Well, this time, she swore, whatever happened, it would be different. As the French put it, this time she would be the one who was kissed, not the one who did the kissing. This time, Sam would love her more than she’d ever let herself love him. She’d no longer play Miss Havisham. It was Estella all the way.
They broke free of the traffic and moved onto the coast road. Jahne marveled at the dry brown hills—austere but beautiful in their way. The wind from the Pacific rippled the long grasses as Jahne had always imagined wheat fields to ripple, a beautiful undulation, a sexual wave that fascinated her.
“Where exactly are we going?” she forced herself to ask, but she didn’t really care. Cupped in the comfort of the car, the Mozart rippling around her, Sam beside her at last, she only wanted this moment, this final reward, to continue forever. Her great expectations were at last coming true. Let me remember this, she told herself. Let me remember it and know that once I was perfectly content.
“I’m taking you to a restaurant in Santa Cruz,” he said as the sports car effortlessly crested each hill. “It’s sort of the end of the line, the last stop on the train for all the wanderers and frontiersmen and westward-ho-ers. When they got to Santa Cruz, there was nowhere farther west to go but into the ocean.”
“Did some of them drop into it like lemmings?” she asked.
“Probably the better genetic stock started swimming for Asia. The chickens stayed behind.”
“So Santa Cruz is based on chicken stock, like a good cassoulet?” she asked.
He laughed. “You’re a little too clever, aren’t you? Santa Cruz is the end of the road, kind of like Key West. Ever been there?”
She’d been there with Sam, on the one and only vacation they’d ever taken together. All at once, she was flooded with the memory of their walk down Duval Street, the beer in Sloppy Joe’s, their visit to Hemingway’s house. That was a time when she thought he’d loved her. For no reason, tears filled her eyes. She’d been through a lot today. She was not handling this as easily as she had planned. She turned her head toward the sere hills and blinked the tears away.
“Yes. Route One ends there,” she managed.
“Well, so do a lot of people’s dreams. Santa Cruz is like that. And it’s been the location of a lot of films—they did the last Dirty Harry here, and then The Lost Boys.”
“It sounds kind of gruesome.”
“No. It’s got a real down-at-the-heels charm. Rather like my own.” He smiled.
She could almost feel his warmth, his seductive “like-me-even-though-I’m-trouble” come-on envelop her. His profile, hawk-nosed and as clean as a paper silhouette, was dark against the sunset behind him. In the ruddy light, his skin glowed. She wondered how it felt. She’d have loved to reach out and stroke his face, feel his cheek under her palm, run a finger across his wide mouth. She clutched her hands together in her lap and looked away from him.
The Mozart CD ended, and Sam slid in a new disk. Tom Waits’ raspy voice filled the car. Sam had introduced her to Waits’ clever lyrics and almost unbearable vocals years ago.
“Ever heard Tom Waits?” he asked now.
How many women had he asked that question of? she wondered. Had Crystal Plenum liked Tom Waits? Had April Irons? Oh, God, she thought. I’m going to drive myself crazy if I keep this up. Just let it alone, Jahne. Tell him no.
But she couldn’t stop herself. “Yes,” she said. “And the piano sounds drunk,” she added, misquoting a lyric.
Sam smiled in delight. Her friend Molly used to call this “the Seiko phenomenon”—when two people met and discovered the mundane things they had in common, they all seemed to be preordained and of earthshaking significance. “You use Paul Mitchell shampoo? I do, too! You wear a Seiko? I wear a Seiko!” She laughed at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He looked at her. “Mysteries, mysteries,” he muttered, a line from Jack and Jill.
“I liked your play,” she told him.
“You saw it?” he asked. “The play, not the film?”
“I never saw the film, only the play. I loved it.”
“I’ll get you the tape of the movie. Maybe we could…”
“I’d rather not,” she said quickly. That would be more than she could bear. She moved on to another subject, any subject. “Is this Santa Cruz?” she asked, as they finally topped the last of the seemingly innumerable hills and looked down on a collection of brightly colored lights, like the contents of a little girl’s jewelry box spilled along the coastline. Sam nodded.
