3
Damian
EXTRAtainmentUpdate!
Damian Marshall Runs From Hollywood
Damian Marshall is on the run. After his recent meltdown in Cannes got a sequel at a Highland Park bar, Marshall was seen this morning boarding a private jet. Destination: unknown. The actor, usually not one to shy away from the spotlight, has been surprisingly closemouthed about his recent behavior. His most recent encounter with director Anderson Lind could hardly be called friendly, though Lind did his best to appear cordial. Marshall, on the other hand, referred to Lind as a “hack” who was riding Marshall’s coattails to fame.
Once again, Marshall and his representation refused to comment on recent incidents or where the star might be headed. It’s rumored the rift between actor and director was sparked by a disagreement over the script forShadow League: Deep Shadows.Apparently, Lind felt Marshall’s time at the head of the franchise was coming to a natural end and had campaigned hard for his character, Dex Russo, to be killed off at the end of the upcoming film, which won’t begin shooting until early this fall. Marshall, who stands to make $25 million in each of the next twoShadow Leagueinstallments, was understandably disappointed with the move and fought back, both behind-the-scenes and, apparently, in public.
* * *
As we entermy hotel room, I unzip my puffy down parka with a gasp. “Why the hell did you dress me like a yeti?”
Vin coos. “You know you get chilly.”
I unpeel myself from the layers of feathers and Gore-Tex. “Then why do you look like you just rolled in from a weekend in Santa Barbara?”
“Duh.” He rolls his eyes. “Because I didn’t exactly have time to pack. Not after I spent all night listening to Roberta lecture me about what will happen if you step so much as a hair out of line over the next two weeks. You don’t even know how pissed she is about the Anderson thing. I told you it was a bad idea.”
“That wasn’t my fault.” I collapse onto the bed. The thing is giant, with what looks like small trees holding up the corners and thick planks running along the head and footboard. For my six-foot-four frame, it is the perfect height to flop down on, but Vin has to climb the mattress like Jack climbing the beanstalk, grunting and squeaking until he spreads out in the space next to me.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and flinch at the latest headlines.
“No.” Vin snatches the phone out of my hand. “None of that.”
“What?”
“You aren’t here to torture yourself for the next two weeks.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I fling an arm over my face.
“Did you see the view as we flew in?”
“No.” Just like now, my eyes were closed. After my meeting with Roberta, I may have drowned my sorrows at home for the rest of the day. The effort has left me with a raging hangover pulsing angrily just inside my skull. Vin’s insistence on a mimosa breakfast on the private jet from LA to Anchorage hadn’t helped the situation.
“It was so pretty. Like they painted it for us.”
If he’s going to get all poetic and shit, I don’t know if I want him here after all. I want to sulk, not monologue about the particular shade of peach that coats the sky as the sun sets.
I wrinkle my nose on an inhale. The room is lavish, but a chemical smell hangs in the air, like someone only recently finished painting. It isn’t doing anything for my headache.
“Did Ivy say how long this place has been open?”
“No. She only said it was the best of the best.” Vin hops off the bed, nearly disappearing over the side before popping up again. His new Tom Ford sunglasses with the olive green lenses he swears will be on trend within the next three months are perched on top of his immaculately coiffed hair. He couldn’t find time to pack, but he’ll always find time to do his hair.
While I continue to wallow, he strolls across the suite. It’s a decent size; far from the largest I’ve ever been given, but respectable and obviously decorated on theme. It glows in warm gold and green with Indigenous art on the walls and a leather sofa set arranged around a rough-hewn coffee table in the center. Champagne chills in a bucket, and Vin picks up a small note card propped up against it.
“A selection of local Alaskan delicacies is available in our dining room courtesy of Marc-André Philippe, executive chef at the Wild Eagle Lodge.” He flips it over and reads a moment longer before he snorts. “Authentic Alaskan smoked salmon chowder. He wouldn’t know good chowder if it bit him in his executive ass.” Despite his California beachboy persona, Vin grew up in Boston. He hides it well... Most of the time.
“Are you going to open that bottle?” I ask, pointing at the champagne.
“Two hours ago, you said you were never drinking again.”
“Two hours ago, we were paddling out to a plane that looked more like a tin can with a propeller. I wasn’t ready to die that way.”
Vin pops the cork. It flies out of his hand, bouncing off the silvery taxidermy fish mounted to the wall. “Oh, shit!”
