How to Sleep with a Movie Star

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I mumbled, jumping out of bed and rushing into the closet. I threw on a pair of jeans and a faded sweatshirt, the first clothes I could find.

  I barreled quickly down the four flights of stairs, jogged down the hallway, and burst out onto the street, which hadn’t yet begun to bustle with people. I pushed my way inside the convenience store on Second Avenue and Fourth Street, scanned the media rack, and snatched Tattletale from its place on the shelf.

  I froze as I looked at the cover.

  On the upper left corner of the tabloid, there was a black-and-white photo of Cole and me, emerging from the men’s room at Mod. It looked like a still taken from one of the magazine’s security cameras, which meant that someone at Mod—no doubt Sidra—had to have sent it in to Tattletale. Cole had his arm around me as we emerged from the doorway, and I was looking up at him. It looked damning. But far worse was the headline with it that screamed: MOD EDITOR IS COLE BRANNON’S NEW SEX TOY.

  “Ohhhh shit!” I cursed, loud enough for the man behind the counter to look up in surprise.

  “Everything okay, miss?” he asked. I grimaced.

  “No,” I muttered. With shaky hands, I put a copy of Tattletale down on the counter and gave him a dollar for it. “Everything is not okay.”

  I stormed out of the store, flipping through the pages as I did. I stopped dead in my tracks as I reached page 32, where there was a whole two-page spread about our “illicit affair.” Standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, I stared, feeling my chest tighten as I took it all in.

  Photos were splashed across the page, along with a small story. There was a picture of the amazing bouquet Cole had sent, and a close-up reproduction of the taped-together card that had come with it—courtesy of Sidra, I’m sure. There was a paparazzi shot of Cole getting into the taxi with me. There was even a photo of me leaving my apartment building alone.

  “Cole Brannon Finds New Sex Toy,” the print clearly said. Beneath it, the copy read, “Mod senior entertainment editor Claire Reilly is the movie star’s latest fling—a Tattletale exclusive!”

  I was feeling sick as I scanned the snarky text.

  Tattletale spies have learned that Hollywood’s hottest hunk, Cole Brannon, is getting busy with Claire Reilly, twenty-six, a senior editor at Mod magazine, which will be running a cover story about Brannon in their August issue.

  “They met when she interviewed him for the August cover story,” says a Mod insider. “She talks about him all the time. She says he’s great in bed.”

  Ms. Reilly has worked at Rolling Stone and People as a celebrity writer. She brought her talents to Mod eighteen months ago when she joined their staff as the senior entertainment editor. She is the youngest senior editor at a top-thirty magazine.

  Tattletale has learned that Mr. Brannon and Ms. Reilly were spotted leaving his hotel together, leaving her apartment together, and ducking into the men’s room at Mod magazine’s New York offices together.

  Quickie, anyone?

  “They looked quite cozy together,” says cab driver Omar Sirpal, who drove Ms. Reilly and Mr. Brannon from his hotel to her apartment last week. “He even fed her breakfast in my taxi.”

  Ms. Reilly was recently estranged from her live-in boyfriend, so the romance with Mr. Brannon sounds a bit like a rebound to us here at Tattletale. As for Mr. Brannon, it looks like he’s fallen head-over-heels for his new sex kitten, who joins the ranks of Kylie Dane and publicist Ivana Donatelli in his cast of lovers.

  “He sent her flowers last week,” says our Mod source. “She told everyone in the office who they were from and why he’d sent them. Apparently, he appreciated all the attention she’d been giving him, if you know what I mean.”

  What kind of attention might that be? We don’t know, but we can guess. Ms. Reilly and Mr. Brannon were seen heading into the men’s room at Mod together last Thursday and emerging together fifteen minutes later, looking embarrassed and satisfied, according to our spy.

  “We all knew what was going on in there,” says the Mod insider. “If it wasn’t obvious enough, we could hear them going at it.”

  Who will be the next flame for Hollywood’s hottest, busiest bachelor? Check out next week’s Tattletale to find out.

