They're Not Your Friends Read online

  As the publicist babbled on about the dregs of her clientele, Marlon reappeared.

  “It was nice to meet you, Lottie,” Cyndi said, planting a kiss in the air by Lottie’s cheek. “Please, say hi to Vince Reggio for me. Is he still married?”

  Lottie followed Marlon into an empty room with a sofa and two chairs. Lottie sat on the sofa, and Marlon pulled up a chair and sat across from her, his lanky body spilling off the seat. Without even a question to prompt him, Marlon began speaking.

  “My motivation for Blind Love and Other Handicaps was that I was just coming back from a relationship gone bad. I thought this was my great love, but I guess she didn’t feel the same way. Anyway, it helped put me in the place where I wanted to be for the role of Jake Blaze, a guy who won’t commit to anyone because of some secret from his past. It was easy for me to find my comfort zone per se, because I was in pain at the time. I honed my craft in Blind Love. Of course, it helps when you have a fantastic director and a great cast. And Gregory Perry is an incredible writer.”

  Lottie nestled her chin in her palm as she stared into Marlon’s deep blue eyes. She couldn’t quite look away. Were those flecks of gold and orange?

  “Are you dating anyone right now?”

  “Nope. I’m completely single.”

  THE NEXT DAY, Lottie rewound the recorder to see where the interview ended and the seduction began. She realized it never had. Marlon had mesmerized both of them through talk of himself. In the middle of a monologue on preparing for his role as the misunderstood Jake Blaze, he invited Lottie to the Hotel Bel Air, where he was staying to promote his movie. He said he would love to have a drink or two and continue the interview in a more private place.

  And Lottie agreed. Without even a thought, she said, “Okay. That sounds great.” She convinced herself that there was no innuendo in either of their voices. She went with Marlon for the sake of the story. For the sake of Personality magazine.

  Lottie’s red convertible Cabrio (license plate: LOTALUV) trailed Marlon’s black Cadillac Escalade. Her heart pounded; her head swirled as she thought about the craziness of it all. Marlon Lang! He was almost as cool as Joaquin Phoenix.

  Just in case, she checked her black silk Kate Spade purse (she had found it tossed in a Personality closet after a photo shoot) for her diaphragm. Armed with her recorder and birth control, Lottie breathlessly headed for Marlon. When she entered the lobby, he was signing autographs for a few tourists.

  Inside the suite, which was decorated with posters of Marlon from Blind Love (for the press interviews, he said, dismissively rolling his eyes), Marlon uncorked a bottle of Cristal and poured two glasses that fizzed and overflowed onto the floor. Lottie tried to capture much of the carbonation with her tongue as it slid down the long stem. She licked the glass while watching Marlon watch her.

  “Cheers. To blind love—and lust with perfect vision,” Marlon toasted as he lifted the glass high, weaving it through the air until it landed at his mouth.

  “Cheers,” Lottie said.

  While Marlon checked phone messages, Lottie took out her recorder and held it awkwardly in her hand. Then, after a few exaggerated sighs, Marlon plopped down next to her on the sofa, their shoulders touching lightly.

  “It’s insane—all the offers that are coming in.”

  As he spoke, Marlon rested his hand on Lottie’s knee. “There just isn’t any good writing in Hollywood and I only work with substance. If the writing doesn’t speak to me, then don’t waste my time.”

  “I couldn’t understand more.”

  Marlon’s hand abandoned Lottie’s knee and climbed up her leg slowly but confidently. Lottie felt the weight of his hot palm as it rubbed the top of her leg and traveled to her inner thigh. Her heart palpitated. The recorder fell out of her sticky hands and landed between her legs.

  Listening to the replay, Lottie suddenly realized that she never uttered a word, even when Marlon’s hand moved from her thigh farther up her short lace dress. “It’s so great to be with someone I can talk to, who understands me in a way most don’t,” Marlon whispered. “I feel like you want to know the real me, not the famous me. That hasn’t happened in a long, long time.”

  Marlon kissed her on the lips, hard and without hesitation, while one hand quickly—and dexterously—unbuttoned her tight beige cashmere sweater as if there was no possibility that she would reject his advances. Later, when Lottie became more experienced with celebrity, she realized that this was what turned her on the most—they didn’t fumble with buttons or clasps. They never wavered.

