Flavor of the Month (34 page)

And she’d easily gotten the part. It was the lead in a revamped version of
A Doll’s House
. The characters had been updated to a successful Hollywood producer and his dependent starlet wife. Oddly enough, Ibsen’s old themes of male domination and female dependency still worked. Sad, really.

The irony was that she, a woman who had never had the luxury of depending on a man, would get to play Nora. Well, it was a part to kill for, and she was delighted that she had snagged it, even if it only paid $175 bucks a week. Less than New York unemployment. But if she was lucky, it could bring her to the attention of people who mattered.

Jahne stood, throwing off the crumpled sheet. She slept in a long, shapeless white cotton nightgown, and had a cheap white terry robe that she used as a bath towel as well. The one thing she was having trouble adjusting to was the scars, and she intended neither to expose them nor to look at them much herself. In the shower, she simply faced into the spray, and the rest of the time she kept clothed. She continued putting on the vitamin E and was grateful that she’d never developed keloids. But even now the scars itched. Sometimes she felt they must glow in the dark. She always kept the lights off with Pete, and if she ever wanted to sleep with another man, she’d figure out how to cross that bridge when she got to it But it didn’t seem likely. Because right now she was, despite her thirty-six years, behaving like an adolescent. She liked the game far more than the scoring.

Hector, the artistic director of the playhouse, was gay, thank God, and not the slightest bit interested in her except professionally. But he appreciated her, and not just her looks. She’d been cast after her first audition. Hector was
not
a genius, and listening to his lame stage direction was painful—it made her miss Sam.

Well, to be honest, everything made her miss Sam. That was the only other fly in the ointment: the memories, the things they had done together, came back, replaying like an endless loop in her head. Weirder than that, now that she was here in California, where he was, new things made her miss him. She shook her head. Here is an orange tree. I’m standing under it, and I could pick one right off that branch. Maybe, right now, Sam is standing under an orange tree. Those were the stupid kind of thoughts that ran through her mind continually. She had to laugh at herself. Yeah, and I hope an orange the weight of a cannonball falls on his head. But she did miss him, and the idea that they’d never stand under an orange tree together brought tears to her eyes.

“God, I am an incorrigible masochist,” she said aloud.

The thought that plagued her most was…Well, she hated to think about it. If she’d looked then as she did now, would Sam have left her? If he wouldn’t have, does that mean that he’d still love her? Or, since he left her, did it mean that he never had? What would he think of her looks now? Was her beauty enough to keep him from wandering, to keep him forever satisfied? Would he even know her?

Oh, it was ridiculous to think about! Yet the thought kept coming back. And behind it another, even more insidious one: When people liked her now, when Pete pulled her to him, when other men smiled, and women submitted to her beauty, did they want Mary Jane Moran or Jahne Moore? If the world hadn’t liked her before, should she like it back when it responded now? She groaned, and pushed the thoughts from her mind. She’d gotten exactly what she wanted, but she still knew how to make herself miserable!

She finished dressing and, now clothed, looked in the mirror. Her new looks stared back at her—long, lithe, perfect. She was smart enough to know that she didn’t know how to dress—after all, when had she the time, money, or motivation to learn?—so she kept it simple. Her wardrobe consisted of three pairs of long-legged, slim-cut Levi’s and a few white shirts, a couple of turtle-necks, and a great hot-pink cashmere sweater. It and her boots had been her only splurge. She’d bought the softest, most supple pair of brown, tall leather boots, with three-inch heels. When she slipped those on, she got the perfect height and tilt. She buckled a brown leather belt around her waist and was ready for makeup. Not that she really needed it. But she wore it, always, because looking her best was part of her role, and she was always onstage. She was playing the part of a beautiful young girl, and she never stepped out of character.

Only at night, after she made love with Pete and lay quietly in his arms, could she, just before she fell asleep, relax. Their lovemaking was athletic. Pete lacked the subtleties of an older, more experienced lover. He rammed himself into her, and didn’t really seem aware of what a woman needed. But he made up for his gaucherie with his enthusiasm. After the first orgasm, he’d get hard again quickly, and then he gave her all the time she needed. She rode him to exhaustion. There, in the dark, with his delicious young body beside hers, she could wonder at who she was, and where unhappy Mary Jane had gone.

In the daylight, she had no time for that. She’d developed a simple, easy-to-apply face, as well as theater makeup and some more extreme maquillage for evenings or events. Not that she had anyplace to go. She found the crowd at the playhouse both dull and clannish. But, after all, they were all fifteen years younger than she; though she looked the same, she was not what she appeared. She watched the pretty girls date the wrong guys, do the wrong things, set the wrong goals.

She knew now what she’d needed to know then. She could see through the bullshit the way a thirty-six-year-old in sheep’s clothing could.

Sam looked up from the storyboards that were splayed across his desk. It was dark. The L.A. twilight had quickly turned an inky, smoggy mauve. His light was probably the only one on in the long, low building.

