Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Well, Sharleen told herself, if she takes a drink, it don’t mean she’s evil. Tears filled her eyes. Poor Momma, all alone and turning to whiskey.

  Flora Lee told a lot more of her story, but after another beer and whiskey, it, or Sharleen, or Flora Lee, or maybe all three became real confused.

  “So you see,” Flora Lee finally said, “so you see why, if I just had a little money for beauty school, and could set me up a shop, I know I could make a real killing. Why, Mrs. Ramirez, the woman who lives down my hallway, she asked me to do her hair just the other day. I didn’t charge her or nothin’. I don’t have my license, and I wouldn’t want to get reported to the state, but that’s just an example.” She looked at Sharleen, expectant. Sharleen nodded, helpful. Then Flora Lee turned her head. “Where’s that waitress got to?” she asked.

  20

  After weeks of Lila’s calling Ara to nag him about the Birth of a Star audition, he had at last suggested to her that she come in, and she knew—she just knew—that her time had come. All the candles and other offerings to Nadia had paid off. Lila knew she was born to play this part.

  Lila dressed carefully for her meeting with Ara. You never knew who you might run into at his office. She slipped her legs into tall, electric-blue pantyhose. Naked now, except for the smooth blue legs, she looked into the full-length mirror that covered the wall of her dressing room. She had legs that just wouldn’t quit. At five foot twelve, as she had told the reporters coyly, at least half of her height was legs. She smiled at her reflection and undid the towel that turbaned her hair. Still damp, it fell in a flaming cascade, the red more vivid against the blue of her stockings. Her white skin accentuated the strawberry of her tiny nipples. She looked at her breasts appraisingly. Her breasts were perfect, but not really large. Big, really big breasts were the style. But there were far too many complications to having surgery now that she was famous. She’d surely find herself on the cover of all the tabloids if she tried to. She put a hand over each breast and pinched her nipples to redden them. Yes, she looked like a perfect female, she thought. This would have to do. She sighed and turned away.

  Surveying the room full of clothes, she picked out a simple white silk T-shirt and a butter-soft bright-yellow leather miniskirt. She surveyed row upon row of shoes, each pair nestled into a specially built compartment that housed them. Smiling, she chose the electric-blue spike heels made of dyed snakeskin. They added three and a half inches to her height and cantilevered her forward in such a way that her tits jutted out and her calves were emphasized. She slipped them on. They were a bitch to walk in, but so was the skirt. Well, she wasn’t running any marathon, so let’s give the men what they want, she thought, and smiled. If I don’t know, who does? she told herself.

  She went into the bathroom to comb out her still-damp hair. Never brush it wet, Theresa had taught her, because brushing breaks wet hair. Carefully, Lila pulled the comb through, stopped for a moment or two under the amber heat lamps that dried the last bit of moisture without damaging the long strands. She tossed her head and approved. This was definitely a good hair day. Finally, she snapped open her jewelry case. She took out the lapis-lazuli cross that Aunt Robbie had given her, and fastened it around her neck. Just a touch of Madonna trash. She looked up at the picture of Nadia and smiled.

  “You’re going to be a big star,” Ara smiled. He was seated at his desk as Lila was escorted into his office. “You are already a big name. But you’ll be more. A star.”

  Lila grunted a laugh. “You’ll excuse me, but I already know that, Ara. I hope that’s not news to you. I thought you said you have good news. Now, tell me.”

  “Lila, where is your sense of values? You come in here, sit down, and start with the questions, always the questions. Why can’t you be a little sociable? Have a cup of coffee with me, a glass of wine, talk a little?”

  “Ara, this is show business. Like something could be more important than that? Your health? The weather? Give me a break, Ara. Now, do you have good news for me or not?” Lila couldn’t stand waiting another minute. Ara was totally lame.

  “I do have good news. I’ve gotten you the lead in the movie of the year.”

  She knew it! She knew it! Oh thank you, Nadia! She smiled at Ara. “That is good news. Now, isn’t that more important than the weather? The lead, right, Ara?” Lila could hardly contain her delight.

  “The lead. And the movie is going to be the biggest hit. Princess of Thyme.”

