Shadow Traffic (24 page)

Ah, these were better, she thought, taking a new pair of jeans with her as she emerged from her closet, then throwing them on the bed next to her prospective shirt. Sky blue jeans and a pink shirt. Was it too cute a look? Too “Barbie?” She caught a glimpse
of herself in the wall-length mirror and held her stomach in. She ate too much last night when Woody was over. She was nervous around him (she thought even Eric was a little wired), and when she was nervous she ate too much, drank too much, too. Who wouldn't be nervous around Woody Allen? She'd kill to be in one of his movies. And now, as if it were a punishment for the dinner, she could see the results in her stomach. Stomachs were like cancer, when you thought about it. They only got worse with time. Almost everyone had one when they died, too, no matter how hard they'd tried to get rid of it. If that was your fate in life, your stomach fate, why not get one from having a baby? Even Eric had laughed when she tried that line on him. “You gotta do comedy, babe, you gotta. You're a really funny broad,” he'd said, tapping her on the bottom, while avoiding what she wanted to talk about once again. Still, maybe she really was funny. Eric told her a funny woman with a hot body was “a million-dollar combination.” “Look at Pamela Anderson,” he'd said. “Think how much she's made. You look hotter than her, and you're younger too. You could be the next Pam, if you let me market you that way.”

She loved Eric when he talked like that, as if he really believed in her. It didn't happen often but when it did it was sweet. Jaime thought she was funny too. She remembered how hard he'd laughed at one of her jokes at Lillian's. She was telling him how she hooked up with Eric and Jaime was encouraging her, as if it fascinated him. A lot of those journalists, especially the younger ones, were still in awe of movie stars, even a very minor one like her.

“I was just a bit player in one of his movies,” she'd said to Jaime. “I think I said ten words in the picture, but one day during rehearsal our eyes met in a special way and he invited me to dinner that night and then boom, we just clicked.”

“It was that way with me and my fiancée too,” Jaime had said.

“So, yuh,” she'd continued, cutting him off, “I was crazy about him right from the start, but I also had a lot of hang-ups about dating a man who was so famous and, you know, older—a man who knew so much more about the world than I did.”

“But your hang-ups all went away, obviously.”

“Not completely,” she'd said, laughing as she finished her drink. “I mean, you see the nice tits,” she said, pointing to them for a second, “but behind them beats the heart of a hick.”

Jaime had laughed then. It was a real laugh, too—he even spilled part of his drink, and she'd laughed as well, holding his wrist for a few seconds as if to steady him. So maybe there was something to this Pam Anderson idea, after all. Maybe there really was.

There was less than an hour left and she still hadn't done anything with her hair or makeup. He'd be right on time. A young guy like that with his own new magazine interviewing Eric West's wife would definitely be on time. But she knew now that she needed a more classic look with her jeans and top if she wanted Jaime to take her seriously as an actress—which was the whole point of the interview, wasn't it? He'd even agreed on using that angle on the phone, and flattered the hell out of her in the process. So maybe not show off her new breasts (Eric's best present yet!), maybe not show any cleavage at all and that way make a statement. Of course, that's what she should do, how could she not have realized it?

She picked three new pairs of jeans from her closet (she was still ruling out a dress) and two new tops—one beige, one black,
and began trying them on in front of her mirror. Sometimes everything in her life seemed like an audition. Even the first time she made love with Eric (the first few months actually) she felt she was auditioning to be his girlfriend and constantly worried if she was pleasing him enough. Of course, she did everything he wanted and acted as if she loved it all. What choice did she have? There were a million girls in Hollywood who would trade places with her, who would pay her a lot to trade places. It was a fluke, a one in a million chance for a hick like her from a little farm town in Pennsylvania to even get to be mentioned in a gossip column with Eric West, much less marry him. So all the things she did (even though some of them really hurt) were well worth it. His cheating was harder to take, of course, but it was still all worth it, she'd be a meaningless speck without him. And, besides, she'd gotten him back for his cheating more than once, and though she worried about it, it made her feel like she wasn't such a dupe after all, and that was a good kind of feeling.

She had to start her make up. The make up and hair issues had to be addressed now. After all, Jaime already knew what she looked like dressed up. Her yellow dress had been a hit at Lillian's, and he must have liked the way she looked to want to interview her that quickly and to promise her a cover too. She wondered how much money he had, then, and whether the magazine had its own money or was largely his.

It always happened when she was about to meet someone important. She'd suddenly have to go to the bathroom, which was where she was now. Was Jaime important? Her body obviously thought so even though his magazine hadn't even come out yet. She should have asked him what kind of distribution deal he
had. If it wasn't at least a million copies it wasn't worth it, that's what Eric always said.

