She heard it before she saw it. There was a grinding of gears out front that sounded as if an eighteen-wheeler was making it up the hill in front of the house, and then a loud radio or something. Did politicians drive around the Swish Alps making announcements? Then she heard it more clearly.
“…ACTUAL PRIVATE HOME OF JAHNE MOORE, BETTER KNOWN AS ‘CARA’ IN THREE FOR THE ROAD. THE ACTRESS LIVES HERE ALONE IN A TWO-BEDROOM BUNGALOW COMPLETE WITH POOL AND POOL HOUSE. SHE MAY EVEN BE AT HOME RIGHT NOW.”
Jahne jumped up, her heart pounding, and turned. She could glimpse the top of the smoked windows of the bus from where she stood. Did that mean they could see her? She scuttled closer to the fence and peeped through a crack in the weathered gray boards. “See the Stars” was painted in rainbow colors across the side of the bus. “Tours of the Hollywood Homes of Your Favorite TV and Movie Stars,” it said on a raised panel along the roofline.
Not sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry, Jahne turned and walked, quickly as she could, back into the house, leaving her book unread and the tea untouched beside it.
from Advertising Age…
Flanders Cosmetics Go Through the Roof
In perhaps the most successful launch in the industry, Flanders Cosmetics has pulled off a coup historic both in conception and implementation. Tying in their new integrated line of treatment and makeup products with the hot new Three for the Road TV show has been a masterful stroke of market savvy and just plain hard work.
“I envisioned it and I made it happen,” says Monica Flanders. Banion O’Malley, the agency that handled the project, echoed her…
“T-shirts only, Phil. We’re doing a separate deal on posters and the rest.” Sy looked across at the man who had waited three weeks for an appointment with him.
“Sy, please, this is just the tip of the fuckin’ iceberg…Sorry, Miss Smith. But, listen, you give us the T-shirts and the posters, and we’ll keep our profit to five percent an item. What do you say?” He was begging Sy, but looking at Sharleen.
Sy was shaking his head. “We got the posters lined up already, Phil. I could have the T-shirts done by the same guys, but I wanted to give you a break, you know, a piece of what’s happening. I don’t forget my friends, but don’t go greedy on me. T-shirts, that’s it. And you still keep your share of the net to five percent.” Sy waited for Phil to respond; then, when he nodded his head yes, Sy signed the sheaf of papers and passed them to Sharleen. After she scrawled her signature, he handed them to Phil. “Have my girl make copies of these on your way out.”
When the door closed behind Phil, Sharleen finally spoke. “Only five percent? How’s the poor man going to make any money?”
Sy grinned. “At five percent, honey, the guy’s going to be able to retire. Do you know how many of those T-shirts we’re going to sell? Over five million the first month on sale. Five million T-shirts! He’ll make six figures the first month alone.”
Sharleen shook her head, as if trying to understand. “And we get money on each shirt?”
Sy nodded, waiting to see if Sharleen would calculate her share.
But she didn’t. Sy almost laughed. This hillbilly was a pleasure. It was such a nice change to meet a beautiful woman who didn’t have a computer for a heart. It made running his bodega so much easier.
“That’s right, honey. And we haven’t even figured in the posters, stationery, line of clothes, endorsements, pens, leather jackets, shoulder bags, lunch boxes…Honey, we’re talking millions here. Millions.”
“Millions? For just my picture on things? Mr. Ortis, are you sure you got this right?”
Sy laughed. “Sharleen, about this stuff I don’t make a mistake. I said millions, and I mean millions.”
What’s On…
SUNDAY
8:00 p.m.—Star Search Famous Look-Alikes. Tonight, Milli Vanilli.
9:00 p.m.—Three for the Road. Clover meets the Merry Pranksters and she, Cara, and Crimson “get on the bus” and tour San Francisco. Michelle Pfeiffer and Marlon Brando guest star.
THE MEDIA…
A three-character nostalgic TV series is hardly a phenomenon in these times of imitation and reproduction.
