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.
As we are waved through by a guard, Paul thoughtfully points out the other houses of note in this wonderland of privacy: There’s Cameron Diaz’s pile, and just over there, Ashton and Mila’s new place.
Lawrence’s assistant, Talley, meets me at the front gate and ushers me through the house to the kitchen, where moments later Lawrence appears in a white crop top and faded boyfriend jeans rolled at the ankle.
As she opens a bottle of rosé, her dog, Pippi, comes scampering into the room.
Smallish and brown, she is adorably hard to pin down. “Oh, my God, I wish I could ask her.” When did you get her?
She just turned 25 a few weeks ago, with a party here; her friends persuaded Kris Jenner to come and present Jen with a cake in the shape of a pile of poop that read, “My knees buckled,” says Lawrence.“And then I got hammered and talked to her like I think I’m part of the family.” The house had been renovated just before she bought it, so all Lawrence had to do was fill it with furniture.