Read Online Hollywood Girls Club by Maggie Marr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maggie Marr
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spot. Like a hapless puppy floundering around on oversized paws, Mary Anne bounded through the preproduction unable to contain her excitement and enthusiastic grin. Her talent was undeniable. Within three pages of starting to read her script, Lydia had gotten the tingly sensation at the base of her spine brought on by what her sixth sense always told her was exceptional writing.
That tingling sensation (aside from a good orgasm or a hit film) was the moment she lived for. She loved finding the great story. She knew it could pop up anywhere—an article, a book, a script, or a tale told to you in the doctor’s office. But the one commonality was the tingling sensation Lydia got when she stumbled onto the narrative that would support a film.
“It’s a gift,” Weston had told her while she was working at Birnbaum Productions. “Not everyone has it. Most of them are guessing, flying in the dark. Use it, don’t overthink it. You know, your dad had it, too.”
So her high cheekbones and dark hair weren’t the only things that Norton Albright passed down to her. She rolled toward the nightstand and reached for the light, flipping off the switch, then settled back into the bed, pulling the comforter up around her neck.
She listened for a sound, any sound. The house settling, the wind blowing, a board creaking … but there was nothing. Silence. As silent as a tomb.
Chapter 7
Jessica and Her Fuchsia Balenciaga Heels
Jessica walked down the red carpet at the premiere of My Way or the Highway knowing that she looked amazing (Pilates three times a week and yoga daily could do that for a body). She prayed she wouldn’t trip in her fuchsia Balenciaga heels. This was a CTA packaged film (or rather a Jessica Caulfield–packaged film). One of Jess’s actor clients, Maurice Banks, starred; another client, Rowyn Hertz, directed; and finally Steven Fabian, a third client, had written the script.
Flashbulbs popped. Matt Damon walked in front of Jessica. Her eyes were blinded, and all she could see were spots. A television cable snaked just ahead of her on the red carpet. Jessica picked up her left foot to clear the cable but dragged her right. Damn. She felt it catch. She could see the picture and the headline tomorrow: ÜBER-AGENT TAKES TUMBLE ON THE RED HIGHWAY. Fuck! Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed her arm.
“Gotcha.”
“Thank y—” Jessica turned, her eyes focusing. A bolt of adrenaline surged through her body. There he was. The man; the one who taught her to play it safe with men. Mike Fox. He was alone, or he seemed to be alone.
Jessica hadn’t seen Mike Fox since the day she left I M FOX Productions to become an agent at CTA, which was shortly after their sordid little love affair (which they pretended nobody knew about) ended. Between the private jets, supermodels, and blow, Jessica couldn’t compete, Mike couldn’t commit, and Jessica couldn’t stay. The parting was neither amicable nor angry; their affair just ended. But the longing—the “what ifs” and “what could have beens”—popped into Jessica’s mind every time she read about Mike’s successes in Variety or Hollywood Reporter .
“Jess, smile,” Mike whispered into her ear. “They’ll never know.”
More flashbulbs popped, the lights again exploded in Jessica’s eyes. The spotlight always felt brighter when she was with Mike. He pulled her closer, not letting go of her arm as they strolled down the red carpet.
“You smell good and you look even better,” Mike whispered. Jess giggled. Giggled! She hadn’t giggled in … well, since she’d stopped sleeping with Mike.
“You know, I always loved making you laugh,” his deep voice breathed into her ear.
“I always loved it when you did,” she whispered.
The red carpet ended as they crossed the threshold into the theater lobby and joined the mass of Hollywood’s who’s who.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Mike said. “I wondered how many of your clients I had to hire
That tingling sensation (aside from a good orgasm or a hit film) was the moment she lived for. She loved finding the great story. She knew it could pop up anywhere—an article, a book, a script, or a tale told to you in the doctor’s office. But the one commonality was the tingling sensation Lydia got when she stumbled onto the narrative that would support a film.
“It’s a gift,” Weston had told her while she was working at Birnbaum Productions. “Not everyone has it. Most of them are guessing, flying in the dark. Use it, don’t overthink it. You know, your dad had it, too.”
So her high cheekbones and dark hair weren’t the only things that Norton Albright passed down to her. She rolled toward the nightstand and reached for the light, flipping off the switch, then settled back into the bed, pulling the comforter up around her neck.
She listened for a sound, any sound. The house settling, the wind blowing, a board creaking … but there was nothing. Silence. As silent as a tomb.
Chapter 7
Jessica and Her Fuchsia Balenciaga Heels
Jessica walked down the red carpet at the premiere of My Way or the Highway knowing that she looked amazing (Pilates three times a week and yoga daily could do that for a body). She prayed she wouldn’t trip in her fuchsia Balenciaga heels. This was a CTA packaged film (or rather a Jessica Caulfield–packaged film). One of Jess’s actor clients, Maurice Banks, starred; another client, Rowyn Hertz, directed; and finally Steven Fabian, a third client, had written the script.
Flashbulbs popped. Matt Damon walked in front of Jessica. Her eyes were blinded, and all she could see were spots. A television cable snaked just ahead of her on the red carpet. Jessica picked up her left foot to clear the cable but dragged her right. Damn. She felt it catch. She could see the picture and the headline tomorrow: ÜBER-AGENT TAKES TUMBLE ON THE RED HIGHWAY. Fuck! Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed her arm.
“Gotcha.”
“Thank y—” Jessica turned, her eyes focusing. A bolt of adrenaline surged through her body. There he was. The man; the one who taught her to play it safe with men. Mike Fox. He was alone, or he seemed to be alone.
Jessica hadn’t seen Mike Fox since the day she left I M FOX Productions to become an agent at CTA, which was shortly after their sordid little love affair (which they pretended nobody knew about) ended. Between the private jets, supermodels, and blow, Jessica couldn’t compete, Mike couldn’t commit, and Jessica couldn’t stay. The parting was neither amicable nor angry; their affair just ended. But the longing—the “what ifs” and “what could have beens”—popped into Jessica’s mind every time she read about Mike’s successes in Variety or Hollywood Reporter .
“Jess, smile,” Mike whispered into her ear. “They’ll never know.”
More flashbulbs popped, the lights again exploded in Jessica’s eyes. The spotlight always felt brighter when she was with Mike. He pulled her closer, not letting go of her arm as they strolled down the red carpet.
“You smell good and you look even better,” Mike whispered. Jess giggled. Giggled! She hadn’t giggled in … well, since she’d stopped sleeping with Mike.
“You know, I always loved making you laugh,” his deep voice breathed into her ear.
“I always loved it when you did,” she whispered.
The red carpet ended as they crossed the threshold into the theater lobby and joined the mass of Hollywood’s who’s who.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Mike said. “I wondered how many of your clients I had to hire
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