How to Sleep with a Movie Star
Margaret had never even suggested an interview with him. And most of our celeb stories were about women. It was an unwritten rule among the Seven Sisters of women’s magazine publishing. Women wanted to read about women.
Although I supposed that any woman with a pulse would want to read about the delicious Cole Brannon too.
“Of course you haven’t done a story on him . . . yet,” Margaret said. “But his publicist has just agreed to let us speak with him, if we put him on the cover of the August issue.”
I tilted my head to the side and squinted at her.
“Just think,” Margaret said, gazing into space, already off in dreamland. “This could be the major story that helps us pass Cosmo. I can see it now. ‘Mod Magazine’s Exclusive Interview with Hollywood’s Most Eligible Bachelor, Cole Brannon!’ The August issue will fly off the newsstands!”
Margaret’s eyes were sparkling, and her collagen-injected lips were twisted into a bizarre smile.
“But we’re closing the August issue tonight,” I said blankly. That meant all the edits and editorial had to be in.
“But it doesn’t ship until Monday morning, darling,” Margaret said, smiling and ignoring my worried expression. “And your interview with Cole Brannon has been scheduled for tomorrow morning. That gives you two days.”
“Tomorrow morning?” I squeaked. Margaret smiled thinly.
“Yes, tomorrow morning,” Margaret mimicked me. “That will give you two whole days to get it in. I’m sure you’ll be able to, darling. After all, I don’t want to find out that my decision to make you the youngest senior editor in the business was a mistake. . . .”
Her voice trailed off and she looked at me meaningfully. I knew it was a threat. I didn’t even bother to pretend I wasn’t rolling my eyes.
“Anyhow, I trust you to get all the details right, so I won’t be calling the research department in over the weekend,” Margaret said casually. “You’ve never gotten a detail wrong before.”
It was true. My coworkers teased me, but I was so neurotic that I had to quadruple-check every quote, every detail, every line of text. I had never gotten even a minuscule detail wrong in my entire career, a fact I was immensely proud of.
“And besides, did you know we have to pay the researchers overtime if we call them in over the weekend?” Margaret added, sounding astonished. “It cuts into our bottom line.”
She looked momentarily perturbed. She was such a cheapskate.
“So I’m going to have Sidra DeSimon look it over instead,” Margaret continued breezily. “This will be a good chance for her to try her hand at editing.”
I could feel my jaw fall.
“Sidra?” I squeaked, suddenly finding it somewhat difficult to breathe. Margaret ignored me.
“Lots of women would love to be in your shoes, Claire,” she said brusquely. “After all, Cole Brannon is the most eligible bachelor in Hollywood at the moment.”
Which would probably translate into him being my dullest and most egotistical interview of the year so far. The glow of celebrity had long since worn off for me. I ignored Margaret’s smile, which was clearly an attempt to soften me up and convince me that we were indeed comrades.
“But . . .” I began. Margaret cut off my protest with a single raised finger and a shake of her head.
“Brunch at Atelier at ten a.m. tomorrow,” she said crisply. I groaned and rolled my eyes. Brunch. Fantastic. It had to be the worst meal of the day to interview people. Visions of celebs nursing hangovers while sipping Bloody Marys or gulping mimosas, barking hoarse orders at waiters about too-crisp toast or too-runny eggs danced through my head.
Besides, I’d been hoping to spend the weekend with Tom. No one—not even I—could deny anymore that our relationship needed some serious work. I did love him, after all, even if he was being a bit odd lately. And now, I would be spending Saturday with Cole Brannon and a looming deadline instead.
I was probably the only woman in America who wouldn’t appreciate the trade-off.
“Of course we’ll need the copy by Sunday afternoon so that the art department can do layout, Sidra can look it over, and it can be at the printer by Monday morning,” Margaret said.
“But Margaret, I . . .” I began. Again, she cut me off with a raised finger and a clucking sound.
“Thank you much, Claire, darling,” Margaret said with finality. I opened and closed my mouth without a word, because I knew it would be a waste of breath. “I’ll expect that copy by Sunday afternoon. Have a lovely weekend.”
