Hollywood Girls Club by Maggie Marr Read Free Book Online

Celeste.
    “It’s a little Lydia Albright film. Seven Minutes Past Midnight . Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
    “What?! Since when? Lydia’s career is over with Arnold running Worldwide.”
    “Since three days ago. If you weren’t on set pulling high-school pranks with the crew, maybe you’d know what’s going on in the movie business.”
    Damien leaned back on the chaise lounge. “Worldwide won’t meet your quote. They’ve already spent twenty million on Bradford Madison plus gross points in profit participation and ten million for Zymar to direct.”
    “Deal’s done. Funny you mention Bradford. Yes, hmm … Now, there is an interesting actor I haven’t worked with yet.”
    “If you like them wet behind the ears and fresh out of rehab.”
    Celeste bent over Damien, letting her nipples graze his arm. “Darling, rehab or no, I just like them fresh.”
    Damien stopped. She’d chipped the enamel surface of his exterior, she could tell. Age was a sore spot for anyone in Hollywood; at least anyone over twenty-five. No one willingly told you how many years they’d lived. Best guess was to take whatever they said and add five years; that generally put you within seven years of the real number.
    “Celeste, I know you do. But I guess the real question is—does Bradford?”
    Fucker.
    She wouldn’t let him win. Or at least know that he had. She turned toward the house.
    “We’re having a script read-through,” Celeste called as she clipped across the flagstone to the back entrance. “Not sure what time I’ll be back.”
    “No worries. I fly out at ten,” Damien called.
    Celeste stopped and turned. Damien lounged on the chaise like a snake soaking up sun.
    “New Zealand again,” Damien said. “Problem on set.”
    “How long?”
    “Couple of days, maybe a week. They only have ten more days to shoot.” He sipped his juice and reached for the Enquirer . “ Great picture of Brie, don’t you think? Good publicity for the film.”
    Celeste’s eyes teared, but she didn’t want him to see her cry. She had to get away from him.
    “Have a safe trip,” Celeste said, and turned toward the house. The largest, most luxurious house in the Hollywood Hills; twenty thousand square feet of unhappy home.
     
    *
     
    Celeste sat alone at a table on the patio behind Factors Deli. Not her first choice, but she knew Lydia had an affinity for this spot (her father often brought her here for lunch when Lydia was a little girl and he was still producing), and it was close to Jessica’s Beverly Hills office. Only for these two women would Celeste Solange wait. Her days of waiting for anyone had ended the same time her acting quote rose to eight figures.
    The waiting was mildly irritating but she didn’t mind being alone. She’d never acquired the usual set of gadflies and hangers-on that some celebrities collected. People as trinkets . She had her “team”: agent, stylists (makeup, clothing, and hair), publicist, attorney, business manager, accountant, and trainer—but everyone had a job, a place in her life, each contributed their part in the multinational corporation that was Celeste Solange. A corporation that in a good year could gross upward of $100 million although she hadn’t had a “good year” in almost two—thank you, Damien.
    Not a bad climb from poor, white Tennessee trailer trash to multimillionaire (she didn’t even have a GED—few people knew that). Thanks to her brilliant business manager, Jerry Z, her assets were many—real estate, stocks, jewels, a restaurant in Tribeca, two clubs in L.A. Who knew (other than Jerry) what on any given day Celeste actually owned? Her overhead was low (well, relatively; compared to most celebrities, she spent like a pauper). She’d never rented a private island or purchased a jet. Damien had his own money and he paid for their living expenses—the house, the cars, the staff.
    The one luxury she did indulge in was shoes, very expensive shoes. This past month