Hollywood's Secret Baby

Cory’s making a scene, so I pull him to the side and whisper, “Your daughter is in bed feeling better. Physically at least. But you’re going to have to figure out what you’re going to say to her.”

“Figure it out?” he says much too loudly. “I think you’ve said everything there was to say.” I try to shush him, but this only results in him raising his voice. He lifts the open whiskey bottle up in the air. “To my first love and our daughter,” he says. “And to the greatest disappointment in this room. Me!”

Thank god, Sarah appears at this. We each take one of Cory’s arms and escort him to the guest bedroom where Lizzie has been staying up to now. “I know he’s drunk,” Sarah says in her posh French accent. “And I had my suspicions, but just to confirm—”

“Lizzie is his.” I finish for her.

“Right. Well, then. For her sake and yours, let’s make sure he doesn’t leave this room the rest of the night.”

“Agreed.”

Cory must have chugged some alcohol earlier, because with each passing minute, he’s sinking deeper and deeper into a stupor. His excitement that had him shouting earlier has died away. Now he’s slumped sideways on the bed.

“You know what would be great right now? A cheeseburger.” He’s not talking to anyone in particular. I’m not even sure he realizes we’re still here.

“I’ll stay here with him,” Sarah says. “You go out and mingle.”

“No, no, no. This is more your territory. I’ll stay here.”

“Sorry, mon ami. But you are the lead in his new movie. Everyone wants to meet you. Go, go. I will watch over your daughter’s father.” She squints her eyes as I begin to slide out the door. “What happened to my dress?”

“I’ll get it dry-cleaned tomorrow, I promise,” I say and then close the door behind me, feeling like I’ve just locked myself in a lion’s cage. The faces around me are all smiling, but it’s like high school all over again. I’m the socially awkward kid who doesn’t belong to any of the cliques. But I can’t just hang out in the corner, waiting for someone to ask me to dance. Cory needs me to be vibrant.

So, I inject myself into the smallest group I can find, which consists of two cute younger girls who look to barely be in their twenties. There’s also a shorter man with his back to me. The moment I slide into their circle, I wish I were back upstairs cleaning up vomit. That would be a less vile task than the conversation I’ve just volunteered myself for.

“And might this be the lady of the evening I’ve been hearing so much about?” the man asks. He reaches out his hand, and habit has me meeting him halfway even as I recognize his face from news reports over the years. As he shakes my hand, he introduces himself. “Jeb Eli. If you have a moment, I’d love to talk about your future here in Tinsel Town.”

Chapter 23

If I were to run into Jeb Eli at a supermarket, not having read about the allegations against him, I might assume he was the typical unfulfilled middle-aged man. He’s not fat, but neither is he thin. And he’s certainly not tall. Even without the pumps currently making my toes fall asleep, I would still be half a head taller. As it is, I have a clear view of his balding spot.

“You and our host have been all over the place tonight,” he says. “Is there any way I might be of assistance?”

Now that I know my enemy, I find myself analyzing every word that falls from his foul mouth. Which isn’t easy, because he comes off as so congenial. But if I force myself to really look through this polite veneer, I can see he’s clearly hinting at something. Does he know that Cory’s house has sold?

“Nothing is ever slow around here.” I throw in a tinkling laugh at the end of this cryptic answer that the two women by his side join in with giggles of their own. The more I look at them, the more I wonder how old they could possibly be. They might still be teenagers. Legal, but not yet able to drink legally, despite the glasses balanced between their recently manicured fingers.

“I heard about your audition from my brother-in-law, Jay. I hope that experience didn’t put you off acting.”

“Not at all. If anything, failure pushes me to try harder. What is it they say? A master has failed more times than a student has tried?”

“I like that,” Jeb says. “I might just steal that line for this movie I’m currently involved in.” He snaps his fingers over and over, hoping to stimulate a memory. “What was the name of that movie? It’s so hard to remember when I’m working on so many projects.”

He’s taunting me. Or at least fishing to see how much I know about his and Cory’s relationship. “I’m not sure where I heard it from, but it’s yours if you want it.”

This was the wrong thing to say, because it prompts the most grotesque interaction I have ever felt in my life. Jeb Eli reaches over and grazes his fingers down the back of my forearm. He then licks his lips and says, “Everything usually is.”

Nervous laughter rings out from the two girls flanking him. After a flicker of disgusted electricity bolts up my arm and down my spine, I look to them. The two barely-old-enough-to-be-considered women pass along their sympathies with only passing glances. Then Jeb has turned around and engaged in conversation with someone I don’t recognize. They’re shaking hands, and even though I’m just two feet behind, I’ve clearly been cast off.

Standing here in the middle of what is supposed to be an occasion where I get to enjoy myself and greet fellow actors, I suddenly have the desire to stick my head in the same toilet Lizzie just unloaded her stomach into.

As a woman, I’ve been mildly violated a number of times. I can’t imagine that men know quite how bad we have it. They only ever hear of the ‘big’ incidents. The kinds that make the news or that warrant a trip to the hospital or at least a tear-filled breakdown. But while t

hose do happen, the true numbers are astronomically higher. How many times have I felt a random guy in a coffee shop mentally undress me? Or had an acquaintance try to go in for a prolonged hug rather than a handshake? These would barely be considered offensive if brought up in regular conversation, but other women know exactly what I’m talking about.

One step up from these encounters are bolder men. I’ve had my ass grabbed no fewer than three times. But each was while in such a crowded place like a concert that even though my head whipped around at light speed, I couldn’t pinpoint the perpetrator. They didn’t hide what they were doing, but they did hide their identity.

Jeb Eli is different.