by J. J. Murray
And then, hopefully, we’re going to give her the role of a lifetime.
But with no script approval of any kind.
Pietro just wouldn’t let that happen in his—dare I think it?—marriage.
Chapter 3
Katharina Minola—her skin as brown as hazelnuts, her palate sated by a crustless chunky chicken salad sandwich almost like the kind her grandma Pearl used to make for her—was at a total loss. She could not believe what her signature blue-green eyes were reading as she soaked up the shade in her purple gazebo overlooking her “endless” in-ground pool and the Pacific Ocean somewhere in the distance beyond the smog.
She even had a little trouble breathing, though her fifteen-room mansion wasn’t that high up in the Santa Monica Mountains. She shivered in spite of the dry September heat, pulled her tiger-striped bathrobe closely around her neck, and noticed several more frayed spots on her cuffs and hem. She adjusted her tiger-fur headband tightly around her ears and squirmed her toes more deeply into her tiger-fur slippers to hide the fact that she hadn’t had a pedicure in months.
“Bianca!” she yelled. The sound used to echo through the mountains but not anymore. Katharina’s roar now was nearly as nonexistent as her fame.
Bianca, barely out of UCLA, and shaking like a windblown Bobblehead doll, took a single step forward, her well-worn Chaco sandals barely making a sound, her cutoff jean shorts and plain white T-shirt hanging limply on her waiflike body. “Yes, Miss Minola?” she asked, keeping her gray-blue eyes firmly focused on the ground.
“You said this package came by courier?” Katharina asked.
“Yes, Miss Minola.”
“Did you have to sign for it?”
“Yes, Miss Minola.”
“What was the name of the courier service?”
“The Entertainment Delivery Group of West Hollywood, Miss Minola.”
This could be the real deal, Katharina thought. Thank God!
She waved Bianca away, and Bianca dutifully took one small step backward to her “post.”
I used to get tons of these every month, Katharina thought with an audible sigh. But now the phone does not ring, my cell phone does not buzz, and typing my name on Google pulls up files four and five years old. And I’m now the true victim of an anonymous life because David Letterman and Jay Leno no longer include me in their monologues. Such is fame, so fleeting, so fickle, and so … painful.
“Bianca!”
Bianca shuffled forward. “Yes, Miss Minola?”
“Did you have to pay anything for this?”
“No, Miss Minola. I only had to sign for it.”
A careless wave later, Bianca vanished farther into the shade, and Katharina read the letter again, slowly this time, trying to wrap her mind around the incredible offer on the page.
September 21
Vincenzo Lucentio
CEO, Lucentio Pictures
Hollywood, CA
Have I ever heard of Vincenzo Lucentio? Katharina thought. He must be one of Antonio’s sons. Lucentio Pictures gave me my first big role and has been dying to have me back ever since. But why is the CEO of a film company and not a producer writing to me? Is Lucentio Pictures footing the bill alone? They must be.
Re: A WOMAN ALONE—Offer for Ms. Katharina Minola
Dear Ms. Katharina Minola:
I represent Lucentio Pictures concerning the upcoming production of A WOMAN ALONE. Lucentio Pictures would like to employ you for the title role of “Jane Doe,” shooting for two months from on or about September 30 to on or about November 30 of this year.
Knowing your desire for privacy, we will shoot this picture in a secret location far from the prying eyes of paparazzi. To keep this project a secret and to protect the integrity of the shoot, we will provide you with a script only when you are on location.
The title suits me. Except for Bianca, it is me. The name of my character, though, is almost as anonymous as I’ve become. Maybe I’ll get to name her. That would be fun. I’ve always wanted to play someone named Roxanne. Or Z. Hmm. Roxanne, Roxie, Rox … or Z. Rox-Z? Different. Let’s see … Two months to shoot? Not terrible. Sixty days, roughly four hours a day, two hundred and forty hours of work. Secret location—ah, yes. These people know all about me. I do not want to be seen anymore. I like that. No script until I get there? Intriguing. Trade secrets must be kept. Maybe Lucentio Pictures is breaking new ground again, and I’m the ground-breaker.
