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. . .
Two hours later, at about midnight, several long black limousines were snaking their way up Sunset Plaza Drive to Tanner Cole’s mansion. In the back of one of these limousines sat the unlikely trio of Janey Wilcox, Jenny Cadine, and Magwich Barone.
Magwich popped open a bottle of champagne, and removing a small glass from a row set into a polished wooden rack, he looked at Jenny Cadine and asked,
“Champagne, darling?”
“You know I don’t drink,” Jenny Cadine snapped, as if she couldn’t believe Magwich wasn’t acquainted with this information. She was seated next to Janey, and ever since Comstock Dibble had introduced them at the
Vanity Fair
party, she’d been fuming that this Janey Wilcox, who wasn’t even a real actress, looked better than she did—especially as Jenny had been imagining that Janey Wilcox would be short, dark, and one of those feminist types who didn’t shave her legs or armpits . . .
“Yeah, right,” Magwich said, with a sarcastic grin, handing her the glass. “And you’ve never smoked a cigarette in your life, and,” he said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if looking for the answer there, “you’re only twenty-eight years old. Or have you decided to become twenty-nine now, just to throw off suspicion?”
“Magwich!” Jenny admonished him, taking the glass. She turned to Janey with a cozy familiarity and said, “Do you see what we have to put up with in Hollywood?”
“Oh yes,” Janey said, with a calculating smile. “It must be awful for you.” She sat back against the seat and looked from Jenny Cadine to Magwich Barone. A part of her could barely believe she was in a limousine going to an Academy Awards after-party with one of Hollywood’s biggest agents and movie stars, but given the surreal nature of the entire evening, she wasn’t really surprised. It was one of those rare nights when it seemed that anything (and everything) could happen, and she had decided to go with it, to see how far the ride would take her. Like so many of the people she’d met, Magwich and Jenny were as different from New Yorkers as aliens, but she’d been in foreign cultures before, and she was a quick study . . .
“Tell me, Janey Wilcox,” Magwich said, passing her a glass of champagne.
“Best-case scenario. If a genie jumped out of a bottle and was willing to grant you any job in Hollywood, what would it be? Think big, now. This is dream time. Wish fulfillment . . .”
Janey looked at him and nearly laughed. She had already discovered Magwich’s propensity for speaking lines that sounded like they came out of a bizarre movie script. Despite his resemblance to a stick insect, he carried himself as if he were a combination of Cary Grant and Walter Matthau, and in the middle of the party, when Comstock was introducing her to Jenny Cadine (and that, in itself, was practically worth the price of her plane ticket, seeing Jenny Cadine sputtering in confu-18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 396
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sion as she realized that Janey Wilcox was the girl at Dingo’s), Magwich Barone had suddenly materialized at her side. Raising his eyebrows at Comstock Dibble, like Comstock was a small boy about to do something naughty, he had turned to Janey, and practically making a bow, had said, “Magwich Barone, at your service.” And before Janey could speak, Magwich had taken her arm and, leading her off, said, “I’m your new agent, by the way.”
“Are you?” Janey had asked. Naturally, she had heard of the legendary Magwich Barone—a few years before, there was a big rumor that he had kept a well-known model locked in a closet for a day, letting her out only to have sex with him and to pee—and she wasn’t at all sure that a man like that should be her agent. But she could already see that Hollywood was a place where a girl needed allies, and so she hadn’t protested, especially when he’d said, “That Comstock Dibble is as wily as a coyote and more indestructible than a cockroach, and you’re not to make another move until I’ve examined your contract.” And when she told him that she didn’t, technically, have a contract, he had snapped to attention like a rottweiler on the scent of a convict . . .
And then, it had seemed perfectly natural that he should accompany her to Tanner Cole’s party, and that Jenny Cadine should come with them . . .
“Magwich,” Jenny Cadine sighed in annoyance. “Janey already has a job. She’s a feminist!”
