Phillipa Bornikova: Box Office Poison

A man was seated on the sofa, one arm outstretched along the back and a glass of wine in his other hand. I noticed how the light reflected off his perfectly manicured nails. He had glossy black hair flecked lightly with gray. It was long enough to brush the top of his cashmere and silk turtleneck sweater. He stood and turned to face me. It was Jeffery Montolbano. He was gorgeous … and short. I’m no giant, but he was only a few inches taller than me. He came around the sofa, giving me plenty of time to appreciate his chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, lush lower lip, and trim, narrow-hipped body. He held out a hand.

His brown eyes, warm and humorous, were locked on mine, and I found myself unable to look away. His handshake was firm and lasted longer than was strictly necessary. “How do you do? I’m Jeff. You must be Linnet.” He had a basic midwestern American accent that was totally devoid of his famous, faintly European on-screen cadence.

“Ye-yes,” I stammered. I thought I caught a glimpse of David rolling his eyes.

“Wine?”

“Uh … yes … please.”

We all moved to the fireplace. David settled into a large armchair, which left me on the sofa with the actor. Montolbano filled the glass and handed it to me. His fingers brushed mine. I wondered if it was deliberate? It was certainly electric. Then he said to David, “You’re sure we can’t get you anything?”

“No, thanks, I’d rather wait for dinner than drink decanted.”

There was the briefest flicker of discomfort, then Montolbano’s expression went completely blank as he covered. I glanced toward David, but he had caught it. In the forty or so years since the Powers went public, vampires had gotten very good at catching human cues.

“Or maybe I’ll just nip over to the hotel restaurant now and grab a bite.” The words hung in the air, and David looked like someone who had just swallowed a particularly large and disgusting fly as the irony hit.

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. We all sat in frozen silence for a moment, then the actor started laughing. “Wow, phrases like that just have all kinds of meaning now.”

“Yes, yes, they do,” David said. “But seriously, that sounds like a good idea. I work among humans who are accustomed to vampires, and Linnet, in addition to working at the firm, was fostered in a vampire household. I forget that others might not be as comfortable with our … dietary needs.”

He started for the door, picking up an umbrella on his way. “I shouldn’t be gone above half an hour, and then I’ll keep you company while you two eat.”

A new concern intruded, prompted by the empty hole I felt in the pit of my stomach. “We’ll be really late for our reservation. Should we call? Or will they hold it.”

Montolbano spoke up. “I made it. They’ll hold it.”

“Excellent,” David said, and he left.

I took a sip of wine and tried to think of some innocuous social prattle. I considered saying something about his charity work with the Special Olympics, the restraining order he’d had to get against a woman who thought she was going to marry him even though he was already happily married. As usual that didn’t happen. My penchant for saying whatever I thought took hold. “I know you’re famous and all, but why would they hold it if we’re really late?”

“Because someone on the staff has informed the paparazzi, and they’ll get a kickback from any pictures sold. They will not be happy if I go someplace else.”

“People do that?”

“Oh, yes. Morgue attendants, nurses, cops, gardeners, pool boys, waiters, limo drivers.” He ticked off the list on his fingers and seemed amused. “Am I missing anybody?”

“That’s … that’s horrible.”

He smiled at me. “Welcome to Tinsel Town. Where the only coin is fame, and fame is fleeting.” He shrugged. “It’s a lucrative business, and I don’t begrudge them. This is a tough town if you don’t have money. Everybody else feeds off the famous, so why not them?”

We both fell silent. Being female, and knowing that most women (and probably more than a few men) in America would kill to be in my position, I searched around for a new topic of conversation. Something safer. “So,” I said brightly, “I thought it never rained in California?”

“Only in January and February. Then the vegetation goes crazy on the hills and in the canyons. Next, the summer drought hits and it all becomes a tinder box. Somewhere in August and September the fires start and burn down some houses. Then the winter rains come and cause the mudslides that take out a few more houses. And then the whole cycle repeats. With the occasional earthquake thrown in so things don’t get boring.” He tried to keep it light, but I heard a cry of despair beneath the bantering delivery.

“Really love this place, don’t you?” I said sarcastically.

He gave me a sad, weary smile. “Caught that, did you? Yeah, I’m sick to death of it all. The traffic, the smog, the constant hustle from everybody.” I slipped a hand into my pocket and touched the bellhop’s video card. “Running as fast as you can to stay in one spot.”

I hadn’t expected the Through the Looking-Glass allusion. It made me look past the handsome face and wonder about the man inside the public figure. He took a long drink of wine.

“And now this fucking lawsuit.”

“But you’re the one who forced it into arbitration,” I said.

“Yeah, because actors have enough problems without fighting each other like a bunch of caged badgers. There are two hundred thousand members in SAG worldwide. At any given moment only a handful are working. Add to that the avatar technology where you can create a computer-generated actor, and you wonder how long before we all become voice talent. And now Álfar versus human.” He sighed. “The studios must be fucking loving this. A house divided and all that.”

David returned. His color was high, cheeks fuller. He had fed, and well, it seemed. Jeff stood.

“Okay, shall we go?”

At that moment a gust of wind sent a palm frond sailing into the patio, and the pelting rain plastered against the sliding glass doors. It flopped like an alien creature. “Maybe we should call for the golf cart,” I said, and picked up the phone.

Apparently Toby won the arm wrestling contest with Nu because he was driving the cart. We all ducked from the door into the uncertain cover of the golf cart, and Toby kept up an unending stream of artless prattle while we made the two-minute drive to the doors of the lobby. Maybe he thought he was being charming, but he came across like a desperate court jester, flinging out bad jokes and flop sweat. David stared at the young man in bemusement, while Montolbano looked like a stone effigy. I writhed with embarrassment for the kid.

Montolbano gave his valet ticket to the bell captain, and a few minutes later the large model BMW convertible, top prudently up, arrived. We hurried down the red carpet beneath the awning. The doorman, umbrella at the ready, opened the doors for us. I expected to end up in the backseat while the men sat up front and talked, but David surprised me by sliding into the back. I climbed in, the door was shut, and Montolbano pulled away

“No driver?” David asked.

“I get driven whenever I’m on a shoot, but I like cars, and I like to drive.” Montolbano gave a shrug. “And sometimes I just like the privacy of a car and my own head.”

Montolbano took us back to Sunset Boulevard and headed east. The parklike scenery gave way to tall office buildings and more upscale strip malls. Some of the tall buildings sported giant billboards with movie posters. One of them was a thirty-foot-tall image of the man seated next to me. It was advertising his latest movie, Steel Pinnacle, which didn’t tell me much. There was a big skyscraper; Montolbano, looking grim, grimy, and gritty, was dressed in Ninja black and holding a big gun.