  Lila suddenly sat up very straight in her chair, but it seemed the whole room had tilted. “Princess of Thyme? I thought you were talking about Birth of a Star?”

  “Lila, how many times in the last months have I told you, forget about that remake. It wouldn’t have been right for you. Just as well you didn’t get it. Now you can do Princess of Thyme. It’ll make you bigger than big.”

  “I didn’t get it?” For a moment she didn’t recognize her own voice: it sounded like a very young child’s. “I didn’t get it?” she asked again.

  “No, Lila,” Ara said gently. “But I promise you this is a better movie. A more important one.”

  “Who got the part, Ara?” Lila asked, her voice very low.

  “Don’t do this to yourself, Lila. You’re not the girl for the part, believe me.”

  “Ara, I was never a girl. Don’t call me that again. Now, who got the part?”

  “If it matters, I think it went to Jahne Moore. And let her have it. You’re meant for greater things.”

  “Jahne Moore! Jahne Moore!” Lila could hardly believe it. “You useless old bastard!” Lila whispered, the rage rising in her and almost strangling her with its intensity. “Robbie was right. You’re over the hill. You’ve lost it. I should have signed with Ortis. I could have that part now; instead, that insufferable, condescending bitch walks off with it!”

  “There is the lead in Princess of Thyme, Lila. The title role. It will be bigger than Star Wars. And Lucas wants you. It’s all lined up.”

  “A cartoon? With spaceships and Ewoks and crap! Are you nuts? I wanted to do the remake of Birth of a Star. I wanted that part.” How long had he been keeping this news from her? How long? She’d like to pull his old, bald, drooling face apart, pull off his stupid mustache, kick his leathery football head into pieces. He wasn’t taking care of her. He was killing her, suffocating her, using her. The prick. The goddamn cocksucking prick. It was him and her mother. Lila caught her breath.

  “When did Jahne get the part, Ara?” She already knew, suddenly and clearly. She watched carefully, noticed Ara’s mouth twitch. He paused, looking at her for a long time. Lila didn’t drop her eyes, just sat there waiting.

  “I’m not sure,” he finally mumbled.

  “Guess!” Lila demanded.

  “Look, Lila, I got you the audition. And it didn’t work out. What difference does it make when they made their decision? Decisions are made and unmade. I was hoping that, once they saw you, they might rethink…”

  “They’d already picked Jahne when I auditioned! She already had it, didn’t she? It was bullshit about script troubles. I see her on the set, she knows, everyone knows except me! This was just a plot to humiliate me. You did it just to shut me up, placate me like I was a little girl. Theresa made you do this, didn’t she? You and Theresa worked this out. What do you think I am, a dummy?”

  “No, Lila. Not at all…”

  “Balls! She was jealous. She couldn’t let me have the part that she once had. She couldn’t stand to see me in the spotlight. So she gave the part to Candy. Candy gets the part, and I get nothing.”

  “Not Candy, Lila. Jahne Moore.”

  For a moment Lila stopped. “That’s what I said. Jahne Moore.” But that wasn’t what she’d said. She’d said “Candy,” hadn’t she? Jesus Christ, she was losing it, and she was losing it here, in front of Ara Sagarian. Christ, now both of us are senile!

  He was picking up a handkerchief to wipe his wet mouth. She turned away, suddenly nauseous. He was disgusting, a n
asty, slimy, drooling, leather lizard of a man.

  “Lila, I can see you’re very upset, but you have to understand that was not the only part for you. It’s not even the best one. The director is untried, and I think the thing is too big for him. Remakes are always dicey, at best, and remakes of classics are even more risky. Old Acquaintance. Bette Davis and Miriam Hopkins. Remade into that dreck with Jackie Bisset and Candice Bergen. Into the toilet. Then Robin Hood. Look what happened even to Costner when he tried to replace Errol Flynn.”

  “Yeah. He made fifty million dollars.” She began to tremble, and couldn’t stop. Nadia has been wrong. Jesus! She turned back to look at Ara. The spittle-face. She was born to have her triumph over Theresa, her freedom from Ara, from Robbie, from all of them. But Ara and her mother had conspired. That she was sure of. And maybe with Robbie’s help. He’d do anything Theresa wanted, even befriend Lila in the pretense of helping her, but all the while plotting with the Puppet Mistress against her. They had lost her the part.

