Flavor of the Month (59 page)

Lila stopped in her walk to her bedroom. “Really?” she asked. Ricky was hot. “Well, maybe I’ll call him back.”

“Maybe?
Maybe?
”

God, she hated how Robbie was down on her all the time. He wanted a full description of each day at the studio, of each bit of gossip he could milk and retell to his friends. She sighed.

“I said
maybe
.”

“Call him now. Let me listen on the extension.”

“Forget about it.” Lila sighed again. God, she felt totally smothered. Now that she was living in Nadia’s house, she’d hoped for some privacy, but Robbie was
always
there.

“You wouldn’t be so quick to blow him off if
you
knew what
I
know.”

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice nasty. He was always pretending to have some inside scoop, but she could see now that Robbie was just a small-time guy who got his inside tips from gay waiters and faggot secretaries living at the edge of the Industry.

“Well, I guess you’re not interested in
Birth of a Star
casting,” he said, and began to waltz out of the room.

“What are you talking about?” she snapped.

“I heard that April Irons wants Michael McLain for
Birth of a Star
.”

“Get out of here!” she cried. “He’s ancient.”

“Not too ancient for that. Or to star with Ricky Dunn,” Robbie sneered. “
You
should be so lucky.”

Lila tried not to react. She wouldn’t give Robbie the satisfaction of showing any interest. “Who cares?” she sneered. But she knew that she did.

The next day, from her trailer at the studio, she called the number that Robbie had copied down. It must have been McLain’s private line, because he answered the phone himself, his voice husky. Was it with sleep, or some stupid sex appeal he was trying? Well, it didn’t hurt to be nice, and even if it did, she could take the pain if it would get her the lead in
Birth
.

“This is Lila Kyle. I think you called me.”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

Give me a break, she thought. “I don’t really know you,” she said, and wondered if he remembered the last time they’d met.

“Would you like to?” he asked, his voice suggestive. “I hear you broke up with your director friend.”

Christ, gossip traveled faster than the speed of light in this town. But how could she find out if Robbie’s rumor was true? She couldn’t just come out and ask McLain what his two next vehicles were and whether she could be in them. Well, she’d just have to see him.

“I wouldn’t like to,” she said, “I’d
love
to.”

With the relentless
3/4
shooting schedule, the publicity work for Flanders Cosmetics, the brutal exercise and self-maintenance drills, and her occasional secretive dates with Michael McLain, Jahne had succeeded in keeping herself too busy to focus on Sam Shields. Until Sam had called her. Since then, it had been hard to keep him out of her mind. Somehow, somehow, always in the background was a thread of awareness, an almost animal instinct that Sam existed: since he’d called after her debut, she’d waited to hear whether a script had been submitted to her agent. Jahne was not completely surprised when she got the call from Sy Ortis.

“I got a ring from April Irons’ office. They’re interested in casting you for some remake they’re about to do. You interested in going over there for a look-see?”

She felt her heart beat faster, but she knew how to play casual. “Why not?” she asked.

“I say it’s beneath your dignity. A look-see. Like you’re not the hottest kid in town.” Sy snorted. “Anyway, she’s someone to avoid. A real shark. And I hear they want to use that guy Shields as director. He’s the one who made Crystal look like shit in her last film.”

“But I heard it was an acting triumph for her. She got good reviews.”

“Fuck reviews. He made her look like a hag. She hasn’t gotten a decent script since.”

“Well, it can’t hurt if I go; I need the experience,” Jahne told him.

“I got other deals I like better. And I hear they’re having trouble with the script. They only sent a treatment.”

“Well, what can it hurt?” she repeated. And, really, what could it hurt? she asked herself. She would see Sam, and if she got the part she could turn down his job offer. It was an ironic little joke she could play, after he had rejected her so completely. And the beauty of it was that he would never know. It was the reward, the gift, she could give to poor Mary Jane Moran. She’d had to play poor Miss Havisham, but now Jahne could play Estella. Yes! She’d have the chance to be both the disappointed, rejected lover and the coldhearted avenger.

But the truth was, she could not resist seeing Sam at least one more time. And if she was seeing him through new eyes, so much the better.

