They're Not Your Friends Read online

  “God, like anyone cares.”

  “It’s just Gregory thinking he’s so clever, but viewers don’t give a shit.”

  “How about Lance Caine?”

  “Hmmmm, Bryce told me once. Lance is a weapon. So it’s something like his good looks are his weapons, but they’re also his cane, or crutch, because he can get away with anything because of them.”

  “They both really mean cock,” Lottie said

  Tina laughed. “I’m so glad I met you. These parties always turn into business meetings. Bryce is desperately searching for someone who’ll put him in features.”

  “Tell me about it. I haven’t seen Ray for more than an iota of a second.”

  “Did you notice that you and I are the only women here who aren’t working girls?”

  “They’re hookers?” Lottie laughed. “No wonder I felt so overdressed.”

  “Yuh-huh. And some of the guys, too. So are you Ray’s date?” Tina laughed and made quotes with her fingers.

  “Girlfriend.”

  Tina studied Lottie. “Oh. . . Well, anyway, Bryce pretends I don’t exist. Bad for the image, he says. His publicist has people thinking he’s seventeen years old and a dating machine, but he’s thirty-three and we’ve been together for three years. I guess that’s too boring for the teenyboppers out there, but it kills me when I read articles where Bryce says stuff like, ‘I’m single, but looking for the right girl.’”

  Tina folded her arms and eyed the crowd, searching for Bryce. “And I’m so good to that man.” Then she narrowed her eyes at Lottie. “So what do you do?”

  “I’m Chief Party Correspondent for Personality magazine.”

  Tina’s eyes widened and her mouth opened as if suddenly realizing something. “Oh my God, I had no idea you were with the press. Please, please don’t print that stuff I told you about Bryce being thirty-three. It would totally ruin his career. He would absolutely kill me. Please.”

  “It’s like such not a big deal. I won’t say a word.”

  “Everyone on the show lies about their age. They’re all about ten years older than they say they are. Before he got the part, Ray had to get plastic surgery to get rid of the bags under his eyes. He’s like almost forty years old. So if you write about Bryce, you’ll have to mention that about Ray.”

  “Ray? Forty? Bags under his eyes? I so don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t tell him I said anything, okay?”

  Tina hugged Lottie. “I hope I get to see you more. These parties are always about business, so it’s nice to find someone to talk to who isn’t an actress or a hooker. Usually, I end up smoking cigarettes by myself outside, just to have something to do. I don’t even really smoke. Well, I’m trying to cut down. Anyway, I’m going to find Bryce. I’ll see you later, okay? I really want you to meet my Bryce. I’d love for the three of us to get together. You like to party, right?”

  “I couldn’t like to party more.”

  Lottie stood there alone, wondering what to do. Then she had an idea.

  LOTTIE’S HEELS ECHOED in the quiet street that was lit only by a dazzling half-moon, as opalescent and wide as a Hollywood smile. She walked a few blocks, breathing in the menthol air of the eucalyptus trees lining the path to her red convertible. After grabbing her duffel bag, she headed back toward the house. Suddenly a car skidded to a stop next to her.

  “Lottie Love!”

  Lottie’s heart sank. She recognized the voice immediately. She turned toward it.

  “Oh, Catherine? What are you doing here?”

  “Lottie, I’m so glad I found you. . . I called your roommate and she told me where you were. Call me psychic, but I just got this feeling tonight that you needed me. And I can see I’m right. I can smell the booze from here. Let’s get out. Now.”

  “Catherine, you are lit-rully taking this sponsor thing way too seriously. I couldn’t be better.”

  “Too seriously? I’m trying to save you, Lottie Love. Don’t you understand?” Catherine’s eyes welled with tears. “Lottie, don’t you see, you’ve come so far. Don’t fall like this. I’m here for you. Come on. Let’s go to your house. We can talk.”

  “Catherine, leave me alone.”

  “Listen, right now you might hate me. But someday you’ll thank me for this. Trust me, I was the same way. I was worse. I’d do anything for a fix. You’ve only been going to the meetings for a few months. You’re not ready to be around alcohol yet.”

  “You couldn’t be freaking me out more.”

  “You’re stuck with me.”

