Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper Read online

  Rob was running on the treadmill, looking out at the ocean.

  “Um, Rob? I assume you don’t keep a stock of tampons for your lady visitors.”

  He chuckled. “No . . . you’re in need?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He stopped the machine, grabbed his cell, and started sending a text.

  “Wait,” I said. “What are you doing?”

  “Asking Jake to pick some up for you.” Jake was his assistant, a twitchy mouse of a man who never made eye contact.

  “Seriously? I don’t want Jake buying tampons for me,” I said.

  Rob paused. He seemed utterly bewildered by my words, as if I had just told him there was an armchair on his head. “What did you have in mind?”

  Good question. I couldn’t just drive to the store. The Malibu Country Mart was swarming with paparazzi, all of whom knew I didn’t have my own Malibu pad. They would follow me to find out where—and with whom—I was staying. Nor could Rob Mars be seen buying tampons. Obviously. We stood there looking at each other for a moment. Here we were, with all the riches of the world at our disposal, and we couldn’t pop out to get a box of tampons.

  “Didn’t Jake say it was his sister’s birthday tonight?”

  Rob nodded, and started to text. “It’s too bad, but what can we do? This is an emergency.”

  It wasn’t an emergency. It was a completely normal incident that became an “emergency” because of our ridiculous situation. But it was my new life.

  A moment later Rob’s phone dinged. He turned to me. “Regular or super?” he asked.

  I buried my head in my hands in embarrassment. “Regular.”

  4

  Rob and I had only been dating a month when I was due to host a benefit for LifeHeartTruth, an addiction recovery center that I’d picked as my requisite signature cause. We couldn’t attend as a couple, not yet, but Rob had asked ACE to put him on the list. “So I can admire you from afar,” he said. I wasn’t sure his attendance was a good idea, mostly because I didn’t want him to see what awaited me on the red carpet: the lowest level of paparazzi trash, all thanks to my ex-boyfriend.

  Johnny Flaim and I had been together for a year and a half, and we’d broken up in an image-shattering public flameout only four months before I met Rob.

  Like plenty of musicians—okay, all musicians—Johnny was a party boy. Which is the upbeat, non-libelous way of saying he had a drinking problem. (Now that he’s been to rehab, I don’t need to equivocate.) At first maybe I liked the idea of having a wild boyfriend—it was a way for me to break the rules without actually having to take any risks. But his boozing quickly got in the way of our relationship. Call me a prude, but I had no interest in pounding shots until three in the morning, and I didn’t want to spend the first half of every day recovering from the night before. For a while, I just let him keep that part of his life separate from me—like a hobby. But, inevitably, his little hobby escalated into disaster.

  We’d broken up just before Thanksgiving. I was finishing up my movie Man of Her Dreams, doing reshoots of a few critical scenes at the Grove, a popular outdoor mall in the middle of West Hollywood. The director, Olson Nelson, had decided he didn’t like the lighting in a key scene, where I first recognize my love interest—a man I’ve never met but have been dreaming about night after night. I chase him down, only to have him treat me like a stranger.

  During the last scene of the day, the one where my would-be love (Luke, played by the very sweet Matt Wilson) spurns me, Johnny showed up, drunk and belligerent. It was four in the afternoon; we had been working since daybreak; we were running late (costing the production God knows how much) and losing our light; and the director was blaming everyone but himself.

  “Let’s get it this time. Please, Lizzie,” Olson said. Then we were rolling.

  “I already told you, I’ve never seen you before in my life,” Luke said.

  “Just hear me out,” I said, reaching to touch his arm.

  He flinched and started backing away. “Look, whoever you are, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “You love crossword puzzles, and graffiti, and dogs,” I said. “Especially little ones, even if it’s less manly.”

  That freaked Luke out. How did I know these private details? “Leave me alone!” he said, pulling out his phone. “I’m calling the police!”

  And that’s when Johnny tackled him.

