Page 3 of Sandbar Summer (Summer Cottage #3)

Chapter Three

Goldie

“They’re going to sue you.”

Scott Ozock, Goldie’s agent, sat on her twenty-thousand-dollar sofa. It faced an expanse of windows that showed off an infinity pool that blended seamlessly into her spectacular view of L.A.

But the man was essentially pooing all over the fancy sofa with every sentence.

Goldie couldn’t sit. All she could do was pace. It felt like she was watching her hard work over the last three decades slip between her fingers.

“What?”

“Yeah, the assistant has facial scarring.”

“You have got to be kidding me! I accidentally made contact, and there wasn’t even a scratch on him. Meanwhile, Trevor was being abusive, insensitive, unprofessional, and I will not take it.”

“No one in this town believes it.”

“They believe the gossip, the stuff on Twitter. Great. Of course. The five-foot-two, one hundred pound geriatric actress beat the heck out of the twenty-something, six-foot-tall man child. Makes sense.”

“He mentioned something about pills?”

“What?”

“Yeah, there was a bottle of pills you made an assistant get, that with the coming unhinged thing, well. It’s bad.”

“I forgot to take my estrogen, which I’m on thanks to my hysterectomy. Estrogen!”

“Ah, female stuff.”

No one outside of her closest circle knew about Goldie’s hysterectomy.

While the P.R. machine in this town loved to talk about the disease of the week, menopause and “female stuff” did not make for great copy.

In fact, she’d stayed quiet, especially so the bro dude directors didn’t mistake her for their mothers.

Any chance at lead roles were history if she became the poster girl for getting a hysterectomy.

Her agent wanted her to keep quiet about it. And she had. She did what was required to stay at the top of the heap in Hollywood.

She needed Scott Ozock’s father, not Scott. He’d have squished this director like a bug.

Goldie clenched her jaw and continued to pace. She needed a plan. She needed to look like she had something better to do than this stupid superhero movie.

Mitchell Ozock had been Goldie’s agent since her second year in Hollywood.

He ruled this town in the early nineties.

He got her the role in Beautiful Girl that turned her into a household name.

The blockbuster receipts of that film turned Mitchell Ozock, talent agent, into Mitchell Ozock, studio head.

Mitchell Ozock, in her corner, was a key to her rise. He had seen her small role in The Sandwich Shop, a low-budget but well-reviewed indie picture.

He’d championed her to play Oberlin Banks’ daughter in Dark Homecoming. Banks won her second Oscar for that picture.

Mitchell then pushed to get Goldie the lead in Beautiful Girl. All of it unfolded in less than four years after she showed up in L.A. with one shampoo commercial and a bit part in a television movie on her resume.

Her face was on billboards all over town, thanks to Beautiful Girl.

That was how much she owed Mitchell Ozock.

She owed him enough to let Ozock the lesser continue on as her agent.

Scott Ozock had a lot of power now, too, which he owed to his deal with the Victor Superhero Universe.

But what he didn’t have was loyalty to Goldie.

They didn’t have the bond like Goldie had with his dad.

All those movies that made her career felt like they were filmed a million years ago. They could be silent pictures for all the Trevor Sundays of the world knew.

She’d made a powerful ally in Mitchell Ozock, but he was gone now. He’d died of a heart attack eight years ago. And it was downhill ever since for Goldie.

His son, Scott Ozock, was her age. They’d known each other forever. But that didn’t mean he was doing anything in her best interest. That, and Goldie’s age, meant she was in the worst position of her career.

“That’s not all. I have other, uh, news.”

“I’ve been essentially booted from the most powerful movie franchise on the planet. Worse? What could be worse?”

Scott hesitated. He looked down at her marble flooring. He stalled further by gazing at the infinity pool over Goldie’s shoulder.

He then looked down at his shoes.

“I have to drop you.”

“You must be joking. You’re dropping me? You’re the one who put me in that picture, told me to get that line. Fight.”

This was impossible to process. Goldie had carried this guy! She’d stayed with him out of loyalty to his father, and he was dropping her?

“The thing is, we’re a part of the whole talent package for the movie and for the next three. The director wants you gone, or if not, we lose the sequel and the prequel.”

“Now I wish I had scratched someone’s eyes out.”

Scott got up and started to make his way out of Goldie’s house.

To call it a house was an understatement. Goldie had a mansion, a mid-century masterpiece. It was in the tony neighborhood of the Trousdale Estates.

