Flavor of the Month (24 page)

She
would
lose the weight, Dr. Moore
would
take her on, and, if he didn’t, some other doctor would. But what if you simply fail again, and this time without the excuse of your looks to blame everything on? After all, who do you think you are? How many pretty girls try to make it and wind up waiting tables in San Diego? How many job openings are there for new stars? Who do you think you are?

And there, in the deepening dusk, she heard her grandmother’s voice. “Want a part in the senior play? Who do you think you are? Auditioning for drama school? Do you think you’re Sarah Bernhardt? Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are?”

She held her hands up to her ears, her grandmother’s voice too loud to block out. “I don’t know who I am, or who I’m going to be, but I’m not who I was!” she shouted. “I’m not who I was!”

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the veranda that encircled Aunt Robbie’s pool. Lila was on her stomach on a chaise longue, her bikini top open so she could get the full warmth of the sun, though she was so covered in sunscreen that a hydrogen-bomb explosion probably wouldn’t even pinken her. She wasn’t turning into some lizard-woman. Her silken red hair, coated with a thick layer of conditioner, was wrapped in a towel. And soon José would bring her a huge frosty glass of lemonade, made from real lemons and diet sweetener. He even put a leaf of real mint in it. Heaven. Staying here at Robbie’s, though it was a drag in both senses of the word, definitely had some benefits. And Aunt Robbie was as gung-ho about her career as she was. “Decide what you want, then grab it by its nuts,” he had delicately said. So she’d have to start doing some nut-grabbing soon.

There was no longer any doubt what she wanted. She needed a movie, a movie more wonderful than anything her mother had been in. A vehicle to catapult her into the public eye. Lila heard the soft padding of someone walking toward her. She opened her eyes in a squint and saw Aunt Robbie, sans roller blades, a huge, floppy straw hat on his head. It was odd to see him waddle instead of glide.

“Why, Aunt Robbie,” Lila asked in her best Southern accent, peering down at the bare feet that stuck out from beneath the hem of his aquamarine-and-pink caftan, “whatever has become of your skates?”

Aunt Robbie dropped heavily down onto the chaise next to her. “That bitch José. He hid them on me, I’m sure of it.”

“Why would he do that?” Lila asked. She had become used to the daily battles between the two of them. In fact, she occasionally even enjoyed listening to the two queens snap at each other.

“He hates the skates. He says he’s embarrassed for me. Can you believe that?” Rob tugged the caftan skirt down around his legs. “So I said, ‘Honey, if
I’m
not embarrassed, why should
you
be? After all, this is
Hollywood
.’” Robbie laughed, extending his flabby arms to the air in general. Then he lowered his eyebrows and tried to make his pudgy face menacing. He called out in a theatrically loud voice, “If he doesn’t get them back to me today, I swear, I’m calling Immigration,” then leaned his head back on the chaise, adjusting the rim of the hat to shade his eyes.

“And what, may I ask, are you doing out here broiling?” Robbie said, looking over at Lila’s near-nude figure slick with suntan oil. “Don’t you know about the holes in the ozone layer? You’ll get skin cancer. If you up and die on me, I’ll kill you. Keep that in mind. And no mourning. I look like shit in black.”

“I need to work on my tan.”

“You need to work on your judgment, it looks like.”

“This is
Hollywood
,” Lila mimicked. “And this is what people do in Hollywood.”

“No, my dear, they do more than that. They also try to build careers.” Robbie turned his head toward the house and roared, “José!”

The small, dark-skinned man came out of the kitchen door, wiping his hands on a frilly apron while mincing toward them. He stopped in front of Robbie and put one hand on his hip.

“Wha’ chu want, Miss Thing?”

Robbie ignored José’s attitude and said brightly, “I’d like a frozen margarita, José, please, and bring another diet lemonade for my date here.” Then Robbie flicked his hand, and José turned and sashayed back to the house.

“Now, it’s time we did some more career planning. Aunt Robbie has been thinking a lot about your future, Lila, and I have a couple of ideas.”

Lila had heard all this before from Robbie. He meant well, but so far his ideas hadn’t panned out to anything. He was out of touch in a business that didn’t want to hear about yesterday’s news. Much less, news from the fifties. “A film?” she asked in mock excitement. “Is one of your friends doing a film?”

“Give me a break, girlfriend. You’d be very lucky to do television.”

