ten

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Sebastian said as we watched their approach. “And by cat, I mean Jules, because she’s nothing but a dirty …”

“Shut it, Bash,” Christina snapped as she watched John and Jules’s approach with a stoic expression.

Jules was your typical Hollywood starlet; a mash up of long blonde extensions, implausible breasts, a year-round tan, and blindingly white teeth. Her body was a kaleidoscope of sinuous movement. Her long hair swished, her lithe hips swayed, her round breasts shivered; all seemingly independent of one another. I watched with some admiration as her body gracefully shimmied out of the path of Seth Rogen’s and James Franco’s rather vigorous dance with an Oscar. Jules Dixon might not be able to act, but she sure as hell knew how to walk.

As for John, he was one of those rare actors who is just as magnetic off the silver screen as he is on it. Six-feet-four and powerfully built, he was not a man you’d overlook. His face was a composition of sharp angles and hard lines, which was saved from being too severe by the addition of a generous mouth. With a slow curl of those lips, he could convey mischief, sincerity, and sex, all with devastating effect. For John, sex appeal was a part of his DNA, no different than the color of his skin and eyes.

Christina opted to ignore them both and focused instead on Frank and Danielle. Seeing the Oscar that Danielle proudly held for her father, Christina said, “Congratulations on your win, Frank! What does this one make? Five Oscars for Best Producer?”

Frank shook his head and winked. “Six. But this one goes to Danielle,” he said. “She’s my good luck charm.”

“She certainly is,” agreed Christina before turning to Danielle. “It’s lovely to see you again, Danny,” she said, as she leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How have you been?”

The difference between the two women was striking, especially when you remembered that Christina, at thirty-nine, was actually four years older than Danielle. Christina was a product of Hollywood and it showed. Her skin had been pampered and polished into a perpetual dewy glow. Her lithe body was the result of years of personal trainers and strict diets. Her hair was a glossy mane of perfection.

In contrast, Danielle looked like someone you might actually know. Behind the rectangular frames of her glasses, a few laugh lines had begun to gather. Her figure, while slim, had a softness to it that spoke of the occasional lazy morning in bed rather than at the gym. Her dark hair just brushed her shoulders, cut in a manageable style that didn’t require a full-time stylist.

Danielle smiled. “I’ve been good, thanks. Working for my dad this past year has been a dream come true.”

Frank wrapped his arm around his daughter’s shoulder and beamed proudly. “Danny’s a real chip off the old block,” he said. “She graduated with honors from Harvard just like her old man, and now she’s one of our top editors.”

Danielle blushed with pride. “I’m not surprised,” said Christina. “I remember how much you loved film when you were younger. Speaking of which, this is the couple who found all your old tapes.”

“It’s nice to meet you in person,” Danielle said with a shy smile. Nigel and I politely chatted with her and Frank for a few moments, while the rest of the group stood in awkward silence. Christina then turned to us and gestured to John and Jules. “This of course is John Cummings and his wife, Jules,” she said. Pausing she then added, “Jules is an actress, too.” This last part was said in the sing-songy voice a proud parent might use to announce successful potty-training. As if she just made a connection, Christina opened her eyes wide and said to Nigel, “Actually, you might already be familiar with Jules’s work.” By way of explanation, she turned to Jules and in a sweet voice explained, “Nigel’s company specializes in old and lost films.”

Jules’s skin flushed red, and her eyes narrowed to angry slits. Next to me Mandy choked back a laugh, and then tried to cover it by pretending she was having a coughing fit. Leaning over, I patted her on the back to give the performance some credibility but I don’t think we were fooling anybody. Jules appeared about to lob her own verbal attack when a loud crash caught everyone’s attention.

I turned to see James Franco sheepishly grinning at a waitress. On the floor between them lay a silver platter, the remains of several Red Velvet cupcakes, most of which were on Seth Rogen and one Oscar statue.

An elegantly dressed woman standing to Franco’s right shook her head as she gingerly stepped over the mess. “I swear to God, James,” she said, as she moved next to Barry, “if there is so much as one dot of frosting on this dress, I’ll have your ass in a sling by sunrise.”