She stood at the maître d’s desk at Chasen’s, where the Hollywood establishment ate. Henri immediately approached her. Though she’d never been here before, he knew her by name. “Miss Moore, how nice to see you. Miss Irons is waiting for you. Please follow me.” He led her to a center table that could seat six, and she carefully made eye contact first with April Irons, and only then with Sam. Once again, she wondered exactly what then-relationship was.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Jahne,” April said, after the pleasantries were exchanged and the drink orders taken. “I know how busy you must be with the series, and all the other demands on you. You seem to be holding up remarkably well. Are you?”

“I have my moments,” she said, then bit the inside of her lip. I used to say that all the time in New York, she thought. Before leaving home today, she had talked to herself in the mirror, reminding herself that this was the supreme test. If Sam didn’t figure anything out after today’s lunch, he never would. Watch your speech patterns, she’d told herself. That’s the only way Mary Jane Moran could be uncovered. Now she added quickly, “But, actually, overall, it’s been fan-
tas
-tic.” There, just enough L.A. And definitely
not
Mary Jane Moran.

Jahne scanned the oversized menu and realized she was very hungry. Nerves always did that to her. But she’d been dieting again for weeks. Of course, she couldn’t eat. It was almost impossible to keep her weight at 109. She certainly wouldn’t blow it for Sam. “I’m starving,” she said. “So I think I’ll have a large salad, with the house dressing on the side.” April ordered a salad also, but Sam asked for very rare filet mignon with Béarnaise sauce. Some things didn’t change. Jahne smiled to herself at the memory of Sam’s unfashionable love for beef. Her big splurge one year for his birthday had been at the Old Homestead back in New York, where the steaks were so large they flopped over the edges of the plates.

Sam had greeted her, but April did all the talking about the movie. Jahne knew all about
Birth of a Star
, of course. She’d seen the classic with Theresa O’Donnell. But she had only glanced at Sam’s treatment. Apparently, there was no script yet. She asked why.

“Sam, tell Jahne—may I call you Jahne?—tell Jahne your ideas about the project.” April sat erect, her hands steepled in front of her, looking intently at Sam as he spoke.

“Have you ever seen
Birth of a Star
, Jahne?” Sam asked.

“Yes, and I loved it.” She had rented the video only last week and run it three or four times. Old-fashioned and melodramatic. She took the plunge. “But I don’t know if I’m the right age for Theresa O’Donnell’s part. She was about, what, thirty-five, thirty-six when she played the role?” Jahne felt a scar tighten on her inner thigh—it felt like a caterpillar moving on her flesh—and slowly crossed her legs under the table. It began to itch. “What age do
you
see the character as?” she asked.

Sam spoke quickly. “Your age, Jahne. Theresa was really too old at that point in her career to play the ingenue. But she had the drawing power, and good skin, so she got the part.” He chewed a bit of his steak, and wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

April agreed, and they talked some more about it. How to update the story, how to make it work. Jahne picked at her salad and tried to appear intelligent.

But in reality Jahne was there simply to look at Sam. She watched him throughout the meal, one part of her present for the conversation and involved with the details of the script. Well, she
was
very interested, despite what Sy had said. But there was another part of Jahne, the voyeur, who sat there all the while and peeked into Sam’s private self without his knowing. It was like standing outside his house, peering at him through his window, watching him eat. He was, if anything, better-looking than she had remembered. California clearly agreed with him. He was wearing a pair of black linen pants, and when she peeked down to the end of one long, ever-so-long leg, she saw that his narrow feet were sockless and tanned, slipped into casual but obviously expensive loafers. He was tanned, and the white shirt he wore made his teeth and the whites of his eyes seem to glisten. That was new, Sam in white. The only other change she could see was that his hair, still sleeked back into a pony tail, had begun to go salt-and-pepper. Even the gray looked good on Sam.

Watching him like this made her feel odd—half hot, half a voyeur. But it also gave her a perspective on Sam she had never had before. She had always believed that Sam was his own person, that he didn’t kowtow to anyone. Now, though, he deferred to April. Even the simple act of delicately wiping the corners of his mouth with the edge of his napkin was so telling. Jahne remembered Sam’s movements as being big. He’d never dabbed at the corners of his mouth. It was such a studied movement for Sam.

