Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club Read online

  “What?”

  “We have something to tell you,” Cici said.

  Jessica’s heart sank. Was this an intervention? Collusion was a flop? One of them was dying? “Okay,” she said. She slowly placed her menu on the table.

  “But once we tell you, then you become a part of it,” Lydia said. “You lose your—what was it, Cici?”

  “Plausible deniability,” Cici said.

  “That’s right. You lose your plausible deniability. So you may not want us to tell you.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Jessica asked. She looked first at Lydia and then at Cici. They were her two closest friends; they always helped one another out of tight spots.

  “No, we’re not kidding, Jess. With your deal at Worldwide—”

  “Lydia,” Jessica interrupted, “you run Worldwide. And, Cici, you live with the guy who owns Worldwide.”

  “Exactly,” Cici said, and stopped, her pause pregnant with innuendo.

  “Like I’m saying,” Lydia said, “you may not want to know this. We’re giving you a choice, because once you know, you lose your plausible deniability. And we know you have Mike and Max to think of.”

  Jessica sat back in her chair and contemplated the somber looks on the faces of Lydia and Cici. Yes, she did now have a husband and a son to consider, but these were her best friends. She’d risked her career for them before and had come out on top. If anything, she was in a much safer space now than when they’d screened Seven Minutes Past Midnight at CTA. Now Jessica owned her management-production company. Plus, Mike made a great living as a producer; she could always retire from film and become a soccer mom.

  “Okay, I get it. I do. It’s obviously a big deal. But I still want to know.”

  “It seems that Damien, as usual, didn’t keep his promise,” Cici said.

  “About?” Jessica asked.

  “The DVD,” Lydia said.

  “What DVD?”

  Celeste tilted her head to the side and cocked one eyebrow.

  “No. No! Not that DVD!” Jessica said.

  “Sh,” Lydia said, glancing around the patio. She nodded her head toward Jay, who sat in a far corner sipping iced tea and reading Daily Variety.

  “Not that DVD,” Jessica whispered.

  “Yes, that DVD,” Cici said. “He didn’t give me the only copy.”

  “What’s he doing with it? What does he want?” Jessica asked, confused. Cici and Damien had had little contact since the divorce, but as far as Jessica knew, it had been amicable, or at least as amicable as it could be after their bitter split.

  “It’s not Damien,” said Cici.

  “Who has it?” Jessica asked.

  “We don’t know yet who has it, or if it’s even still out there. What we’ve got is a photographer named Nathan Curtis who alluded to the tape at the photo shoot he did with Cici,” Lydia said.

  “What did Ted say?” Jessica asked.

  “Well, that’s where the plausible deniability comes in,” Lydia said.

  “You didn’t tell Ted?” Jessica asked. Cici looked down and shook her head no. “Cici, you have to tell Ted. There is no way to keep this a secret in town. You may be able to keep it away from the general public, but there is no way Ted won’t find out.”

  “I can’t,” Cici said. “At least not yet. Not until we know it’s real.”

  “And there’s more,” Lydia said.

  “More?” Jessica asked.

  “More? What more?” Cici chimed in. She glanced at Lydia incredulously.

  “I’ve got something that may or may not be related.” Lydia pulled her Kelly bag from the back of her chair. “If anyone ever asks, you guys never saw these, never read these, never even knew that they existed. I’ve put them in a folder,” Lydia whispered, “so my keeper over there won’t know what I’m showing you.”

  Lydia reached across the table and handed the folder to Jessica. “They’re in order of arrival.”

  Jessica scanned the letter with a numeral one marked in the upper lefthand corner. Her heart dropped to her feet. Celeste peered over Jessica’s arm, reading along with her. “Who—”

  “I don’t know,” Lydia said.

  “Really bad writing,” Jessica said.

  “Lydia, when did you start getting these?” Cici asked.

  “About the same time you met Nathan Curtis,” Lydia said.

  Jessica looked up at Lydia after finishing the fourth letter. “Where were they sent?”

  “The office, the house, and the last one, I found in my purse.”

  “Your purse?” Cici asked.

  Lydia nodded. “Jen’s party.”

  “No way,” Cici said.

  “Studio security checked the guest and staff lists, but so far nothing.”

