Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club Read online

  “You know, I have a lovely deal with the Peninsula for recovery time,” Melnick said. “Back door to back door service. I do house calls to the hotel for post-op follow-up. So easy.” Dr. Melnick pulled open the exam room door. “Next month, my darling.”

  That was almost a week ago. Now Cici stared into the workout room mirror, searching for the flaws that she and Dr. Melnick had discussed.

  “Okay, then. Finished,” Liam jumped up from the mat and grabbed his gear. “Cici, you do me proud,” he said and kissed both her cheeks. “Hard work and sweat. All natural all the time. See you tomorrow.”

  Cici waved and glanced into the mirror. Yeah, all natural all the time.

  *

  Cici pulled her sky blue convertible Jag, a recent gift from Ted (selected to match the color of her eyes), into the parking lot behind the Nail Hut. No one would guess this nondescript shop on Wilshire Boulevard housed the best manicurists in Beverly Hills. Ever since filming Seven Minutes Past Midnight, Cici kept a standing once-a-week date for a mani-pedi with Mary Anne Meyers.

  Cici enjoyed her time each week with Mary Anne, who had become a close friend while Cici was filming Seven Minutes, almost four years before. Cici could be her true self with Mary Anne. Cici feared each character she played stole a piece of her true self and in return left an indelible mark on her personality. After decades of playing pretend, sometimes, late at night, an uncertainty about how to know who her true self was clutched Cici insides and twisted the very fabric of her soul. Mary Anne grounded her—she steadied the dramatics and grasped at Cici. Perhaps because Mary Anne was the least “Hollywood” of all Cici’s Hollywood friends.

  Cool manufactured air blasted Cici in the face as she opened the back door of the Nail Hut. She walked toward the celebrity suite, where she and Mary Anne could gossip privately; another lovely perk to the Nail Hut. Well, semi-privately: Two manicurists would be listening, but Jessica Caulfield-Fox, Cici’s manager, required everyone who worked on Cici to sign a confidentiality agreement.

  “Cici!” Mary Anne called from her pedicure throne. “Were you followed?”

  Cici pulled off her hat and sunglasses. “Not today.”

  She reached for a chilled Diet Coke from the crystal ice bucket sitting on the marble table next to the door and stepped up to flop into the chair beside Mary Anne. Mary Anne was more than pretty, but not necessarily the first woman you’d notice when you entered a room. At first glance she looked like someone you’d met before—at the grocery store or the mall—not that Cici ever went to the mall.

  Mary Anne’s beauty, in part, came from the fact that she had no idea that she was beautiful. Tall with fair skin, Mary Anne’s blue eyes contained specks of green and freckles dotted her nose. The freckles, Cici believed, helped Mary Anne appear ageless … what a gift.

  “Good to see you.” Warmth eased through Cici with the presence of her friend. “How was the West End? I hear Adam’s play is spectacular.”

  “I love it. The West End, I mean.”

  “Incredible isn’t it? But the press in London is even more intrusive than here. Really, the only place to get any peace is Paris. Or maybe Africa.”

  “I’m only a writer, not nearly as sexy as you. A photo of me exiting a grocery store isn’t worth thousands of dollars,” Mary Anne joked.

  “When did you get back?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “For how long?”

  “For good.”

  Cici eased her feet into the warm water and glanced at Mary Anne. She assumed Mary Anne would be in LA for a short visit before returning to London.

  “I thought you’d stay in London with Adam.”

  “So did I.”

  Cici hesitated. She wanted Mary Anne to offer up the details, but Cici had never mastered patience. After a minute and a half of watching rose petals swirl around her toes, Cici finally asked. “So what happened?”

  “He’s … busy. I left London two weeks ago and went to Ireland and Scotland.”

  Cici hated the thought of Mary Anne traipsing around the Scottish moors alone. They were a romantic place when with a lover, but so forlorn and cold when single.

  “And?”

  “And”—Mary Anne paused but didn’t meet Cici’s gaze—“we’re finished.”

  Cici contained her shock. Mary Anne’s eyebrows wrinkled into a frown.

