How to Sleep with a Movie Star

  “In fact, Claire,” Margaret continued, “this will be the first month we feature a man on the cover. We’ve pushed your Julia Stiles cover back to September. Cole will be our cover face this month.” My jaw dropped again. With the exception of Good Housekeeping, with their occasional John Travolta or Tom Hanks covers, women’s magazines almost never featured men on the cover. Certainly magazines like Mod, Cosmo, and Glamour never swayed from their beautiful-female cover format. I couldn’t count the number of times Jennifer Aniston, Courteney Cox, or Gwyneth Paltrow had graced the covers of the magazines in our genre. You’d think that people would get sick of reading about the same people over and over and over again, but somehow they never seemed to.

  “Wow,” I said finally, because I sensed that Margaret was waiting for a reaction. I was almost too shocked to speak. Not only had I not been fired, which I’d been fully braced for, but Margaret had liked my article on Cole so much that she was taking a risky move—making him the first man in history to appear on the cover of Mod magazine.

  It surprised me even more that Sidra’s editing had pleased Margaret to such an extent. She basically hadn’t touched my piece at all. Was it possible she possessed journalistic skills after all? I had thought she was just a talentless spawn of Satan.

  I was so shocked that it almost didn’t cross my mind to wonder why Sidra hadn’t told Margaret about finding Cole in my apartment. No way was Sidra that nice. She had something up her sleeve, and it made me uncomfortable to realize I now had no idea what it was. I had almost felt more comfortable when I was sure she would run immediately to Margaret with the news of my involvement with Cole.

  “I’m so confident this cover will do well, Claire, and I am so impressed with your originality and appreciation of your duties at Mod that I’ve decided a little reward is in order,” Margaret said. She smiled at me, and in response, I forced a confused smile of my own. Again, Margaret seemed to be waiting for me to say something.

  “Um, thank you?” I said hesitantly. This was too much to take in at once. My article on Cole had been good, but it hadn’t been that good. Or so I thought. Maybe my perception of the article had been tainted by what happened afterwards. Maybe I had done a better job than I thought.

  “So, I’ve decided to give you a raise,” Margaret said, folding her hands on her desk and leaning forward. “It’s long overdue, I’m sure. You’ve done great work with us, and I’m simply so impressed with your work with Cole Brannon that I feel you’re due.”

  “A raise?” I asked. “Wow. I don’t know what to say.” It was like I’d woken up from a nightmare and found myself in a sweet dream.

  “Ten thousand more a year.” Margaret beamed. Ten thousand dollars! That was enough to take a trip this year. Enough to finally pay off those mounting credit card bills I’d been doing my best to ignore. One step closer to not feeling quite so much like an impoverished New Yorker.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Margaret asked. I realized I’d been sitting in utter silence for over a minute while Margaret waited for a response.

  “I appreciate this so much, Margaret,” I said finally. “I worked really hard on the piece, but I had no idea you would like it so much. I’m really flattered.” There, that was good. My shocked brain had actually managed to string together a few sentences.

  “There should always be a reward for those who go above and beyond the call of duty,” said Margaret with an odd smile on her face. I stared at her for a moment, finally accepting the praise.

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling at Margaret.

  “I just want you to know that I appreciate your help in the circulation war,” said Margaret, looking at me with the fierce pride of a general praising her troops. I stifled a laugh. She really did see this as war against Cosmo. Oh well, if my on-field battle skills earned me a raise, so be it. With one last tight smile at me, Margaret turned back to flipping through the stack of paperwork on her desk. “That will be all, Claire,” she said briskly. I nodded and stood up.

  “Thanks again,” I said. “Really.”

  Margaret nodded without looking up.

  “Just keep up the good work,” she said, still thumbing. She reached for a yellow highlighter and went over a line on the page, now ignoring me. I guess that was it. I was dismissed, with my job, my life, still intact.

