Dear Brewster,
Thanks for the picture from Raoul. He’s getting good. I’m glad to hear about the speech improvement. Who cares if all he wants to say are swearwords, as long as they are well articulated. I guess his speech therapy is working. I miss him and I miss you.
Could she write that? Wasn’t it too personal? She’d sound pathetic, and give him the wrong idea.
The phone rang, and Jahne put down her pen and walked over to answer it. Anything was a relief right now, though she couldn’t imagine who had her number except Sy and some other Industry types she didn’t want to hear from. She sighed. “Jahne, it’s April Irons. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“Not at all. In fact, I was just sitting here, staring out at my view, feeling how wonderful it was to be in California. How are you, April?”
“Couldn’t be better. And neither will you be after I tell you why I’m calling. Sam and I love you. We’ve screened the test a dozen times already. We feel you’re perfect for the part of Judy in Birth of a Star.”
Jahne felt her heart surge in her chest. She was right! She had blown Sam away! “You have made me happy, April. Very happy. Thank you.” But what was flooding her? It wasn’t joy or triumph or even relief that she had “passed” her screen test. It focused on the “we”: April said “Sam and I.” April referred to them as “we.” And why hadn’t Sam called her?
“Of course, we’ll work out the details with your agent, but I wanted to be the one to tell you personally. By the way, is your agent still Sy Ortis?”
Still? Jahne caught the inflection. “Yes, he is.”
April sighed. “Fine. We’ll talk to him, then. But I know we’ll work everything out. I know you’re going to be just fabulous.”
“Well, thank you. Really. Thank you,” she mumbled. God! She’d done it. She’d be in a movie. No, she’d star in a movie. If she wanted to. But Sy would be furious. He’d told her over and over that it was a stupid concept. Well, it was her career, her decision, not Sy’s. “April, send the contract to me first. I’d like to think it over. And I’d like to give it to Sy.”
“Fine. And congratulations, Jahne.”
Jahne put the phone down and threw her arms around herself. She couldn’t believe it! Even though she’d thought she’d been good at the screen test, even though she’d been confident, she hadn’t really believed this could happen: that she could be cast in an important feature, that she could be a star, a movie star, and that she could work again with Sam!
She waltzed herself around the room, and then she stopped again at the phone. My God, she’d have to tell someone! Who could she call? Mai! And she’d get Mai a job on the picture, doing her wardrobe! It would be good news for both of them!
“Hooray for Hollywood,” she said out loud, and drew the curtains so the snipers might miss.
14
Lila felt as if there wasn’t anyone in her life who didn’t want something from her. Marty wanted her gratitude, Michael wanted her body, Robbie wanted her fame, and every asshole out there wanted her autograph. This afternoon, all she wanted was to spend some time alone, but no one would let her.
Aunt Robbie had called and asked to come over. This wasn’t going to be just a friendly visit, Lila was sure of it. His tone told her something was up. But, whatever it was, Lila didn’t give a shit.
Lila stretched out on the lounge, her body glistening under the sleek film of oil. Beyond her, Malibu Beach also stretched out, glaring white in the sun, while the waves rolled relentlessly. She felt the knots of stress begin to uncurl, and willed the muscles in her body to soften. She heard the clomping on the steps to the deck, then opened her eyes to see Aunt Robbie’s huge form lurching around the corner of the house. “Where’re your skates?” she called out to him as she settled back and closed her eyes again. “Let me guess. José?”
Lila heard Rob waddle over to the other chaise and flop down with a grunt. “That queen Krazy-Glued the fucking wheels. Tight as a frog’s ass.”
Lila opened her eyes and sat up, pulling the backrest of the chaise into a sitting position. She picked up the towel at her feet and dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead. “If you want something to drink, you’ll have to get it yourself,” she said. “And bring me a Diet Coke,” she added, as if she’d just thought of it.
“Where’s Yolanda?”
“Catch up, Robbie. Yolanda was three or four wetbacks ago. I fired the latest lazy bitch this morning. Carmen or Carmela, or whatever.”
