And, after all, he told himself, looking up at the screen, it wasn’t so very bad, what he had done. Adrienne’s body looked beautiful, and the cuts had been seamless: far more seamless than the work that had been done on Jahne’s own torso. She would see herself as perfect. Everyone would see her as perfect.
After all, wasn’t that what she and every woman really wanted?
Michael McLain leaned back into the softness of the sheets and smiled. And it wasn’t even for the camera. Things had taken a definite turn for the better. Shooting had ended a week ago, and it had been, no doubt about it, a real pleasure. Although there had definitely been a certain—how shall we say—awkwardness about stepping out of the scene when his body double took over, Adrienne, the girl who was doubling for Jahne Moore, made it clear that she only had eyes for him. So, even if his stomach wasn’t washboard-flat anymore, he still had what it takes. He reached out and patted Adrienne’s bare ass, pushed against his back. She had stayed on with him to vacation for a week in Hong Kong. A week of shopping and sex. He loved doing both with her.
And he loved what he had seen in the dailies. The stuff wasn’t just hot, it was beautiful and hot. In fact, it was gorgeous and very hot. The best stroke film ever made. Laslo and that shmuck Sam had figured out some clever angles and approaches. Not since Don’t Look Now, when Donald Sutherland went down on Julie Christie, had sex looked this good on the screen.
And they had made it as easy for him at the studio as they could. They had a cadre of Oriental girls who powdered and massaged him, who sprayed him with glycerine to imitate sweat, who deferred, who bowed. They even had a “fluffer,” the pretty, slender girl who ensured his erection.
Yes, it had worked, and it looked to him as if the rough cuts would work. It was risky, of course. But if Nicholson could have a career coup frugging as a fat Joker in Batman, and Lancaster and Kirk Douglas could get away with mooning the audience with their wrinkled old asses, surely Michael McLain could bow out as a leading man with lovemaking: bold, graphic lovemaking on the silver screen. And after that, he was history. He was going to get out of the picture business and into something with dignity.
Maybe he’d finally get married.
2
In her twenty years of life so far, there were a lot of things Lila had hated, but working with her mother definitely topped the list. She’d had to watch the old bitch arrive every morning as if 3/4 were her show, greeting all the crew by name (how the fuck did she learn their names so quickly? Lila didn’t know any of them after more than a year), seeing Theresa preen her pulled and lifted old face for the makeup man and consult with the boom operator. It all made Lila sick with rage.
Worst of all had been watching her with Marty. Marty had been surprised when Lila had told him she’d changed her mind, that she would allow her mother on the show, but he’d jumped at it. Lila watched him work with Theresa. Jesus, he didn’t have to suck up to the Puppet Mistress. But he deferred to her, he laughed at her stupid jokes, he gave serious consideration to her suggestions about lighting and camera angles.
Lila had felt her rage boiling to the surface, but she swallowed it down over and over again, until she felt as if she might scream. Her mother had made the deal clear—she had made her devastating threat crystal-clear. So Lila raged in silence. And along with the rage, she felt something else. It was jealousy, she admitted. She was jealous when Marty paid attention to anyone else. All during the hiatus, she had had him to herself. She knew she would have to share him with the other two. Bad enough, but sharing him with Theresa was unbearable. She found herself watching them through narrowed eyes, biting the inside of her cheeks. After the first two days, her mouth had been a bloody mess.
The only comfort she had during all of it was the gossip that Birth of a Star was a shambles. Lila plowed through the trades and the columns looking for the latest inside scoop. She had been delighted when Minos called and gave her a full report about the infighting between the director, the producer, and the stars. And she was even more pleased when Marty told her that he had heard it was a total bomb and being rushed into release before distributors could back out.
So, with her mother’s segment almost finished and in the can, she could focus on the upcoming Emmys. She wasn’t worried about Sharleen wresting an Emmy from her. It was only Jahne that Lila worried about. Well, a bomb at the box office shouldn’t affect the Emmy award, but she knew it did. She smiled and prayed Birth of a Star would be released before the voting took place. It should have been the movie that made Lila a star, but if it was the one that brought Jahne Moore down, that would be some compensation.