  Outside Margaret’s office, Cassie stared at me from behind her desk, looking almost confused as I grinned at her. But the smile promptly fell from my face as I turned and saw Sidra sitting in the outer room, waiting to see Margaret.

  “Oh, hello there,” she said with a smile. “Tom says hello. He’d like to come by and get some of his things later. That is, if you’re not otherwise occupied.” She smiled icily, and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach again.

  I knew better than to think the issue was a dead one. I knew she was jealous that Cole Brannon had wound up at my apartment. And I knew that she was the kind of woman who didn’t like to be bested—by anyone, in any situation. She would look at Cole’s visit with me as a deliberate affront to her. As if I had been trying to top her George Clooney stories.

  As I watched Sidra rise from her chair and glide into Margaret’s office, I knew with rising certainty she still had something up her sleeve. And somehow, I knew it would be even worse than getting me fired.

  Flirting

  What do you think she’s going to do?” I asked Wendy over salads at Les Sans Culottes, a French bistro on West Forty-sixth Street. Wendy had insisted on taking me for a “You didn’t get fired” and “You got a raise” celebratory lunch.

  “Sidra?” Wendy asked absently, her attention temporarily distracted by a waiter whose name tag read Jean Michel. “Cute, isn’t he?” she murmured, batting her eyes at him as he looked in our direction. He smiled shyly and turned back to the table he was waiting on.

  “Yes, Sidra,” I said, trying not to sound exasperated. I should have known that even lunchtime dining was a pick-up opportunity for the waiter-dating Wendy. “I know this isn’t over. The way she looked at me made my skin crawl.”

  “Claire,” Wendy began with a sigh, turning her attention back to me. “Maybe you’re being too sensitive about this. I mean, none of us like her, but maybe she’s not that evil. Maybe she’s just going to keep saying things about Tom to get under your skin, and that will be it.”

  “Maybe,” I said, unconvinced.

  “So I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said Wendy earnestly. She watched me with concern as I stabbed halfheartedly at a leaf of lettuce.

  “I don’t know,” I said finally. “The way she was looking at me . . . but what could be worse than getting me fired?”

  “See, you’re right!” said Wendy triumphantly. “If she wanted to hurt you, she would have just told Margaret, and that would have been the end of it. Why would she want to hurt you, anyhow?”

  “Don’t be so naive,” I said flatly. “You’ve seen the way she looks at me. You’ve heard the things she says. She hates me for being successful. And now she’s jealous of me for other reasons too.”

  “What do you mean?” Wendy asked, looking intrigued. She stopped trying to tear off a piece of the crusty baguette that lay between us and finally gave me her undivided attention. After all, Jean Michel had walked back into the kitchen and was nowhere to be seen for the time being.

  I shrugged.

  “She saw me with Cole Brannon in my apartment,” I said slowly. “I mean, she’s always going on and on about her supposed relationship with George Clooney, right? And here I am, this coworker she already hates because I’m fifteen years younger than her. I have the biggest movie star in Hollywood in my apartment, and it looks like he’s spent the night. It looks like I’m actually living her lie.”

  Wendy looked at me for a moment, and I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. She looked down at her salad. Then she looked up at me again with a serious expression.

  “You might be right,” she said, her voice hushed
. Concern was etched across her brow. “But what could she do to you if she hasn’t gotten you fired?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured.

  We polished off our salads in silence for a few minutes, deep in thought about what Sidra had up her sleeve. Then again, maybe I was just being paranoid and nothing more would happen.

  “Enough of this,” Wendy said finally. “We’re supposed to be celebrating your raise!” She looked around and beckoned for our waiter, who came rushing over officiously. “Two glasses of champagne, please,” she said grandly. She grinned at me.

  “Champagne?” I hissed, fighting back a smile. “We shouldn’t drink! We have to go back to work in thirty minutes! And you know I’m a lightweight!”

