Dynamic Hollywood Newcomer

"Ohmigod, it's 'Miss Sandra'," someone shouted. Nearby people began chanting "Miss Sandra, Miss Sandra."

Sandra standing in the security guy's double arm lock and waved bravely at the paparazzi photographers. Other security guards closed around her and escorted her into the bookstore and the bystanders cheered.

As to be expected, Miss Sandra featured on TV that night and her photograph was prominent in newspapers next morning. That same morning Nick took Sandra to view a house he'd found in a gated community, the only house that had a real attic. The waterfall in the garden could be heard inside that room destined to become the hot-hot writer's creative room. They scraped over who'd buy the home and Nick won, arguing currently he had the most money. The dwelling was still unfinished. Nick tipped the workmen to take early lunch so he and his darling could spend a little time in the unfurnished bedroom undisturbed.

Sandra did nothing, absolutely nothing, and yet her fame spread because her name appeared in gossip columns. Sandra Clemow reportedly saved twelve-week old twins from burning to death in a parked car that caught afire while their irresponsible mother was in a salon having a pedicure. Sandra Clemow reportedly met her match and was knocked to the ground in a bar when she drunkenly picked on a female champion kick-boxer to vent her bad temper. Sandra Clemow reportedly was taken in police custody for her own safety after passing a church (unnamed) and angry female churchgoers stoned her.

Sandra came to learn that the used of the word 'reportedly' meant the columnist was a story short in her (or his) column fictitiously manufactured a paragraph in seconds around the name of someone never far removed from the news. The absurdities gave Sandra and Nick some great laughs.

Nick was slowly acquiring investment clients, too slow for his liking. Sandra bit her lip when she heard him on the phone and yet another contact turn him down. She wanted to help but knew Nick would feel castrated if she offered and even would feel worse -- if anything was worse than castration for a guy like Nick -- if what she did succeeded. Sandra knew the only way was to be sneaky. So she began reading the financial newspapers, noting who the commentators were and noted the names of journalists in newspapers and magazines who quoted people as making investment predictions.

Armed with the names of those commentators, Sandra asked Nick to provide her with the names of a dozen companies likely to become flyers that he knew from his own business associations and perhaps instinct were likely to pop us soon as front-runners in the investment stakes.

"Nick, I don't want companies other guys are tipping, I would your genuine tips and if you produce duds for me you'll sleep in the spare room for six months."

"Give me two weeks," he said before burying himself away in his office. "The stakes for me are higher than losing a client's prospect of having his or her investment grow. I would regard it as catastrophic not having you alongside me at nights."

"Oh darling, you are so romantic for a man. Remind me to marry you."

Nick laughed and the ease of that laugh filled Sandra with confidence.

When Nick produced twelve 'hot tips' for her Sandra wisely invested chunks of her own money in them, convinced she was doing the right thing. She then added 'Nick's Top Three Picks' to his illustrated profile she'd prepared without his knowledge and sent it to the twelve columnists on her list. Monitoring the columns Sandra found Nick's tips and brief background about him in three publications. She chose one of those columns that appeared weekly and then send the remaining sets of three tips pre-dated to appear in sequence. They did and because Nick's contact details were also published he began to receive calls and after a brief break after his final column was published, passing unnoticed by him, he was surprised to have the columnist request 'more tips' and obliged. At that point Sandra gave up, concluding she'd worked hard for minimal results, although acknowledging to herself some results were better than none at all.

But something bigger than she could have orchestrated was about to happen.

At another level in 'gossip' in newspapers and weekly women's magazines, Sandra found she was being listed among VIPs attending gatherings hosted privately by movie stars, film producers and even gossip columnists. She knew of course she'd not attended such functions, but then the invitations, inevitably hand delivered by couriers, began flowing in.

Female stars that Sandra drooled over began inviting her and partner to their homes or restaurant extravaganzas. It became the 'in thing' to have sexy sex novelist Sandra Clemow attend one's party or special event. Those invitations trebled when the most influential newspaper columnist in Los Angeles accurately reported a luncheon conversation she'd had with Sandra's publisher that her third novel now imminent was about a professionally disgraceful relationship between a leading surgeon and his beautiful young patient burdened by having two vaginas since birth.

Nick, bored by the twaddle people talk about at such 'illustrious' functions, would move about until finally finding someone of note who'd politely ask what was his occupation. He'd reply as instructed by Sandra and hand across his card, saying he advised the famous and wealthy about investments, and then he'd talk about the weather. If the person of note stayed talking, he would, as instructed, hail a fresh drink for his prospective client or clients and begin to sharpen their interest. To Nick's astonishment, having told Sandra is would be a waste of time, he found himself signing up celebrities who not only commissioned him to supply investment information but began recommending him to friends.

Within a few weeks Nick realized the momentum was underway and unstoppable. His clients paid for tips in three categories: solid almost certainties, those near the edge although solid be ready to bail out and thirdly, rather risky but capable of winning through. His clients loved it, usually investing in all three categories.