  I stared at the text in horror for a long time after I finished reading it. I read it once more, as if it might have changed to something less damning by the second go-round.

  No such luck.

  “Oh . . . my . . . God.” I was frozen in the middle of the sidewalk and had no idea what to do next. It would be my word against that of Tattletale’s source, who was surely Sidra DeSimon. Everything damning in the text had come directly from her. I was sure of it.

  After all, why wouldn’t she have run to Tattletale once she had damning evidence. They’d pay her big money for a story like this. It would increase her status with them. It would likely thrill her sister Estella. And it would take me down a notch or two. I knew she hated that I was already a senior editor at twenty-six. She had always taken my success as a personal affront.

  Basically, I was screwed. Obviously, Sidra hadn’t told Margaret about Cole yet, but no doubt Margaret would have been alerted to the Tattletale article by the time she got into the office today. After all, the name of her magazine—not to mention my face—was splashed across the cover of one of the country’s most prominent tabloids. And although Margaret pretended to be aloof and high-class, we all knew she secretly loved everything from Star to the National Enquirer. Tattletale was always spread across her desk on Tuesday mornings. How could she miss it?

  I gulped back the lump in my throat as I realized that I would be fired today. Tears sprang to my eyes at the unfairness of it all.

  Even worse, what would Cole think? He’d surely think I had something to do with this. I was suddenly stiff with embarrassment and disappointment. Sure, he was a liar, but now it would look like I had lied too—and to a trashy tabloid. I was sure he would think I was behind the horrid story of our alleged affair.

  I looked up, realizing I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk and that passersby were looking at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was. I quickly snapped the tabloid shut and hurried back down the street to my apartment, still in panic mode.

  Forty minutes later, after a tortuously long subway ride to Brooklyn—during which I’d memorized the entire article with a rising sense of panic—I was pounding on Wendy’s front door. It seemed to take her forever to answer, but she finally did, dressed in a T-shirt and flannel pants, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

  “Claire!” She yawned, her eyes finally opening all the way. She reached up and smoothed down her frizzy red hair, which had developed into a cross between a halo and an Afro as she slept. “What are you doing here?”

  Without a word, I thrust my copy of Tattletale at her. She took one look at the cover, and when she looked back at me, she was wide-awake.

  “Oh no,” she said softly. “Is it as bad as it looks?”

  I nodded slowly.

  Wendy quickly flipped the magazine open. She gasped as she saw the two-page spread. Her eyes scanned the short article; then she looked up at me in horror.

  “This is awful,” she said softly.

  “I know,” I said. She took one last look at the magazine and handed it back to me. “What am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. We just looked at each other for a moment; then she straightened up, gesturing for me to follow her inside. I felt like I was in a trance.

  “At least it’ll piss Tom off,” Wendy said helpfully as I followed her down the hall to the kitchen. I tried a weak smile.

  “At least there’s that,” I agreed. I sighed and looked back down at the tabloid in my hands. “This is Sidra’s work.” Wendy and I sat down at her kitchen table. When she looked up at me, her face was hard.

  “It has to be,” she agreed.

  “Why is that woman out to get me? It isn’t enough that her sister stole my boyfriend?”


  “Actually,” Wendy clarified, “her sister did you a service, if you think about it.”

  “True,” I said sourly. My hands felt icy, and I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. My body was suddenly tense.

  “I have to do something,” I said. Wendy looked at me and nodded. I looked down at Tattletale, then back at her. “But what? What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Wendy said quietly.

  *

  We weren’t any closer to reaching a solution when we boarded the subway to work thirty minutes later, but at least I felt better knowing that I wasn’t alone. I knew I’d have to brace myself for stares and whispers as I walked into the office, but Wendy had promised to walk in beside me and shoot deadly looks at anyone who said anything inappropriate.

