Free Hollywood Scandals by Gemma Halliday Page A

Betty Johnson in Studio Seven. I have my assistants coming in and I’d like their names on the list, please.”
    David paused and I could hear him checking his computer. “Betty Johnson?”
    “ Makeup artist.”
    David did a few more clicks, checking out my story. I mentally crossed my fingers that news of Betty’s demise hadn’t hit the studios yet. Finally, the guard piped up in my ear again, “Your assistants’ names, Ms. Johnson?”
    “ Tina Bender and Calvin Dean.”
    “ They’ll be on the list, just have them come to the south entrance.”
    “ Thank you, David,” I said, before snapping my phone shut with a click of satisfaction.
    I looked up to find Cal shaking his head at me.
    “ What?”
    “ Do you ever tell the truth?”
    “ Once. In fourth grade. It was overrated.”
    “ I’m serious. You’re beginning to worry me,” he said as he pulled into traffic.
    “ Yeah, like you’re honest all the time.”
    “ I try to be.”
    “ Seriously? You never tell your girlfriend she looks hot in that unflattering dress?”
    “ I don’t have a girlfriend.”
    “ You never called in sick to work when really you were heading to the Lakers game?”
    “ Self employed.”
    “ Not once have you ever told your mother that her dried-out Sunday meatloaf was culinary perfection?”
    “ Don’t eat beef, remember?”
    I slouched in my seat, conceding defeat. “You’re no fun.”
    Cal gave me a lopsided grin, his eyes taking on a devilish glint over the rim of his sunglasses. “Oh, trust me, I can be plenty of fun.”
    The way my cheeks suddenly filled with heat, I totally believed him. I’m sure there were stick-figure bimbos all over Hollywood who had swooned under that very same grin.
    I quickly looked away, clearing my throat. “Well, when we get to the studio, just leave the talking to me, okay, Honest Abe?”
    “ You got it, boss.”
     
    * * *
     
     
    Sunset Studios was like a miniature city plunked down in the middle of Hollywood and enclosed by a ten-foot-high brick wall. Outside the gates, panhandlers, men wearing five coats and pushing shopping carts and ladies of the evening (or in our case, afternoon… somehow even worse) stood at every corner. Inside, the place was so clean and wholesome looking, it fairly sparkled. Which was a sure sign 99% of it was fake.
    Cement warehouse buildings squatted down one side of the studio, housing the sound stages of hit TV shows, while the other half of the lot was filled with building facades for movie locations. A New York street, complete with brownstones and subway stairs that led to nowhere. A dusty main street in the Old West, complete with hitching posts. A quaint, tree-lined suburban street where you expected the Beaver to pop his freckled little face out of a tree-house at any second. And through it all a tram full of tourists being given the Sunset Studios tour snapped pictures of every lamppost, mailbox, and production assistant on a coffee run.
    Beyond the side gate was a small parking lot where Cal and I traded our gas guzzler for a small white golf cart - the studio’s main mode of transportation. Cal took the wheel and quickly navigated our way through the sound stages until we found one with a huge pink “Pippi Mississippi” sign tacked to the front. Cal parked behind a wardrobe trailer and led the way inside.
    The interior of the warehouse was dark, and I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the change. The place was a maze of ropes, cables, and electronic equipment, all leading to a series of strategically placed sets that looked like oversized dioramas. I spotted the hallway of Pippi’s junior high, her prissy pink bedroom, and the video arcade where she and her girlfriend hung out after school, the latter a buzz of activity as grips positioned lights, sound guys adjusted mics, someone lifted a camera onto a moving track, and no less than three women in overalls fluffed, primped, and powdered the blonde in the center - Jennifer