“Why? Caught her trying on your crown or something?” Robbie snapped as he went in to pour their drinks.
That had a little too much edge to it to suit Lila. She felt her muscles tensing up again. She’d just have to get rid of him. She waited until Robbie returned. “I just like my privacy. If I tell them not to go into a room, they go into it. If I lock a drawer, they want to find out why.” Lila sighed. “So, Robbie, if you have something on your mind, just spit it out, for chrissakes. I hate those sideways jabs you give. It reminds me too much of someone I used to know.” She watched Robbie’s expression change from feigned surprise to resignation.
“Okay,” he said, and took a sip of his vodka Collins, as if to lubricate his vocal cords. Lila waited.
“I saw your mother,” he said, and paused, as if Lila gave a shit.
“She’s not dead yet?” Lila asked.
“She’s in a bad way, Lila. She’s fallen apart.”
“So’s the Soviet Union. I could not care less about either of them.”
Robbie got up and came and sat at the foot of Lila’s chair. “Lila, I need your help in pulling her together. She’s killing herself, and Kevin is helping. Please, Lila. It’s not like you didn’t have something to do with the fall.” He took another sip of his drink, then held the frosty glass out in front of him, looking at it. “And, after all, you are her daughter.”
Lila didn’t have to stop to think about it. She raised both feet and kicked Robbie hard enough to knock him off the lounge chair, right on his fat ass on the wooden deck. She couldn’t see the shock in his face; she could only feel her own rage. “You fucking hypocrite,” she screamed, now standing over him. “You are just jealous that she spends more time with Kevin than with you, and then you have the balls to pull the oldest guilt trip on the planet on me? Like your own fucking mother isn’t living on welfare somewhere in Minnesota—you don’t even know where—and you have the nerve to tell me what my responsibility is? Well, I’m not her daughter. You get that? I’m not and I never was!”
Robbie struggled to his feet while Lila strode over to the gate. But he still whined. “I can’t take it alone, Lila. She needs help, and there’s no one to help her except you and me. Ken won’t go near her, won’t have her in the house anymore. You’ve got to…”
“I don’t got to do shit, Robbie. Do you hear me? Not shit. She’s your friend, not mine.” Lila whirled around and through the door into the house, Robbie on her heels.
“If you don’t do something…”
“What? If I don’t do something, what, Robbie? What could possibly happen to Lila Kyle if I don’t do something for Theresa O’Donnell?”
Robbie was rubbing his ass where he had fallen. “See her, Lila. Make contact with her. She loves you, Lila, in her own way. And she misses you.”
Lila was suddenly very calm. She had thought Robbie understood, but she could see now he didn’t, never had. He’d been on Theresa’s side all along. He was nice to Lila, just to be close to the action, to be able to do what he was trying to do today: get Lila back under Theresa’s talons. “She doesn’t love me or anyone. She just wants a piece of the action. She just wants back into Hollywood. She misses an audience, not a daughter. Go back to the cunt and tell her I said she should die. And while you’re at it, die with her, you traitor.”
Lila walked calmly to the staircase to her bedroom, then turned. “Now get out, Robbie, and don’t come near me again. I don’t want to see you here again, ever. You’re toxic, just like sh
e is.” Lila walked up the stairs, knowing, even before she reached the top, that she was alone in the house.
15
There may be one thing worse than having a TV show that bombs as big as Neil Morelli’s did: having a hit. If Hollywood hates a loser—and trust me, it does—it hates and envies a winner even more.
Marty DiGennaro had been big and commercial before, but now he was big, commercial, and had to produce a constant string of toppers. Whereas he was used to producing one movie every two years, TV was forcing him to produce the equivalent of a movie every two weeks.
There were problems with the writers, problems with the locations, problems with the setups, problems with the sponsor, and problems with the suits from the Network.
