Still Holding Page 15
“What about the Courage Awards?” Roslynn called after, as her husband turned to leave.
“Sunday,” said Tiff. “What about ‘em?”
“Are we still going?”
“I’m not understanding you,” he said combatively. “Of course we’re still going. Why wouldn’t we be still going?” She regretted her remark. “You mean, because of the bad thing that happened to Kit Lightfoot? Who are they going to give the award to if I’m not there, Roslynn?”
“I don’t know, Tiff,” she said, turning inward.
“To one of the waiters? To Suzanne Pleshette? Or how ‘bout ‘Frasier’? I’m getting the Courage Award, right? There’s a shitload of people who worked their asses off organizing that—months and months of hard work. They’re gonna raise three million dollars. That’s their goal. And you know how? From the people who are in business with me who buy the fucking tables and spend money at the fucking silent auction. So I don’t understand you, Roslynn. You think they’re gonna not raise three million dollars because of what happened to Kit Lightfoot? It’s a terrible thing, kids, but it ain’t the Twin Towers.”
“Enough, Tiff,” she said.
Lisanne instinctively moved closer and held the older woman’s hand. Roslynn was gratified to have a witness to her husband’s noxiousness.
“Burt Bacharach’s presenting. Did I tell you?”
“No.”
“I guess you didn’t know. I thought I told you. I thought I told you four times. Burt may do a thing with Elvis Costello, and I think he asked Paul McCartney, as a surprise. If Paul’s in town, which I think he is. And I just happened to have given money to his one-legged cunt of a wife for the land mines. So voilà: the stars are all in alignment. So what, dear Roslynn, are you saying? That you don’t want to go?”
“Nothing,” said Roslynn, con brio. “I’m saying nothing.”
“Of course we’re going,” said Tiff. He turned back to Lisanne as he left the room. “And you and Phil should come too.”
Hot Property
THE L.A. TIMES real estate section showcased homes that were bought, sold, and leased by celebrities, and sometimes Becca clipped and mailed the features to her mom. Annie said that a lot of the brokers were former actresses, and Becca could understand why. She admired them—it took guts for a girl to look in the mirror at twenty-eight or twenty-nine and say, “It’s over. I’ll never be famous.” But it took real smarts for that same girl to take the bull by the horns and go into a field that one day, if she were creative and industrious enough, might allow her the trappings of celebdom that would otherwise have been beyond her reach: say, a hillside manse. Because that’s what a Realtor could have for herself if she put in enough blood, sweat, and tears. Realtors learned all the tricky ins and outs of buying and selling, and Annie said they were in a great position to join that exclusive club of people whose passion is to buy homes and do makeovers, then sell them at tidy profits (Courteney Cox and Diane Keaton were masters of the art). Becca thought the best thing about being a Realtor was that you got to dress up for work, sometimes to the nines, and you drove around all day in one of those cute little Mercedes with the saucy butt-trunk. (Though when she occasionally saw middle-aged brokers, thick in face and gut, carting for sale signs around on sky blue Sundays, it scared her in terms of thinking, Ohmygod, could that happen to me?) Becoming a Realtor was the kind of thing her mom might do; she was pragmatic that way. In fact, the next time Dixie started leaning on her to come home, Becca thought a viable thing would be to say that she was considering becoming a real estate agent and that she needed to stay and study for the test. Call the dogs off for a while.
Her heart raced as she folded the paper back to the front page and read the banner.
HOT PROPERTY
HER EXTRA TERRITORY
BY RUTH RYON, TIMES STAFF WRITER
Actress Drew Barrymore has purchased a Hollywood Hills home on nearly 1.5 acres for about $4.5 million.
Barrymore had been leasing since her former Beverly Hills–area home sustained fire damage in February 2001. She subsequently sold that property.
Described as a “two-story mid-century ranch with a long private drive,” the compound she bought includes a four-bedroom main house with a two-story living room, a guesthouse, and a guardhouse that is staffed full-time. The estate, estimated to have about 9,000 square feet of living space, also has a gym, five fireplaces, and a billiard room with a bar. The grounds, behind gates, have a motor court, views from downtown L.A. to the ocean, a pool, and a yard with pathways and gardens.
