Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  You fucking cunt, he thought. I could kill you.

  3

  If politics makes strange bedfellows, just think of the couplings Hollywood creates. Doris Day and Rock Hudson. Madonna and Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson and Brooke Shields. Madonna and Warren Beatty. Michael Jackson and Diana Ross. Madonna and everyone else.

  On the surface, Marty DiGennaro and Lila Kyle would seem as unlikely and ridiculous. But given their backgrounds, there was a certain symmetry to it. Both were loners. Both had spent their childhoods in darkened rooms staring at movies. In fact, both had stared at some of the same movies. Both Lila and Marty loved Birth of a Star, and if one had a mother who had been featured in it, it enhanced everything for the other.

  So despite Marty’s plain face and unimpressive build and Lila’s glamour and leggy height, the two shared more than most odd couples in L.A.

  And when did a beautiful woman on the arm of an ugly, shorter, older, but powerful man ever look out of place in Hollywood?

  Marty DiGennaro sat back in his limousine, his feet up on the folded seat in front of him, savoring the moment. Everything was better than good. The reception of 3/4 was great. He’d just heard that the Network was renewing for the next thirteen episodes. Monica Flanders was ecstatic. Their new cosmetics line was already profitable. And, on top of it all, Lila Kyle had accepted his invitation to dinner. In fact, she had accepted so unexpectedly that he hadn’t had time to really plan. Unusual for a control freak like Marty. How many times had he asked her out? It seemed like every day since they’d started shooting the series, and always the answer was the same. A frigid “No, thank you.” Then, just like that, she accepts. Go know.

  Maybe it had just sunk in that he had done what he said he’d do: he’d made her a star. In just a month, the show had captured an unprecedented audience. You couldn’t go by a magazine stand or a variety store without seeing the girls’ pictures everywhere. So why question his luck? Or her motivations? He was too excited. Excited like he used to be as a little kid waiting for the Joan Crawford movie to begin. Or Myrna Loy. Or Merle Oberon. The other kids watched TV on Saturday for the cartoons. Not Marty. He was into beauty. He couldn’t wait for his star of the moment to light up the old Dumont television screen as the Early Show began.

  His star of the moment was definitely Lila Kyle. Only she was real—flesh and blood—not some color emulsion on celluloid. From the moment he met her, he knew she was different, special. She was Hollywood royalty, after all. A combination of the grandeur of the old stars and something altogether new and contemporary. At the end of the day’s shoot, he couldn’t get her out of his mind: her smoldering red hair, her narrow waist, the long, long legs that seem to start at her neck. He would catch himself staring at her while he was setting up a shot of Jahne or Sharleen, when his attention should have been on them. And the craziest part of it all was, she didn’t seem to care that he—Marty DiGennaro—was paying so much attention to her. In fact, she didn’t even seem to notice. Not that he needed that, but, let’s face it, when you offer an unknown a chance of a lifetime, you expect a little something, a little appreciation. Not a fuck, necessarily. He wasn’t into power fucking. But gratitude, respect, friendship, warmth. Lila gave him zip.

  And the most amazing part was, he didn’t think it was an act. She wasn’t playing coy, hard to get, as his first wife had. Lila was simply cool. Cool as they come.

  She hadn’t seen him, except on the set. Tonight, she had agreed to have dinner with him, just the two of them, but then she asked that they not go out. She had smiled warmly; she hated crowds she said. She just wanted to talk. Every other chick he knew, when he took her out, wanted not only the hottest spot in town, but also the hottest table in that hottest spot. Women wanted to be seen with Marty DiGennaro. One bitch had even brought her own photographer to the restaurant to record the momentous occasion. But not Lila. He couldn’t figure her out. And that gave Marty DiGennaro a hard-on.

  He had one now, as he finalized plans for the evening. He had his office on the phone. Staci, his secretary, had taken care of most of the details, in her usual unflappable way, but Marty wanted to do something, put his own imprint on the evening, as it were. This wasn’t just another date with just another starlet. He gave Staci a few comments, then hung up, but he was too restless to do nothing. Instead, he picked up the car phone and began to dial numbers. The first was to his florist.

