Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

Roger also told him not to worry about the tux, and gave him the tip about the tuxedo department at Saks, and how easy it was to put one on under his regular clothes in the dressing room and walk out. The tuxedo department was the least busy department in the store, so there never were any salespersons or security guards lurking about. Walking out with the formal wear under his baggy jeans and windbreaker had been a breeze. Even the brazen act of grabbing a dress shirt and bow tie from a display near the door seemed easy, with Roger watching over him.

  The other items Roger had told him to get were as easily acquired, some of them through the guys at the cab company. He wasn’t exactly sure how or when he would use all this stuff, but Neil wasn’t going to question any of Roger’s directions. Because Roger told him that he—Neil Morelli—was going to host the awards show. Just like Billy Crystal did the Oscars. He, Neil, would be as famous, as admired, as loved. Roger had thought of everything so far, right down to the suspenders. This was a man on his side, probably the only man who had ever looked out for Neil in his life, and that included his degenerate gambler father. No, Neil was going to do everything Roger told him to do. Roger understood. Roger would help him set things right.

  Neil adjusted his tie in the mirror of the bathroom, and wished he had a full-length mirror to admire the full effect of the tux. But wouldn’t you know it? Roger called just then, and, as if he could read Neil’s mind, told Neil how great he looked, and—this brought tears to Neil’s eyes—how proud he was of him. Then Roger told him to sit down and go over the seating arrangement for the auditorium the manager had given each of the ushers, and told him to memorize where the key people were sitting. Roger also went over the physical plan of the theater, and told him the exact spot where he should be standing, and the exact time, to get the best view of the award presentation.

  Neil got it all, put the sheet of paper back into his inside pocket, spit on his hand and smoothed his hair, then opened the door and walked down the street toward the bus. On the way, he heard Roger’s voice come from behind him, not through a radio or an amplifier like usual, but over his shoulder, like a guardian angel. “Timing is everything,” Roger said. And Neil didn’t have to turn around to know that Roger was with him and, as always, was absolutely right.

  Sam Shields had definitely risen on Ara’s Hollywood-heat barometer. This year, he had not only an invitation to go, once again, as April’s escort, but his own invitation as well.

  Since Birth had succeeded, he was a popular boy. No doubt about it. Two hits in a row. April wanted him to sign a three-picture deal, but so did Columbia. He had options now.

  He also had a new Armani tux, and a Thai silk custom-made dress shirt. He slipped into the jacket and shot his cuffs. He’d look like a winner tonight.

  But he’d see Mary Jane—Jahne—tonight, too. It was traditional for the Emmy winners to drop by after the award. Of course, he could leave early. But he wanted to see her. After thinking it over, Sam was ready to forgive her. He wanted her back. And being turned away at Sharleen’s gate had only made him more eager.

  And, after all, didn’t she owe everything to him? Sam shook his head at the irony. Mary Jane couldn’t get cast in a soap commercial, couldn’t get a part off-off-off-Broadway, until he had given her the break in Jack and Jill. And she’d gone through the surgery for him. Because of that, now, tonight, Jahne Moore just might be walking away with an Emmy award. And perhaps an Oscar in the future. Sometimes Sam could see the amusement in the way things evolved in this town. Just as he could at this moment.

  But he had his public persona to think about. Tonight, after the awards ceremony, if Jahne showed up at Ara’s, Sam would be there. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—not be there; that was out of the question. How was he going to handle his encounter with Jahne, in front of the entire Industry, in front of all the media people? That’s what he had to decide.

  And how was she going to handle it? Sam hoped, for no other reason than that it would make things easier for him, that Jahne in fact did win the Emmy. At least she would be in a good—no, an elated—mood, and their connection could be swift and gay. Oh, he remembered all the things Mary Jane used to say about awards, and award shows, and award winners. But that was back before she had a spitting chance of getting nominated for one, never mind actually winning one. Would Jahne still be as equanimous as she once had been about these things, and not let her loss make her turn on him, bring unwanted attention? He doubted it.

