Read Online Hollywood Girls Club by Maggie Marr - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maggie Marr
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didn’t know if she could speak. “Bev …” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know—” Lydia couldn’t hold back the flood of tears. Her chest tightened and finally the sobs she’d held so tight burst from within. It was too much. Everything.
Beverly put her arm around Lydia’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. “He loved you. You were the one for him. I knew it the first day you came to the office. I’m just glad you two reconnected before all this.”
Beverly did know. Maybe she’d always known. “Thanks,” Lydia said, wiping her eyes.
“Here comes trouble,” Beverly said. She patted Lydia’s arm and nodded her head toward Arnold and Josanne, who wove their way toward them. “That little shit, I can’t believe he had the nerve to show. Especially after what happened. Listen, Lyd, you get Seven Minutes Past Midnight made no matter what Arnold tries to do. Dad loved that script. And let me know if I can help.”
“You got it.” Lydia sniffled.
“Call my office and schedule a lunch,” Beverly said as Lydia backed away.
“I’ll have Toddy do it tomorrow,” Lydia said.
Lydia walked to her car, wondering if she’d always feel so alone.
Deafening silence greeted Lydia at the front door of her Mulholland Drive home. She’d long ago (perhaps the day she refused Weston’s marriage proposal) surrendered the shimmery thoughts of children, big holidays, a house bursting with chatter, music, and laughter; that life was a casualty to Hollywood combat. Lydia didn’t mourn the loss. Her success in film and the life she’d created for herself, although different from that of most women, were what she’d always wanted. But even knowing her choice was correct, every night when she came home the silence roared in her ears.
Lydia climbed the curving staircase. The house was big for one person, but it was a tax write-off (according to her accountant) that she needed. She spent less than half her time here, sleeping five hours on a good night. The majority of her waking hours were spent in her bungalow on the lot, or on set, and set could be—anywhere in the world, for months at a time. No, this place wasn’t a home, it was a house. A big, cold house full of marble, granite, and stainless steel. She’d never had the time (or the right partner) to turn it into a home.
She slipped her silk shirt off and let her skirt drop to the floor, thus creating the only mess in the entire ten-thousand-square-foot spread—a puddle of clothes at the foot of her bed. When she awoke in the noiseless morning, that testament to the house’s habitation would have been whisked away by Vilma as if by magic, wordlessly replaced by the New York Times , the Los Angeles Times , the Hollywood Reporter , Daily Variety , and a carafe of hot coffee. The clothes would reappear in Lydia’s closet exactly three days later, freshly cleaned.
Lydia shivered. The temperature in the house was fine, but she was cold. It’d been a long, emotional day. She climbed to the middle of her king-size bed (the trick to sleeping alone—take up the whole damn bed) and slid under her down comforter. She’d already cried … her tears were gone. Like Weston. All that remained were too-fresh memories of their rendezvous, both recent and long ago. She reached for the remote and aimed it at the plasma television hanging on the wall, but she didn’t want to watch TV. She dropped the remote on the bed. Lydia glanced around her bedroom, a tribute to a child-free lifestyle, all white and silk. Her gaze landed on the pile of scripts on the floor next to her nightstand. She could read. A lesson learned from both her father and Weston: Read, read, read. “Not enough people in this town read, you’d be surprised,” Weston had told her. “And the ones that actually read the scripts, well, they quickly rise to the top.”
They were both right. It’d been that very pile from which Lydia had pulled Mary Anne’s script. Lydia smiled. Mary Anne was a bright
Beverly put her arm around Lydia’s shoulder and whispered into her ear. “He loved you. You were the one for him. I knew it the first day you came to the office. I’m just glad you two reconnected before all this.”
Beverly did know. Maybe she’d always known. “Thanks,” Lydia said, wiping her eyes.
“Here comes trouble,” Beverly said. She patted Lydia’s arm and nodded her head toward Arnold and Josanne, who wove their way toward them. “That little shit, I can’t believe he had the nerve to show. Especially after what happened. Listen, Lyd, you get Seven Minutes Past Midnight made no matter what Arnold tries to do. Dad loved that script. And let me know if I can help.”
“You got it.” Lydia sniffled.
“Call my office and schedule a lunch,” Beverly said as Lydia backed away.
“I’ll have Toddy do it tomorrow,” Lydia said.
Lydia walked to her car, wondering if she’d always feel so alone.
Deafening silence greeted Lydia at the front door of her Mulholland Drive home. She’d long ago (perhaps the day she refused Weston’s marriage proposal) surrendered the shimmery thoughts of children, big holidays, a house bursting with chatter, music, and laughter; that life was a casualty to Hollywood combat. Lydia didn’t mourn the loss. Her success in film and the life she’d created for herself, although different from that of most women, were what she’d always wanted. But even knowing her choice was correct, every night when she came home the silence roared in her ears.
Lydia climbed the curving staircase. The house was big for one person, but it was a tax write-off (according to her accountant) that she needed. She spent less than half her time here, sleeping five hours on a good night. The majority of her waking hours were spent in her bungalow on the lot, or on set, and set could be—anywhere in the world, for months at a time. No, this place wasn’t a home, it was a house. A big, cold house full of marble, granite, and stainless steel. She’d never had the time (or the right partner) to turn it into a home.
She slipped her silk shirt off and let her skirt drop to the floor, thus creating the only mess in the entire ten-thousand-square-foot spread—a puddle of clothes at the foot of her bed. When she awoke in the noiseless morning, that testament to the house’s habitation would have been whisked away by Vilma as if by magic, wordlessly replaced by the New York Times , the Los Angeles Times , the Hollywood Reporter , Daily Variety , and a carafe of hot coffee. The clothes would reappear in Lydia’s closet exactly three days later, freshly cleaned.
Lydia shivered. The temperature in the house was fine, but she was cold. It’d been a long, emotional day. She climbed to the middle of her king-size bed (the trick to sleeping alone—take up the whole damn bed) and slid under her down comforter. She’d already cried … her tears were gone. Like Weston. All that remained were too-fresh memories of their rendezvous, both recent and long ago. She reached for the remote and aimed it at the plasma television hanging on the wall, but she didn’t want to watch TV. She dropped the remote on the bed. Lydia glanced around her bedroom, a tribute to a child-free lifestyle, all white and silk. Her gaze landed on the pile of scripts on the floor next to her nightstand. She could read. A lesson learned from both her father and Weston: Read, read, read. “Not enough people in this town read, you’d be surprised,” Weston had told her. “And the ones that actually read the scripts, well, they quickly rise to the top.”
They were both right. It’d been that very pile from which Lydia had pulled Mary Anne’s script. Lydia smiled. Mary Anne was a bright
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