But this season’s Three for the Road—yes, another three-character nostalgic TV show—is special. Directed by film great Marty DiGennaro (A Woman Matters, Back Streets, Trouble in the Tower), the heir-apparent to George Cukor as a woman’s director, the show has captured the style and the angst of the nineties, while delving into the fun and psychic scars of the sixties at the same time. DiGennaro, the Sultan of Style, has given us more form than function, but what forms! The three co-stars—Sharleen Smith, Jahne Moore and Lila Kyle (SEE: PERSONALITIES, this issue)—popped up out of nowhere, and, under DiGennaro’s aegis, have developed into the personification of all that was good and beautiful in America. Great? Far from it. But a phenomenon in the impact it has made on the psyche of the television viewing public (now greatly expanded because of this show) cannot be in doubt. Quirkier than Northern Exposure, more stylish than David Lynch at his weirdest, hotter than Miami Vice ever was, Three for the Road has got legs—six of them. At a cost of more than a million dollars an episode, the shows are a pastiche of actual archive clips, new footage, and special effects. Like a gripping miniseries, the show has garnered a weekly audience that few specials can boast—and it goes on, week after week. While some critics carp that it trivializes its time (one asked what it would do next—have Cara date Martin Luther King?) its popularity has revived the lagging Network. Without question, the repercussions of this program, not only on future programming but also on how television programming as it is conceived, will be felt at Studio City in the very highest echelons in the lofty aeries of Executiveville.
—Time magazine
MEMORANDUM
TO: Ara Sagarian
FROM: Lila Kyle
SUBJECT: See Attached
* * *
Ara, what the fuck is going on? I got this fan letter and, as you can see, Sharleen Smith and Jahne Moore fans are getting silk-screened T-shirts. All Sy Ortis’ work, apparently. I thought you had it all worked out with the Network? Are the people in Publicity on the same planet?
I don’t want to have to go directly to Selma Gold on this myself. So, Ara, get them shaped up! I’m busting my ass here day after day, and then I find out Publicity is playing favorites. I want this kid to get two dozen shirts, and four dozen signed pictures, color, eight-by-ten glossy…assorted poses. And pins, medals, membership kits—the whole works. Have Gold put this kid on the priority mailing list. She’s as important to me as the fucking assholes at Time magazine.
Do I have to think of everything? Stay on top of this, Ara. Sy Ortis is fucking you over—and me. What’s he got going with Gold? Get back to me.
L.K.
Jahne was standing on the express checkout line at Mrs. Gooches, where celebrities did their fancy grocery shopping. The place was fabulous: all the fruit and vegetables were displayed like jewels and cost almost as much. She had a wig pulled down low over her forehead, and a large straw hat sitting on top of it. She wore an old, thin trench coat, although it was hot out, and a pair of tattered Reeboks. She felt like an escapee from someplace, incognito, taking a chance on getting mobbed because it was better than hiding behind locked doors another minute. It would have made her smile, but she didn’t want to attract any unnecessary attention to herself. Going to the supermarket had suddenly become a daring treat.
She placed her basket on the edge of the counter, waiting her turn at the cashier. The magazines were screaming her name and her face at her. She picked up the first one at hand. “Three Beauty Secrets from Three Beauties,” read the blurb on the front cover. Jahne flipped through the pages until she came to the article. “Jahne Moore, the brunette star of ‘Three for the Road,’ uses only…” Yeah, she thought. She uses only the finest plastic surgeon. So much bullshit. She was replacing the magazine on the rack when the woman behind her spoke up.
“Can
you believe those three?” she said, indicating the picture of the costars of Three for the Road on one of the magazine covers.
Jahne smiled and nodded.
“They really piss me off, you know? How are any of us supposed to get to look like them? I mean, what am I supposed to do? You think eating carrots and doing fifty thousand sit-ups will make a goddamn bit of difference? Look, I always say, if God didn’t give it to you, you can’t get it. So I make do.”
