Flavor of the Month (51 page)

“No thanks. I had dog meat for dinner. This is business. You were supposed to call me about that script,” April said.

“That’s not a pout, is it? On April Irons?” Michael asked, his eyes twinkling. Jesus, these actors, she thought. They never turn it off.

“I’m ten years past pouting, you big prick. You
begged
me to see the script, I sent it over. Then nothing. What am I supposed to do? Chase you around town to get you to take a part that every male star would give his left testicle for? I’m not one of your twenty-year-old chippies.”

He leaned into her ear. “Oh, yes, you are,” he whispered, using the voice that makes America’s women wet. April shrugged, though actually she always enjoyed sparring with Michael McLain.

“That does it,” she said, but she smiled. “I’ve got to move on. Beatty wants the part. And I have to work the room. So either you call me—soon—or I’m going to pass it around town that Michael McLain can’t get it up.”

Michael made a look of mock horror. “Please don’t do that! I won’t be able to get a night’s sleep for months. Women all over this town would take that as their biggest challenge.”

Sam Shields stood by the bar, nervously swirling the vodka in his highball glass. He had not been invited to this party. When he got the call from April to come as her escort, he had been surprised. He wasn’t sure if this was business or pleasure, and though he wanted to work with April again, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to sleep with her. She was a demanding mistress, and there was something more than intimidating about her. To be blunt, he felt that she used men the same way most men use women. It made him nervous.

So did gatherings like this one. Sam liked to think of himself as a player, but when he was surrounded by these heavy hitters, he felt damn insecure. Nobody had sought him out, and he wasn’t very good at “working the room.” He wished he could go home. To kill time, he watched the guests milling about. He tried to identify them. The stars, of course, were easy. It was the power brokers and studio suits he worked on. Mike Eisner. Mike Medavoy. Michael Ovitz. Was “Mike” a prerequisite for success out here?

Then he saw the redhead. She was with DiGennaro. In fact, that was Marty DiGennaro surgically attached to her arm. She might be good for
Birth of a Star
. She looked young and hot.

He looked over at April. She had been talking to a series of movers and shakers, the last being Michael McLain. Now, seeing her “between engagements,” he crossed to her side. Perhaps she’d introduce him to DiGennaro. Perhaps he’d get a shot at the redhead…

“I have had about enough of this,” April said to him. “Let me just talk to a few more of these guys, and then what do you say we go back to my place and fuck?”

Jahne stood at the side of the pool, the lights threaded through all the palms twinkling like tiny stars. Big stars and big movers and shakers stood around the pool. No one knew who she was, and in the shadows she had a moment of privacy.

At a party like this, just being beautiful was not enough to draw interest. You had to be beautiful, successful,
and
famous. Because this was a party of the most beautiful, successful, and famous people in the world. And she, Jahne Moore, was there.

Well, she reflected, I must have arrived. How else could I be here? She smiled. This unreal scene was her reality. But the reality she was living was becoming more and more unreal. She breathed in the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, mixed with just the slightest scent of chlorine from the pool. Essence of Hollywood.

Then, as she watched, a man climbed out of the shrubbery in the darkness. He was short, and almost as dark as the shadows he had hidden in. He looked up at her. “Hi,” he said nonchalantly, and brushed off his crumpled dinner jacket. “I was looking for my wallet,” he explained, and strolled off into the crowd. She shook her head.

Behind her, two society women began to gossip. They were older matrons, clearly married to Industry heavies. One looked up. “Oh. Oh! Look!” she cried. “It’s Mary Jane.”

Jahne felt a tug in her stomach. She felt herself almost dissolve, and instantly a film of sweat broke out all over her. God! Were they from New York? How had they…Then another older woman walked up to the group. “Mary Jane Wick, meet my friend Esther Goodbody,” the matron said. Her voice faded.

Jahne could only hear the buzzing in her ears. She tried to take a deep breath, one that moved all the way down to her solar plexus. She took another wobbling step forward on her very high heels and almost slipped but caught herself just in time. Get a grip, Jahne, she told herself sternly, and then she looked up. There, across the pool, she saw him. He was wearing black and white, like all the men. She could hardly believe her eyes. It had been such a long time since she’d last seen him in New York. “Oh, my God!” she said out loud.