  But his final thought, the one that helped him get into the shower and ready for the night, was that Jahne Moore must have loved him a lot to go through all that she had for him. Even if she turned him away at Sharleen Smith’s. Somehow, he was sure that they’d get back together. Because, really, who else had ever loved him like that?

  Monica Flanders waited impatiently for Hyram to pick her up. Hyram’s wife, Sylvia, still resented not being invited to Ara Sagarian’s party. Or perhaps she resented Hyram’s going with Monica. For the invitation was for Monica—always for Monica.

  She took one last look at herself in the mirror. Tonight she would get more publicity and free advertising from the awards program than ever before. Whoever won, they wore her makeup. And the commercial they were running would announce it. Just so long as it wasn’t that surgery girl. She would be canceled, but definitely. Unless, of course, she won.

  Monica patted her wig into place and then clipped on her diamond earrings. They were so big—eight-carat emerald-cut perfect stones—that they hurt her ears, but pain was the price you paid for beauty.

  Tonight one of her girls would win the prize. And she would win, too. Flanders Cosmetics was sponsoring the Emmy show. Sales would boom tomorrow. What an idea this whole 3/4 business had been! Despite the scandals. Or because of them. Best idea she’d ever come up with.

  Paul Grasso took another sip of his vodka and tried for the third time to tie the fucking formal black bow tie. What’s wrong with the clip-ons? he thought once again.

  Tonight was a good night for Paul. He had finally made it, without Glick after all. He didn’t like to remember last year: sneaking into Ara’s party through the bushes. Tonight he was going to see his discovery Lila Kyle get an Emmy, then go on to Ara’s Emmy party, where the real shakers were going to be, shoulder to shoulder. Like at the roulette tables at Vegas. Only the heavy hitters stood at the table. The little guys, the assholes with their twenty-dollar chips, stood around the outer edge. And not for very long, either. Either they made a hit the first time at the table, or they were on the move again, looking for the next win. The whole secret was to stick with it, play it out—all night, if you had to. Like in this Hollywood game. Eventually, if you stayed with it, luck turned your way, and you were being back-slapped by the other heavy hitters.

  Tonight Paul Grasso felt like a heavy hitter. And he was in the mood for some back-slapping. If only he could get this fucking tie tied.

  It didn’t seem right to Sy that he had all three Emmy nominees as his clients and not one of the bitches had asked him to escort her tonight. So he’d settled on Crystal, who was having a shit fit because she hadn’t received her own invitation. Well, maybe they could use the party to jump-start her stalled career.

  Of course, Sy didn’t need any of the 3/4 girls to get into the awards ceremony or Ara Sagarian’s party. This much he had done on his own. But it would have been a nice gesture on their part, considering. He was the one, after all, who got the three of them made into the hits they are. And stood behind them during the scandals. Only Sharleen had ever called him to thank him for the Emmy nomination. Jahne had written him a cool note. And Lila was out in fucking Siberia; he heard shit from her. Surprise.

  But he could afford to put all that behind him. Tonight was a big night, probably the biggest night in his career. Tonight he owned everyone and everything, because all three of the big ones were in his stable. Tonight he even owned Ara Sagarian himself, not that he was such a prize. It’s about time Ara moved over. Next year, Sy thought, I’m going
to have an Emmy party at my house. The Emmy party. If I’m really bigger than Ara Sagarian ever was, and that’s the word around town, then I might as well have the full coronation ceremony, and all the perks that go with it. So, next year it would be Sy Ortis’ party, A list and then some.

  Sy hadn’t let on to anyone, of course, but all this tabloid stuff was turning out to be a boon to the reputation of his girls. Yeah, everyone’s cojones were in an uproar, but he knew that the minor squall over Sharleen and Jahne would pass, and in its place would come a torrent of new interest. And with that, of course, higher ratings.

  So Sy wasn’t ambivalent at all about showing up at the celebrations tonight. One of his girls was going to walk away with an Emmy, that much was guaranteed. He didn’t really care which one, but kind of hoped that it would be Sharleen or Jahne—they could use the positive press, and, in light of the tabloid mess, it would go a long way toward balancing things out.

  But whoever got it would be Sy’s. And that no one could take away from him.

