The Fame Game

by Rona Jaffe

  Her success with Doug gave her an aura, perhaps visible to others, of triumph, of knowing she could conquer the whole world. She, a little housewife, had been Douglas Henry’s mistress! So when the next star approached her, and the next, she was never really surprised, only more intoxicated, more gloriously happy.

  She still slept with Sam once in a while, whenever he thought about it, but he loved his career first and put in a twenty-hour day. She was quiet and discreet about her love life, although she would have loved to have bragged, but she was clever enough to know that none of her friends would trust her any more if they knew she had slept with even one husband. She never felt guilty. With Elaine Fellin, for example, who was her best friend, she only felt pity. Elaine was soon to be dumped because Mad Daddy liked little girls. He had intimated that to her, Lizzie, that is. And he had chosen her! She was older than he was, and he had chosen her!

  Of course Sam didn’t know. He didn’t have a clue. He didn’t cheat on her, poor thing, although he certainly had the chance. But Sam was a nice, old-fashioned boy at heart, and he thought husbands were supposed to be faithful. She didn’t know what she would do if Sam cheated; probably laugh and forgive him. After all, he was entitled.

  No, she loved Sam and he loved her. Their marriage was forever. It lacked a lot of things, and she felt she could have been of more use to him if he had let her, but it was a good marriage and it satisfied her. They had no children, for which Lizzie was just as glad. Somehow she thought it would have been immoral for a mother to carry on the way she did. They didn’t even have a dog.

  She had started going to Dr. Picker on one of Sam’s and her trips to New York, and she enjoyed it at first. She thought analysis would give her a firmer grasp on what she was all about. And she had a secret dream: to write the greatest dirty book in the world, and she felt analysis would give her the discipline to do it.

  Her book was to be called An Elegant Book, and it would concern the adventures of a beautiful, innocent young girl who always found herself in extraordinary sexual experiences. Then, right in the middle of the experience, just as things were really getting wild, the girl would cry: “Get out, get out! This is an elegant book!” and would extricate herself and go about her business. The possibilities were limitless, and so was the humor—the girl with a cock in her mouth trying to mumble “Get out!” for example. Pornography was in, and the book could make Lizzie famous in her own right, not just as the wife of Sam Leo Libra.

  But except for dinners and cocktail parties, where she regaled all within earshot with the amusing possibilities of her book, and of course her sessions with Dr. Picker, who was an inexhaustible audience, Lizzie had not written a word of it. She just didn’t have the energy to start. She knew just what she wanted to say, but when faced with a blank piece of paper she couldn’t manage to make even the first sentence come out to her satisfaction. She fervently hoped that her analysis would give her the discipline to start in earnest; perhaps she could retreat to Palm Springs, where she and Sam had friends, and become a recluse. A recluse writer! Wouldn’t that be divine?

  Meanwhile, of course, all her friends loved to hear about the book. Everybody said Lizzie Libra had a great sense of humor and was really fun to talk to. And her experiences with her famous lovers had given her further grist for her mill. If Sam ever asked her where she learned all those things she would tell him from reading dirty books, of course. Anything went nowadays in fiction. There was a mint in pornography, especially humorous pornography, although she had enough money now. It was fame she wanted. She had everything else. She had a darling, famous husband, she had a glorious past, a glorious future coming up with stars she hadn’t even met yet, and she had so many good friends she could hardly count them. She was a happy woman. If only Nelly Nelson wasn’t such a fruit. It would be heaven to be the only woman Nelson had ever slept with, but Lizzie was wise enough to know that even in the glitter world she lived in no one could have everything he wanted.

  Sam Leo Libra, pacing the living room of his suite at the Plaza, could hardly contain his elation. Fred, that bitch, had finally called and said she wanted to see him. He had sent Gerry out on a wild-goose chase so he could be alone with Fred when she arrived. Not that he didn’t trust Gerry completely, but the business he had in mind with Fred would have to be done in private.

