An Inconvenient Woman (19 page)

Jules woke at three in the morning and could not go to sleep again. Pictures and thoughts of Flo March filled his mind. He yearned to be with her. He ached with desire for her. Turning, tossing, wanting to cry out her name, he pulled the bedclothes over him in such an abrupt fashion that he pulled them off Pauline, lying next to him.

“Jules, for heaven’s sake, what is the matter with you?” asked Pauline, awakened now, and cold. She pulled the covers back.

“I’m sorry,” he said. There was such a forlorn tone in his voice that it was impossible for Pauline to feel annoyance with him for ruining her sleep.

“Jules, is there something you want to discuss? Is it the conference? Has something gone wrong?”

“No, no. I’m sorry, Pauline. Go back to sleep. I’m all right. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing.” He began to snore lightly to show that he had fallen asleep again, which he had not. He had not meant to fall in love with Flo March. He had meant only to set her up and visit her when he felt like it, to give her gifts, to have her at his beck and call. It had never occurred to him that he might want to change his whole life and make her the dominant figure in it.

Flo’s Tape #10

“Jules once told me about this guy who had made him so mad he knocked over the statue of the Degas ballerina, which was one of the real treasures of his collection, but I never realized the guy he was talking about was Philip Quennell. If I had known that Jules had such a problem with him, I never would have gone to Philip’s room at the Chateau Marmont on the night I decided to leave Jules, after he pretended he didn’t know me when he ran into Madge White at that steak house in the Valley. I found out later that Philip had questioned Hector Paradiso’s death right from the first day. After all, he was one of the few people who had actually seen the body and been in the house. He refused to accept Jules’s suicide story, and then he called the publisher of the
Tribunal
to see why the paper hadn’t covered the story, and that really pissed Jules off
.

“Jules could be the nicest guy in the world, but he could be a bastard too. I actually never saw that side of him, but I know for a fact that it was Jules who got Philip Quennell fired off the picture he was writing for Casper Stieglitz.”

“H
ollywood is very unforgiving of failure,” said Casper Stieglitz, whose last four pictures had failed. He had taken to tutoring Philip Quennell in the thought process of the film industry. “It will forgive you, even overlook your forgeries, your embezzlements, and, occasionally, your murders, but it will not forgive you your failure.”

Casper looked through his black-framed, dark-lensed glasses, which he never removed, and observed the restaurant quizzically. He shook his head and expressed disappointment with the noonday crowd. “I’m the biggest name here today,” he said glumly. For a moment he wondered if Michel, the maître d’, had put him into the wrong room, and he considered making a fuss and demanding a table in the rear room, where he had seen Marty Lesky, the head of Colossus Pictures, seated when he went to the men’s room. Le Dôme, he had pointed out to Philip Quennell when he called to arrange the lunch date to discuss the progress of their project, catered to people in the film business and the music business, and it was a good place to be seen to get talk going about a new project.

Casper opened his large napkin with a flourish and placed it in his lap. Philip noticed that his toupee was in its mid-month phase, fifteen days from its last “haircut” and sixteen days away from its next, and he wore it that day in a ponytail, tied back with a rubber band. Ponytails tied back with rubber bands were the smart look of middle-aged producers and executives in the industry that season, and Casper, Philip noted, was always in the forefront of filmland fashion. His black velour Armani jacket was open over his T-shirt, on which was a reproduction of a section of Picasso’s
Guernica
. Philip had to admit that the toupee was nearly undetectable.

He wondered if Willard, the butler, who appeared to be fastidious, assisted in its placement on Casper’s head each day and helped with the taping and gluing, or whatever had to be done.

Casper, still worried about his table, remained in a highly nervous state, constantly sneezing and blowing his nose. “I gotta take a leak,” he said, and jumped up from the table. As he rose, he spotted Mona Berg. “Oh, look, Mona’s here,” he said to no one in particular, but his voice calmed considerably when he saw that someone as important as Mona Berg was in the same room that he was.

“Hi, Mona,” he called over to her table.

“Hi, Casper,” Mona Berg called back, making a gesture that indicated they should talk by telephone later in the day.

