Hollywood Is Like High School with Money Read online

  Fifteen minutes later--and three hundred and fifteen dollars lighter--I walked into the lobby

  lounge of Chateau Marmont and tried to look like I knew where I was going. The room was

  dim, with large crushed-velvet couches and chairs, high arched windows, and an unmistakable

  old-world glamour. Ever since I'd moved to L.A., I'd wondered what it was like, perched as it

  was, high above the Strip. It looked like a Gothic fortress from the outside, and I--like any

  movie buff worth her salt--knew its legendary past, as well as its occasionally notorious

  present. (For example, it was where James Dean first read the script for Rebel Without a

  Cause; it was also where a certain Hollywood starlet stayed after her drunk-driving arrest.)

  I turned into the twinkling garden, where a holiday cocktail party was in full swing. People

  huddled under heating lamps, drinking wine and talking over Jay-Z on the speakers. Availing

  myself of a flute of champagne off a waiter's passing tray, I stepped down into the party.

  Rashida Jones and Molly Sims were chatting by a large potted palm. Orlando Bloom held court

  at a table full of young and giggling women. Stephen Dorff walked past me with an

  Amazonian supermodel wearing a Santa hat clinging to his arm.

  Ah yes, I thought, Christmas in L.A.

  Finally I spotted Quinn behind the DJ turntables, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of

  champagne in the other. She wore a sleeveless burgundy dress with tiers of ruffles on the skirt

  and a silver tiara in her auburn hair. An Olsen twin--not sure which one; I could never tell them

  apart--and a buff, scruffy-haired DJ who looked extremely familiar stood on either side of her,

  looking full of holiday spirit.

  "Hey," Quinn said when she looked up and saw me. She stepped away from her little crowd.

  "Thanks for coming. And congratulations again," she said, holding up her champagne flute.

  "Here's hoping Kylie's on suicide watch."

  She took a healthy sip, and I followed her lead. "So does your mom know you're here?"

  Quinn rolled her eyes. "What do you care?"

  I shrugged. She had a point. What did I care? Quinn's relationship with Iris was definitely not

  my problem. I guzzled the rest of my champagne, which was already starting to give me a little

  buzz. "Well, thanks, Quinn. Seriously. I couldn't have done it without you."

  Quinn put up her hand. "I didn't ask you here to congratulate you."

  I smiled. Of course not. Did I really think Quinn was capable of such niceness? Um, no. "Well,

  what is it? You need a ride somewhere or something?" I said this just to annoy her, and it

  seemed to work.

  Quinn rolled her eyes. "Aren't you forgetting something? Our deal?"

  I gazed around at the party. Over by a cluster of chairs, I saw Kate Hudson getting an

  impromptu foot massage from a friend in a purple sequined top. Leaning against one of the

  colonnades with a very blasé look on his face was Shia LaBeouf. And wasn't that Nicky Hilton

  in the corner, talking on her cell phone? None of these people owed something to a teenager,

  and for a moment, I felt a wave of indignation.

  "Remember I told you I'd figure it out? Well, now I know what I want," Quinn continued. "Get

  my mom out of town for the weekend."

  I laughed. " What? Are you kidding me? Look around you--it's already Friday night."

  Quinn shook her head as she sipped. "As long as she's gone by tomorrow afternoon, it doesn't

  matter."

  I snagged another glass of champagne and tossed a big sip back. "What for?" I challenged.

  Quinn's stare was blistering. "You really think I'm going to tell you that?"

  This was really too much. I hiked my bag up on my shoulder and made as if to walk away.

  "Quinn, this is ridiculous. What sort of insane reason am I supposed to come up with that

  would get your mom on a flight in twelve hours?"

  "Uh, none of this is my problem," she said, putting her glass down on a table. "Figure it out. I

  don't know." She took a long, meditative drag on her Marlboro. "You know, it would be a

  shame if all that work was for nothing."

  Her tone of voice--and what she was implying--made me feel like she'd just given me the

  deathstare. "I beg your pardon?"