You will receive five million on a pay or play basis.
That’s … that’s … She sat up straighter. That’s more money than I’ve made on my last … six movies. But isn’t that what I’m worth? Have I ever been worth even a million? I mean, it’s nice that somebody finally noticed my talent again, but … What’s the word? Ambivalent. I am ambivalent about this. There has to be a catch.
Further, upon condition that you shall appear recognizably in A WOMAN ALONE as released, Lucentio Pictures shall accord you credit in connection with A WOMAN ALONE as follows:
(a) On-Screen—On-screen on a separate card, in the main titles, just after the title of A WOMAN ALONE, in first and sole position in a size of type no smaller than eighty-five percent (85%) of the size of type used to display the title and in a size of type larger than the size of type used to accord an individual “directed by” credit to the director;
Katharina was completely speechless for one of the rare times in her life. The title and then little ol’ me? All by myself? Just my name on the screen? A larger type than the director gets? I wonder who it is. Probably some first-timer. Oh, it doesn’t matter. Five … million. I might just be able to get out of debt again and pay for that stupid car with cash.
(b) Paid Advertising—In all paid advertising for A WOMAN ALONE issued by or under the control of Lucentio Pictures (subject to the customary exclusions of each distributor and/or broadcaster of A WOMAN ALONE), above the title of the picture alone, in a size of type no less than seventy-five percent (75%) of the size of type used to display the title and in a size of type larger than the size used to accord an individual “directed by” credit to the director. Notwithstanding the foregoing, you shall receive such credit in all excluded advertising issued by or under the control of Lucentio Pictures in which any other cast member is accorded credit, other than award, nomination, congratulatory, institutional or film market or festival advertising.
I may finally get a poster that actually looks like me. The others? Man, I was airbrushed to death and given much larger breasts than God gave me. I’m concerned how they’re downplaying the director, though. What, is this person just out of UCLA film school? Maybe Bianca knows him—or her. Hmm. I hope it’s not a female director. But what if there is a female director? I’ve never had a female director before. “There can be only one diva on the set,” I used to say. What are they telling me without telling me? It’s simple, really. They expect me to carry this picture. Katharina shuddered. That’s … delightful and terrifying at the same time.
The parties will enter into a more formal agreement, which agreement shall incorporate the foregoing terms as well as other customary terms and conditions contained in comparable agreements, including customary representations and warranties, mutual indemnification, your waiver of injunctive and other equitable relief, full depiction release including merchandising rights, Lucentio Pictures’ right to assign rights, extensions for force majeure including any period in which a member of the principal cast and / or a director is unavailable, and application of arbitration in California and international law.
Blah, blah, blah—ooh. International law? I’ll be leaving the country? Very nice. I haven’t been out of the United States in ages. Wait. I haven’t been out of California in ages. Wait. I haven’t been out of L.A. in ages. Wait. I haven’t been out of this house in ages. Wait. I haven’t been out from under this umbrella in ages.
Lucentio Pictures will pay all travel, lodging, and meal expenses for up to four people—and your dog, Scottie—for the duration of t
he shoot. You will be provided with a dedicated dressing room (a four-room suite with bathroom and cooking facilities) and have full script approval. We would also like to offer you back end point participation of no less than ten percent (10%).
Ten … t-t-ten percent. Minimum. They can pay me five million, so they obviously expect to make much more. Dare I say … fifty million? That’s another five million minimum. For little ol’ me.
Katharina rubbed her signature blue-green eyes.
Julia Roberts never makes this kind of dough! But full script approval from the very beginning? I wonder if Julia gets that. This is almost too good to be true! Lucentio Pictures is a wise company. I never should have left them.
If you are willing to accept this offer, please contact me by September 25. If I do not hear from you by that date, this offer will lapse. If you accept this offer, unless and until such more formal agreement is executed, this letter agreement, supplemented by the aforementioned customary terms and conditions, shall constitute the parties’ agreement.
