She took a deep breath and stepped out.
And suddenly, starting up the red carpet under a flowered awning that led into the restaurant, she was barraged by a screaming, sweating, pulsating mass of humanity, shouting at her to look this way or that, to stop, to turn, to look over her shoulder, and elbowing one another to get a better angle, the photographers broke out from behind their barricades as several security guards rushed in to restrain them. At these kinds of events, there is always one person the photographers desperately want to photograph, because they know they can sell the picture to newspapers and magazines all over the world. That night, Julia Roberts, having won the Oscar, was number one, but Janey Wilcox was a close second. In the minds of the paparazzi, Janey Wilcox might not have been an actual movie star, but she was just as famous and more notorious, and all afternoon rumors had been flying that she had written an explosive screenplay and that Comstock Dibble was going to produce it, and that everything that had been written about her in the press was untrue.
Tanner Cole arrived at the entrance just as the commotion reached its peak. He frowned in consternation, wondering who could possibly be causing such a fuss. It was too early for Julia Roberts, and even the arrival of Pamela Anderson with Elizabeth Hurley the year before hadn’t spawned this kind of frenzy. Was there some new actress in Hollywood that he didn’t know about? As he stood there wondering, a security guard dragged the photographer from
People
magazine past him. “We love you, Janey,” the photographer, who was a blond woman in her thirties, cried out.
“Who’s that girl?” Tanner asked her.
“Tanner! Let me get a picture,” the photographer shouted.
The guard put his hand up to stop her. “I told you. You’re through for the night.” Tanner shrugged like it couldn’t be helped.
The guards broke up the crowd and Tanner went inside.
“Who’s that girl?” he asked Rupert Jackson several minutes later. The mystery girl was now in a cluster of Hollywood heavy-hitters, including the editor in chief of
Vanity Fair
magazine and the head of American Pictures. She was, Tanner thought, absolutely dazzling, with that long, straight, blond hair and those perfectly shaped breasts (obviously fake, but so what), outlined under that seventies-style halter dress. She was old enough to appear interesting and young enough to still be enticing, and Tanner Cole considered her the most beautiful woman in the room.
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But it was her eyes that were really remarkable, he thought. In that moment before, when he had handed her her purse and their eyes had met, they had glittered like sapphires under long dark lashes, but it was their expression he found most arrest-ing. Being an actor, he liked to think that he could see into the souls of his fellow human beings, and he was convinced he saw genuine sadness there . . .
“You really have been away for too long,” Rupert Jackson giggled. “That’s Janey Wilcox, the famous model-prostitute.”
“What?” Tanner asked in shock. For a second, he felt like punching Rupert. “A real prostitute?” he asked.
“You’re as dumb as a stick,” Rupert scolded. “Obviously you ate too many chicken feet from craft services while you were in China. I daresay she’s no more real prostitute than either you or I.”
“Speak for yourself, Kemosabe,” Tanner snapped. “How come no one told me about this chick before?”
“You’re disgusting,” Rupert said.
“Bring her to the after-party, will you?” Tanner asked. He wanted to make a play for the stunning Janey Wilcox, but he had no intention of doing it here, in front of this crowd. He was vigilant about maintaining his privacy.
Rupert scurried off to do Tanner’s bidding. He always did everything Tanner wanted. He was in love with him—and as a reward, Tanner occasionally allowed Rupert to give him a blow job.
Janey Wilcox stood in the middle of the small crowd, nodding.
To the casual observer, she appeared perfectly in control, with her lips relaxed into a pleasant smile and her attention focused on the head of American Pictures—
a woman in her mid-forties named Candi Clemens—who was in the middle of telling a story about her three-year-old child’s last birthday party. But inside, a dozen thoughts and emotions were tumbling through her brain like dice in a cup . . .
She’d known she would be photographed, but she hadn’t been prepared for such a frenzy, nor for the outpouring of affection. Just two weeks ago, she’d been a pariah and an object of ridicule to the photographers, but now, it seemed, everyone somehow knew that she had written a screenplay, and how satisfying it was to see that what she’d guessed would happen all along was finally coming true. She’d had to be escorted into the party by two security guards, and in the commotion she had somehow dropped her purse . . .