No, she told herself. She was merely shaken by the women and the mention of her old name. She turned her eyes away, blinked, took a few more deep breaths, and told herself to be calm. Now I’ll look, she said to herself. Now I’ll look, and find I am mistaken. But as she raised her eyes and looked across the tiny lights floating like lotus blossoms in the pool, she knew it was he.

It was Neil, and he was dressed as a waiter, serving canapés to the party guests.

Paul Grasso stood with a drink in his hand, moved slightly back and forth from heel to toe, rocking where he stood, and shook his leg. Yahta, yahta, yahta. He hated these fuckin’ Industry soirées. But it was his shot to get to Marty, and he’d managed to corner his prey at last. You would think it would be easier, since Marty was there with Lila Kyle, who looked gorgeous as ever but not one bit grateful. But Paul knew there was no gratitude in this town. Paul thought of the Italian proverb that asked, “Why does she hate me so? I never did anything for her.” Because Lila clearly hated him. She’d gotten the part but never delivered on the casting job she promised him. The job he was desperate for. Anyway, she never took his calls. Now she stood beside Marty, obviously gorgeous and obviously bored.

“Nice tux,” Marty DiGennaro commented, his sarcasm heavy. Paul ignored him. He needed to pick up some work, but nothing was lower than asking for it here, at a party like this. Still, it wasn’t like he was begging. Hey, he was
owed
it.

“So what you been up to? Make it over to Vegas lately?”

“Nah,” Marty said. “Too busy.”

“How’s the show going? I haven’t heard.” Paul felt sweat bead his upper lip.

“Real well.”

Well, he’d have to do it. “Got any casting trouble? Maybe I could help?”

“You mean maybe
I
could help. You looking for work, Paulie?”

“I wouldn’t mind the casting for this new project,” he admitted, and held his breath. Marty paused. It wasn’t the pause that refreshes. It was the one that ended a friendship and turned it strictly business.

“Call my office tomorrow,” he said, and Paulie knew he’d cashed in his last chip but that he was back in the game.

Lila cleared her throat and shifted from one leg to the other. It made her boredom more than apparent. Ara had invited her, since she was his client, but Marty had an invitation for two in his own right. She had refused to come with him, however, and told him she would meet him at the party. Now she was regretting her decision. This was all so dull. And Paul Grasso looked like he wanted to play “I’ve Got a Secret” with her. She’d blow them both off. “I’m going inside,” she told Marty, and without a goodbye or acknowledgment she walked across the deck and through the open French doors to the huge tiled living room. Near the center of the room, a mammoth chair stood, surrounded by a gaggle of morons. Lila did not want to look too interested, but she floated toward them. Lots of power there: Don Simpson and Joel Schumacher.
Days of Thunder
meets
Peter Pan
. When would
she
be the center of attention? she wondered. As she came up to the group, not one of them turned to look at her.

At the center a tall, dark woman was talking to an equally tall, dark man. He smiled at her. She smiled back. From the corner of her eye, she saw Marty approach.

“Miss Kyle?” the tall man asked. She nodded. “I’m Sam Shields. And this is April Irons.”

Lila gave April a big smile. April Irons meant features. First-class features. Marty joined them.

“Hello, April,” he said, and took Lila’s arm. Lila felt her annoyance build. He didn’t own her. She took her arm back.

“So, what are you up to, April?”

“Oh, a new little project. Sam here is directing. Just getting some pointers from Don.”

“Really?” Marty smiled stiffly. “Got a working title?” he asked idly, obviously bored.

“It’s called
Birth of a Star
,” April cooed.

Neil stood on the back porch, sucking on a cigarette, his hands trembling. Sam Shields. Fucking Sam Shields! Neil had been passing a tray of caviar and had turned to offer some to a small group. He recognized Michael Douglas, Kevin Costner, Richard Gere, Marty DiGennaro, and Crystal Plenum. He served Michelle Pfeiffer, Phoebe Van Gelder, Kirk Kirkorian. And that producer bitch, April Irons. Then the guy in front of him had leaned into the bowl of Beluga, scarfing it up. Neil almost dropped the tray when he saw it was Sam Shields. His first instinct had been to push the fucking bowl of fish eggs into Sam Shields’ face; then he realized he had to get away.