  Quinn folded her arms. "I'm just saying. You don't do this for me? Then my mom hears

  everything."

  This girl was crafty--I had to give her that. I wanted to toss my champagne in her face. But

  crazy as she was, I'd made a deal with her.

  I narrowed my eyes at her and slowly finished the rest of my drink. "Fine," I said. Then I

  handed her my empty glass and wove through the revelers on my way back to my car.

  "Honey? Are you serious? Tomorrow morning?" the travel agent said. "Isn't that late notice?"

  "That's how business gets done sometimes," I snapped into my phone as I sped down La

  Cienega to my apartment. "Iris just told me she has to go to New York. The first flight out

  tomorrow. As long as it's first class. American if you have it, but we'll take anything." My

  other line beeped. "Hold on." I clicked over. "Hello?"

  "Hi, Taylor, I have Bob Glazer," said the assistant.

  "Okay, put him through."

  I turned up my West Hollywood street and pointed my garage-door opener at the gate,

  adrenaline coursing through my body. On my way home from Chateau, as I crawled my way

  down Sunset under the lit billboards, it had finally hit me--I could send Iris to New York to

  meet with Holden MacIntee. He was still there, doing press before going to Europe on

  Monday, where he would hopscotch between London, Paris, and Berlin for two more weeks.

  This would be the last opportunity for a face-to-face between studio and star until after the

  holidays. Iris actually sounded more than game for the trip when I called her from the car and

  told her Holden had requested a face-to-face.

  Now I just needed to tell Holden's people about it.

  Bob Glazer picked up the line. "Taylor?" he asked gruffly.

  "Bob, hi!" I said, trying to sound cheerful as opposed to desperate.

  "What do you want? I'm just about to get out of here."

  "Iris wants to have dinner with Holden tomorrow night in New York," I said, pulling into my

  parking space. "About Evan. Before he goes to Europe."

  Bob sighed. "All right, fine. I think we can do that."

  In my excitement, I very nearly bounced up and down in my seat like a two-year-old. All

  systems go. Or almost: I still had the travel agent on the other line.

  "What do you have for me?" I asked, clicking back over.

  "I have her on a 9 a.m. flight that gets into New York tomorrow at 6 p.m. First class.

  American. Returning nine o'clock Sunday. And the Mandarin could give her a suite with a

  street view."

  "Perfect. Thanks. Gotta go."

  Ten minutes later, I'd ordered Iris a car, e-mailed Iris the itinerary, and texted Quinn.

  All done. Leaving Sat. morning, returning Sunday night.

  Now all I had to do was get ready to meet Luke in the handful of minutes I had left.

  I laid my new dress on the bed, closed my bedroom door, and took a frantic, three-minute

  shower. When I got out, I could hear The Dog Whisperer, Magnolia's favorite show, on the

  TV.

  "Hey!" Magnolia called from the kitchen. "I got Poquito Mas!"

  "I've got a date!" I yelled and opened my bedroom door. Then I screamed.

  Lying on top of my silky lavender Calypso dr
ess was the most disgusting creature I had ever

  seen. Was it a dog? Or was it some giant sewer rat? It gazed up at me from beneath a shelf of

  gray, matted hair.

  "What the hell?"

  "Oh, that's Woodstock!" yelled Magnolia, running down the hall. "I just pulled him from the

  shelter. They were going to put you down, weren't they," she cooed.

  "You brought another dog here?" I didn't bother to disguise the anger in my voice. "And you

  let him lie on my fucking dress?"

  "It's just for a few days. Isn't he cute? He's a Lhasa apso mix. I figure he just needs a quick

  bath, and he'll be snatched up in seconds."

  "We already have two dogs that have not been snatched up," I hissed.

  Magnolia stuck out her pretty lips in a pout. "Taylor, they were going to euthanize him--"

  "Does this look like a shelter to you?" I yelled. "Because it looks like an apartment to me.