  “This is Marty DiGennaro,” he said into the phone, and waited while the salesperson at the other end went into the usual fawning tizzy. Tonight, he allowed it. Everyone should get what they need tonight. He finally had a dinner date with Lila Kyle, and could afford to be magnanimous. “Brian usually does my house every week, but tonight is special. I need crimson gladioli.” He had read in some stupid interview that that was Lila’s favorite flower. “Dozens of them. Tell Brian I want at least four dozen each in the bedroom, dining room, living room, and two or three dozen in baskets around the pool. And make sure they’re crimson, not that red-orange shit. And I need them delivered and set up no later than seven-thirty.” He paused. “Of course tonight.”

  He planned social events of importance the way he planned his movies. He wanted every detail perfect. Next the caterers. Again, he wanted to check, although Staci had already made the call. He went over the schedule in his mind.

  Drinks and hors d’oeuvre at eight. Dinner at nine. Bed at ten? Marty wondered. After all, she’d asked not to go out. Marty thought about her smooth skin, her long, shining red hair. How would it feel to have that hair draped across his chest, his belly? He grunted.

  “Sally,” Marty said into the intercom to his driver.

  “Yes, Mr. D.?”

  “I want you to pick up Miss Kyle at seven-forty-five. Exactly.”

  “Got it, Mr. D. Seven-forty-five on the nose.”

  “And I want you to put on your white jacket and serve drinks, then disappear when dinner’s served. But don’t go anywhere tonight. I might need you later, so hang around the pool house. Watch some TV. No drinking, and no nose candy, capisce? You’re on duty until I tell you different.”

  “Don’t worry about me, boss. I’ll be available for as long as you want, same as usual. You can depend on me, Mr. D.”

  And Marty knew he could. He had known Sally since his earliest days in L.A. Sally was a gift he had inherited, more or less, from a capo in New York, someone who wanted Marty “treated right.” And Sally had been just the man. He seemed to have no life of his own, just vicariously enjoying the life Marty had made for himself. But, then, Marty always saw to it that Sally got taken care of, too. Always had women, a little coke—only the best—now and then, a comfortable apartment over the pool house. And Sally was justifiably grateful. The last job he’d had was for an ex-wise guy who had been on edge twenty-four hours a day, a guy who had been shot at more than once. Sally felt his life had been spared when the guy died in his sleep. No more sweats when he turned the guy’s ignition key, praying there wasn’t a bomb wired to it. Working for Marty was like living in Disneyland.

  Lila knew how to make good out of bad. After all, growing up with Theresa O’Donnell had taught her something. So, when an old fart in love with himself like Michael McLain called her and asked her out for dinner, she turned him down. Not because he was an over-the-hill playboy—which he was, in her opinion—and not even because she didn’t think she could get through the evening without dropping her pants, which she knew she could. She just didn’t want to date anyone. And she certainly didn’t want to date a man who had once fucked her mother. Theresa bragged about all the men in her life, and Michael McLain had been on the top of her list at one time, when he was younger and Theresa was only a little older. It gave Lila the creeps. Michael was one of those guys who dated older women when he was young and younger ones when he was old. He made her sick.

  But he was important. He still knew everyone that counted. No sense getting him angry. So she had to think fast when he asked. “I’m sorry, I’m
involved with my director. Maybe another time.” She hadn’t wanted to alienate Michael, just to get him the fuck off her back. Marty would be a good cover; plus, now that she thought about it, it might even be the time to lean on him a little to see if he could get her the part in Birth of a Star.

  So now, after a long day on location, she was getting dressed and putting makeup on yet again. She leaned back from the vanity mirror in her dressing room at home, and blinked her eyes. Perfect, she thought, as she always did after expertly applying mascara. She’d been taught makeup by Theresa when she was nine, and sometimes she even thought of herself as one of those Kabuki dancers in Japan who develop all their feminine wiles before puberty. Now that she thought of it, weren’t they all men? But perfect in their female role, with nothing to learn. There was very little left for Lila to learn, either. From now on, it was performance time. Her years of understudying Theresa would pay off. She would take over Theresa’s role and outdo her at it.

