They're Not Your Friends Read online

  DESPITE THE SPECTACULAR flameout, Lottie couldn’t shake her celebrity fixation. The good simply outweighed the bad. Those seconds when Marlon was on the cusp of something big were thrilling; when his star fizzled, it was just time to move on to the Next Big Thing. And she had plenty of opportunities to meet qualified candidates. Soon she was a regular on the party circuit, nearly as part of the crowd as any of them. They’d stroll up to her with a quote and a smile, and Lottie Love fell in love nightly.

  She dated soap stars (prime-time and daytime), supporting movie actors, sitcom stars, even the cute reporter from Extra! “You’re Number One,” she shrieked at each one. Sometimes it was for a night, sometimes it would last a little longer, but it would always end.

  It was an education.

  There was Tristan Keith, the lead in a new medical drama. Theirs was just a one-night stand, but God, was he beautiful. Definitely a contender for Personality’s Most Gorgeous Man of the Universe issue. He held her face in his hands and looked at her intensely, eyes brimming with tears. “I really had a great time, but I just can’t see a future here. With my career getting hot, I just don’t have the time or the energy to make a relationship work. Don’t take it personally. If I were ready to get involved with someone, it would be you. You are a very special woman, Lottie.”

  “I completely understand,” Lottie said, massaging the back of his neck.

  She looked him up on the Internet and discovered that Tristan was “happily married” with two kids.

  She added dozens of autographed photos to her collection: Adrian Brody, Orlando Bloom, Ashton Kutcher, Chris Klein, Tobey Maguire, Justin Timberlake. She also began lining the walls of her bedroom with photos of her conquests. Marlon and Tristan and Hunter and Chad and Ricky and Ken.

  Then there was Ray Young.

  Ray was the lead in a steamy nighttime soap opera, Bel Air Belles. Lottie was addicted to the show, which revolved around shirtless hunks and bikini-clad babes who lived in a perfectly coifed gated community. Everyone was fabulously wealthy. Everyone was having affairs. Ray played Lance Caine, the pool boy everyone wanted to bed. No one—except the viewers who tuned in at 9:00 P.M. Wednesdays—knew that the perpetually oil-slathered Lance was hiding a secret. For Lance was wealthy, too; he was just going through a rebellious stage. He cleaned pools during the day, rode a Harley and screwed women at night. But he was also heir to a huge railroad fortune. When the husbands of the women Lance slept with called him a bum, he’d smirk at the camera, sharing the Rembrandt Quick White irony with his viewers.

  Lottie met Ray poolside at the Standard on Sunset for a party celebrating the show’s top ten position in the Nielsens. Lottie interviewed the cast for a section of the magazine called “Fashion Focus,” in which she reported on the latest trends. She talked to the women on their choice of blush or bracelets. She asked the men about watches and loafers. When Ray walked by, she couldn’t help but wander away from a geeky B-lister who’d somehow managed to land a bit part on the show. She quizzed Ray about his vintage getup—frayed pale blue corduroys and an Alice Cooper T-shirt.

  “I don’t go to the trendy vintage shops on Melrose. I go to hard-core places, like the Salvation Army.”

  “I just have to tell you that I lit-rully love Bel Air Belles,” Lottie gushed.

  Ray laughed. “You should go into acting. You’re a good liar.”

  Lottie gasped. “I couldn’t love your show more. I watch it like, every week. It is absolutely the best thing on television. Every time you get abused by one of those rich people, I cry. I mean lit-rully buckets of tears.”

  As they talked, Lottie discovered Ray was a Valley kid. He had lived in Encino and knew what it felt like to be an outsider. “I didn’t want to spend my life looking in.”

  It was like hearing her own words being thrown back at her. “I’ve lit-rully been saying that for years,” Lottie said. Then she suggested they go out to dinner to discuss the possibility of Personality naming him the Most Gorgeous Man in the Universe.

  Ray eyes lit up and he smirked. “This mug? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Stop it right now. You so are. It’s just a question of convincing the people in New York who still think like Warren Beatty is. I mean, my grandfather’s hotter.”

  In the next few weeks, Lottie Love nearly became famous herself. A photo of Lottie and Ray walking arm in arm was splashed across Star: “Ray Young and His Main Squeeze.” Lottie fought the urge to call up the writer and yell, “It’s me, Charlie Love from Tarzana. Me.” Instead she bought a bunch of copies of the magazine and ripped the articles out.

