Robby could barely get a word in edgewise as the gawky seventeen-year-old girl bubbled over with excitement. Lisa couldn't believe that she was about to eat breakfast with a famous TV star in the upscale restuarant of the Beverly Hills hotel. She told Robby how her father had jammed a chair under her bedroom door to keep her locked inside for the entire weekend until he could figure out what to do with her, and she didn't stop there.
"But I didn't care," she explained. "In nine months I'll be eighteen and then he can't stop us. Shit, your divorce will probably take longer than that anyway."
She asked the waiter to bring her a bagel, lox and cream cheese because she thought that's what Hollywood people ate -- and a coffee to show Robby how grown up she was.
She told him how the longhaired tabloid guy with whom Robby had bartered an exclusive interview had waited outside her house until her parents went to work, then picked the lock on their front door and broke in to free her. He had driven Lisa to the hotel and was waiting in the lobby to drive her back home.
She told him how horrible she felt about accusing him of rape, how the guilt had almost driven her to a second suicide attempt, but that in the end she knew she had to clear Robby before she could allow herself to die.
Robby didn't mind just listening at this point. When he had first entered the Polo Lounge for breakfast, there were only a couple of photographers present, and they had given up on him after just a few flashes because there's only so much you can do with a man eating his Wheaties. But now they were going crazy. One flash after another until the maitre'd asked the photographers to leave for disrupting the clientele.
Didn't matter though. As soon as two left, two others appeared. After they were exiled, four more showed up in their place. Even the tourist patrons began to realize the magnitude of the tinseltrash sitting next to them and started to flash their drugstore disposables. The other tinseltrash celebrities, having spent discreet tete-a-tetes of their own in the hotel the night before, did not appreciate the flashing bulbs that could possibly "out" them. Straight married icons and gay superstars alike cut their breakfasts short in fear that they, too, might end up the focus of someone's lenses.
So the maitre'd, unable to stop the onslaught himself, did as he was taught to do to do in just such a situation by his retired mentor. He simply picked up the phone and punched in the right number and notified the manager.
"Red alert," was all that he had to say.
Within minutes, hotel security showed up to discreetly escort each and every photographer out the door. They left with little complaint. They had pretty much gotten what they came for, and they knew that it was best not to piss off the management because they wanted to be able to come back again for the next star scandal.
After that, it was just a matter of telling the tourist patrons that flash bulbs were not permitted in the restaurant. They all knew they couldn't get a good shot without one, and it never occurred to any of them that there would be no consequences if they disobeyed.
But none of this applied to the longhaired photo jock sitting in the lobby. The Gazette's Ralphie Sullivan had yet to take a single shot that morning, so it never occurred to security to ask him to leave. He simply reclined back in one of the most comfortable chairs and quietly read a historical novel as peers and rivals alike paraded in and out of the restaurant, secure in the knowledge that he had already outscooped them.
For Ralphie was very smug that way. Having started out as a photographer merely looking to make a living while concentrating on his art, he quickly realized how easy tabloid writing was. He was already getting the biggest scoops and the nastiest photos of his time, why let some other son-of-a-bitch get a byline for merely describing what he had already shot? Many of the greatest gossip scoops of the decade had been the twenty-nine-year-old's finds, so he felt totally justified in insisting that the Gazette let him write his own column. His bosses at the rag appreciated the skinny, longhaired lad's arrogance and easily agreed. He quickly became the scourge of his peers and the symbol of what was wrong with the American press -- to the point that local radio stations in L.A., New York, Chicago and Atlanta had all offered him his own phone-in show, virtually guaranteeing him national syndication within six months. Had Ralphie, an ultra-straight, homophobic, heavy metal fan not thought his voice sounded gay, he would've taken them up on it because he loved the accolades.
But more on Ralphie later. Back to the Polo Lounge.
Robby hadn't cared about the flashes one way or another. He was simply glad that Lisa hadn't called upon him to say a word. Lisa believed Robby's acceptance of her marriage proposal was real, or at least she acted like she did, so he felt he owed it to her to set her straight. But this clearly wasn't the time -- not with so many tourists and press around. As smart as the girl was, he knew that she was clearly unstable and lived in her own fantasy world.
Actually, he realized, she lived in TWO fantasy worlds.
One was the perfect, blue-skied, rosy land in which she would marry Robby, and all the kids at the Noho Cafe would love her and regret how mean they had been to her. They would beg her for their forgiveness, and she would grant it and they would all be best friends and sip margaritas by her new husband's Olympic-sized pool in the backyard of his Beverly Hills mansion.
Her other world was dark and grim. Life was cheap and meaningless. Shallow anorexic chicks with big fake tits and nose jobs were emulated by all, and intelligent, ugly nerds such as herself had no place other than a graveyard.