Jahne’s turn at the register came up just then. “I know what you mean,” she said, as she picked up the brown bag and walked out the door.
Marty DiGennaro’s secretary, Staci, opened the door and rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable!” she said. “If this shit keeps up, I quit!”
Marty looked up from his messy desk. “What? Come in. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee. What is it?”
“What is it? They’re driving me nuts. Every asshole in Hollywood—no, in California—no, maybe in the whole country—is trying to bullshit me to get to you. The girls are going crazy. Just this morning, we had three calls from your ‘brothers,’ a call from your ‘doctor’ about the ‘test results,’ a hysterical call from ‘Joanie’ about your son…”
“Is anything wrong with Sacha?”
“Yeah, he’s got a madman for a daddy. They weren’t your brother, your doctor, or Joanie. They were assholes. And gifts—how about a diamond-and-gold Rolex that’s already engraved ‘To my friend Marty from his friend Larry’?”
“Who’s Larry?”
“Another asshole. Some producer out in East Bumfuck who wants to talk to you about a movie deal. He needs two of the three girls, but he writes, and I quote, ‘I don’t care which two, and if you prefer we can cut the lesbian scenes with the full frontal nudity.’ He enclosed the screenplay from hell.”
Marty laughed. “Come on, Staci. This isn’t the first hit you’ve been through with me. You sound like a kid out of Katie Gibbs. You’ve handled worse.”
“Yeah, but not for so long. I mean, week after week after week. A movie comes out, it hits, we react, then it’s over. This is relentless. Marty, you never heard me complain before, right? Well, I’m exhausted. I don’t know if I can keep up with you on this one.” Staci sat back, her fatigue showing in the dark shadows around her eyes.
“Okay, get yourself a secretary.”
“But I’m a secretary.”
“Not anymore. You are now my executive assistant. With a raise. So hire yourself a secretary—right away—give her a week’s training, then take a week off at the Hotel del Mar in San Diego. My treat.” Marty smiled at the surprise on Staci’s face. “Then get back here rested up and get back to work.”
“Marty, thanks. Hey, I didn’t mean it seriously. I just like to bitch. I don’t know…I wasn’t coming in here to hold you up…I just wanted to get this stuff off my…Thanks, Marty.” She leaned over the desk and kissed him on the forehead. “But what about you? You need a rest, too. To get away.”
“Get away? I’ve worked all my life to get here. And I’m staying for as long as I can.”
MEMORANDUM
TO: Sharleen Smith and Jahne Moore
FROM: Sy Ortis
SUBJECT: Sports Illustrated write-up, attached
* * *
Have you seen this?
Just received a call from Bill Gottlieb from Sports Illustrated. How about doing their annual Bathing Suit issue? Have already discussed this with Marty and he’s all for it.
Let’s talk.
S. O.
LILA KYLE
YOU ARE MERELY A PRODUCT OF HOLLYWOOD NEPOTISM. I WOULDN’T FUCK YOU WITH SOMEONE ELSE’S DICK.
JUGHEAD
President
National Anti-Nepotism League
What’s On…
SUNDAY
8:00 p.m.—Star Search Famous Look-Alikes. Tonight, Shirley MacLaine.
9:00 p.m.—Three for the Road. Cara helps an old boyfriend avoid the draft. Crimson and Clover stage a diversion and he escapes to Canada. Ricky Dunn guest stars.
