Excerpt of Last Lover by Laura Van Wormer

Chapter One

Liam Neeson isn’t here after all, which means I’ve used up three vacation days and twenty-five thousand American Aadvantage miles to stand around watching some actress babe flirt with my beau.

Usually I’m immune to the carefully orchestrated Hollywood publicity party, but when Spencer—aforementioned beau— mentioned last week that the Irish film star was supposed to be here, I said, “Okay, I’m there,” and flew into preparations, including the purchase of the short silk dress I’m wearing, which I bought at Syms yesterday on the way to the airport.

Only Liam Neeson isn’t here. He’s in Europe shooting a movie.

Bummer.

Still, it’s a pretty cool party. It’s Monday and we’re at Del Figlio’s, one of the newer “in” restaurants on the Beverly Hills-West Hollywood border. Since I used to work at an “in” Los Angeles magazine in years gone by, I still know the criteria: it’s convenient to the powermongers, has vaulted ceilings and a unique décor (lots of heavy beams, red fabric and textured stucco—kind of like Dracula’s Castle gone Mission Viejo), and boasts delicious and extremely complicated food that will take people years to figure out isn’t as healthy as everyone thinks.

I am, by the way, Sally Harrington, a small-city journalist with the Castleford Herald-American who has a brand-new side career as a special assignments reporter for WSCT-TV in New Haven. My beau, Spencer Hawes, is an executive editor with the book publishing firm of Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe in New York, and that’s how I have come to be in L.A. Spencer is Malcolm Kieloff’s editor, the CEO of Monarch Entertainment, in whose honor this party is being given. Kieloff has written, as the publicity kit describes it, “his amazing life story that is sure to be a bestseller.”

The real story is, of course, that the CEO of Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe, Andrew Rushman, bought this dog of a book for a million dollars because he wanted to hang out with Kieloff. Kieloff, I should explain, is a superstar executive of the millennium, having taken the helm of an ailing movie and TV studio in the late 1980s and turning it into a massive communications conglomerate by way of buying a cartoon factory, a radio network, a TV network, a chain of theme parks, some magazines, ten newspapers, a children’s-book publisher, a children’s book club and several Internet companies.

“At least,” Spencer confided in me, “Monarch’s having every employee of every division, including Monarch studios, purchase a copy of the book in bookstores.”

“And how many employees is that?” I asked.

“Forty-five thousand. The idea was to get them to buy all those copies during the first week and hope the velocity of sales would pop the book on the bestseller list.” (This is the kind of thing you learn when involved with an editor, that the bestseller list is not based on how many copies of a book is shipped to stores, but the velocity of its movement from shelf through the register.)

“Did Monarch give their employees the money to buy the book?”

“I didn’t ask,” Spencer sighed, hating this kind of crap his CEO is in the habit of getting him into. Because when you get down to it, what Spencer was describing between Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe and Malcolm Kieloff is a glorified vanity press deal.

I guess the strategy worked, though, since the book debuts next week in the number-thirteen slot on the Publishers Weekly bestseller list, and the Bennett, Fitzallen & Coe CEO is here, although the guest of honor whose company he sought, Malcolm Kieloff, doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to him.

Kieloff seems like a nice enough guy. He’s rumored to be fighting some kind of health problem, but he seems robust enough tonight. His pretty wife (shockingly, for this town, the only wife he’s ever had) and their three children are all here. And it’s definitely a happening party. Since Monarch has a finger in so many pies, every agent and publicist in L.A. has made an effort to roll out big names in his honor.

The person I am most interested in at the moment, however, is young Lilliana Martin. She’s not a tremendous star (and I suspect she’s not all that young, either), but she has moved successfully from a TV show to a movie—which Monarch Studios produced—that is coming out in April. The word of mouth is that it’s excellent and everyone here is talking Oscar nomination in connection with her performance. When the actress made her entrance, I could plainly see that she does have it, whatever it is that makes for a movie star. Some people say she’s the new Drew Barrymore, others, the new Kathleen Turner, still others say a remodeled version of Kate Winslet. (Only in Hollywood do they talk about actresses as if they were cars.)