“I remember the opening of Lost Boys now. I think they used a long shot like this,” she said.
“Great opening,” Sam agreed. “It was shot from the ocean side, though. Too bad the rest of the movie didn’t live up to it.”
She nodded. “What other openings did you think were great?” she asked.
“Once Upon a Time in America. It had that opium dream…”
“With the phone ringing!” she continued.
“Yeah, that was masterful. What ones did you like?”
“The Pope of Greenwich Village,” she told him.
“‘Summer Wind’! Frank Sinatra singing and Mickey Rourke shooting his cuffs. Great opening!” he agreed approvingly. “So, what movies did you hate?”
“Internal Affairs. Every man was brutal, and every woman was a whore. Richard Gere hit seven actresses, and Andy Garcia, playing the good guy, beat up his wife.”
Sam nodded. “Realistic, though,” he said.
“Oh, come on. All the cops’ wives were a size six. Tell me that’s realistic.”
Sam laughed. “Okay, okay.” He looked at her, his eyes warm. “You’ve got good instincts,” he smiled, and she was angry to find how much his approval pleased her.
He pulled the car into a parking spot, and stilled the engine. Then he turned to look at her again, deeply and carefully, with his director’s eye. She remembered him looking at her this way, so very deeply, almost through her, just before he cast her as Jill. She tried not to cringe, but now surely, surely he’d recognize her. Now he’d know, and it would all come tumbling out; for good or ill, it would all be told.
“You’re a deep one, Jahne,” was all he said, and he slid out of the car, coming around to help her out.
Santa Cruz was diverting, a sort of decadent playland, a scenic boardwalk nestled on the ocean, with just that undercurrent of carny danger. Sam took her to an indifferent Italian restaurant where they split a bottle of indifferent wine, ate pasta, and shared the breathtaking view of the white-frothed combers pounding in from the night-black sea and sky. Then they walked the boardwalk and tried a few games of chance, where chance seemed to have little to do with the inevitable outcome. Sam seemed undismayed that he didn’t win her even a tiny stuffed snake, the lowest possible prize. The snakes were made of ugly plush, with eyes of glued felt, bedraggled ribbons around their necks, if snakes had necks.
“You don’t want one of those, do you?” he asked. “Obvious phallic displacement.”
“No,” she told him, and laughed, but she found she did. She desperately wanted something he would give to her, win for her, that would remind her of this night.
“Athletics are not my strongest suit.”
“And what is?” she heard herself ask in a smoky voice. She couldn’t believe she’d thrown out a double entendre, especially when she was determined not to sleep with him.
“Would you like to find out?” he asked, looking at her directly. Then he placed his hand, his long, lean, tanned hand, under her chin, and tipped her head up to his face. He bent his head down to hers, and then his lips were on her lips, his tongue in her mouth, his delicious breath mingling with hers. She had never been kissed like this. It was Sam, and he wanted her, he was kissing her, and she could feel his heat, she could feel his desire. Her whole body felt alive, vibrating. He wants me, she thought. He really does!
He lifted his mouth off of hers. “Woul
d you like to find out?” he asked again.
She caught her breath. “If I do, I’ll ask April,” she told him. “Now I’d like to go home.”
36
Marty hung up the phone and smiled. Normally he was too big-spirited to wish ill on anyone. But after April taunting him about her option on it, after all the trouble with Jahne Moore, with the concession of time off and the schedule for the taping of next season’s show completely revamped because of her, and then the total shit storm that caused with Lila—both personally and professionally—well, he couldn’t help but smile to hear the Birth of a Star shooting was in trouble. She’d need another two weeks, and he’d grant it. What the hell. He already had his season’s first two shows scripted, and neither included her.
