“I had too. After what you did for me.” Tears of gratitude ran down her cheeks.
“What did you do for her, Val?” I asked.
“I thought you knew. I killed Emma.”
“Actually I thought Carol did it.”
“She’s a killer but only in business.” She pulled a gun from the jacket of her Charles Chang Lima suit.
“The police are on their way,” I said.
“I doubt that. Why would they come rushing out in the middle of the night on an actress’ whim?”
“How could you kill Emma? She didn’t mean anything to Lund,” I said.
“Yes, she did.” Carol dabbed at her tears with a Hermes scarf.
“But Lund wasn’t going to leave you for Emma.”
“If he left anybody, it would’ve been Val. I couldn’t have that.”
“She was breaking up our family,” Val said.
“Family?” I repeated the word as if none of us knew the meaning of it. Maybe we didn’t.
“That’s how I think of us.” Val smiled at Carol.
“I could never be friends with Emma,” Carol sniffed. “Not the way I am with Val. She’s like the sister I never had.”
“There are all kinds of families. We create them however we can. But that’s what we are.” Val spoke philosophically.
Unexpectedly Ryan Johns rose to his feet belching and singing the Sly
Stone song, “We Are Family”. Startled Val shot at him. He lurched forward and threw up all over her.
Screaming and recoiling Val dropped the gun. I grabbed it. There was a loud banging then the sound of the front door being slammed back against the foyer wall.
Leo Heath ran into the room with his gun drawn. Val fell to her knees. Carol tried to wipe the puke off her with her scarf.
Ryan slumped back onto the sofa. “I’ve been shot.”
“She missed you.” I stared at the shattered mirror on the wall.
“What the hell happened?” Leo wrinkled his nose at Val.
“The tequila went with the gun,” I said.
Three hours later Ryan was back in his house tucked into his bed. Val and Carol were arrested. I was in my kitchen holding a hot cup of coffee.
Hands in his pockets, Leo leaned the doorway. “I have to get back to the station.”
“I want to say something before you leave. I’ve been thinking about self-worth. Emma’s, Val’s, Ryan’s, and mine. My self-worth isn’t so low that I want a man who can’t remember the name of the woman he’s in bed with.”
“She was my sister.”
“You were in bed with your sister?”
He grinned. “No, she’s staying with me until her house is finished being painted. She happened to answer my cell.”
“Oh.”
He studied his shoes for a moment, then he studied me. “So were you calling me back?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Two days later my agent informed me that the movie had been canceled. Then the Herbal Heart people called and said I’d gotten the part, but because of the publicity surrounding Emma Parker’s death, the arrests of Val Franz and Carol Hagan, and my involvement in it all, they decided to go with a ‘lesser known’ actress.
I went out and stood on my dilapidated balcony. It took me a moment to realize that the beach was swarming with paparazzi. Their cameras were aimed up at me like the guns of snipers.
“Smile, Diana,” they demanded.
I went back inside.
A HOLLYWOOD ENDING
Having acted with child actors, I’ve always wondered what happens to them. One little girl rattled off her very long résumé to me on the set one day. She was maybe seven or eight and as driven as a diva. What possible future could she have? I saw Tatum O’Neil, who was in the movie Paper Moon, at a party; she was maybe twelve at the time, standing alone, her head tilting up toward the adults who were ignoring her. Her isolation was palpable. The image stayed with me. I wanted to write about a child star but I could never figure out how to make it a mystery story. Then one day I put Diana Poole at an expensive luncheon supporting Planned Parenthood where a waiter tells her that her daughter wants to see her. Except Diana Poole doesn’t have a daughter. Now I had my suspense. The story is about how Hollywood eats its young; and how a desperate girl, who was once a child actor, is determined to have a mother, real or not.
“YOUR DAUGHTER IS WAITING for you in the lobby, ma’am.” The banquet waiter hovered over me, balancing a tray of coffee pots and cups.