Maybe she should have told Eric about the interview. A man was coming to his home to interview his wife. He probably should have been told. Besides, she could have used his advice in general and about her clothes in particular. But he said he had meetings all day long and a lot of things on his mind, and she also wanted the satisfaction of handling something as essentially simple as this, by herself.

She got up from the toilet. The cramps were stronger now so she swallowed more Mylanta. Then she sat down again, and in the intervals between her intermittent pain began reviewing Jaime's phone call this morning. It started with his asking very modestly if she remembered him from Lillian's the other night.

“Of course I remember youuu …” she's said, extending the “u” to a comical degree and then letting him hear her trademark giggle. “We sat next to each other at Lillian's and had that fascinating talk about babies and then about art and immortality. ‘Art is the last illusion,' you said, right?”

“Right,” he said, laughing a little himself.

“See how well I remember? I'm not as dumb as they make me look in the movies.”

“Of course not, I'm very impressed.”

“You're the publisher of a magazine, too, that's just about to debut, a film magazine.”

“You've got a fantastic memory,” he said. “That's actually one of the reasons I called you, though I didn't really expect to get you on the phone.”

“Why wouldn't you get me? I gave you my number, darling, who else would answer my phone?”

“I thought your secretary or someone like that.”

“Eric and me always travel alone when we come to New York. We like to keep it simple. That's why we never have any help staying with us in our New York apartment. That's a no-no. Otherwise they end up selling stories to the tabloids.”

“I see your point. Well, I certainly won't do that.”

“Oh no, of course not. You're going to write a novel, I remember that too. I know what a great intellectual you are.”

He seemed stunned by her compliment for a moment but managed to say thank you. She had a habit of overcomplimenting people, even by Hollywood standards, and Eric had told her to work on it, so why did she keep doing it?

“I was hoping, though I know it's a long shot, to try to schedule an interview,” he said.

“I'm sure that'd be cool,” she said, cutting him off. “But Eric's in meetings all day today, and tomorrow we're off to L.A.”

“No, no, I was calling about interviewing you.”

“Me? Really?” She really was surprised, shocked even.

“Yes, I thought I told you that at Lillian's. Of course I'd be deeply honored to interview Eric West at some point, who wouldn't, but I wanted to interview you as an example of a terrific young actress and rising star. I think your story would fascinate our readers.”

“Wow, I'm really flattered. I don't know that I have that much to say. My career's been pretty much just showing off my body so far. You could blink and miss the
acting
I've done.”

“I'm sure you have lots to say,” he'd said, polite as ever.

“Well, I do have a few free hours early this afternoon. What would we do about pictures?”

“I can send a photographer the next time you're in the City or fly one out to L.A. at your convenience.”

“OK, I'm starting to like this, Jaime.”

Then he'd suggested a number of restaurants for the interview, but she'd said she didn't want to risk dealing with the paparazzi.

“Eric pretends not to care, but it really pisses him off when these lies about us come out in the sleaze rags.”

“Of course,” he'd said. “Who wouldn't be angry?”

“And let's face it, because he's so famous and also, well, an older man, although he's the youngest man I know in energy and spirit, they pounce on me every time I'm spotted with someone around your age and write these awful stories about my cheating on Eric, which just about tears my heart in two.”

“That's awful.”

“So if it's OK with you I'd rather do it right here in my apartment, so long as you promise not to take any pictures of me I don't approve.”

“Of course not. I won't take any pictures at all during the interview. What about a tape recorder? Would you like me to tape it or not?”

“Yah, I think I'd rather you tape it. I'm not exactly the world's best speaker and sometimes I blurt out things I wish I hadn't and then Eric gets upset. So if you tape it and type it up and promise to send me a copy, I can read what I said and get a chance to edit out the stupid parts, which will probably be about half of it,” she'd said, laughing, and he laughed too.

He arrived on time, as she knew he would, only a few minutes after she was finished in the bathroom. She left the apartment door open and told him from her bedroom to come in and make himself at home, then decided to let him cool his heels while she did her final primping. Let him feel the lush, thick carpet, see the big, velvet chairs and then, of course, the paintings—the
only real tip-off that this was a multimillionaire's apartment were the paintings judiciously placed on the walls. Originals by Chagall, Modigliani, and Diego Rivera. There was even a small etching by Picasso, and one by Giacometti, too. He'd probably never seen a living room like that. Let him realize who she was for a minute or two before they began.

Five minutes later she walked into the living room wearing her skintight blue jeans and a low-cut yellow blouse that revealed a generous view of her newly revamped breasts.