Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

Sharleen laid the receiver down and slipped out of bed. They were so rich now, she had a phone in the living room, the kitchen, and even the bathroom. Turning around, she pulled the sheet up over Dean’s back, then tiptoed over the plastic throw-cloths scattered around, hoping the crackling sound wouldn’t wake him. She walked into the bare living room, closed the bedroom door behind her, snapped on the wall switch, wincing as the six bare bulbs in the light fixture hanging from the ceiling cast a harsh light, and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the extension phone, her shorty pajamas leaving her behind bare against the cold floor. Was Michael McLain really on the phone, or was this a joke or even a dream? She rapped her knuckles sharply on the phone. Her knuckles hurt. It was no dream. Picking up the receiver, she said, “Thanks for waiting, Mr. McLain. I just needed to get comfortable.” She put her sore knuckles in her mouth.

  “Michael, please. Are you alone?”

  Sharleen looked around the large, empty room. “As a matter of fact, I am,” she said. Well, Dean was sleeping in the bedroom, wasn’t he? He wasn’t there, so she was alone, she told herself. Anyway, this must be business.

  “Good. Then how about having dinner with me?”

  “Dinner? You want to have dinner with me?” If this was Barry Tilden with another one of his gags, boy, she’d sure look foolish. “I mean, sure. When?”

  “How about tonight?”

  Sharleen looked down at her shorty pajamas. “But I already ate,” she said. Anyway, it was nine o’clock. Normal people ate at five or six. She didn’t mean to turn Mr. McLain down or be rude. Could she go out and leave Dean? But could she say no to Michael McLain, if it really was him? Well, she had said no, she realized, and sighed.

  “Okay, how about a drink, then?”

  “I don’t drink, neither.” Sharleen paused. “But, if you like, maybe we could have some coffee.”

  “Great idea,” Michael said. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. You’re over in the Valley, right?”

  “Yes. But maybe you should make it thirty minutes, if you don’t mind,” Sharleen said. “I need to change what I’m wearing.”

  Sharleen hung up, then sat motionless for a moment, her hand still on the receiver. This couldn’t be happening to me, she thought. Michael McLain just doesn’t call up strange girls out of the blue and ask them out. But this was Hollywood, and she was going to be a television star once the series came out, she reminded herself again. And nothing can be stranger than that. She jumped up quickly and ran across the shiny wood floor to the bedroom. She wasn’t so careful not to make noise now; she had to find something to wear. She pulled the plastic off the floor lamp, and turned it on. Looking around the room at the boxes and suitcases through the opaque covering, she decided to start with the big brown suitcase she had bought on a shopping trip with Dean, and filled the same day. She pulled it out and began to go through the mass of new clothes, finally settling on a powder-blue silk shirt and a pair of white jeans.

  Sharleen dressed quickly, then went into the bathroom and washed her face. She applied the liquid-base makeup the way Marcel on the set had shown her. Then the smallest amount of blusher, right above her cheekbone. She brushed her hair quickly, pulled it back in a pony tail, and tied it with a blue scarf.

  As she walked through the bedroom again, Dean just barely raised his head. “What are you doing up, Sharleen?” His voice was groggy with sleep.

  “Go back to sleep, honey. I have to go out for a while. It’s business.”

  “You work too much,” Dean mumbled, and his head dropped back onto the pillow. She stroked his back, then, seeing that he was breathing deeply again, walked quietly out of the room, switched off the light, and closed the door. In the living room, she put on the strappy sandals she’d held dangling from her hand, and left the house. She’d wait out in front for Michael, to avoid having Dean disturbed by the car’s engine or a honk. It reminded her of those nights she’d waited for Boyd Jamison. Standing there in the dark California-soft night, Sharleen felt a momentary thrill. This was their property now, a nice house of their own, with a garden and a pool. And, Momma, she thought to herself, I even got a date with your favorite movie star.

  Sharleen sat on a chair just inside the wrought-iron gate that looked out onto the curving driveway. Lenny had found them the house, and it was real nice, plus Dean loved the yard. She waved at Bert, the security guard in the development, but kept herself from blurting out that she was waiting for Michael McLain. Glaring headlights caused her to close her eyes for a moment; when she opened them, she saw the most beautiful limousine pulling up at the front door, black and shiny with chrome that shone like silver. It wasn’t a regular limo—it was some kind of English car or something. Maybe it was silver, she thought. For a moment, she wished Dean were here to see it. But, she reminded herself, that could lead to trouble.