Lilliana Martin is supposed to be twenty-six, but I suspect she is closer to thirty from the way she handles herself; hers is an almost flawless performance of calculated move and gesture. She has that intelligent blond thing going, too (although her skin is too olive for me to believe that her hair color is real), and she’s wearing a clinging red silk dress that is ridiculous but nonetheless a knockout. She also timed her entrance to occur right after the major female stars—Sharon Stone, Sandra Bullock and Anjelica Huston—had left.

To be honest, though, the reason why I am so interested in Lilliana Martin is because since she met Spencer forty minutes ago, she has latched on to him in such a way that every time she laughs, she dips forward slightly and presses her left breast into his forearm.

Hmm.

My relationship with Spencer is an interesting point. Five months ago, when we threw ourselves into this relationship (literally threw ourselves at each other), we had no doubts but that we had met our soul mates. Now, after a couple of months of having sex beyond my wildest dreams (yes, it has been that good, that free, something quite new to me), we are having difficulty in that area. Suddenly we are self-conscious. The passion is absent and we have to kind of jump-start sex now by going through the motions until our bodies start responding in ways our minds no longer seem able to.

I suppose it is me. (To be honest, I wonder if Spencer or any guy every really cares if the mental part ever catches up with the physical part of sex, so long as the physical part happens?) Spencer says not to worry, we’ll grow out of it, but I do worry. I worry that I’m finding myself in the same state of half dread, half longing I used to have with my last boyfriend, whom I abruptly left to be with Spencer.

Doug. I can’t even let myself think about him.

I knew there would have to be consequences for my behavior but somehow I thought I might be able to just skip over them for once and live happily ever after. I truly thought Spencer was the answer to the loneliness I have always felt, loneliness I find hard to articulate, even to myself.

Sometimes I think I just should have married the first guy I saw right after college and made a go of it. I seem to do better with relationships that are simply forced on me than with the ones I choose out of complete freedom.

Did I say relationship? What I mean is, when I meet a man and feel overwhelmed by sexual attraction, when the very air seems to go bzzzzzzt with sexual connection, my whole self can drop into free-fall desire and I am determined to make it work. It is absolutely ridiculous, I know, but that is how all three of my significant love affairs started.

I certainly did not expect passion between Spencer and myself to go on without interruption, but I did expect, I think, a little more content to have developed in our relationship by now. The problem is (I prefer to think), we’re both so damn busy and involved with our careers—the processes of editing, writing and reporting literally suck the emotional energy out of you—that there is very little left at the end of the day. And then on top of that Spencer and I are in a long-distance relationship, together on weekends either in Castleford, in central Connecticut where I live, or on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, ninety miles away, where Spencer lives.

It is the first week of February, when the dark days of slush and ice back East have settled blues over the land, and I feel those blues now as I watch Spencer.

The gorgeous and fatally glamorous Lilliana Martin has just done it again, pressing that large left breast of hers into Spencer’s arm, so hard this time her breast has flattened and threatens to altogether spill out of her red halter top.

No, no doubt about it, Lilliana Martin likes my beau. And here I am, across the room, nervously sipping white wine, trying to get rid of this annoying short guy wearing horrid little black metal glasses who insists on talking to me. He tells me he has just made the new production head of Monarch Studios.

“Congratulations,” I tell him, not believing it for a second. This guy couldn’t get membership in a seventh- grade audiovisual club.

“Thanks,” he says, lofting forward a little on the balls of his feet. “Maybe you’d like to help me celebrate and have dinner with me.”

“Thanks,” I say, “but I’m afraid I have plans with my boyfriend,” although I am beginning to have my doubts. We’re supposed to stay and have a celebratory dinner with Kieloff and his family and some of the Monarch stars. Presumably this will include Lilliana Martin, and I really don’t feel like sitting around watching her with Spencer.

To be fair to Spencer, though, I know firsthand how tricky it can be when a VIP guest starts misbehaving at the party you’re supposed to be hosting on behalf of your company. I’m not sure, exactly, what I expect Spencer to do in this situation, other than what I’ve seen him do three times already: physically detach himself from the actress and step away.

The studio executive rises up on the balls of his feet once again to get taller than me. “And who is your boyfriend?” he says in a tone of voice that also says, He can’t be more important than I am.

“He’s Malcolm Kieloff’s editor,” I explain. “We flew in from the East Coast.”

“Huh, a book editor.” He’s not impressed. “And what do you do?”