  Catherine got out of the car and stood in front of Lottie, arms akimbo.

  Lottie sighed. “Okay, okay. You’re right. A cinch by the inch. Hard by the yard. Yadda yadda.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Lottie opened the door to Catherine’s car and was about to climb in when she stopped, as if just remembering something.

  “Let me just say good night to Ray and return his duffel bag,” she said. “He’ll freak if I just take off. That man couldn’t be more possessive.”

  “Okay. Let me go in with you.”

  Lottie nodded. “Okay.” She feigned deep thought. “You know what? This is something I so need to do myself. I couldn’t need to prove I can do it more. You know, be around booze and just walk away. It’s an important step.”

  “It’s too big of a step, too soon. I’m coming with you.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Let me go in and if I don’t come out in five, you come looking for me.” Lottie closed her eyes, inhaled, and rubbed her temples. “But I think I can do it.”

  “Okay. I’ll be waiting right here. And if you’re not out, I’m going to yank you out of there.”

  Lottie ran into the house, locked the front door. She headed up the stairs, then stopped, and went back down. She found Ray’s bodyguard chugging a beer and hitting on a hooker.

  “There’s a crazy fan outside,” Lottie said, acting as flustered as possible.

  “What?” The bodyguard slammed down his beer.

  “Yeah. She’s pretending to be an AA sponsor or something. She says her name’s Catherine and that a spaceship landed in her backyard and these aliens got out and told her to bring them Ray Young. She’s insane.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” the bodyguard said. He turned toward the hooker. “My job is twenty-four/seven. I’ll be back.”

  LOTTIE RACED UPSTAIRS.

  She opened a bedroom door. Inside, sitting on the edge of the bed—fully clothed—were Tina and Bryce.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, backing out.

  “Lottie, come in. I want you to meet Bryce. I was just telling him about you. Isn’t she pretty, Bryce?”

  Bryce looked at her without saying anything.

  Tina stared at Lottie through glassy eyes. “I was just going to send Bryce downstairs to look for you, but you found us instead. You ready to party?”

  “I’m trying to find Ray. Have you seen him?”

  Tina patted the mattress. “Why don’t you join us? We can all talk.”

  “I should really find Ray.”

  “Oh, stay. Don’t be a party pooper. Ray’s not going anywhere. He lives here.”

  “Well, okay.” Lottie walked toward the canopied bed and sat next to Tina. “I mean, it’s so weird. I seriously spent less than two minutes with him.”

  Tina combed her fingers through Lottie’s hair. “I know, honey. It’s all right.” She stood up and gently kissed Lottie’s cheek.

  “Oh baby,” Bryce groaned.

  Tina pulled Lottie’s face close to hers and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  Lottie turned toward Bryce. He was suddenly naked on the bed, his arms resting behind his head, his legs splayed, his penis enormous. Tina sat back down, patted the mattress, and looked up at Lottie.

  “Oh my God, you are so joking, right?”

  “Lottie, we couldn’t be more serious.”

  “I mean, no. I’m so not gay or bi or whatever.”

  “I’m no
t either,” Tina said, stroking Lottie’s cheek. “I’m fun. I’m free. I’m comfortable with me. Let’s have some fun. You’ve got amazing breasts, by the way. I wanna get mine done, too.”

  “They’re real.”

  “Yeah right,” Bryce said. “Can I check?”

  “You completely cannot. That is so fow-ull.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “They couldn’t be more real.” Lottie felt dizzy. “I have to get out of here now.” She turned toward the door.

  “They’re fake!” Bryce yelled.

  Lottie turned around, lifted up her shirt, pulled down her bra, and quickly flashed a tit. “Real!” she yelled before slamming the door.

  Lottie was about to go back downstairs when she heard a familiar voice by the front door.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I need to find my friend. I’m her sponsor. She needs help.”

  “Listen, I know all about you and your little spaceship. I’m calling the cops.”

  LOTTIE OPENED ANOTHER door and realized it had to be Ray’s bedroom. And what a bed it was! It seemed to be on steroids. The frame and headboard were gigantic logs that looked as if they had been rolled in by Paul Bunyan himself. To get into bed, Ray had to hoist himself up on a three-step ladder—the mattress was at least five feet off the floor. Behind and above the bed were mirrors. Behind the nice boy, let’s-not-rush-this image was a kink!

