The Star Attraction Read online

  My kitchen is primarily used as a morning coffee station.

  Jacob strides in—looking the part of athletic, former frat boy turned respectable businessman in a sharp suit and Italian leather shoes—and flashes a broad smile as he drops the aromatic bag of food on the kitchen counter.

  I want to say it’s because I am an intoxicating vision of beauty tonight. But I have some idea what my hair must look like: dirty-blond straw. I have stick-straight, relatively healthy, down-to-my-shoulders locks, which can actually be blown out to look quite pretty when I bother. But this morning was too damn early, and I’m not the one on TV anyway. So the best I could do was a tight ponytail, which gives a finished appearance but at this point in the day is no longer tolerable. I now have the ponytail holder around my wrist, and self-consciously, I tuck the man-made lighter blond highlights behind my ears as I return to flipping through our viewing options.

  I don’t remember when I stopped checking the mirror before Jacob’s arrival, but I did.

  “Hi, babe.” He leans over the couch and gives me a quick upside-down kiss. His chestnut-brown bangs tickle my chin. And I get a note of his warm, earthy cologne. “I got baby back ribs, smoked chicken, and corn bread. How was your day?” He disappears into the adjoining kitchen.

  “Good and exhausting. We might be signing Billy Fox as a new client tomorrow. And Elle chose me to win him over.”

  “The actor, right?” Jacob’s voice floats in from the kitchen along with the sound of drawers and the refrigerator door opening and closing. “You’re a pro. I’m sure you’ll wow him.”

  That’s so Jacob—supportive of my career yet rarely star-struck. It’s an endearing trait and a retreat from my celebrity-saturated world. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, hoping he’s right. “Oh, Julie at Hollywood Tonight says hi. She’s the one who got smashed at the Sunset Room last week, remember?”

  “How could I forget?” Jacob reappears juggling a Sierra Nevada for himself and the rest of an already open bottle of wine for me, along with plates, napkins, and utensils. “She serenaded the entire bar with three choruses of ‘I Will Survive.’ Too bad she couldn’t remember the verses. And there you were cheering her on!” He chuckles, organizing everything in front of us.

  We exchange the ritual small talk as we set up dinner on the small square coffee table in front of my fifty-inch flat-screen, an unexpected client gift from Christmas. Now I would dearly love to impress you with the list of highbrow shows I watch, but while Jacob “season passes” shows like The O’Reilly Factor and Meet the Press, I am addicted to guilty pleasures. I consider them a present to myself for when I get home at night and find my brain on standby. Aside from keeping up with the standard reality TV fare, I am still attached to the soap my Theta sorority sisters got me hooked on—Days of Our Lives. Some people even say I resemble the longtime character Sami, which is up for debate, but I’ll take it as a compliment. And whenever I’m feeling really down, good old-fashioned 90210 (the original) and Dawson’s Creek repeats are the best antidotes.

  But beyond the girly stuff, Jacob and I appreciate a lot of the same shows.

  Our absolute favorite is Survivor. Seriously, it is such good TV and a useful reminder that even on my toughest days I’ve at least got takeout on speed-dial, a hot shower, and Jacob’s alliance to keep me sane. I’m no prima donna, but honestly, I’d be the first to vote myself off the island. Jacob and I have a pact that no matter how tempted, we won’t watch our favorite show without the other person. In fact, one time we got in a huge two-day fight because I thought he’d watched it without me and so I started viewing the recorded episode before he arrived.

  So there we were, both ridiculously furious at each other for watching Survivor without the other. At some point, while I was still good and riled up, he just grabbed me and kissed me hard on the mouth. After that it was pretty difficult to stay mad at him. I don’t know why, but there are times when I’m simply in the mood for a good fight, and Jacob just isn’t like that. He’s Mr. Steady. Mostly, though, I do appreciate how even-tempered Jacob is, and I love that our relationship isn’t built on drama. I get enough drama with my clients.

