Beneath a Starlet Sky

“Did you know that Cricket and Saffron are the most Googled people in the world right now?” Kate says over the phone line from her room at the Du Cap. “They have more hits than Nano eating that steak or that baby panda sneezing.”

“I’m still not sure if my brain has fully computed the fact that Saffron Sykes is gay and our best friend is her lesbian lover.” Even as I say the words, I’m not sure I really believe them.

“That’s because Saffron isn’t gay, and neither is Cricket,” says Kate. “I spoke to Saffron. We’re just going to put it out there that they lost themselves in the role, full stop. Anyway, Cricket’s … just confused.”

“But what about Saffron? Are you saying she isn’t gay or are you saying you’re just going to deny it?”

Kate’s tone turns instantly steely. “We are talking about the biggest movie star in the world here,” she says. “I’ve got her career to protect. That’s my job. If Saffron were gay, do you know what that would do to her box office? She’d be DOA.”

“Kate, that’s ridiculous. No one cares about that kind of thing anymore. Look at Ellen DeGeneres. Portia de Rossi. Anne Heche. Wanda Sykes. Everybody loves them!”

“Lo, please give me the name of a single actress who’s had any kind of decent movie career after coming out.”

“Jodie Foster!” I announce triumphantly.

“Four words,” Kate intones. “Mel Gibson. The Beaver. Case closed. Look, Lo, you know me. I don’t care who’s doing whom, I really don’t. But I do care about keeping my clients at the top where they belong. And right now my job is to stop Saffron from sabotaging her career, and I’m going to do whatever I have to to make that happen.”

“Kate,” I begin, then pause. I’m not quite sure how to say what I want to say.

“What?” Kate demands.

“It’s just that … I mean … maybe this is the right time for this to happen. I mean, I think it’s awful—and I know you think it’s awful—that directors wouldn’t cast a leading lady because she’s a lesbian. That’s got to change. And isn’t Saffron the perfect person to lead the way? The whole world loves her. It just isn’t right that she can’t be who she is and do what she wants and be accepted for it. Look at Ellen, she’s the face of Cover Girl for crying out loud. Why shouldn’t Saffron join her in paving the way.”

Kate sighs. “Lo, you know I agree with you. And yes, I wish we lived in a less stupid world. I hate Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. I hate those assholes who don’t let gay people marry. I hate that anybody gives a shit whether an actor’s gay or straight. But I’ve talked with Saffron about it all, and she’s just not ready to be any kind of poster child for the cause right now. I get where she’s coming from. She gets the final say here. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

“Okay, okay, I hear you,” I say. “I just feel queasy about the whole thing.”

“You’re not the only one,” Kate says. “That’s all I’m feeling at the moment.” I hear the sound of furious tapping on computer keys. “Shit. You have to log on to usmagazine.com right now,” she says. “They dredged up Cricket’s prom picture. Did you know that she was the homecoming queen? You should see the crown.”

“I’ve gone cold turkey off online gossip sites after yesterday,” I say, staring at my closed laptop on the hotel desk. “Do you see anything on there about Aria? Actually, forget I asked. I don’t want to know. Listen, Kate, Coz has already called me like fifty times this morning. I know this is the worst possible time, but have you talked to Saffron about the cover? Cricket said she’d do it, but I really need them together.”

“Oh my god,” Kate exclaims. “TMZ has an interview with some woman who claims to have kissed Cricket in the third grade and the guy who popped Cricket’s cherry. Poor Cricket. This is crazy.”

“Where do they find these people?” I say, stunned. “Wait, forget TMZ, are you even listening to me? This is really important. Julian and I need this cover.”

“Gawker just posted that Saffron’s high school boyfriend is saying that they never even had sex and Defamer interviewed Saffron’s devout Catholic mother, who believes being gay is a sin and lobbied for Prop 8,” Kate says.

“What?” I say, taken aback. “That’s awful! Do you think she really said that?”

“Defamer isn’t exactly The New York Times, but who knows? Saffron and her mother haven’t spoken ever since she auctioned off Saffron’s childhood diaries and her baby clothes on eBay.”

“That’s disgusting. So not-WWJD,” I say.

“Well, lucky for Saffron’s mommy there isn’t anything in the Bible about eBay,” Kate says.

“Kate, so about the Vain cover—”

“Jesus, where the hell is Adam? I’m getting more calls than the Pentagon. Hang on,” Kate says.