  The way Sy figured it, the only way he could lose tonight was if there was a nuclear holocaust. Other than that, he was already the winner. The very best, the absolute very best that could happen would be that there would be a three-way tie. Sy chuckled. About as much chance of that as a nuclear holocaust.

  But he could hope, couldn’t he?

  April looked into the mirror and grimaced. Yes, lipstick had smeared onto her two front incisors, as it so often did. When she was a kid, some of the children at school had teased her, calling her “werewolf girl.” Stubbornly, even now, she’d never had them filed down. They came in handy when she had to tear out the throat of her next victim.

  Carefully she wiped off the offending makeup. Yes, she would do some throat-tearing tonight. Sy Ortis and Marty DiGennaro were about to participate in her favorite little game: retribution. Because, after all the chips she’d called in, it was certain that Three for the Road wasn’t going to win a goddamn thing tonight. The bad publicity on the bitch Jahne hadn’t hurt, nor had the exposé on that Jukes-and-Kallikaks brother-and-sister act, but she was pretty sure that she could have neutralized the thing anyway. Her pressure on Warren Lashbeck and the Industry censorship committee was tightening the pressure on Les Merchant, head of the Network. He might be pushed into canceling the show. She couldn’t trust anyone to do what they promised, of course. Still, if there was one thing she was dead certain of, it was this: that rats in Hollywood knew what to do about a sinking ship.

  Tonight, after almost eleven years, she’d get to fuck up Marty DiGennaro and Sy Ortis as badly as they’d fucked her all that long time ago.

  Marty DiGennaro hummed tonelessly to himself as he fit the opal cabochon stud into his shirtfront. It was a habit that used to drive his ex-wife nuts, but he never thought about her anymore. He almost hoped that he would run into her this evening, with Lila clinging to his arm. His ex was petite and dark, not really an impressive woman. Lovely in her way, certainly, but not stunning. Not Lila. No one was like Lila.

  He kept trying to push in the stud, but something wasn’t working. Either the buttonhole was sewed closed or the damned stud was defective. Shit. Marty was a detail person, and he loved the detail of dressing. The opal shirt studs had once belonged to Gary Cooper. Marty had bought them, as discreetly as possible, from the estate of a past mistress of Coop. Sally had been upset, said that opals brought bad luck unless they were your birthstone, but Marty loved them. He was wearing them for the first time tonight.

  Well, they were bringing bad luck now. He checked the time, then called to Sally for help. He would wear the opals, damn it. Because he was a man who had made all the good luck he’d ever need. He had a ravishing fiancée who never looked at another man, a string of Oscars a mile long, and a new, hot career in television, which he, single-handedly, was turning around.

  “Sal!” he called, impatient. “Hurry up and bring a scissors.”

  As Sal walked into the room, Marty jerked at the stud. It spun out of his hand, arching across the room, and fell on the marble saddle at the bottom of his dressing-room door. As if in the slow motion of one of his films, Marty watched the opal shatter, sending gleams of iridescent color across the floor.

  “Goddamn it!” Marty cried.

  “Maybe it can be fixed,” Sally said, and knelt to begin gathering the shards.

  “Forget it!” Marty told him. “Once it’s broken, it’s broken.”

  Ara’s guests began to arrive, and though he was tired—well, almost exhausted—from all the preparations, now it all seemed worth it. Not bad for an old man, he thought. Here he was, a man that should by all rights be dead, or at least retired and living in Palm Springs, here he was, giving yet another successful party, with only the crème de la crème of the Industry present.

  He laughed at his little pretension. Crème de la crème, my wrinkled Armenian vorick, he thought to himself. Stars, star-makers, star-fuckers, and star-breakers—all grasping, back-stabbing cutthroats.

  But, he reminded himself, most of the media clout in the nation was gathered under one roof tonight. He was still a player. A major player. A man of power, surrounded by the tastemakers, the trendsetters, the wavemakers. All under one roof. His roof.

  He smiled, nodded, and limped forward to greet his first guest.

  “Don’t forget who you’re dealing with,” Theresa snapped at Robbie when she’d asked for a simple glass of sherry and he refused. “I just need a little something to calm me down.”

