“Your word, Freddy.” LaMonica was pointing his finger now, making certain there was no doubt who would be held personally responsible.
“My word is my bond and all that. Look, John, just keep the press away. They’re starving for any information they can get on her since she’s been nominated.”
“Maybe if she talked to the press once in a while instead of fueling speculation…”
“We both know now is not the time for that.”
LaMonica nodded and puffed on his cigar, deep in thought.
“Close the set,” Freddy said.
“It is closed.”
“Then explain to me how Vicki Ray got that bit about Charlotte stumbling onto the set like a drunk? That woman practically stalks Godfrey.”
“Vicki Ray has sources everywhere. And the fact is, Charlotte was swerving around, forgetting her lines. When we tried to prompt her she got downright edgy. Drew herself up like a queen and declared she didn’t need prompting. That her memory was excellent. Frankly, Freddy, I heard that about her, but on this set, it couldn’t be further from the truth. And when she does talk, she’s practically inarticulate!”
His voice was rising. Freddy wanted to cool him down before he got carried away.
“Okay, I get the picture. I’ll go see what I can do.” He rose and snuffed out his cigar, eager to be out of the meeting before hostilities escalated.
“Freddy!” LaMonica called him back. He waved his hand to bring Freddy close, in a confidential manner. “We all know that this is a tough film—even for an actress in great shape. There’s lots of physical stunts, and running. It’s a high energy gig.” He paused and studied his fingers. When he looked back up, his eyes were intense. He tilted his head and spoke sotto voce. “Go out and assess the situation. Then come back and set me straight. Today. In a couple of hours. Before I take your word.”
Freddy held his breath. He was being given a second chance to back out, to let Charlotte sink on her own and not go down with her. Shit, he thought with a sudden panic. It must be worse than he thought. This offer was being made because he and John were friends, once upon a time.
Freddy met his gaze and nodded curtly.
He stepped forward and shook LaMonica’s hand to cement the deal. Then he tossed the cigar in the garbage and walked out of the meeting, hoping to God he hadn’t also just tossed his career out in the garbage as well.
Charlotte saw Freddy marching toward her cottage with the hunched-shouldered, determined gait of a man on a mission. He could have been a double for John Wayne.
She let the curtains drop and brought her fingers to her jaw, stroking the sore spots gently, feeling a quiver of anxiety stir in her chest. The first real feelings she’d felt in months. She knew what he was going to say. It would be nothing she hadn’t already told herself. Shape up, kid. Buck up. When the going gets tough….
The one undeniable fact, however, was that she no longer cared.
She was in mourning. She felt an overwhelming sense of loss that no one could touch. A loss of her love, her beauty, her mother, her talent, of so many things, that she felt sucked into the vacuum of its density. A star, imploding unto itself, creating a dismal black star of suffering.
She’d written to Dr. Navarro several times for refills of his herbs, imploring him to send something new, perhaps stronger. For months his herbs had managed to pull her through, but they weren’t working anymore. Nothing was working anymore. And the symptoms were getting worse, just as he had predicted. It used to be she had some good days and some bad days. Now they were all bad. Not long ago, she could pull herself together enough to remember her lines and rally through the day. The murky depression had crept in only during the nights. Now the bleakness seeped throughout the day as well.
She flopped onto the sofa and cuddled into the pillows, holding them tight, resting her chin. What were her choices? To tumble back into the life she once led was unthinkable. And that was what would happen if she had the surgery. To continue on as she was, getting sicker and sicker, condemned her to eventual death. Yet what was a life without love? Death held no power over her.
The challenge was to find a reason to continue living.
Freddy’s face was ashen, his eyes were bulging from their sockets, and his mouth hung loose. “Are you telling me that this guy is telling you to take out the implants and what? Just leave it?” He colored and his voice rose with his blood pressure. “Hell, your chin will be scraping your chest!”
Charlotte clenched her jaw and jerked her head away.
Freddy was red-faced, and he slammed his hands on his hips. “That’s bullshit. No way I’m gonna let that happen. Damn, why didn’t you tell me sooner? Wait, I’m sorry. Let me cool down a minute and catch my breath. This is so much, so fast. Jeez, my head is spinning. I need to think.”
Freddy put one hand on his forehead and paced the floor. After a while he sat down in the chair opposite Charlotte and took a deep breath. His eyes were focused, razor sharp, and she could tell he was exploring her face and jaw like others before him. She let him. She gave him his moment; it seemed only fair. This was no time for hedging or embarrassment.
They spoke for more than an hour, going over the details of her surgery, of her illness and of the doctors’ reports. Freddy was relentless with his questions and she in turn answered honestly and completely.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said at length. He looked like he’d aged years. “I’m going to get on the phone to a famous plastic surgeon in South America that I know. He’s world class. Takes only the best clients. This doctor knows what he’s doing. I’ll talk to him and we’ll schedule an appointment for you, to take out the bad implants and put in the good ones.”
She leaned forward, raising her hand to make him stop. “Freddy, I told you. It’s not that easy. The research on this is very new.”
“Yes, it is that easy,” he shouted back, firm in his belief.