It wasn’t just that she’d caused him trouble. Also, he admitted, he simply couldn’t wish April Irons well. It was like that old showbiz saying—“Why does he hate me so? I never did anything for him”—but with a new twist. He had backed out of an agreement, an early one, with April, and it had hurt her badly. Marty knew himself—too many years of therapy to deny that—and he knew that he felt himself to be an inherently good guy. That’s why he worked with Sy, for example. Sy was born to be the bad cop. But Marty had been bad to April, and it made him feel guilty, even now, years later. So he couldn’t like her or wish her well. Then, when he heard she’d gotten the option on Birth, one of his favorite old films, well, he’d resented it. But, as much as he resented April, he knew she resented him more.
Anyway, she knew vendetta as well as any Sicilian, and played it better than most. Casting Jahne Moore had made nothing but headaches for him. But he’d endured to triumph. The first two shows of the new season would feature Lila. And her mother. Paulie Grasso was setting it up. Because Jahne wasn’t available, and it could be done partly as backstory: why Lila had left home, and then the return of the prodigal son. Well, daughter. The scripts sang, and the visuals would be unbelievable. Because, Marty acknowledged, he was obsessed with Lila. And a season premiere that starred her and brought in her mama would also bring in the ratings. He owned the youth audience on Sunday night, but Theresa O’Donnell would bring in the heavy-furniture crowd, too. He’d kill them. The Network might even set up a St. Marty of the Road shrine and begin worshipping there. Not that they weren’t already kissing his skinny Italian ass. But a killer rating for the first two shows of the season, which starred Lila, and which brought in the older audience, would give Marty leverage in about twenty-three directions at once. And if Lila had a few objections, that was just as well. But for once, he’d get his way. Because he knew there was no love lost between Lila and her mom.
So, it seemed he had all kinds of bases covered. And just to be safe, he’d throw in a few long shots of Sharleen and Jahne in the beginning and the end, when Lila rejoined them—Clover, Crimson, and Cara on the road again. It would be a blockbuster. It might even exceed that “Who shot J.R.?” episode. Then again, departing from the formula might bring down the wrath of God.
Go know.
Theresa O’Donnell hadn’t been as excited about a job since she’d had her own show with Skinny and Candy. Paul Grasso had told her the part on Three for the Road was “significant, integral to the story,” but she hadn’t yet seen the script. In fact, she was supposed to have received it first thing this morning, and here it was almost three, and the assholes at Grasso’s office hadn’t followed through.
Theresa sighed and reached over to the white table by the pool, picked up her drink, and sipped. Well, she could wait. It wasn’t like she ever needed more than a day to memorize her part. She was a quick study. Always had been. Had to be, to keep up with the younger tramps that were creeping up behind her.
Like Lila. Theresa laughed, picturing Lila’s face when she was told her mother, Theresa O’Donnell, was going to play the part of her mother on Three. In fact, she threw her head back and laughed out loud. The bitch. It serves her right. Fuck with me. I’m good, she thought. Real good. And they couldn’t ignore that fact. I have a strong following, and the powers that be know that. It was Lila who didn’t.
Or maybe she did; that’s why she hates me so much. She may be young, she may be pretty, but I still have drawing power, stamina, after all these years in the business. And Lila is afraid—deep down inside—that she wouldn’t be able to maintain her edge. Not like I have.
Well, maybe I have slipped a little, Theresa admitted to herself. She hadn’t done a movie or TV show in…well, a long time. But she didn’t like the movies they were making now. And she’d done a guest shot, well, last year. No, the year before.
Paul Grasso, the guy Marty had given the casting job for Three to, had caught her off guard when he called to offer her the part. “I tried to reach you through Ara, your agent, but he tells me he doesn’t represent you anymore.”
“Mr. Grasso,” she had almost stammered, “I no longer need representation.” And, of course, Mr. Grasso had agreed. She’d put the word out that she’d dumped Ara, the old fairy.
Now she picked up the portable phone from the corner of the chaise while taking another sip of her drink. She looked down at her personal telephone book, lying open on her lap. Who’s next? she wondered. She’d been on the phone all day, letting the right people know that she was going to be on television again.
Of course, she had to play the game a bit. She had implied rather than stated some out-and-out lies. Like that her part would be a permanent character on the series. That Lila was as excited as she at the thought of working together. That Theresa might have a picture deal with Marty DiGennaro. How absolutely thrilled Theresa was to be able to work with a director of Mr. DiGennaro’s stature.