  He had been yearning for Fred for two months now, ever since he had met her. She had that patrician kind of looks he found so sexy—he had always believed that girls who looked like icicles were the hottest when you finally thawed them out. Not that he would pass up someone inferior to Fred, and he certainly hadn’t in the past: a man had to get his heart started some way. In fact, some of the girls he had balled were pretty odd—Ingrid, for instance. He’d always secretly thought she was either a dike or one of those ladies who took a whip to men—he didn’t like the look in her eyes. But luckily, the affair with Ingrid had been brief and expedient, and now she was just his doctor, as if nothing had happened. He knew very little about Ingrid, and she seemed to prefer it that way, so he had never questioned her about her life, even during the cozy time in bed after the dirty deed was done, which he had found was just about the best time to pry secrets out of anybody. And don’t think he hadn’t used that time to best advantage. He remembered that lady agent…

  He looked at his watch impatiently. Tardiness infuriated him. Fred had exactly four minutes to be on time, and then she would be late, putting him at a disadvantage and wasting his precious time. He had taken his second shower of the day at the gym and he was fresh and clean as a baby. Ah Fred … beautiful ice maiden! He wouldn’t even make her take a shower before he touched her; he trusted her. She was always so perfectly groomed. Fred … He hoped to God she had clean underwear. Oh, Fred would, he knew it, and Sam Leo Libra was a perfect judge of people.

  The doorbell rang. He waited a beat, then walked slowly to the door, his heart pounding. She was exactly on time. Oh, she was going to get it, the royal screwing of her life! He opened the door, smiling welcome.

  The bitch had brought someone with her! A girl. He tried to conceal his look of furious disappointment and ushered them both in. He would have to get rid of that other girl. What did Fred have in mind, anyway, a business meeting?

  “Hello, Mr. Libra,” Fred said sweetly. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Bonnie Parker.”

  Bonnie Parker! What was the fool, anyway, a stripper? She didn’t look like a stripper. She was as tall as Fred, and as thin, with pale blond hair cut like Twiggy’s, and enormous, innocent violet eyes. Her face was all soft curves, with a mouth that curved upward at the corners all the time, even when she was not smiling, and lips that looked very soft. She was probably a model.

  “Hello,” Bonnie Parker said, in a voice that was so soft and husky that it was almost inaudible. She looked down shyly. She did not shake hands. She was like a terrified little fawn—if he hadn’t been crazy about Fred he would have been interested.

  “Aren’t you going to ask us to sit down?” Fred asked.

  “Sit down.”

  The girls sat, legs crossed, side by side on the couch in their mini-skirts: two of the loveliest girls in New York, he decided.

  “Bonnie’s new in New York,” Fred said. “She wants to be a model. I think she has a great future, more even than me. I’m not being modest … I know I haven’t got a chance with my voice to become anything more than a model, but I think Bonnie could make it in the movies. That’s why I brought her to you.”

  “Who am I? Central Casting?” He glared at Bonnie. She looked down again. “What’s your real name?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Bonnie Parker.”

  “Now come on,” Libra said. “We all saw the movie. What was your name before?”

  “Jewel,” the girl murmured.

  “No wonder you changed it. Have you ever modeled before?”

  “No, but she brought pictures,” Fred said, taking the model’s por
tfolio away from Bonnie and opening it. “Look at these, just look!”

  Grudgingly, because Fred was standing so close to him that he could smell the scent of Ivory soap that drove him wild, he looked at the girl’s pictures. They were superb. Even he could tell that. The girl definitely had something—an air of … sexless sex. A look of innocent amoral giving. And the clothes hung on her perfectly because she was built like a slat. She was not so thin or small-boned as Twiggy, and her face, although young, was not so much the face of a child as that of a young girl.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Speak up. How do you expect to get in the movies if you mutter like that?”

  “I thought they used microphones,” the girl said.

  He laughed. It wasn’t so much that what she said was funny, although the kid seemed sharp, but that she had a sort of deadpan delivery that made the line seem hilarious. She’d be great on interviews …

  “Why don’t you just let your modeling agency handle you?” he said.