  But could she get to April Irons to give her the part in Birth of a Star? And could she get Marty to help her? It would kill Theresa, Lila knew, and she smiled. Marty’s already so crazy for me, he would do backward somersaults. Lila was aware—very aware—of how he followed her with his eyes wherever she went on the set. She pretended not to notice, but she did. Every time. And that’s just the way she wanted it.

  Well, she had tried to avoid it, but perhaps dating him was inevitable. The idea of dating frightened her, since Kevin. But she was feeling a lot better now, even about spending the evening with a man. Marty was one man she could handle. And he had more influence in Hollywood than any other man she knew. Certainly more than Michael McLain. She stood at her three-sided mirror and did a series of poses, liking what she saw. Tonight is going to be very good for me, she told herself, and smiled at her image.

  The doorbell rang, and Lila jumped. Who the fuck would come up to the door of her house and ring the bell? She lived in Malibu Colony just to be sure that didn’t happen. Who had gotten past security, and how? She walked down the curving stairs, and peeked out the peephole. Marty’s guy—what’s his name, Sally—was standing there, holding his cap in his hand. Lila flung open the door. “What are you doing here, Sally?” she asked. “Got lost?”

  “No, Miss Kyle. Mr. D., he said I should pick you up at seven-forty-five.” He indicated his watch. “It’s seven-forty-five,” he added, and smiled.

  “I drive myself, Sally. Take the night off.” She slammed the door and went back up the stairs to her dressing room. What was that all about? She didn’t like the idea of being trapped without a car at Marty’s place. She ran the brush through her hair for the last time, straightened the seams in her stockings (she figured Marty would love seamed stockings), put a black lace mantilla over her hair, and ran down the stairs, car keys in hand. She opened the door, and Sally was still there, practically in the same position she had left him in minutes ago. “What are you still doing here?” she snapped, as she walked toward her black Land Rover.

  “Miss Kyle, I promised Mr. D. I’d see you to his house. Why not ride with me? I promise I’ll drive slow, and bring you home anytime you want. Come on, Miss Kyle, Mr. D. made me promise.”

  “What you promise Mr. DiGennaro has nothing to do with me. I feel like driving myself, so that’s what I’m going to do.” She hiked her blue suede skirt up and got up into the driver’s seat, pulling the mantilla around her head to keep her hair in place. She put the car in reverse, then first, and squealed out the drive, watching Sally, in her rearview mirror, scamper into the limousine to follow her. She paused at the entrance ramp to the coast highway, then squeezed into a spot that opened between two cars, making it impossible for Sally to follow. But when she checked the rearview, he was just one car behind her. She accelerated, weaving in and out of traffic lanes, and arrived at Marty’s house breathless but with a smile on her face. Marty himself answered the door. Well, she could surprise him.

  “Where’s Sally? Where’s my car? Whose jeep is that?” The questions came out one right after the other, without pauses for answers.

  “And how nice to see you, too, Mr. DiGennaro. Thank you for the compliments. I paid particular attention to my hair this evening.” Lila let her voice drip sarcasm. “And may I come in, or is this as far as I’m getting this evening?” Just then Marty’s limousine sped up the driveway, and Sally was out of the car almost before the engine turned off. “I’m sorry, Mr. D. She wouldn’t come in the car, Mr. D. She insisted on taking hers.”

  “Fine, Sally,” Marty said. “Come in, Lila.”

  But Sally wouldn’t quit.

  “I tried to keep up with her, Mr. D., but she drove like a man. I mean, no woman drives that good. No offense, Miss Kyle. Jeez, I’m sorry, Mr. D.” He had his hat in his hands in front of him.

  Marty looked at Lila, who was smiling a broad, innocent smile. “Don’t be a chauvinist, Sal. I should have known better. Thanks for trying. Come on in the house and make us a couple of drinks, then take the rest of the night off.”

  “What can I get you to drink?” Sal asked Lila.

  “Chardonnay?” Lila asked sweetly, still standing on the steps outside.