It took almost two weeks, but at last the unbearable business with Theresa had ended. Going home that evening, for the first time Lila managed to smile at Marty’s jokes. She’d agreed to have dinner with him, though not to stay over. She never slept at his house. Sally was getting used to the 2:00 A.M. drive back to Malibu.
“It wasn’t so bad, was it, Lila?” Marty asked her, and she knew he was referring to the work with her mother. They had not spoken one word about it during the two weeks of shooting.
“Bad enough,” she told him curtly. “Thank God the script didn’t demand I had to act as if I loved her. If I could do that, I’d deserve an Oscar, not an Emmy.”
“First things first,” Marty told her. “The Academy will see this show right before the voting. And you were good, Lila. Really good. It will help.” He smiled. “I think we’re going to break some records when this is televised. No one gets more than a thirty-percent share. Not even Murphy Brown after Dan Quayle’s remark. But I think we’ll top that.”
“What did M*A*S*H’s last episode pull?” she asked.
“Over eighty, but that was before cable fragmented the audience.”
“I want ninety.”
Marty laughed, until he looked at her and realized she wasn’t joking. “If we pulled ninety, Les Merchant and Hyram Flanders would pay whatever it took to have us both canonized. My mother would love it. A saint as a son. For a Catholic, that’s better than a doctor.” Lila didn’t smile. He decided to change the subject. “Someone is having a birthday soon,” he said. “And have I got a surprise for her.”
God, she hated it when he got cute. “So what?” she asked.
“How do you want to celebrate it?” he asked. “The town is yours.”
“I’d like to see a screening of Birth of a Star,” she told him.
He felt the cut. Jesus, she knew how to get to him. He still regretted that he hadn’t gotten the rights, that a movie he should have made had fallen into the hands of barbarians. And he also knew how tight security would be over the prints. Lila had a knack for picking the only things he couldn’t deliver as the only things she wanted. “Why bother?” he asked, with a casualness he didn’t feel. “It stinks.”
“How do you know?” she asked. “Have you seen it?”
“No, but…”
“I want to see it,” she told him. “That’s what I want for my birthday.”
Sally did it. How, Marty didn’t even inquire. After all, Sally was still connected, and it was best not to delve too deep. Just appreciate that the cans of film, each marked Birth of a Star, were all ready for the private screening, along with the rest of the evening’s props: the perfectly set dinner table, the gladiola, the candles, the fire that crackled in the fireplace and took the chill off the air conditioning, as well as the tiny velvet box that sat, waiting, on the mantel shelf.
Marty wasn’t a vain man. Looking so ordinary—that’s the most truthful he was capable of being about his looks—he usually dressed in a perfunctory way. But this evening, he was doing the full treatment. At Lila’s insistence, he had started using a personal trainer, and had had a full, hard session with him today. He looked at himself in the mirror, naked after his shower, and was pleased with what he saw. Lila, it appeared more and more, was good for him. The training was beginning to pay off. Flat stomach, tighter skin. Even the slightest bulge of bice
ps on his skinny arm. Not bad.
The most difficult indulgence in vanity he had to accept was the hairdresser Lila had insisted he use tonight. If she had to put herself through such preparations, why should he be able to get away with less? she had asked. She was right again, although, with her beauty, any professional assistance she got was really only framing. The ministrations he needed came more in the category of camouflage.
But enough of that. He was happy. He turned from his full-length mirror, and held up the tux from Bijan Lila had bought him. He began to dress, each layer making him more excited, since everything he now wore was personally selected by Lila, including the silk underwear that brushed so gently against the head of his penis. The sensation was more than just pleasant. It was a taste of what was to follow, after the screening, during their oh-so-private party. Marty shivered. Scenes from their nights together flashed on him at all sorts of times during the day, leaving him sweaty and enervated. No woman had ever thrilled him, enthralled him like this. He was her slave. And tonight he would prove it.