Robby saw this part of her as she told him her side of what had happened the night she had publicly accused him of attempted rape. Her version was accurate and factual, and since you already know it, I don't see the need to waste bandwidth by repeating it. In fact, it wasn't too far off from what Robby had already guessed.
But Robby couldn't help notice that throughout their entire conversation, or should I say Lisa's monologue, the overly excited teenager was very, very fidgety with her cutlery. As she discussed their moment on the top of Mulholland Drive, the butter knife in her hand seemed to make its way up along the side of her neck.
Clearly, the girl was on the edge. No, he didn't expect her to kill herself upon hearing the truth; he was just afraid that she would make a scene and spill the beans for all to hear.
So given this fear that he already had, it was utterly horrifying to him when she asked the most frightening question of all.
"So what'd you do it for?" she asked him. "Why'd you make up this story?"
"What do you want to do today?" was Robby's reply. "Let's do something fun."
"You didn't answer my question," she was intelligent enough to ask.
"I'm going to answer your question," he said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. "But I've been here for over an hour -- I want to get out of here. I want to give you a great day. What do you want to do?"
No boy had ever said he wanted to give Lisa a great day -- it had always been her denigrating responsibility to please them. It knocked all logic out of her brain, and Robby's perfect smile and seductive eyes almost made her unable to speak.
"I don't know," she stammered uncontrollably. "What do you want to do?"
"Wanna go to the zoo?" he asked. "It's been awhile since I've been to the Tar Pits. Or how about Disneyland or Magic Mountain?"
The truth was that any of these places would have been a thrill for Lisa if accompanied by her TV star fiance, but she couldn't help be offended that all the things he had suggested were ultimately for children.
"That's kid shit," she blurted out loudly as many heads turned. "I'm not a child! What the fuck you treating me like a child for?"
"No, no, no," he said quickly, terrified of her presenting to the crowd anything but a perfectly perverse relationship. "I'm just guessing, sweetie. I don't know what you like. That's why I asked YOU what you wanted to do first. If I were going to treat you like a child, I'd tell you I have to go to work. But I'm going to take off the morning so I can be with you, no matter what you want to do."
"You have to go to work?" she asked.
Robby had a nine o'clock call on "Gun Butt" that day, but it had been his intention all along to show up around eleven. His plan from the start had been to arrive on the set two-to-three hours late for his first several days after which the A.D. (who makes the schedule) would realize that Robby was consistently late. At that point, he would tell Robby to come in much earlier than actually needed in order to have the actor on the set on time. Robby would then show up as called and give shit to all for making him arrive so much earlier than he should have.
"It's not like they'll start without me," Robby bragged to his underage sweetheart.
"You gotta get to work on time, mister. You can't screw up your career because of me," Lisa matronly insisted. "I know you have drug problems. I've read all about your drug problems, and I don't care 'cause I'm gonna take care of my hubbie. You gotta get to work right now."
Robby was both relieved that the subject had changed, and guilt-ridden that the girl truly believed they would one day be wed. But as he stared into her eyes because he so wanted to tell her the truth, he realized that the blue-hazel hue of her iris was both unique and captivating, if you could just get over the zits that surrounded them. So Robby diverted his eyes away from her face to find a thin, flat-chested body with virtually no curves. She could be a little acne-infested boy with nice eyes as far as anyone knew, but as far as the public was concerned she was his bride-to-be.
"You gotta get to work on time, my man," she said gleefully. "Because one day we'll have kids and you've got to support them."
"Okay," he said. "If you want."
"So just tell me," she said, down-shifting back to reality. "Are we real?"
"Wanna come?" Robby asked, once again shifting the conversation so he could answer her honestly later, in private.
"Where?"
"To the shoot," he answered. "Ever see a real movie shoot?"
"Am I allowed?" she asked.
"You're my girl," he answered. "If I say you're there, you're there. We've got a lot to talk about, and we can do it on the drive over. So, do you want to be there?"
"Oh God, yes!" she answered.
Robby couldn't have been more depressed by her answer, but the consummate actor pulled himself together to reply:
"Great! You will be my inspiration!"
So Robby called for the check. Lisa took her wallet out of her purse as she added up her half. Robby whipped out his platinum card and told her her that he had it covered.
Lisa cried.
Of course, she had always expected boys to pay -- that's how her mother had always explained it would be -- it had just never happened that way for her. Lisa had often offered to pay for the whole date just to get boys to go out with her. Most of the time they turned her down anyway. Some of the time they took her up on it. Occasionally, they split it Dutch treat. The only boy to ever cover it all was Mitch, and he had tried to rape her. She knew Robby would never try to rape her -- she couldn't even tell if he wanted her at all -- yet there he was paying for her. It was simply too wonderful to hold back the tears.