“You too,” I muttered, defeated, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
*
“COLE BRANNON?” Wendy shrieked. I resisted the urge to cover my ears. “You’re having brunch with Cole Brannon? At Atelier? You are, like, the luckiest girl alive!”
“Hmph,” I grunted. I wasn’t really in the mood to indulge Wendy, but I was beginning to realize there was really no way to get out of it. I plunked down in my chair and swiveled toward my computer in silence. I typed in my password and logged in to the news clipping service we subscribed to. I tried to ignore Wendy, who was still standing at the entrance to my cubicle, seemingly bubbling over while she waited for me to look at her. I took my time, avoided her glance for as long as I could, and typed “Cole Brannon” into the search box. Three hundred twenty-six entries in the last six months. Yikes. This guy had gotten a lot of press, which meant I would be up late doing my research so that I was fully prepared. I finally gritted my teeth and looked up at Wendy.
“Well?” she demanded, her eyes as big as saucers.
“Well, what?” I asked, because I really didn’t know what she was asking me.
“Well, aren’t you going to say something? What do you think? It’s Cole Brannon!”
“I know,” I said. I sighed and tried not to wince. “And it’s not that I’m not excited. I mean, I do think it’s cool to meet him. And yeah, I liked him in Goodnight Kiss.”
Okay, that was a lie. Actually, I’d loved him in Goodnight Kiss—it was one of my favorite movies—but that was beside the point. I tried to explain.
“It’s just that, well, you know—I’ve told you,” I said, well aware that my words weren’t penetrating. Wendy had stars in her eyes with Cole Brannon’s name on them. “They’re never what you expect them to be in person. Sometimes I think I’d rather just see them in their movies or whatever, and not really know what they’re like in real life. It kind of ruins it all for me.”
Which was especially disappointing this time because I actually liked Cole Brannon. No doubt brunch at one of Manhattan’s toniest restaurants would change my opinion. Besides, what if all those rumors about him being a ladies’ man and a sex addict—which I didn’t entirely believe, because the gossip often wasn’t true—turned out to be right?
“They’re not all bad,” Wendy pointed out.
“I know,” I admitted, offering a smile as a bit of a truce. “You’re right.”
“Matthew McConaughey, for instance,” Wendy said helpfully.
“He was nice,” I graciously agreed.
“And Joshua Jackson,” she added.
“But who would expect any less from Pacey?” I smiled, but Wendy simply shook her head. This was serious business to her. There was no time for idle Dawson’s Creek banter.
“Look, you have a date with Cole Brannon tomorrow morning. Can’t you get a little excited?”
Unfortunately, I was taking a sip of my coffee as she spoke. I nearly choked.
“A date?” I gurgled, my eyes wide and my cheeks suddenly burning. “It’s not a date! I’m interviewing him over brunch!”
“Hmph,” Wendy said. She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest and leaned forward conspiratorially. She winked. “If I were you, I would tell people that it’s a date.”
“Have you been taking cues from Sidra again?” I asked her in mock exasperation. Wendy finally laughed. Sidra DeSimon’s involvement with the tabloids was legendary. Tattletale, the
gossip rag that hit newsstands each Tuesday, always seemed to feature a recollection from her about “a special moment” she had shared with George Clooney. Wendy and I still held to the belief that she’d never dated him at all.
“First stop, gossip columnists.” Wendy winked at me. “Really, though, what else did you have to do this weekend? What could possibly be more important than having brunch with Cole Brannon? I mean, it’s Cole Brannon.”
As if we hadn’t already established that. I sighed.
“I was hoping to talk to Tom, you know? Maybe spend some time together to straighten things out.”
Wendy shook her head at me in what looked a lot like disappointment. Of course, on her face, with her wide eyes and toothy grin, it was often impossible to tell which emotion she was trying to project.
“That’s it,” she said. “You’re insane, clearly. You want to spend your Saturday with an unemployed creep who won’t even sleep with you rather than with Cole Brannon? You should be committed!”
