Hollywood Scream Play by Josie Brown Page B

just returned with the dogs.” He picks up the empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside me. “It must have been quite a party.”
    “You could have stayed, you know. In fact, we were just waiting for you to come back. He offered to take us all to dinner.” Damn it, I wish Jack would quit moving. I didn’t know he had a twin…
    He steadies me with both hands on my arms. “I would have passed. You know what they say, ‘three’s a crowd.’”
    “Don’t be jealous!”
    “I’m not. Frankly, I think it’s hilarious that you’re star struck.”
    “I am not! Besides, he’s a writer, not an actor.”
    “He’s got an Oscar, and he speaks the King’s English as if he were the King. Admit it, Donna: if he was from Oxford, Mississippi, as opposed to Oxford, England, would you be batting your lashes at him?”
    “If I bat my lashes—and I’m not admitting to it—perhaps it’s because he finds me ‘beguiling,’” I counter. “They don’t use words like that in Mississippi.”
    “You’re right. He would have called them ‘tah-tah’s.’ Doesn’t have the same ring to it at all.”
    “What are you implying?”
    “I’m not. I’m stating a fact. Have you noticed that he never looks you in the eye? He can’t tear himself away from staring at your breasts.”
    “Oh! …Well, that’s beside the point.”
    “No, it’s exactly”—he looks at my breasts, and smiles—“the points.”
    I slam the bedroom door and lock it behind me.
    He can sleep on one of the hotel’s doggy beds with Rin Tin Tin and Lassie, as opposed to in here, with “the points”—Pixie and Dixie—and me.

    Lovely, lovely, everything is  so  lovely at the Ivy on North Robertson!
    Our thank-you-and-farewell lunch (wild lobster salad for me, a Kobe-style New York Steak for Jack—on Addison’s dime of course) is being served on the terrace, under a sun-kissed baby blue sky. Vines of yellow roses coil around the white picket fence in the front. The brick walls on either side are adorned with green boxes of hot pink geraniums.
    Addison and Sebastian sit on green wrought-iron chairs, leaving the white wicker settee lined with colorful floral, paisley, and gingham pillows for Jack and me. This suits me fine because it allows me to take quick glances at all the actors, directors and various Hollywood movers and shakers sitting at the tables around us. Yes, that is Cate Blanchett in the corner, and I’ve just knocked elbows with Robert Downey, Jr. (or RDJ as his friends call him) apologizes to me. (To me!  Me!  Squeeee! Oh my goodness, he’s got the bluest eyes…)
    Between chitchat about the projects of the various players around us, Addison and Sebastian have been singing our praises. (Can RDJ hear them? Is that why he turns to smile at me?  Me!   Squeeee! )
    Damn, I wish Jack would at least pretend to listen to our hosts! Instead, his eyes are constantly on the move. Why is he so distracted by all the cars that pass the restaurant? Robertson is a four-lane road, for goodness sake! If he’s not noting every drop-off at the valet stand, he scans the faces around us—not because he’s star struck, but out of boredom, I presume.
    He’s ignoring me, too. Noticing Bryan Cranston  not three feet away from us , I squeeze Jack’s hand to get his attention. Finally he tears himself away from his pouting to see what I want. I nod in the direction of this ultimate celebrity sighting. All I get for my troubles is a squeeze back—
    One that hurts.
    To retaliate, I pinch him—hard.
    He curses loud enough that Sebastian stops what he’s saying—some little anecdote about him and Benedict Cumberbatch at the soiree for Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts at Buckingham Palace.
    Jack is so rude.
    Not to mention that he’s barely touched his steak. That’s okay. I’ll get it put in a doggy bag. Not really for the dogs, of course, but for the rest of us. Now that we’ve vetted the script, I’m sure this will be the last decent meal