Flavor of the Month (85 page)

Lila thought of telling him it was none of his business, but could see that that was not the way to get this guy motivated. “I like to know who I’m working with. I don’t like secrets, and I think both of these bitches have secrets.”

“And what’s
your
secret?”

Lila didn’t flinch. “I have no secrets, Mr. Paige. That’s the point.
My
life is an open book, the legacy of being the child of two celebrities. What you see is what you get. So you can understand when I say I’m at a disadvantage. They know everything about me, but I know next to nothing about them. And, frankly, that makes me nervous.” She thought she saw the slightest hint of a curl to his lip, but chose to ignore it. “Are you interested in the job?”

“Let me make sure I understand exactly what the job is.” Minos tucked a finger in his loose collar and tugged at it slightly, as if it were too tight. “You want all the dirty little secrets of their lives, like who they slept with, and if they did it for money. Any porno movies, scandal. Family background, legitimacy, money problems, prison records, sexual tastes, any illegitimate children, abortions, drug history, shoplifting, felonies, homosexuality, bestiality, necrophilia…”

Lila smiled for the first time since meeting Minos Paige. “I think you got the general drift, Mr. Paige. What will it cost?”

“A ten-thousand-dollar retainer. To start. Expenses billed separately. There will, no doubt, be some travel involved. I’ll keep you posted on that.”

“Fine. When can you start?”

He cleared his throat. “The minute your check clears.” He shrugged apologetically. “It’s company policy.”

Lila opened her bag, took out her checkbook, and began writing the check. “By the way,” she said as she scribbled in the little details on the check, “I have one other minor situation. It’s not a problem really.” She handed Minos the check. “It—I think it can be covered by the extra amount I’ve included in your retainer.”

Lila opened her bag again, replaced the checkbook, and took out a small packet of letters, held together with a rubber band. “I’ve received these lately. I get a lot of crazy stuff in the mail, you must know that. But these are a little over-the-top. They’re written by a member of some league or something. A guy named Jughead signs them. Could you look into these for me also?” Lila stood and handed Minos the bundle.

Minos opened the first of the envelopes and took out one sheet of paper. “
LATEST BULLETIN FROM THE ANTI
-
NEPOTISM LEAGUE
,” he read. “
DEATH TO LILA KYLE
. Guess which famous Hollywood star’s daughter got a part on
Three for the Road?
Lila Kyle, of course. And she claims, in a recent interview in
People
magazine, that it was really harder for her to get seen as an individual in her own right, that she had to work harder…”

Minos refolded the paper and put it back into its envelope. “Surely you get a lot of these. Hate mail. Goes with the territory.”

“There are a lot like that. Crazy. But I just don’t like the idea of any
league
of crazies. And this is delivered to my door. Not by mail. It just shows up. Individual nuts I can deal with. This bothers me.”

Minos Paige nodded. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll look into it. Like I say, the minute the check clears.”

Sy Ortis laughed with true delight. He’d done it! He hung up the phone and for a moment he thought he might dance around the room like a demented, loco little Hispanic leprechaun. And why not? He’d won the biggest poker game of his career so far! He was signing Lila Kyle, and what sweetened it all was that she was leaving Ara Sagarian to come to him—Sy Ortis, the wetback, the spic, the Johnny-come-lately. He held three queens against Ara’s empty hand! Ha! The courtly old
maricón
would have a stroke on his right side to match the one on his left after this. Then he’d have to carry
two
fuckin’ handkerchiefs!

Of course, he had reservations: his film clients didn’t like him to represent TV. And Lila would be a handful—a true bitch. But she was a thoroughbred, an AKC-registered bitch with the right bloodlines, not some little mutt from nowhere. Lila’s grandeur was born, not delusionary, like most of the
nouveaux
Sy dealt with. And if he could handle Crystal Plenum and that
puta de diablo
Jahne Moore, then he could handle Lila, too. Because Lila had it—the star quality that most of these girls lacked, that secret magic
something
that went beyond looks or talent, that power that compelled you to watch her.

Sy walked to his office window and laughed. Wait until all the agents in town heard about this!

Birth of a Star
would be filming in Northern California for nine weeks. Jahne was flown up in the International Studios corporate 727, and when they landed at Oakland Airport a limo was waiting to take her to the Cupertino hotel the crew and cast were put up in for the duration. The next morning, she was whisked down to the first location and shown her dressing room, where Mai was already waiting.