Thank you and I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Vincenzo Lucentio
Vincenzo Lucentio
Lucentio Pictures
If I’m willing to accept? Are they kidding? I’d have to be a fool not to accept this offer right away! I’d be crazy not to jump at another chance, a chance to redeem myself, a chance to prove to the world that I am not a one-hit wonder.
“Bianca!”
“Yes, Miss Minola?”
Wait a minute. I’m forgetting who I am. Deep breaths. Katharina waved Bianca away.
Okay, I’m forgetting who I was. I’m no diva. I have never been a diva. Yes, I did some divalike things and didn’t mind if the media portrayed me as a diva, but that was just for my image.
Katharina closed her eyes. What image? I used to be so … nice. I was friendly. I was even … caring. I was the honey in My Honey Love, sweet, golden, and pure. Why did I allow my agent, Cecil, to convince me that being nice, friendly, caring, sweet, golden, and pure was a waste of time if I wanted to succeed in Hollywood? Money. And why did Cecil want me to make more money? So he could make more money. And where is most of my money? In his pocket. And where is Cecil? Gone and hopefully biodegrading somewhere. And why won’t I raise a fuss over finding him and my money? Because then I’d have to admit to the world that I was naïve and stupid, that I was just ignorant Dena Hinson from Roanoke, Virginia, the one-hit wonder who got lucky once and let it all slip through her fingers.
Katharina opened an eye and examined the fingernails of her right hand. Through my seriously jagged fingers. I’ll have to have Bianca work on them later.
She looked at her house. Ah, the house of my dreams that I just can’t leave for some reason. And why is it the house of my dreams? Oh yeah. It’s the only thing that’s entirely paid for, unlike that stupid car sitting in the driveway. What was I thinking? No one on earth needs a car like that, especially one that gets only eleven miles to the gallon. I’m not even sure I have a valid driver’s license anymore. The media says that I had trouble with the odometer reading because O’Gara said I did. Hearsay becomes truth in Hollywood in a hot minute. It wasn’t the stupid odometer reading. One mile on a car? I’m not that petty. It was the freaking seven thousand-a-month payment! And I just … I just didn’t have the money. I thought I did when I went in there, but thanks to Cecil I didn’t, and I was too stubborn to admit it, and there it sits gathering bird shit.
She opened her other eye. I should never have become a diva. Cecil said playing the diva role would add to my allure—and to my bank account—to be such a bitch. “Always keep your name in the press,” he told me. “Negative press is just as good as positive press, and in this country, it’s sometimes the best kind of press. It’s all free advertising, anyway, right?” It seemed to be working, I mean, I was getting roles, wasn’t I? Thirteen pictures in ten years. I was the female Gene Hackman. You couldn’t go to the cineplex without seeing me in something or other. And while I was working, Cecil was reworking my contracts in his favor using my forged signature. I should have read all that fine print. And I should have included a damn lawyer in my so-called “porta-posse.”
She looked at her slippers. I look ridiculous. Tiger stripes? I look terrible in stripes of any kind. “It’s your signature look,” Cecil said. “It’s a look that says, ‘Katharina Minola, queen of the jungle.’ “And for a while, I was the queen. No one could out-diva me. I was ferocious. And then … I became a little cub. And now, I just can’t afford the newest, latest clothes anymore. I haven’t gone shopping in years, not since that one time I had Nina Ricci stay open after-hours so I could try on a few outfits. One time, and the media says I did it all the time. I haven’t made a worst-dressed list in four years, and I don’t intend to start. When you stay home all the time and don’t get your picture taken, they can’t put you on those hateful lists.
I’m filling with hate right now thinking about it. Deep breath. Exhale. That feels better.
No, it doesn’t. I’m too full of hatefulness. Is that a word? Well, it should be, and I’m full of it.
