KIRA COPLIN AND JULIANNE KAYE

Pop Tart

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors’ imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk A Paperback Original 2009 First published in the USA by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009

Copyright © Kira Coplin and Julianne Kaye 2009

Kira Coplin and Julianne Kaye assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847561206

Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007331451

Version: 2018-06-13

For Ruth Waller, my grandmother, who always encouraged my silly dreams …

–K.C.

To my son, Jack, and my husband, Eddie, for inspiring me every day …

–J.K.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Acknowledgments

Are You Hungry For Fame

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

What can you say about a society that says

God is dead and Elvis is alive?

– Irv Kupcinet

A jolt of electricity runs from Crescent Heights Boulevard to Doheny Drive – a gleaming, vibrating stretch of asphalt and neon so notorious that Sin City named its ‘Strip’ after it. It’s there on Sunset Boulevard where the rich and famous play out their scandals for the world to see – where ‘It Girls’ dance pantyless atop the oversized Monkeywood tables of Hollywood clubs, and where poolside catfights are veiled only by the thick foliage of the Marmont. And on one particular night in late November, just a stone’s throw from the glittering lights and madness of the Sunset Strip, I inadvertently became a key player in one of the most shocking celebrity dramas of the past decade. No matter how I try to put the puzzle together, to coherently map out the timeline of events, pieces are still missing and holes will always remain.

There was an unnatural stiffness in the air that night as I raced down empty boulevards typically teeming with drivers blasting their radios, or assholes laying on their horns.

Expressionless models from billboards stuccoed on the sides of shopping malls glared down on me; tonight they almost appeared menacing. The city itself felt like a ghost town at this hour, loosely woven and wrapped in nebulous unease. Waiting at a traffic light, anxiously drumming my fingers on the dashboard, I spot the only other living soul out on the street – a tall, muscular man with long brown hair falling past his shoulder blades, rollerblading in circles, wearing nothing but spandex shorts and laughing hysterically as if sending out a warning, ‘Proceed with caution, the crazies are out tonight.’

I turned onto the tree-lined street, lit up by the glow of a sign that read: Emergency Department. It was empty. Momentary relief washed over me. ‘Maybe it’s okay. Maybe no one knows.’ But I knew this kind of thinking was premature. I’d been around long enough to know the percolating frenzy: chatter from police scanners had already alerted reporters and photographers, letting them know that something was amiss deep in the Valley. I screeched to a halt in the first parking garage I could find, almost forgetting to pull the keys from the ignition. ‘Fuck,’ I muttered under my breath, wondering if I could’ve parked any further from the hospital entrance. I moved fast – the gentle summer breeze mocking my distress – time was limited, that much I knew. Up ahead, a single police car with its sirens blaring flew up to the entrance of the E.R. That’s where things get a little fuzzy. A wave of adrenaline washed over me, stimulating my heart rate and dilating my air passages, prompting me to break out into a sprint. Like an animal prepared for an attack, my footsteps echoed noisily along the pavement only to be masked by the drone of helicopters appearing suddenly overhead, circling like mosquitoes. ‘They’ve found her, this is it, get ready,’ I told myself, knowing that within mere seconds I would be submerged in complete pandemonium. I had hoped to make it inside before the throngs of people began to gather, but that hope was gone now.

By the time I made my way to the entrance, hospital workers had begun erecting screens in front of the doors to shield them from the hordes of paparazzi and news cameras on the sidewalk. No one quite knew what was going on.

‘I just got pulled out of bed by my editor,’ a disheveled tabloid reporter, still in her pajamas, complained.

‘Maybe she’s dead!’ one paparazzo yelled out, causing the crowd to erupt in laughter.

‘That wouldn’t be so bad. Then we’d finally be able to get some sleep,’ another reporter muttered to her coworker, who nodded sheepishly.

Our attention was soon directed to the motorcade that seemed to appear out of nowhere, more than a dozen lights and sounds spanning two blocks. As it moved in our direction, inhuman chaos broke out. Photographers leapt from cars stopped at red lights and swarmed the ambulance – hanging off of it as if it were a life raft – all elbows and shoulders, knuckles and dilated lenses, hoping for a snapshot of an American sweetheart in her state of distress. What had really gone on in the hours leading up to this moment, no one knew. Was she near death? Had she lost her mind? Would she emerge in a puff of stage smoke and dry ice, looking absolutely breathtaking and wave to the crowd as if the world were her stage? The only thing that was certain, not only to us outside the hospital, but to the millions of Americans tuning in to watch the drama unfold on live T.V., was that the girl who lived a life that dreams were made of, with a fistful of pop hits to boot – was being ambulanced to the emergency room, prompting people everywhere to ask, ‘How did this all happen?’

I didn’t have to ask.

I knew exactly how it had happened. I had seen it all first hand.

To the rest of the world, Brooke Parker was an immovable force. To them, she was the girl that sang happy songs with childlike abandon, who gyrated with vampy sex appeal across glittering stages and who lived in a world of feelings instead of facts – a dream, all smoke and mirrors. It was that face they’d seen so many times before – her doe eyes turned toward the camera, radiating the screen as she smiles – a smile that made them wonder what it would truly be like, how it would really feel, to be the kind of girl who had it all.

Chapter One

There are three sides to every story:

My side, your side and the truth. And no one is lying.

–Robert Evans

It was unusually warm for February in Beverly Hills. Men in suits beckoned to take their lunch meetings outside while their wives trotted down to Rodeo Drive to spend their hard-earned cash on things like diamond-encrusted purse hangers. I sat at my desk facing the window, watching groups of women saunter in and out of pricey boutiques. Clean-cut boys in ties lounged outside of the Brighton Coffee Shop sipping vanilla lattes, presumably conversing about their mailroom duties at William Morris and favorite movies. As a pack of girls zipped by, arms weighed down with shopping bags from Ron Herman and Hermès, cell phone chimes peeled my attention back to life inside the office.

‘Jackie? It’s your mother.’

‘Mom, I know it’s you, it comes up on my caller I.D.,’ I said, rolling my eyes.