“Say hi to Philip Quennell,” Casper said, as a way of introduction. “Mona Berg here is the top agent in this town.”

Philip and Mona Berg called out hellos.

“And, Mona, Phil here wrote that hot hot hot book on Reza Bulbenkian, called
Takeover
. Did you read it?”

“I never have time to read anything but scripts, Casper. You know that,” said Mona Berg. “But I’ll make time to read your book, Phil. I promise. What did you think of my idea of Elliott Carver for the role of Bligh?” she asked.

Casper shook his head in an elaborate negative shake. “Elliott Carver has had six flops in a row. Elliott Carver is ready for a sitcom, on cable, not the lead in a Casper Stieglitz picture,” he said.

“You’re making a big mistake, Casper,” insisted Mona, who was known to be relentless in the selling of her clients. “Marty Lesky ran the rough cut of
Career Girl
at his house last night, and said Elliott’s fabulous. Even Sylvia Lesky thought he was great, and you know how hard to please Sylvia is.”

“Excuse me a second. I gotta take a leak,” said Casper.

“One of these days he’s going to drop dead with all that stuff he’s putting up his nose,” said Mona.

Philip, who agreed, did not answer.

“I hear you’re writing the drug documentary.”

“Yes.”

“Thankless task.”

“I’m finding that out.”

“If you don’t go with actual cops, and do actors playing
cops, which always works better, call me. I’d like you to meet Elliott Carver.”

“Sure thing, but that will be up to Casper.”

“Here’s my lunch date, the putz. You almost kept me waiting, Joel,” she said, looking at her watch. There was admonition in her voice.

“Sorry, Mona,” said Joel, sitting down in the booth.

“I hate to be kept waiting, Joel.”

“I said I was sorry, Mona. I got held up in traffic.”

“What was your name?” she called over to Philip.

“Quennell. Philip Quennell.”

“Joel Zircon, Philip Quennell.”

“Didn’t I see you at Hector Paradiso’s funeral?” asked Joel. “You’re the guy who gave his handkerchief to Flo March, right?”

“You gotta do something about the way you dress, Phil,” said Casper Stieglitz, when he returned to the table. Philip had started to notice that each time Casper returned from one of his numerous trips to the bathroom, he had a new train of thought, about which he was momentarily passionate.

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” asked Philip.

“It’s not the right look for out here,” said Casper. “Blue blazer, gray flannels, Brooks shirt. Gimme a break. That look went out years ago. And you gotta lose the polka dot ties. You look like a history teacher, not a screenwriter. All you need is a fucking pipe to complete the picture. Especially for this kind of documentary we’re doing. The narcs won’t talk to you dressed like that.”

“I thought you said you loved what I’d written so far.”

“I do. I do.”

“So the narcs
are
talking to me, blue blazer, gray flannels, Brooks shirt, polka dot tie, and all.”

“I mean, the look is wrong for out here, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Look, Casper. I don’t like the way
you
dress. Black velour was never very high on my list, but it’s none of my business how you dress, so I don’t mention it, just like it’s none of your business how I dress. So you dress your way. I’ll dress my way. Okay?”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get hot under the collar. I’m just trying to explain California to you, that’s all,” said Casper.

“I’m just here in California temporarily,” replied Philip.

Casper snapped his fingers. “Listen, you just gave me an idea. All of a sudden I like the way you dress. Including the polka dot ties. I got a favor to ask you.”

“About the picture?”

“No, about coming to dinner a week from Sunday night.”

“Oh, thanks, I can’t. I’m going to be at my girlfriend’s ranch outside of Solvang,” said Philip.

“So? Come back early.”

“Why?”

“I’m having some swells to dinner, and it occurred to me you’d fit in perfectly. I never know what to talk to people like that about.”

“Who are you having?”

“Arnie Zwillman.”

“Who’s Arnie Zwillman?”

“He’s the man who burned down the Vegas Seraglio for the insurance money.”

“That’s your idea of a swell?”

“No, he’s no swell. The other people are swells.”

“Who are the other people?”