  “What did my mother tell you about me?” she asked. “What did you tell April about me?”

  “Nothing, Lila. Please, you must…”

  “What did she tell you?” Lila asked again, her voice rising.

  “Lila, it had nothing to do with Theresa or me. It was your audition. They hated it. It was your audition, not anything I did…”

  Lila was across the desk in a moment, her hands around his throat. Her long legs scrabbled for purchase on the shiny desk surface, her skirt rucked up, her feet pushed off papers and mementos. Lila began to squeeze, her big hands reaching deep into the folds of Ara’s leathery turkey wattles. “What did she tell you about me?” she screamed, as she cut off the air in Ara’s windpipe. “What did she tell you?”

  Ara spent the rest of the morning trying to recover. After his secretary and two agents had pulled Lila off him, after the security men had escorted her off the premises, after Ara had taken a few pills and managed to coax a glass of sweet tea down his bruised throat, he had asked not to be disturbed. He lay down on the big blue sofa in his office and found he was trembling. God, the woman was bagos. Worse than a Turk! He lifted one hand to his throat and shook his head. She was strong as an ox, too, and dangerous. He shook his head again. Ench bede nem? he asked himself. What to do?

  Ara was no longer young, and just now he felt every one of his eighty-four years. Maybe his doctor was right. Maybe it was time to retire, to move down to his place in Palm Springs. He was too old, too tired to deal with the craziness anymore. He had, perhaps, another decade left. He could sit in the sun, a survivor of the Armenian holocaust, a survivor of Hollywood, and enjoy life. Play a few rounds of golf. See Frank, and Johnny, and all his cronies.

  Just the thought of giving it all up, of stepping out of the action, made him almost dizzy with dismay. For over fifty years, he had lived to make deals. He had survived while the studios died. He had managed not to dwindle but to gain power. Lately, he had lost a few clients, perhaps, to the sharks like Ortis, but he was still respected, still a player, and he still reveled in the action.

  But this scene with Lila Kyle had been too much. He had made a mistake with the girl. She was crazy. Worse than Crawford had been. And he’d betrayed Theresa, an old client, for this one. Worse yet, once he signed Lila, he hadn’t been able to manage her. He shouldn’t have gotten her the fake audition for Birth. He shouldn’t have tried to soothe her into forgetting about it. She, like so many of their new stars, was empty of everything but ego and ambition. And now, without the studios, without any real control, chaos reigned.

  He thought of Louis B. Mayer’s reaction when he’d heard that Chaplin and Pickford had formed their own movie company—“The lunatics have taken over the asylum,” he’d said. And United Artists had been a madhouse. Artists needed businessmen to help them, and businessmen needed artists to create a product. Ara had spent more than five decades trying to make that marriage work, but things were worse than ever.

  Well, it was time. The party was over. In a way, he should thank the child for showing him the light. He would retire. He would enjoy life. He would rest. Not without regret, but with relief.

  The telephone buzzed. He lifted it. Who would Helen put through now? he wondered. “Ara, I’m sorry to bother you. But it seems very important. It’s Michael McLain. He’s very upset. He says he must see you as soon as you can. About a possible change in his representation.”

  Ara blinked, and wiped his mouth. Michael had been his star, his protégé, his success story. But Michael had left him nine years ago, at the height of his success, to go to Sy Ortis. Lately, Ara had heard rumors that all was not well between them. Could it be that the prodigal son was returning to the fold? Signing Michael McLain! Stealing him back from Sy Ortis! That would show everyone that Ara Sagarian was still a player. Ara sighed. Ashek—jackass—he told himself. You would be better off in Palm Springs. Can’t you give this up? It will kill you, he told himself.

  He stared for a moment, unseeing. Ench bede nem?

  Then he smiled into the phone. “Tell him to come around,” he told his secretary. “It would be a pleasure to see him.”

  21

  “I’m as tired as a duck in a hailstorm,” Sharleen complained as they walked off the set together.

  Jahne laughed. “Me, too.” She shrugged off the makeup man and picked up her jacket, putting it on herself.