  As Marlon moved and pushed and thrusted, Lottie closed her eyes tight and imagined Marlon larger than life on-screen. I am with Marlon Lang. Marlon Lang! Over and over the words whirled in her head. Marlon Lang is huffing and puffing over me! The celluloid God. The teen heartthrob. Tiger Beat cover boy. The misunderstood Jake Blaze! Lottie opened her eyes and stared into the poster above her. His perfectly chiseled face, his full red lips, his ripped torso. Then she looked into his intense blue eyes, and she knew that most of the world—male or female—would kill to be in her place right now. That thought alone induced hot spasms, and she shuddered and sighed.

  “Tell me I’m the best. Tell me I’m the best. Say it. Say it,” Marlon moaned. She realized his eyes were fixed above her head, to the publicity poster of himself, shirtless and buffed and pouting.

  “You’re number one. Number one! Oh God, you’re number one.”

  Marlon Lang Is Jake Blaze. Coming to a Theater Near You.

  As she listened to the interview, she was surprised at how quickly it ended. In her mind, they had screwed for hours and hours, but the tape denied her this illusion. It was over in seconds.

  “My God, he’s like a high school virgin,” her eavesdropping roommate had exclaimed.

  But those seconds inexorably changed Lottie Love’s life.

  The electrifying feeling was incredible. Addicting. Lottie couldn’t imagine herself being with anyone but a celebrity. Go ahead, call her a starfucker. She didn’t care. In a few months, she had walked from the bathroom to the ballroom to the bedroom.

  She would never take the service entrance.

  California

  WSHDUP

  CHAPTER 2

  LEMUEL BRAC DESPISED PUBLICISTS.

  After more years than he could count, Lem had witnessed a complete metamorphosis in the business of celebrity journalism. When he was a fledgling reporter, publicists were people to have a few belts with after—or during—or instead of—work to nail a scoop. They slurred out secrets and scandals that eventually made their way into Personality magazine, thanks to Lem. He became the toast of the town. Whether celebrities loathed or loved him, they all wanted their profiles to be penned by him.

  At one time, Lem could score one of the top tables at Spago or Morton’s or Chasen’s. He wasn’t on the same rung as the Hollywood kings and queens, but he wasn’t banished to serfdom either. Lem Brac was a duke of a small but important province that couldn’t be ignored. The Hollywood royalty had to pay attention. In his ink-stained hands and gnarled notebooks, he held the keys to your kingdom. But he could also oust and replace you with a newer, younger, and more magazine-friendly king. Be nice to Sir Lem, show him respect, and you could live forever, or at least until syndication.

  Then something happened. There was a change in command. The good ol’ boy publicists he imbibed with were usurped by their daughters, who went from the office to Bikram yoga. Martini and steak lunches were dclass. Salads and mineral water were de rigueur. Scoops were replaced by corporatespeak and icy silence. No matter how much he drank, they’d sit stone-faced and sober. “My client isn’t ready to talk to the press.” “My client is too sensitive.” “My client is too big for Personality, but I have a soap star who is involved in many charitable organizations.” “I’ve got to run. I have a six o’clock with my personal trainer.” “Can’t talk, but I’ll give a return. ASAP. Promise.” “We’re going to take a pass, ’kay?”


  These publi-sissies didn’t see any genius in his Queen’s English; instead they saw a stereotype: another drunk Limey. They’d seen his kind portrayed in movies dozens of times. He was a parable. He was their father, who stayed out all night drinking and screwing while teary-eyed Mom waited for a call from the police or the morgue. He was the reason they were in therapy. They knew all there was to know about Lemuel Brac—and they hated him.

  One thing was certain: he needed a life preserver. Vince Reggio wanted him gone. This guy—arrayed in pressed linens, Good Humor–man whites, or Armani suits—with his electric beach tan, purged bowels, and quasi-televangelist hair, was always telling Lem how to do his job—and always in sports clichs.

  “You’ve got to hit a few home runs for the team, Lem. This isn’t the old Personality magazine—the bar’s been raised, and you either jump over it or break your neck.”