But, she thought to herself as she began to punch in yet another telephone number, this is the way the game is played.
Then a shadow fell across her. She looked up. It was Kevin, unshaved, drunk, and disheveled. “No script yet?” he asked, his voice nasty.
“It’s on its way,” she said, but the fear sounded in her voice. She was paying him over a thousand a week now, but he got worse and worse.
“So, you’ll get to see our little girl,” he sneered. “That is, if they do wheel you out for the part.”
“I’ll get the script.”
“Yeah. And I’ll get married.”
37
Nothing is like a movie shooting on location. It is its own little world, where a group of highly trained, highly paid, and usually highly sexed professionals come together under enormous tension to try and create. Freed from their families, alternately bored and overworked, separated from the world of the Regulars and the Assholes, the “Talents” find themselves tired, lonely, and frustrated. Little wonder that such close friendships, so many intense affairs spring up on location. And both the friendships and the affairs generate lots of gossip.
The gossip takes on a life of its own. That’s where I, Laura Richie, come in. I seek it out, publish it, and it affects both the people on location and the folks they’ve left at home. Sometimes the gossip lives on longer than the people gossiped about. But one of the secrets of Hollywood is that, after a movie has wrapped, none of the friendships and few of the affairs continue.
Of course, Jahne’s slap was heard round the world. Michael’s swollen face was fine by the following day, but his ego was more than bruised. If it hadn’t been difficult to hit Michael, it was difficult to work with him, Jahne had to acknowledge. “Ach! He iss a child!” hissed Mai, and she was closest to right: Michael was behaving as only destructive, angry children do. He had temper tantrums when he had to wait for anything—and Jahne had already learned that the movie business was all about “hurry up and wait”—and he sulked when they had to do take after take, even if it was he who had blown a line.
They spoke, but only when necessary, and neither was civil. Jahne was afraid Michael made jokes to the crew at her expense.
He seemed to feel perfectly comfortable making the meanest personal comments, and they were always
true, or true enough to cause alarm. If Jahne missed a mark and ruined a careful setup, he sneered and called her “the movie virgin.” When the unfortunately rabbitlike continuity girl forgot to put his tie back on for a shot and the entire scene had to be done over the following day, he called her an “airhead with an overbite” and ripped her apart verbally in front of a dozen people.
“Ach, he is disgusting. And a bully. I can’t understand such a man. He iss still so angry because you give him a little slap and von’t sleep vis him? Ridiculous! Didn’t any vimmen say no before?” Mai, who had been virtually remaking all of Jahne’s costumes, looked up from her sewing and rubbed at her temples. “He even giffs me a headache. Surely ozzer vimmen haff told him that?”
Apparently very few had, but Jahne knew it was more than her rejection that rankled. Like a pig trained to hunt truffles, Michael McLain was a specialist in detecting the scent of sexual tension in the air. She watched him watch her and Sam. And since he wasn’t the object of the passion, he was enraged.
Because it was, of course, she and Sam generating the heat.
She constantly thought about her hunger for him. To be honest, she thought about very little else. She remembered everything she could about what it used to be like, what he did, what he said, how it felt. But what she remembered, felt, most about their sex was shame. Shame over the size of her thighs, shame at the stretch marks on her breasts, shame at the way her belly hung down when he rolled her on top. It wasn’t sexual shame, not a feeling that sex was dirty. It was personal shame, a shame that she didn’t look good enough, perfect enough. A shame that he wouldn’t desire her sagging breasts, her wide hips.
Was she the only woman who felt that way? She had not always been overweight, but she’d always been shamed. Now that she was transformed and saw what it took, even in Hollywood, to get the right images on the screen, perhaps she could blame it on Hollywood. Every love scene she had ever seen had beautiful people in it. Ugly ones, fat ones, short ones were objects of fun or of scorn. Older people, wrinkled people, unlovely people didn’t have sex, or if they did it was dreary and always offscreen. How could she blame herself, when all the images she had ever seen had been so much more beautiful than she?
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