“I’m a newspaper reporter,” I say. “And I’m also doing some TV reporting for the DBS affiliate in New Haven, Connecticut.”

“Ah.” He’s trying to maintain the slight height advantage, which is making his stance a little precarious. “Did you go to Yale?”

“No. Here, actually, to UCLA.”

He grimaces slightly. He does not approve. “I went to school in Cambridge.”

This means Harvard.

“Harvard,” he adds, in case I missed it.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” I can’t help but say.

He laughs.

Why doesn’t he move on? Surely he knows this room is packed with great looking women who would do almost anything to get work from him at the studio. So why waste time on me?

Because I don’t like him, I answer myself, and he knows it. (Remember, I used to live in this town and know the certain weirdness that pervades the rules of sexual attraction.)

Suddenly I see Spencer and his new friend, Lilliana Martin, have turned around and are looking at me. And the actress is smiling broadly, laughing, dipping that breast into his arm again and then, shockingly, is offering me a friendly little wave. In the next moment Spencer is bringing her over.

“I made a deal with Ovitz this week,” my short companion says with some urgency.

“That’s great,” I say, eyes on Spencer.

“This is Sally,” Spencer announces proudly when they arrive, in a way that makes me want to forgive him for anything and everything. “Sally Harrington, this is Lilliana Martin.”

I smile politely and extend my hand. “Congratulations on your upcoming film. I’ve only heard wonderful things about your performance.”

“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is soft, smooth, but I can tell by the exaggerated care in her enunciation that she has been drinking.

In Los Angeles, being high in public this early in one’s acting career is not a terribly good sign. In New York, it doesn’t seem to faze people one way or the other. But here, where the body is worshipped over almost everything, drinking or drugging nowadays is perceived as a slap against the studio about to release the actor’s movie. (If Lilliana Martin isn’t careful, before she lands her next movie she might have to go to New York to prove she can show up for work on time. This is called “doing something marvelous in the thee-ayah-tuh.”)

Still, I find it somewhat comforting to know that Lilliana Martin has been drinking, not performing this breast-into- Spencer’s-arm routine stone cold sober.

“Spencer’s been talking my ear off about you,” she says in a low friendly voice. “He’s been telling me I should give you an interview for DBS.”

I can’t help but smile. Spencer’s trying to help me. Push me out of the local-schmocal der hinderlander pieces I’m supposed to be doing for WSCT in New Haven and put me at the door of DBS News Magazine with a national piece. And if Lilliana Martin’s movie is as big a hit as people think….

I try to introduce my new friend, but I don’t know his name. He supplies it—Jonathan Small (I could have guessed this)—but apparently these two already know each other.

“Jonathan,” the actress says, leaning down to brush his cheek with a kiss. “This is Spencer Hawes from New York, Malcolm’s editor.”

This momentarily stops him. Then he swallows and turns to inform Spencer that Malcolm Kieloff’s book has all kinds of mistakes in it and needs to be edited. The usual response of an editor to this kind of criticism is “If you think it’s bad now, you should have seen it before!” But Spencer lets out a slightly breathless, incredulous “Really?” instead.

Behind his dreadful little black glasses Jonathan squints at him and, sounding almost hopeful, asks, “Did I offend you?”

“No, not at all,” Spencer tells him. “You only surprise me. I had no idea someone like you could read.”

Lilliana Martin bursts out laughing and even Jonathan snickers a little, rolling forward onto the balls of his feet again and clasping his hands behind his back. He turns to me, as if we were alone. “This is the boyfriend?”

“This is the boyfriend,” Spencer confirms, and something akin to cold fury is building behind his smile and I don’t think it has to do with me. Spencer knows that Jonathan knows this whole Kieloff book deal is a put-up job, but what is getting him mad is Jonathan thinks Spencer wanted Kieloff to “write” this drivel, that Jonathan thinks Spencer’s just like him, just trying to hustle a buck, only Jonathan’s tipping off Spencer he should hide his crass motives better.

I know, it’s complicated, but I told you, I used to live here. It’s one of the countless little face-offs the guys do in L.A.

“As I said,” I murmur to Jonathan, “we have plans.”

“Ditch him and call me,” Jonathan whispers. He presses a card in my hand, kisses me softly on the ear and walks away.

I am at a momentary loss for words.