  Off the bedroom was another room, which Ray had converted into a closet. Lottie realized that it was the size of her bedroom. There were at least one hundred pairs of jeans arranged according to shade—black-blue, navy blue, faded blue, powder blue, white blue. In shoe racks on the floor there were at least twenty pairs of peroxide-white Nike sneakers. There was also a poster for Bel Air Belles featuring Ray shirtless and brooding. WILL THE REAL LANCE CAINE PLEASE STAND UP, it read in fat red letters.

  Lottie got to work.

  She zipped open her bag and pulled out her lacy black Retail Slut lingerie, with the price tag still on it. She held it up, admiring its curves and plunges and translucence. Then she pulled out aphrodisiac candles she had bought at an aromatherapy shop at the Beverly Center. She arranged and lit the candles on the Paul Bunyan nightstands, draping a red silk handkerchief over the lamp next to the bed.

  Lottie undressed and reapplied her makeup in front of a mirror framed by oversized lightbulbs. (She couldn’t help but notice that a basket next to the toilet held teen magazines with Ray’s face on the cover.) The Varilux bulbs were so strong that Lottie felt especially anemic and inadequate under their relentless glare. She brushed on extra dabs of blush and thickened her lashes with Maybelline dark black vitamin-enriched mascara. She applied two coats of Cherries in the Snow lipstick. Then she stared at herself. Not bad. She pulled on her negligee. Then she fluffed up her eyebrows and dabbed the sides of her lips with an index finger.

  Lottie pranced around the bedroom, sucking in her stomach, pushing out her breasts, and puckering her lips. All those hours at the gym, sweating at kickboxing, spinning, Pilates, and weight-training classes, had paid off. She was almost as skinny as those hookers downstairs. Another few weeks and she’d nearly have those six-packs she’d been crunching toward.

  Lottie halted in midflounce when she heard voices outside the door. As the knob began to turn, she panicked and quickly searched the room for an answer. Should she dart under the covers and look seductive? Maybe it was Catherine.

  As the door opened a few more inches, Lottie dove underneath the bed.

  A shaft of light swept across the floor and quickly disappeared as the door quietly shut again. There were four feet right in front of Lottie, two of which she recognized as Ray’s Clorox-white Nikes. The other pair of feet was clad in scuffed black Doc Martens.

  “You know what? I’m sick and tired of your drinking. It’s gotten way out of hand lately, and I spent this whole evening wondering what the hell you were going to say to embarrass me this time.” Lottie recognized Ray’s voice. He sounded as if he were straining to squash a scream.

  “Oh, puh-lease, Mr. Uptight. I’m just having a good time. You used to know how to do that before you became the It Boy. Relax.” The words were slurred and spongy.

  “Relax? Relax? Don’t you know that things are completely different now? I can’t relax. The minute I’m off guard, I get written up in the gossip columns. You know the threats I’ve been getting from some of them. There’s no such thing as relaxing anymore. You can’t possibly understand the pressure I’m under.”

  “Pressure. A year ago you were moaning because you’d walk down the street and no one gave a fuck. Now, you have your little hordes of giggling fans following your every move and you hate it. You’re making more money than you’ve ever dreamed of. And you complain.”

  “You can’t understand.”

  “Hah!” the voice cackled. A fist banged into a table. “I’m sorry. I feel like it’s all my fault. I mean, without me, you’d just be some waiter at California Pizza Kitchen with a name tag that says, ‘Hi, I’m Ray from Encino.’ I created Lance Caine for you and now you seem to fucking hate me for it. You’re out to hurt and belittle me because of it. I propelled you to stardom and you resent me.”

  Ray burped out a fake chuckle. “Now who’s being an actor? Don’t be so melodramatic, Mr. Inflated Ego. Without my talent, that piece of shit show would have been off the air in a week. I carry that show with its half-assed actors and lame writing.”

  Lottie watched as the Doc Martens jumped up and landed with a thud. “Lame writing? A few weeks ago, you called it brilliant.”

