“Why?”
“Belva Radford says her bills are higher.”
“Belva Radford’s a head case.”
“That may be so, but she’s still entitled to an answer.”
“Then you’ll have to give her one.”
“I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m asking you. Could you call over to W and P and ask whether there have been any recent rate hikes?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said.
“Quit giving me a hard time, Molly. Just call and find out, will you, please?”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
Then she walked back to her desk.
Jesse watched her.
8
After a rash of disappointing meetings with a handful of assistant casting directors, Ryan returned to the mansion he shared with Marisol.
Things had slowed considerably for him, and he thought that if he could at least get the assistants talking about him, perhaps they might be more successful in finding him work. But it was fruitless. Although it remained unspoken, Ryan was aware that people knew he and Marisol were having issues and they wanted to wait until things resolved themselves before they risked antagonizing her by casting him.
He parked the Prius in front, picked up his shoulder bag, and headed for the house.
When he put his key in the lock, it didn’t fit. He looked at it to make certain it was the right key. It was. He tried it again, but it still didn’t fit.
He walked around to the back of the house and tried to unlock the kitchen door. That key didn’t work, either.
He then tried every other door of the mansion, but his keys worked in none of them.
“She changed the locks,” he said to himself.
Which pissed him off. He rang the bell. He banged on the door. There was no response.
He considered breaking a window, but he knew that the glass was reinforced and all he would succeed in doing would be to attract the attention of the security service.
Things had gone badly for him since he married her. He knew she was a bigger star than he, but his expectations were that his star would rise, not fall, as a result of their marriage. He hadn’t been prepared for the level of attention she received wherever they went. And the manner in which she diminished him.
In the paparazzi photos, he was always in the near background, standing slightly to her left, an insincere smile plastered on his face.
She often neglected to introduce him to the important people at the Hollywood functions they frequently attended. When his agency dumped him because they didn’t want to represent “Mr. Marisol Hinton,” he became alarmed.
He tried to talk it over with her.
“I’m hurting here,” he’d said, on their way home from a party honoring Tom Hanks.
“‘Hurting,’” she said.
“Nothing’s going right. I wish there was something you could do to help me.”
“Like what,” she said icily.
“I don’t know, Marisol. We were doing so well for a while. Now I get the feeling you’d be happier alone.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Be happier without me.”
“Don’t start, Ryan.”
“‘Start’? You could make a big difference for me. If you tried.”
“You could make a difference for yourself if you stopped with the crystal meth.”
“I don’t ever use it when I’m working.”
“That’s a load of crap, Ryan, and you know it.”
“Do you still care about me?”
“About you or your career?”
“About me.”
“Of course I care about you. I had such hopes for you. For us.”
“Then help me, Marisol. Make an effort on my behalf. Let people know that you think I’m a talent. If you’ll at least do that, I’ll stop using.”
She looked at him.
“All right,” she said.
Then, a couple of weeks later, at a benefit dinner for the Motion Picture & Television Country House and Hospital, Marisol engaged in an intimate conversation with George Clooney and left Ryan standing alone, in his brand-new Versace tuxedo, ignored. He was livid.
If she had really wanted him to succeed, he reasoned, she would have insisted that her big-time talent agency represent him, which would have been tantamount to an industry-wide show of her support for him. When that didn’t happen, the town, fickle and fearful as it was, backed away from him.
He stewed. He used greater amounts of the methamphetamine. Things became worse between them.
One night, after a party at Charlize Theron’s house, at which he drank too much, Ryan raped Marisol. Afterward, she lay in their bed, crying. Realizing what he had done, he apologized profusely. He begged her for forgiveness.
Things got briefly better. Then they got worse.
One night he smacked her. And raped her again. Which soon became a pattern.
And now she had locked him out.
When he noticed the Beverly Hills Safe Homes patrol car pull to a stop in front of the house and saw two armed guards emerge, he realized that reconciliation wasn’t in the cards. He got into his Prius and drove away.
9
Whenever a movie is filmed in a small town, it’s the equivalent of an invasion of that town by a large army.
First come the production vehicles, led by a convoy of dozens of oversized trucks. Then come the motor homes for on-set use by cast and key staff, specially constructed mobile dressing rooms, fully outfitted bathrooms on wheels, catering vans, picture cars that will actually appear in the movie, special vehicles for use by the stars, and a multitude of additional personal vehicles.
A great many people involved in the making of a movie are imported, meaning that a huge number of production personnel suddenly show up on location, all in need of housing. They gobble up every available hotel and motel room. In many cases, even space in private homes is secured for them.
The logistics of moving the personnel and all the vehicles from one location to another every day are staggering. Their impact on the life of an unsuspecting community can be devastating.
The invasion of Paradise had begun in earnest. What had just yesterday been a lazy summer resort town had quickly morphed into a noisy, crowded, traffic-beleaguered nightmare.
A large section of the Paradise Car Park had been rented to the movie company for use as a permanent base camp, resulting in a downtown parking logjam.
