Hollywood Girls Club Read online

  HOLLYWOOD GIRLS CLUB

  Maggie Marr

  Copyright © 2012

  All Rights Reserved.

  AGENCY INFORMATION

  NLA Digital Liaison Platform LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Writers spend years laboring over a single book. Please respect their work by buying their books from legitimate sources. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Praise for Hollywood Girls Club

  “Romance, sex…[Marr] clearly knows her way around Hollywood. Saucy…bound to be compared to certain Jackie Collins titles not just because of the Hollywood subject matter but also because Marr brings a similar ferocious energy to her writing.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Marr’s titillating debut…Marr offers plenty of steamy romance. Each woman gets a string of lovers—some winners, some losers—in her bawdy romp.”

  —Kirkus

  “Hollywood power-puff Marr pulls back the curtain on the wizards of Tinseltown…The girls’ club cutthroat and callous turns out to be a lot like the boys’ club, but cattier and more fun to read about.”

  —Publisher’s Weekly

  “Maggie Marr’s L.A. story of friendships, scandals, and crazy egos is as fun and entertaining as any Hollywood blockbuster.”

  —Social Life Magazine

  “Hollywood Girls Club is about as easy to stop consuming as a bowl of Häagen-Dazs.”

  —Robin Hazelwood, author of Model Student

  “Smart, sassy and brilliantly observed … a funny and sharp exposé of the Hollywood machine.”

  —Sue Margolis, author of Gucci Gucci Coo

  Praise for Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club

  “In her follow-up to The Hollywood Girls Club Marr not only takes readers behind the scenes of Tinseltown, she plummets them into the middle of hot sex scandals, blackmail and illicit affairs. These four powerful women not only manage to stay on top – both in the office and in the bedroom — they keep their friendship strong and their movies hot.”

  —Romantic Times Book Review 4 Stars

  “Marr’s second novel is frothy, gossipy fun for US and People magazine addicts.”

  —Booklist Review

  “Marr’s prose is fast and sharp and she keeps the plots flying….The ripsnorter sequel to Hollywood Girls Club revolves around sex and plastic surgery secrets…if it sounds like fun it is.”

  —Publisher’s Weekly

  “This is a juicy, delicious read! I just loved the insider secrets and the access to what really goes on in Hollywood—the stuff we suspect happens but is always denied by scary publicists.”

  —Marian Keyes, author of The Other Side of The Story

  “Move over, Jackie Collins! Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club is a steamy page-turner bursting with insider Hollywood gossip. I loved it!”

  —Sarah Mlynowski, author of Milkrun and Ten Things We Did (And Probably Shouldn’t Have)

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  An excerpt from The Secrets Of The Hollywood Girls Club

  Praise for Can’t Buy Me Love

  An excerpt from Can’t Buy Me Love

  An excerpt from Courting Trouble

  Chapter 1

  Celeste Solange and Her Fifteen-Thousand-Dollar Shoes

  Celeste Solange needed shoes, and not just any kind of shoes – she needed Manolos, Choos, and Versaces. Shoes with price tags containing a minimum of three zeros. Shoes that made salesclerks salivate and Beverly Hills trophy wives green with envy. Damien would pay. She’d make sure of it. He’d blanch at the sight of his credit-card bill. Celeste glanced into the rearview mirror of her midnight blue Porsche Boxster convertible. Although she wore oversized Gucci sunglasses, she knew that behind the shades her turquoise eyes were red-rimmed and swollen (the same gold-flecked catlike eyes for which she was famous). Her signature blond hair, usually expertly coiffed and styled, whipped in the California wind. A cross between Michelle Pfeiffer and Marilyn Monroe, Celeste was the sexpot screen siren of the century (or at least the last five years).

  Who did Damien Bruckner think he was? Heat seared through her taut belly as Celeste pressed her perfectly pedicured toes onto the accelerator. A rush of adrenaline thrilled through her as the pedal sank to the floorboard and she took the tight turn on Mulholland Drive. When Celeste met Damien five years before, he was, perhaps, the most prolific film producer in Hollywood, and Celeste the hottest star. But five years (in an industry where the power brokers changed every ten years) was a lifetime.

  Celeste crested a hill and looked at Los Angeles lying at her feet. She could almost see the Pacific if it weren’t for the haze. The calm that usually accompanied this view was absent—destroyed by Damien’s deceit.

  L.A. must have been beautiful in the forties. As a child, she’d seen pictures in her grandmother’s old movie magazines—orange groves, mountains, beaches, and waves all visible from the top of Mulholland and the Hollywood Hills. The very beauty those pictures promised had captivated a young Celeste and drawn her from a trailer court in Tennessee to the land of movie stars. Now, with the exhaust and pollution, the view was tarnished. This view was dirty and gray. Just like Damien Bruckner.

  Damien believed he’d satisfy Celeste by giving her a five-carat diamond and his last name. But after what Celeste had found, neither the diamond nor the name was enough. None of it was. The fucker.

