Hello Hollywood

by Suzanne Corso

  From the moment they sat down, it was apparent that Prince was the more effusive of the two. “Just love your book, Samantha, and we’re delighted that Jenean Conte is on board.”

  “She brings enormous talent and star power to the film,” King added.

  “We’re going to meet later this week to chat,” I said.

  “Excellent.” Prince nodded and helped himself to one of the warm biscuits the waiter had just brought over. “She’ll have your mannerisms down in a matter of hours. She’s an incredible mimic.”

  “You know,” King said, “we’ve been bugging Paul for weeks to set up a meeting with you. But he was always busy and tough to pin down. So when Liza called and suggested lunch, George and I jumped at the chance.”

  So my suspicions were right. Paul had deliberately kept me out of this loop. “Do you have a date yet for principal photography?”

  “Ideally, May first,” Prince said. “We’ll start on the Gallery studio lot, probably in early June, then move to Brooklyn for the neighborhood shots. Schedules change, though, so until we actually start shooting, nothing is written in stone. Right now, auditions are going on for the extras we’ll need in some of the scenes we’ll be shooting at the studio.”

  The waiter came over again with drinks. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Three more will be joining us,” King said. “They should be here shortly.”

  I glanced at Liza, but she looked as clueless as I was about who else was coming.

  “Some changes to the original script have been made,” Prince went on when the waiter left. “And since you’re on board as a consultant, I’d like you to go through them, Sam. I’ll email copies to you and Liza. We’re hoping that you can join us on the Brooklyn shoot, too.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “And on the set, if your schedule allows it,” King added. “Hey, here come two of the three.”

  King waved, and I glanced around and saw Paul with a scarecrow of a man whose body seemed to vibrate with frenetic energy. He looked high strung, the kind of man who couldn’t sit still for even five minutes. Thinning dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, jeans and a cotton shirt, sandals, shades. A guy who could fit in anywhere.

  “Well, well. Carl Davidson,” Liza said.

  “We thought it was time everyone met,” King said.

  Paul looked good, as he always did, Mr. Cool in his designer clothes, his affable smile. When he looked at me, I knew he could tell I was miffed about something.

  Yeah, that sin of omission.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Paul said, and claimed the chair next to me.

  “We’re not in any hurry,” King said, and introduced Liza and me to Davidson.

  Davidson tilted his shades back onto the top of his head. “Wow, the legendary Liza and the talented Samantha.” He talked fast, shoulders twitching. “The pleasure is all mine, ladies.” Then he pulled out a chair, sat down, and leaned forward, eyes impaling me. “Your script is brilliant, and this is going to translate incredibly well to the big screen. And you, Liza”—his eyes darted to her—“we need to have lunch soon.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Liza never missed an opportunity. “Noon? Twelve-thirty?”

  Davidson laughed and slapped his skinny hand against his thigh. “Love it, a woman who moves at the same speed I do. Sure, tomorrow’s perfect.” He whipped out his phone, asked for her number, texted her.

  “Got it,” she said.

  “Now that you’re on Liza’s speed dial, Carl, you know you’ve arrived,” Paul quipped.

  “Shit, y’mean two blockbusters didn’t do that?”

  “Honey, those blockbusters are the reason you’re directing this film,” Liza said.

  “And shame on you, Paul,” said King. “Keeping Sam hidden away from us.”

  He looked guilty, but not for long. I suddenly realized that guilt was as foreign to a man like Paul as poverty was to any of them. “Got a lot of things on my plate, Brian. So does Sam.”

  “Actually, Paul, my schedule right now is relatively clear,” I said. “And I’ll have plenty of time to be on set.” I tried to keep the frost out of my voice, smiled as I spoke, but I caught the quick, worried little frown that brought his eyes together. He apparently thought that, because he had apologized the other day and given me the beautiful earrings I was wearing, he could now speak for me. And right then, I was beyond giving a shit what Paul thought about me or what he believed was going on between us.

  The waitress, a young, attractive brunette, came over to take our drink orders. “It took you long enough to wait on us,” Paul said testily.

