Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “You are beautiful,” she whispered to her reflection. “You are beautiful. And you are talented. Go show him that. Go show him how pretty and how talented you are.” Her hands still trembled. “Don’t be afraid,” she told herself. “This is an adventure.” She took a deep breath. Her own voice didn’t help her much, but the echo of Pete’s came back to her again: “You’re so beautiful.” She could believe that voice.

  She got out of the car and walked up the path to Building 3, then followed the receptionist’s directions to the suite where Marty’s offices were. A pretty woman with a crew cut met her outside the door. Did she go to Viendra?

  “Jahne?” she asked. “Marty’s waiting for you.”

  Wordlessly, Jahne followed her down a long hallway where dozens, hundreds, even thousands of actors had walked before. You are Jahne Moore and you are talented and beautiful, she had time to tell herself fiercely, and then was ushered into his office.

  Marty DiGennaro was crouched on a big leather sofa, surrounded by a tangle of cables and cameras and lights. As she entered the room, he leapt up and took her hand. He was so nervous and small and wiry, he reminded her of a whippet as he bounded off the sofa, across the room, and then onto an ottoman.

  “Sit down, Jahne.”

  She slid into the low beige leather chair across from him. He made a gesture with his hands to the several people crouching amidst the tangle of equipment. “This is Bill, Steve, and Dino, Jahne. If you don’t mind, we’re just going to talk, and they’re going to tape us.”

  Oh, fine, Jahne thought to herself. She wondered what he would do if she said she did mind, but that was not in the cards. She felt her hands and armpits go clammy with sweat. She knew she could impress him at an audition, or even a cold reading, but playing Jahne Moore was not so easy for her. She tossed her head, shrugged, and smiled. “You’re the boss,” she said.

  He laughed, a high-pitched giggle. Since the time he’d had two movies that were each grossing ten million a day, he’d been called “the Boss” by much of Hollywood.

  “What do you know about the sixties, Jahne?” Marty asked her.

  “You mean hippies and flower-power kind of stuff?” she asked.

  “Exactly!” he said with such a high level of enthusiasm that she figured that it had to be faked.

  “Well,” she continued, “I guess it was the Beatles era.” She quickly calculated how much it was likely a twenty-four-year-old would know about the period. And how to play a little with Marty’s head. “Wasn’t Paul McCartney a Beatle before he was in Wings?” she asked innocently.

  “Ouch!” Marty yelped, and one of the guys behind the camera groaned. “Makes you feel old, doesn’t it, Dino?” Marty asked. “What else do you remember, Jahne?”

  “Well,” she said, another punch line prepared, “Bobby Kennedy was president until he was shot.” She smiled into the camera and licked her lower lip. “And wasn’t there a war someplace?”

  It took them a minute to see that she was putting them on. Then belly laughs from the guys, that giggle from Marty. “Okay, okay. Very cute.” Marty smiled at her. He stood up and walked to her left, over to the window. She turned her head to look at him, but the camera remained on her. Well, if this was her screen test, she could play to a camera as well as to an audience at the Melrose Playhouse.

  “Jahne, I am a child of the sixties, and I am obsessed with it. But I think other people are, too. Baby boomers who lived through the sixties, and the younger generation that wishes it had. Do you know what a PIQ is?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “It stands for Program Idea Quotient. Every year the HTI—the Home Testing Institute—asks television viewers to rate program ideas. The networks use the results to make forecasts of audience levels. My idea for a sixties show was tested. It scored the highest possible points, both with the sixteen-to-twenty-five-year-old group and the thirty-five-to-fifty-year-olds. That never happened before. I want to do a show that is set during that era. I can exploit the music and the style of the time, and I can bring in the political upheaval as well. This is Clinton country. There’s a lot of opportunity for nostalgia, but it is more than that. There are a lot of parallels to today, and I think I can bring those out.” He moved back to the seat across from her. She nodded, tossed her head, and watched the camera pan as she turned her head to follow him.

  “You ever see Easy Rider?” he asked.