  When we first started dating, I used to think of Jacob as “Jake” and even teasingly call him that to be sexy. You see, the first time I laid eyes on Jacob, he totally reminded me of dreamy “Jake Ryan” from Sixteen Candles, a preteen crush that I never outgrew. Both certainly fit “tall, dark, and handsome.” Plus he’s preppy and conservative. Not that he’s a prude. I mean, we met at a trendy Hollywood bar, not in the Elizabethan poetry section of the library, and he had definitely been drinking. I recall he was holding a bottled beer in his left hand when he shook my hand with his right. His smile, loosened by the alcohol into a very compelling grin, gave away that he was attracted to me too.

  The second we officially met, I doubly pictured that hunk in John Hughes’s movie. And not only because of his name. Jacob had this way about him that reminded me of how cool “Jake” was, how he went his own way, liking Molly Ringwald instead of the vapid popular blond girl. We too were at a party, not a wild high-school rager with Long Duk Dong, but basically its adult equivalent. A Theta sister from USC was throwing a party for her thirtieth at the Saddle Ranch on Sunset, home to one very feisty mechanical bull. Trust me, I’ve found that out the hard way. There we all were, drinking sour apple martinis and making fools of ourselves, which is not exactly the position you want to find yourself in when you meet a guy you want to have a real (read successful) relationship with. But Jacob was different. He spotted something special in me, something that inspired him to make it through the dense crowd and introduce himself.

  He left with my number. I left unable to shake the thought of him.

  The very next day he called and asked me out. Less than a month later, my Facebook relationship status was officially changed, and, well, here we are, together for almost two years now.

  “Babe—your hands are clean, hit fast-forward, will you?” Jacob interrupts my reverie, reminding me of my remote-control responsibilities. A weird side effect of my job is that I am a really fast eater, so I’d already devoured my chicken and irresistible side of sweet corn bread. Ever the boy, Jacob’s fingers remain covered in BBQ sauce. He flashes an adorably greasy smile that moves me to lean in and kiss him. I giggle as I skip past the commercials to the Immunity Challenge, happy that we have our own ritual retreat and that we have a pretty good alliance.

  Sometimes I think Jacob and I could contentedly spend every night like this for the rest of our lives, which is new ground for me. I always thought of myself as a tough, independent girl. With every guy I’ve dated, I’ve kept my own place, and I’ve never really been tempted to move in with anyone. But I can’t help loving the way Jacob pulls my body up against his as I’m falling asleep. And the thought of waking to his broad arms around me each—well, at least weekend—morning doesn’t feel like it would be a compromise or surrender. Two years together is pretty much a record for me. And for once, the idea of settling down doesn’t feel suffocating. But what and when exactly is the next step? Moving in together? And does Jacob want the same thing?

  All I know is I’m ready for more.

  My alarm is blaring the Black Eyed Peas at 8:05 Thursday morning. As I dive for the snooze button, I can smell the coffee Jacob brewed wafting into the bedroom. It’s nice to lie still, breathing in dark Italian roast, and picture Jacob quietly setting the high-tech coffee machine for me. It’s the kind of sweet and considerate thing he is so good at. I hate that he’s not here in bed with me though. When he stays over, he wakes up super-early to hit the gym before heading to his office downtown. It’s hard not to feel guilty whenever I think about the extra commute he puts up with just to spend the night with me. But not so guilty I want him to stop.

  Now if we lived together…

  Glancing over at the clock, I am horrified to discover that almost fifteen minutes have gone by while I daydreamed about Jacob. My morning
routine is timed down to the last minute, and now—if I don’t seriously scramble—I’m going to be late. Damn it.

  I wasn’t always a late riser. Before Jacob, I was seeing this bleach-blond surfer boy named Zach. He miraculously had me in a wet suit before 6 A.M., trying to catch waves. My inner Gidget phase didn’t last long though. I’m not much for working out in the morning, much less in the cold ocean waters. Looking back, sports always seem to have been embedded in my relationships, as if the spark is actually competition. Before Zach, there was Chad. Tennis was our game. Chad was one of those ultra-preppy frat boys who didn’t realize Lacoste had come back in style, because for him and his habitually upturned collar, it had never gone out. Alas, a shared appreciation for styling mousse and winter tans wasn’t enough, and like the sport, our “love” became synonymous with zero.