  It was an insult. I don’t want to raise the bar—I want to close it, Sir Lem would have replied back in the day. Instead, he bit his tongue, smiled, and nodded his head.

  REGGIO RUMMAGED THROUGH his fruit salad with a fork, popped a melon ball into his maw and chewed, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

  “You know, the powers that be in New York have been wondering what you’ve been doing for us lately. There hasn’t been a byline with your name on it for quite some time. Years, I’d say. I tell them that you’re working on longer projects and industry contacts for the magazine. In other words, I cover your ass, but if they don’t see more productivity from you, well. . .”

  Reggio wasn’t old-school. He didn’t have what it took—that’s why he was an editor. In Lem’s eyes, editors were an inferior breed. But Lem could see that he was being set up for a fall.

  “I know you’ve been trying to slam-dunk an exclusive with Chris Mercer. I told New York that you have some. . . contacts at his publicist’s office. I actually said that if anyone can get us an interview with Mercer, it’s our man Lem. I’m putting my credibility on the line for you. I explained that these things take time, but you know New Yorkers; they want everything yesterday. So?”

  Reggio daintily plucked up an apple wedge with his fork. Lem smiled at him, oozing as much British charm as he could muster.

  “Well, yes. Hopefully I’ll have an answer soon. The chap is very well aware that we want to speak to him, but he’s taking his time making a decision. I’ll put in my call this afternoon. But mind you, my contact, Thomas Bowman, has retired and I’m dealing with his daughter. She’s extremely green.”

  Vince stiffened. “Cyndi Bowman’s a professional, Lem. I’ve dealt with her on several occasions. This is very important to us. I don’t understand the holdup. Chris Mercer is so hot right now, but no one’s gotten close to him. If we outrun our competition on this one and score a touchdown, it would really boost our reputation, especially among the younger audience. Our circulation is down. People are beginning to notice that we never interview the stars anymore, just their hair and makeup people. Don’t take no for an answer. Turn negatives into positives.”

  “Yes. . . well. . . I’m perfectly capable of. . .”

  “Besides, wasn’t that your specialty? Getting elusive stars to talk?”

  Lem coughed and cleared his throat. “That is my spe-see-al-it-ee.” He spoke in accent overdrive while snapping his neck back. He pushed out a smile and then turned on the heels of his weathered Church’s loafers.

  His province was sinking deeper. This would be it for him. Lem needed a scoop to keep his job. At his age, he’d never get another gig in this town. If only Thom was still heading Bowman Publicity, he’d have the interview wrapped up by now, with a book deal and a nice chunk of change.

  To Lem, the problem with his adopted country was the absence of royalty. Without royalty, there is no concept of genuine, unconditional loyalty. With Brits, you have a monarch until death. Royalty can fuck a horse; it can proclaim its desire to be a lover’s tampon; it can invent a religion; it can behead. Yet it’s still around and the ever-subjugated Brit curtsies to it. In America, royalty is elected by the box office. Americans are fickle: they can elect and reject and elect again. They elevate celebrities to a pedestal and then sledgehammer them down. There is no such thing as real victory in this country. The best you can hope for is an endless supply of tenacity.

  And despite what Reggio or the editors in New York thought, Lem was tenacious. Every day he’d scan the Hollywood magazines, searching for story ideas. He’d call his blokes at the British tabs and root around for scoops. But he knew nothing was true, and he didn’t have the heart to pretend he believed anymore. Yes, they divorced amicably. Of course they’re the best of friends. Yes, he’s a great dad. He’d rather play with his kids than act in a movie. Of course she’s in the mental hospital because of exhaustion. Drugs? Never. They’re in love—it’s not a publicity stunt geared to their movie. Homosexual? Never!

  Every day after lunch, Lem would ring up Cyndi Bowman. Before he went on the wagon a couple of months ago, he’d guzzle from the bottle of Smirnoff’s he kept in his bottom desk drawer. Now he just took a deep breath, then sipped his Starbucks.

  “Bowman Publicity,” the receptionist chimed. Bowman Publicity—Lem hated that. Ever since his friend the eponymous Thomas Bowman retired, his loving daughter had clipped his name as if trying to erase all evidence of the company’s—and her—creator.