Marty was used to dealing with problems, but he had never dealt with such a fast, massive buildup of interest in a project that he was still working on. Usually the media, the publicists, the critics, the money men started in on his work when it was done. Now they were all over him while he still had a goddamn hour to film every goddamn week! No wonder David had given up on Twin Peaks.
There was so much goddamn interest in the show, he knew he couldn’t top it. And now he’d managed to script an end-of-season cliff-hanger that would have them screaming for more. But so what? Then he was going to have to follow it up with next season’s opening show.
He’d hoped for a hit. He’d gotten it. He’d hoped to change the look of TV, to revolutionize it. He had. He wanted carte blanche, to write his own ticket. He had that. And the pressure was killing him.
Go know.
Worst of all was the situation with Lila. He, Marty DiGennaro, had leverage. He’d already had a string of Oscars, and now, after taking a risk, he’s actually created a succès d’estime and an incredible money-spinner for TV, yet he had abso-fucking-lutely no leverage with Lila Kyle, the star he’d made, the woman he’d not only cast out of nowhere but given all the best lines, the best shots. Since their first and last date, nothing.
When she raised an objection, he folded. When she asked, he gave. Her picture on every goddamn magazine in the country, more film and public-appearance offers than she and a twin could handle, and she had Marty to thank for that. But she didn’t.
She wouldn’t sleep with him. No, it was worse than that! She wouldn’t even date him!
It’s not like there was anyone else. Sally had checked that out for him. Marty could at least understand if there were. Not like it, but understand. A date with Michael McLain. It ended early. Nothing else. Sally followed her everywhere for more than two weeks. Nada. Then, relieved at first, Marty thought, Maybe she’s gay? But she didn’t even have any girlfriends. Sally had told him that Lila had no friends, at least none who visited her at her house in Malibu. Marty had never even been in her goddamn house. Just that crazy old swish, Robbie What’s-His-Name. He was the only one, came and went as if he lived there. But, then, there wasn’t a starlet in the Valley who didn’t have a pet queer.
Maybe Lila was just single-minded, put all her energy into her career, had none left over for anything or anyone. Marty tried to remember some of the other actresses he had worked with. All of them had one-track minds, for chrissakes, but he had slept with most of them, at least the ones he wanted. Actually, the ambitious ones were the easiest to lay. So why not Lila?
A religious nut? No way. Lila didn’t have a spiritual bone in her body. Marty knew that much. What, then—celibacy? Fear of AIDS? Coldness? What the fuck was it? I’m not that ugly, he thought. I have money, I keep my body in fairly good condition, I’m sensitive, unselfish in bed—generous, even. Hey, I’m a fucking Boy Scout.
Once, long ago, Marty had been a nerd kid from Queens, a kid who couldn’t get laid. But that was very long ago. And Marty didn’t like, even now, to remember how it felt to be an awkward, lame outsider with fantasies that would never be fulfilled. Lila made him remember, though. Doesn’t the bitch know I could still make or break her?
But, of course, Lila did. And it was almost like she didn’t care. She even had told him that she was going all out for that April Irons Birth remake. And then she had the nerve to ask him to coach her. No other actress had ever treated him like this. They all had responded to his overtures; it was expected in the business. Actresses slept with directors, that was the Hollywood Law. Long ago, Marty had decided not to question actresses’ motives, but to happily accept their attentions. And he got plenty of attention.
But not from Lila. And that only made Marty want her even more.
16
The pressure of a weekly TV taping schedule is beyond the imagination of the everyday TV viewer (what Sy Ortis would call “The Regulars”). The stars and crew spend a lot more time with each other than they do with their own families. Most of their waking hours are spent in each other’s presence. And all the fear and competition, jealousy, insecurity, pettiness—all the ugliness of people under pressure—gets magnified and exaggerated. The behavior on the set almost makes the U.S. Senate look mature.
Of course, feuds break out despite the work of publicists, and word often leaks to civilians about the bad behavior of the stars on the set. And there’s plenty of it. The women act like children and the men act like babies. But in my experience, when there’s fighting between women, it gets a lot more media attention. Catfights make better news. Hey, who said life was fair? My readers keep reading me, and that’s what counts.
