by Jane Heller
“Stacey, it’s the director’s job to guide you into doing the best work you can. You weren’t well served in Pet Peeve. Now that I’ve seen you in other roles, I’m convinced of that.”
“Other roles? What roles?”
He smiled. “I’m nothing if not thorough. I was curious about you after our exchange at Cornucopia!—it’s not every day that a subject of one of my reviews taunts me with it—and so I asked Kyle to get me tapes of everything you’ve done.”
My, my. So he had researched me, done his homework on me. I was amazed. Flattered, too. “And?”
“And I came to the conclusion that you were wonderful.”
I gulped more of the martini and sat back in my chair. “Wonderful in what, for example?”
“The Ally McBeal episode,” he said. “The Boston Public episode. All the television work was first-rate, Stacey. Honestly.”
Jack Rawlins is really handsome. I thought this either because he was handsome or because he was praising my acting or because I was sliding into inebriation. “I appreciate that. Too bad you missed my Irish Spring commercial. I gave a bravura performance in it.”
He laughed. “I’ll bet you did. I’ll bet if you’d been directed by someone who knew what he was doing, you would have given a bravura performance in Pet Peeve, too.”
“Here’s a question for you, Jack,” I said, starting to feel pretty peppy now. “Why are you such a snob about movies? Pet Peeve wasn’t Citizen Kane, but it wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be a goofy, fluffy piece of escapist entertainment. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, if it’s well made. But I’d rather talk about what a capable actress you are, not about what a snob I am. Can we do that?”
“No argument here. Go ahead.”
“For starters, I think you have a very natural quality on camera, a compelling vulnerability about you. And you’re beautiful, of course.”
Of course? Since when? “I don’t know what to say, Jack.” Another sip of the martini was in order. “I certainly don’t consider myself beautiful, and my agent thinks I’m better suited to character parts than leading lady parts, but maybe he hasn’t been pitching me in the right way.”
“Maybe not.”
At that point—it must have been the booze that had loosened me up—I spontaneously unburdened myself to Jack Rawlins, told him the story of my struggles as an actress. I left nothing out, not even the anecdote about the Tic Tac commercial and the saga of the Monster Cold Sore. He seemed fascinated by every gem that came out of my mouth, murmuring in sympathy, patting my hand in a gesture of commiseration, even agreeing to offer to help me revive my career. “I’d be happy to do whatever I can, since you’re having trouble getting the roles you want—the roles you deserve,” he said. “I could make a few calls, drop your name around, ‘create some heat around you,’ as they say in this town. It’s my job to keep my ear to the ground, so if I hear of anything, I’ll do my best to get you involved.”
“That would be fabulous, thanks,” I said, feeling both giddy with the drift the conversation had taken and queasy from the martini, which I’d polished off entirely too fast.
“Would you like another one of those?” asked Jack, nodding at my empty glass.
“I’d better not,” I said. “But a ginger ale would be great.”
Jack signaled the waiter, who brought the soda right away.
“So, are we friends?” he said, running his fingers through his hair. He had nice hands, I noticed. Nice wrists, too. Come to think of it, there wasn’t anything about Jack Rawlins that wasn’t attractive. Now that I had seen this other side to him, this sensitive, generous side, I found myself feeling rather drawn to him.
“Yes, we’re friends,” I said, wondering about the redhead suddenly, the one he’d had on his arm at Cornucopia! “But enough about me, Jack. Tell me about you, about how you became a movie critic.”
“I became a movie critic because I love movies,” he said. “I love to watch them, think about them, talk about them, talk to the people who make them, all of it. When I was a kid, I’d spend whole weekends in theaters, seeing everything that came out, even the crap. Movies were a safe haven, I guess.”
“From what?”
“The usual: adolescent angst. My parents had a poor excuse for a marriage and my younger brother had a lot of physical problems. Our house wasn’t the most festive place in the neighborhood.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He shrugged. “Everybody’s got a story. The point is, I buried myself in movies the way other people bury themselves in books. When it was time to start earning a living, it seemed only natural that I’d go into the business.”
“The business of reviewing movies?”
“The business of covering the movie industry. I was a better-than-average writer, so my first gigs out of college were with the trades; first The Hollywood Reporter, then Variety. Eventually, I moved into reviewing movies for consumer magazines, which led to the local television show, and now the syndicated version.”
“You must be thrilled that you’ve gone national, Jack. You’ve got an audience of millions now.”
“It’s been exciting, no question about it, but when you’re at the top, there’s only one place you can go from there—down. There’s a lot more pressure on me than there was when I was writing my columns. I can’t just review movies anymore. I have to interview guests, too, and the problem with that is that I’m competing with the other entertainment shows for the same guests. It’s all about the ‘get’ now; how you can’t let Entertainment Tonight or Access Hollywood or Extra! air a segment with Tom Cruise before you do. It’s the proverbial jungle out there.”
“It must be.”