  “I see.”

  Cici couldn’t tell if Mary Anne wanted to wallow or rejoice with the demise of her relationship. Cici would follow Mary Anne’s cue and do either.

  Mary Anne chewed on her bottom lip and continued to stare at her toes. “The relationship hasn’t been right for a while. I mean, it’s been almost seven months since …” Mary Anne’s sentence drifted off as though she couldn’t bare to say the words. Mary Anne’s chin tilted down and her shoulders hunched forward as if her whole body protected her from embarrassment.

  “Since?” What could Mary Anne and Adam postpone for seven months that had caused the apparently perfect couple to break up? Cici gasped. “You haven’t had sex with Adam in seven months?” Mary Anne flinched and pulled her hands into a tight ball in her lap. “Sorry,” Cici whispered. She leaned toward Mary Anne. “Seven months? How did you go seven months? I can barely go seven days.”

  Mary Anne shook her head. Her fingertips flew to her lips. Her gaze chased around the room as if looking for some answer to Cici’s question. Finally she sighed as if resigned to not knowing for certain “We’re both so cerebral, and that part of our relationship was never quite right.”

  Cerebral or monastic?

  “But it’s good,” Mary Anne continued. “I’ll be busy. Lydia wants me to do a polish on a script she’s putting into production.”

  “What’s the script?”

  “The Sexual Being. Sean Ellis is attached to direct.”

  “Isn’t Holden Humphrey starring in Sexual Being after he finishes Collusion?”

  A blush crept across Mary Anne’s face.

  “And the production work?” Cici asked.

  “Lydia wants me to do that, too.”

  “I see.” Cici said.

  Mary Anne wore her brown curly hair pulled back in a ponytail and her lips twitched into a tiny smile.

  “What?” Mary Anne finally looked at Cici.

  Mary Anne couldn’t be this dense. There was chemistry between Mary Anne and Holden and a past.

  “The rewrite is a lot of money and I like the project.” Mary Anne’s voice pitched high and her head bobbled side to side as she tried to prove to not only Cici but herself that what she said was true. “I couldn’t say no. We go into production in about eight weeks. I’ll be in L.A. and then Brazil for three months.” She paused. “He’s coming to L.A. tomorrow.”

  “Holden? But he’s on set in Toronto?”

  “He’s got a break in his schedule, so he’s flying into L.A.”

  “To discuss Sexual Being with you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where?” Cici asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where? Where are you meeting Holden to discuss the script?”

  Cici had worked in film for twenty years and you could determine the intent of a meeting by the location. Different expectations came with a lunch meeting at The Grill than drinks at L’Ermitage.

  “Shutters on the Beach,” Mary Anne said.

  Even sweet-faced Mary Anne had to realize that when a former lover flew from Toronto to discuss script notes at a beachside hotel, certain things could happen. Cici angled her head and cocked her eyebrow.

  “Holden and I spent one night together,” Mary Anne said.

  “But quite a night. From what I heard.”

  “This is a script meeting,” Mary Anne said. “Lydia and Jessica set it up. Holden has concerns about his character and wants to talk with me before I start the rewrite.”

  “Makes perfect sense.” Cici shrugged and tossed her hair. If Mary Anne was this deep in denial then Cici would play along with this little
charade.

  “So, how’s Ted?” Mary Anne asked.

  “He’s in Japan.”

  “Japan?”

  “All the time. I’m a little bored by his absence. Something to do with film finance and DVD sales.”

  Mary Anne leaned across the chair and ducked her chin. “Have you told him?” she whispered.

  “About?”

  Mary Anne placed both her hands on her cheeks and pulled upward. A giggle escaped Cici’s lips because of the way Mary Anne looked and to ward off the pang of fear that tightened in her gut with the thought of the big ‘F.’

  “It’s only an eye-lift.”

  “Sure,” Mary Anne sat back in her chair. “What did Ted say?”