“Jules and Pauline Mendelson.”

“Jules and Pauline Mendelson are coming to your house for dinner?” asked Philip, not making any attempt to hide the astonishment in his voice.

“Do you know them?”

“Please tell me you’re not planning on having Ina Rae and Darlene at the same dinner.”

Casper laughed. “Did I tell you about the T-shirt Ina Rae was wearing last night?”

“No.”

“It said ‘Warning, I Scream When I Come.’ Laugh, I thought I’d bust a gut. That girl is a riot.”

“That should strike Pauline Mendelson as really funny,” said Philip.

“I don’t think Ina Rae’s right for this group,” said Casper, thinking over what Philip had said. “I could have her in for the movie later, but skip the dinner part. I’ll need another girl to fill out the table. What about that girl you’re seeing. What’s her name?”

“Camilla Ebury.”

“Actress, model, dancer, what?”

“None of the above.”

“Bring her.”

“Sunday nights she spends with her daughter. They have dinner together at the Los Angeles Country Club. A family ritual.”

“Tell her I’m running a picture.”

“She wouldn’t care.”

Casper snapped his fingers again. “Hortense Madden. That’s who I’ll get. She’ll class it up.”

“Who’s Hortense Madden?”

“The literary critic for
Mulholland
.”

“For heaven’s sake.”

“You know her?”

“No, I don’t know her. She panned my book on Reza Bulbenkian.”

“That’s Hortense for you. She pans everything that’s popular.”

“What is the point of this evening, Casper?” asked Philip.

“Arnie Zwillman wants to meet Jules Mendelson, that’s all I know, and he asked me to set it up.”

Philip thought for a moment. “Okay, I’ll come,” he said.

“That was sweet of you to take Bunty to the movies this afternoon,” said Camilla.

“She’s a great kid,” said Philip.

“She adores you. She told me she thinks you’re handsome,” said Camilla.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into coming with me to Casper Stieglitz’s house for dinner a week from Sunday,” said Philip.

“Not unless I can bring Bunty,” said Camilla.

“I somehow don’t think Bunty is right for an evening at Casper’s.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Camilla. They both laughed. “Although I’d love to see his wig collection. Or Ina Rae. I don’t know which fascinates me more.”

“The Mendelsons are going.”

“The Mendelsons are going to Casper Stieglitz’s?” asked Camilla. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”

“That’s what Casper said at lunch today.”

“Must be some business something or other,” said Camilla, shaking her head. “I’ll make you a bet.”

“What?”

“They’ll back out at the last minute. I know Pauline.”

•   •   •

After Paris, where they had become lovers, Jules Mendelson, in the throes of his passion, decided to lease a house for Flo to ensure their privacy. She stopped working at the Viceroy Coffee Shop, moved out of her apartment in the Silverlake district, and lived temporarily in the Sunset Marquis Hotel in West Hollywood. Jules’s first intention was to take an apartment in a high-rise condominium on Sunset Boulevard, but when looking there, using an assumed name, he ran into Marty Lesky, the head of Colossus Pictures, in the elevator. The two well-known men nodded and chatted in a friendly manner. He later found out from the superintendent that Marty Lesky had an apartment in the building. Judging from Marty’s nervous attitude in the elevator, and Jules’s certain knowledge that Marty and Sylvia Lesky maintained one of the largest estates in Bel Air, he suspected that Marty kept a young lady there who was not his wife. Jules did not return.

“I saw a very nice house in Bel Air today,” said Flo. It thrilled her to be looking at houses in what she referred to as the ritziest parts of town. House hunting was a new adventure that she enjoyed enormously. Jules leased her a bright red Mercedes, and she had taken to driving around for hours, discovering the expensive areas of Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills and Bel Air that she had never seen before, in the company of a real estate agent called Elaine, who used to be an actress and knew the history of every house. “That’s where Lana Turner’s daughter killed Johnny Stompanato,” she said about one house. “Judy Garland took an overdose in that house,” she said about another. Or, “Jack and Anjelica used to live there.” Flo knew she meant Jack Nicholson and Anjelica Huston, and the information excited her.