“So the trick, I’m finding, is to snag the most interesting guests as opposed to the most famous guests— the ones who aren’t just out there plugging their latest film but who genuinely have something to say.” He paused to swallow the last of his scotch, and as he did, it occurred to me that he might be on the verge of asking me to be a guest on his show. Well, why not? True, I wasn’t a big name, but he’d just gotten through telling me what a good actress I was, plus he had seemed so captivated by the trials and tribulations of my career. Most importantly, he had promised to help me raise my profile, and wouldn’t putting me on his show be the most efficient way to do that? Maybe he was considering doing a segment on up-and-comers or down-and-outers or actresses-who’ve-plateau-ed. Maybe he’d decided that I was someone who wasn’t just out there plugging my latest film but who genuinely had something to say. Maybe he was dying to invite me on the show but was hesitant because of the sledgehammer thing.
“Sounds like you’ve got quite a challenge with the new and improved Good Morning, Hollywood,” I said, “but I think your vision for the show is absolutely right, Jack: interesting guests, not the usual suspects.”
“Exactly,” he said. “So, since you have such a keen understanding of what I’m up against, I’d like to ask you a question, Stacey.”
“Ask away,” I said, my excitement growing. Yes, he definitely wanted me for the show. He’d been searching for undiscovered talent and stumbled onto me. God, I couldn’t wait to tell Maura, without whom I wouldn’t have had the foresight to even meet with Jack Rawlins. To think of it! An appearance on Good Morning, Hollywood would totally change my life! Every producer, never mind casting director, would see me. It would be the opportunity of all opportunities. I could hardly contain myself.
“I feel a little uncomfortable asking you,” he said, “given the rocky start to our friendship, but now that we’ve cleared the air, I don’t see why I can’t do you a favor and you can’t do one for me. That’s how this business works, isn’t it? One hand washes the other.”
“That’s how it works,” I agreed, eager for him to pop the question already.
“All right,” he said. “What I’m asking is if you would—”
“Yes!” I couldn’t resist jumping in. I was just too charged
up. “I’d love to be a guest on your show, Jack. I think your producers could come up with a great segment where you interview me about my day-to-day routine of trying to make it in Hollywood. I think your viewers would enjoy it and I’m available to do it. So let’s schedule it.”
He looked puzzled.
“Is something wrong?” I said.
“Uh, I’m afraid there is,” he said. “I wasn’t asking you to appear on the show, Stacey. I was asking you to get me your mother.”
“What did you say?”
“Listen, before you react, let me explain the situation. I need her for the show, Stacey. It’s a ratings issue. The producers have been falling all over themselves to convince her to come on, but she won’t, thanks to my Pet Peeve review of you and the grudge she’s got against me because of it. They suggested I talk to you, to see if you’d persuade her that I’m not such a terrible guy after all.”
Well! I was so angry, so humiliated, so undone, that I couldn’t breathe at first. I just stared at Jack Rawlins, who was no longer handsome to me in the slightest, and tried to figure out how in the world I could have been so gullible, how in the world I could have believed his apology, believed his interest in me, bought his act. Of course he was a sneaky son of a bitch. Of course he was an ambitious asshole. Of course he was using me to get to my mother. (It was entirely beside the point that I was using him to further my career.) I mean, the nerve of the guy. The sheer audacity.
I stood, swaying a little from the martini and the rage, grabbed my glass of ginger ale, and said, “But you are a terrible guy after all.” And then, because I was out of control and no longer cared what sort of an impression I made on anybody, I splashed the soda in his face.
“I guess the answer is no?” he said, as he reached for his napkin to mop himself up. “You won’t talk to your mother for me?”
“I guess the answer is no way,” I said and headed for the exit.
fourteen
“You did what?” said Maura after I told her about the ginger ale shower I gave Rawlins. We were sitting in the spare bedroom she’d turned into a studio, and she was applying color to one of her wigs. In addition to using the studio for makeup sessions with private clients, she stored her wigs and costumes and stage props there and rented them out to make extra money. Needless to say, she cleaned up on Halloween.
“I threw my drink at him,” I said. “I was beyond angry.”
“If you ask me, you overreacted.”
“Overreacted? That jerk lures me to the Four Seasons, letting me believe he’s interested in me, in my career, when all he wants is to get to my mother? Come on, I think I was justified in feeling used.”
“Why? You were using him, too. From what you tell me, you solicited his help in getting jobs. And then he solicited your help in getting your mother. Favor for favor.”
“That’s exactly what he said.” Was Maura really taking Jack’s side? My Maura?
“Stacey, you’re going to have to adapt to your mother’s success, to the fact that she’s in demand right now. Besides, you of all people know how fleeting fame is. There’ll come a day—probably sooner rather than later—when your mother’s phone won’t be ringing anymore and no one will be cozying up to you to get to her. This is her moment. She’s sixty-six years old and she never expected to find herself in this position. So let her have fun with it. Tell her it’s okay with you if she does Jack’s show. She may never have the chance again, and you’d hate it if you were the one who deprived her of that chance, wouldn’t you?”
“I never thought of it that way.” I had to admit that Maura had a point. Just because I had a grudge against Jack Rawlins didn’t mean my mother shouldn’t have her day in the sun. This was her moment. This was her time to take advantage of all the offers that were coming her way. This was the opportunity of her lifetime, and I’d be selfish if I let my petty hurts ruin it for her. If anybody understood how quickly her good fortune could evaporate, it was I.
