How to Sleep with a Movie Star

  “What are you going to do?” he asked softly.

  “Open it, I guess,” I said. I paused for a moment. “Is that wrong?”

  “You have every right to know who she is,” he said softly. “If you want to.”

  “I don’t know if I want to.” But I did. If for no other reason than to put a name with the face that had turned my life upside down. More important, I had to know if she had indeed been the woman at the Christmas party. If so, who had she been with? Had one of my coworkers known about Tom’s affair all along?

  “Want me to do it?” Cole asked gently.

  “Yes.” I nodded, relieved that he’d taken over. I was silent as he unzipped the little purse and reached inside. He pulled out a tiny Louis Vuitton wallet.

  He opened it, looked at it for a moment, and silently handed it to me. It was her New York State driver’s license, and from the tiny photo on the ID, she looked at me defiantly, almost smirking. Her long hair was dark and shiny, as it had appeared in person yesterday, and her lips were perfectly lined and filled in. Her complexion was creamy and flawless. She looked as if she’d had her makeup professionally done before standing in line at the driver’s license bureau.

  “Estella Marrone,” I said softly, reading her name. The name didn’t ring a bell right away. “Estella Marrone.” I repeated it once, a bit more softly. There was something familiar about her, but I was sure I’d never heard the name.

  “You okay?” Cole asked. He started to rub my back slowly as I stared at the ID. Finally, I nodded.

  “Yeah,” I said. I sighed. “I think I am.” We just sat there for a moment, me staring pensively at her ID, not knowing what to think, and Cole gently rubbing my back.

  Suddenly, there was a sharp knock on the front door. I jumped, startled. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Cole and I exchanged confused looks.

  “It must be Wendy,” I said finally. She had surely been worried when she got my slurred message. “My best friend,” I clarified. “Hang on a second. I’ll get it.”

  I left Cole sitting on the bed while I went to answer the door, suddenly feeling relieved, despite the fact that Cole was still here and the mysterious Estella Marrone’s face was dancing around in my head. Wendy was the one person in the world who would know how to take care of this entire situation.

  I was actually smiling by the time I reached the door, fully expecting to be blinded by Wendy’s toothy smile and amused by today’s choice of wacky outfit. I wrestled with the stubborn lock, swung the door open, and smiled into the hallway.

  Then I blinked as I realized that it wasn’t Wendy on my doorstep at all.

  It was Sidra DeSimon.

  I stared wordlessly at Mod’s fashion director, dressed from head to toe in black leather, despite the fact that it was a warm June day. As usual, her short, dark hair was perfectly slicked back, her eyebrows were perfectly tweezed into sharp lines, and her lipstick was a perfect bloodred. Her perfume filled the hallway.

  She stared back at me wordlessly for a moment, looking inexplicably as surprised to see me as I was to see her. My mind began racing.

  Oh my God, someone had seen me leave Cole’s hotel. Someone had called Mod. Margaret had sent the head Triplet here to check and see if the rumor was true. And she would think it was! Cole was in the other room! In my bedroom! She would see him, assume the worst, and my life would be over! How had this happened? Finally, she spoke.

  “Hello, Claire,” she said, staring at me strangely. She glanced past me into the apartment, and I took a quick step to the right to block her view. I was still confused about her appearance on my doorstep, but I hadn’t forgotten about Cole Brannon and his potential to ruin my life if Sidra caught a glimpse of him.

  “Can I, um, help you with something?” I asked quickly, hoping to expedite this visit. My discomfort was growing. Sooner or later, Cole was bound to emerge from my bedroom, and I’d have no chance of saving my reputation.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” said Sidra cryptically. I just stared at her. She paused. Then she continued. “I’m here to pick up my sister’s purse.”

  I simply stared for a moment, then my jaw dropped. It suddenly clicked, and I realized what I should have known all along. The woman Tom had been sleeping with bore a striking resemblance to Sidra DeSimon. The same thick, dark hair, the same pointed nose, the same high cheekbones (though I would have wagered that they were implants—perhaps by the same plastic surgeon), the same fake breasts. Of course.