  Lem Brac stuck his head in Lottie’s office one afternoon while Lottie was daydreaming about Ray.

  “Be careful, Miss Love,” he said to her in that annoying English accent, which Lottie was convinced was fake. “Remember, they’re not your friends.”

  Lottie didn’t even acknowledge him. She picked up the phone and dialed her own number, checking the voice mail. There were two messages from Catherine, her sponsor. “Just checking in with you,” she said. Even though Lottie hardly called her back, it hadn’t deterred Catherine from phoning at least twice a day for the last six months. She knew she should return the woman’s calls, but Catherine scared her. No one had ever been so determined to be a friend. It baffled Lottie.

  LOTTIE WAS NEARLY euphoric when Ray invited her to the Emmys, especially since a month earlier Lottie had begged Vince to let her cover the event for Personality.

  “You’re still a rookie, Lottie. You keep practicing your swing and we’ll put you in the big leagues next season. But talk to Mike Posner. He’s in charge of putting together a team. Maybe you can do something.”

  Now she’d be inside with all the A-listers while Mike and his “team” would be stuck behind the velvet ropes groping for interviews. They’d be escorted into the parties with a publicist who’d walk them around as if they were dogs who might piss on one of the stars. Lottie was a guest. A guest of Ray Young, the Now Big Thing. Not only would she get into all the parties, she’d get inside the VIP rooms. She’d sit at the VIP tables!

  Lottie planned to milk every minute of it. She called a publicist for Armani and explained the situation. “I’ll be at the Emmys and would love to wear one of your gowns. Since I am practically in charge of the fashion section for Personality, I can like lit-rully guarantee that Armani will be mentioned in the column a lot. Plus, I’m attending the Emmys with Ray Young, you know, of Bel Air Belles, so I can guarantee that whatever you loan me will be very visible.”

  The woman on the other end didn’t even pause. “Well, Personality magazine is a good friend of Armani, and you’ve been helpful getting our fashions out in the public eye. I know we can count on your continued support.”

  “That couldn’t be more definite.”

  She also called Chanel, Versace, and Gucci.

  A few hours later messengers arrived with entire racks of dresses for her to choose from. It was incredible. There was an ivory silk faille gown with two tiers of feathers; a seafoam green wrap dress, a black cap-sleeved silk satin gown; a nude strapless column dress with a draped bodice and back bow; a light green satin strapless dress; a bronze deep V-neck gown with a gathered waist; a slinky red corset dress with a plunging neckline; a pale blue satin gown with a mermaid bottom; and a nude dress adorned with teardrop-shaped crystals.

  Mike Posner walked past Lottie’s office just as the dresses were delivered. Damn. She had hoped most reporters would be out at lunch. He stared at her, and she stuck her tongue out at him. She knew it was immature, but that guy really bugged her. Would he rat her out for accepting free clothes? He fucking better not! Even though accepting gifts was openly frowned upon, everyone secretly did it. Even Vince accepted clothes, dinners, and hotel suites. But if she got caught, she’d be fired for it.

  She also knew that Mike thought she was a fake. But he was so full of it, talking about this source and that source. What a waste of a cute face.

  She shut
the door to her office and spent the afternoon trying on the dresses before settling on a pale blue satin gown with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves. Very Nicole Kidman. She thought about calling Cartier to borrow some jewels, but decided to settle on the rhinestone and crystal costume jewelry she had inherited from her mother.

  THE NIGHT WHOOSHED by in a blur of flashbulbs and shrieking fans. However, the highlight of the evening was perfectly clear. As they strode along the velvet-roped red carpet at the entranceway of Spago, Ray suddenly halted. Photographers snapped away, screaming at Ray, and he grabbed Lottie by the waist. He held her face in his hands and kissed her hard for what seemed like minutes. Cameras flashed so furiously at them that white lights danced in front of Lottie’s eyes for the rest of the evening.

  Inside, she sipped Cristal with some cast members from the show. They sat in a glass-enclosed fishbowl of a room in the middle of the restaurant, two beefy security guards blocking the entrance. Lottie kept her hand on Ray’s knee while Lara Flynn Boyle and Jennifer Aniston chatted with him. “I’m addicted to your show,” one of them said. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t have to ask Jennifer or Lara or anyone who designed their stunning wardrobe. She was wearing a stunning wardrobe!

