Blind Item(34)
“I’m sorry,” Crystal said immediately. “Was that gauche of me? To assume that you want to fuck the valet? I just realized, it could have been one of your sons. But then I realized that the kid is working, something your kids don’t do.”
“I know you’re scattered, dear, but my sons are twelve,” replied Gaynor, not skipping a beat. She and Crystal had these lunches four or five times a year, and they were always a bloodbath.
“Ah, I see. Too young even for you,” Crystal said absently, snapping her fingers at the nearest waiter and nodding. He immediately disappeared inside the restaurant.
“So, how are things?” began Gaynor with an icy saccharine edge. “Let’s see, you have one client who’s closeted and on meth, and the rest are all getting ready to die.”
“Funny,” said Crystal as the waiter reappeared with an enormous martini loaded with spears of olives. She snatched it from him without looking and took a sip. “My clients are booking a lot of things right now; we are very busy.”
“The only thing your clients are booking is hospice care,” retorted Gaynor. “Although I understand why you keep them around. It must be nice to be charging someone six thousand a month to do absolutely nothing.”
“Ten, darling, at least, but yes, it’s quite nice. How’s your stable of high-powered fuckups coming along?”
“They’ve fucked up very nicely this year, wela,” beamed Gaynor. “I’m sure you remember awards season. I ran six strong campaigns, including three best acting potentials. You remember when your clients got awards for movies instead of lifetime achievements, right?”
“My lovely Matthew Dalton will get best supporting, my dear. I will make sure of that.”
“Eh,” grunted Gaynor with a dismissive wave of her hand. “That’s a pity fuck. He’s in that movie for six minutes. I guess he did a good job of acting like he didn’t have dementia.”
“Well, we’ll see,” smiled Crystal icily. “I keep meaning to ask you, that new kid you’re repping, the blond from the show on the CW, does he really have his black Amex on file at that abortion clinic in Beverly Hills?”
“He’s a helper, what can I say?” snorted Gaynor. “If the bitches are too stupid to insist on a rubber, then at least they’re not spending six months’ rent cleaning up after it. And you can’t criticize, reina. Every boutique in town has your Amex on file for when Miss DaVerne goes on a shoplifting spree after a few Percocets.”
“We all have to get our thrills somehow,” said Crystal brightly, removing a spear of olives from her crowded martini and sliding it between her lips.
The waiter reappeared at the table. He ignored Crystal, and asked if Gaynor would be eating. Crystal never ate in public, and the martini was her signature dish.
“I’m starving, handsome,” enthused Gaynor. “Bring me the fried chicken, but instead of mashed potatoes, can I get that kale avocado salad? And the bread basket. Gracias.”
Crystal arched an eyebrow.
“You order like a tourist,” she snarled.
“Don’t hate my metabolism,” said Gaynor.
“It’s not your metabolism I hate,” rasped Crystal, chewing on her olives. “It’s money-hungry little scabs like the whore you’re representing.”
“You need to be more specific.”
“The tabloid queen,” whispered Crystal dramatically. “I know you’re just doing this to twist the knife in me. Why does a tabloid reporter need a publicist?”
“Because he is a friend, and because he doesn’t deserve to be destroyed for giving your client exactly what he wanted.”
Crystal pushed back from the table. “I need to use the bathroom before this discussion,” she announced, striding dramatically down the hallway to the back of the restaurant. Gaynor had watched this ritual for years, and still couldn’t help but lean out to watch as their waiter furtively handed Crystal a sandwich wrapped in brown paper as she strode past him. She would eat it in the bathroom stall, and return ready for war.
Gaynor checked her phone, and then used a small makeup mirror to survey who else was eating on the patio. It was decidedly low-wattage today. Probably the clouds, she reasoned. Nobody went out in LA when it was gray. She spied a smattering of black-suited agents and managers, gaudily dressed Beverly Hills wives with their matching face surgeries, and in the far corner of the patio, a female reality TV star being feted by the president of a youth network.
Gaynor felt sad. Even ten years ago, she would have been surrounded by Oscar winners and authors, songwriters and singers and artists. This town has died, she mused. There is no art anymore; there is no passion. There is reality TV and everyone’s a whore with a hard bottom line.