For a moment, it lay on the floor forgotten as she stared around the room in awe. The restaurant had been transformed into a glittering silver palace, the effect being that of having stepped through a mirror into a fantasy world on the other side. The floor was strewn with silver sequins; sprayed silver roses adorned Greek 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 392
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columns and silver cherubs decorated the ceiling and walls. And then a man materialized at her side. He picked up her bag, and as he handed it to her, she swore she heard him mutter the word “charming,” under his breath. Their eyes met and she nearly swooned when she saw who it was—Tanner Cole, the movie star.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“No problem,” he said with a cool smile. He moved away, and as she watched him walk to the bar, she decided that if this were high school, he would be the star quarterback, and that somehow, by the end of the evening, she would have him . . .
But then she saw him join Rupert Jackson at the bar. With a little smile, she was reminded of that first party at Mimi’s, and wondering if Tanner Cole was secretly gay as well, she vowed not to make the same mistake. If only Bill Westacott were there to guide her, she thought wryly. Bill! She hadn’t thought about him for months and months, and it was entirely possible that he might be in Los Angeles.
She made a mental note to track Bill down tomorrow—if she was going to stay in Los Angeles (and she was beginning to think she might), she would need allies . . .
But she didn’t have another second to think about it, because as soon as she took a step forward into the room, she was practically surrounded by a small cluster of well-wishers. Included in the group was the editor in chief of
Vanity Fair
himself, as well as Candi Clemens, the head of American Pictures. Janey didn’t know much about Hollywood (yet), but she immediately sensed that Candi Clemens was one of the most important people in the room, and that her acknowledgment was quite an honor. And as she stood listening to Candi’s description of the birthday party (it had a Japanese theme, complete with koi pond and sushi chef for the children), she was determined to make as much of the moment as possible.
“You see, Janey,” Candi was saying, in a sharp, East Coast drawl, as if she were used to people hanging on her every word, “we had fifty children at the party, but everyone in Hollywood is rice free, so the children learn to eat sashimi before they can walk . . .”
Janey nodded wisely; she had no idea there were so many children in Hollywood and imagined them running over the soundstages like little mice . . .
“And then we had a real geisha do the traditional Japanese tea,” Candi continued, with a glance at the man next to her. “But that was mostly for the husbands . . .” Janey laughed at the joke, her voice pealing like a hundred tiny bells. Candi Clemens, who was about 5'6" and no more than 105 pounds, wasn’t at all the sort of person Janey would have bothered with in New York. Her blond hair was cut into a precise bob just below her chin, and while it was apparent that she had certainly once been pretty, her looks had deteriorated into the vague attractiveness of a middle-aged woman who knows she no longer needs to use them. In New York, Janey thought, Candi would probably have been one of those faceless Park Avenue 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 393
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women who is married to a banker and is on the parents’ committee of her children’s private school. But this wasn’t New York, Janey reminded herself gleefully, and here, in Los Angeles, Candi Clemens ran a movie studio. Janey could see that people were a little bit afraid of her, and while she wasn’t exactly sure what Candi
did
at American Pictures, she was already beginning to think the tag line “head of a movie studio” was the most glamorous-sounding job in the world . . .
And as Janey nodded, Candi launched into one of her favorite topics—the dangers of rice. Hollywood was an almost impossible place for women (although everyone seemed to think it was getting better), and one of her offensive maneuvers was to give business associates the deliberate impression that while she was capable of being an unadulterated bitch, she was, first and foremost, a mother concerned about her children. She was, indeed, concerned (“overly” would not be too strong a word to describe any aspect of Candi’s personality), but she was equally interested in trying to wrest this Janey Wilcox project from Comstock Dibble. That morning, her assistant had run into her office with the news that Comstock had a screenplay by the Model Prostitute and was going to produce it, and Candi had immediately decided that she wanted it as well.