  “So studio security knows,” Cici said.

  Lydia sighed. “About the letters. I showed them to Worldwide security before I heard from you about the tape and Nathan Curtis.”

  “That explains Jay,” Jessica said. She glanced across the patio at Lydia’s security detail. “So you knew in Toronto?”

  “I’d gotten three. The weird thing? They’ve never asked for anything.”

  “They’ve got to be linked, right? The letters and the DVD?” Cici asked.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Lydia said. She reached for the folder containing the letters and returned it to her bag. “The timing is just too coincidental.”

  “You know, Briggs gives Ted a weekly update on studio security,” Cici said.

  “He does?” Lydia asked.

  “Yeah, and there’s a special section in the briefing about me. Seems I’m not only a lover but an investment.”

  “At least you know he cares,” Jessica said, feigning a smile.

  “Ted’s going to find out about the letters,” Cici said.

  Jessica looked across the table at Lydia. She could tell from Lydia’s expression that they were both thinking the same thing: If the letter and the DVD were linked, then the “well-moneyed whore” mentioned in the third letter could only refer to Cici.

  “Cici, listen. You need to tell Ted,” Jessica said.

  Jessica wanted Cici to understand the tone of the letters. The risk. Jessica understood Lydia’s concern. Each letter grew increasingly aggressive, and yet none contained a demand. What could they do?

  “There is no way you can keep this from him,” Lydia added.

  Jessica watched big tears form in Cici’s eyes. Jessica felt sad for her. Cici cared so deeply for Ted, and Jessica knew the delicacy of the dance required to maintain any relationship in Hollywood. She turned to Lydia. “Well, wait. Do we know this is real?”

  “Those letters are pretty real,” Lydia said.

  “Right, but the letters might not be connected to the DVD. Right? Maybe we’re jumping to conclusions. The letters never say exactly what they’re about, or what they want.”

  “According to Security, until whoever is writing these makes a demand or shows their hand, there is nothing to do but wait,” Lydia said. “And keep our families safe.” She leaned forward. “Jess, Cici already has security at her house, and I have Jay. If you and Mike want a patrol or a guard—”

  Jessica looked at Lydia, at the intense concern on her friend’s face. She felt fear flutter along her insides. “I need to talk to Mike. But, yeah, I’d like to have someone around the house, I think. At least at night, with Max there. After reading these, it would make me feel better.”

  “Come on … you two are kidding, right? I get crazy fan mail all the time,” Cici said. Her tone sounded light, as though she were trying to brush away the seriousness of the letters.

  Jessica glanced at Lydia. She felt irritated by Cici’s nonchalance about the threats. Cici didn’t have a child to keep safe.

  “You said Sherman Ross was working on this with Howard, trying to uncover who has the DVD?” Lydia asked.

  Cici nodded.

  “Everyone in entertainment wants something, and usually it’s to direct a
film,” Lydia said. “I’ll just bet our little voyeur wants that, too. Why else come to Hollywood to pursue photography? I’ve got an idea to try to see if we can’t get Nathan Curtis under our control … or at the very least, under our surveillance. Cici, it’s your job to get on Nathan’s good side, feel him out about where he saw the DVD.”

  “And we don’t tell Ted,” Cici said.

  Lydia shook her head and sighed. “Fine, we don’t tell Ted. At least not yet.”

  “Lydia—”

  Lydia interrupted Cici. “Look, if our lives are in danger, I’m calling Ted and I’m calling Briggs Montgomery. I can’t promise you that we aren’t ever going to tell Ted. But we’ll keep our secrets for now … until we really feel threatened.”

  Jessica watched Cici’s face as Lydia’s statement registered. The possibility of real danger, Jessica realized, hadn’t occurred to Cici.

  “You don’t think someone would actually try to hurt one of us, do you?” Cici asked.

  “These letters keep getting more twisted. And when I heard that voice over the phone, it sent chills down my spine,” Lydia said.

  “You didn’t recognize the voice?” Jessica asked.

  Lydia looked at her. “I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.”

  Cici furrowed her brow. “Okay. I’m meeting Nathan, and if this starts to get ugly—”

  “We go to Ted,” Jessica finished Cici’s sentence.