  “Yes, well I think you proved that the other night, as I’m sure Cole Brannon would confirm,” Wendy teased. I blushed, despite myself. “Anyhow, what the hell, right? You worked all weekend. Who cares if you’re a bit off the mark this afternoon? Besides, with all the hell you went through this morning worrying about your job, I think you need something to take the edge off.” I started to protest again, but Wendy held up a hand to silence me. “I insist,” she said firmly.

  “Okay then,” I said, smiling back. “If you insist.”

  The waiter scurried back in a moment with two flutes of bubbly. He set them down on the table and turned to Wendy. “Anything else, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Um, yes,” said Wendy, batting her eyelashes again. “See that waiter over there?” She gestured to Jean Michel, who was now filling another table’s water glasses, his back to us.

  “Yes, Jean Michel?” our waiter asked. “Do you need your water glasses filled? I’d be glad to do that for you.”

  “No, no, no,” Wendy said quickly. “But could you send him over?” The waiter looked confused for a moment; then he seemed to realize what Wendy was getting at.

  “Ma’am, he speaks very little English. I don’t think—”

  Wendy cut him off.

  “Je parle Français,” she said in perfect French. I looked at her in surprise.

  “Oh,” said our waiter, looking surprised and humbled. “Oui, mademoiselle. I’ll get him for you.”

  He hurried off in Jean Michel’s direction, and I looked at Wendy in amusement.

  “Since when do you speak French?” I asked her.

  “I don’t,” she said, eyeing Jean Michel as our waiter whispered something in his ear and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He smiled shyly at Wendy and started over in our direction. “I just learned enough to pick up French waiters,” said Wendy, still smiling at the approaching Jean Michel. She reached up and fluffed her perky red curls. “I love French restaurants, but I was tired of not being able to talk to the guys who had just come over from France. So I learned pick-up French.”

  I arched an eyebrow at her as Jean Michel arrived shyly at our table, his cheeks flushed with color. I had to admit, Wendy had good taste, as much as I teased her about her dating patterns. Jean Michel was tall with dark hair cascading nearly to his shoulders. His features were sharp, and his eyes were big and green.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Jean Michel said to Wendy, his voice deep and husky. Wendy smiled.

  “Bonjour,” she said, again with a perfect French accent. I shook my head in wonder as I watched her work. “Comment allez-vous?”

  “Très bien, merci,” Jean Michel responded enthusiastically, apparently convinced that Wendy spoke his language. He launched into several other rapidly spoken French sentences, which Wendy nodded and smiled at.

  “You understand him?” I whispered when he looked away for a moment to check on his other tables.

  “Not one word,” she said. She grinned at me. “But do I really have to?” I shook my head and tried not to laugh as Jean Michel turned eagerly back to us.

  “So that’s pick-up French,” I said.

  “That’s pick-up French,” Wendy confirmed with a grin.

  *

  An hour later, I was back at work, flipping through clips I’d pulled from our research service. I was supposed to go to a press conference on Thursday for Kylie Dane’s new movie, and I wanted to read everything I could about the movie and about her before I showed up for it.

  Of course I was, as usual, overpreparing. But I liked to go into every interview—even press conferences—as fully primed as possible. I was particularly apprehensive about this press conference, because, of course, Kylie Dane had been linked in the tabloids and gossip pages to Cole Brannon. But he had insisted it wasn’t true, and I supposed she was as much a victim of the gossip as he was. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a tiny twinge of jealousy.

  As I flipped through article after article, astonished that I still had a job, I marveled at the media’s fascination with everything in a celebrity’s life. There seemed to be paparazzi hiding behind every bush, waiting to snap photos of A-listers out to lunch, shopping in Beverly Hills, or whispering in corners with unidentified people of the opposite gender. Everything was speculated upon, feeding rumors that had a habit of sticking around.

  Then it hit me.

  I got up quickly and crossed over to Wendy’s adjoining cubicle.

  “Wendy?” I said quickly from her doorway. My palms were already sweating, and my heart was pounding rapidly.