‘How is everything going? How’s the job?’

‘It’s great. Sheryl’s just finishing up a cover shoot for a magazine and then on Sunday I’m assisting her for another job. Not sure yet what it is exactly, it’s on a studio lot in the Valley,’ I told her, trying to sound as upbeat as possible.

‘So, you’re working on the weekends now too?’ my mother asked.

‘When I’m needed,’ I said quickly.

‘Well, this doesn’t sound like a job you had to quit school for…I mean, maybe next semester you could find one like it back in Boston,’ she said.

I inhaled deeply. ‘I didn’t drop out of school for this job. I dropped out because I wanted to take my career in another direction.’

‘Oh honey, you are so close to graduating. You only have four more semesters left…it just seems like such a waste to quit now. Why don’t you just finish and then if you still want to enroll in cosmetology school, do it then.’

‘I don’t want to go to cosmetology school. I want to work on shoots…I don’t need a degree for that, I can do it now and that’s what I’m doing,’ I told her, eyeing the overly Botoxed blond entering the side door to the salon where we rented space. It was my boss, Sheryl.

‘But you’re just an assist—’

‘Mom, I have to go,’ I said hastily.

‘Your father will be home early tonight. I think it’s a perfect time for the three of us to have a serious discussion.’

‘Sure, whatever you want–I have to go,’ I repeated before cutting her off and hanging up the phone.

Phone calls from my mother like that one had become routine during the last six months since I dropped out of Boston University, right before my junior year. Home for the summer and bored with books, I searched for a creative outlet to take my mind off of the grueling schedule that would be waiting for me once again at the end of August.

‘I think I might want to try the whole acting thing again for a while,’ I said to my parents, who were poised on chaise lounges in our house, referring to my brief stint of commercial work at the age of three. My mother grabbed at bits of her graying hair and shook her head. My father just frowned. The endless dabblings of my childhood, which they once considered amusing, had long since grown tired.

Drawn to color and music at a very young age, I spent time experimenting with various artistic undertakings. ‘I am going to learn to play the flute!’ I’d tell my parents at the dinner table, a typical outburst from me.

‘Yesterday it was ballet lessons, and the day before that you were going to learn to play the trombone,’ my mother would laugh.

‘You’re a jack of all trades, kid,’ my father would say as I performed my latest masterpiece for him, perhaps a tap dance routine along the back patio.

The older I got, the more I disliked being good at many things: I wanted to be great at something. I wanted to leave my mark on the world, and somehow an art history degree earned in stuffy old classrooms in Cambridge didn’t seem like step one. Although they had supported my creativity in little ways as a child, my parents were dead set on shipping me out East the day I had my high school diploma in hand. Both of them worked in Hollywood since as long as I could remember and always talked about how brutal ‘the industry’ could be–they strived to keep me away, far away from it. So, when I announced my newly rediscovered acting career the summer after my sophomore year, the word ‘disappointed’ is an understatement.

I spent weeks trying to make the right connections; I even tried to get back in touch with my old agent over at Gersh, only to find out that she was now retired and living in Santa Barbara with her family.

‘Is there anyone you can refer me to?’ I asked.

‘Feel free to submit a résumé and headshot and if they’re interested someone will be in touch,’ she said, as if reading from a script.

I wasn’t going to give up so easily. Instead of wielding a diverse but mediocre portfolio of skills, I wanted to shine in a more singular way. So, when a man from a generic company called Ultimate Casting responded to an email I had sent him, I was thrilled.

‘I think I’ve got something for ya,’ he said. The tone of his voice revealed too much. He called me a knockout and assured me there was a demand for a ‘redhead’ with ‘soft features’ like mine. I could just picture him: hair combed over his balding scalp, Hawaiian shirt stretched snuggly around his protruding belly, short legs kicked up on top of a beat-up old desk, sitting in a minuscule makeshift office somewhere in the Valley, flipping through a roster of numbers and promising idiots like me that he had their ‘star’ on the Hollywood walk.

‘Here’s the deal…we cast for every major network and every major production company in Los Angeles. We don’t make money until you do. I repeat–we don’t make a dime until you’ve booked your first job through us. When you do start working, our service fee kicks in–$69.95 a month…but really, when you think about it, that’s nothing. You can make up to a hundred dollars a day working on movie sets.’ Was he selling me car insurance?

‘Great, how do I get started?’ I was a sucker, and I knew it, but these were desperate times…and I was desperate. If it got me out of the house two days a week it was better than nothing. At the very least it would prove to my parents that I was on my way.

Shelling out a portion of my ‘allowance,’ a mere $100 a week in exchange for picking up dry cleaning and odd chores around the house, I was relieved when Ultimate Casting booked me a job–and even more relieved to hear that the production was legitimate.

‘It’s a five-day shoot on the Warner Brothers lot,’ said the same supposed frump of a man who had called me the week before. ‘And it’s a period piece, so they want you to sleep in rollers at night. Keep ‘em in until you get to the set the next day. Call time is 7 AM each morning.’

Making it to the Valley from Beverly Hills at the crack of dawn, my head covered in pink sponge curlers, was not quite my cup of tea. The seventy-five-dollar per day fee I was promised didn’t quite average out to a fair amount once it was broken down by the long hours that seemed to drag on forever. My last morning on set, I sat groggily in the makeup chair, waiting to get powdered. The makeup artist who tended to the girl next to me, her brushstrokes creating a completely flawless look in seconds, struck me. She was an artist and hers was a real-life canvas, one that would be seen on film, by millions of people worldwide.

‘I took a SPFX course over the summer a couple years ago–it was kind of cool–we did a lot of horror-movie-type stuff,’ I eagerly told her when it was my turn. I had hoped that would’ve impressed her, but she simply smiled and nodded.

‘I think I would be good at makeup–I’ve always had a knack for it. But…how would I even start?’ I asked.

‘To get the good jobs–to be a professional,’ the woman said, ‘you would need to align yourself with a big company…one that will commission you to travel and to work on events all over the world.’

‘Umm…and how do I do that?’ I asked confused.