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Mike Posner in a tux standing by the bar outside the fishbowl. He sipped a beer and kept his tape recorder outstretched, as if he were interviewing a phantom. His eyes darted around, trying to find some kind of scoop, but there was no one near him—only publicists, network executives, and their spouses. She felt sorry for him as he scanned the fishbowl. He mumbled something into his tape recorder. Then his eyes locked on hers. He held up his hand and meekly waved, his fingers moving slightly. She knew he was hoping she’d give a big, generous sweep of her arms—COME ON IN! Instead, she smiled quickly and feebly and turned toward Ray, who was turned toward Jennifer. She could feel Mike still watching her. So she laughed hard, as if she were part of Ray’s conversation.

  After all, Lottie was no longer peripheral. She was with VIPs at the VIP table in a VIP room at a VIP party. So why did part of her feel as outside as Mike? She put her arms around Ray to obliterate these thoughts. He was still engrossed in another conversation.

  THE NEXT DAY, Lottie and Ray appeared in midkiss on the party pages of Variety and Hollywood Reporter and the L.A. Times. And again, there was Lem, his ashen face at her door. “Be careful,” he whispered. Lottie flared her nostrils and frowned in disgust, but he was already gone.

  Vince stopped by, too. “See if you can get him to dig up any dirt on his costars.”

  It seemed like the perfect storybook romance—even though she wasn’t screaming, “YOU’RE NUMBER ONE.”

  At least not yet. No sex. Just a few doorstep kisses. Lottie wasn’t used to waiting, and it seemed nice and old-fashioned at first. After a while, well, she had needs, and she was hornier than she’d ever been. The kiss at the Emmys had been their most passionate, but afterward, Ray had the limo driver drop her off at her place.

  Lottie decided to take action. A few weeks later Ray was hosting a party at his West Hollywood home for the cast and crew of Bel Air Belles and assorted industry types. This would be her first time at Ray’s, and she wasn’t going to leave. Lottie packed an overnight bag with lingerie, a toothbrush, oils, candles, handcuffs, and a week’s worth of clothes. She tugged on a deep V-neck shirt that clung like Saran Wrap.

  Ray’s plantation-style home had a huge wraparound porch and a Dalmatian mailbox. When no one answered the door, Lottie pushed it open and was greeted by a neon green and orange parrot in a hanging wicker cage. “Somewhere over the rainbow,” it squawked.

  Lottie could get used to this place. The furniture was heavy mahogany, trimmed in studded leather, and the walls were decorated with posters from old movies like Gone With the Wind, Cabaret, All About Eve, Some Like It Hot, The Misfits, Funny Girl, A Star Is Born. The hardwood floors gleamed and the ceilings were high and beamed. Lottie began imagining herself moved in, cooking big dinners in the terra-cotta-tiled kitchen while Ray played tunes on the white Steinway in the living room. Ray’s black-spotted Dalmatians, Scarlett and Ashley, would sleep at her feet.

  Ray kissed her lightly on the cheek as she wandered into the kitchen. “I told you not to come,” he said. “It’s gonna be really boring.”

  “How could I not come?” Lottie said, inching closer to Ray’s side.

  But soon Ray was swept up in the role of host. Lottie tried to mingle, although without a digital recorder in one hand, she felt naked.

  She walked from room to room, helping herself to white wine, shrimp, and dim sum. She watched the anorexic female guests give her what she called the estrogen salute. Their eyes took inventory of her Jimmy Choo’s, her tight James jeans, her black spandex shirt, her makeup, and her hair, but they never looked her in the eyes. They scanned her slowly, without acknowledging her, and she scanned them back.

  Lottie squeezed Ray whenever they ran into each other. “Can’t you spend some time with me?” she said, knowing her voice sounded annoying and whiny. “Soon, soon,” Ray replied. “I’m sorry, it’s just been crazy here. I told you it would suck. I’ll have someone walk you to your car. I don’t even know who half of these people are, and they’re all calling me Lance. Just go home. I’ll call you tomorrow. Promise.”

  She kissed his cheek. “I know who you are,” she said in a husky voice. She winked at him and brushed a hand on his crotch when a man with small glasses and a thin, angular face approached.