  “Yeah, because I knew if I even tried to tell you the truth, you’d go over-the-top insane. I can’t believe some of the shit I’m spewing out. What the hell is ‘Call me a bum if you want, but I clean pools, while you’re busy making everything dirty’?” Ray snarled. “What kind of dreck is that? Next season, my agent promised that my contract would give me script approval. If I even decide to do a next season.”

  “Great. Fine. All of a sudden you’re an actor and a writer. The piano thinks it can compose a concerto. Not only is Lance Caine a pool boy, but he’s a real fucking Renaissance man. Michelangelo, why don’t you fire your head writer and write the series yourself, you self-centered asshole.”

  It was quiet, and then Lottie heard body-heaving sobs mixed with the sound of someone choking on mucus. Then there were grunts and snorts. Lottie watched the Doc Martens move toward the door.

  “Hold on a minute,” Ray said, his voice softening. “G, stop crying. I would never get rid of you.” Lottie watched Ray’s white Nikes step toward the Doc Martens. Their toes were practically touching.

  “Do you really hate my writing?” Gregory sniffled.

  Ray sighed, laughing quietly. “No. I love your writing. Remember when Lance said, ‘How can you know me, when I’m too afraid to know myself?’ That was brilliant. I felt like you were speaking just to me.”

  Gregory blew his nose. “I was. You know I only write for you. You’re my, well—I know it sounds clich—muse. I just wish I could shout it from the Hollywood sign.”

  “So do I, but we can’t.”

  “I know. I know. You don’t know how hard it is for me.”

  There were more sniffles followed by the phttt of lips on lips. Lottie cowered underneath her little log cabin with her heart pounding and her brain scrambling to decode the unseen. There was the rustling of cotton, the tugging of belts, and the pulling of zippers. There was moaning, panting, and the sloshing of saliva. The scuffed Doc Martens climbed the ladder followed by the Clorox-white Nikes. There was a thud overhead, more moaning, and then the sounds of the springs wheezing as the mattress banged into Lottie’s head.

  Lottie squeezed her eyes and held her breath. “That feels so good, baby,” one of them sighed. “Ohhh, yeah. That’s nice.” Her face flushed while her stomach turned somersaults. Lottie felt like crying, but she was too scared to give herself away. The bed rattled and jerked. Lottie crou
ched down lower while bodies writhed and heaved above hers. A fucking beard! What a jerk she’d been, believing that he didn’t want to rush her.

  No more actors, ever, she resolved, knowing somewhere that it was like the empty promise of an alcoholic.

  California

  DESPR8

  CHAPTER 5

  WHEN LEM RANG UP CYNDI FOR THE HUNDREDTH TIME THAT month, Boyd, the new receptionist, told him he would have to go through Jonathan Swerling’s office.

  “And who, may I ask, is Mr. Swerling?” Lem asked, his accent on full throttle.

  “Mr. Swerling represents Ms. Bowman. He is her publicist.”

  Lem’s mouth unhinged. “What do you mean,” he shrieked, sounding like a Valley girl. “What in bloody blazes does she need a publicist for? She is a publicist!”

  “Mr., umm. . . Back, if you need to get in touch with Ms. Bowman, you must fax a request to Mr. Swerling, who will pass it on to Ms. Bowman. He’ll call you back with a yay or a nay.”

  “Is this some sort of game? I must go through a publicist to speak to a publicist? I’ve never heard of anything quite so absurd. Besides, Ms. Bowman knows precisely why I’m calling. I’m not sending off any bloody fax. If you could kindly tell her to, as you assistants so eloquently put it, give a return? I’d appreciate it.”

  Boyd coughed. “I’m sorry, sir. I was advised that any inquiries from the press must first be handled by Mr. Swerling’s office. B.P. must cater to our celebrity clientele before we can help the press.”

  Lem spoke through his teeth in a low, drained tone. “Let me tell you something, Boyd. That company was founded by Thomas Bowman, a man who would return any phone call within two hours, no matter what, even if it was from little walleyed Suzy Cheese Cake looking for a summer internship. If Thomas Bowman knew what was happening to his beloved company, well, he’d have an aneurysm. A publicist for a publicist! Even Kafka couldn’t have imagined this.”