My unsettled mood doesn’t last. When I arrive at my gate at LAX, my neck and legs stiff from five hours crammed into a middle seat, a text message lands on my phone from Clark. ‘Go to Passenger Pickup D.’ He has come to meet me at the airport, and when the blacked-out door opens and he is waiting inside, I feel a physical pull towards him that’s stronger than all my misgivings.
‘I missed you,’ he tells me in a murmur, pulling me onto his lap and I fall into him, let Carol and Susan and Bridget Meriweather become memories from another time, another planet, another reality. That night in my bed, I wait until his breathing has evened out into sleep and then press myself hard into him, my face against his neck, one of my legs between his like I’m trying to climb into him. I can’t get close enough, or cling hard enough, and still I can’t sleep.
‘How’s the work going?’ he asks me the next day, after he’s brought me coffee in bed.
‘Good. It’s going great.’
It is not. I missed a deadline, for the first time in my life. Fully forgot that it existed, days ago, and remembered far too late to do anything but send a frantic email to the editor, who did not respond. It would have been easy money, a gallery list of ‘25 Fall TV Shows You Need To Watch’ based on early buzz, and it would probably have led to better things, but now I’m likely dead to that editor. I have to get my shit together. But I don’t know precisely what it is that I’m striving for any more.
I avoid David’s call the first time I see his number on-screen, then regret it and call him back. I have nothing to show for my time in New York, nothing usable, and I’m no longer even sure that I want anything to do with the story. I want to go back to a time before I knew the story existed.
‘Well, don’t feel bad,’ David says when I tell him I have nothing. ‘The Times is killing their piece too. Couldn’t get enough people to go on the record.’
‘There are a lot of NDAs involved. I don’t think most of these women are able to talk.’
‘Right.’
I want desperately to discuss this with him, and wonder if he would agree to meet me in person, somewhere private, somewhere there’s no chance we could be recorded. Carol has got in my head, and I want someone objective to lay this all out for. Someone more anchored than me.
‘There’s something else,’ he says, hesitating with every word. ‘You shouldn’t pitch to us any more. I’m not going to be able to commission you.’
‘What?’ Everything around me becomes very still. ‘Is that a budget thing, or…?’
His silence is endless.
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘Are you seeing anybody?’
‘I’m sorry?’ I laugh a little, thinking maybe he’s making a weird joke. ‘Is this— What?’
‘I’ll be more specific. Are you seeing anybody that you have also profiled for us?’
My stomach feels leaden. I run through tens of possible responses in my head, ways to deny it, but we have been sloppy so many times now. Restaurants, hikes, parties, even the airport last night. The door was open only briefly, but photographers are always at LAX, and all they need is to be in the right place for the right second.
‘How many other people know?’ I ask, at last.
Another endless silence.
‘I wish you all the best, Jessica,’ David says heavily, as he hangs up.
I stare at the phone for what must be ten full minutes after that, trying to think straight, trying to stave off a full panic attack. The room around me feels inconstant, as though its walls could shift and fall away like in a dream where things are fluid, and I don’t think twice about where to go. The radio said that the wildfires had receded, that the air quality was improving, but to me the smog still feels heavy enough to choke on. The sky is not its right colour, and on the ride to Laurel Canyon it’s hard not to feel as though the world is ending.
Skye answers the door, and I barely recognize her. Her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, she’s wearing a neat dress and subtle makeup, and her eyes are clear. It’s enough to make me wonder if her appearance at Cannes, manic and wide-eyed and unsteady, was some kind of mirage. She is a different girl every time I see her.
‘I have an audition,’ she tells me, seeing my surprise at her outfit. ‘My dad arranged it. My character’s supposed to be kind of uptight, so.’
‘Speaking as someone who’s kind of uptight, I think you’re nailing it,’ I say, doing a fine impression of someone having a normal day. And though Skye never really laughs, there’s the shadow of a smile. ‘So you’re not going back to school after all?’
She shakes her head.
‘That was dumb.’
‘Jessica?’
I spin at Clark’s voice, and let him pull me close. From the corner of my eye I see him make a sharp gesture to Skye, dismissing her, and on cue she turns and drifts back towards her wing of the house. It strikes me that I’ve almost never seen them share the same space, not for more than a snatch of time.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks me. I want to feel consoled by his presence, taken in. I’ve worked hard to put Carol’s words out of my head, but my body remembers.
‘What happened?’
‘Someone found out about us.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, but the editor of Reel knows, and I’m done there. If he knows, then the media gossip circle knows.’
‘So?’
‘So?’ I stare at him. ‘So, my career is over.’
‘Don’t be dramatic. There’s no law against a journalist dating an actor – one of my best friends is married to an editor.’
‘I know you never saw me as a real journalist, but the fact that I’m sleeping with the interview subject who basically made my career makes me a joke. It’s the worst stereotype about female reporters.’
He takes my hand and pulls me over towards the deck, as if to whisk me away from this subject altogether.