I know I’ve done and said some foolish things, but the whack media has distorted everything I’ve done and said all out of whack. Yes, I overdid Prozac and under-did a CD that can’t even be given away to cure insomnia. But I kicked Prozac to the curb all by myself, didn’t I? I didn’t need any clinic or spa or hideaway. I kicked it in plain sight. But where’s the story on that? Yes, I skipped out on the Razzies when I could have and should have gone. Nearly all actors and actresses have appeared or starred in a bomb at least once in their lives. I should have taken my lumps then so I wouldn’t have so many lumps now. Yes, I’m picky about wearing my own perfume. Just about every other perfume I try breaks me out, makes me sneeze, or gives me a headache. Yes, I walked out of the Plaza, but it wasn’t because of the sheet count. The sheets were filthy dirty, and the blackout drapes had nasty white stains on them. I get the worst migraines sometimes, and any amount of light tears into my eyes like little daggers. No one pays $4,500 a night to sleep on slept-on sheets and stare at drapes covered with dried male bodily fluids. And yes, I spent a lot of time in my trailer during the filming of Miss Thang, but that was because I had the worst case of diarrhea. That’s not information studios release to the media, which would most likely gleefully announce: “The movie already stinks because the star has the shits!” And yes, I suggested that one kid actor and a dog be fired, but not because they had my color eyes! The kid peed himself in nearly every scene, and the dog, who missed seven out of every eight cues, peed itself and several costars in nearly every scene. As for the doll, it was a white girl’s doll in a black girl’s room in the seventies. Duh. I suggested they find an Ideal Tressy doll or a Shindana Tamu doll, and the properties people had all sorts of little cows. “A what?” You know, I told them, Tressy, the doll with the hair that grows ‘n’ grows. They didn’t know. I had to have Grandma overnight ship Tressy and my Tamu doll to the set. Tamu was so cool. She had this nice, soft ‘fro and said things like: “Cool it, baby,” and “Can you dig it?” and “I’m proud, like you.” The director decided Tressy and Tamu were too ethnic, and they changed the script to remove any doll from my movie-daughter’s life. They couldn’t possibly let realism ruin a movie based—loosely—on real events.
That trumpeter I fussed at in New York? I had an ear infection. That shit hurt! I had a right to yell. It was already freaking cold and windy that day, and they wouldn’t let me wear earmuffs. They even made me take out the cotton balls in my ears.
The fight between Ward, who I was never engaged to, and David, who I was never romantically entangled with, was never a fight over me. It was a lovers’ spat between them. Ward thought David had cheated on him in Paris with me! I should have busted them out, but I promised I wouldn’t, and Ward is still making those action-adventure movies, and David is still winning bodybuilding contests. Only now do I realize that no one keeps promises
in this town … except little ol’ me, evidently.
Katharina sighed.
Bianca sighed. She’s depressing herself again, Bianca thought, and it’s only ten thirty. Bianca shifted her weight from her left foot to her right foot and imagined herself surfing. She then slid her right foot back and rode that wave, the sunlight dancing off the water, her hair free and whipping wildly in the wind …
And don’t get me started, Katharina thought, about how the media ruined me over the truly wonderful city of Boston. I loved that city! Yeah, Filet of Dish was shit on a shingle, but the city of Boston wasn’t to blame. Boston was so beautiful, and the cinematography proved it. But that myopic reporter misquoted me all to hell. I even got a copy of the actual notes that reporter took:
KM: I love the smell of the ocean, and I love Massachusetts. Wish I could spell it! We’re about 90% done with shooting. I’m not that into baseball. I only root for VA Tech football.
When I still had a Web site, I posted those actual notes online after they tried to crucify me, and none of the media cared. They were more content with the mixed-up quotes that turned me into a Bean-town pariah overnight. The truth just isn’t hot enough news in Hollywood.
The truth about Il Pastaio got someone fired, and that someone—my server—ran to the Times and spilled a bunch of lies. I didn’t call ahead and close the place down—I just got there a little before closing time when it was practically empty. My so-called “bodyguards” were the wait staff waiting for me to finish eating. I chew my food very carefully, thanks to my grandma counting for me back in the day. The meat was undercooked, so I sent it back three times. “Well done,” I said three times, and it came back bloody each time. I don’t eat bloody meat. My server gave me attitude, I gave it right back, and they fired her on the spot. Wonton soup? What was she thinking? I mean, I like wonton soup, but I much prefer Grandma Pearl’s chicken noodle.