It’s sweltering in Los Angeles, the kind of heat that melts the ice cubes in your caramel macchiato faster than you can say Kardashian. Forget meeting at the Italian restaurant on Laurel Canyon; just come to my house now.
I am holed up in my hotel room on Sunset Boulevard watching tennis, drapes drawn against the remorseless sun, when suddenly: Ding! She sends her driver, Paul, a South African with a mellifluous voice, to pick me up, and before long, we are winding our way up, up into the Hills of Beverly, to the gated community where Lawrence lives in a house she bought last year for about million.
Here I stumble into a subject that I wouldn’t have dreamed of bringing up so soon: the nude-photo leak.
It was exactly a year ago that hackers stole photos from Lawrence’s i Cloud account and posted them on the Web, an episode she labeled a “sex crime.” Her mother was visiting with a new puppy when the news broke.