‘You’d be invited in for an interview with a makeup line and to do a demonstration for them…but before you could even get an interview you’d have to have a working portfolio and a video reel,’ she sniffed.

‘Wow, okay. I mean, do you need to take classes someplace, or what?’

‘Most lines offer advanced classes for artists who are already considered professionals, there’s nothing for those that are aspiring.’ She stopped for a moment and then raised an eyebrow as if she was about to tell me a secret. ‘Your best bet would be to apprentice for an artist that’s already established. That way you can get your feet wet right away. Look, I don’t have anything right now, but I have a girlfriend who works for a line in Beverly Hills and she gets booked for entertainment and high-fashion jobs all the time. I’m sure she could use some help.’

A week later I accepted an apprenticeship with Sheryl Lane, or as the slogan on her website read, ‘Sheryl Lane, Makeup Artist to the Stars!’ I would be available to Sheryl five days a week, possibly more–starting at 8 AM and working as long as she needed me.

As I walked into the house, the smell of chicken roasting from the kitchen caught me off guard. My mother rarely cooked when I was in high school, and since I’d returned from Boston and settled back into the home I’d grown up in, it had become even more infrequent.

‘Special occasion?’ I asked, throwing my messenger bag clumsily on the floor near the back door. She looked up from the counter where she was preparing green beans to give me a disgusted look.

‘I’m just cleaning up in here, do you really have to leave your mess all over the floor?’

‘My mess?’ I asked before pointing down toward my bag that I left in the same place every day. ‘You mean this?’ Consumed with the green beans once again, she merely nodded. As I was scooping my belongings off of the floor, my father breezed through the back door, looking famished.

‘It’s almost done,’ my mother said seeing the look on his face. ‘Jackie, put out some silverware and get ready to eat.’

We ate in silence for the first few minutes until my father loudly cleared his throat. ‘Since we’re all here, we should probably talk.’

‘About?’ Though I had tried to conceal it in my voice, the aggression with which I forked my food back and forth along my plate hinted at my annoyance.

‘It didn’t sound to me, when we spoke on the phone today, like you are too interested in going back to school,’ my mother said slowly. Too interested? The way she said it made me cringe, as if I had been stringing her along, forcing her to cling on to some sort of hope when in reality I’d been brutally honest with her for months.

‘I’m not,’ I said.

‘So working at that makeup store, which is perfectly fine if that’s what you want, is the plan?’ my father asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yeah. For now, anyway.’ I didn’t know if makeup was something I wanted to do for the rest of my life, but it was something I was good at, and something I could even be great at–something that would take me places. I could tell from their frowning faces, however, that this wasn’t the answer they were looking for.

‘Well, if this is going to be your career it’s only fair that you start supporting yourself financially. A girl your age shouldn’t be living rent free,’ my father said. I scowled. I could only imagine what most of the kids I’d grown up with in Beverly Hills were up to. I could just imagine them now, lounging in the private screening rooms of their statuesque homes, playing doubles on the adjacent tennis courts above Sunset, and guzzling out of $400 bottles plucked from the wine cellars of their parents who were vacationing in St John for the next three months. For me, growing up here was far from fancy; in fact, I felt more ordinary here than I would’ve in Oklahoma City. I didn’t return to my family’s modest Spanish-style home on a square lot south of Wilshire to be pampered, I did it because I was unable to afford a place of my own.

‘Fine. I’ll start looking for apartments in Watts since that’s the only place I’ll be able to afford one,’ I joked.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, we’re not pushing you out into the ghetto. You can stay in the garage apartment, you’re just going to have to pay some rent.’

‘That’s right.’ My father nodded in agreement with my mother. ‘And that goes for your car too. I think it’s only fair that you take over insurance and maintenance.’

In shock, I looked out the side window at the sad-looking Jeep Wagoneer that I had driven since high school. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It wasn’t the money that upset me…sure, a few skylights and a fireplace may have been the fanciest features of our home, but that didn’t mean that we were poor. We were far from it. But we were also far from the type, like some I went to high school with, who took private jets and were driven around in limousines. These were the kinds of people my parents would complain about for hours…but they were also the ones that they gave their full attention to. As a kid I could never understand it. If these Hollywood folks were really so awful, why did my parents spend so much time tending to them instead of me? I wanted to know what it was like. I wanted to be a part of that world too, to be as fabulous as the creatures they cater to, and yet they found this to be unacceptable for me. And now I was being punished it seemed. Sometimes I wondered what I looked like through their eyes. Goofy, clumsy, never-able-to-finish-anything Jackie–she doesn’t have what it takes to work in entertainment.

Interrupting my self-loathing, my mother piped up. ‘You had such a good thing going for you back East. I’d hate to see you ruin that. I don’t want to see you get lost out here, like so many people do…’

‘I don’t want to live a life you’ve planned out for me,’ I said, the frustration rising in my voice and red flames burning up my cheeks. ‘Just because you’ve always been so miserable out here doesn’t mean I’m destined to be!’

‘That’s enough,’ my father growled, but I was unable to stop myself.

‘…You always talk about people following their dreams…so why is it you want me to give up on mine?’

‘Honey, it’s not that I want you to give up on your dreams–I just don’t understand what yours are?’ The way she raised her eyebrows with mock concern normally drove me absolutely crazy, but as I listened to her speak a feeling of relief began to settle over me.

‘Just because we don’t have the same one doesn’t make mine ridiculous,’ I said calmly before turning and walking out of the dining room. Cool winter engulfed me as I made my way up the rickety steps to the apartment over the garage. I had no plan, no idea as to how I was going to make extra money but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less. I had never felt so free in my entire life. Starting immediately, I would pay rent like any other kid my age, and make sure to save enough money for things like car insurance, oil changes, and gas. Well it may have been the end of my social life, which was scarce these days anyway, it certainly wasn’t the end of the world. Since the hourly wage that Sheryl paid me wasn’t enough to cover even half of my newly incurred expenses, I was going to have to take on another job, and quick.