  For five years, Celeste fucked him and blew him. Even fucked a few of his friends, and why? Why? Good question. Celeste thought she’d known the answer. For the fulfillment of a promise. That once Amanda Bruckner, Damien’s first wife, was gone, she—Celeste Solange, superstar—would be Mrs. Damien Bruckner. And finally, in the perfect Malibu wedding just six months ago, Celeste had gotten her wish. Or what she thought was her wish. Fulfilling Celeste’s desire to be one half of “the” power couple in the movie business. It had been a grandiose event. Everyone was there. Tom, Kate, Will, Bruce, even the ever-reclusive Robert. The press was phenomenal. Helicopters whirling overhead, paparazzi sneaking through the bushes. (Damien and Celeste had been smart enough to get tents.) The picture of her dress, Celeste heard, had sold for more than a hundred grand.

  And then, almost immediately after t
he wedding, the rumors began. The rumors and the questions. What about Celeste’s career? Was it over? She hadn’t worked in close to two years—was she leaving film to become a domestic diva? Perhaps a little Bruckner was soon to follow the Malibu wedding ceremony. Or perhaps, as the most popular tabloid rumors implied, Celeste was already pregnant with what was sure to be the perfect Hollywood child. None of it was true. Celeste’s sabbatical from film was at Damien’s behest, causing, he believed, the public’s hunger for her next picture to swell. Because Celeste’s first film in two years was scheduled to be the next film Damien produced, an action adventure entitled Borderland Blue.

  Celeste gripped the steering wheel of her Porsche with an anger that couldn’t be denied—an anger that consumed her beauty, her dreams, even her picture-perfect marriage.

  Damien’s ex-wife, Amanda Bruckner, would have laughed at this scenario. Thrown back her head and cackled with glee. Barely forty-five and set for life, Amanda sat in a stunning $15 million home in Nice overlooking the ocean, and Damien threw gazillions of dollars at her just to keep her quiet and to stay the fuck away from Los Angeles. Amanda kept his name and a huge chunk of his money (in addition to the $50,000 a month in alimony Damien paid). Amanda—was free. Amanda would appreciate the humor in Celeste’s current situation— how could she not? The irony was absolute.

  Black lace panties.

  It seemed Damien liked them on all his women. Because the black lace panties that Mathilde (Celeste and Damien’s housekeeper) had found in Damien’s suitcase this morning weren’t all that different from all the pairs of little black lace panties Celeste wore when Damien was sleeping with Celeste and still married to Amanda.

  “Senora, es to?” Mathilde had asked, holding up the crotchless undies as she unpacked the suitcase Damien brought home from New Zealand late last night.

  Emerging from the bathroom sauna, Celeste froze at the sight of Mathilde waving the panties over the couple’s king-size bed. Her heart pounded. Those are not mine. Even from a distance she could tell. The offensive black polyester lingerie that Mathilde held was cheap and shoddily made. It had been a decade since Celeste had felt anything but Agent Provocateur against her skin.

  Celeste put on her Hollywood game face (she was a Golden Globe–winning actress, after all) and smiled at Mathilde. “Sí. Un presente for Senor Bruckner. To remember me by, while he was away on set.”

  No need to have the help talking. If Mathilde discovered that Damien was having an affair, everyone in town would know. All the hired help rode the same bus—how do you think everyone in Hollywood found out that Steven Brockman was gay?

  Celeste flinched at the memory, swerving around her rapper neighbor’s Escalade attempting to turn onto Mulholland in front of her. It wasn’t the fucking around that pissed her off. They were a liberal sort of Hollywood couple. Celeste had been aware of Damien’s fling with this little cocktease of an actress Brianna Ellison for months. But the trip to New Zealand, to a film Damien wasn’t even producing (executive producing only; he might as well be a grip), combined with this little tramp getting the lead in Borderland Blue, that was enough to make Celeste burn.

  Damien didn’t even have the integrity to tell Celeste that she’d been bumped from the lead role (and the sneaky bastard hadn’t left the trades lying around this morning—he’d taken Variety and Hollywood Reporter). But Damien wasn’t clever enough. Much like finding crotchless panties in the hands of their housekeeper, Celeste learned of her public disgrace via another employee—this time her publicist, Kiki Dee. There in the fax machine, just like every morning, lay copies of all the articles (Us, People, Star, the Enquirer, Variety …) that mentioned Celeste. But this morning there’d been a hissing cobra on the second page of Kiki’s twenty-page fax. BRUCKNER BLUE FOR BRIANNA screamed the headline in Variety.

  The humiliation was horrifying. Celeste had spent the last two years prancing around town talking about nothing but her next big part in Damien’s next big film. For two years, through script rewrites, changes in director, and changes in locale, Celeste had held off doing any other film. Instead, Celeste waited for Damien and Borderland Blue. She’d been offered other roles. Roles for which other actresses were nominated and even won awards, fulfilling what was Celeste’s dream—to have an Oscar to sit next to her Golden Globe. But no, Celeste waited. She waited for Damien’s film, because he’d promised.

