How to Sleep with a Movie Star

  “But I did,” I said miserably. “I got drunk and wound up going home with a movie star I’d just interviewed.”

  “But you didn’t do anything with him,” she protested.

  “Do you think that will really matter?” I asked. “Or that anyone will believe me?” Wendy didn’t respond, which was all the answer I needed.

  “Look,” Wendy said finally, after we sat there in silence for a moment. “I’m going to edit your piece for you, okay? You can sit right there, and I won’t change anything without asking you, but you just don’t look quite up to it at the moment.” She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I thought about it for a second and then nodded.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “That would really help me out. If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t,” Wendy said dismissively. “Then you’re going to come home with me, and stay for a while, okay?” I started to protest, but Wendy held up a hand to silence me. “Yes, I know I live in a tiny apartment with two roommates and no room to sleep. But it’s better than you being in your apartment right now. Bad vibes there. Give it a few days. You don’t want to go back there yet.”

  She was right. It would have been horrible to try to sleep there with images of Tom and Estella fresh in my mind.

  “Okay,” I agreed finally, giving her a grateful smile. “Hey, thanks.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” said Wendy, playfully nudging me. “If Cole Brannon can put you up for the night, so can I.”

  “But do you look as good as he does without a shirt on?” I asked with a weak smile.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, Wendy had saved my sanity—not that there was much of it left—by editing the Cole Brannon piece for me while I looked mutely over her shoulder. She made only a few changes and she had me verify a few facts from my notes, but otherwise, the piece was much as I’d written it the day before.

  “He sounds really nice,” Wendy said softly as she saved the file and closed it.

  “He is,” I agreed with just a hint of sadness. I wondered for a moment what he thought of me. No doubt I was his humanitarian project of the year. He’d taken an evening off from shagging movie stars to help some crazy lady who puked on him. How valiant.

  I knew he would never look at me the same way he looked at Julia Roberts, Katie Holmes, or any of the other beautiful women he’d acted with. Because I would never look like them. I’d never have their grace, their glamour, or their self-confidence. I was five feet of pure average.

  Gambling

  It was a cruel twist of fate that left Sidra editing my article on Cole Brannon as part of her competition with Maite for the executive editor position. My only comfort was knowing that she couldn’t screw it up too badly or she would be damaging her own reputation and compromising her own editorial credentials. I could imagine the war raging in her head: It must have been difficult for her not to intentionally screw me over, but if she did, it would look like her editing had ruined a perfectly good story.

  I’d reviewed Sidra’s changes to my article—which were, thankfully, relatively minor—by 8 p.m. and signed off on the copy by 9:00, which meant that the story on Cole was free to make its way onto Mod’s pages with my approval. At least one thing had turned out right.

  After a nearly sleepless night at Wendy’s—I had finally drifted off at about 3:30 a.m., and woke up two hours later in a cold sweat from a nightmare about Tom—I went home quickly to pick up a few changes of clothes. I arrived at Mod’s offices at 7 a.m., dreading the next few hours. I was sure I would be out on the street, a cardboard box of my belongings in my arms, by noon.

  “Morning, Claire,” said Maite from across the hall as I settled gingerly into my chair.

  “Good morning,” I said, sadly waving to her. She smiled, and I smiled back, realizing I was enjoying the last few hours of her respect. Maite had ascended the ladder of women’s magazines by being a good writer and a good editor, and by remaining entirely professional—no matter what. Up until today, she’d probably thought the same of me. I knew she would lose all respect for me the moment she found out what had happened.

  I turned on my computer and waited silently as it booted up. I sighed loudly enough that Maite poked her head out of her office to look at me.

  “Are you okay?” she asked with concern.

  “Yes, of course,” I lied. I forced a smile. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother at all,” Maite said, shaking her head and smiling back. “You look stressed out. Rough weekend?”

  “You might say that.”