  “I’ll probably get fired today, you know,” I said miserably as the subway rattled on belowground. Wendy and I were wedged together between a portly woman in an oversized suit from the ’80s and a tall man who had a pointy nose and suspenders pulling his pants up above his waist. All around us, newspapers flipped open and closed as New Yorkers prepared themselves for a day at work. I tried to look down and hide my face as I noticed a few copies of Tattletale open in the car. Who knew so many people read that trash?

  “You don’t know that,” Wendy said firmly. But her words weren’t much comfort.

  When we entered the office at just past 9 a.m., all eyes were indeed on me, as I’d expected them to be. I was totally mortified. Wendy squeezed my arm gently as we began the long walk down the corridor to our adjoining cubicles.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered as copies of Tattletale lined our way. Dozens of pairs of eyes peered at me from over the top of the tabloid.

  It was like walking into that dream where you show up at your office naked. But somehow it was worse—and I was wide-awake.

  I wanted to run, screaming down the hallway that it wasn’t true, that it was all a lie. But as Wendy had reminded me, protesting too much would only make it look like I had something to hide. So instead, I settled for holding my head high and pretending I didn’t notice the stares, the whispers, the eyes burning holes in my back. Wendy kept a gentle hand on my arm until we reached my cubicle.

  “Just ignore them and try to get your work done, okay?” she said softly as I sat down. I nodded. Easier said than done.

  As I picked up my phone to play my voice mail, I was surprised to hear that I already had twelve messages. It was only just past nine in the morning. I blanched as I listened to the first one.

  “Hello, Ms. Reilly,” the voice began. “This is Sal Martino, a producer at Access Hollywood. We’re very interested in your story. As you of course know, Cole Brannon is huge news right now. Call me back at 212-555-5678 as soon as you can.”

  The second message was from Hollywood Tonight.

  “This is Jen Sutton from Hollywood Tonight,” she began in a high, chirpy voice. “Like, what a great story. We love it. Young, high-powered editor swept off her feet by Hollywood’s hottest hunk. We’d love to get Robb Robertson out there to interview you right away. You’re hot news right now, girl! Call me at 212-555-3232.”

  The remaining ten messages were along the same lines. Sal Martino had called back twice. The National Enquirer was offering to pay me for my story. Access Hollywood wanted to send Billy Bush out to interview me. Page Six wanted something exclusive. Even the city’s NBC affiliate wanted in on the action, requesting that I let them send a camera crew to my apartment that night to do a live shot for the eleven o’clock news. I groaned as I hung up the phone in horror. I could practically feel my world crumbling beneath my feet.

  I was about to stand up and walk over to Wendy’s cubicle when my phone rang. I grabbed it quickly.

  “Mod magazine, Claire Reilly speaking,” I answered.

  “Oh, Claire, I cannot believe I caught you in,” chirped a voice that I instantly recognized from my voice mail. “This is Jen Sutton, from Hollywood Tonight.” She paused, waiting for me to respond.

  “Hello,” I said finally.

  “Hey, girl!” Jen continued cheerfully. “I am, like, so jealous of you. This is so cool! You’re, like, one of us. A journalist, breaking all the rules to sleep with the hottest guy in Hollywood. That’s so awesome!”

  “But I didn’t—” I started to protest, but Jen rambled on like she hadn’t heard me.

  “Robb Robertson is so excited about this story,” she chirped. “You know Robb, right? He’s, like, our most well-known reporter, and he is so all over this story. You are so hot right now, girl.”

  “But I didn’t—” Again, my protest was cut off. Did she ever stop for air?

  “Everyone wants your story,” she went on, her voice climbing an octave—perhaps from lack of oxygen. “We can promise you star treatment. We’ll make you up, send you through wardrobe, the whole nine yards. It’ll be so glam.” Finally, she stopped and waited for a response. I drew in a breath.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t sleep with Cole Brannon. Nothing happened, I swear.” Jen was silent for a minute.

  “We’ll even let you see the questions ahead of time,” she bubbled on like she hadn’t heard what I’d said. “I know Robb seems kind of tough on TV and all, but we’ll let you see the question list, and I’ll make him promise not to spring anything on you, okay?”