With Sheryl off in Santa Barbara shooting a local fashion spread, the store was in my hands. I was taking full advantage of this, using the time to surf the web for other part-time jobs, when our first customer, a rather big-boned woman, burst through the door around noon doused in shades of pink.

‘Hi,’ I muttered, not looking up from pages of openings on myjobsearcher.com, ‘let me know if I can help you with anything.’ The way she clunked about–the heels of her strappy platform sandals resounding in thuds along the wood floor–roused my attention. Looking up, the annoyance on my face quickly morphed into confusion. Standing just a few feet away, testing shades of cream blush by swiping them on her forearm, was what most certainly was a man in drag. The flutter-sleeve chiffon top with a ruffled bodice and plunging keyhole neckline tightly hugged what was supposed to be a cinch waist. A white cotton miniskirt with pink accents like rhinestones and piping was paired with the incredibly noisy six-inch wooden-heeled sandals to accentuate long, smooth legs. As I caught her eye, she lowered her chin, as if trying to hide the lump in her throat was an instinctual reaction. Then, thinking better of it, she turned and smiled at me, almost shyly at first.

‘Are you finding everything you need?’ I asked, trying to stifle my surprise. She made her way over to the counter, slinging along her pink-and-white purse–which featured a mishmash of designs that included a Christian Dior signature logo, butterflies and flowers, and a bejeweled padlock at the zipper to top it off.

‘I’m Rita,’ she said batting her eyelashes. ‘I need to find a good red lipstick, and a new shade of foundation. Something a little darker, I’m done doing Jayne…I’m on to Hayworth. She’s got Spaniard in her like me, you know?’

Her warm and energetic demeanor rendered me completely comfortable, and I found myself giggling at almost everything she said. Periodically she’d say things like, ‘You can’t rush glamour, honey!’ Or ‘Every woman is a vamp until proven innocent,’ which would make me laugh even harder. We spent what seemed like an hour rifling through various shades of coverup, looking for the best products that would allow Rita to exaggerate her eyes in an attempt to play down at least a healthy portion of her masculine jaw, and me trying to convince her to give up lip liners that were darker than her lipstick. In the end, like any good transvestite would, she stuck to her guns and bought a deep plum shade to match with her classic red.

‘What’s all this?’ Rita peered at my computer screen and then down to a list of names and contact numbers I’d compiled for job openings in everything from retail to government, none of which were too appealing.

‘My parents are done supporting my creative endeavors,’ I told her. ‘So that means I need to find a second job.’

She picked up my notebook, gingerly flipping the pages with her surprisingly feminine hands, before stopping to point out one of my leads. I tried not to stare when I noticed the exact pearlescent white Invicta watch I’d been drooling over for months on her dainty wrist. ‘You’re not going to make the money you need serving up hash browns and waffles, I can tell you that right now.’ She was pointing to a listing for a deli just down the street.

‘It’s in Beverly Hills,’ I argued. ‘The patio there is always busy.’

‘Everyone knows, honey, that the real money is in cocktail waitressing.’ She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and flashed a huge grin. ‘Today’s your lucky day, girl.’ Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a business card and smacked it down on the desk in front of me.

‘The Queen Victoria, huh?’ I said picking it up. Beneath the embossed lettering were background images of cross-dressers that appeared as 1950s and Hollywood’s screen legends. In smaller type was what I had guessed to be Rita’s birth name, Jorge Vazquez.

‘That’s right, I’m the manager over there; we could probably use a little help. And a pretty thang like you. You’d do real well.’

‘Yeah–no thanks, I think I’ll pass,’ I smiled, trying not to laugh.

‘I know what you’re thinking, but it really is a lot of fun. Plus…you can keep on doing makeup–some of the best makeup artists count drag queens as muses. Think about it.’ And with that, Jorge, er–Rita, scooped up her purchases and headed out the door.

Not heeding Rita’s warning, I took the waitressing job at the deli down the street. Most days, like today, I started my shift there at 6 AM so that I could finish early enough to accompany Sheryl to bookings, watch over the store, and take the occasional odd job by myself.

It had only been two weeks but I was already hating my new schedule. Not only was I barely making any money, I was completely accident prone. I’d broken five glasses in the span of three days and in one morning alone I had forgotten two orders to boot. By the time I made it over to help Sheryl, I was already in a rotten mood. I could barely stand to listen to her as she shrieked into the phone.

‘Oh my God! Is that not cool, cool, cool?! Totally, totally–we will be there honey and don’t you worry about a thing–it’s on us, no absolutely, don’t worry about a thing!’ I became annoyed. Just listening to her I knew exactly what was happening and I did all I could to stifle my frustration.

I had been working with Sheryl for almost six months by that point and was always surprised, though I should’ve at some point probably gotten used to it, at her sheer excitement for absolutely everything and nothing. Just that morning she doubled over in joy at a most recent purchase: a gift for a friend’s baby shower.

‘And, if you pull on that right there,’ she said, showing me the glossy catalogue in her hand, ‘the diaper bag turns into a backpack! How cool is that!’ I had stopped trying to conceal my boredom months ago after a half-hour rant concerning Candle Belts, which are exactly as they sound–a decorative belt for your candle.

Part of me pitied Sheryl, while my other, more sympathetic half felt bad for feeling bad. She was, by all definitions, a very in-demand makeup artist in Hollywood. From spreads in Los Angeles magazine to booking the occasional job for a daytime drama, she did it all. Though she had very kindly taken me under her wing, I couldn’t help but notice her enthusiasm seemed to compensate for something, something I didn’t know. She had set up shop in one corner of a chic salon on Beverly Drive, though we rarely worked out of there, instead using it more for office space to schedule shoots, take meetings, and market her services than anything else. When people did come in for meetings, I was always blown away by her ability to make eyeliner, makeup brushes, and lip gloss sound so wildly exciting, but was almost certain that the people who left would never come back again. But shockingly enough, most did.

