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Later that day in Munyan’s living room, Stormy is posed nude on a pile of hay when Munyan’s phone rings. He picks it up. “Oh God,” he says. “It’s Kate from the Daily Beast. We don’t want her.” He tosses the phone aside.
“I heard coyotes out my window last night. I wish they’d eat the journalists,” Stormy kids.
A few minutes into the shoot, Munyan’s partner Barrale barges in with another press interruption. “Stormy,” he announces, “your 60 Minutes preview is out!”
Stormy begins watching on Barrale’s phone and screams.
“The fucking makeup artist made me look ugly!” she cries. “I told Anderson to let me wear only my makeup and use my makeup artist. This is all I’m gonna hear about! You know who now needs security? That makeup artist when I get my hands on her!”
Stormy holds the phone up for Barrale, Munyan, and Peggy. “I’m calling my plastic surgeon and getting a face-lift,” she says. “[Cooper’s makeup artist] just airbrushed me — no contouring!”
Stormy fires off text messages to her husband and lawyer and then wonders aloud, “Why are porn makeup artists so much better?”
“Because they transform people,” Munyan replies.
Stormy collapses on the white leather couch next to Peggy. “I wonder how many [strip club] bookings I’m gonna lose.” Her Android rings. “I look a hundred years old!” she screams into the phone.
“Is that Michael?” Munyan asks.
“Yes.”
Munyan laughs. “[Michael’s] fucked.”
“I’m not having a body dysmorphia moment!” Stormy protests. She hangs up on her lawyer. “My husband was smart enough not to respond.” She points at me. “Never ever let a mainstream makeup artist touch your face. Never, ever, ever!”
Since the scandal first broke, the press has been tracking down Stormy’s friends and coworkers. One morning, Barrale awoke to knocks on his door. He stumbled outside in shorts and UGG boots and found a camera crew waiting. “Who are you?” he asked.
“CNN!”
Paranoia has even struck Alana Evans, who hasn’t seen Stormy in a decade. Before she appeared on Megyn Kelly Today, Evans says she stopped at a Starbucks. While she waited in line, two women approached her and began speaking in Russian. Evans’ brain jumped to something she’d seen on TV — women thrown onto subway tracks for knowing about a president’s affair. Then the women joined the line of customers. It seems they had come to Starbucks for coffee, not to murder a porn star.
