Free Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper by Hilary Liftin

a plain door. Nailed to it was a tiny brass letter. An “M.”
    “M for Mars?”
    Instead of answering, Rob put a key into the knob. The door opened silently. “M” for Mars indeed.
    “Your private door has a chintzy lock, I want you to know,” I said, poking him in the ribs.
    Rob chuckled. “You’re hard to impress.”

    The cone of silence around the Studio was so powerful that I guess I really did expect the halls to be lined with robed Illuminati, carrying candles and wax-sealed documents containing the secrets to world domination. Instead, the halls were bathed in sunlight, as it turned out that the massive building surrounded a bright, grassy courtyard filled with café tables and babbling fountains. There were people having tea alone with a newspaper or in small groups. Watching these people, chatting and laughing and wiping their chins with napkins, I couldn’t help but be surprised at how . . . normal it all seemed. It reminded me of those photo spreads in magazines showing celebrities doing “normal” things: One Cell practitioners are just like us! They read the sports section! They have sneezing fits! They spill water on their bagels! I’d pictured a lot of things going on behind those walls. This was never part of my image.
    Rob led me to his parlor and office. (Another operational base. Just what he needed. Malibu, Brentwood, Aspen, and New York weren’t enough. Because sometimes a man’s in Beverly Hills. . . .) A one-way window looked straight across Wilshire Boulevard to the ACE offices. Down the block was Rodeo Drive, the high end of the high end. “Drop in for some guided meditation, then pick up some baubles at Walford Diamond,” I joked with Rob. (It was a joke, but Rob definitely did just that on more than one occasion. Not complaining.)
    The walls of his One Cell office were hung with photos of himself: Rob standing with groups of robed practitioners; Rob meeting the Dalai Lama; Rob accepting an award from a tall, auburn-haired woman I would later find out was Teddy Dillon, the cofounder of the Studio. Next to RobI recognized Geoff, and on his other side an attractive brunette. At first I didn’t get it. What kind of movement was this, giving a celebrity a vanity office suite and handing out trophies?
    I sat down on the couch and beckoned to Rob. He joined me.
    “Thank you for finally bringing me here,” I said.
    “Thank you for wanting to come.”
    I leaned in to kiss him, and he kissed me back but he kept it chaste, turning away abruptly.
    “Sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, “but this really isn’t the place.”
    I felt horrible, like I’d been trying to corrupt him. In a way I was trying to prove to myself that his love (and lust) for me was stronger than his commitment to any organization. Come to think of it, that is kind of corrupt. I apologized and then said, “Rain check?” and I got the familiar smile that told me he was mine enough.
    Rob led me back out to the courtyard. On the way he showed me a simple meeting room that reminded me of the chapel in our church back home. A group of burlap-robed people sat quietly, eyes closed, while a tape played a woman’s soothing voice. I caught a bit of it: “The choices you make determine your fate. One step at a time, you lead yourself forward . . .” It seemed harmlessly yogic. There were offices, a few lounges, and other empty rooms surrounding the courtyard. The “weirdest” thing was that some of the rooms had floors covered with sand. Rob explained that part of the Practice was to meditate while standing on sand or earth as a way of grounding one’s energy. Also, almost everyone seemed to be wearing the same kind of necklace that Rob never took off, a simple string with a few beads. That was all! This was the “crazy cult world” that was so impenetrable and mysterious. There were no mystical totems and idols. No spiral-eyed, chanting actors. No initiation rites. No magnets. No levitating. It was situated on a