Here’s the thing, Sheryl was a divorced forty-something who left her cheating husband and McMansion in the Calabasas to become a swinging-single career woman in Beverly Hills. This was all, no less, inspired by an episode (her first, for the record) of Sex and the City on TBS. I’ve heard her quote Kim Cattrall from that episode enough to make my ears bleed. Perhaps I was a pessimist, but no one in her right mind could be that excited all the time, and I was just sort of waiting for her to crack…

‘I got you a gig!’ Sheryl shouted in a singsongy voice as she hung up the phone. I braced myself…I knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘Okay, well, don’t get mad at me…I told Nan Dressner we’d–well, you–would do her daughter’s makeup tomorrow morning. She’s walking in the “Women in Hollywood” fashion show. It’s a favor, so we’re not getting paid,’ she said, meaning I wasn’t getting paid. ‘But, oh-my-God Jackie! I mean,’ she continued, ‘the Dressners! They would be great people to know!’

This was typical Sheryl, and this is what I mean about feeling bad for her. She was so desperate to be seen and liked, especially by the society types who lunched at the Polo Lounge, that she always did them favors to ingratiate herself to them. Although when I really thought about it, she adored attention from almost anyone willing to give it to her and was known to flirt with men half her age after no more than a single appletini. The Dressner job, however, was a definite step in the right direction for her as it was one more step up the social ladder. To me, it meant a wasted Saturday afternoon spent with a bratty teenager and her friends and no compensation in sight.

‘Sure,’ I mumbled, feigning rapture with something on my computer screen, which I hoped would mask my annoyance.

‘Fabulous! I would go–but I’ve got a hot date with a hotter man,’ she said before she leaned in closer to me. ‘And I probably won’t get out of bed ‘til noon, if you know what I mean.’ Making a whispering voice without whispering, she said, ‘Ted Painter,’ and then sat there smiling, waiting for my reaction.

‘Oh that’s great–I was supposed to meet friends at one of his restaurants for brunch tomorrow…’ I hinted. Standing up, I grabbed my coat as fast as I could in fear that she might start spouting more–where they were going, how they met, what he was like in bed. Just the thought of Sheryl and the sixty-year-old restaurateur holding hands made me gag.

‘So, I have to go now, bye,’ I said as I practically ran toward the door.

‘Oh–don’t forget, we have a big job on Sunday,’ she called after me.

‘We do?’ I asked, halfway out the door.

‘Come on, you remember, the music video shoot in the Valley,’ she said.

‘Oh right, those dancing, singing boys from that Nickelodeon show, right? The ones with kind of spiky hair?’ I asked nonchalantly.

‘The Emerson Brothers!’ she shrieked.

‘Yeah, them.’ I shrugged. She looked at me like I was crazy, but I wasn’t a twelve-year-old girl and I had no idea who they were.

‘They’re huge, Jackie, they just signed an endorsement deal with Street Cred!’

‘Who is that? A rapper?’ I asked, genuinely confused.

‘Street Cred?!’ she asked incredulously. ‘The energy drink? Well, anyway, we’re not doing their makeup exactly…’

‘Great,’ I thought, sure she was about to tell me we were doing their mother’s makeup for her dinner reservation that night.

Much to my relief, she responded, ‘We’re doing the makeup for this up-and-coming singer named Brooke Parker…a real cutie, she was Miss Teen Florida last year. She was discovered by some kind of talent manager or someone, doing her cute little song and dance in the pageant–anyway, she’s their opening act and she’s shooting her first video. I’ll see you Sunday.’

I was running late as usual the next day and hurried to put the finishing touches on the Dressner daughter’s face while the Hollywood elite took their seats in the ballroom of the Regent Beverly Wilshire–soon to be filled with the amateur designs of local rich kids dabbling in the fashion world on their parents’ dime. I giggled about this to myself as I spotted Delia Lutz, the Queen of Gossip and ruler of her own online domain, deliasdirt.com, sitting just a few seats away. She was snaky, sort of, in a very Page Six sort of way, but was even better because she sank her teeth into local personalities just as hard as international celebrities. And even though Delia could be cruel, I knew that she’d still write up the fashion show favorably since the proceeds were benefiting the Children’s Hospital. She’d call the attendees fashionistas instead of fogies, and describe the clothing with supple adjectives like sleek, flirty, and hip, instead of boring, ugly, and uninspired. As I mused, her gaze unexpectedly met mine, and then the strangest thing happened. Delia cringed, either in a state of embarrassment or horror, or maybe it was a combination of both, and looked away immediately.

‘That’s strange,’ I said to Lauren, my longtime friend who had accompanied me to the show, ‘did you see the way that woman just looked at me?’

‘It’s not that surprising considering she just lit up your boss online,’ Lauren laughed.

‘She what?’ I asked.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see it!’ A look, similar to Delia’s, spread across Lauren’s face now. She punched a few keys on her BlackBerry and flipped through a few entries–obviously having read Delia’s Dirt more than once on the go–and handed it over to me. Squinting slightly, I read:

Which well-known restaurateur currently going through a mid-life crisis was left waiting alone at a table in his very own nightclub while his recently separated, social-climbing date (who’s been known to do her fair share of both making out and ‘makeup’ all over town) gave a little ‘hand service’ to a hard-rocking musician in the next room over?

‘This is bad,’ I said to Lauren, ‘I mean, everyone knows that Sheryl’s been seeing Ted Painter…’

‘Who’s the hard-rocking musician?’ Lauren giggled.

‘I’m surprised that you don’t know!’ I laughed though I was still in sheer disbelief, unable to pry my eyes away from the phone. If anyone knew the rock star’s identity, I was sure it’d be Lauren–because Lauren always seemed to know everyone’s business everywhere. From celebrity blogs to the society column in a tiny Beverly Hills newspaper, she was on it. We met freshman year in high school and she was no different then–always relaying the latest dramas that were unfolding in the hallways as she twisted pieces of her unruly, strawberry-tinged hair around her finger. And even though she somehow knew everyone’s secrets, gossip for Lauren had always been more of a spectator sport. She worked at an art gallery and spent most of her time between the door-chimes of incoming customers compulsively hitting ‘refresh’ on every gossip website and blog in existence. Still, like me, she preferred to watch from the safety of the sidelines, managing to never stick out.