I was sitting at table of ten women at a Planned Parenthood luncheon being held in the banquet room of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The women were movie producers, production executives, a director, and an agent. Enormous crystal chandeliers draped from the ceiling splattering their prismatic patterns of light on us like stardust.
“I don’t have a daughter,” I told him.
“She pointed you out.” He moved off to serve the next table.
“Did he say your daughter, Diana?” Beth Dawson sat next to me. She was a producer who had hired me for a small part in her last movie.
“He made a mistake. We’re in a ballroom filled with women.”
We looked around at the well-dressed, high-powered females. It was a typical Hollywood fundraiser – two million dollars in veneered teeth, three million in face-lifts, four million in pumped-up breasts and puffed-up lips. The rest, as they say, “Priceless.”
“I always seem be surrounded by women,” Beth said dryly, adjusting the collar of her pink spring jacket.
As with all the things I do now, I was here because it might be good for my career. My husband Colin, a screenwriter, had died suddenly of a heart attack over a year ago. He left me with what the realtors euphemistically call a “tear-down” in Malibu, an old Jaguar, two Oscars—each for Best Screenplay – an empty bank account, and an emptier heart. So I had gone back to what I had been doing before I married him—acting. Except now I was older and the parts were fewer.
I stared at the voluptuous flower arrangement, tuning out the female lawyer who was droning on at the podium, and reflected on how most of us at our table were premenopausal, menopausal, and post menopausal. And how nature had its own prepared plans for us. Sighing, I brushed napkin-lint from my pencil-slim black skirt and fiddled with the cuffs of my white silk blouse. Then I found myself peering back at the row of large double-doors that led to the lobby. I realized I was looking for a girl searching for her mother.
Two hours later I was outside the hotel waiting for my old Jag as the luncheon women scurried into their sleek cars, the high-powered engines purring.
“Are you Diana Poole?” the hotel doorman asked, approaching.
“Yes.”
“Your daughter described you perfectly. She said to tell you she couldn’t wait. She’d meet you at home.”
“My daughter gave you my name and described me?”
He nodded. “To a T.”
“What did she look like?”
“Your daughter?” he frowned, taken aback by my question. “Blonde.”
“How old?”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t. Tell me.”
“Hard to tell. Twenties? You don’t look old enough to have a daughter that age.”
“That would be an even better complement if I did have a daughter that age.”
He looked completely bewildered. I didn’t blame him.
Driving back to Malibu, I opened the windows and the sunroof because I couldn’t get the Jag’s heater to turn off. Sweat ran down the inside of my legs. The wind pulled at my determinedly blonde hair. I kept thinking about the waiter telling me about my daughter. I’d dismissed him by thinking he’d got the wrong woman. But now the conversation with the hotel doorman unnerved me. My daughter was going to meet me at home? My home? My daughter?
I began to wonder what a daughter of mine would look like. She would be a natural blonde as I once had been. Her eyes would be blue like mine, t
oo. While my features were settling into a look of defiant permanence, hers would be full of anticipation and discovery. Another loss as breathtaking as my husband’s death washed over me. I’d never had a child. Career first. Then Colin’s career. Stop it, Diana. I go to a Planned Parenthood luncheon and end up with a phantom daughter. I tried to smile at the irony of the situation, but the sweat on my legs had turned cold.
I checked the rearview mirror to see if a young woman in search of her mother was following me home.
My house, wedged between Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean, was a one story wood and stucco left over from the sixties. Unlocking the front door, I stepped into the tiled foyer and stopped. Listening. The house was just as quiet as it always was when I returned home nowadays. What was I expecting? Still, I felt wary as I walked into the living room. The shabby-but-not-chic furniture, Colin’s two Oscars on the fireplace mantle, and the water stain on the ceiling looked exactly as they should. Nothing disturbed.