  Celeste looked at Jessica and Lydia. “Okay, then we go to Ted.”

  *

  The lunch with Cici and Lydia left Jessica feeling numb. Sex tapes, phone threats, and anonymous letters? Real life was better than fiction. She guessed that everyone in entertainment had a dirty little secret somewhere. And maybe it wasn’t just in Hollywood; maybe everyone in the world harbored some dark little tale. Jessica glanced into the rearview mirror as she turned onto Beverly Glen. There were even a couple of tidbits that she herself hoped were permanently hidden.

  Damn Damien, Jessica thought. Cici told Jessica during their divorce that she had destroyed the original DVD. Jessica knew, even then, that there was no way to keep a lid on the footage, that there had to be another copy somewhere and that the footage would eventually leak. Too much money could be made by selling a sex tape of the biggest star in the world.

  Of course, until one of them actually saw the DVD, everything was speculation. But, oh man, Ted would flip. If he ever found out, Jessica thought. If. Like there was an if. Cici was in denial if she thought she could keep this secret from Ted.

  Jessica dialed Mary Anne’s number and listened to the phone ring as Jessica’s car twisted along Mulholland. She finally hung up and tried Mary Anne’s cell, but still no answer. I bet she’s taking the breakup really hard, Jessica thought. Unlike Cici, Jessica wasn’t convinced that Holden and Mary Anne were involved. She doubted Mary Anne could fall for a guy like Holden. Physically, of course, yes. Any woman could. They may well have had a fling at Shutters, especially with Mary Anne in such a fragile state. But as smart and as well read as Mary Anne was, how could Holden possibly maintain her interest? What would they discuss? And besides, Holden had a new starlet on his arm every three days.

  Mary Anne often unplugged her phone when she wrote, but she almost always answered her cell. Jessica suddenly had a vision of Mary Anne curled up in a ball on her couch with a box of Kleenex, a vat of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food, and a bottle of Absolut. Jessica hit the gas.

  When she got to Mary Anne’s and parked, she peeked in the front window, scanning the living room and the hall. She rang the doorbell. No answer. Maybe Mary Anne wasn’t home? But Mary Anne’s white Mercedes was parked in the drive. Being a writer, Mary Anne spent the majority of time at her home. She kept the spare key tucked in the planter on the front porch. Jessica rang again, waited, and finally retrieved the key, slid it into the lock, and gave the door a gentle shove.

  “Mary Anne?” Jessica called.

  She walked down the hall toward Mary Anne’s writing room. “Mary Anne?” she called louder.

  What was that? Jessica heard a low moan escape from Mary Anne’s bedroom. God, it’s worse than I thought; she’s crying and hasn’t even gotten out of bed!

  Jessica pushed open the door. “Sweetie, it’s not that bad.” And there she stopped. Before her was a mass of arms, legs, and one bare ass. A very good-looking bare ass.

  “Oh! I, just …” Jessica sputtered. “Never mind!” She pulled the door shut.

  How did that happen? This was the second time she’d walked in on people having sex. And why was it always surprising sex? Jessica hurried down the hall toward the front door.

  “Jessica, wait!” Mary Anne called. Jessica paused and turned back toward her client and friend, who was throwing a robe on as she ran after her.

  “Mary Anne, I’m so sorry,” Jessica said. “Lydia and Cici told me about Adam, and I was worried that maybe … well, you didn’t answer your phone and I just thought I’d check on you—”

  “I’m so embarrassed.”

  Jessica watched Mary Anne pull her crazy curly hair away from her face.

  “Was that …” Jessica leaned toward Mary Anne. “Holden?”

  Mary Anne blushed and nodded.

  “I see,” Jessica said. “Good for you.”

  “We were working on Sexual Being and—”

  “No need to tell me,” Jessica said, holding up her hands.

  “It just happened.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, the other day. At Shutters. We met there for a drink, to discuss the script and—”

  “It just happened,” Jessica said.

  “Right. And then when he got back from Toronto—”

  “It just happened again?” Jessica said. She tried to hold back her smile. “Right. Well, Max and Mike are home waiting for me and you’re okay, so …” She turned to leave.