  Though God knows it's now got as many dogs in it as the fucking pound!" I stalked over to the

  bed and shoved the slobbering mutt off my brand-new dress. "I just bought this!" I yelled,

  holding it up.

  "So it has a little hair on it," Magnolia said defensively, scooping up the frightened dog.

  "It cost two hundred and ninety bucks! It's not supposed to have hair on it!" I shrieked.

  Magnolia edged her way to the door. "What's happened to you?" she mumbled. "You've

  changed."

  "What?"

  She didn't look at me but I heard her words very clearly. "When did you turn into such an alpha

  bitch?"

  I clenched my fists at my sides. "I don't know, when did you turn into the crazy dog lady who

  watches Cesar Millan every night and eats only Poquito Mas? What's next--are you going to

  start knitting dog-hair sweaters or something?"

  Magnolia buried her face into Woodstock's disgusting fur. "I'm gonna take him for a walk,"

  she murmured. "Have a good time on your date."

  "Whatever."

  I flounced into the hallway and held the dress up before the mirror, smoothing its silky folds

  and brushing away Woodstock's hair. I observed my image and immediately cheered up. The

  lilac color brought out my eyes and looked great with my new tan. It was going to look

  absolutely fabulous on me, just like the Calypso girl had said. I took a deep breath. All I had to

  do was slip it on, put a little makeup on my face, and go have myself an excellent date.

  Everything was good.

  No, everything was great.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Welcome to Koi," the valet said as he opened my car door.

  I gave myself one more glance in the rearview. I'd put my hair up to show off the new earrings,

  and the mineral makeup I'd picked up from Sephora made my face glow. (How was it that I

  had never used bronzer before?) Thanks to Quinn, the past couple of hours had been

  profoundly unpleasant, but now I felt things once again falling back into place. With a final

  deep breath, I stepped out of my Civic. I realized, with a smile, that once my new raise kicked

  in, I might even be able to get a hybrid.

  Inside, the bar was even more packed than the last time I'd been there, and I quickly realized I

  should have suggested somewhere else. I'd been on the other line when Luke had called to set

  our plans, so I'd just said the first place that popped into my head. It made sense to me why I'd

  picked it--this was where I'd been on my first L.A. date, such as it was, and I guess my

  subconscious had brought me back. I didn't even like the place that much.

  Luke was nowhere in sight, so I squeezed past a group of girls who were already drunk and

  squealing at the tops of their lungs and made a beeline for the bar.

  "Pomegranate martini," I said to the Barbie bartender. "As soon as possible."

  To my left, a guy in a Tommy Bahama shirt and a gold chain smiled at me, looking like he

  might want to make conversation, but I stopped him cold with a mini-deathstare. He turned

  away--obviously I was getting better at it.

  As I waited for my drink, I couldn't help but replay the fight with Magnolia. I'd had no idea I

  was signing on to live with Ms. Canine Fucking Rescue, I'll say that much. Who the hell did

  she think she was? Telling me I'd changed? I wasn't the one who was slowly becoming a

  member of the animal kingdom. And what was I supposed to do, anyway? Apologize for not

  staying a loser? Was I a better roommate when I was on the couch, stuffing my face with ice

  cream and wondering if I should go back to Connecticut or even Cleveland?

  Maybe Magnolia was jealous. She had a degree from Wesleyan, but she spent her days

  scooping up dog shit and waxing people's genitals. It wasn't unreasonable to imagine that she

  resented my success. After all, I'd already accomplished more in a matter of months than I'd

  thought I would in a year.

  The bartender returned with my drink and carefully placed it on the bar. "Fifteen dollars," she

  said, holding out her hand.

  "It's on me," said a male voice.

  I assumed it was Tommy Bahama and was about to tell him to get lost when Mark Lyder

  stepped up beside me. His hair was tousled in that perfect way, and his large dark eyes still

  looked deceptively friendly, even as they scanned the room, always on the lookout for someone

  more important to talk to. And of course, his jaw was still dappled with two-day-old stubble.

  But then there was the small matter of the black eye he was still sporting.