  The rest of the sorry mess that ensued is available for viewing on your lowbrow media outlet of choice. Matt’s black eye (which, on top of the needless pain and suffering, delayed production and triggered at least three insurance lawsuits). Olson diving into the fray (out of anger, it should be said, not honor). Me, hysterical, trying to pull Johnny out of the pile. And, worst of all, the clip of me that will live in perpetuity: mascara running down my face, screaming in a voice I don’t recognize, “We are over!” A public breakup. This is what I had become right before I met Rob: the messy, angry, overexposed ex-girlfriend of a bar rat. The tabloids were in tawdry heaven for a good two weeks. Ever since, I’d been lying lowwhile Johnny dried out at—you guessed it—LifeHeartTruth.

  Tonight, the most sleazy press element would be hovering outside the benefit, hoping that Johnny would show, our paths would cross, and they would score pay dirt: a repeat performance. But Rob wanted to come, and I couldn’t say no, given what his presence would mean for LifeHeartTruth.

  We had to arrive separately to keep our relationship secret, but it was a blessing in disguise. Rob didn’t have to witness the storm of questions about his predecessor. Is Johnny here tonight? Is he clean? Will you get back together? Johnny says he did it for you, Lizzie. Can you comment? I was doing my best to fend them off, but then, when I was only halfway up the red carpet, I heard a murmur ripple through the lunging cameramen. Rob Mars—at the back door. Miraculously, the sea of cameras parted as they rushed around the block in hope of seeing the man they had no idea was my new boyfriend. And then I realized what lay ahead. Soon, so very soon, I would be free from this bullshit. Rob Mars was the solution. The moment we went public, the spectacular news of my perfect media darling of a lover would leave my relationship with Johnny in the dust, and I could rebuild my image as a serious actor.

  Inside, as I made the rounds, it was surprisingly titillating to peek over at Rob, who, though he was oblivious to it, was the sun around which the event revolved. Attendees tweeted even the smallest interactions with him. After that night, #LifeHeartTruth exploded and the resulting donations funded the center’s new wing. So I guess it was worth it.

  Rob and I had been together for a month. We were two normal people in the early stages of a promising relationship. Except that Rob had really nice houses, and we were in hiding in them. It was obvious that this couldn’t go on indefinitely. One morning we met at ACE to plan our coming out before we were busted. I thought it would just be me; Rob; his brother, Scotty, who handled a lot of his press; and my PR rep, P. J., but we came up the agency’s service elevator and were led to a boardroom full of people, all from ACE except for Scotty, P. J., Geoff, and, inexplicably, Geoff’s girlfriend, Patricia, whom I still hadn’t heard utter a single word.

  To my great embarrassment, the room applauded the two of us, as if our relationship were a deal that had come through. Then Rob’s agent, Matthew Brau, went through an impossibly detailed agenda: locations, scenarios, favors, exclusives, existing commitments, my wardrobe, whether we had purchased any form of birth control in any traceable manner, and God knows what else.

  The first topic of discussion was reasonable enough: Where and when would we let the cat out of the bag? The Cannes Film Festival was only a couple of weeks away, in mid-May. Revealing our relationship on the red carpet, where everyone could photograph us at the same time, in a civilized fashion, would mean we controlled the story. It was all about controlling the story. Plus, the press would play nicely with the
movie Rob would be promoting there—not his new movie, Firing Squad, but a documentary that he had coproduced on the exploitation of underage Indonesian fishermen in Australia.

  Somebody, whose name I never learned, stood up to present magazine exclusives that had already been negotiated. In short order, the team established who would have which elements of the story, in what order, what the payments would be, and how the photo approvals would be spelled out. When P. J. started to question some of the language around the approvals, Matthew Brau turned to her and said, “We’re working from boilerplate here,” and shut her down.

  This went on for a while. Rob must have seen the look on my face. He leaned over and whispered to me, “I’m hungry. Let’s blow.” It was music to my ears. When we slipped out of the room, nobody even noticed.