Janey smiled at Magwich over the rim of her champagne glass, and Magwich answered her with a conspiratorial wink. Janey couldn’t understand where Jenny Cadine had come up with this idea, and though she’d declared herself a feminist enough times to the various men who had dated her, she had a feeling that in Hollywood, “feminist” was a slightly dirty word. It was enough that behind their smiles, most of Hollywood probably still thought she was some kind of prostitute; she didn’t need Jenny Cadine going around declaring her a feminist as well. Removing her compact from her bag and staring into it, she pursed her lips seductively. “Do you really want to know what my dream is?” she asked. And when Magwich nodded eagerly, she snapped the compact shut and stared at him boldly.
“I want to be just like Candi Clemens,” she declared. “I won’t be happy until I’m the head of my own movie studio . . .”
Magwich let out a low whistle. For a moment, he looked taken aback, but Janey wasn’t concerned. Looking up at him through lowered lashes, she smiled. “If you’re going to be my agent, darling, you need to understand what I’m really about,” she said. She didn’t care whether he believed her or not. After all, she’d told everyone in New York that she was going to be a producer, and even though they’d scoffed, look at where she was
now
. . .
Turning to glance out the window, she saw that the car was passing through a 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 397
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wooden gate at the top of a steep hill. On a bluff below, overlooking Los Angeles, stood a large Spanish-style house, with yellow stuccoed walls and a red-tiled roof.
The car pulled up to the entrance and stopped.
The three passengers got out. Magwich slid his hand under Janey’s arm.
“You’ve got to remember one thing, Janey,” he said smoothly. “I’m an agent. I never met an ambitious person I didn’t like.” He paused. “But for the moment, sweetheart,” he said, giving her a meaningful look, “keep those thoughts to yourself.
You’ll find in this town, there are only two ways to get ahead—people think you’re stupid, or they’re scared of you. My plan is, we let them think you’re stupid. Then we kill them.”
Janey opened her mouth to protest, but suddenly thought better of it. She was the new girl in town, and she was determined not to blow it. At the very least, she would understand the rules before she broke them . . . “Of course, darling,” she cooed.
Her acquiescence was rewarded with a squeeze from Magwich. “For tonight, sweetheart,” he said, whispering in her ear, “all I want you to do is act like a star.” Now that she could do, she thought, entering the house. Wasn’t that how she’d always thought of herself anyway, as a star?
The door was opened by a uniformed English butler, and passing through a green foyer with antlers on the walls, they entered a large living room. Along one wall, French doors opened onto a large tiled balcony; at the other end was a stone fireplace. The room was scattered with overstuffed leather couches and armchairs, but Janey hardly noticed the furnishings, because her eye was immediately drawn to Tanner Cole.
He was standing near the fireplace, resting his arm on the mantelpiece, and he had changed out of his tux into striped seersucker pants, which on anyone else would have looked stupid. On Tanner Cole, however, they created the impression of the classic American male—the guy who always wins all the prizes by birthright as opposed to effort—and somehow, compared to him every other man looked infe-rior. He had the kind of electric presence that draws every eye in the room, and all through the
Vanity Fair
party, Janey had found it impossible not to sneak looks at him. On several occasions throughout the night, she’d caught him staring at her, too, and judging from the hungry look in his eyes, she had decided that he couldn’t be gay after all.
Once again, he looked up and spotted her, his eyes widening in recognition.
But as he didn’t make a move to approach her, she merely gave him the briefest of smiles. She could see that he was a man who liked to do things his own way, and so, for the moment, she would wait. She would let him come to her, and she was quite confident he would come . . .
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And as she turned away, she nearly tripped over Craig Edgers.
He was slumped at the end of a long brown suede couch, his legs stuck out in front of him, staring morosely into a martini. Craig had been in Los Angeles for three days, but already he was beginning to understand that being a famous novelist in New York was quite a different matter from being one in LA. In New York, everyone seemed to know him—just the other day, a pretty young clerk at the bank had recognized him from the photograph on the back of his book, which was pretty amazing as that picture
was
ten years old—but in Los Angeles, he was invisible. A year ago, he wouldn’t have minded, but six months of success had taught him to expect adulation, and in Los Angeles, he’d had none. Sure, people had “heard” of his book, and they’d “heard” it was great. But so far it seemed no one had actually read it, and that morning, in a meeting with a young executive at Fox Searchlight, the kid had actually had the temerity to suggest changing the main character to a twenty-five-year-old woman . . .
