Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew
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drama and Mark loves to provide it.” Andrea’s eyes darken and a small frown furrows her forehead. “I think at first it was just to call attention to Jeremy’s new project. It’s a very dark picture about a religious figure who rises to become the leader of a powerful new nation. I think they wanted to blur the lines between the project and Jeremy the person, but something has gone wrong and Mark won’t tell me what it is.”
I switched back to therapist. “Mark won’t tell you what it is?”
Andrea almost whispers her answer, “no.” She takes a deep breath and pushes through double doors that lead to a waiting stretch limo. Jeremy and Mark are just climbing inside the car, and in order to finish her thought, she grips my arm tighter and pulls me aside.
“They don’t think I know about all this,” she says. “And really, I don’t. What I mean is, Mark would be terribly angry if he thought I was interfering with his business. We made an agreement when we got married years ago that I stayed out of his business affairs. He’s quite particular about that. I think his first wife nearly ruined him and he needs to feel as if his business is completely under his control now. So I learn what I can by listening when he’s talking and piecing things together.”
She glances at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction. “I don’t mean I intentionally eavesdrop. I just mean that when he says something, or if he’s on the phone, I pay attention. I try to look out for him. The entertainment business is ruthless, Porsche. The more I know about Mark’s business, the easier it is for me to avoid little pitfalls and unpleasantness in our social life. Do you understand?”
I am nodding like a bobblehead, but I am totally not sure at all about what she means. I assume she’s trying to tell me that the world is full of ruthless, dishonest people, but like, duh, who doesn’t know that?
“When these occurrences began with Jeremy, I noticed that Mark didn’t seem nearly as concerned as others were. Then I realized that Jeremy wasn’t just playing at not being frightened, he was genuinely enjoying the attention. I realized then that they’d concocted this entire scheme for whatever misguided reason they’d felt it necessary. But two weeks ago, everything changed. There hadn’t been any threats for almost three weeks and suddenly they started back up again. This time Mark was almost hysterical and Jeremy was scared to the point of seeming enraged at Mark. That’s when I knew…”
The limo’s rear window slowly slides down and Jeremy pokes his head out, waggling his finger in our direction.
“Loveys,” he calls. “Are you two going to join us, or must you gossip there on the street like common pigeons?”
His voice has taken on an exaggerated English accent, and as much as he is trying to keep the tone a gentle tease, no one is fooled by the act. Jeremy is tense and angry and working mightily to disguise it.
As we enter the car, Marlena wakes up at the sound of Jeremy’s voice and leers at him from the safety of Mommy’s arms. He stretches out a finger in Marlena’s direction and I say, “Watch it, she’ll bite you!” But to my amazement, she doesn’t, and Jeremy coos something unintelligible to her and turns his forefinger up right under her nose, offering her the meatiest part to bite down on. I suppose it is his way of apologizing for his earlier behavior and I am shocked when my normally suspicious ferret sniffs, but does not chew, the fleshy digit.
“That’s a love,” Jeremy murmurs and I am reminded that he is rated one of the ten sexiest men on the planet. Of course, I do not find him remotely attractive. To me, Jeremy Reins is a street urchin, thin, unkempt and ill-mannered. The word on him in my circles is that he is quite the slut and not at all discriminating about who he beds, male or female. Recently, all I’ve heard about Jeremy is that his tastes are now purely reserved for the male gender. Of course, that little rumor was put to rest quite quickly out there on the runway, but I realize I am allowing my mind to drift quite far off the task at hand.
“So, Porsche,” Mark says genially, “do you spend much time in L.A.?”
I take the flute of champagne that he hands me and sip it appreciatively before answering.
“No, I’m afraid I find L.A. to be rather tiring,” I say, but then I smile at him and hold my glass out in front of me. “However, I’ve never been treated so graciously.”
I hear Jeremy chuckle softly and ignore him as Mark smiles delightedly. “Ah, a connoisseur—I see we will have much to discuss.”
But I’m not thinking about champagne. I am thinking instead that I need to shake this man and his manipulative little client until they give up the truth about their little publicity gimmick and tell me how it seems to have gone out of control and taken on a dangerous life of its own.
I am about to ask this when Andrea interrupts her husband.
“Weren’t we lucky then, to have Porsche join us for the Oscars?”
She licks her upper lip nervously and I look at her flute and find it nearly empty. What’s with her? I wonder.
“I am so glad I called my old college buddy and learned of Porsche’s desire to attend the festivities. Of course, Jeremy, I know you’ll be glad to return the favor when you escort Porsche to CeCe Goldberg’s big do next week.”
The three of us are looking at Andrea like she’s suddenly sprouted an additional head. She’s babbling, talking like this is some elaborate play date she’s arranged and not a case of Jeremy’s life being on the line and me coming to the rescue, real or imagined…and of course, then I get it. That is exactly what’s going on. Jeremy and Mark have no idea why I’m really here, a fact Andrea seems to have omitted in her plea for help to Renee. She is pulling the strings like a puppet master and the three of us were all dancing.
“What?” Jeremy sputters. “Charity party? I hate that old windbag!”
“Oh, now, Jeremy, didn’t Mark tell you?” Andrea says, her voice taking on a soothing mother quality.
Mark is looking equally flummoxed. “Charity party? What charity party?”
Andrea manages to look sweetly frustrated with her husband, but I note the beads of sweat that pop out along the ridge of her upper lip.
“Now, honey, remember? You said Jeremy needed to plump up his image and also show his fans that he was not frightened by the threats on his life. You thought the Oscars and the party would be perfect opportunities, and what a coup to be going with Porsche. The press will be all over you two! I mean, Hollywood’s bad boy and New York’s ‘It’ girl, what an amazing duo you’ll be!”
Jeremy has started scowling and I believe I am seeing his first honest emotion. He is pissed.
“I can get my own date, you know,” he snarls.
“Of course you can, honey,” she coos. “But Porsche is the current ‘It’ heiress. Everyone knows her. She is co-hosting the Children’s Fantasy Party with CeCe and, well, you know the nasty little rumor mill has been working overtime about you and, well, your love life…. Having such a sexy, well-known, heterosexual woman on your arm…”
Andrea skitters to a stop here, her voice dying away as she tips the champagne flute to her mouth and drains the one lone drop at the bottom of her glass.
“I was only trying to help,” she says finally, lowering her glass and slowly raising her head to face Jeremy. Her voice is now that of a little girl, pleading for sympathy and understanding. As I watch, making matters even worse, Andrea’s eyes actually well up with fat tears that threaten to spill over onto her cheeks.
Jeremy and Mark are just lost and I make a mental note to nominate Andrea for my own “Best Actress in a Manipulation” category.
“Well, I guess if you put it that way,” Jeremy says, recovering quickly and turning to give me his standard insolent smirk, “I’d love to escort the little waif. Now tell me again, who you are? An heiress?”
I drain my glass and hold it out to Mark for a refill. It takes everything I have not to slap the