  Now it was Celeste’s turn to pause. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have with her billionaire lover—he’d hate the idea of Celeste changing one single solitary cell of her skin. Ted was a man—a gorgeous, ageless man—how could he possibly begin to understand the fear that crashed through Cici with each line she discovered around her eyes?

  “You still haven’t told him.”

  Some secrets were better kept than shared.

  “You are going to tell him, aren’t you? There is no way you can hide this from him. You’ll be lucky if you can hide it from the entire world. Celeste Solange, America’s sweetheart, getting her face done? That’s big news.”

  Cici glanced at the two women scrubbing her feet with pumice stones.

  “I’m going to tell him,” Cici said. I’ve got a photo shoot at the end of the week for California Girl.”

  “The one sheet?”

  Celeste nodded. She disliked photo shoots. Tedious affairs, they became boring long before the photographer finished.

  “Who’s the photographer?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Some guy from London. Nathan Curtis, I think.”

  “I’ve heard of him. You know he used to be paparazzi. Got his big break when he shot one of the royals coming out of a strip club.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Why would Worldwide hire a former paparazzo to shoot one of their biggest stars? Maybe she should mention it to Ted or Lydia.

  “He must have gone legit if he’s working for Worldwide.”

  “Must have. Anyway, back to you and Holden,” Cici said.

  “There isn’t a me and Holden.”

  “But there could be.”

  “Cici, you once told me that the worst thing a girl could do was to date an actor.”

  “Who said anything about date? I’m just saying … Brazil, People’s Sexiest Man Alive, best sex of your life, end of seven months’ abstinence? Sounds like the perfect ingredients for a post-breakup affair.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything serious. I’m merely pointing out that while you’re in South America, thousands of miles away from everyone, it might be a great opportunity to have a little fun.”

  “I wish I could be more like you and Lydia when it came to sex.”

  “Lydia? Not anymore. Ever since Zymar she’s monogamous and I haven’t slept with another man since Ted and I moved in together after Seven Minutes Past Midnight.”

  Cici leaned back and closed her eyes. Seven Minutes had almost ended all their careers. Lydia and Jessica had secretly screened their controversial film at CTA, a bold move that saved everyone’s jobs and made Ted’s studio hundreds of millions of dollars.

  “Where is Arnold, anyway?” Mary Anne asked, referring to Arnold Murphy, the former president of Worldwide Pictures who had tried to sabotage the movie and destroy Celeste, Lydia, Jessica, and Mary Anne.

  “I think he’s working for a theater in New York. Ted bought out his contract at the studio and gave him an incredible severance package.”

  “And Josanne?” Mary Anne asked about Arnold’s sidekick and minion.

  “She moved to New York and represents filmmakers.”

  “I’m surprised they’re not back in the business out here.”

  “Oh, they’ll be back. I’m sure of it. Arnold has a history of scurrying away to lick his wounds and then creeping back to L.A. Where else can he go? He couldn’t actually function in any business aside from entertainment.” Celeste and Mary Anne both knew that quirks, eccentricities, and huge egos—liabilities anywhere else—were character traits rewarded in Hollywood.

  “You’re from a red state. Can you imagine Arnold trying to do business in South Dakota?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “Whatever. My point remains the same. He can only function here. We haven’t seen the last of Arnold.”

  “Bet he’s pissed at Lydia,” Mary Anne said as the manicurist uncapped Chanel’s Vamp to start polishing.

  “Pissed? Oh yeah,” Celeste said. “Lydia’d better be ready, because when Arnold Murphy returns to Hollywood, he’ll be gunning for her.”

  Rule 3: Never Let Them Know You’re Afraid

  Lydia Albright, President of Production Worldwide Pictures

  Lydia Albright disliked her job. She sat in her office atop Worldwide Pictures tower of power. A mountain of scripts threatened to topple from her desk. When did her disdain for studio films begin? She loved making movies. She had arrived on her first film set at six months old and then spent little time anywhere else. Until now. She had accepted Ted Robinoff’s offer to become the president of production at Worldwide Pictures and now she didn’t make movies as much as put out fires. She spent nearly every hour of her day dealing with people and their problems.

