agent asked for one million up front and back-end first-dollar gross. I’m sorry, Cici, but I thought you needed to know.”
The rage in Celeste’s body bubbled. Damien Bruckner was a liar, a cheat, and… her husband. Gross points! He’d convinced the studio to give his new tart gross points. Brie could make much more than Celeste’s $20 million quote with first-dollar gross points. The fucker.
“No, you’re right, Jess,” Celeste said, tossing her blond mane. “It’s much better that I know. Maybe not so good for Damien, but much better for me.”
Chapter 6
Lydia Albright and Her Black Alexandra Neel Calfskin Pumps
Lydia pulled her black Range Rover through the gates of Hollywood Forever Cemetery. The Disneyland of death. Here lay the heavy hitters of the past—Rudolph Valentino, Cecil B. DeMille, and Douglas Fairbanks; a Who’s Who of Hollywood history fertilized the perfectly manicured grounds. Now it was the final resting place for Weston Birnbaum.
Lydia parked her car behind a long line of Mercedes, Bentleys, and BMWs. She picked up her three-inch black Alexandra Neel pumps from the passenger seat, wary of the high-heeled torture device. She hoped her feet hadn’t swollen on the way over from the studio; she couldn’t go barefoot to a burial.
Lydia checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then set her cell phone to vibrate. It would be very bad form, even in L.A., to roll calls at a funeral (not that she hadn’t seen it happen).
Lydia hated graveside services. Morbid reminders of a finite life. She slid into a chair and scoped out the scene. The service was total L.A. Multidenominational—first a rabbi spoke and then a minister from the Hollywood Church of Science. Betty Birnbaum (Weston’s first wife) and Elizabeth Birnbaum (his third and current wife) sat in the front row holding hands and crying. Weston’s three sons (two of them film agents and one a painter) sat next in the row, and finally Weston’s oldest and favorite child, his daughter, Beverly. A producer and former man-eater turned lesbian, Beverly had given Lydia her first real job in Hollywood (after Lydia’s failed attempt at acting) as a script reader at Weston’s production company, Birnbaum Productions. It’d been Beverly who told Lydia, “You know more about story structure than you ever will about acting. Stop starving and get smart. Come work for me.” Lydia took the job and never looked back. Maybe that was why Weston said yes to Seven Minutes Past Midnight . Well, that and the blow job.
Lydia wondered what Bev would think about Lydia blowing Weston in the celebrity suite at the Four Seasons. Maybe she’d be surprised that it had taken this long for Lydia and Weston to rekindle their romance. There had always been a connection between them. In the beginning of Lydia’s career with Birnbaum Films, Weston gave Lydia pointers and helped her with story structure. He taught her how to get a studio to say yes to a film and begin writing checks. At the time, Weston was on wife number two and was twenty-five years Lydia’s senior. He kept trying to fix Lydia up with any one of his three sons. That never happened.
Lydia and Weston’s original affair began just before Lydia left to produce her first solo film, a tiny independent called My Sad Silly Face . Lydia had found the script and cobbled together $2 million of financing (with Weston’s help, of course). One night Lydia was in Weston’s office, and when she leaned over his desk to look at a note he’d made on the script, he turned his face toward her—and kissed her. The magnetism was too intense to repel, and the affair went on for years. No one knew. They met in non-industry places. The affair wasn’t something they wanted to be an “open secret” for a number of reasons, not the least of which was Weston’s failing marriage to multibillionaire investment banker Oren Highley’s daughter.
When the divorce was final, Weston came to Lydia with the
The rage in Celeste’s body bubbled. Damien Bruckner was a liar, a cheat, and… her husband. Gross points! He’d convinced the studio to give his new tart gross points. Brie could make much more than Celeste’s $20 million quote with first-dollar gross points. The fucker.
“No, you’re right, Jess,” Celeste said, tossing her blond mane. “It’s much better that I know. Maybe not so good for Damien, but much better for me.”
Chapter 6
Lydia Albright and Her Black Alexandra Neel Calfskin Pumps
Lydia pulled her black Range Rover through the gates of Hollywood Forever Cemetery. The Disneyland of death. Here lay the heavy hitters of the past—Rudolph Valentino, Cecil B. DeMille, and Douglas Fairbanks; a Who’s Who of Hollywood history fertilized the perfectly manicured grounds. Now it was the final resting place for Weston Birnbaum.
Lydia parked her car behind a long line of Mercedes, Bentleys, and BMWs. She picked up her three-inch black Alexandra Neel pumps from the passenger seat, wary of the high-heeled torture device. She hoped her feet hadn’t swollen on the way over from the studio; she couldn’t go barefoot to a burial.
Lydia checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then set her cell phone to vibrate. It would be very bad form, even in L.A., to roll calls at a funeral (not that she hadn’t seen it happen).
Lydia hated graveside services. Morbid reminders of a finite life. She slid into a chair and scoped out the scene. The service was total L.A. Multidenominational—first a rabbi spoke and then a minister from the Hollywood Church of Science. Betty Birnbaum (Weston’s first wife) and Elizabeth Birnbaum (his third and current wife) sat in the front row holding hands and crying. Weston’s three sons (two of them film agents and one a painter) sat next in the row, and finally Weston’s oldest and favorite child, his daughter, Beverly. A producer and former man-eater turned lesbian, Beverly had given Lydia her first real job in Hollywood (after Lydia’s failed attempt at acting) as a script reader at Weston’s production company, Birnbaum Productions. It’d been Beverly who told Lydia, “You know more about story structure than you ever will about acting. Stop starving and get smart. Come work for me.” Lydia took the job and never looked back. Maybe that was why Weston said yes to Seven Minutes Past Midnight . Well, that and the blow job.
Lydia wondered what Bev would think about Lydia blowing Weston in the celebrity suite at the Four Seasons. Maybe she’d be surprised that it had taken this long for Lydia and Weston to rekindle their romance. There had always been a connection between them. In the beginning of Lydia’s career with Birnbaum Films, Weston gave Lydia pointers and helped her with story structure. He taught her how to get a studio to say yes to a film and begin writing checks. At the time, Weston was on wife number two and was twenty-five years Lydia’s senior. He kept trying to fix Lydia up with any one of his three sons. That never happened.
Lydia and Weston’s original affair began just before Lydia left to produce her first solo film, a tiny independent called My Sad Silly Face . Lydia had found the script and cobbled together $2 million of financing (with Weston’s help, of course). One night Lydia was in Weston’s office, and when she leaned over his desk to look at a note he’d made on the script, he turned his face toward her—and kissed her. The magnetism was too intense to repel, and the affair went on for years. No one knew. They met in non-industry places. The affair wasn’t something they wanted to be an “open secret” for a number of reasons, not the least of which was Weston’s failing marriage to multibillionaire investment banker Oren Highley’s daughter.
When the divorce was final, Weston came to Lydia with the
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