I went into the kitchen and turned on the small TV, a habit I’d developed to wipe away the isolating silence. A twenty-four hour cable news station broke the quiet. Two sexy pretty blondes who looked as if they’d been cloned were talking about how bad everything was. I felt better.
As I put my purse on the breakfast table, I noticed the knife drawer was open. Had I left it open? I peered into it. Were they all there? How would I know? Colin had been a great cook. The only knife I used was to open take-out cartons. I wasn’t sure what utensils I had or didn’t have. I slammed the drawer shut. Get a grip, Diana.
I went into the bedroom to kick off my high heels and get out of my too tight skirt. I stopped dead. The bed was perfectly made. I knew I hadn’t made it this morning. As usual I’d been running late. Or did I make it? I couldn’t remember what I’d done or hadn’t done. Inconsistency had become consistent in my life since Colin’s death. Then I felt my body tense with an animal-like alertness and I knew there was another person in the room. I whirled around.
A young woman, in early twenties, leaned casually against the jamb of the bathroom doorway. Her hair was bleached blonde. Her sharp intelligent eyes were an appealing gray-blue. They matched the color of her sweater. Low riding jeans revealed a flat muscular midriff. She held her hands behind her back.
“I made the bed for you,” she said, smiling. Perfect white teeth.
“Thank you,” I said stupidly.
“You should get your security alarm fixed.”
“Can’t afford to.” My heart was racing now. “What are you doing in my house?”
Ignoring the question, she took her hands from behind her back. She held a gun. I took a step back. She pointed the weapon at me, as if were the most natural thing to do under the circumstances.
“You shouldn’t leave your bedroom window open. Anybody could break in. You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, I’m sorry…”
I tried to swallow back my fear.
“Don’t be. I played your daughter on Mommy and Me.”
My mind raced backwards, and I vaguely remembered a little girl with hair tinted the color of mine so we would look like a mother and daughter.
“That was a movie for the Lifetime channel. Terrible script.” My voice sounded high pitched and desperate.
“Yes, it was.” She laughed charmingly.
“You were about eight years old.” I didn’t know what else to do but keep her in conversation.
“Yes.”
You’ve grown-up.”
“You can’t grow-up in Hollywood. You can only grow old.”
“You have a point.”
She grinned warmly. Freckles dotted the bridge of her up-turned nose. She had the sweet oval face of the girl-next-door. But with the gun and the bad bleach job she looked like a young woman in a Norman Rockwell illustration gone horribly wrong.
“What do you want?” My lips quivered.
“A cup of coffee.” She nodded toward the hallway.
I didn’t move. I was afraid to walk in front of her. Afraid to turn my back on her.
“I won’t stay long. I just want to talk,”
“About what?”
“Acting.”
“You want the name of my agent? A recommendation?”
“You think I’m here to network?” she asked, sardonically. “I just want to talk to you. Come on, let’s go in the kitchen.”
My knees felt weak as I crossed in front of her and walked down the hallway. I could feel her behind me. My shoulder blades pressed inward in anticipation of a bullet. In the living room, I furtively looked out the sliding glass doors hoping to see my neighbor Ryan Johns. He was usually on my deck, interrupting my life, wanting to be let in. But of course not today. There was only the sun, the glittering Pacific Ocean, and my rotting wood balcony.
She sat at my old pine breakfast table still aiming the gun at me.
“Would you mind turning off the news?” she asked. “It’s depressing.”
I hit the remote. “I’ll have to make the coffee.”
“Go on.”
Decaf?”
“Caffeine.”
With trembling hands, I began to measure and pour in the water. I considered each appliance a possible weapon against her. I took two mugs from the cupboard and put them on the table. These simple tasks helped focus my mind.
“Milk? Sugar?” I asked, politely.
“Both, please.”
I set a carton of milk and a small bowl filled with packets on the table. “I don’t have real sugar. I use sweeteners.”
“They’re not good for you.”
“I know. But it’s so difficult to stay…”
“Thin?”
“Thin.”