By the time the sixth model strutted down the runway in something that can only be described as ‘contemporary culottes’–if there is such a thing–I had become completely oblivious to the over-oooh’d-and-aaah’d crap being flaunted up and down the runway. If Sheryl puts as much energy into her anger as she puts into her enthusiasm, tomorrow was going to be ugly, a sleek and inspired kind of ugly.

My ringing cell phone provided me with a rude awakening early Sunday morning, confirming my worst fear: Sheryl scorned was a force to be reckoned with.

‘Hello?’ I asked groggily.

‘Jackie…it’s Sheryl.’

She was silent for a few seconds and I had momentarily forgotten all about the blind item in the newspaper as I looked sleepily around my garage apartment, which was basically attached to my parents’ house. The sunlight leaking in from the blinds highlighted the disaster that had become my home–littered with unused chopsticks, empty Lean Cuisine containers, and invitations to showers, weddings, and graduation parties (and thank-you letters from showers, weddings, and graduation parties).

‘Hi,’ I said, stepping over a pile of clothes that I meant to bring to the dry cleaner weeks ago.

‘Listen, you’re going solo to the gig today,’ she said slowly and grudgingly.

‘Okay…yeah, sure. Is something wrong?’ I asked, slightly wincing and wishing I could have taken it back the second I asked.

‘I um–well, my right hand is in a splint,’ she said cautiously as if she was contemplating telling the truth. Then, unwavering, she burst out, ‘It was that stupid bitch Lunt or Klutz or whatever. Okay? Here’s what happened…’

‘…It’s fine, you don’t have to explain, I can do the job—’

‘She wrote this thing about me, which totally wasn’t true–okay, so maybe it was kind of true–anyway, now Ted isn’t speaking to me and I’ve been getting weird looks…’

‘Honestly Sheryl, it’s fine. I can handle—’

‘…It’s been awful, and I told myself, “Sheryl, she is not going to get away with this, uh-uh.” And you know what? You’re never going to believe this Jackie…never, never, never…’

‘Okay…’ I said knowing full well that she wasn’t really waiting for my response.

‘I go to Jubilee last night for dinner with my neighbor Dana, who by the way is the only one of my friends speaking to me right now, bless her heart…we go to dinner and you’ll never believe who is sitting next to us! That bitch…Delila or whatever her name is…’

‘Delia,’ I corrected her.

‘Whatever–I recognized her from her stupid website…you know that picture next to her column–she’s got the frizzy hair and looks like she doesn’t pluck her eyebrows…’ she took a breath before continuing, ‘well I saw her and you know, gave her a little piece of my mind and things sort of escalated from there.’

My blood ran cold. I was scared to ask but knew I had to. ‘Escalated?’

Turns out sucking down one too many sugary sweet custom cocktails could not only influence Sheryl to bat her eyelashes at boys with fake I.D.s and give hickeys to her dates in public, but given the right antagonist, she could even throw a punch.

‘You hit her?’ I asked, feeling her embarrassment for her.

‘Well, kinda. I mean, she went on and on about freedom of speech and then she started explaining “blind item” to me in a very condescending way–I know what a blind item is for Christ sakes–but it wasn’t very blind if you ask me, that’s for sure…’

‘What do you mean you kinda hit her?’

‘Well, she was getting all sassy and in my face and she kind of raised up her hand–Dana later told me that she had started to wave her credit card to the waiter, like a “get me the hell outta here” type of thing, but I just reacted instinctively and popped her right in the nose…I was trying to defend myself. But enough about me. Are you okay to go to the gig by yourself today? Can you represent?’

‘Sure. Street Cred,’ I laughed.

‘That’s an energy drink! Remember that! If they ask you if you want one, say yes! Even if you’re not thirsty!’ And with that, she hung up the phone.

I was feeling a bit nervous by the time I reached the eastern end of the San Fernando Valley, where I quickly whipped into the studio’s parking lot. I was my own worst enemy, obsessing over every little thing that could possibly go wrong all morning. Forgetting my makeup case had been one of those recurring nightmare scenarios and, because I had made a point to triple-check its contents beforehand, I was running steadily behind schedule.

Encompassing nearly 100,000 square feet, the studio loomed ahead. Adjacent production offices that looked unused for the past decade only complimented the mottled eighties signage outside, making the facility look depressingly outdated. Once inside, however, its sound stages buzzed with life. Men in T-shirts and dirty jeans, who looked as if they’d been busy preparing the shoot for hours already, lugged cables back and forth and double-checked the PA systems.

‘Hi,’ I smiled, approaching two men who were busy fussing with one of the cameras, ‘I’m looking for Steve Green?’

Not turning away from his work, one of the men simply shrugged before the other piped up, acting as if my question was a huge burden.

‘Don’t know ‘em…you might want to ask someone back there,’ he said waving his hand to a small hallway lined with doors a short distance away. I maneuvered past the production assistants struggling to lug props and set pieces through the narrow space when a tall, slender man practically hissing into his cell phone caught me off guard.

‘What a fucking bitch! I don’t need to explain myself to a Nickelodeon development exec–I can’t even believe I even just spent time on the phone with her…She was like, “blah, blah, blah…” and I’m like…’ The man stopped as he noticed me staring at him and slowly pulled his phone away from his ear and frowned.

‘Hi, I’m Jackie, I’m here for the job…?’ I said, more like a question than a statement.

‘And what job would that be exactly?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘I’m, um, I’m here to do makeup for, uh…’ I fumbled, grasping for the call sheet in my purse, ‘Brooke! Brooke Parker.’ I smiled at him weakly. Throwing the phone back up to his ear, he barked, ‘I have to call you back.’ He studied his phone for another second, and wrinkled his nose in disgust, presumably disturbed by another message that had just come in. He was a fairly attractive man in his late thirties with evenly tanned skin, though its texture was conspicuously, almost unnaturally, wrinkle-free. He had Tony Curtis hair, expertly shaping a curled coif on his forehead thick with pomade, while his sleep-deprived, wide-set eyes bore heavy, dark lids. He looked up at me suddenly, almost inquisitively, as if he had forgotten that I was still standing there.