He had come up with the perfect birthday gift. It sat wrapped with a crimson satin ribbon on the coffee table. And he knew it would make Lila happier than anything else would. It was a script—a script so perfect for her talents that she would have to love it. It would be his gift to her. And, after next season, they would make the movie together, even if it meant delaying 3/4. Even if it meant canceling the fucker. He thought of Sy’s screams, of the network’s reaction, of Flanders Cosmetics going ballistic, but he only smiled. That’s what Hollywood lawyers were for.
Lila looked down at the big box that Robbie had set on the table. She hadn’t seen him for a long time, but he looked as pudgy and pathetic as ever. “Well, happy birthday to me,” Lila said, smiling.
“I had to wait until she was on the set. Then Ken decoyed Kevin to get him out of there. There was no other way. I don’t know what she’s going to do when she finds out they’re gone.” He was sweating, his bland, round face a mask of concern.
Lila just snorted. She had to get ready for her date with Marty—there were a lot of preparations for their evenings together—and she had no time for this wet, fat fuck. It had taken him months to bring over this tribute, so it might well take her that long to forgive him. But her eyes glistened as she looked at the box.
“Well, okay,” she told him curtly. “But I’ve got things to do now. I’m going out.”
“Anyone I know?” Robbie asked brightly. Yeah, like I’m going to confide in you, she thought.
“Maybe,” she answered, as noncommittal as a confessional priest. She walked to the door and opened it. “See you,” she said, indicating his way out.
“Don’t you have time even for a coffee?” he asked. She hated how needy he sounded; it made her angry, not sympathetic.
Lila didn’t have a lot of insights, but she knew she was the type who took advantage of and despised weakness.
“Not even a quick espresso!” she said brightly and shut the door on his hopeful face.
Lila settled back on the sofa of Marty’s screening room. Dinner had been perfect, and now they’d screen the purloined copy of Birth. She knew she’d set him a challenge, and she knew he’d rise to it.
“Roll it, Sally,” Marty said into the intercom, and then dimmed the lights. The credits had not yet been cut into the beginning.
It began predictably. Michael McLain meets the bitch. He’s successful. She’s a nobody with talent. He helps her. He’s on the slide, but she worships him. It was okay, but nothing special. She heard Marty shift restlessly in his seat. Good. He didn’t like it.
Then Michael, up on the screen, bent in to Jahne. “Prove that you trust me,” he said, and his eyes, for the first time, came alive. There was a quick cut to his hand on hers, then a dissolve, and his hand was now on hers again, but she was stretched across a bed, and he was holding her arms down as she gave him head! Lila gasped. You couldn’t quite see everything, but the act was clearly implied. And then that close-up of her mouth and the cut to his thrusting hips from behind, and again her mouth.
Michael, on the screen, moaned, and Lila thought for a moment she heard Marty moan as well. Then Jahne’s hands broke free and clutched at Michael’s bare rump, as if she couldn’t get enough of him.
“Jesus Christ!” Marty gasped.
“Worship me,” Michael was grunting, and the scene faded out.
The story unfolded, and there was another scene, now with both of them in a public doorway, Michael opening her buttons, pulling up her skirt, taunting her, and doing her from behind, oblivious of the occasional passersby. Then she turned to face him, wanting more. Jahne was gorgeous, her legs perfect, wrapped around him like a monkey. It was unbelievable. Her perfect breasts bobbed before his mouth and he gobbled at them.
Lila felt as if she were hypnotized. This stuff was porn—it was filth—but it was beautifully shot. And it was sexy. Very, very sexy. Wasn’t it? Lila could never be sure. In the dark she quickly reached across to Marty and put her hand on his crotch. She pulled it away as if hot coals had burned her. “You have an erection!” she cried, jumping up. It was a fact and an accusation.
“Lila, I…”
“You like her! You want her!”
“Lila, don’t be silly. It’s only a movie. It’s a sexy movie. I…”
“Goddamn it!” she cried. “You have a hard-on for her. You think she’s more of a woman than I am, don’t you?” Her voice had risen to a scream. Behind her, the images of Michael and Jahne continued to couple. “You do, don’t you?”