  “Sure. That was Jack Nicholson’s first movie, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Well, I want this project to be a new take on that kind of pilgrimage: finding oneself; finding America. And I want three girls to do it. Three girls on motorcycles.”

  “Sounds interesting,” she said. Jesus, she had never been on anything bigger than Neil’s motorbike. She crossed her legs, smiled at the camera, and said, “I wish I had worn my colors.”

  Marty smiled. “I have a lot of ideas. I want this show to look different than anything else. We’ll use a single camera and film it—no videotape at all. And we’ll use a lot of locations. These girls will cross America. I’ll use smears and sneaks and follow focus. It’s not going to look like any other TV show. I have some of the best technicians in the business already signed up.”

  Jahne nodded, although she didn’t have a clue what a sneak or a smear was.

  “What kind of makeup do you wear?”

  She blinked, paused. Why? Did she have a visible scar? Was there something he, a great director, saw on her face that others didn’t? “Just some regular base. Lancôme, I think. And blusher…”

  “Any objection to signing an exclusive with a makeup company to only wear theirs?”

  “No.” She tried not to show even a flicker of her relief.

  “Hey, Dino,” Marty said. “How are we looking?”

  “Looking good, boss,” Dino told him.

  Jahne flashed the camera another smile. “So what next?” she asked.

  Marty handed her a dozen unbound pages. “How about reading this? The part of Cara.”

  She picked up the script. A young girl talking to another one about her ex-boyfriend, about her parents, about society, about life. Kind of cornball, but sweet. Over it all, that veneer of toughness that a kid needs to protect herself from being thought a kid.

  She looked up. “Okay. Who reads with me?”

  “I’ll feed you the cues off camera,” Marty said.

  So she began. She pitched her voice a little higher than usual, to get the youth, but it made her tough act so much more poignant. And she took the monologue about her father really fast—almost gabbled it—as if she had to say it aloud but didn’t want it heard. She ended the scene—where she asks, “Do you know what I mean?”—with a whisper and a look right into the camera. She knew it was a good reading. A real good reading.

  But was it good enough?

  Dear Dr. Moore,

  Well, you were a great doctor to my now great body, but how will you do as a psychiatrist? I have so much news that I don’t know exactly where to start.

  I’m glad you got the clippings—I try not to care too much about what critics say—but the one in the Times brought in a lot of L.A. people, including Marty DiGennaro! No, I am not making that up. He came backstage to compliment me, but that was only the beginning! He asked me to do a test, and, yesterday, he asked me to be one of the stars in his new television show.

  Okay; I know what you’re going to say: did I go through all that agony and you do all that work merely so I could become the next Vanna White? But, Dr. Moore—Brewster—this is Marty DiGennaro. And the series is truly innovative. It’s called Three for the Road and I’ve seen the first couple of scripts. It’s wacky! Three girls (yes, I’m passing for a girl!) go cross-country together by motorcycle. The trick, though, is the terrific dialogue and the wonderful visual concepts—great crosscuts, fades, camera angles. It’s evocative more than linear.

  Oh, Jesus, I just reread that. Do I sound like I’ve gone Valley girl on you? Listen, I am very excited,
but it’s not a done deal yet. Marty (that’s me, calling Marty DiGennaro “Marty”!) has said he needs to cast all three of the leads to see how we play off one another, but I should get my agent to begin working on the contract! When I told him I didn’t have an agent, he nearly plotzed! (How many exclamation points have I already used in this letter? I’m afraid more than my quota.) Anyway, he said he’d set me up with Sy Ortis, his agent. Sy Ortis! (Absolutely my last exclamation point.) Only the most powerful agent in the business.

  Anyway, I’ve also heard that Ortis is a lying scumbag, and that he dumps anyone who doesn’t regularly deliver. Not your Mister Rogers type. But, then, the neighborhood isn’t much like Mister Rogers’.