‘Now, what exactly are you looking for?’ With his head cocked he acted as if I had just asked him when the next spaceship left for Mars.

‘I’m doing Brooke Parker’s makeup…Sheryl Lane, my boss–she was going to do it but she…well, she can’t,’ I stammered, thinking fast. ‘So she sent me…I’m Jackie,’ I said extending my hand. In lieu of a handshake, he just kind of stared at my awaiting grasp, and then he spoke again.

‘Robert. Robert Bernstein. I’m Brooke’s stylist,’ he said. This took me by surprise, considering his style: a distressed long-sleeve rugby shirt fresh from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, cheap-looking blue jeans, and Adidas tennis shoes. I then remembered that, for a makeup artist, I only wore makeup a couple days a week at best, though I’d managed to swipe some mascara on my lashes before taking off this morning.

‘Well, nice to meet you, where should I set up?’

‘The dressing room is down two. The dancers are taken care of, so we need you, obviously, to pay full attention to Brooke. And you’ll do her hair as well I’m assuming?’ he asked bitchily, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yeah–yes, of course. Of course I know how to…’ I stuttered, afraid he’d call someone else if he knew that the extent of my experience actually doing hair was limited to helping Lauren flatten her impossibly curly tresses before dates. But really, how hard could it be? Brushing, teasing, curling–I knew how to do all of that.

‘Great,’ he cut me off, turning on his heel, off to his next drama.

As I located the dressing room, I nearly head-butted a boy bounding out of it. A bit shocked as I was, I jumped back, clutching my set bag as tightly as I could, but he smiled at me. Though I’d never seen their picture, I was able to peg him as one of the Emerson Brothers. From what little I knew about them, compliments of Sheryl, they were a pop sensation trio that had made it big with the ‘tween crowd when their song, ‘Let Your Body Do the Talkin”, appeared on a Nickelodeon sitcom. Now they were traveling the country, much to the delight of twelve-year-old girls everywhere, performing songs like ‘Girlfy,’ and ‘Break-up Box.’ The boy standing directly in front of me appeared to be about eighteen years old and was dressed exceptionally trendy–a shrunken twill blazer over a v-neck T-shirt that accented a black-and-silver lariat necklace, skintight slub denim pants, and argyle-printed Vans–thanks to the styling of Robert, I guessed. He exchanged a knowing look with an older, heavyset Latina woman who was standing next to one of the makeup counters before taking off in the opposite direction.

‘Boy! You are a troublemaker, I tell you that,’ she called out after him before letting out a gregarious laugh from deep inside.

Unzipping my rolling duffel, I timidly rifled through a mess of compacts, tweezers, and small spray cans of Evian mineral water as the woman turned to me and smiled.

‘I’m Sasha,’ she laughed, placing a fleshy hand on her chest before nodding her head toward the door. ‘That one runnin’ out the door there was Jesse, but you probably already knew that,’ she laughed.

‘Yeah, I recognize him. He’s one of the Emerson Brothers–quite a talented family, huh?’ I mused as she wrinkled up her face as if she was puzzled. ‘Jesse and the others I mean…’ She suddenly let out another boisterous laugh.

‘They ain’t brothers, at least not by blood…that’s just what the band’s called. The other two that ain’t here, are Landon and Nolan. It’s Jesse, you know, that’s sweet on Brooke so that’s why he’s roaming around. Came to watch her shoot her first music video.’ She smiled.

‘I’m Jackie, I’m here to do Brooke’s makeup,’ I said, realizing I hadn’t even introduced myself. ‘Do you work on the music videos?’

‘Heck no,’ she said laughing again as if the question were unheard of. ‘I work for the label.’

‘Sunshine Records, right?’ I asked nervously.

‘Close–Sun Splash.’

‘Oh. I didn’t–I didn’t know. I was hired out of Steve Green’s office.’ I muttered foolishly as the PDA that was clipped to Sasha’s belt began to chime. Looking down at the waist of her jeans–first to the left as if she had forgotten just where exactly she had attached it–she seized it from the magnesium case on her right hip. ‘Damn things be clipped all over me,’ she told me with an exaggerated frown. ‘Hello?’ she barked before quickly snapping, ‘Uh-uh, no way. I told them they can schedule those little meetings another time. Folks in A&R be hustlin’ me before we even got time to get the promos out the damn door.’ She put a chubby digit up to her other ear to drown out the background noise, listening to the person on the other end for a moment before continuing. ‘I told them I wasn’t trying to rush, rush, rush all the time. Well, tell ‘em, please.’ Flustered, Sasha hung up the phone, clipping it back into place on her belt.

‘Sounds pretty intense,’ I said, breaking the silence.

‘It is. Believe me.’ Shaking her head back and forth, she soon changed gears, cracking a smile once more. ‘I should probably tell you a little bit about myself–I’m one of the label’s publicists–I work the younger musicians mainly. Basically, when the big guys give me a go ‘head after decidin’ a performer is ready I put the publicity wheels in action.’

‘Setting up interviews and things…’ I offered.

‘Yep, yep…that and a combination of marketing, helpin’ to create an image for the musician that the label can use as a brand communication tool.’

‘To be honest, I wasn’t really filled in too much about Brooke…or her image,’ I admitted. Was that something I was supposed to know? And if so, why didn’t Sheryl download me?

‘Don’t you worry yourself, she’s comin’ right off this dinky little mall tour, so we haven’t done much with her yet. They’re adding her to the last leg of the Emersons tour now though, that’s actually why I’m here…gotta start plannin’ the press kits.’

It was suddenly clear to me that Sasha–the label’s ‘image maker’–had the power to make or break my career and many others like me. ‘Is there anything in particular you’re looking for from me? You know–image-wise?’

Sasha started laughing uncontrollably again. ‘No pageant stuff–she likes all that sparkly, spangly garbage. Think fresh-faced–it’s all about youth these days you know.’