  “Hello, this is Lem Brac a-gain, with Personality. I’m calling for Cyndi Bowman a-gain. Is she available?” Lem squeezed his eyes shut, for he knew what was coming.

  A pause and then. . .

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Black? Cyndi’s in a conference right now, but I’ll make sure she gives a return. Promise.”

  “Thank you, but I must remind you that you’ve promised every day this week. It seems the more promises you make, the less likely they’ll be fulfilled.”

  “Miss Bowman’s been extremely busy. She’ll give a return ASAP.”

  “I’d really appreciate if Cyndi could give a return today. Please remind her that I was—am—a very good friend of her father, the founder of Thomas Bowman Publicity.”

  Lem seethed. Her father would die if he knew how utterly rude Cyndi was. Every day, Lem thought about driving up to Thom’s Santa Barbara manse and explaining the situation. Thom Bowman had a rule: he always returned calls a maximum of two hours after receiving them. He prided himself on the principle. Ol’ Thom could be out in the middle of a golf course, sipping martinis, and he’d return Lem’s call before the next tee. That’s how his empire was built. Cyndi was tearing it down.

  FOR MONTHS HE had invited Cyndi out to lunch. When there were no more excuses, she huffed and agreed to meet him at Ivy at the Shore in Santa Monica. She was late, of course. Nearly twenty minutes. While Thom was jovial, Cyndi was sober. Her mouth seemed permanently sewn into a scowl. Perhaps it was a natural response to bad rhinoplasty. Her nose—like most of the population of nose jobs—was snipped too short and curled up too much, leaving Cynthetica with nostrils she could pick with a kneecap. Her eyes were pretty, he hated to admit. A deep blue and wide-set.

  Lem desperately wanted to interview Mercer, but he couldn’t let the desperation seep out of him. Once the black-rooted blond bimbo sensed that, it would be all over. Women have extremely sensitive radar for picking up a man’s desperation, Lem knew, so he feigned indifference.

  “They don’t make them like your dad anymore. He was the best. A real character. It was always a pleasure to work with such a venerated icon.”

  Cyndi stared beyond Lem with half-shut eyes. Then she tucked her corn-colored hair behind her ears. “Well, I run the show now. My father’s living in Santa Barbara and doesn’t interfere at all with the business. Frankly, he’s content playing golf and puttering around the garden. He’s through with the business of publicity.”

  “Well, how about giving an old friend of your dad’s an interview with Chris Mercer? He’d get the cover and an audience of close to forty million readers—that’s quite a number
at the old box office. I wouldn’t even have to be that intrusive. Quite honestly, I don’t need to describe every room of his house. Just a few nonthreatening questions. I’ll ring up your father and tell him he made a wise choice passing the reins to you.”

  Cynthetica foraged through her Vuitton handbag and pulled out a tube of lipstick. While Lem played mendicant, Cyndi puckered her pencil-thin mouth and smeared on a fresh coat of Honey Nut Brown. She pursed her lips and checked her artistry in a pocket mirror, rubbing her tongue on a lipstick-stained tooth.

  Cyndi dreamily stared past Lem, twirling her hair as she spoke. “Chris is a very sensitive actor. He hates publicity, truly hates it. If he had it his way, he’d just act. He doesn’t understand why the world needs to know him. It actually makes him very upset. Chris became an actor because of a true love for the actual craft. He could do without the fame and fortune. He’s a brilliant soul. He can joke one minute and then do Hamlet the next.”

  Lem tore into his rare New York strip sirloin while Cyndi poked at her garden salad. She quickly dunked a slab of lettuce into the low-cal vinaigrette on the side. She shook her fork and watched the dressing drip off.

  “Chris is extremely cognizant of the fact that he’s in demand. It’s a feeding frenzy out there, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot, believe you me.”

  Yes, and I’ve seen your mother change your shitty diaper, Lem nearly blurted.

  Cyndi chewed her lettuce. Then she rolled her eyes and sighed. “Chris is calling the shots. He wants to handpick a writer to profile him. He’s a man of great intellect. He reads and he writes—real prose, not fluffy magazine stuff—so he’s looking for someone with excellent writing abilities and a keen insight into an actor’s psyche.”