  “Because I think she should do more,” Fred said. “Come on, Mr. Libra, be a sport. You wanted me, and you and I both know I can go only so far and no further. I’m doing you a favor.”

  Oh, so that was it. Fred was pulling out gracefully, handing him a lay. He should have known. That Fred was diabolical. The gift of Bonnie was her way of saying he could never have her. Well, then, the hell with her. He’d lay Bonnie.

  Libra stood up. “Well, Fred, I think I’ll give the matter some thought. If you’ll leave me alone with Bonnie now to discuss it further …”

  Fred gave Bonnie a quick, triumphant smile and stood up. She held out her cool hand and gave him a firm handshake. “You’re a peach, Mr. Libra.”

  Some peach! They all knew what was going on. At least, he hoped Bonnie did, too. “You’ll be sorry,” he said, ushering Fred to the door. “I could have done a lot for you.”

  “You’ll do it for Bonnie,” she said, smiling. And she was gone.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked Bonnie.

  “Do you have a Coke?”

  “Of course.”

  He opened a bottle and poured it into a glass over some ice. Then he held it, standing there by the bar, so she had to get up and come over to him to get it. She walked in a very delicate way, taking little steps, like a geisha. He’d have to teach her how to walk, that way was too affected. When she stood close to him he caught the whiff of Ivory he loved. He wondered if Fred had coached her. He looked carefully at the roots of her hair to see if it was dyed, but it wasn’t, and he looked at her ears and the back of her neck, and they were as clean and soft as his own. Her little white vinyl dress looked squeaky clean, and the heels of her high white vinyl boots were as neat as if she had just come from the shoemaker’s. She had painted a tiny black beauty spot on one cheek, but other than that her face was as clear as porcelain, if artfully made up. She wore no lipstick; he liked that, too. She was really a lovely thing. He could feel his heart getting started, his heart being an area somewhat below his belt. He wanted very much to touch her. He took her hand in his. Her hand felt surprisingly rough, but her nails, he noticed with satisfaction, were immaculate.

  “You should use hand lotion,” he said. “Better yet, sleep in gloves with emollient cream on your hands.”

  “I will,” she said softly.

  “So you want to be a star.”

  “I never dreamed it was possible.”

  “Somebody must have convinced you.”

  “Fred encouraged me. She’s a good friend.”

  “There’s nothing between you and Fred, is there?” he asked, looking at her shrewdly.

  The girl looked genuinely shocked. “Oh no! I’m not a Lesbian, thank God!”

  “Just checking.”

  Bonnie sipped her Coke, looking up at him from half-lowered lids in a flirtatious way. Oh, she really looked ready for it, the hot little thing! He’d give her twenty minutes, maybe fifteen, and he’d have her in bed. Fortunately Lizzie was at a matinee with Elaine and they’d probably get soused somewhere after, so the bedroom was his, even though it was risky. Hereafter he’d have to make the kid take him to her apartment. He hoped she didn’t live with her parents.

  “You’ll have to have a modeling agency, anyway, you know,” he said. “They’ll get you your bookings and I’ll handle your career.”

  “I have one. Fred’s.”

  “That was fast work.”

  “Fred has done so much for me.”

  “Amazing,” Libra said. “Amazing that she’s not jealous.”

  “Oh, we’re completely different types,” Bonnie said. “I think Fred is the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  “You’re not so bad.”

  She smiled, enticingly. He let his finger stray to the nape of her neck, and seeing that she did not move away he let his hand move until it cupped her cheek. She smiled at him and quickly transferred her glass to her mouth. He took the glass away from her and put it on the bar. She moved away from him in a very quick, practiced motion, and stood smiling shyly at him from three feet away. He strode over to her, but she was already at the window.