I look down at my iPhone resting on the hotel desk, which has also been buzzing off the hook, all thanks to Coz. There’s a new flurry of texts.

CALL ME!!

WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU??

911!!

I’M CALLING GRACE!

I shove my cell into the desk drawer. What’s taking Kate so long? My neck is starting to cramp. I switch the hotel phone receiver from my left shoulder to my right.

“That was Anderson Cooper. He’s in town and wants an interview,” Kate says.

“What’d you say?” I ask.

“I told him when he comes out publicly, he can have an interview,” Kate says.

“What’d you really say?” I ask.

“That,” Kate says. “And then I tried to pitch him a Nic Knight story.”

“Did he go for it?” I ask.

“No. No one wants to talk about Nic without talking about his stints in jail, drinking and drugs, and if he’ll ever be able to stay sober. I spent hours this morning with his publicist. We’re putting out the story that that white powder in his nose from the yacht party was a new naturopathic cold remedy. Not that I know what the hell it really was; Nic won’t take any of my calls. God, I’m going to kill Adam. Where the hell is he? I put him on babysitting duty with Nic and he’s still not back. This is a disaster,” Kate says.

“So … um … about the Vain cover,” I try again.

“Look, Lola, I’m sorry but I can’t let Saffron pose with Cricket,” Kate says. “I just can’t.”

“What? No! You have to. You can’t do this to me!” I say in disbelief.

“Do this to you? This isn’t about you, Lola. This is about protecting my biggest client and doing what’s best for Saffron.”

“Kate, you know how much I’ve got riding on this cover!”

“Vain will understand; they can’t possibly expect that Cricket and Saffron would pose together now,” Kate says matter-of-factly.

“They’re already on the cover of every magazine, what’s one more? And we’re talking about Vain, not Maxim. I can tell Coz that she can’t broach the gay thing. It will be strictly about the movie,” I say. “Please, Kate. I really need this.”

“I’m sorry, but this is business, Lola,” Kate says, no trace of my BFF, speaking solely as Saffron’s agent.

“Kate, you said you would make this happen for me,” I say.

“That was before,” Kate says. “It would be PR suicide for them to pose together now when we’re denying that they ever had any involvement.”

“But what about the pictures?” I ask.

“What about them? It’s called Method acting and we’re going to say that they were rehearsing for the movie,” Kate says.

“But they were taken after the movie ended,” I point out. “Everyone knows that.”

“Markus was on that trip, too; maybe they were reenacting a scene from the movie for fun. Who cares? The point is, we’re saying that Saffron is in love with Markus and we’re denying the gay thing. And posing with Cricket on the cover of Vain doesn’t factor into that,” Kate says. If she had a gavel I imagine she would bang it.

“I can’t lose this cover, Kate. I just can’t,” I say desperately. “What if Saffron posed alone?” As I say the words I can’t help feeling like I’m betraying Cricket. But this isn’t going to be her last chance to grace Vain, though it may be mine. She’ll understand, right?

“I’m just not sure how it helps us right now. It’s not like Saffron needs the extra publicity,” Kate says.

Think, Lola, think. And then another idea strikes me. “What if she posed with Markus? She’s never publicly admitted that they’re a couple. We could give Vain the exclusive.”

“Now you’re sounding more like me,” Kate says. I don’t know whether to be proud or scared. But what I do know is that I’ve worked too hard to let this cover slip through my fingertips.

“So should I call Coz and pitch her the story?” I ask.

I can practically hear the wheels in Kate’s head turning through the phone.

“Yes, tell Coz she can have the exclusive with Markus and Saffron,” Kate says finally.

I let out a long sigh and expect to feel more relieved than I actually do. Please let Coz go for it. Please.

“And Markus is on board?” I ask, trying to avert any potential problems.

“Please, Lola, wake up. Sure, Markus was a big action star before this, but now he’s Markron.”

I wince at the mash-up; it’s no Brangelina or TomKat. But it’s not like Saffkus or Smarffron would have been any better. So: Saffron and Markus on the cover of Vain. I know that this is what’s best for me and Julian, but I can’t help but wonder if this is what’s best for everyone else. I push the thought and the sinking feeling in my gut away.

