Secret Celebrity

chapter eight

Her name was Marilyn. Back in the seventies she had a small part in Richard Gault's first movie and they became friends. That's it. That and her phone number were all the information James had. William took over, hitting the Internet and getting her bio, credits, and even photos of her taken from an E! Entertainment's research file. One of William's ex–band members was now a music reporter there and since E! is notoriously cheap when it comes to salaries, ex–band member didn't mind earning an extra hundred bucks to steal a few old 8-by-10 glossies.

On the drive over to Marilyn's, I handed the photos to Jennifer, who was in the backseat of Waz's Bronco.

He was driving. I was up front fanning myself with a copy of the latest issue of Harper's Bazaar. William was stuck at his job, but at least he wasn't stuck in a hideous oven, which is what the Bronco felt like. God, it was hot. And since Jennifer claimed air conditioning made her sick and Waz seconded that emotion, I was outvoted and sweaty. I was beginning to hate summer. I considered the possibility that summer is only fun if you're under thirty-five. Doesn't matter that I work out all the time and an objective eye would say I'm in good shape. Subjectivity rules and I'm acutely aware of all flaws. I'd never feel confident wearing that little slip of a dress Jennifer had on.

"She certainly had seventies hair," Jennifer said as she handed me back Marilyn's head shot. "Kind of like the Farrah wing thing."

"Has anyone ever seen a really good head shot?" I said as I took another glance at Marilyn's attempt to look like a desirable ingenue. "I don't think they exist. They all look so fake. I'm not saying a lot of these people don't look attractive in these shots, I'm just saying they never look interesting."

"Maybe, sweetcakes, it's because there's a real shortage of interesting people around," Waz replied, doing his best Robert Mitchum as Philip Marlowe impersonation.

"You guys," Jennifer said, giving the back of the front seat a playful kick. "That's your car tissue talking. Give it up." There was something about the way she delivered that piece of advice that made me think that somewhere along the line she'd been to one of those moronic self-help seminars.

"There are lots of interesting people around," she lectured.

"Just the other day, when I was at Barney's, I ran into..."

She then dropped the name of some celebrity, which provoked Waz to pull a twenty out of his pocket and hand it to me.

"Thanks," I said, with a self-satisfied smile.

Jennifer was either oblivious or uninterested in this monetary transaction. Not that I would have explained even if she'd asked. What could I say? I bet Waz twenty bucks that before we passed three traffic lights, you'd name-drop? Although it's possible Jennifer would have had no problem with that. It's possible she'd just laugh and say, "Not exactly a high roller, are you?"

She'd be right about that. Although I guess a case could be made that I was taking a big risk in my life. Taking a steady job in production at some big company was a safer choice. Lusting after men I'd actually met and who were available and appropriate would be a saner choice. But no, I chose the path that had me waking up at 4 a.m., with so much anxiety I could hardly breathe. Even with the windows open and the smell of my neighbor's garden—freesia, honeysuckle, gardenias—I felt as if I were experiencing one of Ingmar Bergman's darkest Swedish nights. I worried that if I fell back asleep I would find myself playing chess with death, a terrifying nightmare for a girl who doesn't know the difference a knight and a rook.

~~~~

As we turned right off Sunset to head north up the canyon, Jennifer remembered she had a Richard Gault story for us. She offered this up as if knowing about Richard Gault wasn't part of her job. As if this were just another of many stories that she'd amassed from one of her recent late-night outings and she was now sharing it with a couple of close friends.