“Who the hell is that guy?” Spencer asks, stepping forward to pluck the card out of my hand. He frowns at it and shoves it in front of Lilliana. “This can’t be right.”

“It is,” Lilliana says softly. “Jonathan’s head of production now.”

Spencer and the actress’s eyes meet and I feel a small chill. His anger has vanished in the presence of the obvious electricity between them. Thankfully, Spencer backs away and moves to slide his arm around my shoulders. “I need to check on Malcolm,” he explains, “make sure he’s talking to the book buyers. Maybe you guys can talk about doing an interview.”

“I don’t want to pressure Lilliana,” I say.

“You’re supposed to,” Lilliana says good-naturedly.

“Okay,” Spencer says, moving off, “I’ll be back.”

I look at the actress. “Truly, I don’t want to put you on the spot. I’m sure the studio’s lined up everything they want you to do.”

“God,” the actress says, ignoring me, “I need a drink.” She looks around, adding sarcastically under her breath, “I’ve only fallen off these heels twice tonight…”

I look down. They are very high spiked heels. She’s probably only about five five in her stocking feet. “I’ll get you something,” I offer.

“No way, you can’t leave me,” she says. “Here comes my agent.”

“Lilliana, darling,” the guy says, taking both of her hands and kissing her on one side of the face and then the other. “You look fabulous. When I walked in all I could see was you.”

Lilliana rolls her eyes and introduces me. “Sally, my agent, Richie Benzler. Richie, Sally Harrington. She’s a reporter from DBS News in New York. We may be doing an interview.”

Trying to live up to the promotion she has just bestowed upon me, I smile and shake the agent’s hand. He turns back to Lilliana. “Where’s Cliff?”

“In hell, I hope,” Lilliana says out of the side of her mouth.

“Oh,” her agent says, hesitating. “Does that mean….?”

“It means it’s over.”

“But--”

“No buts, Richie! He’s a glorified thug and I’ll thank you very much not to introduce me to another one.” She is sounding pretty sober now.

“He’s not a thug,” the agent begins, murmuring, trying to hold on to her hand. “He’s very influential with the studio.”

“Save it,” Lilliana says, shaking her hand loose. “Listen, Sally and I were just going to powder our noses.” She looks to me for confirmation.

“Yes, we were just on our way,” I say.

But instead of walking toward the front of the restaurant, where the bathroom is, Lilliana leads me to the back of the banquet room, to an alcove in the corner. She peers around the partition and the manager of the restaurant magically appears. Lilliana whispers something and he smiles, bowing slightly, gesturing for us to walk back through the alcove, which we do. He opens a door for us and points up a carpeted stairway. “To the top and to the right.”

“Thank you,” Lilliana says, leading the way. “Nine times out of ten,” she says over her shoulder to me as she climbs the stairs—I slow down because I’m nearly getting clipped in the nose by the wide swing of her silk-covered derriere, “they’ll let you duck the mob for a bit.”

At the top of the stairs, to the right, is a basic bathroom à la Mobil station, clearly meant for the help. (Downstairs, for the patrons, they have marble bathrooms, complete with hovering servants.) There is no sign of the Dracula-gone-Mission décor up here, either. It’s all- American restaurant office: indoor-outdoor carpeting, fake wood paneling with attractive advertising pieces from food and alcohol distributors tacked up, furniture from Staples, or maybe it’s Office Max.

Lilliana moves past the bathroom to lead me through an open office door on the left. There are receipts and paperwork everywhere and not one, but two adding machines sitting on either side of a computer terminal on a massive and very messy desk. She drops down in one of the two chairs in front of the desk and gestures for me to sit in the other. “Ah, that’s better,” she says as she kicks her shoes off and reaches to pick up the phone. She punches the red button on the bottom. “Hi, this is Lilliana Martin calling from the manager’s office. I wonder if you could bring up two glasses of Moët and some of those cheese pastry things? Great. Oh—and do you have a pack of cigarettes around?” Pause. “Marlboro Lights, if you have them.”

I have to smile. This is a woman who knows how to use her celebrity.

Lilliana hangs up, crosses her legs in my direction and settles in, arms resting along the arms of the chair. Her muscle definition is something and I suspect she is showing it off.

“So,” she says, “are you really going to try to hang on to Spencer or what?”