  “You haven’t introduced me yet to this charming woman,” the man said, eyeing Lottie from the top of his wire rims. “Excuse Raymond’s very rude behavior, but I’m Gregory Perry, a very good friend of Raymond’s, or at least I used to be before he became Mr. Hollywood.” He scooped up Lottie’s hand and kissed it. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “I’m Lottie Love.”

  “Lottie Love? What an interesting, alliterative name. You must be an actress.”

  His name sounded familiar to Lottie. “Are you an actor?” she asked.

  “Heavens, no. I actually work for a living.” He smiled at Lottie and shot a raised eyebrow sneer at Ray. “I write.”

  Lottie clasped her hands together, as if they had just discovered they were long-lost cousins. “So do I! I’m with Personality magazine? Who do you write for?”

  “Mostly myself. But to make a living, I write for the masses.” Gregory closed his eyes, shook his head fiercely as if it would rattle, and sniffed hard. “You may have heard of it—Bel Air Belles?”

  Ray smiled uneasily and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dark blue jeans. “You could say, or actually Gregory will say, that he created Lance Caine.”

  Gregory threw his hands up in the air as if commiserating with God. “COULD SAY? COULD SAY? Why, I gave birth to Lance Caine. I pushed him out of my loins. Believe me, it was a difficult labor. Lance Caine, the pool boy with a past. I gave Lance dimension and soul. You don’t see that on prime-time soaps.”

  Gregory spoke loudly, flailing his arms in the air and punctuating his comments with a brittle laugh. He shifted his body to face Lottie directly and whispered boozily in her ear. “You know, I created Lance with Ray in mind. Don’t tell him this, but there’s no one else out there who could bring such perspective to the role. Ray is Lance and Lance is Ray; they’re inextricable. Often I can’t tell them apart. Both have their little dark secrets that make them so attractive to us. We all want to be the revealee. Right?”

  Lottie laughed uncomfortably. “Oh, rully? Like tell me what Ray’s big secret is.”

  Gregory smirked, looked directly at Ray, and squeaked. “Rully? Like it is so up to Ray. As if.”

  Lottie swallowed hard. It was a kick in her soul. She was back in school with her father’s van rumbling down the street. She forced out a smile, but she could feel her eyes watering.

  Ray furrowed his brows and sighed. “Stop trying to get scary on us, Gregory.” He forced a laugh.r />
  “What-uverrr, like you say, Mr. Big TV Star. I like, so wouldn’t want to like, totally interfere with your wonderful publicity campaign.” Gregory turned toward Lottie. “I hear your illustrious magazine may put Ray on the cover soon. OhmyGod, that would be like so, like, turiff. Personality’s Sexiest Man in the Cosmos. The masculine ideal. Every woman’s masturbatory fantasy.”

  Gregory opened his eyes wide and scrunched his face at Lottie. “I need a drink. A really big, big drink.”

  “I think you’ve had plenty already,” Ray called after him, but Gregory threw up his hands again and jerked his head back at the ceiling.

  “There’s no such thing as plenty. Excess is my God. Drink is my prayer!” Gregory curled his hands through the air in giant swoops before shooting Ray the finger.

  “Nice. That was a line from our next episode.” Ray eyed Gregory as he sidled up to the bar, then he turned toward Lottie. “Sorry about that. Gregory gets a little high-strung sometimes. You know these creative writer types. The guy’s convinced that he invented me. He’s brilliant, but disturbed.”

  “He couldn’t have been any more disturbed,” Lottie said.

  Lottie stood there, not knowing what else to say, although she desperately wanted to continue the conversation. A tall, pretty woman with long blond hair walked up to them. “Hello, Ray. Have you seen Bryce around?”

  “No. He’s probably busy schmoozing someone, I’m sure. Have you met Lottie? Lottie, this is Tina.” Then Ray walked away.

  Tina gave her the estrogen salute and then nodded.

  “I’m dating Bryce Korman,” she began. “You know, Kent Plymouth from the show. He’s in jail this week for rape. The accuser turns out to be insane.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Did you know all the names have meaning? They’re not just these sexy names that someone just picked. For instance, Kent’s last name is Plymouth as in Plymouth Rock, like in Mayflower old money, and Kent, as in Kent State, as in the end of innocence, or something like that.”