“I’m not doing television,” Lila grumbled, and sat up, allowing the top to fall from her perfect breasts. Robbie certainly didn’t care. “I want to do a movie. Television brings you too close to the public. There are no real stars on television. Just celebrities.”

“My goodness, what a pair of knockers!” Aunt Robbie said. “A little decorum, please.”

“Look who’s talking!” she snapped, but turned away for a moment, then made a face at Robbie and tied her top behind her. “You’ve said television is second-rate yourself. You always say so to Ken,” she added.

“That’s because Ken
works
in television. But I’m only suggesting television as a starting point. A lot of stars got their start on TV.”

“Name one.”

Robbie thought for a moment. “Rob Reiner.”

“He’s not a
star
—he’s a director, for chrissakes,” Lila said. “So is Ron Howard. Anyway, name a
woman
.” She paused. “Don’t even bother racking your brain, Aunt Robbie. There are just no stars on television.”

“Carol Burnett.”

“She’s not a star, she’s a has-been. And no one ever paid to see her in the movies.”

“Shelley Long.”

“Who?”

“The blonde from
Cheers
.”

“Exactly. Name one of her
films
. Forget it!”

“Sally Field.”

“Oh, my God. Gidget goes to work in a factory. She
never
had any draw. Aunt Robbie, these women have no glamour. They aren’t anything. I’ve got to get
a film
. A major one.”

“Mary Tyler Moore.”

“Oh, fine. What has she done?
Ordinary Movie?
If Redford hadn’t directed it, it would have died like a dog. No. No TV!” Lila was beginning to lose her patience. “Come on, Robbie. I want to be like my mother was. I want to be
bigger
than my mother was. You know exactly what I mean.”

José returned with their drinks and a bowl of macadamia nuts. “Well, we’re jumping ahead of ourselves, Lila. You’ve got to have an agent first,” Robbie said, popping a handful of nuts into his mouth.

“Who do you suggest, Robbie? One of your little friends? First assistant to the first assistant of something? Spare me, Robbie. I’m thinking bigger than that.”

“All your thinking hasn’t done you shit, has it, honey? It’s time to stop thinking and start
doing
. I happen to know just the man for you, and he’s a big thinker, just what you want.”

Lila paused, then said, “Wait. I know what you’re going to say.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. Don’t suggest Ara. He’s my mother’s agent, he’s a hundred and four,
and
he has the breath of a sick dog. Plus, he’ll never see me because Theresa wouldn’t stand for it. Anyway, he’s got a foot in the grave.”

“I swear, it’s morbid how paranoid you are about your mother. If she were so goddamn powerful, don’t you think she would have scared up a part for herself by now? She’s not going to stop you. And Ara is only eighty-one, and if he has one foot in the grave, then the other foot is firmly planted on Hollywood and Vine. Ara Sagarian is so well connected that he’ll be getting work for his people even
after
he’s dead.”

“But I hate him,” Lila said.

“Of course you do,” Robbie said with exaggerated patience. “He’s an
agent
. But he’s handled Jimmy Stewart, Frank Sinatra, Joan Crawford,
and
your mother, of course. And he still has lots of biggies. Hagman and Michael Keaton, I think. Lots of others.”

“Oh. J.R. and Batbore.
Now
I’m impressed.”

“Well, laugh if you want to, but Ara Sagarian is very big on television these days. Says it’s what the studios were like in the forties. And I don’t see anything else on your horizon. Miss Thing. I can get you in. Then you just charm him.”

“Well, maybe I could go talk to him,” Lila conceded. Then she laughed. “Should I just walk in and tell him I want a starring role in something? That I won’t take television, but that I really want to be a movie star?” Even though she was the daughter of Theresa O’Donnell, the old man wasn’t going to be exactly thrilled at another Beverly Hills brat knocking on his door. Still, if he
would
see her…Lila hated to admit it, but Robbie might have something here. And if Robbie could guarantee getting her in…Ara
was
big. The biggest contact Robbie had suggested so far. “You’re certain he’ll see me? I mean, not just a courtesy call.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Robbie said. “Ara’s my godfather in the gay Hollywood mafia. He’d do
anything
for me. If you agree. I’ll talk to him, just feel him out.” Robbie leaned over the arm of his chaise and looked into Lila’s eyes. “Just say you’re willing to do some TV and I’ll make the call.”

Lila sipped her lemonade, then said, “Okay, Robbie, but only a miniseries and a starring role, even if it
is
my first shot out of the box. No crappy sitcom, no guest shots. I mean it.”