Downing a drink at the local bar, two clients -- blonde and curvaceous and their partners watching the fraternization ready to start swinging if Nick made an indecent move - Nick realized that Sandra had come through for him yet again, really doing little more than pulling levers and by being there. Next day he purchased a present for his fiancée and that evening took her to dinner in their local café that had a jazz pianist and lots of dark corners.

"Take a look at this wee present darling, I think they'll enhance you."

Sandra excitedly opened the small hoping it was something useful, knowing what Nick was like with presents. They were sitting head-to-head in one of the dark corners and the sparkle of the diamonds flashed and lit up their corner of gloom.

"Nick, these are fabulous. You shouldn't have."

"I know but it's tradition for guys in love to do dumb things."

Sandra lost it and wanted to give it to Nick over the table but he guided Sandra off the boil, convincing her no purpose would be served in being banned from their nearest and best local café.

However he consoled her. "Let's set the wedding date."

"Ooooh."

"Well?"

"Eight Saturdays away counting this Saturday."

"Done. Buy your gear and my suit and do whatever else needs doing."

"Oh thank you Nick. I accept that responsibility with pleasure because I was beginning to become bored. Will I be Mrs Sandra Clemow, Mrs Sandra Love or Mrs Sandra Clemow-Love?"

"Well Sandra love, I prefer that last one -- Clemow-Love."

"Right darling, as good as done. Ooooh, this is so exciting. Let's go, you've not yet fucked me over the kitchen table in our new home."

"Grrrrr," said Nick. "You pay the bill and let's go. You pay week nights, remember?"

Sandra kissed him. "Thank you for my birth present."

"Birth present?"

"Yeah, I was born to wear diamonds."

CHAPTER 6

Assistant chief script re-write editor Lindy Rice, by not the mistress of film producer Ricardo Icon, had accepted the offer over lunch to be Sandra's chief bridesmaid and they were discussing which designer to approach when two men in dark suits approached the table.

"Miss Clemow?"

"I'm Miss Clemow."

Lindy yelled, "It's a subpoena, don't accept it."

"I'm becoming bored. This could be fun," Sandra said, taking the document and then told the two guys to fuck off.

The Women's Temperance and Community Standards Fellowship of Lowbanks, Ohio, had cited Sandra on eleven counts of inciting the lowering of community standards and alleging un-American immoral conduct and she was summons to answer the charges in court.

"Oh God, that's you finished," Lindy wailed, reading the document.

"You called me famous more than a month ago," Sandra grinned. "I'm about to become really famous or infamous -- take your pick -- all over America and beyond. I'll probably be prohibited from entering New Zealand again."

"Sandra, please. Wake up. This is America. You are about to be publicly pilloried."

Sandra yawned. "Did you say teal for the bridesmaid's dresses?"

"Oh Sandra!"

Sandra's phone went. It was her publisher. "Got your subpoena?"

"Yes."

"What's your reaction?"

Sandra said brightly, "The self-righteous shall once again fail."

"Good girl. I like it."

"Are you guys standing behind me?"

"We have appointed counsel. Dress sexy with some modesty for a press conference on the steps to the courthouse at 3:00 this afternoon. Retain your composure. The media turnout with by huge because they smell blood -- yours."

"Aren't the media my friends?"

"Ha! See you at 3:10. It's tactically correct to arrive a little late."

Sandra lay back in Nick's arms as they watched early evening TV news. She was the lead item.

"Christ, the media is giving the impression they're a lynch mob."

"Oh, I thought a few of them sounded sympathetic. As I said, my lead counsel Anthony Fairbanks said, this case will rest or fall on my performance."

"Hell, you look cheerful and are answering media questions flippantly. Oh God you can't tell American's that America is home for every wacky group known to man. Women's Temperance is held almost as reverently as Mom and Apple Pie. No wonder your entire legal team walked out during the media conference."

"Yeah and good riddance, the money-gougers. It allowed me to appoint Polly Mason. Pete my publisher has agreed to pay her fees."

Nick said darkly, "Polly represents sportswomen all round the country, women usually facing drug charges."

"Yeah, are you aware of her success rate?"

The house phone went and Sandra rushed back and said, "Gotta go. This station wants me on live at 7:00. Want to come?"

"No, I'm in depression. I'll only stifle your natural tendency to hurl more shit than what's been thrown at you."

Nick had five empty beer bottles on the table in front of him when Sandra appeared on-screen. He rolled his eyes and swigged from the sixth bottle.

Interviewer: Miss Clemow, may I ask why you have chosen to appear in a bikini.

Sandra: Ask your wardrobe people. They attempted to place me in a dress used in something like The Sound of Music. They began dressing me when I realized I was being made to look like a prim woman evangelist. So I walked out straight to make-up. What I'm wearing is my normal underwear.

Interviewer: Cute.

Sandra: Don't you mean sexy?"