I refused to laugh. “Really, Wendy, I’m serious. It means a lot to me.”
Wendy looked skeptical. I changed the subject before she could launch into an anti-Tom tirade. Lately, her points were hitting too close to home.
“You’re a good friend,” I said seriously. I cleared my throat. “And I appreciate it. Now are you just going to give me a hard time or are you going to help me research Cole Brannon?”
Wendy looked at me for a moment, then grinned.
“Research him?” she said with a sly grin. “Research him? I’ll give him some research!” She arched an eyebrow seductively.
“Okay, mind out of the gutter,” I chided with a smile. “That’s not even funny.” Wendy laughed.
“Seriously, girl, you’re on your own,” she said. She checked her watch. “You know my rule. Never stay past five o’clock on a Friday unless I absolutely have to.”
“It’s a good rule,” I muttered. At this rate, I’d be here all night. Not that there would be anyone missing me at home, from the look of things.
“Now remember,” Wendy said with a mischievous grin, turning off her computer and slipping into her jacket. “According to Mod magazine, which of course should be your first stop for all questions of advice, it’s great for your self-esteem to have a one-night stand. I think you should try that theory out on Cole Brannon.” She was already down the hall by the time I’d balled up a piece of scrap paper to throw at her. “Have fun!” Her voice wafted down the hallway as she disappeared around the corner.
I laughed for a moment, then turned back to my computer screen, sighing. I hit Print and heard the printer down the hall whir to life as it started spitting out the 326 articles I had found about Cole Brannon. It was clear I’d be here for a while.
I sighed again, picking up the phone to call Tom.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be a bit later than usual tonight,” I said after he answered on the third ring.
“Oh?” he said, sounding disappointed. “I’m sorry to hear that. I was going to take you to dinner tonight.”
I felt my heart leap in my chest. I couldn’t even remember the last time he had suggested going out to dinner with me.
“I’m really sorry,” I sighed. “I have to do an interview tomorrow morning, so I’m going to be stuck here for a few more hours doing research.”
“That’s too bad,” Tom said.
“Yeah.” I groaned. “It’s Friday! I just want to come home!”
“Don’t worry,” said Tom, sounding more cheerful than I’d heard him sound in weeks. “You’ll be home soon enough.”
“I guess,” I said reluctantly, not feeling much better. Then I thought, maybe his sudden cheerfulness was due to the fact that he had found an engagement ring and knew when he was going to propose. A sudden warmth flooded through me, and I grinned.
“If you won’t be home in time to go out, would you mind picking up some Chinese?” Tom asked.
“Sure,” I said. My head was suddenly filled with images of Tom seductively feeding me lo mein noodles from perfectly poised chopsticks.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you when you get home. Give me a call before you leave the office, okay, sweetie?”
“Okay,” I agreed. “See you in a few hours. I love you.”
“See you then,” he said. Then the line went dead.
“Yeah, I love you too, Claire,” I said to myself, placing the receiver in its cradle.
Top 10 Hot Summer Reads
I’m sure you think I’m crazy. Half the women in America would probably kill for a chance to sit down with Cole Brannon.
Well, a few years ago I would have been excited. But that was before I started having to do celebrity interviews every month for Mod. They’re not as exciting as they sound. It’s usually just me sitting across the table from an actor, an actress, or a rock star while they indulge themselves in an empty-headed monologue embodying everything that’s wrong with America. I mean, why should I care what Liv Tyler thinks about politics, or how Kylie Dane still struggles with insecurities, or how Winona Ryder really didn’t mean it when she slipped some merchandise into her handbag?
The interviews aren’t always bad. And the Livs, Kylies, and Winonas of the world all actually seem to be pretty nice people. It’s just that after I’ve gone through a month of back-and-forth tug-of-war with a publicist, rescheduled our interview seven times, listened to briefings about what I can and can’t bring up, and finally make it to an interview that has been mysteriously downgraded at the last minute from a two-hour luncheon to a forty-five-minute coffee break, I’m usually on my last nerve. But I paste the smile on anyhow, ask very Mod questions, and give our readers a profile of their favorite star.
