She costarred with Cameron Diaz and Lucy Liu in the movie versions of the 1970s TV series Charlie’s Angels, which she also produced. Barrymore also appeared at age seven in E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, rereleased in 2002.
Brett Lawyer and Ed Fitz of Nourmand & Associates, Beverly Hills, represented Barrymore in buying, according to sources not involved with the deal.
She hadn’t thought about the fire in a while, but now she remembered news footage of the bantering couple climbing into their BMW in the middle of the night to good-humoredly flee the flames — there was something about them that was a little too manic and Becca knew their marriage was already in trouble. Just thinking about that homely idiot Tom Green pissed her off. He is so majorly fucked up! Drew gave him everything: her house, her heart, her invaluable connections… stood by him for his lame-o ball cancer (Annie wondered if it was a stunt but even Becca thought that was going too far because she knew the comedian had truly suffered), and never wavered! Tom Green could have learned so much from Drew the producer, Drew the businesswoman, Drew the icon and showbiz vet. But in the end, all Tom Green wanted was to be in shitty, shitty movies, party with whorey-looking supermodel rejects, and host a fifth-rate Conan loserfest. In the end, all Tom Green wanted was to whine about how you should be careful never to marry someone who had a team of publicists. Oh! How galling! Tom Green should be so lucky! And like it’s Drew’s fault to be the legend she is! It’s Drew’s fault that Steven Spielberg is her godfather and that she was in E.T. when she was a baby and that for a hundred years her family was theatrical and cinematic royalty! But the worst of it was, they were married—they exchanged sacred vows—and now that it was over, Tom Green didn’t even have the decency or common sense to keep his chinless cancer mouth shut. People were like that. People were ungrateful, fickle, boring, greedy, vindictive, and morally bankrupt. All anyone ever did was cover their own ass and Tom Green was covering his, busily rewriting history. Not Drew—Drew let everything hang for the world to see. She had her weaknesses, but you could never say she wasn’t a stand-up person, that was Drew to the max, and when Green got that final (spread-to-the-brain) tumor Becca was certain Ms. Barrymore would be there for him 1000 percent. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge at death’s door.
Becca sipped at her latte and savored the description: “two-story mid-century ranch with a long private drive.” It was like the beginning of a novel! Four bedrooms seemed cozy — just right. A guesthouse was always nice for friends or relatives (that was the kind of arrangement she dreamed of for Dixie), but if she so desired, on nights when Drew had the compound to herself, it also gave her the luxury of crashing elsewhere on the property, like a gamboling gypsy, for the fun of it — the wherewithal to mix it up, if she felt moody or devil-may-care. “A guardhouse, staffed full-time…” probably a necessity, because of stalkers — still, Becca couldn’t imagine what that would be like. You could wake up at three in the morning freaked out from a bad dream and wouldn’t even have to call 911—all you’d have to do was shout for your private live-in police! Annie would die when she told her. Becca reread “gym, five fireplaces,” and suddenly the house didn’t sound so snug anymore, though she was pretty sure it would feel snug because Drew probably did it up in the Topanga — Beverly Glen — Laurel Canyon hippie style, all dark wood and stone, dog-friendly Shabby Chic couches and worn, deceptively expensive Native American rugs. “A yard with pathways and gardens…,” pathways leading God knew where. I would give anything, Becca thought, to pitch a tent at the end of one of those trails, if only as an in-residence Pilates teacher or masseuse.
But this was the part that stirred her most:
Barrymore, 28, who starred opposite Ben Stiller in Duplex, also has a leading role in Look-Alike, to be written and directed by Spike Jonze and released in 2004.
Becca’s movie! Just that morning, Sharon phoned to say that Spike Jonze had been charmed at the table-read and wanted to put her on tape. She told Becca not to say anything to Rusty yet, and Becca read between the lines that Sharon didn’t want to get burned again. But it came to mind there was the possibility — Rusty seemingly so close to Spike, having coffees at the Rose and whatnot — that maybe he already did know and would be punishing if Becca failed to mention. No need to get paranoid; she decided to think happy thoughts. She still had the fantasy of both of them getting cast and becoming stars. The whole fame scenario flitted through her head again, this time with the capper that she became the proud new owner of the “two-story mid-century ranch” when Ms. Barrymore got the urge to relocate. One thing Becca knew she wouldn’t need was a private mod squad. Though it’d be fun to put a mannequin in there — a mannequin and a big dusty bunch of artificial flowers in the guardhouse might be memorable.
A young man interrupted her thoughts, asking if he could share the table. She blinked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you look really familiar.”
They made a few guesses as to where they might have met before. He said, “Do you ever go to the Coffee Bean, up on Sunset?”
“Sure.”
“I used to work there.” She squinted at him. “I looked a little different. My hair was shorter. And I”—he smiled sheepishly—“I was ‘impaired.’”
He slurred his words, refreshing her memory.
“Ohmygod, yes! But — I don’t understand.”
“Research — for a film role. The Kit Lightfoot movie. I was going to play a retard. If I may be so politically incorrect.”
He reached out a hand, and Becca shook it, though she wasn’t sure how to respond. Something about him was so refined yet flamboyant that she couldn’t stop smiling.
“I’m Larry Levine. And if you’re not Drew Barrymore, you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”
Postsurgical
VIV WEMBLEY STEPS from a Suburban, deep inside the hospital garage. She wears large Fendi shades and scuffed Dries boots — straight from the airport in Van Nuys, with minimal freshening up on the plane as it landed. Sherry offered to go with her, but Viv graciously, gratefully declined. She smells her own breath as she walks, fetid and stagnant. Grief-breath.
She is ushered through the bowels, as they say, to a white room where doctors prepare her for what she will see.
A friend who is also her yoga teacher has come. The logistics of that rendezvous were a security hassle, and there’s some delay — Viv will not go in to see Kit without her — finally the two meet and embrace.
They go in a room by themselves, and the teacher engages Viv in deep yoga breaths.
They ride the elevator up.
Outside the guarded room: Prana, prana, prana.
Viv enters, the way first-timers jump from planes.
The private nurse nods, smiles, and leaves. The yoga friend stays in the room, just inside the door, now closed behind them. Respectful. Moved. There for her friend. There for Kit too.
Viv stands beside him, holding his hand. Her awkwardness melts away at the humanity of it. The reduction of love, horror, and agony. The sheer bizarre unlikelihood…