  “Hey, girl,” she said, turning around, her curls flying as she turned her head. She smiled at me, her miles of teeth gleaming, not yet realizing that I was on the verge of full-out panic. “What’s up?”

  “Tattletale,” I said. She looked at me in confusion.

  “What?”

  “Tattletale,” I repeated. “That’s how Sidra is going to get me. With an article in Tattletale tomorrow morning. Why just get me fired, when she can embarrass the hell out of me at the same time?”

  Wendy simply stared. My heart continued to race, and I felt like I was going to fall over. I put a hand on the wall of Wendy’s cubicle to steady myself, waiting for her response.

  “You could be right,” she said, her voice hushed. She looked as horrified as I felt. Then she cleared her throat and tried to smile encouragingly at me. “But that probably won’t happen. I mean, who would believe her?”

  “Tattletale,” I answered quickly. “Tattletale would believe her. Enough to print the story anyhow. They don’t care if it’s true. Just if it sells copies. And that’s pretty juicy, right? Mod writer sleeps with hottest movie star in Hollywood?”

  “No way,” Wendy said firmly, her face full of forced confidence. She reached out for my hand, giving it a quick squeeze as she smiled at me bravely again. “The whole magazine world knows Sidra’s reputation. You don’t really think anyone believes the George Clooney thing, do you?”

  “But Tattletale still prints it,” I said grimly. “Every time. Because it sells magazines. And because Sidra is tight with the editors there. She’s always quoted in there talking about her time with George.”

  “You’re right,” Wendy muttered finally. She looked down at her lap and then looked up at me again, her brow now furrowed with concern. “But there’s no reason they’d believe her about you, right?”

  “What if there are photos?” I asked.

  “Photos?”

  “Like from when I left his hotel. When he got in the cab with me.”

  “But you didn’t see any photographers, right?” Wendy asked, looking hopeful. She reached up and pushed her spilling red curls out of her face.

  “That doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Hiding in the bushes or something. You know the paparazzi.”

  “Oh, geez,” Wendy said seriously. I knew she didn’t want to say it, but I was potentially screwed. Very screwed.

  We were silent for a moment. I listened to the blood rushing through my ears as my heart pounded double-time. Wendy nervously chewed her lip.

  “You didn’t actually leave the hotel with him, though,” she said finally. “So the best they can do is photos of the two of you together in a cab. Which could be totally innocent.”


  “Until Sidra adds in her narration,” I said quickly. “Until she tells them we had just left the hotel together and were on our way to my apartment to have sex again.”

  Wendy was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration.

  “Maybe we’re overreacting,” she said finally. “I mean, maybe Sidra isn’t out to get you. She didn’t get you fired, right?”

  “You know she hates me,” I said.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Wendy said, shaking her head. “Just because you’re a few years ahead of where she was at your age?”

  “Just because I became a senior editor a decade younger than she did.”

  “You’d think she’d be ready to call it even at this point,” Wendy muttered. “I mean, her sister was screwing your boyfriend, for God’s sake.”

  I felt unexpected tears rush to my eyes, and I tried to sniff them away before Wendy noticed. Too late.

  “God, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. About her sister, I mean.”

  “No, no,” I said, wiping my eyes with my hand. I forced a smile. “I guess it’s still fresh, you know?” I didn’t want to tell her that part of the problem was the illogical—not to mention embarrassing—feelings I still had for Tom. What was wrong with me? How was it that every ounce of my brain could be telling me one thing and my heart could feel another?

  “I know,” said Wendy gently. She got up and hugged me tightly. “He’s an asshole, Claire. Forget about him. He was never good enough for you.”

  “I know,” I said. But I didn’t know. It wasn’t like men were lining up in droves, beating down my door for the chance to have a date with me. And appearances aside, it’s not like anything had actually happened with Cole Brannon.

  The phone in my cubicle rang, snapping me out of my dire self-analysis. Wendy was still looking at me with concern, and I realized I’d been standing in the hallway for at least a whole minute, staring off into space as I thought about what a failure I was as dating material.