Barrymore, 28, who starred opposite Ben Stiller in Duplex, also has a leading role in Look-Alike, to be written and directed by Spike Jonze and released in 2004.
She costarred with Cameron Diaz and Lucy Liu in the movie versions of the 1970s TV series Charlie’s Angels, which she also produced. Barrymore also appeared at age seven in E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, rereleased in 2002.
Brett Lawyer and Ed Fitz of Nourmand & Associates, Beverly Hills, represented Barrymore in buying, according to sources not involved with the deal.
She hadn’t thought about the fire in a while, but now she remembered news footage of the bantering couple climbing into their BMW in the middle of the night to good-humoredly flee the flames—there was something about them that was a little too manic and Becca knew their marriage was already in trouble. Just thinking about that homely idiot Tom Green pissed her off. He is so majorly fucked up! Drew gave him everything: her house, her heart, her invaluable connections . . . stood by him for his lame-o ball cancer (Annie wondered if it was a stunt but even Becca thought that was going too far because she knew the comedian had truly suffered), and never wavered! Tom Green could have learned so much from Drew the producer, Drew the businesswoman, Drew the icon and showbiz vet. But in the end, all Tom Green wanted was to be in shitty, shitty movies, party with whorey-looking supermodel rejects, and host a fifth-rate Conan loserfest. In the end, all Tom Green wanted was to whine about how you should be careful never to marry someone who had a team of publicists. Oh! How galling! Tom Green should be so lucky! And like it’s Drew’s fault to be the legend she is! It’s Drew’s fault that Steven Spielberg is her godfather and that she was in E.T. when she was a baby and that for a hundred years her family was theatrical and cinematic royalty! But the worst of it was, they were married—they exchanged sacred vows—and now that it was over, Tom Green didn’t even have the decency or common sense to keep his chinless cancer mouth shut. People were like that. People were ungrateful, fickle, boring, greedy, vindictive, and morally bankrupt. All anyone ever did was cover their own ass and Tom Green was covering his, busily rewriting history. Not Drew—Drew let everything hang for the world to see. She had her weaknesses, but you could never say she wasn’t a stand-up person, that was Drew to the max, and when Green got that final (spread-to-the-brain) tumor Becca was certain Ms. Barrymore would be there for him 1000 percent. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge at death’s door.
Becca sipped at her latte and savored the description: “two-story mid-century ranch with a long private drive.” It was like the beginning of a novel! Four bedrooms seemed cozy—just right. A guesthouse was always nice for friends or relatives (that was the kind of arrangement she dreamed of for Dixie), but if she so desired, on nights when Drew had the compound to herself, it also gave her the luxury of crashing elsewhere on the property, like a gamboling gypsy, for the fun of it—the wherewithal to mix it up, if she felt moody or devil-may-care. “A guardhouse, staffed full-time . . .” probably a necessity, because of stalkers—still, Becca couldn’t imagine what that would be like. You could wake up at three in the morning freaked out from a bad dream and wouldn’t even have to call 911—all you’d have to do was shout for your private live-in police! Annie would die when she told her. Becca reread “gym, five fireplaces,” and suddenly the house didn’t sound so snug anymore, though she was pretty sure it would feel snug because Drew probably did it up in the Topanga–Beverly Glen–Laurel
Canyon hippie style, all dark wood and stone, dog-friendly Shabby Chic couches and worn, deceptively expensive Native American rugs. “A yard with pathways and gardens. . . ,” pathways leading God knew where. I would give anything, Becca thought, to pitch a tent at the end of one of those trails, if only as an in-residence Pilates teacher or masseuse.
But this was the part that stirred her most:
Barrymore, 28, who starred opposite Ben Stiller in Duplex, also has a leading role in Look-Alike, to be written and directed by Spike Jonze and released in 2004.
Becca’s movie! Just that morning, Sharon phoned to say that Spike Jonze had been charmed at the table-read and wanted to put her on tape. She told Becca not to say anything to Rusty yet, and Becca read between the lines that Sharon didn’t want to get burned again. But it came to mind there was the possibility—Rusty seemingly so close to Spike, having coffees at the Rose and whatnot—that maybe he already did know and would be punishing if Becca failed to mention. No need to get paranoid; she decided to think happy thoughts. She still had the fantasy of both of them getting cast and becoming stars. The whole fame scenario flitted through her head again, this time with the capper that she became the proud new owner of the “two-story mid-century ranch” when Ms. Barrymore got the urge to relocate. One thing Becca knew she wouldn’t need was a private mod squad. Though it’d be fun to put a mannequin in there—a mannequin and a big dusty bunch of artificial flowers in the guardhouse might be memorable.