  There was one thing I had to do before we went public. My ex-boyfriend was just out of rehab, and I didn’t want anything to throw him off track. I had to tell Johnny about Rob before he saw it in the news.

  Oh, Johnny. He was still very much in my heart. It sounds strange, but in some ways falling in love with Rob made me miss Johnny more. Johnny and I were the same age, and when we were together, we were at exactly the same point in our respective careers. We’d hit early stardom and we were ambitious. We both were constantly in demand—him for concerts, me for new projects—but we both struggled to figure out the best next move. Life was a grand adventure, with moments of daring and drama, and Johnny and I were in it together. Meanwhile, Rob, though older, more experienced, and more successful, put me up on a pedestal. He brought flowers every time he saw me. He surprised me with extravagant gifts. I felt like a princess. But, in a way, all that adulation kept us further apart from each other. Would we ever have what Johnny and I had? Would we ever be best friends? Or was I destined to feel like an honored guest in Rob’s wonderland?

  Johnny didn’t pick up my call. I left a message saying that I had something I needed to tell him. On the phone the night before, Aurora had walked me through every possible scenario. “Sound grave,” she’d said, “so he knows you’re not trying to get back together.”

  “Don’t worry,” I added on the voice mail, “I’m not pregnant.” Aurora had thought of that, too.

  He called back a half hour later.

  “This is awkward,” I said, “but I wanted you to hear it from me first. I’m seeing someone.”

  “Okay . . .” he said.

  “It’s kind of serious. And I think because of who it is, we’re all going to be in the tabloids again.”

  He sighed. “Just say it, Lizzie. I can take it.”

  “Rob Mars.” There was a silence. Then he guffawed.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “But you have a dad.”

  “Yeah, but Rob’s way hotter than my dad.”

  Johnny laughed, and I suddenly missed him horribly.

  “Okay, so that’s why I’m calling,” I said. “I apologize in advance.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said. “I guess you can’t do better than the Son of God.”

  “You’re the only person I’ve told.” That wasn’t quite true, but I wanted to make sure he thought that I’d be able to pin any indiscretion on him. “Please don’t tell a soul until it’s out.”

  “You have my word,” he said, and I knew that, so long as he stayed sober, he was good for it.

  We talked a bit longer, about nothing, to pretend the heartbreak wasn’t there. Then he said he had to go. “Be happy, girl.”

  “You too,” I said, and hung up quickly. A sob tightened my chest, but I stifled it. Now Johnny knew, and he hadn’t tried to stop me, and that proved I was doing the right thing.

  5

  We arrived in Cannes the afternoon before our first event—the premiere of Fisherboys. Our villa was nestled in the hills right above the center of the city. In the distance, the Mediterranean stretched for miles. Between the sea and the landscaping at the edge of the pool, I could see a bit of the harbor, and the rooftops of the stores that lined La Croisette. I felt the pull of the town—the house was relaxing and beautiful, but, looking below, it seemed like I was missing out. Then Rob said, “Come here, I want to show you something.” He led me up to our bedroom. It was white and airy, with a big sliding glass door opening to a balcony above the pool.

  “Close your eyes,” he said.

  I complied, and felt his hands drape something heavy around my neck. He turned me toward the mirror, then said, “Now look.”

  It was a diamond-encrusted heart-shaped locket, and it practically blinded me.

  “Rob—” I started to protest.

  “You can wear it tomorrow, on the red carpet,” he said.

  Oh, right. This necklace wasn’t just for me. It was also for show. ACE had put him up to this. “Is it a loan?” I asked.

  “Only if you don’t like it,” he said.