  “Theresa, right now you have enough Valium in you to float you higher than the Goodyear blimp. You don’t need another thing.”

  Theresa couldn’t give up so easily. As if Valium could ever take the place of vodka. “You don’t seem to grasp one very important fact here. I’m under incredible pressure. In a little while I’ll have to go out there and face her. And show myself to all those people. Live. Jesus. I haven’t done live in a hundred years.”

  “You’ll be fine. It will all go fine,” he assured her and patted her shoulder.

  “I was just saying to—who was it? Warren Beatty? No, it was Annette. No, April Irons! That’s who it was, April.” Crystal Plenum almost had Ara by the lapels, standing very close. “I was saying to April how Ara Sagarian never seems to age. What’s your secret, Ara? You could make a fortune if you sold it.”

  Crystal felt pretty desperate, and her desperation showed. She knew what it was like to enter a room and make an impression. And she knew that she had and hadn’t.

  Crystal’s face hurt. If she had to smile at these fucking assholes, these insulting, insufferable assholes, for even ten more minutes, she would have facial spasms. Joel Silver was here. So was Larry Gordon. Dawn Steel looked great—where did she get that dress? God, Crystal was ready to stoop to being a Disney whore if she had to. They were famous for buying up fading stars cheap and resuscitating them. So, smile nice at Dawn. She remembered what her first movie director had told her. He had said that some actors and directors thought the most difficult thing to do on cue was cry. He had disagreed and said it was laughter, not crying, that was the harder for actors to manage realistically. He was right. Laughing at people’s little jokes at her expense was almost more than she could bear.

  Then she saw him: the son-of-a-bitch! In tiny steps—all her dress would allow—she walked up to Sam Shields. He was surrounded by some of the powers in the Industry, but she ignored them.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello?” she asked.

  He looked up and smiled—one of those useless polite smiles she’d been getting from people lately.

  “Hello, Crystal.”

  She looked him right in the face. “I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for ruining my career. And I wanted to give you this.” And then she spat at him.

  Elizabeth wandered with Larry. Warren sat, laughing, beside Annette. Kevin Costner and Cindy chatted with Marvin Davis. Joe Pesci stood in a corner, sharing a bottle of Evian water with Jack Nicholson. Steven Seagal a
te sushi beside one of the monitors. Scott Rudin threw a napkin at Paula Weinstein. Rob Reiner stood beside his wife, one of the famous Singer sisters.

  Now the thirty-five-inch screens scattered around Ara’s house were all forgotten, save one. The screen in Ara’s library seemed to be the only one the guests were watching, as if sharing the one screen made them all feel more a part of the audience. Ara sat in the middle of the guests. On the screen, the emcee was introducing Theresa O’Donnell, who was smiling and opening the envelope. There wasn’t a sound in the room, as if everyone had a personal stake in the outcome of the Emmys. Ara smiled to himself. He did, too. Yes, anyone, just so long as it wasn’t Lila Kyle.

  Theresa tore at the envelope, pretending she was having trouble getting it open, prolonging the tension. She opened the envelope, took out the card, and said, “The winner is…”

  9

  Jahne had taken her place on an aisle seat, with Dr. Moore next to her. She had forced herself to sit back in her seat, and tried to breathe deeply. Brewster sat beside her, his hand holding hers tightly. And it was not just comforting, but a clever career move: it was as if she were laughing at the bad press, flaunting her doctor at them. She seemed unashamed.

  As the evening wore on, there were a lot more losers than winners. The audience was restive. Self-loathing and fear seemed like a palpable force. Winners glowed, but every loser had to sit in a pool of failure, everyone watching and judging. She told herself she could rise above it all.

  But could she? It was hard to sit there, in this room filled with the best and the beautiful, and know that she was being watched and judged, perhaps most of all. Would she get the Emmy? Did she care? She was certain that neither Sharleen nor Lila could act. She was not so certain that the rest of her peers saw things that way. And she found that, oddly enough, she wanted to win tonight. Not because she thought these contests mattered, but because, right now, she needed a vote of approval.