He arrived on time, as she knew he would, only a few minutes after she was finished in the bathroom. She left the apartment door open and told him from her bedroom to come in and make himself at home, then decided to let him cool his heels while she did her final primping. Let him feel the lush, thick carpet, see the big, velvet chairs and then, of course, the paintings—the only real tip-off that this was a multimillionaire’s apartment were the paintings judiciously placed on the walls. Originals by Chagall, Modigliani, and Diego Rivera. There was even a small etching by Picasso, and one by Giacometti, too. He’d probably never seen a living room like that. Let him realize who she was for a minute or two before they began.
Five minutes later she walked into the living room wearing her skintight blue jeans and a low-cut yellow blouse that revealed a generous view of her newly revamped breasts.
“Hey, Jaime, thanks for coming,” she said, extending her hand then leaning in for a hug and peck on the cheek. He could smell her perfume; expensive and delicious.
“Thank you,” he said, feeling, no doubt, her artificially enhanced breasts brush against his chest.
He was wearing an expensive blue Yves St. Laurent sport jacket with matching tie. At least he knows how to look like he might have some money, she thought.
“Your apartment is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“And your art is amazing.”
“Most of it’s back in L.A., but we left a few good ones here.”
“I’ll say.”
“Eric’s been collecting a long time. It’s all his taste. I don’t know much about art but he’s trying to teach me. Do you need to set up or …?”
“Oh, for the interview? No, my tape recorder is very discreet, very diminutive—you’ll barely notice it, see?” he said, taking it out of his jacket pocket and holding it up.
“It is small. Do you want to just sit on the sofa then and put the recorder on that glass table in front of it?”
“That should work fine.”
“Fabulous. Now I just have one more question for you: would you like a drink now and some really super hors d’oeuvres left over from a little dinner we had last night? I’ve already had a drink or two so I’m way ahead of you.”
“A drink sounds good. I’m trying to diet so I’ll pass on the hors d’oeuvres, but thank you.”
“Are you sure? Woody couldn’t stop eating them last night.”
“Woody Allen?”
“Yes, he and Soon-Yi were over last night.”
“Well, that does make me curious,” he said, with a smile that soon became an appealing kind of blush.
“Be right back,” she said, getting up to bring the hors d’oeuvres and knowing that he was checking out her body as she walked a slightly modified version of her model walk into the kitchen.
There was no more postponing it—the interview had begun. She was surprised how nervous she felt. It was like taking a test in school.
“When did you know you wanted to become an actress?” he said, turning to face her (she was only a few feet to his right on the pale green sofa), “and how did you know it?”
“Wow, what a question,” she said, smiling even more broadly at him. “That’s pretty deep. I think I always knew, I mean, I think I was seven or eight and had a part, OK, the lead, I admit it, in my school play and it just gave me a feeling I never got in any other way.”
“What was that feeling?”
“Oh, just the fun of pretending I was someone else and making it all seem real. And then of course the applause was nice. The first time you hear it, there’s nothing like it on earth,” she said with a smile that revealed her straight, gleaming teeth—her main, model smile.
“Did you ever study formally?” he quickly asked, “and if so, at what point in your career?”
“Oh, no, I can’t claim to have studied with anyone formally,” she said, realizing she was using her Marilyn Monroe voice, which was definitely the wrong one for the interview, so she transitioned partway through to more of a Meryl Streep. “Of course, I learned a lot from a lot of different actors and actresses and then when I met Eric, especially from him. I mean—who wouldn’t? He’s one of the world’s great directors.”
“Of course.”
“I remember a talk we once had early in our relationship. I don’t think he’d mind my telling you this,” she said, swallowing the rest of her drink. “I’d asked him if he thought I should study—join an actor’s studio or whatever, and you know what he said?”
“What?”
“He said, ‘You don’t need to study, babe. You’re a natural. If you studied, they’d just fuck you up.’ Wasn’t that sweet of him? I think it’s the greatest compliment I ever got—especially since it came from such a genius.”
Jaime nodded and said something supportive, reminding himself to keep well hidden the contempt he felt for West’s movies. One day, sooner rather than later, when his novel was published, his work would bury that fake cowboy’s.
“Who are some of the actresses who’ve influenced you? I mean your approach, to acting.” It was such a typical question that for a moment it embarrassed him.
“Oh, there’re so many. Meryl Streep is great, Eric loved working with her, and he loves Julia Roberts, too. And you know who else Eric and I always loved is Angelina. She can do it all, don’t you think? And then, of course, we both loved Marilyn. She was the greatest, right?”
“Definitely,” he said, though he barely understood what she was saying. He felt he was in a movie himself, not acting in it, but photographing it and not as the photographer exactly, but more like a magical camera floating invisibly in space. An invisible camera with a little tape recorder inside it that kept asking questions. Already he couldn’t wait to tell Sarah. She’d say, “I’m marrying a publishing genius,” or some other absurdly excessive compliment that he had to admit he loved. God, he was so lucky lately, getting this high-profile interview, which would put his debut issue on the map, and then, of course, marrying Sarah in less than a month—a woman who had finally shown him that he really was straight, once and for all, and who was also largely bankrolling his, admittedly, modestly financed online magazine. Good, steadfast Sarah, something to count on in this world of illusion.