As if on cue, Brooke breezed through the door with a stocky man in his mid-forties following behind her. Because the only image I’d ever seen of Brooke was thanks to a quick Google search–which only led me to a few tiny thumbnails of a girl wearing a tiara–I fully expected her to be the quintessential pageant girl. And she was, to a degree. Platinum locks, toned and tan with green doe eyes and dressed in several shades of pink: she was the antithesis of a girl like me, a girl whose skin never saw the sun in order to keep freckles at bay, and who, if forced into a gym, wouldn’t know the first thing to do there.

‘Hi!’ She grinned, looking around the makeup trailer. ‘I can’t believe this is really happening–a real music video–sorry, I’m such a nerd.’ I watched as she chomped down on the wad of gum in her mouth before blowing a bubble that exploded on her face as she leapt into the makeup chair. ‘Oh my gawsh!’ She laughed so hard that she made a faint snorting noise, which made her laugh even harder. This was Miss Teen Florida? I thought to myself, any predetermined stereotypes I had of her suddenly fading away.

‘Brooke, love! You really need to lose the gum.’ A familiar-looking man with an even more familiar-sounding British accent behind her scrunched his face in mock disgust, as if he were trying to mask his amusement, before turning in my direction. ‘Hi, I’m Steve Green, Brooke’s manager,’ he said, hooking a pair of sunglasses over the opening of his salmon-colored collar, before extending a hand to me. Grasping his palm with a firm shake I suddenly realized where I knew him from. He had been a longtime manager and constant companion of the heavily photographed eighties music phenomenon Krizia. He had discovered her himself, spotting her on the dance floor at a London hot spot, Annabel’s. This earned him a reputation in the business as a serious hustler, and before long both Steve and Krizia found themselves among L.A.’s glitterati. As time passed Krizia’s star power dwindled, and though she was a pop culture legend, Steve knew she’d be unable to compete with the new generation of film, T.V., and video game vixens. No longer pulling in the paychecks that had made them both fabulously wealthy, they both disappeared from the public eye. And here he was now standing right in front of me with fresh blood–a girl he hoped to mold into the next big…star, paycheck, it was all the same. Clad in a crisp pair of Levi’s that he wore with a sport coat and an outdated haircut, he might’ve appeared ‘washed up’ if it weren’t for his pompous self-importance and busy charm.

‘I’m Jackie O’Reilly, Brooke’s makeup artist.’ I smiled, relieved by his seemingly affable nature.

‘Great.’ He winked as his BlackBerry buzzed abruptly. ‘Well, let’s do this–go ahead and get her ready.’ Handing me a card from his wallet that read ‘Green Management’ in embossed lettering, Steve motioned to the phone perched between his ear and shoulder. ‘It’s a call from Paris, doing big things over there–closing some deals…I gotta take this.’

Halfway through her makeup, Brooke handed me a bag stuffed with bits of hair, smiling sweetly as if I knew just exactly what to do with it.

‘Here ya go, for my hair,’ she said taking her shoulder-length hair out of its ponytail holder. I was immediately dumbfounded. Makeup for me was a slam-dunk, but hairpieces? I had never even seen anyone put extensions in before!

‘Oh, your hair is so beautiful already, you don’t need these.’ I shrugged, trying to play it cool–I thought I had covered every possible disastrous scenario in my obsessing earlier on–but this was something I hadn’t thought of. I didn’t want her to think I was an amateur, because at twenty-two years old, I was barely her senior–I didn’t want her to know that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

‘No, I have to have them, they complete my whole–my whole, well you know, my “Pillow Talk” vibe or whatever you want to call it,’ she said.

‘Pillow talk?’ I asked, forgetting to reference my call sheet once more.

‘That’s my first single–have you heard my album? It’s the song about being best friends forever…do you know it?’

Ignoring her question I looked down at the bag of hair again. ‘Your hair has so much body the way it is, you really should try wearing it the way you have it now.’ I winced, hoping she would just go along and agree with me.

‘I really need them…I can’t shoot “Pillow Talk” without them,’ she pleaded, wide-eyed. I imagined that any other girl in her position would’ve either thrown a fit or fired me by that point, but Brooke stared up at me like a child begging to stay up past her bedtime. In all honesty, it would’ve been easier if she wasn’t so sweet, and I realized that there was no getting out of it.

‘All right, you’re the boss,’ I said, trying as hard as I could to appear upbeat as I plunged my hand into the bag full of hairy little extension pieces in disgust. Here goes nothing, I thought as I struggled with one of the snap clips.

‘Oh here,’ Brooke, seeing my struggle, said. As I watched her miraculously pop the clip open by simply applying pressure to the ends with her fingers, I knew I had blown my cover–I couldn’t even open the damn things. To my surprise, she handed it right back to me, thinking nothing of it.

‘So, who usually does your hair?’ I asked her sorting through weft pieces of varying widths, contemplating which ones to use.

‘Oh, sometimes my ma does it, or my friend Hayley. I had been using this one lady from back home for a while. She was supposed to come up here with me today but she has…arthritis real bad?’ She posed the bit of information to me as a question, as if she was suddenly scared she had confused arthritis with algorithm, or another word starting with the letter a that she didn’t quite understand.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ I answered, signaling that she had used the correct term.

‘Yeah, I don’t know much about it but her wrists and stuff swell up pretty bad–it’s hard for her to grip things…’

‘Oh man,’ I hummed unenthusiastically, hoping our conversation was distracting her from the disaster that was slowly becoming her head. To create a ‘fuller look’ (or at least that’s what I told myself I was doing), I had stacked the pieces on top of one another. Clipping in the last piece, I stepped back to survey my work, which to my horror resembled a stacked perm with hair of entirely uniform length.

‘You did that fast! I’ve never had anyone put them in without straightening my hair first–it saves so much time,’ she squealed, the color draining from my face as I realized I skipped a vital step. She swiveled around in her chair and I braced myself for tears–hers following my own. Now, face-to-face with my new ‘head creation,’ she pondered her reflection in the mirror for a few seconds before erupting into a big smile.

‘I look just like Cleopatra in that one movie!’

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