A Colony of Angels
ELAINE LEFT a message for her to call back as soon as possible. It was urgent.
Cameron Diaz — the true Cameron — was throwing a birthday party for Drew and got a brainstorm to have the “Angels” there, along with half a dozen other look-alikes. Elaine had already managed to get hold of the Cameron and the Lucy Liu, Cher, David Letterman, Donald Rumsfeld, Jim Carrey, and the Pope. When Becca asked if Rusty would be there, Elaine said no. Becca was relieved.
• • •
SHE HAD NEVER been inside the Colony. The guard waved her through, and she felt a curious, unexpected sense of belonging. When she saw the true Kid Rock climbing into a pickup, her nerves got all jangled and she wondered if she’d be able to pull this off.
A stern coordinator was waiting — the party wasn’t yet under way — and Becca was ushered into a kind of bull pen set up in the garage. Costume and makeup people descended on her with pins, Pan-Cake, and cigarette breath. The Cameron was sitting in a chair having her zits covered, Lucy’s hair was being straightened, and a bug-eyed, too-old Tobey Maguire was in the middle of a close shave. The Cher, who Becca thought to be a really good Cher, wandered in smoking. She said she didn’t think this was the true Cameron’s house; a makeup person concurred, but no one seemed to know who the house belonged to. Sting supposedly lived down the street but was never in residence, and the coordinator said Elaine told her that he rented the house out during the summer for ninety thousand dollars a month. Becca had a hard time believing that anyone would rent a house for that kind of money.
The true Cameron poked her head in and shrieked when she saw Elaine’s Angels.
“Oh my God! It’s fantastic!” she said, clapping her hands together. “You guys are incredible.”
The Lucy said, “Flip the goddamn hair!” and that went over big — the true Cameron split a gut. The true Selma Blair wandered in, and Becca was beside herself. She couldn’t wait to tell her mom. And the party hadn’t even started!
The Angels were brought in for maximum effect, when the birthday was in full swing. Ben Stiller was there with his wife and baby, as were the true Demi Moore with the true Ashton, and the true Tobey. When Cher showed up, she clucked her tongue at her double — Becca figured the singer had seen her share of impersonators and wasn’t as psyched as the younger stars about having a look-alike. The true Rose McGowan arrived with Pink and Pamela Anderson, the latter sans Kid Rock. Rose went and talked to the Cher, who evidently she’d once hired for Marilyn Manson’s birthday. Tom Hanks mingled with the look-alikes and seemed to get the biggest kick out of the hammily decrepit, hunched-over Pope, whose “day job” turned out to be that of a somewhat wealthy Valley restaurateur. Becca and the Cameron were hoping against hope that Sting would drop by. No such luck.
There were so many famous people that she became numb. (She spaced out after seeing Jackie Chan with Owen Wilson. It all became a blur.) But the celebs weren’t very engaging; except for Tom and Rita, they preferred talking amongst themselves. Becca liked schmoozing with faces she didn’t recognize — that was much more intriguing. She figured that anyone who had been invited in the first place was by definition “a player,” a behind-the-scenes heavyweight. Those were the people who might actually be helpful in the long run. One turned out to be the writer of her all-time favorite movie, Forrest Gump. He lived a few doors down. His mom had just died, and he was so sweet and open about it that soon there were tears in his eyes and in Becca’s too. They were joined by a cordial, unassuming fellow named George and his exuberantly pregnant girlfriend, Maria; he turned out to be a bigshot Simpsons writer. They talked about all kinds of interesting things, and then the Forest Gump man introduced her (first as Drew Barrymore then as Becca Mondrain) to Tom Hanks just as Tom was leaving. Rita was saying her good-byes but soon came over. Tom was funny in a pretend-dark kind of way and started chatting with Becca like she was the true Drew. Then he did a kind of triple take, as if he’d been tricked, screwing up his eyes to have another look. “Drew better watch her back,” he said menacingly, as he sidled out. He did this cute thing where he kept looking over his shoulder at her with hooded, accusing eyes before smiling warmly then tipping an imaginary hat in good-bye. Rita looked like she wanted to stay a little longer, but her husband gently led her by the wrist. Becca was sure to make eye contact with her, though, mindful of the fact that it was Rita who discovered My Big Fat Greek Wedding as a stage show, and Rita who convinced Tom and everyone else to take a chance on putting up the money for a film version. Maybe she would see Becca onstage one day and extend her the same opportunity. Hollywood was full of those kinds of stories.
Drew Barrymore approached with two gays in tow. It was Becca’s moment of reckoning.
“You are so scary. Do you think I could call you on the phone? Like when I’m having a shitty moment in a relationship? Which is pretty much all the time.” She turned to the gays, who laughed in chorus. “Or how about when I just really don’t want to deal with my family — or lawyer or agent or whatever? Couldn’t you just, like, come over and kind of live through stuff that I’d rather not?”
“Drew,” said Becca, gasping from the thin air. “I’d come and wash dishes if you asked.”
She knew she sounded like a rube, and the queerfolk winced, but Drew laughed, laying a hand on Becca’s arm to put her at ease. Becca nearly burst into tears.
“Oh my God!” said Drew exultantly, a lightbulb going off. “You could have a baby for me!”
The gays laughed some more and one said, “She could fuck for you.”
“Thank you, no,” said Drew. “I’d rather do that myself. For now.”
More laughs from the gays. The beautiful black girl from Saturday Night Live came over with the true Cameron, who saucily threw an arm over Becca’s shoulder. “Well,” she said. “If it isn’t Dylan Sanders…”
Becca sucked it up and said, “Flip your goddamn hair!”
Everyone laughed and she felt redeemed.
At 20th Century-Fox
LISANNE CALLED Tiff Loewenstein. She’d been meaning to do that as a friendly follow-up to their gala at the Casa del Mar, but she had a hidden agenda as well. Tiff got on the phone right away. His lunch had canceled and he asked her to join him at the commissary.
It had been a while since she’d been on the lot. Lisanne loved the bustle of a studio. The hallways of the executive building were cool, creamy, and hushed, for that wonderful retro mausoleum effect. Everything was perfectly production designed, with a forties ambience. Deeper into the honeycomb and closer to the offices of power, posters of blockbuster films gave way to gauzy Hurrells of bygone stars: Davis, Cagney, Crawford, Hepburn.
She was met in the anteroom by one of three secretaries, then led back to his plush Art Deco domain. Tiff rushed over from his desk, kissing both her cheeks. He immediately informed her of two upcoming events for which he “sorely” needed companionship on the weekend. Friday, he was to receive the KCET Visionary Award (Biltmore ballroom); the following night, he would be honored at a benefit for the Children’s Burn Foundation (Beverly Hilton). “What, may I ask, is your availability?” he said, somewhat wryly.
It didn’t seem like the right time to ask how things were going on the home front, or if they were going at all. Since he was dateless for his tributes, she assumed the worst.