  “Sorry, sir. But we’re pretty busy today. What’s everyone having to drink?”

  “Your house red,” Paul said.

  “Merlot or Cab?”

  “Merlot,” Paul replied. By the time she’d taken everyone’s order, Paul had changed his mind. “Make mine the Cab,” he said. “And a glass of water. And we’ll take the shrimp appetizer, too.”

  “I’m sorry, we’re out of that one,” the waitress replied.

  Paul rolled his eyes. “Then you’d better get out there on the next shrimping boat, honey, because—”

  “That’s fine, thanks,” I said. “I know what I’d like for lunch.”

  I gave her my order, and everyone else did the same. I could tell from the expression on Paul’s face that he was pissed I had interrupted him.

  “Who else is joining us?” I asked.

  “One of our investors,” King said. “He may have gotten held up. I’ll text him.”

  While Prince, King, Davidson, and Liza chatted, Paul, seated on my right, leaned toward me and whispered, “What’s bugging you, anyway?”

  “You. Don’t speak for me, Paul. You don’t know shit about my schedule.”

  Before he could say anything, I got up and asked a waiter where the restroom was. He directed me through the café to the back and said the restroom was on the right.

  I picked up my bag and headed inside the café, wanting only to put some distance between Paul and me. Before I reached the restroom, I got a text message from Liza:

  You played that well.

  For me, it wasn’t about playing anything. I wasn’t particularly good at head games and was even worse at hiding what I felt. Yet in those years with Tony, his rage had always been so close to the surface that I learned to hide my feelings, especially when I knew the end result would be a clenched fist.

  In a way, what Paul had done—that sin of omission—was a symbolic clenched fist that could tear my dream away. That was how I had to look at it because that was what it amounted to.

  I freshened up, made my way back to the sidewalk table. As I emerged into the California afternoon, I thought maybe the brightness of the light was causing me to hallucinate. The man who was standing by our table, speaking to the waiter, resembled Brad Pitt from Legends of the Fall, long hair worn in a ponytail, full beard. But, hey, this was Hollywood, right? Celebrities were everywhere, and big honchos were seated there, so it made perfect sense that Pitt might know them.

  When the man turned and I saw him full on, I realized he didn’t look like Pitt at all. He resembled Leonardo DiCaprio, but with wild, dark hair and a dark beard. His body was so well toned and honed that I immediately imagined what it would be like to put my arms around him, to feel that solidness of muscle and bone beneath my hands. It wasn’t as if I thought that about every good-looking man I saw, either. But there was something about this DiCaprio clone that resonated powerfully.

  The moment our eyes connected, a bolt of lightning seemed to sear through me. Sound rushed out of my world until the only thing I heard was the relentless pounding of my heart. My peripheral vision closed down. Everyone and everything else ceased to exist. It was as if he and I had been suddenly transported to some foreign place and dropped down in the same space
. We stood there for what seemed a long time, unable to take our eyes off each other. Yet I was sure I had never met this man.

  Gradually, sound and awareness of my surroundings returned. My vision opened up to include tables filled with other customers, employees scurrying around. I managed to look away from him and pay attention to where I was going. Good thing. I nearly barreled into a waiter holding a tray of drinks.

  “Sorry,” I murmured, and wove my way between the tables.

  I felt his eyes searing through me as I approached the group and forced myself to look at Liza instead of him. As I took my seat, King said, “Samantha, this is John Steeling, one of our investors.”

  I raised my eyes. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Steeling.”

  “Likewise, Ms. DeMarco.”

  His husky voice and those penetrating blue eyes sent that bolt of lightning through me again, searing me raw inside. No man had ever affected me this way. He really did resemble DiCaprio, something about his jaw, his eyes, but he was even better looking. And he literally exuded presence. I could have been on the other side of the street and felt that presence.

  “I thoroughly enjoyed your book,” he said. “But I’m curious. How much of it is true?”