  “Jahne, kin I talk to you for a minute?” Sharleen asked. It was the end of the day’s shooting, and Jahne was bone tired. Well, Sharleen looked even more tired than she was. This wasn’t like Sharleen. Something was obviously bothering her.

  “Sure. Let’s go to my trailer.” They walked to it and sat in the cramped “lounge area.”

  “Is some of all this startin’ to git you down?” Sharleen asked, waving her hand around them.

  “You mean the show?”

  Sharleen nodded. “The show, the crowds, fans, bein’ like a prisoner in my own home. All of it.”

  Jahne knew what Sharleen meant. “Sure. A few weeks ago, before I moved into the hotel, I was sitting at my pool when I heard a voice over a loudspeaker. A tour bus, for God’s sake. With a tour guide showing them where I live. I had to run inside, I became so paranoid. I didn’t know if those ladies with blue hair were going to come over the hedge or not.” Jahne looked at Sharleen. “Is that the kind of stuff you mean?”

  Sharleen paused. “Kinda. People you don’t know wanting to know you. Relatives you ain’t seen in years showing up. Friends askin’ for favors. And about not being able to have any friends. I mean, I have you and all, and Mr. Ortis. He’s good to me. But the crew all act all different, like I became queen of England overnight. I did like you said with Barry, and it worked. But I’m not comfortable. I mean, they worked all their lives in television. Don’t they know this is all make-believe? Lordy, if they don’t know, sometimes I’m afraid I’ll get to believin’ maybe I am queen of England or somethin’.”

  Jahne laughed at Sharleen’s observation. She was right. If the people in the Industry took it all so seriously, then why was everyone surprised that the public did? But Jahne wasn’t upset. She had lunch Friday with Sam. She had something to look forward to.

  “ ’Member the impersonations Phil Straub used to do? He was so funny. He used to do Marty DiGennaro perfect—better than Marty hisself.” Sharleen laughed at the memory. “Now Phil calls me ‘Miss Smith.’ All the fun’s gone.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, anyhow, I got you, and Dean. And the dogs. So, it can’t be all that bad. ’Cept we can’t go to malls and stuff. ’Member what happened to you?”

  Jahne shuddered at the memory. Sharleen seemed really sad. Was something else bothering her? “But maybe, Sharleen, we could go shopping together. We both have security staff now. But no malls,” Jahne laughed.

  “Right. ’Cept we’d both have to take them FBI men with us,” Sharleen reminded her. She sighed. “I got all the trouble of bein’ a star but none of the fun.” She thought abo
ut her momma showing up, and how it didn’t seem as good as she had dreamed. How could she tell Jahne about that? She couldn’t, she realized.

  For a moment, Jahne was filled with sympathy for the girl. “Why don’t we just have fun like stars tomorrow?” Jahne asked. “With bodyguards, in an expensive restaurant, after we shop in expensive stores? Like good little stars should.”

  They sat down in the back, though Jahne would have preferred one of the charming window tables that looked onto Melrose. But by now, after the briefings that Gerald La Brecque had put her through, she knew that was only asking for trouble. So the two of them parked their shopping loot on the banquettes and took seats that discreetly faced away from the rest of the restaurant.

  Jahne was tired, and hungry, and thirsty. She’d have a beer, despite the calories. “I’ll have a Beck’s,” she told the waiter, a gorgeous blond Adonis. His eyes registered recognition, but then he pulled down the shade of discretion necessary to be cool in L.A.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, and turned to Sharleen. “And for you, Miss Smith?” he asked.

  “I’ll have what she has,” Sharleen told him. She was thrilled with their shopping, and glowed with excitement. “Oh, Jahne, I don’t believe I ever saw such things. How did you find these places? Wasn’t that pink outfit cute? And the leather shop! I loved that purple fringed-leather bikini. And Planet Alice. Wasn’t that stuff wild? I never saw elephant bell bottoms before.”

  Jahne, who remembered the seventies disco scene, and had almost been old enough to be part of it, smiled. “Yeah, it’s all updated L.A. versions of Carnaby Street, as if Carnaby Street the first time wasn’t enough. Well, they didn’t have Lycra then. It makes all the difference.”