  By 9 a.m., other staffers had started to drift in. Wendy still wasn’t here, which didn’t surprise me. She’d still been sleeping soundly—snoring, I might add—when I quietly left her apartment. She usually set her alarm for 8:00, but I knew it took her forever to get ready. That face didn’t paint itself on every morning, nor did her closet cough up the latest in eccentric outfits without her input.

  She would twirl a variety of combinations in front of the mirror for thirty minutes before deciding on something strange and senseless that would somehow look great on her. She’d float into the office by 9:30, long before anyone noticed she was late.

  I had a whole pile of work for the September issue on my desk that I should have been working on, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. After all, it would surely be a waste of time. At most, I’d only be here a few more hours before getting fired.

  Just then, Maite’s phone rang. She chatted for a moment and then turned back around to me.

  “That was Margaret,” she said slowly, a strange look on her face. My heart dropped. The editor in chief never called this early. “The editorial meeting is canceled this morning. She says she won’t be in until eleven.” I gulped.

  “Um, did she say why?” I asked gingerly. Maite shook her head slowly.

  “No,” she said. I gulped and tried not to look guilty. Surely Margaret knew. Sidra had told her. She was probably talking to Mod’s lawyers right now, asking how she could legally get rid of me as quickly as possible.

  Just then, the speaker on my phone buzzed, signaling an interoffice intercom call.

  “Claire, are you there?” The nasal voice of Cassie Jenkins, Margaret’s assistant, filled my cubicle.

  “Yes, Cassie,” I said into the speaker.

  “Margaret would like to see you in her office first thing at eleven.” For a moment I was speechless. This was really it. I was really going to be fired in less than two hours. It was going to be the first thing Margaret did when she walked into the office. She would throw me out with the morning’s trash. “Claire? Are you still there, Claire?” I realized I hadn’t answered Cassie.

  “Um, yeah, Cassie, I’m here,” I said, my voice strained. “I’ll be there. At eleven.”

  “I’ll let Margaret know,” said Cassie coolly.

  “I wonder what that’s about,” Maite said as my intercom buzzed again to signal that Cassie had hung up.

  “Um, I don’t know,” I lied, looking down, trying my hardest not to look guilty.

  “Maybe you’re getting promoted,” Maite said cheerfully. “I keep telling Margaret that you’re worth a lot to the magazine. Maybe she finally listened to me.” I looked up at Maite with pained appreciation.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  *

  At 10:45, I couldn’t stand it any longer. Wendy had been in for an hour, and I’d whispered to her about my impending appointment. Her pained and pitying expression had only heightened my fears about what would happen in the dreaded eleven o’clock one-on-one.

  “Is there anything I can do, Claire?” she asked softly as the clock inched toward 11 a.m.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to look brave. “I’ll be fine.”

  At T-minus-ten-minutes I slowly pushed my chair back and stood up with a sigh.

  “I’m going to the bathroom, Wendy,” I said slowly. “I’ll be back after my meeting with Margaret.” My heart was heavy as I looked around at M
od’s offices. My coworkers scrambled from office to office with hands full of paperwork. Phones rang, copy machines whirred, and the comforting click-click of fingers on keyboards surrounded us.

  “Want me to come with you?” Wendy asked gently.

  “No, I’ll be okay,” I said, not really meaning it. I wouldn’t be okay. I loved the bustle of the magazine business, the (mostly) friendly camaraderie of the women on staff, the quiet pace of the office when we weren’t working on deadline. I loved that at twenty-six I was on my way up, and I had the respect of my colleagues. In ten minutes, that would be taken away from me forever. Because of Tom. Because I’d been stupid enough to believe him.

  “Good luck, Claire,” Wendy said. She stood and walked over to my cubicle to give me a hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “No,” I said, hugging her tightly and pushing back the sudden tears that had welled in my eyes. “I don’t think it is.”

  As I began the long walk toward the bathroom on Margaret’s side of the building, I felt like a prisoner being marched down the cell block on death row one last time before her execution. I looked at each coworker’s face as I slowly marched toward my doom, trying to memorize them. A few looked up and smiled at me as I passed—a few said hello.