‘Listen,’ he tells me when we’re outside, steering me towards the edge to look at the view. ‘Take some deep breaths. I can make a call any time and get this straightened out. If Reel don’t want you, there will be people who do. I’ve got a buddy at the The Daily Reporter I can connect you with.’
His arms are tight around my waist, and I look out at the canopy of trees and try to feel held, not clutched.
‘I don’t know,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.’
‘You went to New York for that assignment, didn’t you? Sounded promising.’
‘Yeah. It didn’t pan out. By the way, can I ask you something?’
‘Anything.’
‘Did you know that Skye was at Cannes, when we were both there?’
I feel him go still.
‘Yes,’ he says, after a long silence. ‘With Brett. I didn’t like it much, but she was desperate to go, and she’d been cooped up for so long that I felt terrible saying no.’
‘Right. I just wondered, because Brett said that you were the one who introduced them. Like a setup. And that you sort of managed Skye’s career.’
Silence, again.
‘I mean, it’s Brett,’ I say, already giving him an out. ‘It’s not like I take his word as gospel, but I just wondered—’
‘Why were you at my ex-wife’s apartment?’
I stop breathing.
‘Huh?’
‘Since we’re asking each other things. Why were you at Carol’s apartment?’ He asks it calmly, enunciating the words fully.
‘Why did you send those flowers to my hotel? Were you watching me?’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he says lightly, his breath a featherweight on the nape of my neck.
‘I wanted to talk to her. I was told that there was a story coming about you, the LA Times one, and Reel had a reporter pursuing their own version. I was hoping she would tell me something that made it clear the story wasn’t true.’
‘And did she?’
I shake my head, still gazing directly outward into the trees. I’m afraid to turn around now, like Orpheus, afraid that if I look properly at him it will be the end of something.
‘Do you believe her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Carol always had a pretty active imagination. It’s why she was such a compelling scene partner. But also why it was difficult to sustain trust in our marriage.’
‘Oh. I assumed that was difficult because you cheated on her.’
His eyes flick towards me, and I know I’m playing with fire. I want to bring up Bridget, but something holds me back.
‘So, what? You’re on the anti-Clark train now?’ His tone is still light, but I know better. ‘Your next piece is going to be a takedown?’
‘No, of course not. I’m just trying to make sense of what’s smoke and what’s fire.’
‘That’ll make a nice intro.’
He’s not touching me any more, gripping the wooden railing in both hands like he’s wringing it out. I picture him suddenly, holding Bridget down, tearing into her, smothering the life and the power out of her, and the world starts to turn grey at the edges, my ears ringing, my palms sweating. When I used to faint these were always the warning signs, the world growing insubstantial.
‘I am wildly imperfect,’ Clark is saying, but I realize he’s been talking for some time and I haven’t heard him. ‘I’ve always been open about that with you. I’m human.’
‘You’re not supposed to be human. You’re supposed to be better.’
His superiority is not a matter for discussion; it’s soaked into every fibre of his being, his existence. He has star power, that indefinable magnetic pull that draws every eye in a room, and he makes the world around him feel bigger and brighter and more full of possibility. This, maybe, is the meaning of being a movie star. I’ve been so close to him in these past months, closer than I ever dreamed, but looking at him now, I’m not sure that I’ve truly been anywhere near him.
‘I have to go,’ I say quietly, already backing away into the house as he asks, ‘Are you sure?’ The ringing is gone, my palms are dry, and I have somewhere to be. Weeks ago, I confirmed my attendance at a publicity firm’s summer party, and I will go, to prove to myself that I can still exist in this industry. A few gossipy hacks may care about my personal life, but Hollywood at large does not. A sprawling party full of executives and actors who don’t know or care who I am is exactly what I need.
That logic crumbles as soon as I arrive at the venue. It’s much smaller and more intimate than I expected, a courtyard within a hotel shrouded by vine-laden trellises, a jazz band playing instrumental versions of Frank Sinatra classics. There are eyes on me everywhere, following me, but my face is not recognizable and so I am being paranoid. I must be. I’m sure of nothing now, from one moment to the next, and I sip Bourbon until that ceases to matter.
And that’s when I see Ben Schlattman, holding court in a corner, and an idea comes to me as naturally as my next breath. I need a new story, again. Something that has nothing to do with Clark, and ideally something that has nothing to do with me, but this would at least be halfway there. That hotel room, the blend of adrenalin and bewilderment and instantly suppressed rage as I realized what Schlattman really wanted from me, all of it’s now flooding back.
This could be my next story.
And so I duck into the bathroom, freshen up my lipstick, turn on the recording app on my iPhone and slip it into the front pocket of my bag. And walk up to Schlattman with a coy smile on my face, letting my hips sway a little more as I walk, letting my fringe fall just slightly over my eyes as I look up at him.
‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin,’ he says by way of greeting.
‘Yep. I know the song.’ I see him trying to unsettle me, but I smile, trying to be charming. ‘I’m holding out for “My Way”.’
‘Regrets, I’ve had a few,’ he smiles. ‘You’re probably too young for those.’
‘You sure about that?’