A young man interrupted her thoughts, asking if he could share the table. She blinked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you look really familiar.”
They made a few guesses as to where they might have met before. He said, “Do you ever go to the Coffee Bean, up on Sunset?”
“Sure.”
“I used to work there.” She squinted at him. “I looked a little different. My hair was shorter. And I”—he smiled sheepishly—“I was ‘impaired.’”
He slurred his words, refreshing her memory.
“Ohmygod, yes! But—I don’t understand.”
“Research—for a film role. The Kit Lightfoot movie. I was going to play a retard. If I may be so politically incorrect.”
He reached out a hand, and Becca shook it, though she wasn’t sure how to respond. Something about him was so refined yet flamboyant that she couldn’t stop smiling.
“I’m Larry Levine. And if you’re not Drew Barrymore, you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”
Postsurgical
VIV WEMBLEY STEPS from a Suburban, deep inside the hospital garage. She wears large Fendi shades and scuffed Dries boots—straight from the airport in Van Nuys, with minimal freshening up on the plane as it landed. Sherry offered to go with her, but Viv graciously, gratefully declined. She smells her own breath as she walks, fetid and stagnant. Grief-breath.
She is ushered through the bowels, as they say, to a white room where doctors prepare her for what she will see.
A friend who is also her yoga teacher has come. The logistics of that rendezvous were a security hassle, and there’s some delay—Viv will not go in to see Kit without her—finally the two meet and embrace.
They go in a room by themselves, and the teacher engages Viv in deep yoga breaths.
They ride the elevator up.
Outside the guarded room: Prana, prana, prana.
Viv enters, the way first-timers jump from planes.
The private nurse nods, smiles, and leaves. The yoga friend stays in the room, just inside the door, now closed behind them. Respectful. Moved. There for her friend. There for Kit too.
Viv stands beside him, holding his hand. Her awkwardness melts away at the humanity of it. The reduction of love, horror, and agony. The sheer bizarre unlikelihood . . .
Head shaved, face twice its normal size.
“Honey?” she says, choking up. She casts a look to her friend, who quickly looks away from Kit then to Viv’s eyes, but Viv has already turned her gaze back to her fiancé so that her friend and yoga teacher missed the exchange.
“Bumpkin?”
He does not see: eyes swollen shut.
Two incisions in skull.
Tubes in nose, throat, cock.
“Baby, I’m here. It’s Viv. It’s Cherry Girl. She’s here.”
Stifles tears, certain that if she breaks down he will know. Will hear. Her yoga friend said, “Remember, he is aware.” She doesn’t want to put out any kind of fucked-up energy. No fear energy. Her yoga friend said how important it was to be calm, still, centered, comforting.
• • •
CORRESPONDENTS, IN FRONT of hospital, talk to cameras. Local news and foreign too—England, Germany, Italy, Spain, Japan. A distraught fan is interviewed.
• • •
A FOX NEWS lightweight talks to camera in front of the Bar Marmont. Ambitious, cadenced, sexed up by celeb tragedy. A run in her stocking the audience will never see. Camera follows as she walks to liquor store, reenacting Kit Lightfoot’s ill-fated path. Interviews clerk who ID’d plate.
• • •
SPECIAL EDITION electronic newsmagazines on the topics of Celebrity Stalking, Celebrity Worship, Celebrity Murder.
Also, special subedition electronic minimagazines on Nightclub Security, Celebrity Bodyguards, Violence Prediction.
Also, on Head Injuries, Stroke Rehab.
Also, on film insurance and bonding, and what happens when a star dies in the middle of a shoot—Natalie Wood, Brainstorm, Oliver Reed, Gladiator—even though the movie Kit Lightfoot shot has already wrapped and he is not dead.