  “Your sister?” I squeaked.

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” said Sidra, looking annoyed. “Honestly,” she muttered, rolling her eyes and looking at me like I was a half-wit. She reached into her clutch and effortlessly extracted a cigarette, which she proceeded to light, flicking ash on my doorstep and blowing smoke in my face. “Could we hurry things up here? I don’t have all day.”

  “Your sister?” I repeated stupidly. Sidra stared at me with blazing eyes. I couldn’t move. I took a deep breath.

  “Yes, Claire.” She spoke the words slowly, with forced patience, like she was talking to a child. “My sister, Estella. She left her bag at her boyfriend’s apartment, and she asked me to pick it up. Is that really so difficult for you to understand?”

  “Her boyfriend?” I choked. “He was my boyfriend. This is my apartment.”

  “Ah, yes,” Sidra said, still looking bored. She took another long drag from her cigarette. “I know. Rather awkward.” The corners of her lips twitched, and I suspected she would have been smirking had she not had so much collagen injected recently. Suddenly I wanted to reach out and strangle her. The only thing that stopped me was the realization that it would likely be difficult to get a grip on the slippery leather that covered her body.

  “Did they meet . . .” My voice trailed off. I didn’t know how to complete the sentence or even why I wanted to know. “. . . at the Christmas party?” I finally finished the thought.

  “Yes, Claire,” Sidra said slowly. “Now are we going to stand here and play twenty questions all day? Or are you just going to give me her handbag? I have work to do today, you know.”

  “Oh,” I said, my mind still spinning. This was too much.

  “Oh?” Sidra mimicked. “Look, I have a car waiting outside. I don’t have time for chitchat.”

  “I’ll get the purse,” I said finally. I balled my hands into fists and contented myself by imagining a scenario in which I beat Sidra and Estella to a pulp, perhaps using Estella’s Louis Vuitton bag as the weapon of choice. Pummeled to death with Louis Vuitton products. A fitting end to their shallow lives.

  But I realized suddenly that Sidra wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was looking over my shoulder. I knew with horror, before I even turned around, what she was looking at.

  “This must be Wendy!” Cole said cheerfully as he emerged, grinning, from the bedroom. He crossed the kitchen in a few steps and was at my side. He placed a gentle, almost protective hand on the small of my back.

  “No,” I muttered as Sidra stared. I could practically feel my world crashing down around me. “This is Sidra DeSimon, the fashion director at Mod.”

  “Oh,” said Cole, looking confused, but still smiling politely. This was worse than I could have imagined. “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Cole.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Sidra finally, taking his hand and shaking it slowly. My stomach churned. She turned back to me. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at me.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I stammered. “Really, we just got here a few minutes ago, and I barely know him, and . . .” Sidra cut me off, still smiling dangerously.

  “Oh, I know what it looks like,” she said. She looked at Cole conspiratorially. “I used to date George Clooney, you know. How nice to see little Claire here, following in my footsteps.” She tittered lightly. “Not that you would actually date her.” She laughed again.

  “Why not?” Cole asked. I turne
d around to look at him and was surprised—and a bit flattered—to realize that his grin had been replaced with an icy glare. “I think she’s wonderful. And it’s funny, but I’ve never heard George mention anything about you.”

  I could practically see Sidra’s claws coming out. Her eyes flashed, and she prepared to cut into Cole. I interrupted quickly.

  “Sidra just stopped by to pick up her sister’s purse,” I said to Cole, turning around to look at him. His eyes widened.

  “But I see I’m interrupting something,” Sidra said mischievously, her mouth twisting as far into a smirk as it was capable of.

  “I’ll get the purse,” Cole said tightly. He left Sidra and me staring at each other while he disappeared momentarily. She continued to smile knowingly while my stomach again threatened to turn. I distracted myself by returning to the beating-Sidra-with-Louis-Vuitton fantasy.

  “Here.” Cole surprised me by tossing the purse at Sidra rather than handing it to her. She deftly caught it and smiled smugly at me.