  She saw Bert approach the car and lean into the driver’s door even before it hardly stopped, taking off his cap as he did. Meanwhile, from the back, a man got out and turned toward the front door, and Sharleen felt her hands get cold. Michael McLain. It really was him. Then he was standing in front of her, smiling. Sharleen finally spoke. “You are Michael McLain,” she said.

  Michael took her hand in both of his, as if to warm her, laughed, and said, “And you’re Sharleen Smith.”

  Sharleen giggled, and took her hand back from him to cover her mouth. “Of course you are. We are. I mean…” She stood up, still looking up into his famous blue eyes. “They are real blue,” she said.

  “Everything about me is real,” Michael said, and took her by the elbow to lead her to the car. Bert held the passenger door open as Michael handed her in; then Michael crossed in the headlights, and his driver held open his door. Then the driver pulled the car out onto the boulevard.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. Not that it mattered—she’d go anywhere with Michael McLain.

  “Wherever you want,” he said. “Still want a coffee?”

  “Sure. Do you know a place?”

  “I know just the one. West Hollywood. Around La Brea?”

  “Never been there.”

  She saw Michael look at her again. “You are new in town, aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “The shops on Melrose Avenue are different from any of the other places in L.A. Most of them will be closed, but we can walk around and look in the windows. Everybody does.”

  “What’s it like?” she asked. And what will it be like walking on the street—in public—with Michael McLain? Sharleen felt giddy.

  “They have the hottest shops in town. You’ll see some of the prettiest boutiques, and the latest designs. Not that you need them. You’re perfect just as you are.”

  She blinked at the compliment, flustered.

  Then he began asking questions. Questions about the show, about her costars, about her life before. It was real nice, if only she hadn’t been nervous not to mention Dean, or her daddy or Lamson. But he made it easy. He seemed so interested. Slowing down after turning onto La Brea, Michael said, “Here we are. Let’s park and walk.”

  Sharleen had never seen anything like it. Even on Rodeo Drive. There was a shop all filled with leather—even a leather bikini. Maxwell’s had clothes by Japanese designers. Sharleen felt like she was in a new world.

  “I have to bring you back here when they’re open,” Michael said, as they passed a store with a sign outside that read “Twist.” Sharleen looked in the windows and agreed. The clothes were all tight and flouncy, both at the same time. “No one over twenty should wear this stuff. It’s scary on them. But they’d be great for you,” he added.

  Sharleen felt her face begin to flush, and spoke before the blush became noticeable. “Look at the name of that store,” she said quickly. “‘Wacko’! I like that.”

  Michael slowed down, looked over at the sign and laughed with her. “Let’s go to Jackson’s Place and have some cappuccino,” he said, and took her elbow in the palm of his hand. There was something abou
t the way he held her, something hard. For a moment, Michael’s touch made Sharleen feel that old fear. Then she quickly reminded herself that this was Michael McLain, and not some trucker on a back road in Texas.

  “Jackson? Not Michael Jackson? We’re going to his place for coffee?”

  Michael laughed, not unkindly, she noticed. “Well, no, it’s just a café. But it’s a nice one. And they know me there.”

  Sharleen laughed out loud. “People know you anywhere.”

  Michael greeted the hostess by name as they made their way from the main entrance to the corner table in the rear of the restaurant. Once seated, Michael ordered cappuccino for them both, then looked directly at Sharleen. She didn’t know what the stuff was, but she’d drink it. Embarrassed, she looked around the glittering café. “Everyone in here is staring at you,” she said.

  “No, Sharleen. I’m old news. They’re staring at you,” Michael told her.

  Sharleen shifted in her chair slightly, and was grateful for the arrival of the waitress with the coffee. “Excuse me just a minute,” he said, as the coffee was being served, and walked out of the restaurant. Oh, Lord, had she been so dull that he was going to leave without her? What would she do? Well, she could call a taxi, or if she had to she could call Dean. But then, in only a few moments, he returned to their table. “I’m sorry, I had to take care of something.”