  Hmm, was this a test . . . ? All of it. I really did have an abusive mafia boyfriend who went to prison for homicide. And when I lost my virginity, it actually did happen in a bed with a Blessed Mother painting on the wall over it. “It’s fiction.” I laughed. “Except that I am from Brooklyn.”

  “And there’s a sequel, John,” said Liza. “It’s equally good. Think: the rise and fall of a Wall Street husband and the effects on his wife.”

  “That’s been done three times already,” Paul said. It was obvious he’d picked up on the electricity between John and me and didn’t like it one bit. That he intended to squash it immediately, before it could become anything else. “Douglas twice, DiCaprio once.”

  “It hasn’t been done from a female point of view, hon,” said Liza.

  “Good point,” Davidson agreed. “And audiences love sequels. Look at the Twilight franchise.”

  “So the female is the Wall Street player?” Prince asked.

  “No, she’s married to the Wall Street player,” John said, and looked straight at me. “I’ve already read the sequel. It’s terrific.”

  King and Prince exchanged a glance, then King said, “Can we get a copy of the e-book, Sam?”

  “You bet.”

  “Got your iPad handy, Brian?” Liza asked.

  He slipped an iPad mini from the bag slung over the back of his shoulder. “Always.”

  “Here comes The Suite Life.”

  “Fantastic,” King said.

  During this exchange, waves of anger rolled off Paul. He emoted such hostility that I was sure everyone at the table felt it, especially John. The corners of Paul’s mouth tightened, his lips rolled together, fury burned in his eyes. I ignored him and kept glancing surreptitiously at John, trying to memorize his face, all the beautiful details. Something about him was familiar, but I didn’t know what it was.

  Our meals arrived. Paul ordered two more drinks during the meal and started acting like Don Draper in Mad Men. Voice too loud, laughter too boisterous. But at least with Draper, his muse was usually apparent. Paul’s muse had crawled into a cave for a nap.

  After we’d eaten, everyone except Paul ordered a cappuccino; Paul ordered another drink. John and I chatted about books and stories, and I discovered he was well versed in Joseph Campbell’s work. Like me, he’d been riveted by the PBS interview Bill Moyers had done with Campbell in the library at George Lucas’s Skywalker Ranch not long before Campbell had died. Both of us had seen it some years after the interview had aired.

  “He defined the hero’s journey,” John said. “After I watched that interview, I did a movie binge of Stars Wars and Indiana Jones, E.T., and some other Lucas and Spielberg films. I’d seen all of them before, but never like I had during that binge. They embody the essence of mythology and archetype that Campbell talked about.”

  I was riveted not only by what he’d said but by his words and the tone and texture of his voice. I had done exactly the same thing after I’d seen that interview.

  “Campbell’s tot’ly overrated,” Paul muttered, words slurring.

  I ignored him. King said, “Overrated? Damn, Paul, Campbell was one of the most brilliant thinkers on the planet.”

  Paul, properly chastised, simply sat there and pouted as he sipped his drink.

  After coffee, Liza announced that she and I had to get moving. By then, Paul was six sheets to the wind, and Prince and Davidson said they’d get him home. No telling what kind of soap opera that drive would be. I was grateful I didn’t have to make the drive with them.

  “He’s been having some bad problems with his son,” King remarked, watching as Davidson and Prince steered Paul toward a waiting limo.

  “Even when your kids are adults, they’re still your kids,” Liza said.

  The only thing John said was that he was pleased we’d finally met. We didn’t shake hands, but our eyes held briefly, with that same intensity I’d experienced earlier. Then he and King walked off up the street together, and Liza and I crossed the street to where she’d parked her car.

  She and I didn’t speak until we were in the car. It was as if we thought that someone might be listening—Hollywood’s version of the NSA, sensitive satellites or drones launched by the studios or the gossip rags. Paranoid? Yes. Prudent? Probably. But once we were inside, the windows sealed shut against intrusion, we both burst out laughing.

  “Oh, my God,” Liza gasped. “They loved you, Sam. I knew they would. And once John Steeling said he’d read The Suite Life, it suddenly became a viable project for them.”

  “Do you know him? John?”