Jahne stared into the mirror in the plush trailer. It was far more luxurious than the utilitarian tin box she was assigned for
Three for the Road
. Everything about an April Irons production was first class. The trailer had a beveled and highlighted mirror, a built-in mahogany makeup table beneath it, a tiled bathroom, a tastefully furnished flowered-chintz sitting area, complete with crystal-and-brass lamps, and a separate bedroom—with a four-poster bed! Not for her to spend the night in, of course. Just in case she wanted a nap! Jahne felt like a star. Flowers splayed from a Baccarat crystal vase—a gift from April Irons.

But did she look like a star? Anxiously, she began, once again, to search the flawless face before her in the mirror. Even the return of Mai, lugging another huge garment bag, didn’t break her concentration, or her fear. But she was too self-conscious to study herself that way for long in front of another person, even someone she felt as comfortable with as Mai.

The night before, she had had a terrifying dream: she was onstage, doing a nude scene before a full theater. The scene was serious, moving; and then she felt first one thigh, then the other bulge out. There was a titter in the audience. Then her stomach bulged. Next a breast expanded, and hung to her waist. The audience began to laugh. She threw her hands up to her face, only to find her old nose, her old weak chin. The audience roared. She woke up in a sweat.

She was sweating now as she turned back to the huge mirror, catching Mai’s eye. “Did you
always
think you were beautiful?”

“Neffer.”

“Never?” Jahne spun around. “
Never
? Mai, you were the most beautiful woman of your time. You
never
thought you were?”

“Now I know I vas.
Now
I can see it—in the old movies, in the stills from that time. But then—no. I vas alvays vorried dat someting, some imperfection, vould show. My mouth—too big. My eyes, too round. I vas alvays comparing myself—first to other girls, then to other vimmen. And ven I came here! Hollyvood! Theda Bara! You can’t imagine! And Nadia Negron. And, of course, Garbo. The Face of All Faces. I vas never goot enough. Not goot enough for me, or for the camera. Or for the men. All of the time I vas beautiful, vasted.”

Jahne watched Mai in the mirror, then flashed her eyes back to her own face. Still retaining its elegant bone structure, Mai’s face was a ruin of wrinkles, sags, and age spots. Jahne’s was young, fresh. How long would it stay that way? And was it beautiful enough? Beautiful enough to fill a thirty-by-fifteen-foot screen at the Triplex Odeon? She certainly was not as lovely as Mai had been. And she had thought she focused on her imperfections because of her past—because of the face she once had had. But Mai had done it, too. And Sharleen had told her she didn’t feel as pretty as Lila or Jahne herself. And Lila…well, Lila was a freak. No one was ever allowed to photograph her without her approval of the prints.

Now, faced with the terror of the big screen, Jahne found herself afraid and almost obsessed with her looks. And it wasn’t only her: Jerry, the makeup guy; Laslo, the principal cinematographer; Bob the cameraman—all of them were fixated, it seemed, on how she would look. Jahne bit her lips and looked over at Mai, who, once, long ago, had been through all this.

“Oh, darlink, are you vorried about photography? You vill be lufly. Listen, ve vill do some tests and find all your best angles. Ve vill make you perfect.”

“I was hoping I already was.”

Mai laughed. “My dear, so silly! Vy, Jean Arthur—she had only vun side.
Alvays
her left. Whole sets built so she could enter from the right and never show her right profile. Everyone knew it. Capra never minded. And Claudette Colbert also. Very French, very chic, but a face like a—vat you call dem—pumpkin. Special lighting to give her cheeks. Even Elizabeth Taylor. Shadow on her upper lip.
Alvays
must be covered. So vat, darlink, is your problem?” Mai laughed.

Her problem, Jahne decided, was threefold: One, she was scared of how she’d look on screen. Two, she was scared of what was going to happen with Sam, and, three, she realized with surprise, she was angry.

“Why all the tricks?” she asked Mai, though she didn’t really expect an answer. “Knowing our good side, lighting, retouching. Why aren’t we good enough as we are?”

“Because, my darlink, as ve are is not the vay men dream of us. You know the story of John Ruskin?” Jahne knew of the English Victorian art critic, but when Mai said the name she made it sound like some Russian count. Jahne shook her head.