  Some just looked at me strangely, which I’m sure was due to the fact that I was actually traipsing toward the executive offices with the look of death on my face.

  Death did not become me.

  In the bathroom I splashed water on my face, dried off with a harsh brown paper towel, and blinked at myself in the mirror. I looked horrible, which would only add fuel to Margaret’s fire. She always insisted that we look as presentable as possible—after all, we were employees of Mod magazine, and we were supposed to look as chic and stylish as the name of the magazine implied. I was never sure how Wendy got away with the outfits she assembled, but I knew that Margaret always cast a critical eye on anyone who wasn’t properly put together.

  This morning the bags under my eyes and the stricken expression that I just couldn’t shake didn’t exactly scream “mod,” if I do say so myself.

  I looked at my watch and knew I had to go. It was almost 11:00, and I was on the verge of being late to my own funeral.

  *

  Margaret kept me waiting for fifteen minutes before she had Cassie show me into her office. As I waited, the second hand on the Bulova clock on the wall ticked in super-slow motion. Cassie watched me silently from her desk with what looked like a little smirk on her face. It took all my self-control not to make a face at her but to smile wanly, which I did only on the slim chance that I could accumulate some last-minute good karma for the meeting if I showed a little kindness to Margaret’s snotty assistant.

  At twenty-two, Cassie was a recent college graduate with a useless degree in Classics from some Ivy League school her parents had paid a fortune for. The fact that she was the daughter of a woman in Margaret’s social circle had earned her a place at Mod, which meant, of course, that Margaret had to fire Karen, her assistant of two years. Cassie had promptly alienated everyone by announcing that her assistantship was just a stepping-stone to getting one of our jobs.

  She sneered at Wendy and me one morning in the bathroom, telling us she’d always dreamed of being a features editor, or perhaps a celebrity writer—so we shouldn’t get too comfortable in our jobs.

  Not that it always worked that way. Most of the women who had ascended past the rank of editorial assistant—up the chain to assistant editor, associate editor, then senior editor—knew what they were doing and had been promoted because they were talented, hardworking, and professional. After all, we had a magazine to put out. We couldn’t all be morons if we were going to get a salable product to the newsstands each month.

  The lower ranks of the magazine world were filled with young women like Cassie. They had never really worked a day in their lives and were in the business because their father’s friend knew somebody who knew somebody who ran a magazine. The hardest thing about breaking into the magazine business was getting a foot in the door in the first place. Unfortunately, many of those foot-in-the-door positions at the glammest magazines went to women who were too busy getting those feet pedicured to actually bother doing any work. Eventually, most of them wound up quitting after the novelty of having a job wore off and they snagged a rich husband.

  As Cassie smirked at me this morning over her spacious desk, I knew she was already planning how she’d fill my shoes once I was released. Well, at least someone would be happy about me losing my job.

  The intercom on Cassie’s desk buzzed, snapping her out of her smirk and jolting me out of my dark daydream.

  “Cassie, please send Claire in now,” Margaret’s voice said. Cassie looked up.

  “She’s ready for you,” she singsonged, smiling evilly. I forced a smile back.

  “Thank you, Cassie,” I said politely. With all the grace and courage I could muster, I rose from my chair and walked slowly across Margaret’s outer office to the big oak doors that led to her inner realm. I placed my hand on the knob and closed my eyes for a minute, willing myself to be calm.

  “Are you going in, or are you going to just stand there?” Cassie honked. I wondered for a moment just how much my karma would suffer if I hit Cassie over the head with a chair on my way out, World-Wrestling style. Hey, at least I’d leave a legacy at Mod beyond the “She slept with Cole Brannon” gossip that would linger.

  Finally, deciding a Cassie smackdown wasn’t the way to go, I turned the knob and went in.