  “I’m sure the editorial staff at Mod will be thrilled to hear about this,” she said, a dangerous edge in her voice. She looked back and forth between Cole and me. “This is just precious,” she squealed. She started to back away from the door, but as an apparent afterthought, she turned back around and smiled icily at me once more.

  “Claire, dear, one more thing. That shade of lipstick looks absolutely hideous on you,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Just a little tip, from me to you.” She looked at me coolly for a moment, as if challenging me. She dropped her cigarette on my cheery blue and yellow welcome mat, stubbing it out with the toe of her leather stiletto boot. “Ta-ta, lovebirds,” she said. She spun on her heel and started to click-clack down the hallway and down the stairs. “Have a lovely day. I know I will.” Her laughter wafted up through the stairwell as she descended and disappeared from view.

  Purging

  I sat alone in my cubicle, staring vacantly at my illuminated computer screen, my eyes glazing over the words for what must have been the hundredth time. I knew I needed to finish editing the article on Cole Brannon, but I couldn’t quite seem to focus. I was worried sick about what Sidra would do with the knowledge that Cole had been in my apartment this morning. It seemed darkly ironic that she was the one who would be responsible for editing my article about him.

  I had considered, for a moment, asking that someone else edit the article instead. But then I’d have to reveal the reason why. And how much damage could Sidra truly do to the article itself, anyhow?

  The rest of the office was dark. It was almost unheard of in the women’s magazine world to be working on a Sunday, but there was little I could do, given Margaret’s timing of the article. Besides, given the events of the morning, I had the distinct feeling that I wouldn’t be in the women’s magazine world much longer. I knew I would be forced to leave in disgrace as soon as Sidra got ahold of Margaret.

  I looked at my watch. Wendy would be here any minute. I had finally spoken with her this morning after Cole left. I knew she could tell from my tone that I was in trouble.

  I sighed and turned back to my computer screen, which was still open to the same page. “COLE BRANNON: HOLLYWOOD’S HOTTEST HUNK OPENS UP ABOUT LOVE, LIFE, AND THE THINGS HE WANTS YOU TO KNOW.” The headline screamed at me, and I grimaced back.

  *

  After Sidra had disappeared, taking all hope of my escape from this situation with her (along with Estella Marrone’s Louis Vuitton bag), I was too distraught to be polite to Cole anymore. It no longer mattered that he was the guy who had cared enough to help me when I needed him. Nor did it matter that he was the most attractive man I’d ever met, or that he was Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor. All that mattered was that my life was mere hours away from being ruined.

  “None of this is your fault, Claire,” Cole said as we walked down the stairs together.

  “Yes it is, Cole,” I said glumly. “I know better than to do things like this.”

  “Like what?” Cole asked gently. “It’s not your fault that this happened.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said quietly, shaking my head. “Once Sidra tells Margaret, our editor in chief, I’ll be fired. Then Sidra will tell the tabloids. By tomorrow morning, the whole world is going to think I’m sleeping with you.” I blushed as I spoke.

  “So?” Cole asked softly. I looked at him desperately.

  “So, it will completely ruin my reputation,” I said. “Don’t you understand how it works? I’ll always be ‘that girl.’ The one who slept with a movie star she was supposed to interview. No one will ever take me seriously again.”

  “But we didn’t sleep together,” Cole said, looking confused.

  “It doesn’t even matter at this point.” I sighed. “A few details from Sidra DeSimon, and the rumor mill will get started. It doesn’t have to be true. You know that.”

  Cole lowered his eyes for a moment, then looked up at me.

  “You can’t always believe what you read,” he said softly.

  “I know,” I said, exasperated. “But just having that story circulating around out there . . . It will never be the same for me again. You know how it works.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said slowly. “Listen, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it,” I said as we reached the ground floor. “And I’m sorry I’m doing this. It’s not your fault. Not at all. I just can’t believe Sidra saw us. This whole thing has gotten so out of control.” We walked down the long hallway in silence. Before I pushed the heavy door open to Second Avenue, Cole put a hand on my arm.