  "Congratulations," he said as he dropped his black AmEx on the bar. "Cleveland scored a

  home run. And then some," he added with a chilly grin. "All the way to junior exec." He raised

  his beer to salute me. "And Holden MacIntee. That's quite a get."

  I sipped my drink, ignoring his salute. "And that's quite a shiner. Did you take up boxing?"

  He flashed me an even bigger phony smile, like Tom Cruise on a talk show. "Funny,

  Cleveland. You know where it came from."

  I shrugged. "Yeah, maybe. I hope it was worth it." You snake, I wanted to add.

  "I could say the same thing to you," he shot back.

  Coolly I raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what you're talking about." I turned to watch the

  door for Luke. Mark Lyder continued to hover in front of me. I couldn't imagine what he

  wanted. "Are you here for dinner? Or are you trolling for clients? I hear times are tough."

  "Wow, Taylor," he said, shaking his head. "Looks like you're in need of another lesson. Never

  burn bridges. Especially in Hollywood."

  I was about to tell him to go eat some edamame and grow some breasts when Luke strolled

  through the door in a brown suede jacket and a cream-colored button-down shirt. I'd never seen

  him in anything but tennis whites, and the effect was impressive. He looked nervous--and very,

  very handsome.

  Mark whirled around to see the object of my gaze. "Well, well," he said, understanding

  flooding his face. "Now I'm really impressed." With one last swallow, he drained his glass and

  left it on the bar. "Congratulations again, Cleveland," he hissed and then disappeared into the

  dining room.

  I left my drink on the bar and made my way, as quickly as my Jimmy Choo boots would let

  me, over to Luke. Mark Lyder and Kylie deserved each other--even snakes need mates, right?-and I was in no mood to stay and eat dinner anywhere near him.

  As I approached, Luke gave me a broad, warm smile. My heart did a little dance in my chest.

&n
bsp; "Sorry I'm late, I had to shower at the club," he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek. "Wow.

  You look beautiful." He took in the formfitting dress appreciatively.

  "Thank you," I said. "You don't look half bad yourself." He was getting ready to take off his

  coat but I put out my hand to stop him. "You know what? Would you mind very much if we

  went somewhere else?"

  Luke chuckled. He almost seemed relieved. "Not at all. This place not your scene?" He

  gestured to the drunk girls and the men eyeballing them.

  "Not tonight it's not."

  "Cool. Then let's go to my neighborhood," he said. "You can follow me in your car."

  "Sounds great." I sighed in relief as I followed him to the door. Then I gave another minideathstare to a redhead who looked Luke up and down like he was something she wanted to

  eat. "Where are we headed?"

  He smiled. "You like the beach?"

  I followed Luke's Wrangler down rough-and-tumble Lincoln Boulevard. I was pretty sure we

  were headed into Venice, and so far, I wasn't that impressed; I saw a few cruddy-looking

  restaurants and a handful of guys who looked like they spent more time drinking than they did

  anything else. But then we turned onto a tree-lined street full of cute little brightly painted

  bungalows. It was dark and quiet down there, and as Luke's taillights continued on toward the

  water, I started to smell the salt in the breeze.

  He finally parked in front of Hama Sushi, an open-air restaurant just steps from the beach.

  "This good?" he asked when I walked up to join him. "Shouldn't be too hard to get a table here.

  You won't, like, miss the velvet rope or anything?"

  I lobbed a flirty little punch at his arm. "This is great."

  As much as this was a waste of my gorgeous new dress, I liked being so near the beach. And I

  was surprised at how relieved I felt to get away from Koi and all the prying eyes--Mark

  Lyder's in particular.

  On one side the restaurant was a big, airy, tent-covered space with a giant projection screen

  broadcasting a football game on mute.

  "Let's sit in here," Luke said, leading me into a more private room to the left. As we walked

  past the sushi bar, the chefs cheered; someone had made a touchdown or something. "It's

  nothing fancy, but the otoro here is amazing," he said happily, sitting down.