• • •
SHE CRIES AND cries and cries. She doesn’t leave her bedroom for three days. A clot of yoginis come and go. Friends and professionals and gentle folk she doesn’t know all that well (from Kit’s sangha) stop by to cook and be of service. Her agents come. Her publicists come. Her manager and even her accountant. Finally—finally—she laughs. Then she cries like a thunderstorm and everyone cries along. There is some hilarity too, that very special kind of hilarity in extremis, and she drinks her favorite margaritas and mixes them with Vicodin and some Co-Proxamol she got in London. She takes big messy bubble baths with girlfriends. Everyone gets massages. It’s Massage Central. Sheryl Crow, Darren Aronofsky, Joely Fisher, Renée Zellweger, Helen Fielding, Paula Abdul, and naturally, Alf Lanier drop by—at overlapping times—and of course all of the Together costars. Then a parade of industry demigods until she says, Enough. (She joked that Dr. Phil would walk in next.) She has Gingher shut it down except for the inner circle. Her crew. She dances alone in her room to the Stones and Freddy Mercury, Nirvana and White Stripes. She pulls her friends in one by one, then slams the door, and they dance with her, one by one, as a goof, a poignant goof. Everybody’s sweating and crying and singing Dusty Springfield songs. She sobers up. Everybody does yoga together. Sometimes she cries in the middle of a pose. Sometimes when that happens she laughs, and then everyone laughs and then everyone cries too. When the teacher inadvertently says “corpse pose,” Viv loses it. Everyone eats pizza and Häagen-Dazs and sushi and takeout from Trader Vic’s, and they watch nothing but AMC—Bette Davis and Maureen O’Hara and Montgomery Clift and Jeff Chandler and Jennifer Jones. Then they smoke weed and watch a Britney concert and a Bangles concert and a Cher concert on DVD and then some PPV porno. What a hoot. Periodic solo retreats to the darkened bedroom, where she tries and fails at masturbation. Dares to watch CNN, awaiting taboo redundant reports of her fiancé’s relentless nonprogress. Perversely cadges on-air quasi-eulogies and career summing-ups. Alf goes to Kit’s house and finds the ring that he bought at Fred Joaillier. He brings it over. Horror.
• • •
ALF, PUFFY-EYED and disconsolate, at Kit’s bedside.
An RN empties a catheter bag.
He smirks, then hangs his head low. Aggressively mutters, “Fuck this shit,” and bolts.
Darkness. He is met by a frenzy of paparazzi shouting his name. Across the street, behind barricade
s, fifty die-hard fans—bundled up in the cold dead of night—gather with signs, candles, flowers. Calling, “Alf! Alf! How is he? How’s Kit? Is he talking? Have you talked to him?”
Alf smiles tight-lipped. Gives a thumbs-up. Some applaud.
The lesser outcry, jokey, not really meant to be heard, of a prankster cuts through: “Hey, Alfie, did Cameron dump you?”
Paparazzo with an old grudge.
The others shout the insensitive shutterbug down, officially registering their distaste.
Alf ducks into the waiting Town Car.
• • •
A SPECIAL CREW obliterates all traces of biological debris from Kit’s bathroom. (A CSI producer had referred them to Kit’s agent, Kiki, who insisted on handling that sort of detail.) She told Alf that, supposedly, the company was profiled on the Discovery Channel. The LAPD hires them for crime scene scrubs—they restore rooms to their original pristine state. Kiki said they use chemicals that eat “smell” molecules.
• • •
HE EMERGES FROM coma, pulling the feed tube from his throat. Gagging. One eye won’t open—the muscle controlling the lid is damaged. A rakish pirate patch is provided, but he keeps tearing it off.
Viv and Alf rejoice in his feistiness.
Lightfoot Senior revels in his boy’s stubborn, genetic heroism. Headstrong.
There is some cause for celebration among Kit’s management posse, though Kiki still can’t see the light. She thinks people are grasping at straws.
Doctors are cautiously optimistic. In a press conference, they guardedly announce that the actor is no longer comatose. Condition upgraded to serious. They refuse to talk details of status or prognosis.
Kit makes sounds—gibberish. Sings in his sleep. Jerks awake, as if he was falling. Gains weight. Likes to spit. As long as he holds on to something, he can stand by himself and try to whistle or make barking noises. His face still looks like a Francis Bacon. He cries. He laughs. He is diapered.
• • •