But Robby was terrified. He could tell they were tears of joy, but he didn't understand why. Robby had never let a girl pay for herself in his life. In Hollywood, many female agents and executives try, but Robby had simply been taught not to let them. Sexist, yes, but they all seemed to appreciate the gesture anyway.
"You're going to have a great time on the set," he assured her. "Everyone will treat you like a princess."
"It doesn't matter what they do," she said as she badly attempted to pull herself together. "It only matters how fucking fantastic you treat me. I love you!"
"You're a great kid," he said, desperately trying to return the compliment without leading her on anymore than he already had.
So he paid the check, and they headed off towards the valet parking when they passed Ralphie Sullivan in the lobby.
Ralphie bounced out of his chair, ready for his exclusive interview that would once again make him tabloid-prick-supreme. But when Lisa insisted that Robby had to get to work immediately, Ralphie had a fit. He had a deal with Robby, and he was supposed to get an interview that day. He had done his part and Robby was reneging!
Robby, who would've had no problem doing the interview then and there, enjoyed playing the role of henpecked husband to the seventeen-year-old's domineering wife -- he also thought it would be a good thing for the tabloid scum to see.
So he pointed out to Ralphie that he had never said WHEN he would get his exclusive, he would just get the first. Ralphie was pissed and he let Robby know it. His deadline was six that evening, and he accused the actor of breaking their deal. Robby guaranteed Ralphie would get his exclusive first thing the following morning -- eight a.m. right there in the lobby. Lisa agreed on the condition that Ralphie would come rescue her from her locked bedroom once again. But Ralphie pointed out none of this did him any good.
"Today's article comes out this Friday," he explained. "Tomorrow's comes out the Friday after. If you give me an interview tomorrow, then go blabbing to the Enquirer or the Star the day after, shit, we all come out the same day. My exclusive ain't much of an exclusive no more, and you welched, you son-of-a-bitch."
By now, Robby felt bad about the predicament in which he had put the reporter. Still, it was too late for him to agree to do the interview at the moment for fear he would lose the "son-of-a-bitch" status he had somehow lucked into. So, ever so casually, as if it were the least important thing in the world, he agreed that he and Lisa wouldn't speak to any other reporters together for seven days so that Ralphie's interview would be the only one of its kind. Ralphie still wasn't happy about it, was offended that Robby wasn't taking this seriously, but he knew he simply had to take what he could get.
"Honey, we've got to get you to work," Lisa told Robby.
"But you gotta gimme somethin' for today," Ralphie insisted. "Anything."
Robby wrapped his arm around Lisa and told Ralphie to get his camera ready.
Robby and Lisa both smiled a "cheese" smile, and Ralphie wanted to puke.
"I said you gotta gimme something," Ralphie insisted. "This is just an Eiffel Tower bullshit tourist shot."
"I have no idea what you mean," responded Robby who had every idea what he meant.
"I know what he means," said Lisa who wrapped her hands around Robby's face and pressed her lips against his, then tried to wriggle her tongue into his mouth.
Ralphie clicked one flash after another before Robby could peel the teenage girl off his face. But Lisa kept smiling for the camera, jutting her hips and protruding her very minimal breasts in her finest MTV poses.
Finally, Robby told them both that it was enough by saying, "This little girl is the most amazing woman I have ever met. I GOTTA get her to the set."
Lisa added, "Robby and I are going to have twenty-five-thousand children together."
And the two scurried out.
Ralphie wasn't crazy about the pictures he had gotten of them, and he thought the quotes lacked bite. But it was all he had to work with, and presumably it was more than anyone else had. So as far as Ralphie could tell, those two quotes and one of those pictures would be on the cover of the Gazette starting Friday and for the next seven days that followed... unless he could come up with something worse.
When the valet parking guys brought up Robby's Lexus SC400, Robby made sure they helped Lisa into the car before he overtipped them.
He drove off, and as he came to the red light at Sunset, he could've sworn that he saw his stalker get into a beat up old Honda that was parked on the street.
By the time Robby made the left turn onto Coldwater Canyon Boulevard, he could see his stalker three cars behind him in his rear-view mirror.
The stalker was going to follow him to the shoot, and Robby was about ninety per cent sure that someone was going to die.
*** Up Next: "Stalker Behind, Crazy Girl Beside" ***
The main characters in this e-novel are fictional and are not intended to portray or resemble any actual individuals, whether living or dead (except for Jeff Abugov who is a real screenwriter, director and producer.) Although certain real people and companies are mentioned in this e-novel, all of the events are fictional and are not intended to portray or resemble any actual events.
Copyright © 2015 Tinseltrash, Inc.