And now his old pal Tanner Cole was insisting he stay up for this party. He was becoming truly middle-aged, he thought; it was after midnight and he had the distinct feeling that it was way past his bedtime. But if he went to his room, Tanner would be disappointed—and tomorrow morning he would give Craig those mournful brown eyes and Craig would feel like a loser. Tanner Cole was unlike other men, Craig thought; he had an uncanny sensitivity that at first appeared to be put on, but that, after nearly twenty years of friendship, Craig was quite sure was real. He could change the atmosphere in the room with a mere look—if Tanner was happy, everyone felt that life was wonderful as well, whereas if he was morose, he could make you think you were in hell . . .
He raised his head, wanting to catch Tanner’s eye, but instead he looked up and saw Janey Wilcox standing before him. The shock was so great, he nearly spilled his drink. It was like seeing someone who had returned from the dead, and judging from the expression on her face, she was equally surprised.
“Craig,” she gasped. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing at Tanner Cole’s party, and she immediately recalled Selden’s admonishment—that she had “ruined” Craig’s life. Would he speak to her? she wondered, and before he had a chance to snub her, she sat down.
Craig
was
angry with Janey Wilcox, but while he told himself it was only because she’d messed up with his screenplay, the truth was he was miffed because she’d suddenly dropped out of his life. Sure, she had an excuse, but he still felt that she could have called him—indeed, she
should
have called him and explained the situation herself. In the past weeks, he had grown to hate her, thinking that she had tried to use him in some way (although he wasn’t exactly sure how), and his resentment was that of a spurned lover, who can’t understand why he has suddenly been 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 399
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dropped. During January and part of February, when she’d come to his apartment in the afternoons ostensibly to discuss his screenplay, he’d begun to believe that she was falling in love with him. It never crossed his mind that the possibility was unlikely; after all, she had told him again and again what a genius he was. The two of them, he thought, were like Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe . . .
Craig wasn’t sophisticated enough to hide his feelings, and so, while he was secretly pleased that Janey had sat down next to him (if she had ignored him or passed on, his hatred would have been renewed afresh), he meant her to know that she had let him down.
“Hello, Janey,” he said stiffly, taking a sip of his cocktail and staring fiercely into the middle distance.
“Craig,” she said softly. She moved a little closer. “I’m so happy to see you.” And she was, she realized suddenly. Hollywood was wonderful, but . . . “It’s so nice to see a familiar face,” she said aloud.
“Is it?” Craig asked petulantly. “You mean to say that all these people aren’t your friends?”
As usual, Craig was no match for her. “Certainly not,” Janey exclaimed. “I don’t know
anyone
really . . . I just got here yesterday. And now I’ve come from the
Vanity Fair
party”—she couldn’t resist slipping that in—“and, of course, everyone’s really nice, but they’re not like
us,
you know?” Craig did know this all too well, and had to agree.
He took another sip of his drink. He felt himself beginning to fall under her spell again, but he didn’t want to give in so easily. She had hurt him—she deserved to be punished. He thought about getting up, but the truth was, she was really the only person he knew as well, and he
wanted
to talk to her . . .
“You
could
have called,” he said.
“I wanted to,” she cried, indignant. And lowering her eyes she said, “But I couldn’t. Selden . . .” She put her fingers to her lips, as if she were unsure if she should go on.
“Selden?” Craig asked. His tone was dismissive—in the weeks when he’d found himself smitten with Janey, he’d begun to imagine Selden as the enemy—he wasn’t good enough for Janey, he’d decided; he had no sensitivity . . .
Janey took his tone as an opening. “I know you’re one of Selden’s best friends,” she began, deliberately overstating the situation to gain Craig’s sympathy, “and I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. But for the past month, I was practically a prisoner in my own home—Selden wouldn’t let me go out . . . He wouldn’t even let me use the phone.” She paused, judging the effect of her words, and pleased by the look of outrage on Craig’s face, she went on: “I’m sure you’ve heard already, but Selden and I split up.”