by Davis Bunn
“Sam Menzes does not go in for second chances.”
“So change studios.”
Her throat grew raw from confessing, “If I leave Menzes, all I have is a few months out of the mosh pit.”
“That’s absurd and you know it.”
She had heard his change in tone. Jason grew not merely hard. But impatient. A man on the move who had no time for those who were unwilling to move with him. Jason usually saved it for the recalcitrant star who was one inch from being dropped.
It scared her as bad as the previous evening’s news. “All right, Jason.”
He paused. Having her agree was clearly not expected. “You’ll do it?”
“You’re the expert.” She hated her submissive tone. The falseness of it left her feeling physically ill. “If you say it, it must be so.”
“That’s right. I’ve been around this jungle for a long time.”
Shari inspected her hands, as though making sure all her fingers were still present. “I need to go.”
“I’ll call you tonight.”
Shari phoned the studio, then went through all the proper motions. She showered and applied her makeup and chose an Ungaro suit. As she walked through the kitchen, the phone rang. Shari knew who it was long before she heard her grandmother ask, “Have you eaten anything?”
“Please.”
Her grandmother sighed. The woman was far too wise to say she had told them and told them. That the snake was not dead merely because they had chopped off the head. Instead she asked, “What does Jason say?”
“That I am overreacting.” She spotted the limo pull up the drive. “My ride’s here.”
“Wounds heal, my darling.”
“I’ll call you tonight.” Shari set down the phone, thinking how certain wounds were too deep, the damage too great, to ever mend cleanly. Shari slipped on the biggest sunglasses she owned, a pair that masked most of the top of her face, and headed out.
The driver might have smirked, or he could simply have been polite. “Nice place, Ms. Khan.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. Could we go straight to the studio, please?”
“No problem. The trades are on your seat.”
Shari could almost hear the hiss of steam rising from the pages. Her fingers were singed by the act of lifting the dailies. She flipped to the weekend summaries. A cry of bone-deep pain slipped out.
“Something wrong, Ms. Khan?”
Shari opened her mouth to respond, but could not find the air.
The driver slowed and glanced back. “Ms. Khan?”
She moaned, “Just drive.”
“Sure thing.”
Shari dropped one daily and picked up the second. The news was the same. Every Monday morning, the dailies carried the critical weekend stats. There were five numbers of crucial importance. One was general placement, where the film stood in the top ten. Next was the number of theaters playing the film. It was essential that a major release hold steady for at least three weeks, because the international distributors used this as the measuring stick upon which to gauge how large an opening and budget to give the project overseas. Third was the total revenue the film had made over the three-day weekend, and fourth was the per-theater weekend gross. Fifth was the film’s total revenue since its release.
Shari flung the second journal to the floor and picked up the one segment of the LA Times the driver had left for her. The only section that mattered. “It can’t be!”
“You say something?”
“Drive!”
It couldn’t happen. But it had.
After only two weeks, Iron Feather was no longer in the top ten.
It was not even listed on the page.
Gone.
Vanished.
And at the top of the page, in the number-one slot in all three papers, was Long Hunter. What was more, the number of theaters carrying the film had exploded. Almost thirty-five hundred. And the per-screen revenue was out of sight.
Despite everything she had thrown at them, the film was destined to become one of the biggest grossing films of the year.
Her eye was caught by the headline beneath the weekend list. “Shoestring Project Buries Major Studio.”
She groaned again.
This time, the driver said nothing.
Her phone rang. Shari did not even glance over to see who was calling.
The phone stopped, then started again. The ring sounded like a drill to her brain. Shari’s hands were unable to keep hold of the pages.
She felt as though her internal organs had been excavated and left to rot on the freeway. She had never dreaded anything as much as facing the day ahead. She had seen such moments before, of course. It was part of studio lore. Her former boss had come in and moved about like a ghost for a week and a half before the memo arrived from Derek’s office terminating his contract. The jokes had made the rounds before lunch.
Now it was her turn.
The limo driver’s phone chirped. He answered, then said, “Ms. Khan.”
“Not now.”
“I’ve got Mr. Menzes’ secretary on the phone.”
She forced herself to lean forward and accept the phone. “Khan.”
“Hold for Mr. Menzes.”
The secretary might have sounded more cheerful than normal. Shari neither knew nor cared. She did her best to straighten in the seat.
The chief came on the line. “Shari.”
She was caught off guard. To her recollection, he had never before called her by her first name. “Sir, I don’t know what to say.”
“I can well understand the sentiment. The question is, what are we going to do now?”