  Since accepting the job, Lydia spent no time on set making films. Her deal with Ted had allowed her to run Worldwide Pictures while maintaining her production company at Worldwide, which made her, arguably, the most powerful woman in entertainment. But Lydia didn’t feel powerful. She felt frustrated.

  She pushed her chair back from her desk and looked out the window of her corner office on the thirty-sixth floor. She caught her reflection in the glass window. Her thick chestnut hair was tousled and her brown eyes appeared weary beneath her tightly knitted brows.

  Far below her, on the studio lot, she could just make out the bungalow that housed her production company, Albright Films. Unlike this swank corporate office, the little building with three tiny offices and an overstuffed couch felt like home. Down there, in that comfy office, she wouldn’t have to deal with this new problem. This very big—very distressing problem.

  Lydia glanced at the letter in her hand—it was the third one. She received it that morning.

  Should she tell studio security? She wanted to pretend that nothing had happened. She wanted to ignore these threatening notes. She wanted to return to her cozy little office far far below—but she couldn’t.

  Lydia turned her back to the windows. Like the two letters sent before, this one was typed on handmade ecru paper. Although the rhyme was horrid, the threat contained enough hints that Lydia’s mind reeled with possibilities.

  Hickory Dickory Dock, Lydia sat on top.

  The star turned tricks, the director’s a dick,

  Hickory Dickory Dock.

  Lydia received the second letter—same paper, same typing, same horrendous take on a nursery rhyme, that time Humpty Dumpty—the night before, at her home in the Hollywood Hills. She sat alone on the back patio reading when the phone rang. The static sound of the front gate crackled over the line. Lydia went to the front of her house and peeked out the window to watch the Excalibur Messenger Service van pull onto her drive. The driver parked and skipped up the steps to the door. The envelope was the right size to contain movie scripts, but when Lydia took it from the messenger, the package felt light.

  “That it?” Lydia asked. She expected four scripts from the studio.

  “Yes, ma’am. Please sign here.”

  Lydia dutifully signed and then shut the door. The typewritten label didn’t have a logo and there was no return address. Lydia walked toward the slate patio at the back of the house where her still-warm cup of tea sat on the wicker ta
ble. She slid her finger under the lip of the envelope and the glue gave way. She reached in and pulled out the thick, soft stationery. The note was typed, not handwritten, and the author had typed the numeral two in the top left corner of the page. Strange. Then Lydia read the rhyme:

  Lydia Albright sat in a tower

  Lydia Albright had all the power

  All Ted’s attorneys and all of Ted’s men

  Couldn’t put Worldwide back together again.

  Although Lydia read plenty of horrible writing—she’d worked both as a producer and a studio head—this rhyme not only offended her literary senses but also caused her heart to drop. A sinking sensation, like watching a rock drop into a pond and descend to the darkened depths drifted through Lydia. This awful little take on Humpty Dumpty changed the evening and, potentially, her life.

  Lydia glanced at the letter again, and the numeral two in the upper left corner finally registered in her mind. She realized with a jolt that this must, in fact, be the second letter … meaning that the first letter remained elsewhere, floating in the world.

  Lydia stood and walked into the house. Vilma, her housekeeper, always placed Lydia’s mail in the Waterford bowl on the marble counter in the kitchen. Lydia rifled through the advertisements, requests for money, and bills. Nothing.

  She picked up the phone and pressed three, speed-dialing the home number of her assistant, Toddy.

  “Hello,” Toddy answered, her voice thick with sleep.

  “You’re asleep?”

  “Yes, Lydia, some of us do sleep at night.”

  “But it’s not even eleven.”

  “Can I help you? Fourteen hours a day isn’t enough?”

  “Do you remember me getting a letter?” Lydia asked. Her pulse quickened with the thought of letter number one unattended in the world.

  “Could you be more specific? You get approximately three hundred and ten pieces of correspondence each week. All of which, by the way, I open, sort, and file.”

  “This one would go under crazy,” Lydia said. “And it might rhyme.”

  “Those I usually send to Briggs Montgomery.”