It was gorgeous. It was the perfect setting for the status she’d acquired. She lived here with Myrna, her Bichon. But despite its size, there was no husband, no kids filling the massive square footage.

This was the sacrifice she’d made to be at the top. This was the path she’d voluntarily chosen. The marble floors felt like quicksand under her feet.

“The papers are being sent to your attorney. We’ll be dissolving all ties. You understand, don’t you? It’s the VSU. We can’t lose those deals.”

“Scott, your dad would never have let this happen to me.”

“He’s gone, and I’m sorry. So are you, for all intents and purposes.”

Scott stood up from her fancy sofa. He turned his back on Goldie and walked out. Goldie was livid. How in the heck had it come to this? In one moment?

“I’m not being dropped, Scott—oh no, I’m dropping you!!”

Myrna ran through the hallway and out the door as Goldie’s emotions spiraled out of control.

She was panicked, angry, and in disbelief. And she felt betrayed. Her years of loyalty to Mitchell Ozock and his measly son had evaporated thanks to a disagreement with the latest bratty director.

Scott didn’t look back as she hurled her toothless statement at him.

Goldie was dropped.

Well, she’d find another agent, or an indie project, or a script to invest in.

Why in the world hadn’t she started buying rights to books like Winne Reese did?

She hadn’t gotten into producing. Ugh. She was at the mercy of an industry that valued her for her figure, face, and ability to turn on a fifteen-year-old boy. It was a mess!

She walked out to the pool and looked out. The view alone here was worth a million dollars. It was the right view in the right neighborhood.

This was where Hollywood power players lived. She walked among them! She had an Oscar, for flip’s sake.

Was this it? Should she start again? Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. No. She was way tougher than that.

No one got here without being tough. She just hadn’t been quite smart enough. She should have seen this.

She’d ignored the signs that Scott Ozock wasn’t operating in her best interests. They had boxed her out of an agency that used to use her name to recruit top talent.

Goldie didn’t know how long she stood there, looking at L.A. spread out below her. This view used to fill her with satisfaction. It was the proof she’d made it.

But right now, it made her feel cold. It made her feel alone. Millions of people out there and not one she could call to vent. Or to come over and commiserate.

She’d isolated herself on purpose.

Goldie was upset, betrayed, disappointed, and frustrated.

But she was also a fighter. She’d come here alone and had done what it took to get ahead. Despite how she was marketed in half her pictures, she wasn’t a delicate little thing.

She looked like a waif most of the time, but she wasn’t. Even though bile was the only thing she’d swallowed for three weeks leading up to fitting into that stupid super suit.

She had literally starved herself to be Steely Ann. All for her one stupid line. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a full stomach. It was all so messed up.

Her mind was drawing a blank, though, on how to proceed, on what to do next.

A voice pulled her out of her head and back poolside.

“Goldie, is this your little gal? I’m sorry, but the door was open, and she trotted right up to me.”

Goldie turned to find a gorgeous woman with waves of long auburn hair walking out to the patio. Myrna tucked in her arm. This had to be a former supermodel or something. Did Goldie forget some sort of charity event committee meeting?

“Myrna!” Goldie rushed forward, and the woman gently handed her over.

“Goldie, I’m so sorry to just show up. I know it’s weird.”

“Excuse me?”

Maybe this a stalker? Did she need to find her panic button? Hollis, her driver, was also security. Where was he? Oh great, in the middle of her greatest professional disaster, she was going to get murdered. Though, maybe that would be good, in terms of P.R. She’d get posthumous adoration!

No, no. She wasn’t ready for posthumous adoration quite yet. Goldie stepped back but dialed into the woman who’d walked into her home unannounced. She did not look unbalanced, and she had just gently handed her back Myrna Loy.

Quality clothing, real gold earrings, a tasteful tennis bracelet. She looked more country mansion than Charles Manson. The woman was tall. She had a lovely long neck, thick auburn hair, and eyes that flashed with intelligence. Familiar eyes.

And then a rush of decades zoomed through her mind. She knew who this was.

“Libby Quinn?”

“Yes, hey Goldie. It’s been a long time.”

Goldie was not a hugger. She had cultivated a way to keep personal space.

First, it was to keep pawing casting directors at arm’s length.

Later, the fans, who thought they knew, thought they were owed a piece of her, needed to be kept back.

Sometimes they grabbed at her to collect what they thought was due to them for being her fans.