“I’ve struggled with weight my whole life.”
“It doesn’t show. You look great.”
“The last thing I want from you is an inane compliment, Diana. Do you know why I struggled with my weight?”
“No.” Facing her, I leaned against the counter near the Mr. Coffee machine which was now gurgling, burping, and brewing.
“Ever since I played your daughter I wanted to look like you. But I ended up looking like my mother.”
“Don’t we all?” I forced a smile.
The aroma of coffee permeated the kitchen giving it a homey warm atmosphere, and I made a decision. When the carafe was full I would grab it and swing it at her. The shock of the hot liquid scalding her skin would give me a chance to escape. Maybe even try for the gun.
“Were you the one asking for me at the hotel this afternoon?”
“Yes.” She tilted her head to one side, studying me. The light from the kitchen window shone hard on her face revealing fine lines around her pretty mouth and tired eyes. She looked exhausted. “Why did you stop acting?”
“I got married.”
“So do a lot of actresses, that doesn’t end their careers. You were good. You were on the verge of stardom. Why did you settle for being safe?”
“I wouldn’t call marriage safe.” Mr. Coffee was almost up to the ten cup line.
“I think you were afraid of success.” She yawned. “Sorry, it’s been a long night and day.”
“The caffeine will help.” I watched the last few drops drip into the pot.
My heart was in my throat. I casually turned and like any good host, good mother, I retrieved the pot from the burner. Then I spun back toward her. Leaping to her feet she darted backwards out of my reach. Arms extended, she held the gun steady with both hands, like a cop in a TV series.
“I thought you might want to throw that in my face.”
My arms were extended too, but I only held a coffee pot in my two hands. “Wouldn’t you in my situation?”
“Yes. It’s called empathy”
“You’re right. All the good actors have it.”
“So we’re at a stand off. I guess we’ll have to carry on our conversation from here. Me holding my gun and you holding your coffee pot. Except your coffee is eventually go
ing to cool, and then you won’t have a weapon, and we won’t be able to drink it either.”
Surprising myself, I slammed the carafe on the table. Coffee slopped. “Sit down and have your damn coffee. And I don’t want to be analyzed by someone holding a gun on me. For your information I wasn’t afraid of success.”
“You sit first. Go.”
I sat and took a paper napkin from the pile already on the table and began to wipe up the spilled liquid. It was lukewarm. Even Mr. Coffee was breaking down on me.
She slowly sat down across from me. Her weapon pointed at my chest.
“Were you acting just then when you banged the pot on the table?” she asked
“I don’t know when I’m acting, and when I’m not anymore.” With trembling fingers, I rubbed my forehead and pushed my hair back from my face.
“It’s the same with me. The more you tap into your own emotions to create a character, a role, the farther away you get from those very emotions that were yours to begin with. May I have some coffee, please?”
I filled the mugs and slid one in her direction. “What’s you name? I don’t remember it.”
“Crystal,” she said wistfully. “My mother named me after the character in the TV series Dynasty. Mother had dreams. It was her favorite show. I grew up watching all her old VHS tapes of it. We watched them over and over.”
“They must be out on DVDs now.”
“She won’t need them. I hated the show. It was so unreal.”
I watched her take a long greedy gulp of coffee. Her hands trembled, too. The gun twitched. But her pinched, strained expression relaxed. Her eyebrows were the color of her freckles, a reddish brown. I assumed her hair must be the same shade. For a moment I glimpsed the innocent young woman with her entire life in front of her. The girl I had imagined in the car driving home. Her eyes met mine. She smiled. Then her expression hardened, and the innocent girl disappeared. The woman who had slipped over the edge returned.
“It seems to me,” she said, “if you don’t want to be famous you’re in the wrong business.”
“True. Do you want to be famous?”
“Yes, because I’m a good actress and being good should’ve brought me fame. But then I grew up, and I couldn’t get another decent part.”
Shooting Hollywood Page 15