This Is Our Best Rule Yet. Really. We Swear.

But I don’t understand,” the magazine writer said, her voice squeaky with panic. “We had the interview confirmed. We’ve been waiting forever to get a time nailed down.”

“I know, and we’re so sorry. But her son’s sick, and as a mom that’s her priority. Can we reschedule for next week?”

The lie flowed breezily out of my mouth. Didn’t even need a mental second to draft something. And convincing too. Actually, it wasn’t Aging Diva’s kid who was sick; it was her pug. And the dog had barfed only a little.

Lying has always come naturally to me. As a child, some people said I had an overactive imagination. Others weren’t as forgiving. But I loved to create stories, and that’s why I had come to Hollywood.

I was working as an assistant to a celebrity publicist--to pay the bills while I wrote at night. And when I needed to justify what I was doing, I reminded myself that this was a great opportunity to learn the Biz. In the constant rat-tat-tat of entertainment battles, it’s the publicists who take fire from all fronts: the talent, the agents, the studios, the media, the public. I was right there in the heart of the action.

We were a company staffed completely by women, strutting around the office with our headset cords swishing behind us like tails. I wasn’t as young or thin or perky as my colleagues. I could never get my ponytail tight enough or drink all those ice-blended mochas. But, damn, I could whopper up a big one when I needed to.

There was the woman who called every Monday to offer, rather breathlessly, to massage Fading ‘80s Leading Man’s horses. “I told him all about it, and he’s so grateful,” I’d say to her, “but he has an old friend who’s done this for him for years.” I hadn’t. He didn’t.

To the studio executive who desperately wanted White-Hot Actor With Oscar Buzz to show up at his friend’s big film premiere, I said this: “He’s dying to come, but he’s leaving to go on location.” The real reason WHAWOB would be a no-show? The only hairstylist he trusted to minimize his bald spot was unavailable that night.

Once the owner of one of my favorite diners told me that he wanted an autographed photo of TV-Kid-Turned-Film-Ingenue for the restaurant wall. “She came in here for lunch a lot when she was shooting her last movie,” he explained.

“I’ll pass on the request,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll be no problem.”

Days later, I found the note on my desk, grabbed a Sharpie, signed TVKTFI’s name in excessively loopy script and mailed it off.

I delivered these white lies, sins of omission and gross exaggerations as bald-faced as you can over the phone (and, better yet, to someone’s voicemail, after the close of business on the East Coast). I didn’t enjoy it--at least, not usually. But it was our job to protect our clients from the press and the public. From anyone with malicious, misguided or unimportant intentions. From themselves, and their own farkakteh behavior.

And maybe we were protecting everyone else too. Some people think they want the truth about their celebrities. They did, after all, willingly give up certain boundaries in exchange for their 15 minutes. Then again, we now know better than ever that reality is not uncensored. Isn’t that the reason Hollywood exists--so we can entertain ourselves with a version of life that doesn’t depress the hell out of us?

I think we’re all better off not knowing that the wholesome teen role model can’t take a direct flight to Europe because he needs a smoking break somewhere around Chicago; that the sitcom sweetheart burns through personal assistants at the rate of one a month; that the veteran leading man routinely blows off charity fundraisers at the last minute in favor of courtside NBA seats.

Perhaps this way we can continue to walk that fine line between privacy and shame with our own stash of secrets. I know I’ve got a few. Like this one:

After my boss ate a few bites of her protein salad every afternoon and handed me the rest to throw out, I’d hide it in the office fridge. Later, after everyone else had left, I’d eat her leftovers alone at my desk in the near-dark.

And I’ll tell ya: After a long day of tall tales, the truth tastes a lot like chicken.