’m talking about? I’ve never heard him like this. The press will have a field day with this especially if it’s. . .” Cyndi seemed lost in thought. She smiled. “Anyway, we have to keep it quiet for as long as possible. . . Lottie, are you okay? You look white as a ghost.”
“I’m okay.”
“Well, back to the grind.” She skipped out.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Was Chris Mercer in love with her? Isn’t that what she’d always wanted? An A-list celebrity? A few days ago she would have been ecstatic. Instead, she felt miserable. Another relationship founded on lies. Another person she’d poisoned. When they were screwing the other night, she couldn’t think about anyone but Mike Posner. She was filled with such rage. And Chris thought she was having the biggest orgasm of her life, when she was really acting for Mike.
An actress. Despite what she promised her mother, that’s all she’d ever been. An actress playing a journalist. An actress playing a publicist. An actress playing a star’s arm candy. An actress pretending she didn’t belong at the service entrance.
She took a deep breath. She thrummed her fingers against her computer, scanned her office. Her eyes landed on Calm. She opened the bottle and gulped some. It tasted sweet, like butterscotch. She swilled some more. Then she rested her head on the desk.
It worked! Lottie felt more relaxed than she had in a long, long time. Almost light-headed. Slightly buzzed. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. The room hummed. She giggled. She took another sip. This stuff was good! She guzzled down some more, hiccuped out a laugh. Eyes closed, she relished the buzz. Then she picked up the bottle and examined the label. Franny Blanchard’s The Cure: Calm. Manufactured by Curandero, Tijuana, Mexico. She squinted to read the ingredients. Passiflora incarnata, fresh skull cap, kava kava root, artemesia vulgaris, humulus lupulus, rowanberry, pure grain alcohol.
Pure grain alcohol.
A few months ago this would have meant nothing to her. But because of her Big Lie, she knew everything there was to know about alcoholics. She thought about crazy Joe, the guy from AA.
SHE BARGED INTO Cyndi’s office.
“Come on, just a hint,” Cyndi cooed into the phone. “Why are you being like this? If you can’t tell me, who can you tell? You have to tell me if we’re going to work out a media plan. . . Aha. Oh, really.” Cyndi voice turned chilly. “Well, I hope it works out.”
As Cyndi slammed down the phone, Lottie realized something: poor Cyndi was in love with Chris Mercer.
“It’s some lush he met at AA,” Cyndi snarled. “Jeez, the press will have a field day with this one. I mean, talk about a relationship starting off on the wrong foot.”
Lottie nodded. She felt sick.
“What is it now, Lottie?” Cyndi said angrily. “I’ve got a pile of work here.”
Lottie sniffled as her heart pounded. For a second, she forgot why she was there.
“Lottie?”
“I tried Calm.”
“Isn’t it great? I can’t get enough of it.”
“It’s got grain alcohol in it.”
“No wonder I feel so good all the time.” Cyndi waited for Lottie to say something. “So, ah, is there a problem?”
“Well, it’s just that we’re promoting this in our press releases as an all-natural nonaddictive thing, and it couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“So?”
“I know this guy, Joe. He was a recovering alcoholic and doing great. He hadn’t touched the stuff in like five years. Then he started this big health kick. Vitamins and herbs. Anyway, it turned out some herbal drink he was taking had alcohol in it. He couldn’t stop himself. Now he’s a total mess.”
Cyndi sighed. “Okay, thanks for that interesting bit of news. And what precisely does that have to do with me?”
“Well, it’s just that we should mention it has grain alcohol—”
“Lottie, please. We’re not hiding anything. People should read the fine print before taking any type of medicine or stimulant.”
“Did you read the fine print?”
“Well, I don’t need to, Lottie. I’m not some raging alcoholic.”
“I’ve gotta get outta here,” Lottie said as she turned toward the door.
“I need you in the office. Chris Mercer is coming by. We must work on a media plan for his alleged love life. I’d like your input. This will be a tremendous learning opportunity for you.”
“I can’t. I have to find Lem. I have to tell him about the pure grain alcohol.”
“Lem? So what? What’s Lem Brac got to do with anything? Our job is to protect our clients from the press, not the other way around.”
“I don’t want something else to be my fault.”
“Lottie, that’s not part of your job description. Have you read the Bowman mission statement? We get clients publicity. You know, I completely hate Franny Blanchard, but I’m able to put that aside and do my job.”
“This is different.”
“No, it’s not!” Cyndi shouted. “It’s just something else about Franny we need to ignore. Just like your father fucking Franny. You think that’s a big deal? Huh? Well, welcome to my world. I grew up with it. She was fucking my father right under our roof while my mother was having one of her nervous breakdowns in the next room. I heard it all. My dad and her always reciting movie dialogue. God, I fucking hate Gone With the Wind.”
“Cyn, I’m sorry, but—”
“But what? I’m a professional here. You think I want that woman anywhere near me? But she’s a client and I’m doing my job.” Cyndi closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “So don’t worry about whether or not a journalist is reading the fine print. Okay? It means nothing to us. What’s happened to you anyway? It’s like suddenly you have this total conscience.”
Lottie smiled.
“Maybe I do,” she said.
“Well, we don’t need that here.”
“Okay.” Lottie smiled again. “Then I quit.”
California
KUN FES N
CHAPTER 21
HE’D BEEN IN LOS ANGELES FOR A YEAR, BUT HAD NO IDEA WHERE to go or who to talk to. He drove slow
ly along Ventura, staring out at the pink and blue ribbons of neon, the Thai restaurants, the vegans with placards protesting the slaughter of cows.
Vince had been furious.
“You dropped the ball.”
“But. . . but. . . it wasn’t. . . my fault.”
“If he had potential commitments, you should have known about it. That’s what separates the stars from the hacks.”
Hick. Hick. Hick.
“But. . . but. . .”
“And you should have had a write-around prepared.”
“Vince, I was assured. Cyndi Bowman is a complete liar—”
Vince’s temples pulsated. “I’ve worked with Cyndi and have always found her nothing but professional.” He shook his head. “I don’t have time for this now. We’re scrambling to get the celeb diet cover going. It’s a disaster. Ben mixed up The Zone with Atkins. We’ll discuss this with Bernie later.”
HOW COULD SOMEONE live in a place for a year and make no friends? No guys to commiserate with about the asshole boss, the shit job, the lack of a love life. Maybe a few days ago, he could have called Lem. He would have understood. Just the other day, Lem had called him “son.” How could he have betrayed the only person who’d been nice to him?
There was one place Mike wanted to go. He had her address. He turned left on Barham. He was almost there, but was it a good idea? Probably not. She hadn’t returned his phone call. But what did he have to lose? Nothing. If she hated him already, it didn’t matter.
He couldn’t handle the rejection. No. He wouldn’t go. He’d turn around and head home. A long, sleepless night awaited him. A night of infomercials, of Six-Week Body Makeovers and Seven-Second Abs, of Butt Busters and Fat Blasters.
Maybe if he begged, the hick could get his job back in Rochester. It was just a matter of time before they fired him here. Rochester was the place where he belonged. A place where he didn’t have to pretend.
Welcome back, Mike. The big city was too much for you, huh? Happens all the time. Now head over to Pittsford, there’s a cow-tipper on the loose.
He continued on Barham. Turned left on Woodrow Wilson.