biggest diamond she’d ever seen. It had to have been ten carats. He begged. He pleaded. He said she’d be happy forever. And, she thought now, she would have. But something … something—Lydia never really knew what—made her say no. And so they parted. Soon after came wife number three.
It hadn’t been until recently, just two months ago, that Lydia and Weston reignited their affair. Neither was surprised that the passion still buzzed between them. The sex, although not as hot as the first time around (Weston was over sixty, after all), was exceptional.
That evening at the Four Seasons, Weston had watched Lydia undress, his lustful eyes roving over her. First she removed her tight-fitting black slit skirt, then her white silk Donna Karan shirt. Weston barely blinked, his eyes never leaving her body. Finally, Lydia stood naked in black Versace stilettos. Weston told her to keep the heels on and get on top. Lydia happily complied. It was her favorite position. Halfway through the sex, he’d flipped her over onto the bed. His vigor surprised her and a small giggle escaped her lips.
“Not bad for an old man,” Weston gasped out between pumps, the strain of wanting to come showing on his face.
“Not bad at all,” Lydia whispered into Weston’s ear just before he climaxed.
But Weston, Lydia knew, loved the ladies. And though his ticker could take Lydia, the gathering today was testimony to his heart’s inability to stave off the Asian twins. Lydia pulled a tissue from her Alexandra Ned lace-up bag. Trying to force herself to stop her free-flowing tears, she continued to survey the scene.
Behind Weston’s two ex-wives and children sat five of the biggest stars in Hollywood. It was a lot of wattage. And in the middle of those five sat Cici.
Celebrities liked to travel in flocks, perhaps a self-preservation tactic—protection against the agents who traveled in wolf packs. And there was the pack, seated directly behind the stars. The uber-agents. The four founders of ACA, the nine partners of DTA, and the president of CTA—all respectfully distanced from one another lest a fistfight erupt.
Lydia glanced at Jessica, who pulled down her Dior sunglasses and winked at Lydia, tilting her head to the right. Lydia looked.
There he was—Lydia’s leprechaun, Arnold Murphy, sat in the fourth row next to his minion Josanne Dorfman. Once a tremendously fat woman, Josanne had become a well-known anorexic-bulimic. It was rumored that she hadn’t eaten in three years, and that her stupidity was a direct result of her body feasting on her brain. Hollywood didn’t like ugly people (especially in the executive suite), and ugly people knew it—especially the ugly women. Josanne had stabbed and clawed to get as close to the top as she could; a former assistant of Arnold’s, she’d attached herself to this angry little man, riding in the sidecar of his success.
“In God we trust in all things,” the minister droned on. Weston was a dedicated Jew, so Lydia wasn’t sure why a Catholic priest was speaking at the funeral. So L.A. Maybe next they’d read from the Kabbalah.
Seeking comfort, Lydia shut her eyes and visualized the first day of production on Seven Minutes Past Midnight . The director, the actors, the set. She was deep into her meditation when she realized that the seat beside her was no longer empty.
“I hate these things,” a gruff voice whispered in Lydia’s ear.
Lydia opened her eyes. To her right sat a sandy-blond outdoorsy guy who looked as if he should be hiking in Big Sur instead of attending a funeral in L.A. Did she know this guy?
“Jeff Blume,” he whispered and held out his hand. “We met years ago, when Weston had his production company and you were still working for him.”
Okay. There were so many people she met since beginning her career in the film industry.
“I was Arnold Murphy’s assistant,” Jeff continued. “I was there while you were both working for Weston.”
“Oh,
It hadn’t been until recently, just two months ago, that Lydia and Weston reignited their affair. Neither was surprised that the passion still buzzed between them. The sex, although not as hot as the first time around (Weston was over sixty, after all), was exceptional.
That evening at the Four Seasons, Weston had watched Lydia undress, his lustful eyes roving over her. First she removed her tight-fitting black slit skirt, then her white silk Donna Karan shirt. Weston barely blinked, his eyes never leaving her body. Finally, Lydia stood naked in black Versace stilettos. Weston told her to keep the heels on and get on top. Lydia happily complied. It was her favorite position. Halfway through the sex, he’d flipped her over onto the bed. His vigor surprised her and a small giggle escaped her lips.
“Not bad for an old man,” Weston gasped out between pumps, the strain of wanting to come showing on his face.
“Not bad at all,” Lydia whispered into Weston’s ear just before he climaxed.
But Weston, Lydia knew, loved the ladies. And though his ticker could take Lydia, the gathering today was testimony to his heart’s inability to stave off the Asian twins. Lydia pulled a tissue from her Alexandra Ned lace-up bag. Trying to force herself to stop her free-flowing tears, she continued to survey the scene.
Behind Weston’s two ex-wives and children sat five of the biggest stars in Hollywood. It was a lot of wattage. And in the middle of those five sat Cici.
Celebrities liked to travel in flocks, perhaps a self-preservation tactic—protection against the agents who traveled in wolf packs. And there was the pack, seated directly behind the stars. The uber-agents. The four founders of ACA, the nine partners of DTA, and the president of CTA—all respectfully distanced from one another lest a fistfight erupt.
Lydia glanced at Jessica, who pulled down her Dior sunglasses and winked at Lydia, tilting her head to the right. Lydia looked.
There he was—Lydia’s leprechaun, Arnold Murphy, sat in the fourth row next to his minion Josanne Dorfman. Once a tremendously fat woman, Josanne had become a well-known anorexic-bulimic. It was rumored that she hadn’t eaten in three years, and that her stupidity was a direct result of her body feasting on her brain. Hollywood didn’t like ugly people (especially in the executive suite), and ugly people knew it—especially the ugly women. Josanne had stabbed and clawed to get as close to the top as she could; a former assistant of Arnold’s, she’d attached herself to this angry little man, riding in the sidecar of his success.
“In God we trust in all things,” the minister droned on. Weston was a dedicated Jew, so Lydia wasn’t sure why a Catholic priest was speaking at the funeral. So L.A. Maybe next they’d read from the Kabbalah.
Seeking comfort, Lydia shut her eyes and visualized the first day of production on Seven Minutes Past Midnight . The director, the actors, the set. She was deep into her meditation when she realized that the seat beside her was no longer empty.
“I hate these things,” a gruff voice whispered in Lydia’s ear.
Lydia opened her eyes. To her right sat a sandy-blond outdoorsy guy who looked as if he should be hiking in Big Sur instead of attending a funeral in L.A. Did she know this guy?
“Jeff Blume,” he whispered and held out his hand. “We met years ago, when Weston had his production company and you were still working for him.”
Okay. There were so many people she met since beginning her career in the film industry.
“I was Arnold Murphy’s assistant,” Jeff continued. “I was there while you were both working for Weston.”
“Oh,
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