“He vas London art critic. No: even more. He vas journalist who made the taste of that time. He told people vat to like, vat vas beautiful, vat vas ugly. Very important man in arts in London. Maybe most important.”

“Yes,” Jahne said. “Now I remember his name.”

“Vell, he married. Beautiful young girl. He vorshipped her. Until after ceremony. Und ven she undressed on vedding night, he vas sicken. You know vy?”

Jahne shook her head.

“He saw her pubic hair! It made him sick. Alvays he had been looking at statues of vimmen. Alvays they had been hairless. His real, beautiful vife disgusted him!” Mai laughed. “This is how it is for vimmen, alvays. This is the joke the gods play on us. Ve are of the stars but also of the earth. Ve are closest to perfection, but neffer perfect enough.” She paused. “Is a funny thing, really. All the aesthetics in America are on the decline: only think of art and architecture. Only female beauty obsesses us. And always more perfect. Ah, the tyranny of beauty.”

“That’s so sad. Is it all true?”

“About Ruskin or life?”

“Both.”

“Vell, it is true for both. Marilyn Monroe, I worked on her costume alterations for
Misfits
—that is vere I learn about jeans. She throws up before every take, afraid she is not pretty enough. Vell, and again; Garbo
is
perfect voman. At thirty-five, sees a few lines on her face on the screen, she cries for three days, they must stop filming. People say she didn’t care about her looks! She cared so much she spent the rest of her life hiding! Can you imagine? If ve are imperfect, ve are scorned and hate ourselves. If ve are perfect, ve age und
then
are scorned and hate ourselves. You know, ven Greer Garson vas big star, they alvays used her favorite cameraman, Joe Ruttenberg. He vas genius. But after a long vile, she vas unhappy. She called him in for talk. ‘You know, Joe,’ she said, ‘you’re not photographing me as vell as you used to.’ He said, ‘I’m sorry, Greer, but I’m ten years older.’ Poor Greer. Dead now.” Mai sighed.

“Men make these dreams, men run the studios. Alvays the studio says, ‘Somethink is wrong. You are not perfect enough for our dreams,’ and alvays ve believe them.”

“But why do they do it?” Jahne cried.

Mai shrugged. “To control us. Because they are afraid of our power. So they make
us
afraid.”

Jahne sat, feeling very small suddenly, her knees tucked under her. “What happened to Ruskin’s wife?” Jahne asked.

“She stayed virgin for long time. Then, finally, she ran off vith artist. A real man. First he used her as a model. To him, at least, she vas perfection. Hunt, I think, vas the artist, but maybe Millais. She had his baby in the end. You know vat is moral of story?”

Jahne shook her head.

“Stick vith the artists, not the critics,” Mai smiled.

Mai helped Jahne prepare for all the wardrobe tests—preliminary filming of her in costume to see how they, and she, looked on the screen. Usually these were done before principal photography began, but everything seemed to be running late on this film, and the tests had just started. Sam had been remote, distracted, and—thank God—Michael wasn’t due to show up for another three days.

It was late, past seven, when Mai helped her change and waited while she took off her makeup. And Jahne was bone weary. “I vill go back vith you to the hotel, if you like,” Mai offered.

“Yes. Let’s have a late dinner together,” Jahne suggested.

“A beer. All I vant is a beer,” Mai sighed.

They were driven back to Cupertino in silence. Even Danny, the driver who would actually get a screen credit for this job, was tired. And in the darkness of the back seat of the limo, Jahne wondered at who she had become and what she was doing here, in a town she’d never seen, working on a film she didn’t really like from a script that wasn’t finished. Beside her was the latest draft, the new version photocopied on pink pages. Each version was on a new color, to prevent confusion. How many colors had she already seen? Light-yellow, dark-yellow, green, lavender, blue. Had there been a white version? A gray? She couldn’t remember anymore. What happened when they ran out of colors? Well, she reminded herself, Michael Curtiz filmed
Casablanca
without a finished script. The actors didn’t know the end until the day they shot it. She wondered again if she was making a mistake. With the choices she had, why this film?

It was Sam, of course. Like a moth to a flame. She sighed. And, like a moth, would she wind up burned? Hadn’t she gone through her transformation so that
she
could be the flame, the center of attraction? Well, her flesh had changed, but her center had not been altered.