I glance at him, searching for an indication that he knows, and there it is. So it really is all over town.
‘You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last,’ Schlattman tells me, in a conspiratorial tone, and I want to smack his fleshy face until he looks as hollowed-out as I feel.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I say. ‘But I have been thinking, lately, about how we left things. I guess I feel a little bad about that.’
‘About storming out on me?’
‘I don’t think I stormed. I wasn’t sure how to take what you were doing.’
‘I was thinking you wanted to talk about our mutual friend.’
‘Clark?’
‘I love the guy, but I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him. Do I want to put him in a picture? Any time. Do business with him? All day long. Do I want him dating my daughter?’ He gives a meaningful shrug.
‘It’s good that you’re aware I’m young enough to be your daughter.’
‘Funny.’
‘How much longer do you think you can get away with this?’ I ask him. ‘It was pretty clear this wasn’t a first-time thing for you. You had a routine.’
‘How many movies you think you’ve seen in your lifetime? Ballpark figure.’
‘I’m not playing whatever game this is.’
‘Come on, humour me. How many?’
‘Probably a thousand.’
‘A thousand, sure. Shoot for the stars. Out of those thousand movies, how many do you think had my fingerprints on them?’
‘You really are a narcissist. You’re not that powerful, Scion was not the only production company in Hollywood.’
‘That’s not what I asked. I’m talking about the invisible hand, the forces that actually make things happen, which you’d know if you ever bothered to get to know this business. A call I put in for someone. A writer whose script I put at the top of the pile. That tentpole director who got his first break with Scion. You think you love Hollywood? Hollywood was built by men like me. Men like me are the world.’
‘Men like you are a dying breed.’
‘I don’t know why you’re getting testy. I’m the one telling you the truth. Look, I’m not a perfect guy, but I’ve always tried to be honest. I’m just trying to look out for you when I say Clark is not a saint.’
‘And you are?’
‘You know what it is?’ he says, completely ignoring me. ‘I figured this out a while back – actually, when he bailed on my movie to go do that astronaut thing. The thing with Conrad is he’s the most fun guy in the room, you’ll have the best time with him, and then you’ll leave and think… I have no idea who that guy is. That’s all actors, in a way, they’re shapeshifters. But him? All the time I’ve known him, I’ve just never sensed a genuine person inside of him.’
‘It’s interesting that you’ve changed your tune since he cut ties with you.’
‘Cut ties? Who do you think’s putting up half the capital for High Six’s first feature, sweetheart?’
I falter. Trying to remember, now, exactly what Clark told me about the financing deals he’d made at Cannes.
‘He would never take your money. Not after what you did to me.’
‘You want to see the documents?’
He still hasn’t admitted to anything, and I know I’m going about this wrong. I was supposed to get him to say something damning about himself, not Clark.
‘Look…’ I say more softly, moving closer to him, ‘I don’t want to talk about Clark. I just want to know whether the only reason you agreed to an interview with me is because you wanted to sleep with me.’
‘Sleep with you?’ He frowns. ‘Where did you get that idea?’
‘Are you joking?’
‘California’s a two-party consent state.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘That recorder in your bag. What is it, your iPhone? One of those old-school tape recorders? Whatever it is, it’s useless, because I do not consent to this recording.’
He doesn’t grab for my bag, doesn’t even bother looking down to confirm whether he’s right. He knows he is.
‘I hope you see the irony in your giving me a lecture about consent laws,’ I say. For the second time in as many minutes, trying to appear unfazed.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ he says blandly. ‘But I’m sorry Conrad did such a number on you. He’s a tough man to say no to.’
I’m so angry it’s making me close to dizzy, fists clenched hard enough to leave nail marks in my palms, probably. But what was I really thinking, coming here hoping to score a desperate last-ditch scoop? This is not how stories come together. This is not what journalists do.
I turn away from Schlattman, resisting the urge to smash my glass into his face, and head for the door. But it’s blocked by a crowd of partygoers with eyes locked on their phones, oblivious to the fact that they’re in my way.
‘Excuse me,’ I snap, trying to force my way through, but finally I realize this is the kind of gaggle that forms around one specific piece of information, something so shocking that people instinctively band together. I pull out my phone, and the push alerts are already stacked up high.
Amabella Bunch Dead At 27 – Report
Amabella Bunch has died at twenty-seven years old.
Police were called to Bunch’s Valley Village apartment Tuesday afternoon, after she failed to appear for work on a sponsored content shoot. The LA County Coroner’s office has confirmed that Bunch was pronounced dead on the scene at 2.30 p.m. A cause of death has not yet been determined.
A source close to Bunch said that friends had been growing concerned about her for weeks, in the wake of her breakup from actor Clark Conrad, and her allegations of domestic violence against him.
‘She was really getting desperate,’ the source claimed. ‘Certain people had made it impossible for her to get work, just blackballed her all over town to the point where she couldn’t make rent.’
Bunch worked regularly as an actress, model and social media spokesperson, and recently launched SlayToday, an online lifestyle coaching brand.
More to come…