“You tell me that you’ve had a major face job and that now it’s got to be undone because one doctor says so, and expect me to say ‘Oh well. Too bad’?” He slashed his hand in the air. “This is the whole ball of wax, baby. If your face goes, your career goes. Think of that before you take the word of one doctor.”
“It’s not just one doctor. Unfortunately.”
“But you weren’t examined by these other docs.”
“No…”
“Well, there you are. We’ll go see my doctor and he’ll fix it. I’m telling you, babe, this guy’s a genius. Listen to me, Charlotte.”
Charlotte could feel the force of his will bear down on her. In the past, she’d been able to balance it with a firm, steady will of her own. She’d always known what Freddy was about. He wanted to manipulate her, and she let him think that he had. In the past, their goal was the same, and it was easier for both of them if she bowed to his experience to get them there. Only with Michael did she defy him. In this area she had closed the door firmly against him and his prejudices.
But…then again, that had been a mistake, she thought sadly. She had defied God, defied her mother, defied Freddy. Well, they showed her, didn’t they? She didn’t have it in her to defy anyone anymore. She wasn’t angry. She was just very, very tired.
“What should I do?” she asked quietly.
He tilted his head to one side. “Marry me.”
She gasped and stared at him in disbelief. “Marry you?”
“Yes. It’s the only way. I can protect you, care for you, the way you need to be taken care of.”
“But…I don’t love you.”
He pressed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, then gave a short, impatient sigh. “It doesn’t matter.”
She felt a wave of despair sweep over her. “It doesn’t matter?”
“No.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and she sensed he was covering up some other, deeper emotion that she could only guess at. Freddy was secretive about his personal life.
“It doesn’t matter,�
�� he continued in his matter-of-fact manner, “because the marriage will be in name only. In fact, we don’t even have to go through with it if you don’t want to. I figure we’ll need to get to South America right after the Oscars, to get that surgery done. Naturally, that’ll also be the time the press will be hounding you. We can use our marriage and honeymoon as an excuse to leave the country and rest up in Brazil until you’re ready to come back. Leave it to me to handle all the details. By then, you’ll be working on Tess and we’ll be finishing negotiations for Beauty and the Beast. After that, we’ll get another film lined up, and another. Cha-ching, cha-ching. No one will care by then if we’re really married or not.”
“So we’ll only say we’re getting married….”
“I—” He exhaled slowly and, spreading out his hands, said simply, “If you prefer.”
She tilted her head. “I do prefer.”
He only shrugged and said, “We don’t need a piece of paper to bind us. You and I, we’re a team. We’re like that ying and yang, two halves of a whole.”
Charlotte crossed her arms tightly around herself and studied him though narrowed eyes. He was sincere. He had feelings about her, stronger than she’d realized.
“You do love me.”
He sighed impatiently. “Of course I love you, sweetheart. In my own way. There’s always been something about you, from the first day you walked into my office wearing that awful suit and acting so prim. You had something special. It was something in the eyes. I don’t know how to explain it. I see it now.” His face softened, and he reached out to stroke her hair gently, as if she were a child, not a woman.
She leaned away from his hand, averting her eyes. She didn’t want him touching her, stroking her. It somehow felt all wrong.
Drawing back, Freddy remained attentive, eager to make her understand. “I want to be your protector. I’ve created you. I gave you to the world. Don’t you see? You—” He shifted his weight and clenched his fists, as though he were grabbing hold of her soul and cleaving it to his breast. “You belong to me.”
Charlotte stared at his face while her mouth slipped open. My God, he meant it. He really thought she belonged to him. She felt a little afraid. And, though she hated herself for it, she felt a little safe. Most people didn’t give a damn about her. They played sympathetic, but they were only interested in finishing a film that would bring in money. Or worse, they pretended to love her but walked away when the chips were down.
He loved her—in his way. What did that mean? She looked away at the drawn blinds blocking out the afternoon’s light. Perhaps Freddy was right. What did it matter? What was love, anyway? An opportunity to be hurt and humiliated? To have her heart crushed and thrown away? This seemed to her to be so much more practical and efficient an alternative to lust and passion.
She opened her mouth to argue, but let it slowly close again. This was Freddy. He’d worked miracles before. Perhaps Freddy could find a way out of this dilemma. She was at her wit’s end, grasping.
“Can you finish the film?” he asked, surprising her with the simple question.
She considered it seriously, forcing her soggy brain to think. “No. Honestly, Freddy, I don’t think so. Not this one. I’m sorry.”
Freddy dragged his palm down his face, miserable. “At least you’re being honest. Well—” He slapped his palms on his thighs. “LaMonica’s talking about filing a claim and blaming it on you. If we pull out now, voluntarily, he might be able to bring in a substitute and we might salvage your career. He’ll appreciate being told up front. Right away.”
Charlotte didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
“Now for damage control. We’ll let word out that you’re very sick.” He raised his brows. “Which is true. But we’ll say it’s something benign, like pneumonia. I’ll get some doctor to stand by the claim. Then we put you in hiding until the Oscars. That’s the main thing. We’ve got to get through the Oscars. If you win there, then the rest of this will blow over.”