Sam was self-conscious, she realized, and seemed concerned with making an impression. But on whom? On Jahne Moore? That made her almost giddy. On April Irons? Of course, he
was
playing to April as well as to Jahne. What
was
their relationship?

She shook herself, almost physically, and realized their coffee had arrived. “So, Jahne,” Sam asked, looking directly into her eyes. “Will you audition? Can I hope that we might be working together?”

Jahne smiled, first at April, then at Sam. The meal had progressed so quickly, and it appeared that she’d been a success. Her most important role ever: Jahne Moore. “It’s certainly a possibility,” she said. “There’s a first time for everything.”

She looked down at her almost empty coffee cup and saw that Sam was leaning on the table. April was busying herself with a lipstick and a gold Dior mirror she was peering into. Jahne looked away and felt a tingle in her right hand. It was his hand—Sam’s hand—touching hers. Just the edge of his pinkie against the side of hers, but she remembered—oh, she remembered
everything
—and she remembered how very tentative he’d always been, half teasing, half waiting for her response. To avoid rejection and ensure success.

Now, once again, his hand just brushed hers. And it felt as good as it had back then—maybe even better. Because it had been so long and she’d missed him so much. And because she knew what that hand could do to her.

The hairs on her arm lifted, and she told herself no. It was too much. What had happened to her resolve? She was already involved with Michael. Was she becoming a slut? Had she always been faithful simply out of lack of options? What a horrible thought! And what if she slept with Sam? Surely then he’d realize who she was. What if she slept with him and he didn’t? Jahne didn’t know which was more unthinkable. And then it came to her: that which was really unthinkable.

And that was not sleeping with him at all.

Sharleen sat with the phone pressed tightly against her ear, listening, trying not to get angry with Sy Ortis, who was breathing heavily on the other end. He was just trying to do right by her, she told herself. He was teaching her manners and all. But somehow it didn’t seem right.

“Stars don’t
go
to crew parties. It’s just
not done
,” she heard him say again.

Sharleen sighed. “But why not? I been goin’ to ’em all along. And I always had a good time. What’s changed?”

“Everything! Do the crew get their pictures on the cover of
TV Guide?
Are they going to make a million bucks this year? Sharleen, you need to see and be seen with people on your
level
. Stars. Say, did Michael McLain ever get together with you? He called for your number.” Sharleen blushed. She was glad she was not seeing Mr. Ortis in person, because she thought she could remember that night, though she didn’t like to. It confused her, shamed her. The fun of going out with a movie star, Mr. McLain’s kindness, his gift, his prediction about her career. But then there had been the drinks, the dizziness, and that time on the hill, when he…when it had happened like it did.

She wasn’t surprised that she had never heard from him again, that he had never called. She’d behaved like a tramp. He’d lost respect. Well, she was sorry and ashamed. She felt dirty, so she tried not to think of it at all. “He called once. But not since then,” she told Mr. Ortis. Probably he was seeing some other, nicer girl by now. She put her hand up to her neck, the necklace still hanging there, just over her breastbone. It had hurt when she hadn’t heard from Michael McLain, but she hadn’t been surprised. “So, now I’m a star? And everything is changed?”

“Exactly. Now, honey, you’re big. Too big to go to some West Hollywood stuntman’s parties.” Sy paused. “Sharleen? Think of security. Those parties are open, no security check as you go in. If word got out that you were showing up—and it would, believe me—the party would turn into a riot. And no one could protect you. Don’t put the guy in that position. They’re good folk, and they really like you. But, you know, you can’t just call up and invite yourself along.
They
know what the deal is. And they wouldn’t say no to you.”

“I used to make the potato salad for those things, for crying out loud.” And Sharleen did feel like crying out loud, although she wasn’t going to on the phone with Mr. Ortis. “And the guys used to call me Shar. Now they call me Miss Smith. That don’t feel so good, you know? I miss them.”

Sy’s voice lowered. “I know you do, honey. But you can make other friends. Maybe Michael. Or someone else. Want me to ask someone to call you?”