“Sir?”
“We have Snowbound approaching principal shooting. What I want to know is are you still interested in being the studio’s point on that project.”
Her mouth worked, but no sound came out.
“You still there?”
“Sir, Mr. Menzes, there is nothing I want more.”
His voice deepened, roughened. “Are you absolutely certain about that?”
She squinted against the day’s fierce glare. But the way ahead became no clearer. “Absolutely. I’m your girl.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. I keep a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I like to think of it as my secondary office, kept for just such special moments as this. I suggest we meet there.”
A chill rose from her gut. “If that’s—”
“I’ll phone the desk and alert them you’ll be arriving. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
On leaden legs, Shari walked toward Sam’s bungalow—as fine a poolside apartment as could be expected for three thousand dollars per night. Shari let herself in, hit the light, and stood a foot inside the door. She could go no further. The massive bed was visible through the sliding doors. It taunted her.
Turn and run.
She had never heard voices before. But the words were so powerful she felt them echo about the empty room.
Turn and run NOW.
She glanced at the phone. Maybe she could call her grandmother. But what would she tell her? How could she ask for advice? How could she even admit she was considering such a move?
Shari found herself recalling the confrontation with Bobby Dupree on the courthouse stairs. She wanted to scream with frustration and pain and rage at a man who was three thousand miles away. Even so, the man and his burning eyes crowded into the room. It was almost as though she could hear him shout the words, feel him slip the oversized card into her fingers once more.
Leave this place.
Now her grandmother’s face shimmered before her eyes. The dark gaze, the knowing expression, the depth of pain hidden beneath the old woman’s polished exterior. Perhaps Lizu Khan had not endured this one particular agony. But something. Oh yes. The old woman bore her own secrets. Remember the price, she had said again and again.
Was this the price of stardom? The cost of rising to regal status?
This time the voice wa
s quieter, a mere whisper that came and went in an instant, soft enough for Shari to pretend she had not heard the unspoken message at all.
Flee while you still can.
46
The night was the same, only different.
The Oscar party was at Liz’s home again. This time, Brent stayed the distance, remaining in the living room through the entire ceremony. He and Celia regaled the others with memories made funny by the distance and the love that surrounded them.
Afterward, he walked a path illuminated by moonlight and stopped where the house lights were blocked enough for him to revel in the expanse of stars. Iron Feather had copped two Oscars, including Best Actor for Colin Chapman. Brent had seen the phenomenon often enough not to be surprised. The Hollywood crowd was notorious for rewarding films and actors on Academy Awards night that the public had scorned. It was their way of getting back at the audience that told them they were out of touch. No mention had been made of Long Hunter. Not even in the jokes.
Even so, it hurt.
Still, Brent managed to watch the show with a sense of pleasant detachment. He was back in Austin only to pack up and move to Nashville. The film company was offering advance bonuses to everyone willing to go with Bobby’s long-term contract. The amount was not enough to move him back to Bel-Air. Not that he would ever want to go. But enough to have him spelling a word that he hasn’t used in a long time.
Future.
As in, his own.
“Brent?”
“Down here.”
Celia glided down the path toward him. Her hair shimmered like a halo. Her hands danced in the moonlight. “Are there snakes?”
“Too cold.”
“Are you sure?”
“Come here, lady. I’ll keep you safe.”
She folded herself into his arms. “You say the sweetest things.”
They walked the frosty earth down to where the river flowed in easy winter majesty. Celia studied the currents for a time, then asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Stanley was worried. About … you know.”
“I felt disappointed and at peace, all at the same time.”
“I understand exactly what you mean,” Celia said. “You know what occurred to me back in there? Maybe we should set up awards all our own.”
“Now who in their right mind would want to see a thing like that?”
Brent feasted on her smile, her gaze, and his own feeling of completeness. “How was it for you tonight, being on the outside looking in?”
She took a firm two-armed grip around his middle. “There’s no place I’d rather be than right here, right now.”
“Same here. I feel more than fine. I feel rich. I feel blessed. I feel …”
Celia squeezed him tighter. “Tell me.”
“I feel in love.”
She was so close he could feel the tremble from her ankles to her hairline. “I’m glad it’s not just me.”
“Marry me, Celia.”
The request astonished them both. Celia was quiet so long he feared she was trying to think of a way to turn him down gently. Then he realized, “You’re crying.”
She nodded, tears streaking her pale cheeks. “But I’ll marry you anyway.”
His eyes filled in response. He leaned in close and kissed her. “Hey, I’ll take that over an award any day.”
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