  The guy I dated for two semesters in college was really into Tae Kwon Do. It was my Karate Kid phase, and I totally wanted to be Elisabeth Shue. But he was no Daniel-san, so we broke up before I got my yellow belt. I even fell for this kickboxer—“the sport of the future”—because I couldn’t get John Cusack out of my head. I think I could blame all those classic eighties movies for my love life.

  Other than the occasional round of golf, Jacob simply goes to the gym like regular people. In fact, I don’t work out with him at all. We kind of have our separate routines and then do stuff together when we can. Personally I think that’s why we’ve lasted so much longer than my previous relationships. We’re not living in each other’s pocket.

  And he brews a mean pot of coffee.

  Requisite caffeine boost in hand, I lean against the sliding doors of my closet to choose an outfit for the day. I wish I could be one of those people who pick out their clothes the night before and have them all laid out for the morning next to the perfect shoes and accessories. But really, I am just not that organized in my personal life. There’s no time for indecision today, so I simply grab a flattering skirt and a favorite top, jump in the shower, and pull myself together with an anxious eye always on the time.

  Grabbing my bag and keys, I dart down to my car. I’m freaking out not because I’m nervous or star-struck to meet Billy Fox, but because I’m supposed to be sitting in our conference room in, oh my God, forty minutes. If I show up late, Elle will be understandably upset. Thirty-nine minutes. Argh! I love Elle, and she loves me, but no one wants to see Elle when she’s angry.

  All I can do now is pray to the traffic gods.

  9:27 A.M.—the elevator is taking forever. And, of course, it’s filled with people who are getting off on every floor between here and the thirtieth. Our offices take up two floors, twenty-nine and thirty, in one of Century City’s biggest buildings. My personal office is on twenty-nine, but a furtive glance at my watch confirms that Billy Fox and his “team” are probably already walking into Elle’s upper-floor office as we speak, so I figure I’ll stake out the conference room. Be there waiting when they arrive.

  This meeting would normally be a breeze, except that Billy’s manager can be a complete bitch. Her name is Wanda von Kingstead—it even sounds snotty. But I don’t think I’ll have any trouble with Wanda; she’s warmed to me ever since I sweet-talked Us Weekly into pulling a disgusting (but true) story about one of her clients. It bears mentioning that Wanda admitted to me in a panicked too-sober voice during a 1 A.M. phone call that perhaps she might have revealed this secret to a one-night stand whose name is well known on the gossip circuit. Since I represent this celeb, it was in my best interest to do as much damage control as possible. I still can’t believe I got out of that one by giving a good tip as to where a certain reality show judge takes her handsome young would-be stars for a night on the town.

  You may think that cold and cutthroat, but, hey, I didn’t create the system. I just make it work for me. Believe me, never trust a publicist with your secrets—we’d sell out our own mother to protect a client.

  Either way, knowing Wanda is going to be present forces me to elevate my game a little. But meeting hunky stars is not all it’s cracked up to be. Inevitably I find myself let down a little; some of them don’t even shower unless they’re required to on a set. As any makeup artist will tell you—some guys, you have to trim their nose hairs for them. Or they’re shockingly dull. Hygiene and personality shortcomings aside, I’ve had my share of favorite movies ruined forever by the actors being such utter bastards off-camera. I’m very curious to see what Billy Fox is like.

  Yes! The conference room is still empty. I scoot around to the far side of the table, take a seat in an emerald-green rolling chair, and triumphantly help myself to a pitcher of ice water.

  “Oh, Sophie! There you are.” Elle’s sweet-but-professional voice in the conference room doorway catches me off-guard and I involuntarily jump, spilling the entire cup of chilled water into my lap.

  Fuck!

  “Your assistant didn’t know where you’d disappeared to,” Elle breezily continues with no idea that my crotch has reached arctic temperatures. “Of course you know Wanda.” Smothering a groan, I try and compensate with an overly bright smile showing too many teeth.