  Margaret was dressed in a cream-colored tailored pantsuit. Her dark hair was slicked back, and her eyes were heavily made-up. She looked like she would be ready to parade down a fashion runway—if she were six inches taller (and if she hadn’t been born with her mother’s slightly bulbous nose and too-small chin). I had to give her credit, though—she hadn’t used plastic surgery to get rid of these imperfections, and she expertly played up the assets she did have (which of course included her actual monetary assets), so she almost always looked untouchably glamorous.

  She looked tiny behind her enormous desk, an island in the middle of the spacious room, which was easily the size of three editors’ offices put together. Her carpet was a plush cream that matched her pantsuit. Her massive desk and two bookshelves were glistening black, polished each night at her insistence by the janitorial staff. Framed Mod magazine covers, blown up to 24 x 30, lined her walls and looked somehow elegant. Last year’s June cover, featuring my interview with Julia Roberts, and this year’s January cover, featuring my Q & A with Reese Witherspoon, had been recent additions to the Great Wall. I looked at Julia and Reese sadly as I realized glumly that I’d never get the chance to interview people like that again—for anyone.

  As shallow as the world of celebrity sometimes was, I really did love my job. I loved getting A-listers like Julia and Reese to let their guard down—if only for a few minutes—so that I could catch a glimpse of who and what they really were. There was just something about humanizing the most untouchable stars that made me feel like I was doing something worthwhile. I wanted our readers to know that the larger-than-life Hollywooders were really people just like them.

  “Have a seat, Claire,” Margaret said without looking up. I gulped, settling into one of the two plush beige chairs that faced her desk. I grimaced as I sank into the cushions.

  I braced myself. This was it, the end of the line.

  “Claire, thank you for coming on such short notice,” Margaret said, finally looking up from her papers and peering at me over her Prada glasses. This was just like her, to begin politely, to suck me in before she dropped the news that I was fired. As if I wasn’t expecting it.

  “Of course,” I mumbled. I took a deep breath.

  “As you know, Claire, we have a series of professional standards at Mod,” Margaret began diplomatically, gazing down at me from her throne. I gulped. Great, I was in for the speech. I knew I’d been wrong, but it wasn’t as bad as Marg
aret thought. I hadn’t actually done anything with Cole Brannon, contrary to what Sidra had surely told her. I hadn’t slept with him. Heck, I hadn’t even kissed him—although I was beginning to wish that I had. If I was about to lose my job anyhow, I might as well have gone out with flying colors. But hindsight’s always 20/20, isn’t it?

  “I’m sure that the other magazines where you worked had similar standards, so you’re no doubt familiar with what I’m talking about,” Margaret said. I stared at her until she arched an eyebrow. Oh, she was waiting for a response.

  “Yes,” I mumbled. Could this be any worse?

  “In order to remain competitive, in order to maintain integrity, each magazine has to live up to certain standards of excellence,” Margaret continued. “I’m sure you’ll agree with me.”

  “Yes,” I said meekly. Margaret peered at me for a moment, and I shrank even more—as if that was possible—under the weight of her gaze. She was looking at me so seriously that I knew this was it. I did a mental countdown in my head. Ten more seconds as a Mod employee. Nine. Eight. Seven—

  “Which is why I’d like to commend you on your great work on the Cole Brannon piece,” Margaret said, suddenly beaming as she interrupted my countdown.

  “Huh?” My jaw dropped. Perhaps I was going insane or I’d forgotten to Q-tip my ears that morning.

  “You clearly went above and beyond your duty to Mod to turn in a great piece that will surely help us in the circulation war against Cosmopolitan,” Margaret continued cheerfully. “August could be the month we surpass them, Claire, thanks to your great work with this piece. I’ve decided to feature it on the cover. Between your great writing and Sidra’s great editing, the piece is an absolute gold mine.”

  I simply stared, trying to digest what she was saying. This must have meant that Sidra hadn’t said anything after all. Margaret obviously didn’t know about my weekend with Cole, or I’d already be out the door with a pink slip. I finally sank back so heavily in relief that I almost disappeared into the chair.