Free Secrets of My Hollywood Life: There’s No Place Like Home by Jen Calonita

dad sipping drinks and eating bread. (Well, Matty and Dad are at least. I don’t think Laney
     has had bread since 1986.) Dad looks up from his TAG Heuer watch to Mom and I as we sit down.
    “Everything okay?” Dad asks Mom. “You were on that call for a while.”
    “It was Nancy Walsh,” Mom says reluctantly as a waiter places a napkin on her lap. “She thinks I have too much on my plate
     to handle the launch of the Daisies on the West Coast. I’m going to convince her otherwise.” Mom starts punching buttons on
     her BlackBerry, her new diamond Rolex sparkling brighter than my water goblet, which a waiter just filled to the top.
    “You know, sweetie, your schedule is very full,” Dad says delicately and touches my mom’s hand. “This is the first time we’ve
     had dinner together in over a week. You haven’t called Victoria Beckham back, and she’s called three times.”
    Wow, Mom is ignoring the Beckhams? She really must be swamped.
    “I could help with Katie-Kat more,” Dad offers and winks at me. “I’ve been hanging out at her shoots while you’re busy with
     Matty, and I feel like I did when I test-drove the Maserati GranTurismo with the Poltrona Frau leather upholstery! I’m sure
     I could swing things for a while until your datebook settles down.”
    “ Swing things?” Mom stops typing and looks at him sharply. Any trace of the warmth in her voice from our conversation is gone. “When
     you’re a manager you don’t swing . You shake. You shimmy. You make your client the best darn thing this town has ever seen!”
    “You mean our daughter and son, right?” Dad asks, sounding slightly embarrassed and yet annoyed at the same time. “Are our
     children just clients now?” Mom looks a little shocked at herself. “We talked about blurring the line, Meg. This is what I
     meant. Look at how you’re acting!”
    Matty and I look at each other worriedly. Now my parents are fighting? And in public? They never fight. I think. It’s not
     like I’m around that often to see, but they’re always so happy when they’re off on a double date with Tom (Hanks) and Rita
     (Wilson). I nudge Laney, praying she can rein them in before they cause a scene. Jack Nicholson is eating at a table nearby,
     and he’s staring at us.
    “Meg?” Laney tries. “Did I tell you Vanity Fair is booking their Young Hollywood cover?”
    The words Vanity Fair jolt Mom out of her tirade. “Have they called for us yet?”
    Laney sips her iced tea. “I’m sure they will any day. If not, believe me, I’ll call them. They owe me big time.”
    You do not want to get on Laney’s bad side. Her twenty-something look—Brazilian-straightened blond hair, petite figure, cute
     fitted suits (tonight she has on a black Elizabeth and James stretch jacket over a white tee and black trousers)—makes her
     seem like a teddy bear. She’s more like a grizzly bear. Laney protects her clients—and their extended families—like they are
     her own cubs. Most of Hollywood is deathly afraid of her wrath. Even I still get a little nervous around her, and she’s been
     my publicist for years.
    “You’re right. They’ll call us. I can’t handle making another call this week.” Mom motions to the waiter. “I’ll have a glass
     of Merlot, please.”
    “Actually, we’ll have a bottle of your best Merlot,” Seth tells the waiter. “Tonight is a celebration. Our shooting star is
     officially a planet!” Seth looks at me, his laser-white teeth dazzling. His short, brown hair is freshly highlighted, and
     he’s wearing a gorgeous brown Tom Ford suit. Seth always looks like he’s at the most important meeting of his life, even if
     we’re doing something as routine as going over my call sheets.
    When the wine arrives and Matty and I have our sodas, Seth grins at me over his glass. “You’ve done it, Kaitlin. You’ve officially
     arrived.” He starts to applaud me. Here. In the middle of the restaurant. I could die. Especially