“And what about actors?” he said. “Have they influenced your work as much as actresses have?”
“That’s a really interesting question, Jaime. Let me think … I think we’ve all been influenced by Jack and Marlon and by Bobby De Niro. Of course all those guys are geniuses and I’m, well, I really feel that I’m just starting out. So far I’ve just been kind of a tit queen, but I aspire to be much more. I guess that’s why being interviewed like this is making me kind of nervous.”
“You’re nervous?”
“A little.”
“That’s hard to believe,” he blurted. “You’re such a talked-about young star. I thought you were wonderful in Eric’s last movie,” he added.
“Rainbow Café?”
“Yes,” he said, hoping he sounded sincere, since he hadn’t seen it.
“I love being in Eric’s movies ’cause they have so much substance and, and … meaning, don’t you think?”
“Of course.”
“He gives me a chance to really act because he really believes in me. At least, I think he does.”
There was a silence until he said, “Have you ever thought of doing any independent films?”
“Yah, sure, I think about them all the time. I was even going to be in one by … well I shouldn’t mention the director’s name.”
“Why not?”
“Cause … some bad stuff happened.”
Jaime raised his eyebrows to show he was interested. “You’re being very mysterious,” he said, then regretted it. He didn’t want to possibly offend her by acting like a sleaze-rag journalist, himself. His magazine was going to be different, classy—revealing the real complexities of people in the film world.
“Well, this director tho
ught he was in love with me. Least that’s what he said, but it was more like he was in lust for me. He started writing me these crazy letters and making lots of phone calls and naturally Eric noticed and got upset, so I had to withdraw, and there went my independent movie,” she said, with what looked to be a real tear in her eye.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Don’t be,” she said, although her eyes were now clearly tearing up. “I’m so lucky. I mean look at this,” she said, gesturing with her arms to indicate her apartment. “And I have a beautiful home in Beverly Hills and a house in the south of France.”
“Really?”
“Yah. Eric doesn’t talk about that one so let’s keep it off the record, OK?”
“Of course.”
“And then we have an apartment in Paris, too, even though we only go there one or two times a year. I guess I always make a fool of myself in Paris ’cause I can’t speak any French. It irritates Eric no end.”
He decided he wasn’t going to get into that and instead said, “You have an amazing life, don’t you?”
“Believe me, I pinch myself all the time. I know how lucky I am. You think I think I deserve this? What have I done? Just married the right guy I guess,” she said, laughing, as she put her empty glass on the table.
“Now all I really need to be happy is a baby, and we’re working on it … or I am. If I could only convince him to have one more. Eric already has a lot of kids you know … well, he’s had a lot of wives.”
Once more they laughed in unison.
“I guess that’s what keeps him so young.”
Sure, thought Jaime, that and his daily thermos of Cialis.
“I remember your talking about wanting to have a child at Lillian’s,” Jaime said.
“That sounds like me, always blurting out private stuff to people I’ve just met. Eric hates that about me, he’s warned me many times to stop it, but I can’t seem to help it—especially when I’m a little tipsy, like I am now, screwing up this interview.”
“No way, you’re doing great.”
“See, my only problem is I worry about him ’cause so many women want to have affairs with him and a lot of them are more beautiful and smarter and more talented than me and wouldn’t bug him about having a baby, either. Do you see what I mean?”
He stared at her in silence while she finished another drink.
“Did I say the wrong thing? Am I talking too much again?”
“No, not at all.”
“It’s just that you’ve gotten so quiet,” she said.
“I’m just listening to you, that’s all.”
“That’s a wonderful quality, Jaime. Women really like that, ’cause they don’t meet many men who ever really listen to them. Eric doesn’t really listen to me much. Sometimes I think he’d like it better if I never talked at all. Anyway, all I’m trying to say is sometimes I get nervous being married to such a great and desirable man. You know, people are saying he’s the new Orson Welles. Did you know that? They used to compare him to Robert Altman but now they compare him to Welles, you see what I’m talking about, and I’m just a Hollywood body that’s never even had one of his kids—like three other women have. Can you understand what I’m feeling … Jaime?”
“Of course, but I don’t really think you have anything to worry about.”
“Thanks, but I do worry. Most nights I have to take pills just to get to sleep.”
“Really?”
“’Fraid so. Well, now I’m definitely talking too much.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t print that.”
“Oh thank you, darlin’. You’re a true prince. Please don’t print any stupid stuff I say, OK? ’Cause, you know, half the time I really don’t know what I’m saying.” She was slurping the rest of her drink, or maybe starting a new one while she continued talking.
“You really are a prince,” she said, “you’re a really special prince to look out for me this way.”