Sometimes, keeping the peace is easy: Just meet the star’s demands. When there is only one big star, cave in or dump ’em to keep the peace. On Dallas, Larry Hagman had the biggest stick. On Dynasty, only Joan Collins played prima donna. And on Designing Women, Delta Burke was, in the end, expendable. But on Three for the Road, all the girls were necessary, and each, in her way, was difficult.
Never did bad blood run thicker, never did the competition get sharper, never were the stakes as high as on Three for the Road. Back in the days of Charlie’s Angels, cast and crew alike were calling one of those stars Hate Jackson. But the nicknames on the 3/4 set were unprintable. And by the closing episode of the season, the bile flowed like wine. That was the scene a disintegrating Neil Morelli was so cheerfully walking into.
Neil stepped off the bus and walked the two blocks to the studio entrance. If he’d still had a car, the trip would have taken only twenty minutes. But by bus, transferring, stopping, and starting, it took almost an hour. The geriatric local. Where do all these old ladies come from? Neil wondered. Are they sent to California by the government when they reach a certain age? There ought to be a law. If it takes more than five minutes to climb onto a bus, you don’t ride.
“Neil Morelli,” he said to the guard, who looked him up and down before peering at his clipboard. “My car’s been seized by DEA agents,” he explained with a smile, while standing in the driveway next to the security booth.
The guard looked up and, now also smiling, said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Morelli. You’re expected. Lot Five. Take a left at the main building.” He tipped his hat as Neil mimed starting a car engine, shifting gears, and, making motor noises with his mouth, driving away, turning an imaginary steering wheel.
This is more like it, he thought as he approached the lot. Back where I belong. Neil had been surprised—no, stunned—when Sy Ortis’ office tracked him down and told him about this gig. He didn’t speak to Sy himself, but maybe the guy wasn’t a complete piece of shit. Maybe he was all right. I gotta call him later and let him know all is forgiven, Neil reminded himself. Some of those notes I sent him were pretty rough. But it just goes to show you, you gotta stay on these bastards’ asses to get what you want. Perseverance pays off, especially when you don’t have connections.
The large steel door was open, so Neil walked into the hangar-like building and looked around. The buzz of activity sent adrenaline shooting through his body, almost causing him to walk on tiptoe, he felt so high. “Where’s the second-unit AD?” he asked a technician who was walking past, carrying a roll of cable. The guy motioned with
his head and kept walking.
Neil approached the second-unit assistant director, who was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, and holding a clipboard. She was in charge of shooting pickup shots, backgrounds, and some of the extras’ scenes, but she reminded him of a camp counselor. All she needed was a whistle on a cord around her neck. She was standing in a semicircle of what appeared to be Hell’s Angels, but were readily identifiable to Neil as actors in costume. Except for one guy who was more interested in his nails than what the AD was saying, everyone stared passively at the woman as she ran off a list of instructions.
When she dismissed the actors, Neil turned on his best smile. “Hi, I’m Neil Morelli.”
“Yes,” she said, as she continued to walk away, absorbed in whatever was written on her yellow pad. Probably the list of those who were to be shot at dawn.
“I’m in the show. There was some mix-up, and I haven’t gotten a script. But I’m a quick study.”
She stopped and looked at him, consulted her list, nodded, then made a checkmark on the pad. “I’m Ronnie Wagner, AD. Pick up your script at that table over there,” she said, pointing with a gold Cross pen, “and read your part through; we’ll start blocking in an hour.” She started to walk away.
“What is my part?” he asked, hoping she would stand still long enough to answer.
She did, but impatiently. “I don’t know. A waiter or something.”
“Not a continuing character?” he asked, trying to keep the panic from sounding in his voice.
Ronnie looked at him and began to rattle off the specs of the job. “You’re a bit, not a character. Four lines or under, used on an as-needed basis, no contract. Didn’t whoever got you the job explain all this to you?”
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