  Marty jumped. “Lila, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Come on in. I thought we’d have drinks on the lanai first. Would that be all right with you?”

  They walked in, crossed the vast marble foyer with the grand staircase, and stepped out onto the marble-paved lanai. Sally joined them, placed the wine cooler next to Marty’s elbow after pouring two glasses of the white wine, and went inside.

  “What should we drink to, Lila? I feel that this is such an important occasion, we should formalize it with a toast. Should we drink to the success of the show, or is that old news already?”

  “How about, to everyone getting what he—and she—wants.” She clicked his glass and took a long sip.

  “Well, I feel like I already have everything I want. A hit TV show, a nice home, and the most beautiful woman in America sitting opposite me. What else is there?”

  “For me? Stardom.”

  “You already have that. You’ll be on every magazine cover in the country, and most of Europe. Even South Africa. What are you getting in fan mail already? Five to six thousand pieces every week? Shall I go on?”

  “That’s celebrity, Marty. Not real fame. Fame comes with doing something that lasts, something like your first picture, that made everything else possible for you. Back Streets made you famous. Three for the Road makes me a celebrity. Celebrities are just famous for being famous. See the difference?”

  “You’ll get your shot at fame, then. Just hang on. Don’t be so impatient. You’re very young. Enjoy this, and then move on. Something will come along, the perfect piece, the thing that cries out for you and only you.”

  Lila leaned forward, her elbow on her knee. “Something has. And I want your opinion about it. And your help in getting it.”

  She could see she had piqued Marty’s curiosity. “What’s that?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  “Birth of a Star,” Lila said, and sat back to watch his expression.

  There was no movie that Marty loved more than Birth of a Star. Years ago, he’d tried to get an option on a remake. He was bitter that now it had gone to someone else. And not just anyone, but his old bête noire. Well, she’d fuck it up for sure. Wasn’t it she who’d done the remake of The Front Page with Burt Reynolds and Kathleen Turner? A sacrilege. God, he’d love to do Birth of a Star. How had April gotten a hold of it?

  Still, he couldn’t show this loss of face, this loss of control, to Lila. Lila, whose mother had starred in the film.

  “Birth of a Star? Are you crazy? That’s a remake of a movie that wasn’t very good to begin with. The only thing that movie had going for it was Theresa O’Donnell, and at that point in her career, anything she did would have gotten raves.”

  “I want to do the same thing to the remake,” Lila said, keeping her voice low and steady.

  “Remakes suc
k, Lila. I know that, you know that, the public knows that, for chrissakes. They are worse than sequels. The only one who doesn’t know it is April Irons, and she’s got her head up her ass. Birth is going to bomb, trust me. Now I remember what I heard: it’s a so-so script, and its timeliness is over. It’s passé. You want to make a movie so bad, let me direct you.”

  “I’d love for you to direct me. But first I want to do Birth.”

  Marty stood up and began to pace the length of the veranda. This was not what he’d expected. Where was her excitement over 3/4? Where was her gratitude? Where was her respect? “Lila, listen to me. You’re the hottest property in the United States at the moment. For your first film, you can name your own price, pick any script you want. Why would you fuck up your career to do that piece of shit? It would be like tossing all your opportunity down the toilet.”

  “So you won’t help me get it?” she asked, allowing her anxiety to show for the first time this evening.

  “Help you? I’ll do everything I can to stop you. I won’t let you throw away something you’ve worked so hard to achieve. Something I’ve worked so hard to achieve. I have approval of your movie roles while you’re on 3/4. That’s in your contract. I won’t let you do it, Lila.” He swallowed the last of the wine from his glass, and walked over to refill it. “And that’s that.”

  Lila stood up, shrugged the mantilla up from her shoulders to her head, and turned to Marty. “You can’t stop me. No one can, Marty. I want that part, and I’m going to get it.” She turned and began to walk the outside path toward her jeep. “And if I have the celebrity you say I have, I’m going to get it.”

  Lila wasn’t exactly surprised when she got another call from Michael McLain. It was Robbie who danced around the room like a deranged, obese ballerina on skates.