Then it’s back to reality. Sure, we can share a cup of coffee at a hip, overpriced café, laugh together over raspberry sorbet, commiserate over cappuccino, but then I return to my world, and they return to theirs—and our worlds never intersect again. At the end of the day, I shop at the Gap while they’re having their clothes individually designed by Giorgio Armani himself while lounging poolside at his sprawling Lake Como villa. I worry that I won’t find anyone else if I break up with Tom, while they worry about whether to date Tom Cruise, Leo DiCaprio or Ashton Kutcher after their current relationship ends. I agonize over spending $1,000 a month for a rent-controlled apartment that’s practically falling apart while they spend millions of dollars on their Beverly Hills mansions or Manhattan penthouses and don’t think twice about it.
Sure, I’m happy with my life. I don’t think I’d ever want to swim in the fishbowl of fame anyhow. But sometimes it can be a bit demoralizing when I have to have a close-up glimpse of how my life looks next to theirs.
So, hot or not—okay, grade-A gorgeous or not—Cole Brannon didn’t make the top of my People I Want to Have Brunch with Tomorrow list. Really. He may have been the sexiest guy in Hollywood—quite possibly in all of America—but he was probably just as self-absorbed as the rest of them. Maybe more so. Ego is usually directly proportional to physical attractiveness, and by those standards, Cole’s ego should be roughly the size of Texas.
Besides, I’d prefer breakfast in bed with Tom, preferably post-sex, to a boring breakfast with yet another movie star.
Unfortunately, I had to remind myself, breakfast in bed with Tom didn’t actually appear to be an option at the moment, however, as Tom had never technically prepared a meal for me in his life. Then of course there was the whole post-sex thing, which seemed equally unlikely. We would actually have to have sex at some point in order to be post-sex. Details, details.
I finally shut down my computer, grabbed my notes, and called the company car service—the one perk to working late. I could finish my Cole Brannon research at home just as well as I could here.
On the ride downtown, I resisted the workaholic urge to look over my notes and instead looked out the window at the twilit city streaming by me. Manhattan rolled by in waves of yellow taxis, strolling couple
s, and businesspeople trying to flag down rides home. The hectic glow of Times Square disappeared behind us as we drove, passing the Flatiron Building, then Union Square, where I often bought fresh fruits, vegetables, and bread at the farmer’s market on Saturdays. The Virgin Megastore on Fourteenth flashed its bright lights as we drove by, and three-story posters of Madonna, matchbox twenty, Courtney Jaye, and Sister Hazel—all of whom I’d interviewed—kept watch over the city from the windows. As we passed the Strand, I recalled with longing the days when I had time to browse through their endless supply of books for hours, finally settling on a quick read or two to get lost in over coffee in Little Italy. It felt like ages since I’d had that kind of spare time.
Finally, the car turned left on Eighth Street. In a moment, we slowly crossed St. Mark’s Place, where NYU students and Village funksters decked out in all the colors of the rainbow perused record stores, scanned the endless rows of silver rings, sunglasses, and scarves, or ducked into cheap sandwich shops. As we turned onto Second Avenue, I asked the driver to drop me at one of my favorite Chinese restaurants in the neighborhood, two blocks up from my apartment. It wasn’t until I stepped inside that I remembered I’d promised to call Tom before leaving the office.
“I thought you were going to be a few more hours,” Tom said when he answered the phone a couple of minutes later. I grimaced as my stomach growled, triggered by the sweet, spicy smells that now surrounded me. Mr. Wong, the store owner, stared at me patiently.
“I figured I’d just finish up reading all these clips at home,” I said, smiling at Mr. Wong. “I wanted to see you.”
“Oh,” said Tom. He was silent for a moment. “So where are you now?”
“At the Chinese place. What do you want me to get?”
“You’re already back?” He cleared his throat. “That was quick.”