TOP TEN REASONS WHY WOMEN WATCH “THREE FOR THE ROAD”
—FROM Late Night with David Letterman
10. So they can hate themselves in the morning
9. They’re into motorcycles
8. Their boyfriends make them
7. If they just lost a little weight and got the right pair of jeans, they’d look exactly like Clover
6. So they can call their girlfriends afterward and get down
5. Their husbands make them
4. They’ve worn out their tape of Thelma and Louise
3. They’re into self-hatred
2. Crimson, Cara, and Clover are a lot better-looking than Leona Helmsley, who steals billions; Tammy Bakker, who steals millions; and Bess Myerson, who steals from Woolworth’s
1. For a feeling of solidarity with their sisters
“Sickos,” “Beggars,” “Negative,” and “Real Fans.” The signs were lettered over the empty boxes, and Lila was explaining how she wanted her fan mail stacked each day to the secretary and clerk she had hired for the job. Lila knew from her mother that fan mail was an important indicator of how marketable one was. “The sick shit I want delivered to the head of studio security every day. Keep a record of names, addresses, and phone numbers that are on any of them, but usually they write anonymously. Staple the envelope they came in to the letter, in case there’s someone who’s scary enough to have to track down.” The secretary, Myra, an older black woman, nodded. She’d been through most of this bullshit before.
“Beggars are sent my picture, the standard sympathy bullshit letter, plus a list of charitable resources they can write to. I’m not the fucking Red Cross.” Lila twisted a lipstick up out of the tube and smoothed it over her pouty lips. The secretary noticed it was MAC, not the Flanders brand.
Lila continued. “Now, never show me the negative mail, but keep it in case I might want to go through it one day. The positive stuff—the stuff that seems to be coming from real fans—I want to see every one of them. Every one. Do you have that, now?” she asked the two women.
Myra nodded. Poor sick bitch didn’t have much of a home life if she cared about this.
7
Jahne was still surprised by how much she liked L.A. Back on the East Coast, Sam and her New York friends had always spoken about it with derision, contempt, and bitterness. But it was pretty. And it was easy. So much easier than New York. What had Bertolucci called it? “The big nipple.” Yes. In some ways, it was as easy as that.
Jahne loved the little house she’d rented in the Hollywood Hills; it was only two tiny bedrooms and a big living room, but it had a deck with a view and the small lap pool. It even came complete with a part-time house-boy, and oranges on the orange trees!
Of course, at first Jahne had had to adjust. Being alone in a house was so different from being stuck in a dark fourth-floor walk-up on Fifty-fourth Street. Not that she got to spend much time here: with work and the dozens of business appointments, her hairdressing, facials and manicures, costume fittings, and the Flanders Cosmetics photo sessions, she wasn’t home much. But when she was, the hours felt lonely. So Jahne got a cat—a sweet black Persian. In a typical burst of perversity, she named him Snowball, in honor of the cat she’d had as a girl in Scuderstown, and thought also of poor Midnight, her white cat left back in New York.
She thought of Midnight, and a lot more from her past. In fact, since she’d seen Sam at the Chasen’s look-see, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking of all her friends back home. She hoped that they, like Midnight, would get what they needed. What would they say if they could see her now? A TV star, with a great place to live, money in the bank, and an affair with Michael McLain.
It still amazed her that a star as big as he was interested in her. He had been so kind about the scars. He listened to her problems on the set, gave good advice, and even ran lines with her. If his performance in bed seemed a little bit—well—like a performance, she guessed it was a s
mall price to pay. He was good company, and a wonderful listener.
But she still missed her old friends. She had never thought it was a mistake back then simply to drop out of their lives: not when she was so miserably a failure. Even now, she could easily conjure up Molly’s look of pity for her and feel almost physically sick. She’d gotten so tired of the role of fat, plain, goodhearted, and pitiable Mary Jane that she didn’t, couldn’t, have anything to do with those who’d known her and expected her to play that role.
And now, even if she wanted to, it would be more than a little awkward to call up Molly or Chuck or Neil or any of them and say, “Hi! Sorry I disappeared like that, but now I’m famous, beautiful, and rich. I got my own TV show. How you doing?”
With her cute house, her new face, her perfect body, her cute kitten, her new romance, and a career that was taking off, Jahne figured she had nothing to complain about. If it was a bit shallow, so be it. She had her weekly letters to Dr. Moore, working now in a plastic-surgery mobile camp in Honduras somewhere. It was ironic that her best friend, the only person who knew her, was in another world. But he had taken the time last week to write her a long letter.
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