  “No,” I said firmly. Was she deaf? “Not okay. There’s no story! I didn’t sleep with Cole Brannon.” Jen was silent for another moment.

  “Whatever you say,” she said, her voice suddenly icy. “But we’re going with the story whether you cooperate or not.”

  “But how? There’s nothing to support it!”

  “We’re a professional news organization,” Jen snapped back. “We’ll find something. Give me a call if you change your mind before four p.m.” Then she hung up. I was left stunned, holding the handset.

  “What was that?” Wendy asked over the cubicle, looking concerned.

  “Hollywood Tonight,” I said, looking at her in horror. “They’re going to report the story whether I cooperate or not. And I have messages from just about everyone else on my voice mail.”

  “Oh no,” said Wendy softly.

  “Oh yes.”

  *

  My heart nearly stopped when my intercom buzzed at ten o’clock. It was Cassie, snarling at me that Margaret wanted to see me immediately. Apparently my boss didn’t want to waste any time putting me in my place.

  “Want me to come?” Wendy asked.

  “No.” I sighed. “This is something I have to deal with myself.”

  I stood up slowly from my chair and started down the hallway to meet my fate.

  The Cold-Hearted Snake

  My walk to Margaret’s office was somewhat anticlimactic, as I’d made a similar trek just last week, when I’d also been convinced I was about to be fired. Today, I felt a grim certainty that this really would be the end of the line for me.

  I’d probably never work in magazines again.

  Instead of keeping me waiting, Margaret had Cassie usher me in immediately.

  As I sat down in one of the huge chairs facing her desk, shrinking down to the size of a child, the fear that I’d managed to push away started to return. Margaret looked down at me, perfect in a rose tailored suit, her dark hair blown out. We sat in silence for a moment. By the time she finally opened her mouth to speak to me, my heart was beating so hard I was afraid she could hear it. To my own ears, it sounded like the pounding of a battle drum, although I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t actually going to battle. It sure felt like I was.

  “So I assume you’ve guessed by this point that I’ve seen this morning’s Tattletale,” Margaret said flatly, opening our meeting without any ado.

  “Um, yes.” Boy, I was articulate this morning.

  “And I assume that you, too, have seen it,” she added unnecessarily. This time, I just nodded, unable to speak, thanks to the lump that had risen in my t
hroat.

  “Uh-huh,” I finally gurgled, because she seemed like she was waiting for a verbal response before going on. She looked me carefully up and down as my heart pounded more quickly. My palms felt sweaty, and I could feel droplets of nervous sweat cropping up along my hairline. The hair on my arms was standing up, and I was trying hard not to squirm. I felt like crawling under my chair and hiding from what was to come.

  “You’ve been working for me eighteen months now,” Margaret said slowly, as my heart continued to pound. “So I’m quite sure you know that when I assign a story for Mod magazine, I expect my writers and editors to conform to certain standards.” I nodded again.

  “Uh-huh,” I gurgled again. She was silent for another moment. I could feel rivulets of sweat starting to drip down my back.

  “This article in Tattletale would not have been my idea of how my writers and editors should be behaving, however,” she said slowly, her dark eyes boring into me. I squirmed uncomfortably.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry. But I swear I didn’t sleep with Cole Brannon.”

  Margaret waved her slender hand dismissively. She looked like she hadn’t heard me.

  “In any case, I’ve given this a lot of thought,” she said. She held up a copy of Tattletale, and I looked away. I closed my eyes and braced myself to be fired.

  “Claire, this is pure genius,” Margaret said from somewhere off in the distance. I sat there confused for a moment, my eyes still scrunched closed. I felt sure I had become delusional or, at best, that I’d heard her wrong. But when I finally opened my eyes, blinking twice, I was greeted by a big grin splashed across Margaret’s face.

  “Huh?” I asked, dumbfounded. Margaret’s smile just widened. Had she gone crazy? Maybe it was that Mad Cow disease I’d heard about.