  “Look, Claire,” he said softly. “This whole thing, it’s going to work out.” I listened, but I shook my head at him. He meant well, but he didn’t know what he was talking about. His blue eyes were so earnest and piercing, they reminded me suddenly of the sky on a bright summer day. “You can’t let some creep like that Tom guy make you feel like you’re anything less than a great, beautiful woman.”

  After an embarrassed pause, blushing furiously, I mumbled, “Thanks.” But I knew that wasn’t enough. My heart was in my throat.

  “You know, guys are idiots sometimes,” Cole said. “Really, Claire, it’s not you. And you’re better off without someone like that.”

  “Thanks,” I said softly. “I appreciate everything you did for me, Cole. I really do.” He gave me a quick hug and then a light peck on the top of my head, which, despite myself, made my heart skip a beat.

  “Call me if you need anything, Claire,” he said. “Anything at all.” He looked sad as he pushed open the door and disappeared into the blinding sunlight outside. I let the door swing closed behind him, and I stood there motionless for a full minute, wondering what kind of an idiot I was to have kicked Mr. Perfect out of my apartment.

  *

  Now, an hour later, I could still see Cole’s blue eyes in my mind as I stared at the article I’d written about him yesterday afternoon, before my world had fallen apart.

  Just then I heard the reception door buzz. I turned in time to see Wendy bustle in, her bright purple sundress swirling around her as she rushed toward me. I was so relieved she had arrived, I almost leaped up to throw myself at her.

  I just needed a friend to cry to—preferably one who wasn’t the biggest movie star in America.

  “Are you okay?” she asked across the office, half walking, half jogging to my cubicle. Her face was etched with deep concern. “What happened?”

  Without missing a beat, she yanked a rolling chair out of her cubicle and dragged it quickly over to mine. She tossed her Coach bag on the floor and opened her arms.

  “Give me a hug,” she demanded. I stood up and let her envelop me. She held me tightly for a moment as I hugged back, heaving a sigh into her shoulder. Finally, she pulled away, still looking concerned, and we both sat down. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your message until this morning. I was out late. What is it, Claire? It’s Tom, isn’t it?” r />
  “Among other things,” I muttered. Wendy shook her head.

  “What did he do this time?” she asked, looking angry. “I’m so sick and tired of him hurting you.”

  “I caught him cheating on me,” I said flatly. Her eyes widened in surprise. Even Wendy, with all her dire predictions, hadn’t seen this coming.

  “What?”

  “Yep, I actually caught him in the act,” I said, sounding much more cavalier than I felt. “In my bed, actually having sex with another woman.”

  “Oh my God,” Wendy said. “Claire, I’m so sorry. I knew he was an ass, but I didn’t expect . . .”

  “Oh, that’s not the worst of it,” I continued calmly. “The woman was Sidra’s sister.” Wendy just stared at me for a moment, looking like she was trying to process the information.

  “Sidra DeSimon?” she asked finally, her eyes wide. I nodded. “You’ve got to be kidding me. How?”

  “They met at the Christmas party.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, that’s not all,” I said.

  “It’s not?” she asked incredulously.

  “Nope. I left out the part where Sidra came to the door this morning and saw Cole Brannon in my apartment. Now she thinks I’m sleeping with him, and I’m sure I’ll lose my job.”

  Wendy blinked.

  “Cole Brannon was in your apartment?” she finally breathed. I knew she would get stuck on that. “What happened? What was he doing there?”

  So I told her the whole story, relaying it to her with a calmness I didn’t feel. She just stared, openmouthed, as I described walking in on Tom, seeing Cole at Metro, waking up in his bed, and then encountering Sidra.

  “And now here I am, working on an article about a guy whose appearance at Metro last night will probably ruin my entire career,” I said as I finished, gesturing to my computer. “And the ironic thing is, this will probably be the last thing I ever write as a journalist.”

  “That’s not true,” said Wendy, finally clamping her gaping mouth shut. “You’re not going to lose your job. You didn’t do anything.”