“My health won’t blow over, Freddy.”
“Of course not. But let’s take this one step at a time.”
Charlotte leaned back, shivering with chills, while Freddy explained all the plans that were under way for the Oscars. He had obviously compartmentalized her problem. Put it on the shelf in the “to do” pile while he focused on the next issue. It was so uncaring, so businesslike, so ruthless. So Freddy.
She wrapped her favorite afghan around her shoulders, the one that her mother had knit for her when she graduated from college, and felt distanced from the event that was cycling like a whirlwind somewhere out there. He talked on and on about the music, the seating, the question of whether she’d be a presenter, the schmoozing with anyone and everyone connected with the Oscars.
Looking up she saw her face in the mirror: the wide-set, luminous blue eyes, the perfectly chiseled cheekbones and delicately protruding chin. The full, even mouth with its slightly downward pout. Impostor! she thought, hating the vacuous Beauty she saw reflected. She was the Beast! There had to be some deformity still there, something horrid and grotesque that was hidden in her perfect features that prevented someone from loving her. She thought she would be different if she changed her face. But nothing had changed after all. She still felt the need to be recognized, to be wanted, to be loved.
But she was not worth loving. Of course Michael did not love her, she thought, burying her face in her hands. The lack was not in him—but in her.
Twenty-Two
Michael usually loved the spring, the earth’s awakening. In the distant hills the coyotes were in full cry. He stood out on his porch with his hands in his back pockets, listening to their songs of love. Deep, soulful howls that moved him deeply. Coyotes traveled in pairs, he thought.
Then he cringed. His own loneliness was oppressive. He’d thought by now, after months of separation, Charlotte would be out of his mind. But she’d sunk her roots deep, like the onions in her garden that were sending up soft green shoots after the long winter. What would it take to rid himself of her?
All throughout the winter her face was everywhere, in the tabloids, on talk shows, on billboards promoting her new film. She’d been nominated for Best Actress for her role as Marguerite in Camille, and the studio was going all out with publicity. He went to see the film—it was madness on his part but he couldn’t keep himself away. He was tortured watching her—the face that he loved—light up the screen. When he felt charitable, he could agree with the critics that Charlotte was brilliant in the film. When he was feeling bitter, he felt that the role of the lying, manipulative beauty came naturally to her.
One line from the film, spoken by Marguerite to Armand, kept coming back to him. “I am not always sincere. One can’t be in this world.”
Ha! It must have been so easy for her to recite those words. Like Armand, he had been betrayed. Even after all this time any trigger—a photograph of her face, a sudden memory, the scent of her perfume—acted as a dagger poised over his heart, waiting to strike.
And still her face was everywhere. She rarely smiled, however, in the photographs or during interviews. To others she might appear cool and aloof, but he knew better. He could pick out the small signals of distress: a tightening of her hands in her lap, a slight twitching of her lips, the slant of her head. Usually he would turn his head and pass, or turn off the television after she appeared on the screen. Occasionally, though, he would lapse into a kind of trance and stare at her and listen to her speak, and worry—why was she so sad? Those moments were the hardest. He was vain enough to think that she might miss him, or have regrets, possibly even remorse.
He often stared at her jaw and wondered, would it make a difference if her face was changed? Once he walked up to the television screen as she was talking to Jay Leno and covered up the bottom of her face with his palm so only her eyes were visible. Yes, it was still her. In the eyes. He felt he was looking through those brilliant blue orbs, straight to her.
The
coyote’s song pierced the softness of the night. Michael stared out over the mountains and the drifts of fog moving in. Might they have been able to work it out? he wondered. It was an exquisite torture, like picking at a scab.
“Hurry up, mi’jos,” Luis called out as he drove up to the cabin, his face beaming in the dark interior of his truck. Tonight these magnificent birds will make men out of you!”
Michael leaned over the porch railing and waved at his father. Luis had insisted on taking his sons on a man’s night out. Something to bind the men together after a long winter of mooning around, silences and avoidance. Luis was determined to bring his men together—no women allowed—women being the source of all this discontent, he figured. Interesting that he thought a cockfight would be the instrument of peace.
Michael was just as happy to get out of the house, to go anywhere. If he was home, he might weaken and watch Charlotte highlighted all evening on the television’s Oscar coverage. He’d watch her dressed to kill in her couture gown, watch the photographers and fans clamor for a glimpse of her, watch her win—for he was sure she would. He didn’t think he was strong enough to hear her thank Freddy Walen when she accepted the gold statue. Watching a gamecock rip the heart out of another had to be easier than feeling Charlotte rip the heart out of his own chest.
“And the winner is…Charlotte Godfrey for Camille.”
The crowd roared their approval and Charlotte felt her heart spring to life. The cameras came in for the close-up, catching her face as it spontaneously broke into her trademark, megawatt smile.
Charlotte had heard that at moments like this time seemed to move in slow motion, and she realized it was true. The orchestra sounded, there was a thunderous applause and beside her she heard Freddy’s urgent “Get up! Get up!”
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