“Great. I’ll call Coz now,” I say. “Thanks, Kate. And listen, have you talked to Christopher?” I ask, even though I know from my brother that Kate still hasn’t returned any of his calls. “I know that he really wants to talk to y—”

“That’s my other line again. I’ve gotta run,” she says quickly. And before I can even say good-bye, the dial tone does it for me.

* * *

“We’re not the Enquirer, Lola, we’re talking about Vain,” Coz says after I pitch her the Markron cover. She uncrosses her mile-long translucent legs and peers at me over her trademark black sunglasses. We’re sitting on the balcony of her oceanfront suite at the Martinez. The Med sparkles just beyond us, lined with yachts gently swaying on the water. I spot Paul Allen’s superyacht, the Octopus, a twenty-four-hour-a-day party palace. The sound of the Microsoft mogul jamming with Bono wafts toward us. I look longingly at the bikini-clad women sunning themselves on the upper deck, their only care which cocktail to sip. How I’d love to trade places with one of them. Coz stands up on her chunky woven leather sandal stilettos and repoufs her purple-and-white printed super-short, tiered lampshade skirt. Class is about to be dismissed. “In its hundred-eighteen-year history, Vain has only had three men on the cover.”

“Exactly,” I say. “And we both know that Markus has every bit as much heat as Clooney and Gere. You put Beckham on because you wanted controversy, and controversy sells copies. Don’t tell me a little controversy with Saffron and Markus won’t sell. Besides, you were willing to put Om and Nano on the cover.”

“Om and Nano are both style innovators and they’re launching their own clothing line. Or at least they were. Who knows what’s going to happen to that now. Anyway, it’s totally different,” Coz says, pacing around the balcony.

“It’s not like I’m asking you to put Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom on the cover. Saffron is the biggest movie star in the world,” I say. “Look, Coz, do you want to sell magazines or not? ’Cause I’m pretty certain we both know that a Saffron-Markus cover would sell out.”

“What if they break up before the issue comes out?” Coz asks icily.

“They won’t,” I say emphatically.

“Just like Om and Nano?” Coz says. Thank god she’s still wearing those sunglasses; otherwise I’m pretty certain her steely gaze would vaporize me with the flames of ten thousand suns. “Lola, we’d already sent out an announcement to our advertisers about the Om and Nano cover. We based our ad rates on that cover. Do you have any idea what an embarrassment that whole thing was for me and the magazine?” And me.

“I still feel horribly about that, but that was a totally freak thing that was out of all of our control,” I say.

“And who’s to say that another freak thing won’t happen? We’re talking about actors, Lola,” Coz says. She’s right. Which really pisses me off.

“Saffron and Markus are different,” I insist-slash-fib.

“So she’s not a lesbian?” Coz asks.

“Of course not,” I lie. “She’s totally in love with Markus,” I lie again.

“I don’t buy it,” Coz says. Is it because I’m a bad liar or is Coz’s intuition that good?

“Coz, they are not going to break up. Every magazine wants this story and I’m giving it to you. Call all of your editor friends and ask,” I say. Last time I bluffed, Coz caught me out. But I think I’ve got a pretty good poker face and I’m just going to keep bluffing until I win this hand. What other choice do I have?

Coz finally stops pacing and stands directly above my head like the freaking Crypt Keeper, if the Crypt Keeper got his three-thousand-dollar hair extensions at Sally Hershberger.

“I want it in writing that they’re not going to break up before the issue is on newsstands,” Coz says.

“Fine,” I say.

“And I want to shoot a solo of Saffron as an alternative.”

“Okay,” I agree.

“And Saffron’s going to wear Chili on the cover,” Coz says. Oh no. Oh no, she’s not. She’s wearing Julian. Period. Exclamation point.

I stand up to face Coz, who’s still a good foot taller. Even when I’m on my tippy toes. Be diplomatic, I urge myself. Do not rip Coz’s sunglasses off her face and scratch her eyes out with her Tom Fords. “Coz, the main reason for Saffron to do the cover is to promote Four Weddings, and considering that Chili’s gowns didn’t actually make it into the movie, it really doesn’t make any sense as to why she would wear one of Chili’s reject wedding gowns on the cover.” Coz’s nostrils flare. Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word “reject.”

“R-e-a-l-l-y? Is that so?” Coz says. “Well, here’s why it makes sense: Because I said so.”