  Speaking of neighborhoods, I’ve been looking for a place of my own—just to rent, of course—and Roxanne Greely (the real estate agent to the stars) has shown me a really adorable two-bedroom bungalow overlooking the water. She got my name from Marty. All these famous people seem to know each other. I won’t tell you the rent, because you’d kill me, but I’m not signing any lease until my contract is signed first.

  And talk about money—I can’t even imagine it. They’re talking $33,000 per episode, and the contract is for eighteen of them! I can’t multiply that high. The first check I’ll write, though, will be one to finish paying off your fees, and I want to thank you again for waiting and believing in me.

  There is one fly in the ointment. I have to sign a contract with Flanders Cosmetics to be their spokesperson. I hate the idea of selling anything, but I have to to get the job—well, they do promise me a quarter of a million dollars to do it!

  Dr. Moore—Brewster—you know that I owe all this to you. You know who I really am—fat, plain, old Mary Jane Moran—and so you know all that I owe you. I can never thank you enough.

  Right now, the really strangest thing is how this being beautiful works: it’s like having a superpower. Just because of how I look, I’m able to melt barriers, draw people to me, and leap buildings with a single bound. All right, I can’t do that last one, but I sure can do the others. It’s wild.

  How is Raoul? Has the reconstruction around his nose worked? The gifts inside are for him. Send him my love. Save some for yourself, and say hello to the other kids for me, too.

  Anyway, I feel like a kid—but a happy one—in a candy store. Write!

  Love,

  Jahne

  12

  There are a few restaurants in the studio zone of L.A. that are more theater than the Melrose Playhouse ever was. One, of course, is Morton’s, where the star-makers dine. Word is that Peter Morton loses money on the place, but keeps it running so he can be part of the scene. Then there’s Le Dôme, known to the hipper crowd as “Le Dump.” Very much the center of the gay mafia. The young stars eat at The Ivy—all salads and little vegetarian crêpes at fifty bucks per head for brunch on a Sunday. And then, of course, there’s Spago.

  Tourists are always disappointed by it. After all, it looks a lot like a suburban carpet store from the outside. But inside, the stars do twinkle. And it was where Marty chose to meet Paul Grasso for dinner.

  Marty sat down at the banquette as the headwaiter pushed the best table in Spago back into place. After making the obligatory stops at stars’ and star-makers’ tables, Marty had managed a Hollywood hug for Wolfgang, the owner, and graciously stood until the maître d’ had seated Marty’s date, Bethanie. Only then could he turn his attention to her. “Sorry for the delay, but you know how it is here.” He scanned her perfect face, her shapely shoulders, her deep cleavage, her baby-fresh skin, all lightly, evenly tanned.

  “You look beautiful tonight, Bethanie,” he said automatically, thinking once again that they all looked alike, the California wannabes. He was considering her for Three for the Road, but he had his doubts. She was pretty, even beautiful, but there was nothing unique about Bethanie. He’d just found the blonde—well, Sy and Milton had found her—an incredibly fresh girl, Sharleen Something, and so fresh she’d be fabulous. With Jahne Moore virtually signed up and vetted by the Flanders and Banion O’Malley crew, he had a brunette already. She was intense and brilliant; she’d be good contrast to Sharleen. Was Bethanie the last member of this trinity? He needed a redhead, and Bethanie was a blonde—but Bethanie would be more than willing to dye her hair another shade. Hell, she’d be willing to shave her head if it got her the spot. But she was no virgin in any sense of the word; she had been on several crappy television shows, and he really couldn’t call her a new face anymore. Casting would be everything on this project, and he had to decide, because time was running out.

  He removed a silver cigarette case, the one actually used by Cary Grant in The Philadelphia Story, took out a Dunhill, tamped it on the antique cover, and placed it between his lips. Marty didn’t actually smoke, never inhaled, but he’d always loved props. A flame appeared at the cigarette’s tip, held by the lurking captain, and he pulled at the end enough to light it.