“Jesus, Miss Thing! Aren’t we the choosy one?” Robbie said, and rolled his eyes.

“Hi,” Lila heard Ken call as he walked toward them from the garage. “I’m slaving under hot klieg lights all day, and you two are out here taking it easy?”

Robbie looked at his watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late, Ward,” Robbie said in his best June Cleaver voice. “It was just that the Beaver here was giving me trouble. Maybe you two can talk!” He turned and sashayed toward the house again, and was about to yell out for José when he saw the little man coming toward them, a frozen margarita for Ken on a silver tray before him. Robbie waddled back to his chaise.

“Well, it’s about time, Maria. Ken, sit here and have a drinky.” Robbie pulled up his fat legs to make room for Ken at the foot of the chaise.

“So what were you two up to?” Ken asked, after taking a sip of the iced drink.

Lila smiled at him. “I’ve been getting skin cancer and some career advice from my auntie, here,” she said. “Both unwelcome.”

“He usually gives good advice. Not very good head, but good advice.”

“Oooh! Aren’t you a little kiss-and-tell!” Robbie cried, and the two began to bicker.

Meanwhile, Lila decided. She would see Ara. After all, what did she have to lose? “Okay, Robbie,” she said. “Set it up. But no assistant shit. With Ara. Himself.”

Mary Jane gave herself a budget: nine hundred calories and nine dollars a day for food for the next three months. She spent the first two days of her new regime in bed, mostly sleeping, but once her exhaustion began to pass she knew that would never work. Home, in bed, was where she ate. She had to be out. She needed the exercise to drop the weight. And she had to lose the weight before she made another appointment with Dr. Moore or Miss Hennessey, his dragon lady. She needed some results to show him.

So on Wednesday, exactly two weeks after her grandmother’s funeral, she bundled into her old dun-colored down coat and trundled heavily out the door, after a breakfast of one poached egg, two pieces of (dry) melba toast, and a small glass of tomato juice. It was a cool March day, but at least there isn’t a cutting wind, she thought, and began walking east. West Fifty-fourth Street wasn’t beautiful at any time of day, but it was particularly unlovely in the morning. Eleventh Avenue was still streaming with trucks, a few patches of filthy snow, covered completely in black soot, and littered with dog droppings, making nasty detours for pedestrians. She walked over to Tenth, past the dank tenement houses, then Ninth, with its bodegas and liquor stores, past the piles of restaurant garbage, to Eighth Avenue, and then over to Broadway. Christ, it was even worse here, she thought. The guys in straight business suits rushed by, clutching attachés, their faces grim, their eyes averted from the tawdry posters outside the grind houses and porno-book shops. Mary Jane wasn’t sure who depressed her more: the civilians in their commuter ruts or the degenerates already clustering at the shop gates, waiting to get their sex fix for the morning. Jesus, imagine a porn-film audience at 9:00
A
.
M
.! Who
were
those guys? She shuddered and headed south, moving quickly because she didn’t want to find out.

She was getting cold, so she stopped at Seventh Avenue and Thirty-eighth Street, the heart of the fashion industry, for a cup of coffee—using up a dollar of her precious hoard, but at least not adding any calories. There was a tabloid newspaper at the counter that some garmento had left behind, and she thumbed through it. The usual stabbings, shootings, and child abuse. She turned to the gossip columns. They contained the typical mix of New York theatrical, society, and Hollywood names. Shirley MacLaine was apparently writing yet another book on yet one more of her past lives, while her brother was making the most of this one by sleeping with yet another starlet.

Then she saw it. “
Crystal Plenum loves her work so much that she’s taking it home with her. Rewrites have started on the script of
Jack and Jill and Compromise,
a real hot property. Apparently so is Sam Shields, the director. Crystal and Shields have been seen at Spago, Mr. Chow’s, and were even making nice over breakfast at the Polo Lounge
.”

She felt herself flush, then go cold. She was afraid for a moment that she would fall off the stool at the counter. She felt dizzy, as if she’d been spinning on it as she had when she was a child. It was strange, she thought, as she threw the dollar and assorted change on the counter and stumbled out onto the street. He was my life for more than three years, and now he’s gone. She looked at her watch. Right this minute he’s probably lying in bed, asleep beside Crystal Plenum, who’s got my part. She didn’t know which hurt more, that the woman had her role, her precious role as Jill, or that she had Sam.