  “Never met him before. While they were chatting, I Googled him. A level-one Google search didn’t reveal anything about him further back than eleven years ago, when he financed the Sundance winner American Splendor. The screenplay was nominated for an Oscar. In 2005, he put up a shitload of money for Brokeback Mountain, and after that became a phenomenon, it put him on the map as a financier. Beyond that, no clue. At first when I saw you two eyeing each other when you were returning from the restroom, I thought you knew him.”

  “He felt familiar to me.”

  “Karma, hon. Maybe it’s a past-life thing. Whatever. In this life, he has the ear of the studio execs. Maybe more than the ear. He seemed to be pretty thick with Brian and George. And even Paul didn’t know about him. Did you, uh, trade email addresses, phone numbers?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Well, you’ll hear from him. I saw how he looked at you. Everyone did. Especially Paul. My God, he got so shitfaced, Sam. I’m sorry he’s having problems with his son, but he shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. I’m just glad we didn’t have to drive him home. So when you said I’ll hear from John, was that the ‘tad psychic’ part of you speaking?”

  She knew I was teasing her, but instead of laughing, she suddenly turned serious. “Listen, Sam. I need to know something. During lunch, I saw this spirit around you.”

  “A spirit? You mean, like, a ghost?”

  “Yes.” She proceeded to describe Grandma Ruth, who had died long before Liza had come into my life. “Does that sound like her?”

  “You’ve seen her photo on my mantel.”

  “True. But there’s no photo of her cooking you breakfast, of your mother stumbling around drunk. Right? Am I right?”

  “Your point?”

  “Grandma Ruth was with us at that lunch. Sometimes she was to your right, other times she was standing next to John. I don’t know what that means, but maybe you do.”

  Not really. Not yet.

  Her description of herself as a “tad psychic” sud
denly slammed into a category that I called Well, fuck me. “What was she wearing?”

  Liza described my grandmother’s favorite outfit when she was cooking latkes by the stove: a floral housedress. I sat there nearly choking on the description. Did the universe have any more weirdness to dish out before I ran, shrieking like a banshee, into the late-afternoon sun?

  I smoothed my hands over my wrinkled skirt. “Listen, there’s something you should know, Liza.”

  “Oh, shit, this sounds like confession time.”

  And because I’d had two glasses of wine and had been blown away by a man I’d just met, I told her about Vito’s appearance. I thought she might swerve off the road or slam on the brakes in the middle of traffic. Instead, she swung a sharp right, into a parking lot. She pulled into a space, turned off the car, and looked at me.

  “The Vito?”

  “Uh, yeah. As far as I know, there’s only one.”

  “Does Isabella . . . ?”

  “No way. I wouldn’t let him near her. I put him up at the Malibu Motel and bought him a one-way ticket back to New York.”

  “You shoulda called me, Sam. You shoulda told me. I would’ve set the bastard straight.”

  “I handled it myself. He’s gone.”

  “He’d better be gone. Your dad fits into your bio as a dead guy, not as a man who’s alive.”

  “What bio?”

  Liza flexed her fingers against the steering wheel, stared out the windshield. Everything about her just then seemed hard, set in stone. Her wedding ring, a rock of three or four carats, glinted in the sunlight.

  “Appearances, Sam. Everything in this town is about appearances. I’m fifty-three years old. Every eight weeks I get collagen injections that make me look a dozen years younger. My mouth is filled with twenty grand of dental implants. I spend twelve hours a week in the gym—weights, Pilates, yoga, treadmill, rowing machine. I’m a vegan.

  “I know nearly everyone in this town who’s worth knowing, the power brokers. I’m an image. I’m bullshit, okay? But that image earns me ten to fifteen percent of whatever I sell and an income in the seven figures. And right now, I’m selling you.” She paused. “But the difference between me and the other bullshit artists in this town is that I can’t sell what I don’t believe in. And, honey, I believe in you. Your story. Your talent. So if your old man has come back into your life, this is something I need to know. It’s something that Entertainment Weekly or People might find worthy of a cover story. Or not. Your call. It all depends on the image you want to project.”