  And now Brie Ellison was getting the lead—an eighteen-year-old wannabe who hadn’t even starred in a film.

  Sure, her breasts were perky and she had great hair, but so did Celeste. Celeste had paid twenty-five grand just three months ago to have her breasts re-perked (a little maintenance in preparation for the bikini scenes). It wasn’t pleasant having stitches around your nipples.

  How had this happened? Fury knotted in her stomach. Fury and anger and even fear. Fear that her career was over, fear that she’d never work again—fear that she’d lose everything she spent a lifetime working for and have to return to that beat-up trailer in Tennessee. Celeste’s heart hammered within her chest and she gulped big breaths of air. The money, the marriage, the house, the clothes—none of it meant anything if she didn’t have her job—her work—her career.

  Where the fuck was her agent in this colossal mess? It was Jessica’s job—not only as Celeste’s agent but also as her best friend—to protect Celeste’s business interests and to never let her get blindsided in the trades. Celeste obviously couldn’t trust her husband to look out for her best interests (at least whenever his cock was involved). But her agent, one of her closest friends? What was going on? Jessica had to have known about this deal; she was the president of CTA, the most powerful agency in town. Agents knew everything, every bit of business, gossip, and intrigue that went down, usually before all the players. And Jessica was the best.

  “Jessica’s office,” Celeste commanded her hands-free cell.

  “Jessica Caulfield’s office,” answered Kim, Jessica’s number one assistant.

  “It’s me,” Celeste said. The bitchiness in her voice was barely contained.

  “One moment, Celeste. I’ll get her.”

  They’d better recognize her voice. She’d paid enough in commission to CTA over the last seven years to buy a Third World country. Ten percent of her $20 million quote combined with ten percent of first-dollar gross was big bucks.

  “Cici—”

  “What the fuck is going on, Jessica?” Celeste roared over the phone line. Fuck it. She knew she sounded shrill and high maintenance, but she didn’t care. This was her life, her career!

  “Cici, the deal closed late last night, one A.M. I didn’t find out until two.”

  “You could have called.”

  “Someone leaked it to the trades; it wasn’t supposed to run today. I’m sorry, Cici. I swear we just didn’t get in front of the story fast enough.”

  “I was bumped for someone younger and by my own fucking husband!”

  “Cici, there are at least a dozen producers who want you in their films. I have three full-quote offers right now—pick one. We’ll run it tomorrow; it’ll look like it was your decision, not Damien’s—that you chose to step off of Borderland Blue for a better film.”

  “I don’t like them. I’ve read them,” Celeste whined, her anger deflating. She wanted sympathy from her agent. And coddling. And a fucking good script.

  “What do you like? What do you want to do?”

  “I like Borderland Blue, Celeste whispered, “and I want my husband not to be such a backstabbing bastard.” Her bottom lip quivered—she was bumped and her marriage was most certainly over. A lump of sadness plopped into her heart and spread upward and grasped at her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek and willed herself to halt the tears that threatened—again.

  “What about Lydia’s film?” Celeste finally asked. Lydia Albright was a close friend of both hers and Jessica’s and a mega-producer. One way to get back at a bastard was to do the film of his biggest competitor. Plus she’d
rather spend four months on set with Lydia—someone she could trust—than be thrust into the arms of a producer she disliked and some project she loathed.

  “She can’t make your deal,” Jessica said.

  “What about a trick deal?” Celeste asked. “SAG minimum and more gross points?”

  The silence from Jessica only confirmed what Celeste knew to be true. Working on Lydia’s film, with a trick deal, was a gargantuan gamble. Celeste hadn’t worked in two years and she would forgoe her $20 million fee on the possibility of Lydia’s film, Seven Minutes Past Midnight, becoming a success. The risk was obvious; did the public still love Celeste enough that she could open a blockbuster action film and earn her fee on the back end?

  “If that’s what you want,” Jessica said her voice even, “I’ll call right now.”

  Celeste sighed and the iron-gripped fear in her belly relaxed its tightfisted grip. The slightest smile crossed her face. At least Jessica still believed in Celeste and her box office strength. “I’ll call Lydia. You call the attorneys and start drafting the deal.”

  “Anything else?” Jessica asked.

  “I want a producer’s credit, too,” Celeste said, the wind whipping her golden locks around her face.

  “Not a problem. Call me after you talk to Lydia.”

  “Got it.” Celeste said and Jessica was gone. There was one more call to make before she dialed Lydia. Another call to make Damien pay. Aside from taking the role in Seven Minutes Past Midnight, there was one other thing that would force Damien to experience a similar anger and pain that burned through Celeste.

  For the second time, Celeste spoke to her phone, “Get me Frederick.”

  “‘Allo; Frederick,”

  “Lover,” Celeste purred.

  “Oh, my Cici! I wondered if I might hear from you today,” Frederick said, with a hint of a question.