  “I just can’t get over you calling me up,” Sharleen said after he sat down. “Did Mr. Ortis ask you to? He’s afraid I don’t get out enough, but, between work, and my new place, and memorizing scripts, I just don’t…” She realized she was talking too much, and took a sip of cappuccino. “I sure do love this coffee. I never knew coffee could taste so good.”

  Michael smiled, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a little box, all wrapped in pretty blue paper with a white ribbon. He handed her the present, all dressed out so nice.

  Sharleen was confused. “What is it?” she asked, not reaching for the box.

  “It’s a little present from me to you. To welcome you to town. Go ahead, open it.”

  Sharleen untied the bow and lifted the cover from the box. She pushed the tissue paper aside, then cried, “Oh, Michael.” It was a necklace. She took the delicate chain out. Three stars were suspended from it, and it looked like there was a diamond in the center one. Sharleen had never had a diamond. She held it up to her face, as if looking into the stone. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, then looked up to Michael. “But I can’t keep this!” Still, her heart cried out for it.

  “You’ll hurt me if you don’t keep it. And I can’t take it back. Keep it.”

  “Thank you,” Sharleen said, her eyes moist. “I never had nothin’ like it before.”

  Michael was smiling broadly. “Of course not. I had it made for you.”

  “You did? But why?” Sharleen asked as she cradled the necklace in her hand.

  “Because you’re a star. One of three, but from what I hear you’re the only diamond.”

  “Really?” Sharleen asked. “Oh, no!” But she blushed with pleasure. She had so far felt she was the least of the three. But she was the one Michael McLain had called.

  “Wear it for luck,” he said. “I think you’re a very lucky girl.” He smiled and helped her clasp it around her neck. “Now, how about finishing your coffee? I want to show you something else.”

  “I’m ready,” Sharleen said, and jumped up. She was having such a good time.

  Michael paid the bill, and followed Sharleen to the door. As they walked around the tables, she saw that people were looking at her, too. But that was because she was with him, she was sure.

  Then there were lights—two or maybe three flashes. She winced and jumped in surprise. “It’s nothing,” Michael told her. “Just reporters. You’ll be in all the papers tomorrow.”

  When they got into the car and pulled out, Sharleen turned toward Michael and asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  Michael smiled. “Because you’re new in town, and probably could use a friend to show you the ropes.” Then he put his hand gently on her knee for a moment and looked at her. “And because you’re very easy to be nice to.”

  This was too easy, Michael told himself, partly satisfied and partly bored. She’s either real smart or real dumb, and he figured it was the latter. She wouldn’t last in this town. Meanwhile, he already had pictures of the two of them together, the necklace round her neck. It would probably be enough for Sy, but Michael felt he might as well do the thing. After all, she was attractive.

  He checked the ice bucket at the side of the console. The Moët was chilled. Jim knew his job and did it well. For six years now, he’d driven Michael around in this Rolls, kept it in immaculate condition, and discreetly assisted in the seduction of the moment. Without a word spoken, he knew to drive up to the hills, to the spot Michael had used so often before. It happened to be right where Monty Clift had cracked up his car and his face.

  “It’s so pretty in the moonlight. I’ve never been up in these hills before,” Sharleen said. “Can we stop somewhere for a while?” she asked. “I want to see the lights.”

  “Good idea,” Michael said. “I’ll have Jim pull over to a little place at the top of this hill. Wait until you see the view.”

  It was spectacular. Even after all the years of bringing woman after woman up here, it still impressed him. His town. Tinseltown. All of it stretched out before them, little lights twinkling. “Oh. It’s beautiful,” the girl gasped, right on cue. Jim pulled over.

  “Let’s go out to that rock,” Michael suggested. “That’s the best view.” He took out the bottle of Moët. Then he grabbed two champagne flutes off the hanging rack and led the way.

  Sharleen followed. The night air, for once, was clear, and scented with the pungent smell of eucalyptus and brush. Below them lay the entire city of Los Angeles. She walked to the cliff side and stepped out onto the rock there, the lights of the city flickering beneath her like an inverted starry sky. “Oh my!” was all she said. “Oh my,” she repeated, and hugged herself.