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“I think you really do understand what I’m feeling, don’t you? You know what I’m going through. Even today, he’s been gone all day and I don’t really know what’s he’s doing.”
She looked down at the carpet. She was aware that she’d been talking in an excited burst of words that had nothing to do with his questions, but she couldn’t help it. It was as if the waterfall of her words was too strong not to overflow. “Can I talk to you off the record for a second,” she said, suddenly forcing eye contact between them.
“Of course.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“When he leaves me alone at night, or even sometimes in the afternoon like he did today, it’s like I die a thousand deaths imagining him being with some woman, maybe even a hooker. I mean, everyone wants him, so he could do anything with anyone. I’ll feel it then like it’s gripping me by the throat and then a rage will go through me. … You look surprised but it’s true, I’m ashamed to say it’s all true. I’ll feel rage even though I don’t have any proof that it’s anything more than my mind working overtime, being overstimulated and turning on itself. … Well, OK, a few times I really did have proof, I mean I figured out the code in his appointment book, I’d smell the woman’s perfume on him (I have a very sensitive nose, maybe ’cause it’s the only part of me they didn’t reconstruct, much). Once I even kind of had him followed … and I’ll think ‘Jesus, I didn’t ask for any of this, I didn’t ask for this,’ you know.”
He heard the glass go on the table then heard her crying and once again didn’t know what to say.
“Give me a hug, will you, Jaime? OK? I really need one.”
They moved closer to each other, then she was in his arms, breasts against his chest, his arms covering her like a tent.
“It feels good in here,” she said, “really good.”
The next thing he knew her tongue was in his mouth, then he didn’t think anymore, just felt her tongue. He wanted to close his eyes but kept them open, unable to resist the sight of Louise Leloch, bona fide Hollywood sex symbol, kissing him. He only wished he’d brought his camera so he could photograph her. Meanwhile, her tongue was making a series of complicated loops and probes all very skillfully executed, and he had to concentrate to be able to respond properly. He could hear her breathing, could feel her hands—finally he closed his eyes. But the moment he did, he saw an image of Sarah’s face with that eternally hopeful, believing expression in her face when he proposed. Who was he kidding? He wouldn’t be able to do this under these circumstances. Sarah was the only woman he’d been able to have sex with in almost five years.
He waited till one of her deep probes ended and then pulled away from her.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“What?” she said. “Are you kidding?”
“No, I can’t. There’s someone I love, so I can’t. It’s my fiancée.”
“Sweetie, I love someone, too. What do you think I’ve been talking about all afternoon?”
He shrugged, in spite of himself. Looking down, he was surprised to discover that one of his buttons was missing from his shirt. She must have torn it while she was massaging his chest.
“You know how much I love Eric, right?”
“Yes,” he said, “of course I know.”
“I can barely say two sentences without talking about him. I mean, this was supposed to be my interview, but it ended up being all about him just like all my other interviews.”
He looked up from his shirt and saw that she was watching him closely.
“Well,” she said, straightening her own clothes, “this is a first. I thought you were going to say you were gay or had some kind of injury or something.”
“No, it’s just that …”
“Don’t say any more, OK?” she said, holding up one of her hands. “I heard you the first time. It was just a mistake I made—it’s no big deal.”
> “OK. Well, would you like me to finish the interview?”
“I’d like you to go now, Jaime, that’s what I’d like.”
“All right then, if that’s what you want.”
“And I don’t want you to print that interview, all right?”
He looked at her. Something in her tone of voice frightened him, reminded him of her deep pockets and powerful connections.
“OK then.”
“I’d feel much better if you’d give me the tape right now. Then I think we could be friends and there’d be no more issues between us.”
He felt another jolt of pain at the thought of handing over the tape and closed his eyes again for a second. “Here,” he said. “Here’s the tape.”
She couldn’t help seeing the symbolism as she flushed the toilet. It was like flushing away another botched interview. Yes, another potential boost to her career floating away along with another bit of her self respect. Her record was intact—always a before the interview trip to the bathroom and always one after, where she had to deal with her weakness and ineptitude and now her fear that Jaime would try to find some way to sell what he heard and what happened between them. Another thing she’d have to try to explain to Eric, who’d be home before she knew it.
He was late—which she expected—but she wouldn’t say anything about it. She was watching TV in bed when she heard the key turn in the door. Then she shut it off and jumped up to greet him, feeling like an oversized poodle—but she knew he liked her to be at the door the moment he arrived. Amazing how trained her ears had become that she could always hear the sound of the key immediately through the TV or music she was listening to—through anything. She was wearing a short black silk bathrobe the size of a miniskirt and a pink thong, both of which she’d bought at Frederick’s of Hollywood. That was the way he liked her to dress around the house, like a Playboy playmate. He’d even said to her before they married, “if you’re not wearing any underwear when I come home, that means you want me badly; if you’re wearing a thong, that means you’re persuadable; if you’re wearing that fifties kind of underwear you used to wear when I met you, that means you have cramps, or something worse, and if I do you, you can consider it rape.”
Shadow Traffic Page 18