The humiliation was stinging. It was both a relief and an insult that Sam didn’t even recognize him, hadn’t even looked at who was serving him. All the bastard could see was free four-hundred-dollar fish eggs.

“I told you. Nose, there are no breaks.” The fat guy again, now standing at the kitchen door, warned him.

“You’re telling me!” Neil said, flicked his cigarette into the Beluga, and began to walk down the driveway, unclipping his stupid black bow tie.

“Where you going. Nose? You got a job to do.”

“Yeah, fat boy, you got that right. But it’s not
this
one.

Where the fuck did the caviar go? Sy Ortis thought, looking around the room. Another waiter passed at that moment, and he grabbed him before he got away. But he was only carrying skewered vegetable on a bed of kale. Even in Mexico, we threw that crap out. But he was hungry—nerves always made him eat—so he took four of them. These guys disappear so fast, Sy didn’t want to take a chance on
this
one’s getting away.

“I’d like to have ten percent of everyone in this room.”

Sy looked up from the skewers to find Milton Glick at his elbow. “Yeah, well, you’d have to be a faggot to get it,” he said, indicating with his head Ara standing with a group of young men. Then he looked Milton up and down. “
And
a hell of a lot prettier than
you
are.”

“I’ve already gotten fucked up the ass in this town. I guess it won’t hurt to suck some dick.” Milton shrugged.

“Who did you come with?” Sy asked.

“My wife. She’s over there, talking to Mary Jane Wick about some charity ball. Who are you with?”

Sy shrugged. “Jahne Moore. The client Marty had to find on his own. The client from hell. Because
you
didn’t get me two Sharleen Smiths.”

“Nobody is perfect, Sy. Except you, of course.”

Neil stood at the bottom of the driveway.
Now
what the fuck do I do, he thought? I can’t thumb a ride. Not in Holmby Hills. And no money for a cab. There once had been buses in this town, but they must have ended in the tar pits with the hairy mammoths. He turned at the sound of the beeping horn. A car was parked across the road from Ara’s driveway, and a woman was leaning out its window, beckoning to him. He walked over slowly, blessing his luck. He had never been picked up in this town—in any town, for that matter. Maybe his luck
was
changing for the better.

The woman stepped out of the car as he approached. She was not pretty, he could see. Shit, she was ugly. And old—well, middle-aged. But what the fuck? He was no Miss America, and was stuck here without transportation.

“Hi,” she called out as he approached. “Working the party?” she asked, nodding toward Ara’s house.

“Yeah. I should say, was. I just quit.”

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks for your waiter’s outfit,” she said.

Neil didn’t answer for a moment. I should have known. “A crasher, huh? I guess people would do anything to be seen at Ara’s party. A hundred, huh?” he asked. “John Ritter would give me a thousand.”

I shrugged. Yes, it was me, Laura Richie. And Laura Richie has stooped to lower than this to get a hot flash. For you, gentle Reader. All for you. “Maybe you should be talking to John Ritter, then. “

“
And what am I supposed to wear home? Your dress?
”

I opened the back door of the car and reached in. I came out with a pair of black trousers. “I have the pants; all I need is your shirt and jacket. And tie. I’ll let you have my leather bomber jacket along with the hundred. That should get you home.”

“
Throw in twenty bucks more for a cab and it’s all yours,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it out of his pants
.

“Did you get that tape?” Sam Shields asked as they sat down on the bed. He was exhausted from the strain of Ara’s party, and the idea of athletic sex with April was not, at the moment, number one on his hit parade. He began to unbutton his shirt as April stripped her own blouse off. “Could you get the
3/4
tape?” he repeated.

“Of course. Why?” she asked.

“I’d like to take a look at it,” he said, and reached across the bed for the remote control and clicked on the TV.

He guessed they were celebrating the deal they had just made: he agreed to the drafting of a new script for
Birth of a Star
and to directing it. He’d get half a million bucks—twice what he’d gotten for
Jack and Jill
—if the picture actually went into Production. He could hardly believe it.

“Sam, what are you doing?” April asked, making no attempt to mask the irritation in her voice. “Turn the fucking television off. Now is
not
the time.”

“I know, I know,” Sam said, trying to calm her. “But now that I’ve seen Lila Kyle, I just want to see the show for a minute. Everyone is talking about the thing. Where’s the tape?”