“Sally, please, turn it off,” Marty said into the intercom. “Then you can go.” He turned the lights on and looked at Lila. It was the first time she’d ever appeared possessive. “Lila, the hard-on was an automatic. Good porn will always get a rise out of me. I’m visual, Lila. But this is a desecration. Birth of a Star was a classic. It shocked me to see Jahne in a porn movie. I had no idea…”
“Do you want her?” Lila asked.
“I only want you. No one but you,” he said.
Lila collapsed onto the sofa and began to sob. “She’s going to get all the attention. She’s going to get the Emmy and an Oscar.”
“Are you crazy? In this Puritan town? April must have been desperate. They’d never have gone for it otherwise. I mean, what kind of rating will it get? This is no PG-13. The Network will go nuts. They’ll evoke the morals clause. And Flanders will go crazy. Jahne can kiss that contract goodbye.”
“Really?” Lila wiped her eyes. “You think it won’t go over well?”
“Jesus, Lila! One of America’s sweethearts going down on Michael McLain?” Marty laughed. He walked to the console table at the side of the room and picked up a package. “Not to worry, darling. She’s history. Meanwhile, look what I got you for your birthday.” He handed her the script.
“What is it?” she asked, suspiciously.
“Just the best vehicle for a young actress that I’ve seen in ten years. And it’s for you. We can film it before next season. I’ve got a green light from Paramount already.”
Lila jumped up off the couch and ran across the room to him. “Yes!” she cried. “Yes!” And she hugged him tightly.
“Happy birthday,” Marty told her.
“Oh, thank you!”
This was it! This was it! She’d be bigger than Jahne Moore and Sharleen Smith. That she could be certain of, even before this movie was shot: Marty had never done anything second-rate. It was Oscar-nomination stuff, for sure. And now, with the promise of this film and the Emmy all but guaranteed, now she knew she’d be the biggest thing to happen in this town in years. And, sweetest of all, she’d be bigger than her mother. Bigger than Theresa O’Donnell had ever been. She shivered to think she almost hadn’t responded to Marty’s advances, and almost turned down both him and the chance for this role. She reached out and squeezed Marty’s arm.
Only Marty was powerful enough to do this for her. Only Marty would care for her enough to do
it. Perhaps their affair wasn’t perfect. Perhaps he wasn’t someone she even wanted to touch, but he was good to her. He took care of her as no one ever had. Tears flooded her eyes. “I love you,” she whispered.
“Good,” he said simply. He covered her hand with his own for a moment and then stood up and walked to the fireplace. “There’s something else here for you,” he said, and came to her with the little box. He held it out to her.
Lila took it and quickly flipped open the top. Inside, the white satin only enhanced the sparkle of a huge marquis-cut diamond.
“Twelve-carat. Perfect clarity. Perfect color. Perfect. Just like you,” Marty said.
Lila stared at the ring. It caught the rays from the dying fire and refracted them in a thousand points of light across the ceiling and walls. The ring was so grown-up, so Republican, but so breathtaking. Lila could not take her eyes off it.
“You’re going to marry me,” Marty told her.
3
Jahne couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. The scene with Sam had been awful, once he realized who she was. He had been more than angry, he had been enraged. And she had felt strangely guilty. Guilty for lying, guilty for loving him still, guilty for letting him love her. He had stormed out, shocked and hurt and angry, but he had called five days later, five long days later, during the day, when he knew she’d be out, and left a message. He said that he’d be working hard on the movie, that he’d have to go to Hong Kong for special effects and some reshooting and would be gone several weeks. But that he’d been doing a lot of thinking, that he wanted to see her and would call her as soon as he returned.
He still had not called. And she had been stupid enough to think that time would allow a healing, would allow him to join his love for Mary Jane to his love for her today. But did she want him to? Did she still want a man so selfish, so narcissistic, that he could only see her through himself? She thought again of his immense nerve, thinking that she had done all of this for him and to him. What an ass!
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