  “What a lovely view,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  He got her at the window then, where there was no escape but down a long way, and put his hands on her waist. She was wearing one of those goddam waist-cinch things; those skinny models were so paranoid they always thought they were too fat. He hoped it did not have a million hooks in the back.

  “What are you wearing that thing for?” he asked.

  She looked startled, as if he’d said something obscene. Her eyes opened wide and she didn’t answer. He let his fingers stray up until he was just touching her tits. She pulled away and almost ran to the bar, picked up her Coke, and drank it, looking at him over the rim of her glass with those great violet eyes. She was really a morsel. So juicy and tender, like white meat of chicken. He wanted to bite that soft, curvy mouth.

  “Cigarette?” he asked.

  “I don’t smoke, thanks.”

  “Pot?”

  “Oh no.”

  “I was just kidding about the pot. We don’t have that here.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  “You don’t mind that I don’t have it, or you don’t mind if I do have it?”

  “Either way.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She shrugged. “Nobody special.”

  “Would you like to have a boyfriend?”

  She looked down, smiling.

  “Have you ever been to California?”

  “No, but I’d like to go.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you with me.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? If we get along. How do you look in a bikini?”

  She smiled and did not answer. He took a few casual steps toward her. She watched him but did not move. He was right up to her then when she slipped away from him and was across the room. This was unseemly and undignified! He was not going to chase her! But then he saw that she was giggling. He raced toward her and grabbed her shoulders, kissing her on the mouth.

  That mouth! It was softer than he had ever dreamed. He mauled that mouth, sinking into it, until she gasped. His heart was really started now, he couldn’t breathe. Oh, that tender mouth! With one hand firmly around her waist so she could not get away, he let his other hand race to the hem of her mini-skirt, pushing aside her frantic hands that were trying to keep his hand away, and his passionate fingers probed the dark wonder that was between those thighs.

  Holy shit, it was a boy!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Vincent Abruzzi was a little boy he liked to play with dolls, but since his parents did not want him to play with dolls he called them his “puppets.” “I’m going upstairs to play with my puppets now,” he would say, and his mother would smile and go on with her work around the house. Then he would go into his room and for hours he wou
ld design and sew little dresses for his dolls, creating a fantasy life about them. They were always girl dolls.

  Vincent was a shy and beautiful child, very well behaved, and since his parents were already middle-aged—he had been a menopause baby, born long after his parents had resigned themselves to being childless—they were glad that he was so good and did not trouble themselves to find out what he was thinking. He liked to play with girls, because they played games he liked. The girls loved him, because he was so gentle, and adults who noticed how much time he spent with girls laughed and said that he was already quite a ladies’ man. Because he was always so sweet and so pretty, none of the boys taunted him for being a sissy until he was in high school, and even then it was only a few who were already insecure about their own masculinity. For the rest he was a sort of mascot. Because he had a heart murmur he didn’t have to go to gym, but he hung around anyway to watch and attended all the school baseball, basketball, and football games, always with a gang of friends. People liked him.

  Vincent lived in Irvington, New Jersey, in a run-down neighborhood that might even be called a slum. His parents had one of the nicest houses on the block, if it could be called nice, and he was never conscious of being impoverished. He never had anything much of his own, so he simply did not have any conception of ownership about anything. If something took his fancy he would usually manage to get it, and if a friend liked something of his, he would give it to the friend. His mentality was a curious cross between a slum mentality and that of a resident of the Garden of Eden.

  By the time Vincent was in high school all the boys who were going to be homosexuals knew who they were and were already well versed in homosexual practices, but Vincent did not yet know what he was. He was sure he was straight, even though girls terrified him. The girls who had been his playmates were now his dates, but all the kids went out in groups, and the only time he started to shake with fear was during the car ride home when all the other couples were necking. He knew everyone was looking at him, wondering if he was going to kiss his girl. When he took her to her door he knew they were watching from the car, and he would start to plead a headache long before the car had reached his girl’s house. At her door he would give her a quick handshake, say: “Well, it was nice seeing you,” and think: Her make-up looks the worst.