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 keeppersonal 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.
Libby did not know this version of Goldie. Libby’s version of Goldie hugged, kissed, swam, and did all things, full-throated and raw. Surviving in Hollywood required a glossy veneer.
Most people wanted something from Goldie. She’d learned how to deflect that. Hugging strangers or old friends was not in her playbook these days.
Libby smiled at her.
“You grew up gorgeous,” Goldie said.
“Ha, you were always. I’ve missed you.”
“Yes, well, it’s been a long time.”
Goldie’s well-learned skeptical attitude returned. What was this woman doing here? They may have been BFFs before the term BFFs was invented, but they were strangers now.
“It has. We’re all so proud of you. J.J. said she—how did she put it?—spit out her popcorn when she saw you inThe Sandwich Shop.”
“J.J., how is she? I mean, she was so vibrant!”
Goldie thought back to her friend, J.J. She tapped into the memory of J.J. when she needed to play fearless characters. There was quite a bit of J.J. in Goldie’s interpretation of Brenda Lee.
“She’s still a firecracker, hasn’t changed.”
“Ah, well, that’s good to know.” Goldie realized she was probably being a bad hostess.
“I know I am here unannounced.”
“No, it’s fine, have a seat. I’ll get Tally to get us some cold drinks.”
Tally was her current personal assistant and Gal Friday. She went through them quickly, but Tally had lasted over a year.
“Oh, don’t go to any trouble?—”
“Please, it’s not. TALLY!” Goldie yelled, and Tally appeared on the patio.
“Yep, what can I get you?” Tally was in her twenties, originally from Chicago, good at explaining TikTok to her and mediocre at returning phone calls.
“Can you bring us two cucumber waters and take Myrna?”
“Hey, you’re Libby Malcolm,” Tally said, clearly recognizing Libby.
What had Goldie missed? Was Libby famous or something?
“Yes,” Libby said and lowered her head a bit.
“I grew up in Southland! My mom’s still there. I did the Sunday Art in the Park for years. And that was total crap, what your ex did.”