  Behind her, Michael opened the bottle with a pop, then stood next to her and handed her one of the filled glasses. “It’s champagne,” he told her. “You said you don’t drink, but this isn’t like liquor. It’s like drinking moonlight. It’s always to celebrate something important. Like our friendship. Try it,” he urged, and knew she could see his most winning smile.

  Sharleen sipped the cool drink, then wrinkled her nose. “So this is champagne?” she asked. “I don’t know what they make such a big fuss about it for. It just tastes like a real sour ginger ale.”

  Michael laughed. “It kind of grows on you,” he said. “Come sit over here. This is the best spot.”

  Wordlessly, Jim had set out the rug and pillows from the Rolls, then returned to it. Sharleen sat down on the soft cushions and took another sip. She stared out at the glittering grid beneath them, and dreamily she said, “You know, you see this kind of thing in the movies, but you never believe that it really exists, or that you can ever be part of it. And here I am.”

  She really was lovely, he thought, warming to his work. “Here’s to you, Sharleen,” Michael said, raising his glass to click hers in a toast. “A part of Hollywood.”

  Sharleen clicked her glass back, and, following his lead, took another sip of wine. She stretched, leaned her back against the pillows, and said, “I feel very happy.”

  “That’s why people like champagne,” Michael told her. “It helps them feel happy.” He poured more into his glass, then nodded to Sharleen’s. “Have some more. I’ll just top it off for you.”

  Sharleen took another quick two swallows, then coughed. Michael tapped her gently on the back. “Go down the wrong way, Sharleen?” he asked, smiling in the faint light.

  “I’m okay. I just drank it too quickly.”

  “Better take another sip. It will help clear your throat.”

  “It doesn’t make you drunk?” she murmured.


  “Only if you drink lots of it. We’re only sharing this one bottle,” Michael reassured her, and he poured more into her glass. She had to take another big gulp to keep the champagne from spilling. He himself had better lay off, he realized. He couldn’t drink and perform the way he had a decade ago.

  “Oooh. I feel so good. Like I can reach right up and pluck one of them stars right out of the sky.” Her voice was blurred. Time for his move, he thought. “They all look like diamonds,” she murmured.

  Michael reached over and gently touched the one around her neck. She lifted her hand to it as well, and their fingers touched. He leaned across her, and brought his face very close to hers. “I’ve never known anyone like you,” he said. Then, looking into her eyes, he kissed her, sweetly, lightly, on the lips. He saw her draw back, and he touched the back of her head with his free hand. Slowly, now, he told himself. Slowly.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he said. “Much more beautiful than the other girls. And sweeter, too.” Then he pulled back. Not too fast, he thought again. He drained his almost empty glass, and indicated for Sharleen to do the same with her full one. Then he refilled both their glasses, and touched his to hers once again. “Here’s to your success. I know you’re going to be a very big star.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and he recognized the glazed look that Moët, gifts, and the Michael McLain charm induced. She looked a little like a blonde bunny trapped in the headlights of a car. But she was a very beautiful bunny. “I’ll help you any way I can. Let me. I can teach you a lot of secrets.” He leaned forward. This time, she didn’t pull away. He took the glass from her hand, and held her in his arms. Slowly, ever so slowly, he stretched out next to her on the blanket. “Let me love you, Sharleen,” he said, and rolled his body onto hers.

  Sharleen looked up at Michael, unable to see anything in the dark except the starry sky. A star, he had said. A big star. How could that be? she thought. She didn’t even want that, but that’s what Michael McLain had said. Maybe she didn’t have to be so afraid anymore. Afraid of losing her job; afraid of Lila, who was mean; afraid of Jahne, who was smart; afraid of the police, of her dreams of Lamson; afraid that she and Dean would be found out. She felt Michael’s warm hand touch her shirt, and stroke her through the soft fabric. It felt different, so different from Dean’s touch. This must be what movie stars did, she thought fuzzily. She felt Michael’s lips on hers again, and tasted the champagne as she opened her mouth to him. Michael slipped his hand under her loose blouse, and placed the palm of his hand on her skin. Then he pulled back from her slowly, and laid his face against her bare stomach, kissing her navel, and the spot right under it. Then right on her belly button again. She almost laughed! Then he kissed below it. She heard a zipper opening in the dark, and realized it was hers.