“He must think I’m the Wicked Witch of the West,” I mused, “losing my temper the way I did.”
“He probably does,” said Maura. “You might consider apologizing.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe he didn’t deserve the soda in the face, but he’s still a rat. Don’t forget that he pretended to praise my television work, softening me up before zooming in for the kill.”
“What if he was sincere about your acting? What if he meant it when he said you were wonderful on Ally McBeal and Boston Public?”
“He didn’t mean it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the only reason he even looked at those tapes was to set me up, so I’d coax my mother into doing his show.”
“Maybe, but it’s possible that when he did look at the tapes, he liked what he saw.”
I dismissed what Maura said. She always viewed the glass as half-full, as I’ve indicated, so what good was her opinion anyway?
My mother came over to my apartment the next day. It was one of her rare visits since stardom hit, and she looked terrific. The woman who never wore anything but dresses and skirts was sporting a black Armani pants suit, and the streaks in her brown hair were no longer gray but a flattering shade of red. Apparently, there had been yet another addition to her entourage—a stylist—and she now wore whatever Eve told her to wear.
“You look great, Mom,” I said as she eyed my messy kitchen but refrained from rushing around to straighten it up. This was the new Helen Reiser, the Helen Reiser who had much too much on her plate to worry about mine.
“Thanks, dear. You look great, too.”
See? No: “You need a haircut.” Or: ‘There are dark circles under your eyes.” Or even: “Watch your posture.” I offered to make us lunch, but she already had a lunch date—with a writer for Good Housekeeping.
“This is just a quickie visit, so I can spend a little time with you,” she said, hugging me. “Come, let’s sit down so you can tell me what’s going on.”
We sat. “Nothing much is going on,” I said. “I’m still working at the store a few days a week and going out on auditions. But there is something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“What? You’re not sick, are you? I was in the greenroom at the Today show last week and everyone had these horrible, hacking coughs. Even Katie Couric had a cough. She’s very nice, by the way.”
“I’m thrilled to hear it. Actually, what I’d like to talk to you about involves another show: Good Morning, Hollywood.”
She scowled. “Why would I want to talk about that show? The host insulted my daughter.”
“Because it has a huge audience, Mom, and it would be the perfect vehicle for you.”
“That’s what Jeanine says. She’s been inundated with calls from some producer over there. I keep telling her to say no to him.”
“I think you should say yes to him, Mom. They’ve changed the format of the show, so you’d have lots of air time. Jack Rawlins isn’t on my list of favorite people, obviously, but he’s a really good interviewer, an intelligent interviewer, and he’d give you the kind of exposure that’ll keep you in the limelight.” I didn’t add that she should grab every invitation she could get, because there was no telling when the media would tire of her and move on to the Next Big Thing.
She shot me one of her are-you-crazy looks. “I’ll do that show over my dead body. Not after how he treated you, dear.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why you should do his show,” I said, remembering Maura’s words of wisdom, that I shouldn’t let my grudge against Jack deprive my mother of her chance to shine. “You should go on with him and then give him a hard time. Remember how you wanted to write him one of your complaint letters after his review of Pet Peeve? Well, now you can badger him face-to-face, on national television.”
She cackled. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, think of it, although I didn’t mean you should discuss me during the interview. I meant that you should take him on, the way you took on Fin�
�s. Make him earn his money, ask him some tough questions, engage him in a lively dialogue about whatever subject he brings up. It would be great television, great for your career, and great for me.”
“Why for you?”
“Because I’d get to watch him squirm, Mom. You’re brilliant at making people squirm.”
She cocked her head, considered my proposition. “I suppose it would be fun to go one-on-one with that rascal.”
“Of course it would. So will you do it? Will you have Jeanine call his producer and book the interview?”
“Now that you’ve put a different slant on it, yes, I will. I’ll have her call this afternoon and set it up.”
“Great. But will you also promise me something?”
“What?’
“Swear to me that you’ll tell Jack Rawlins that the reason you finally relented and agreed to do the show was because Jeanine twisted your arm.”
“But you’re the one who—”
“I know, but you have to tell him it was Jeanine and that she persuaded you over my objections. The point is, you can’t mention that I was in favor of it. Not a whisper. Are we clear?”
“Yes, but why the secrecy?”
“I’d just like to stay out of it, that’s all.”
The last thing I needed was for Jack Rawlins, the dirtbag, to find out I’d caved in and done what he’d asked me. I may have lost my composure with him, but I was not about to lose my pride, too.
My mother taped Good Morning, Hollywood two weeks later, and the show aired a few days after that. It was a ratings winner, one of those once-in-a-lifetime interviews that everybody remembers, because it was so provocative, so compelling, like watching two evenly matched heavyweights duke it out until the final round. Jack kept trying to get straight answers out of my mother, and she kept dishing out fabulously crabby barbs in return, and at the end of the interview, he knelt down in front of her and literally begged her for mercy. The clip was played and replayed on all the other entertainment shows, which brought my mother the kind of visibility I would have denied her had I not convinced her to do the interview. I felt good about that, surprisingly good.