  “Jessica, please. You won’t—”

  “Say anything?” Jessica interrupted. “Not a word. Promise.” Jessica didn’t want to tell Mary Anne that it didn’t matter whether she told anyone about the fun Mary Anne was having with Holden, because her friends already knew about the affair.

  “Thanks,” Mary Anne said. She followed Jessica to the front door.

  Jessica climbed into her Range Rover and waved at the front door as Mary Anne pulled it closed. The secrets just kept coming.

  Rule 11: Whatever the Client Wants, the Client Gets

  Kiki Dee, Publicist

  Although she was still a member of the walking wounded, Kiki’s stitches had healed and her bruises were barely visible under her Laura Mercier foundation. So she was once again ensconced in her suite of offices high above Century City. Kiki watched through the huge windows from her office, called the fishbowl, as her PR minions scurried around hard at work, sporting Jimmy Choos and Chanel suits. Kiki required her worker bees to look as fashionable as the talent KDP represented, and as Kiki herself. All of the junior publicists looked as though they had stepped out of the pages of Vogue … except Boom Boom.

  Kiki let her eyes drift over to the dumpy little Asian assistant sitting just outside Kiki’s office. As a favor to a B-list actor friend in a weak moment five years before, Kiki had hired Boom Boom just after Kiki’s partners had split, taking most of her A-list stars. Boom Boom was short (five-two), stocky (the word itself made Kiki shudder), and frumpy (today she wore a skirt that hit her awkwardly at the knee). Of course, Boom Boom was also brilliant (Yale class of 2007) and well connected (Sony). But the bottom line was that Kiki’s little ugly duckling had not an ounce of chutzpah, a quality that Kiki believed all great publicists needed. Loyal, hardworking, and exceptionally organized, Boom Boom possessed all the qualities any executive in Hollywood craved in an assistant … qualities for which Kiki Dee hated her. She was too perfect, in all the unnecessary ways. Boom Boom still failed to act like a publicist. An assistant, yes, but a publicist? Not even close.

  When would she grow a backbone? Kiki wondered. Sh
e watched Boom Boom, per Kiki’s orders, pick pollen out of the lilies that Kiki had ordered for her office. Deathly allergic but loving the look and the smell of lilies, Kiki could have the flowers but only if Boom Boom tweezed away the offending pecks of pollen when they were delivered on Tuesdays. The pollen picking was the first step in what Kiki had labeled Operation Boom Boom Explodes. Kiki’s dirty little pleasure over the last few months had been thinking up new and ever more twisted ways to torture her ever-patient, ever-faithful assistant. What else to do between calls?

  Boom Boom had done everything from walking Kiki’s dogs to walking Kiki’s bowel movement sample to her doctor’s office (“No, Boom Boom, you may not drive or messenger my poop; you must walk my shit to the doctor’s office.”). Kiki had started requiring Boom Boom to arrive at the office at five A.M. to check Kiki’s voice mail in case there were European calls. But these demeaning tasks failed to offend Boom Boom. In fact, Boom Boom’s response to Kiki’s fuck you note was the tersest tone Kiki had ever heard from Boom Boom. Even through her drugged-out fog, Kiki noticed that Boom Boom had used the word bitchy. Perhaps Boom Boom did have some spunk.

  “Boom Boom,” Kiki called.

  Boom Boom dropped the tweezers to the floor and looked at Kiki. “Get in here.”

  Kiki watched, hopeful that perhaps today, this day, after five years, Boom Boom.would have on a pair of heels. I’ll even settle for Dior mules, Kiki thought. But as Boom Boom trotted in, Kiki stared.

  On Boom Boom’s feet were generic running shoes. Generic. Not even cute Pumas.

  “What are those?” Kiki asked, pointing at the offending footwear. “Shoes,” Boom Boom stammered.

  “In what part of the world? Those are not shoes. Those are athletic equipment. These are shoes!” Kiki said. She threw one still-firm dancer’s leg onto her desk, letting her Louis Vuitton pump gleam in the light.

  Boom Boom stood silent in front of Kiki. Yet another humiliation and still no back talk. Come on, girlie, Kiki thought. The reporters will eat you alive. If you can’t even come up with some clever repartee with me, I’ll never be able to set you loose with the press.