Interviewer: I'm not here to dig a hole under you. Are you afraid?"

Sandra: Generally of men, but not all men. But I guess you mean facing the wrath of the self-righteous, bigots and whatever who are attempting to curb my right to free speech. Those women ought to be incarcerated and processed to be dragged into the twenty-first century and then to have their considered and intellectually filtered say about my writing and its affect, if any, on the morality of this great nation.

Interviewer: I could say well said but the studio prefers me to leave comment to the person being interviewed. Could you please answer the question and I'll be more specific: "Are you afraid of what the court may do to you?

Sandra: [Bleep!] no. I expect the judge to toss these charges out, recognizing them for the rubbish they are.

Interviewer: Are you sure you are free to comment on court judgment yet to be delivered in that manner?

Sandra: My legal counsel walked out on me at the press conference this afternoon because they thought I was treating this whole matter with contempt. Well, I have news for them. I expect the judge will toss the charges out and could be tempted to fine those ridiculous women ten million bucks but of course the system in which he or she operates would frown on that because the movement those women purportedly represent is institutionalized and I'm simply a sexy writer who turns up for an interview in her underwear.

Interviewer: Miss Clemow, I have just been advised by our legal consultant through my earpiece to terminate this interview immediately.

Sandra: Oh, stuff-shirts at it again. Sorry I said [Bleep!] earlier. It just slipped out but it will be bleeped I guess. Good night California...this is Sandra Clemow signing off.

Nick laughed as the studio lights went off and the interviewer said from somewhere in the darkness, "Ohmigod, that last bit went to air. Was the word fuck bleeped?"

Sandra appeared in court three weeks later. Five other groups had lodged similar charges against Sandra and her publisher. The judge addressed counsel in private and it was agreed to hear all charges contemporaneously. Some of the submissions made against Sandra and her writing were rebuffed contemptuously by Polly her defense attorney as being "ridiculous, fanciful, archaic and downright disgraceful and an openly cynical attempt by infinitesimally small groups to attempt to use the legal system to try to circumvent the direction of modern literary fiction." She called thirty-one credible expert witnesses who generally agreed Sandra had a wonderful imagination, a dynamic way of expressing herself and she certainly was not leading the pack of pioneering controversial contemporary fiction writers.

After Sandra had appeared as a witness in her own defense and had been vigorously cross-examined, the judge rebuked her mildly for attempting to predict on public television the outcome of court proceedings involving charges against her and her publisher. "Have you anything to say on that specific point?"

"Only that now I better understand the position of the court I apologize for my outspoken indiscretion."

As one newspaper reported, 'The judge lost his severe expression and smiled at her benevolently over his rimless glasses and told Miss Clemow that was all, to return to her seat'.

The court found Sandra and her publisher had no case to answer on each charge and said they were free to leave.

Within hours presses were running to begin printing Sandra's new book and elsewhere other presses were producing reprints of her two earlier books as renewed interest in the work of Sandra Clemow, 'One of America's hottest contemporary novelists whose women characters are portrayed as real women, who sweat during sex and who regard good men as being trainable'

Meanwhile, Sandra's second book 'Raunchy Ali' was in the final planning stages for filming and the gossip columnists were perpetuating the rumor that Sandra new book, to be published in seven languages, had the working title of 'California's Promiscuous Beach Culture' and her wedding, ten days away, would be one of Hollywood's weddings of the year. Of course, Hollywood being Hollywood, scores of weddings each year were dubbed 'wedding of the year'.

That evening interest in the wedding soared when at the end of the early evening TV news on the station that had taken very close interest in Sandra's career, announced the station would broadcast Sandra Clemow's outdoor wedding ceremony live.

Sandra and Nick heard that item with interest.

Nick growled, "Who invited them to the wedding?"

"TV people regard themselves above mere mortals Nick. You know how the system works."

"Okay, I accept that. But why is everyone calling it Sandra Clemow's wedding."

"This is Hollywood Nick. Someone's decided to give me top billing. I'll try to get it changed to include you but don't hold your breath."

"Nah, leave it. It's okay."

"Ohmigod!"

"What? Do you think you have cancer?"

"No, of course not. I've forgot to put your name on the wedding invitations."

"Oh Sandy..." Nick stopped when he saw the stupid grin.

"You crazy Noo Zealander, you're such a big tease."

"Well don't blame me. My fellow Americans get sucked in so easily."

"So you're calling yourself American now?"

Sandra gave him a teasing smile. "Don't blame me darling. You know my publisher has signs up everywhere proclaiming that I'm one of America's hottest contemporary novelists. If I didn't believe what I read what would my readers think of me?"

"A dumb broad."

"Nicholas Joseph Love. Talk to me like that and you'll not make it to our wedding alive. Of course I could have you stuffed. This being Hollywood our guests apart from your parents and relatives wouldn't notice you were being moved about on wheels and the best man was a ventriloquist."

"There you go darling, you've just come up with the story line for a new book."

THE END