“Coz, Saffron won’t do the cover at all unless she wears Julian and I’m sure Grace wouldn’t want to lose this cover because of Chili.” Checkmate, Coz.

There’s an eerie silence. The only sound I can hear is my thumping heart. I wonder if Coz can hear it too. Say something, I try and will her. Say anything. The silence is deafening. I feel like I’m back in an elementary-school staring contest, and damn if I’m going to blink first. I’ll let my eyes shrivel up like Courtney Love’s after a bender with Shaggy before I blink.

“We’ll see about that,” is all she says when she finally speaks.

“Oh-kay,” I say, confused.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go check out the venue with Patrick, and you need to go get it for me in writing that Saffron and Markus are not going to break up before the issue comes out,” Coz says. Will ink be acceptable or only blood?

“Okay, so the shoot’s still on,” I say.

“I think it’d be really beautiful if we had some ostriches running around the lawn for the photos,” Coz says.

So the shoot is on. “Great,” I say in agreement.

“That’s not why I’m telling you,” she says flatly.

“Oh-kay,” I say, starting to understand just how difficult she is going to make this.

“You need to find them,” she states.

“Find ostriches?” I ask in dismay.

“Yes, Lola, find ostriches,” she says. “And not just any ostriches. I want Masai ostriches.”

“Excuse me, Coz, what makes you think I’m going to be your props master on this?”

“We only have a few days to pull this off. Naturally I have to spend every moment with Patrick. Or did you think I should simply allow Patrick Demarchelier to wander around La Croisette unescorted?” Coz doesn’t wait for my reply. “I’ll only have a skeleton crew as it is. If you want this to happen, you’re going to have to help make it happen. Is this clear?”

“I’m on it,” I say through gritted teeth. Do Masai ostriches even exist, or did she just make that up?

“Great,” she says, though it’s clear the subtext is: “I’m going to make your life a living hell and relish every single solitary moment of it.” “I’d also like six dozen Bornean orchids,” she says with a conniving Cheshire grin.

Yeah, I saw Adaptation too and I know those will be impossible to find, but I say, “No problem.” Does she want a partridge in a pear tree too? Or maybe the freaking Ring? Or Cher’s old lips?

“And the sand on the beaches here is too beige; I want pink sand. It has to coordinate with the ostriches’s legs and the orchids or the shoot won’t make any sense at all,” she says. I’ll give her this; she deserves an Oscar for keeping a straight face for that one. I want to hurl her over her balcony. But instead I’m going to focus on the fact that Julian’s gown is going to be on the cover of Vain. And considering we’re only on the second floor, propelling her over the balcony wouldn’t harm her nearly enough. With her tarantula legs, Coz could practically touch the ground from here.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“I’ve really got to run. I’ll e-mail you the rest,” she says.

“Perfect,” I say, with clenched fists. God, I hate this woman. I hate her even more than Bill O’Reilly, Ann Coulter, the inventor of MBT shoes, and the way my ass looks in boyfriend jeans all put together.

After doing a quick check-in with Julian to make sure that all of the fittings with the models are going okay, stopping by the concierge to check on the status of Aria’s release—hopefully later this afternoon—and leaving Cricket a very long, rambling apology message, I decide to step outside for some fresh air and another latte. As I walk along La Croisette, it feels like no amount of air is enough to calm the snake I feel writhing in my stomach. I set the intention to start doing yoga again, to start sleeping, and to get off the coffee. I just can’t believe that this is my life. How did this happen? I can feel that I’m hanging on by a thread—from a Julian Tennant dandelion yellow chiffon sheath. And it doesn’t help that Lev still isn’t here. I really miss him. When I see Julian’s dress on the cover of Vain, it will all be worth it. Right?

I decide to set another intention right here, right now: no more private pity parties. As I resolve to stop feeling sorry for myself, I spot Adam, Kate’s assistant, on the street.

“Adam, hey, where have you been? Kate’s freaking out,” I say when we come face-to-face.

“I’ve been up all night with Nic. I still haven’t slept,” Adam says. He looks like crap. His tux and shirt are completely rumpled and his bowtie is missing. He’s wobbling slightly beneath the weight of several huge shopping bags.

“Adam, you were out shopping? You were supposed to be babysitting Nic! Where is he now?”

“Oh these,” he says gesturing toward the bags. “These are for Nic. And don’t worry, he’s back at his hotel, out like a light. Tucked him in myself.”