  “Good morning, Elle. Wanda!” I fake like I’m going to stand up, but carefully keep my soaking wet lap hidden behind the conference table.

  “And this is none other than Billy Fox,” Elle says, giving me an odd look before choosing a chair at the head of the long oval table. I realize how rude my behavior must seem at this point. Luckily I quickly preoccupy my hands with paperwork and my now-empty cup so as to appear completely unable to rise to politely greet Billy.

  “A pleasure. I’m Sophie.” I strive for a slightly harried and yet completely capable tone.

  “Sophie, it’s nice to meet you,” Billy says in a soft Texan accent as he leans over the table and helps me “gather” my papers. He takes my reluctant hand in his and holds eye contact a moment longer than necessary. In that instant I see what has captivated women worldwide. This man is utterly gorgeous. And his pale blue eyes have this adorable crinkly smile. Yikes, Sophie, pull it together.

  “Billy. Nice to meet you too.” For a second I forget the mini icebergs I still have in my lap and start to rise again. The quiet thud of the ice cubes hitting the carpet brings me to my senses, thank God, and I ungracefully slam my butt back in the chair. It is a relief to have the freezing element removed from my thighs. Now I just look like I’ve peed myself. Great. That’s a confidence booster.

  Now clearly I should just tell them what happened. With a disarming laugh, I could confess, “Oops! Silly me, I spilled ice water on my silk skirt,” and it would be no big deal. Well, it was too late. I started a lie, and to come clean at this point would make me look like a fool as well as a klutz. Hopefully, my skirt will be dry by the end of the meeting.

  “Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Elle clears her throat, and I recognize my cue to launch into our well-rehearsed but seemingly spontaneous explanation of the advantages of signing with Bennett/Peters.

  “To begin, we’d like to hear from you and your team,” I say, gesturing toward Wanda since often the manager takes the lead at this point, speaking on behalf of the client. A lot of “creative types” sit back, not bothering to hide their boredom, and let their managers decide the major aspects of their careers. “Tell us what Bennett/Peters can do for you.”

  Without hesitation Billy speaks up. “I want to make some changes. Wanda and I have gone over this, with my agents too. I want to continue to find new roles. Different characters to play. Now is the time to step up my game as an actor. And I think the best way to get those roles is to change my image.”

  Now, clearly, we are not in the business of casting movies, but Billy isn’t the first person to come through our doors hoping to land a different role with our help. The idea is that public perception can definitely impact how an actor is perceived by casting directors, directors, and producers. Sometimes they need a little push to see an actor in a new light… to be willing to take a chance
on him. And we can help with that.

  Billy continued. “When I first started out, I was getting more variety than I see now. The last ten scripts I’ve seen were exactly the same. The same character, the same romantic comedy, I’m always offered the same role—a copycat of Hugh Grant from Bridget Jones. Look, I know which film of mine made the most money… but I don’t want to be pigeonholed.”

  “We can absolutely help reshape your image,” I confidently say. “And help you better control how the public—and therefore the industry—sees you.” As part of the meeting prep, I collected all his recent tabloid mentions, and I start spreading them out on the table. For a while he was practically neck and neck with Kim Kardashian for coverage. “Frankly, there are some simple steps we can take to help make quick changes. If you’re on board, and willing… that’s the easy part. The harder part would be to reboot public perception of you into something else. How do you see yourself? In our experience, sticking closer to the truth is always easier… to establish and maintain.”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Billy says, totally focused on the discussion. “I’m not trying to make people think I’m someone I’m not. I just want to be taken seriously. Like Johnny Depp, for example. I want that. I can do mainstream and have indie cred. I appreciate art and culture. I mean, if they’re going to peg me as a playboy, why can’t it be the George Clooney type?”

  “For a lot of reasons.” I look him in the eye. “First of all, George has a few more years on him. But it’s also the way he escorts the appropriately dressed women he dates. He takes them to international film festivals, where he’s been nominated. Not out to Hollywood clubs. He brings them to his villa in Lake Como. Which just sounds good. He’s an Academy Award winner, and he acts like it.”