  Aurora had always been a diamond girl. You wouldn’t think it to meet her—she worked at a nonprofit and always wore jeans and her wild hair back in a tight bun. But she’d been planning and replanning her engagement and wedding since high school. The engagement ring alone had evolved from a simple round diamond solitaire to a vintage deco design. (I had to be kept up-to-date in case a boyfriend—though currently nowhere in sight—called me for advice.) To me, diamonds were like red roses and champagne and strapless dresses, and, for that matter, expensive purses. They were overrated, impractical, and, in the case of champagne and strapless dresses, not particularly good at doing the job for which they were intended. Diamonds were so clear and cold. They seemed almost cruel. I mean, if you were going to spend thousands of dollars on a jewel, shouldn’t it at least have a little bit of color? Those were the arguments I made to Aurora, who desired nothing more than a two-carat rock on her finger. But if I admitted it to myself, the real reason traditional images of romance made me uncomfortable wasn’t just because they were cliché, but because I was afraid they would never be mine.

  Rob, standing behind me, leaned down to kiss my ear.

  “Elizabeth, don’t make this complicated. I love you. This is no big deal. It’s a shabby representation of my love.”

  “Did you pick it yourself? I mean, was it your idea or did they come up with it in the boardroom?” I had to know if he was imitating his movies, or—even worse—taking advice from the agents. Rob was so . . . perfect. I still couldn’t believe he was for real.

  Rob looked hurt. “That’s harsh.”

  “I just need to know.”

  “It’s me, Elizabeth. Nobody tells me what to do. Period. And my advisers know that my love life is out of bounds.”

  It wasn’t—I’d been at that meeting—but I knew what he meant. There was a line, and he was the one who had drawn it. Reassured, I looked in the mirror, and the multiple stones in the necklace caught the light of the sun, casting little rainbows all over the room. I gasped. Now I saw it. Diamonds hid their colors like secrets, ready to spill at the smallest provocation. They contain and reflect. They absorb their surroundings and throw them back, transformed. Maybe I’d been wrong about diamonds. I looked up at Rob. His eyes shone, and I decided that I could wear a heart of diamonds after all, because wearing it meant believing in him.

  But not in front of everyone. Rob and I were going to be all over the press. What I wore would be scrutinized. Was I really going to parade down the red carpet with Rob Mars, wearing a new one-of-a-kind bauble? This necklace was a statement that I didn’t want to make.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.” I leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Can we walk through town first, before the red carpet? Tomorrow morning? In jeans?”

  This fairy tale we were living, which all seemed too good to be true—I wasn’t ready to flaunt it. I’d seen that roomful of advisers meticulously plan out every last detail of our unveiling. I was now proposi
ng that we upend all of that. What would my boyfriend say to the idea? There was a pause—a tiny pause, but a pause nonetheless—before Rob grinned. “Let’s do it.”

  Tomorrow, I knew, everything would change. I walked over to the balcony door and looked down at the town below. I’d always liked to live and visit places where you didn’t need a car. To go for a run and see people in the midst of work, dogs snuffling at street corners, children twirling at the end of parental arms. To stroll to a restaurant for dinner and afterward, best of all, to walk home in the darkness so the evening’s conversation wasn’t halted by the slam of a car door but was allowed to flicker out in the quiet night like a spent candle. Tonight, maybe, I could stroll through Cannes. Certainly not with Rob, but maybe alone. I could eavesdrop on the sounds of the village, get lost on the unfamiliar streets. After tomorrow . . . never again. I remembered, back in L.A., how one night at my apartment I’d popped out while Rob was napping to surprise him with frozen yogurt when he woke up. When I told him what I’d done, he’d said, “Enjoy it while you can.” I was just beginning to realize what he meant. Privacy required hiding from the world. And as soon as we let go of that, we would live in a fishbowl. Either way, we were trapped.

  “This is an incredibly fancy jail, isn’t it?” I said.

  Rob walked over and stood behind me, looking at the same view. His body felt like a solid wall behind me. Then he reached forward and traced my faint reflection in the glass door.

  “See yourself, Elizabeth?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “You’re beautiful. But the woman I love goes deeper than that. They can capture your image as much as they want, but they will never have you.” He hugged me tightly, and I felt his strong body soften into mine. “You are always free.”