“You went shopping for Nic at Petit Bateau?” I say. What does a forty-something Method actor want with twee French $180 rompers and $80 hoodies?

“Nic’s going to adopt a baby,” Adam says casually.

“Nic Knight is adopting a baby?” I gasp. Who in their right mind would let him do that? I wouldn’t even trust him to babysit Julian’s dog—for five minutes. “Does Kate know about this?”

“Kate doesn’t know yet and you can’t tell her. Please, Lola, I’m begging you not to tell her. She asked me to handle Nic and that’s what I’m doing,” he says.

“By letting him adopt a baby?” I say in horror. “What happened on that yacht last night, Adam? Did Nic force you to take acid?”

“I’m not on acid, Lola. I’m totally sober. Nic hooked up with one of the Jolie-Pitt’s nannies a few nights ago and it got him thinking. Angelina is practically a saint in the eyes of the world because she’s adopted all those kids. No one even mentions that she’s a husband stealer who used to wear a vial of Billy Bob’s blood,” Adam says. “Nic and I realized that if Nic adopted a baby, it would totally change the public’s negative perception of him.”

“Adam, this is insane. Please tell me that you realize that you sound even crazier than Nic,” I say.

“If it worked for Angelina, then why can’t it work for Nic?” Adam asks. It’s all aboard the crazy train, but he’s making it out like it’s the most sensible decision in the world, like rotating your tires or doing Master Cleanse for New Year’s.

“Because for starters no one is going to give Nic Knight a baby,” I say.

“Nic and I are working on that,” says Adam. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details at the moment.”

I just stare at him.

“Lola, this is my chance to finally prove myself to Kate,” he says.

“Yeah, prove that you’re totally crazy,” I say.

“Okay, look, I know it may sound a little crazy, but unqualified people become parents every day, I mean look at those kids on Glee, and they let Madonna adopt a baby. Actually two. This story is totally going to transform Nic’s image. Plus, we totally plan on donating all the money from the sale of the first picture to charity.”

“Nic doesn’t even have a baby and you’re already selling the photos? Are you absolutely sure that Nic didn’t slip you something? You can’t be serious. Have you lost all of your morals?” I ask.

“Who said I had any to begin with? Morals are overrated. Kate taught me that.”

“Adam, you know I have to tell Kate, right? I can’t keep this from her.”

“You can’t do that. Lola, please. I’m begging you. I’ve already leaked the story to the tabloids, and there’s a bidding war for the exclusive story and first pic of Michelle. I’ve already got People magazine up to three million.”

“Michelle? You don’t even have the baby but you’ve already named it? And did you say three million?” I spit out.

“Yes. Nic wanted to name her for the first lady. And all of that money is going to go to charity. Please, Lola, don’t tell Kate. She’s already got enough to worry about with Saffron and everything else going on. Please,” Adam says, practically on his hands and knees.

“I don’t know, Adam. She’d kill me if she found out that I knew and didn’t tell her. Besides, you and I both know that if the People magazine bid is legit, it’s going to be up on TMZ in about two nanoseconds, and then everyone’s going to know. I have to tell her,” I say. “I’m sorry. If you really want to help Nic and his career, why don’t you try keeping him sober, because the only way the press is going to stop writing stories about him falling off the wagon is if he actually stays on the wagon.”

“Lola, you have to trust me. I know what I’m doing,” Adam pleads.

“Adam, the only thing you should be doing right now is taking those baby clothes back.”

“Just don’t tell Kate, okay. She’ll go ballistic and the doctor said she has to try and keep her blood pressure down or she could risk losing the baby,” he says.

“What baby, Adam?” I ask, utterly confused.

“Oops,” Adam says.

“What baby?” I repeat again, still confounded.

“I don’t know,” Adam says flustered. “I thought you knew. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Thought I knew what?” I ask.

“You should talk to Kate,” Adam says.

“Adam, what baby?” I yell.

“Kate’s,” he finally spits out.

“Kate’s?!” I repeat.

“Yes,” he says, looking at the floor. “I thought you knew. I shouldn’t have said anything. Kate’s going to kill me. I—”

I know that Adam is still speaking, but I can’t hear a word he’s actually saying. This can’t be happening. There is no way that this is happening.

“Kate’s…” I can’t even say the word. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Pregnant,” Adam finally finishes my sentence.