And so, as Candi went on about the horrors of refined carbohydrates on developing nervous systems, she was secretly assessing Janey Wilcox’s character. She’d originally heard that Janey Wilcox was slated to be the Bimbo of the Year at the party, and under normal circumstances, she would never have bothered with her. To Candi, bimbos were like plankton—a necessary part of the food chain and little else—but Janey Wilcox wasn’t your average beautiful airhead. For weeks, she’d been following Janey’s story, wondering what kind of woman could survive such a public assault on her reputation. And now, glancing surreptitiously into Janey’s eyes, Candi thought she saw the answer. Unlike Tanner Cole, who had perceived the sad eyes of a weary angel, Candi Clemens looked at Janey Wilcox and saw the perpetually turning wheels of ambition.
And she liked what she saw.
She would get Janey’s project, she decided. But bringing the topic up now, at the
Vanity Fair
party, would be too easy, and besides, that wasn’t the way one did business in Hollywood. The negotiations would have to be conducted with a sort of underhanded secrecy that could rival the CIA’s, and so instead, Candi asked Janey if she had children.
Janey, of course, knew nothing of these maneuvers, but sensing that there was an opportunity afoot, she sighed regretfully. “I wish I did,” she said mournfully. “I planned to, but then my husband . . .”
“Ah yes,” Candi said sympathetically, remembering that Janey was married to Selden Rose. Sheila Rose, Selden’s ex-wife, was one of her best friends, and sud-18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 394
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denly, the fact of Janey’s screenplay and the interconnections involved were simply too irresistible.
“You must come to my house for lunch on Sunday,” Candi said firmly, as if there could be no doubt as to Janey’s acceptance. “Just a little gathering—we do it every weekend. I’ll have my assistant call you tomorrow with the address.”
“I’d love to,” Janey said, her eyes narrowing in canny delight at how she’d been in Los Angeles for less than twenty-four hours, but already the head of a movie studio had invited her to lunch. And to her house, no less, which was certainly several steps up from going to a restaurant . . .
But she barely had time to gloat, because as soon as Candi turned away (to greet Robert Redford), Rupert Jackson rushed up. He’d been watching and waiting for this moment, being well-versed enough in Hollywood politics to know that interrupting Candi Clemens would constitute a faux pas that might someday lose him a part.
But Rupert Jackson wasn’t the only person who had been observing Janey. On the other side of the room, Comstock Dibble wiped the sweat from his face while pretending to be interested in the actor Russell Crowe’s story about his lousy band in Australia. But out of the corner of his eye, he’d been secretly scrutinizing the exchange between Candi Clemens and Janey Wilcox, and he wasn’t at all pleased. If Candi Clemens thought she could hone in on his new star, she was sorely mistaken.
Janey Wilcox was his discovery, and he meant to keep her for himself. He wasn’t yet sure what he intended to do with Janey (at some point, he would undoubtedly cut her out of the project), but in the meantime, he could keep her busy with enough pointless meetings to make her feel important, and if he had to put her up at a hotel, he would. And that, in itself, would be satisfying, especially as he’d be doing it with George Paxton’s money . . .
And a few feet away, a tall, thin man resembling a dried vanilla bean took a glass of champagne from a proffered tray, and lifting the glass to his bloodless lips, observed Janey’s progress as she crossed the room with Rupert Jackson. He noted that she was beautiful, but instead of seeing the shapely contour of a woman, he saw the more pleasing outline of a dollar sign. At forty-two years of age, Magwich Barone was the most powerful agent in Hollywood, as well known for his sexual escapades as for his ability to intimidate studio heads into giving his already unde-serving (in his mind) clients even more money, and Janey Wilcox, he thought, was a perfect mark. She was already a star, and if he couldn’t make money out of that, he should turn in his membership to the Agents Guild of America. He already saw her as a potential brand name . . . He might even start her off selling her own line of lingerie on QVC. But in the meantime, there was her project with Comstock Dibble, and he meant to insert himself right in the middle . . .
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