  Tonight was going to be quick and easy, for old times’ sake. It might even be fun. He made it a point to keep up his old friendships—no one would ever be able to say that Marty DiGennaro had forgotten his old pals—but lately he preferred not being around Paul Grasso. Paul’s gambling had gone too far, it had begun to show on him, the way an alcoholic’s drinking inevitably became apparent. Marty had seen enough, in this town of swingers on the decline from too much drugs, sex, money, and the wrong people in their lives, to be surprised by anyone’s skid. But with Paul, it was different. He had known him from the old neighborhood, back when they were kids. So he tried a little harder with Paul, although he knew from experience that no one could stop a skidder.

  Paulie could still make Marty laugh, however. That was the one thing that Paul consistently gave Marty: funny stories, and hilarious memories. And since Paul hadn’t asked him for anything on the phone when he’d called, Marty was going to assume the best: Paul just wanted a night out with an old friend. Paul had never begged Marty for work. He had too much pride, and he knew the risk he ran if he tried that.

  Also, Paul had reassured Marty that Paul’s date was not a wannabe. Paul raved about her beauty but emphasized that the kid was wealthy in her own right and, being from some family in the Industry, hated the business. Paul just wanted to get in her pants. Typical Paulie Grasso. If she’s as beautiful as Paul says she is, he should be peddling her to every producer in town instead of spending all his energy trying to fuck her.

  Bethanie broke into Marty’s thoughts. “Who else is coming, Marty? Anyone I know?” What that translated into was “Anyone who can help me? Anyone I can use?” But Marty could be tolerant of a woman, as long as she was beautiful. And Bethanie was beautiful.

  “No, I don’t think you know him. An old friend, Paul Grasso, and his date.” You wouldn’t know him, Bethanie, because he hasn’t done anything for anyone for a long time.

  Marty looked at the old gold Patek Philippe watch, the one he’d bought at the Errol Flynn estate sale. On the back was engraved “To E.F. from his S.T.” He’d often wondered who the S.T. was. His most amusing conjecture was Shirley Temple. As he looked up, his attention was drawn to the entrance to the room, the direction, he noticed, in which the other diners were also looking.

  A woman—a very beautiful woman—was standing alone, her small black silk bag held in two hands in front of the skirt of her black chiffon dress. She at first appeared to be all magnificent legs, the illusion, to his trained eye, created by the shortness of the dress, the subtly shaded sheer black hose, and the dyed-to-match black peau de soie shoes. But she was also tall—God, so tall she made him hard! The top of her dress had a tight, low bodice, held up by the flimsiest spaghetti straps, straining at the fullness of the breasts. And, God, she was tall! Six foot, maybe, but a lot taller in those shoes. And what color would you call that hair? Not red, not just red. Her hair was deeply toned, but much more alive than any auburn. Her only apparent jewelry was a single diamond on her neck, and sparkling diamond earrings. In a town wher
e beautiful women were a dime a dozen, where every waitress had been a Miss Tennessee runner-up, where perfection was ordinary, she was a knockout, a heart stopper. There was also something familiar about her, something that he knew. Had they met? Surely not—Marty never forgot a face. And certainly not one sculpted as cleanly, as precisely, as that.

  Though he could see she was completely aware of the attention she was getting from the room, he could also see that, unlike the beautiful women he had known and observed, she truly seemed not to care about it. There was a calm—no, an aloofness—that held her apart. Then a man turned away from the maître d’s desk and took the woman by the elbow as they were led into the room.

  Holy shit! The man, Marty realized, was Paul Grasso. She’s with Paul Grasso? Marty laughed quietly to himself, keeping his eyes on them as they came toward him. Why, that old son-of-a-bitch! This one was definitely not Paul’s usual—typically, a Las Vegas showgirl or a tart just off the bus from somewhere. Paul’s definitely in over his head. And as Marty stared, once again came that nagging familiarity. I know her somehow, he thought, or maybe I just want to.

  Bethanie, along with every other pretty woman in the room, had watched the spectacular entrance. Now she was talking to him. Babbling on and on.

  “What?” Marty asked.