Seymore LeVine, one of April’s flunkies, had given him this production office and Rita, his secretary. While he worked on the picture, this little bit of Hollywood real estate was his. He looked around at the low ceiling, the whitewashed wooden walls. Once this had been the Writers’ Wing at International Studios, back in the days when dozens of writers had been employed turning out three films a week. Who had worked here? Benchley? Agee? Had Bill Faulkner dropped by for a sip of bourbon and branch? What had been written in this room, and, more to the point, would
he
ever write anything here?

Sam shook his head, trying to concentrate. Only halfway into production of his first film, and he was already worried about his next job. That way madness lies, Sam told himself, but he couldn’t help but worry. He had already pitched two of his plays to April, and she had passed on both of them. Sam could see what happened to a director and a producer here at the studio after their job was through: they gave up their offices, the parking spots with their names stenciled on, they packed up their tents and moved on.

But Sam didn’t want to move on. In the almost two years he had spent getting
Jack and Jill
through development hell and into production, he had come to want to be a part of this town. And what was there to go back to? The thought of New York, its coldness, its grayness, chilled him. The pretensions of the troupe, his little off-off-Broadway productions. Could he settle down to that very small life, writing alone in a dark room for hours every day? What would he write about? The story of a neophyte in Hollywood, in over his head?

Sam Shields knew he was in over his head. Even though he finally had the screenplay for
Jack and Jill
under control, and even though he was doing the best he could to learn the technical part of movie producing, he was. And it wasn’t just the film. Women were driving him crazy, and he wasn’t coping well.

The fact was that he was more than scared. He was terrified. Since they’d begun principal photography on
Jack and Jill
, there hadn’t been a night when he could sleep without waking up at three-fifteen, in the morning darkness, fear gripping his belly. He had been running over budget and behind schedule almost since the first week, and April had twice come down on him fast and hard.

Her first angry phone call had shocked him. After all, they had been, briefly, lovers. But then he had started sleeping with Crystal, during the first week of rehearsals. When April called, he expected a scene over that, not the budget.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” April’s voice had asked coldly. Sam was ready with his excuses: he and April had no commitment; this new affair had simply happened, a chemical thing between him and the actress; he was wrong and he would apologize. April Irons was not a woman to offend. In fact, Sam could admit to himself that he was afraid of her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, April. This thing just happened.” It sounded lame, even to him. He’d have to try harder, to…

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she demanded.

Was it possible she didn’t
know
about the affair? Sam was not that naïve. Everyone on the set except Crystal’s husband knew, and April never missed a trick. And if she had missed this, Seymore LeVine would be sure to fill her in. Seymore was officially associate producer, but “corporate snitch” would be a more accurate title. His father was chairman of International, and April’s boss. April
had
to know about him and Crystal. Wasn’t that what this call was about? But perhaps she wanted a confession. Some women were like that.

“Crystal and I,…well, it just happened.”

“Oh, Christ! That! She sleeps with all her directors. Who cares? But why the fuck are you two days behind schedule already? Do you know what that costs? We haven’t even begun location shooting yet. Seymore figures we’ll be delayed at least a week.”

Sam tried to recover and switch gears. “Take it out of my salary,” he told her.

“Nice offer, but it’s already twice your entire salary,” she retorted. “Don’t you know what a day of studio time costs? Those union cocksuckers will eat us alive if you let them.
No
overtime. I mean it. What the fuck do we need rehearsal time for anyway? This isn’t Broadway.”

“Mike Nichols always rehearses on the set. As an actress, Crystal needs to…”

“You, Sam, are no Mike Nichols. And Crystal is no actress. Just get the shit on film, okay?”

She’d hung up.

Since then, terrified, he had barely managed to keep to the budget. He might or might not be a Mike Nichols, but April was right that Crystal Plenum was no actress. She was a star, which, Sam was only now beginning to appreciate, was something different. She had fought him every step of the way as he tried to coax an actual performance out of her. She wanted to play the part of Jill in full Hollywood makeup, with perfectly manicured hands and good clothes and soft focus. She’d begged for the role, she’d fought for it, but then she wanted to change it, make it over into another Crystal Plenum vehicle.

But one that would surely fail, and take him down with her. It was only now, when he had something to lose, that a paralyzing fear of failing, of fucking it up, came over him. Crystal and all the rest of it seemed overpowering. It was only in bed that he could master her, calm her, coax her into giving it up, letting it go. He’d hold her, caress her, and tell her over and over and over again how she could do it, how great she could be. Night after night, in bed, he would convince her to be the role, to play the loser, to go it straight, that she had the talent, that she could act.

And then, each morning on the set, her hairdresser. her makeup man, and her costumer would begin again. Decked out for the part, she’d refuse to be filmed. “Jesus, I look like shit,” she’d say, staring, almost mesmerized, into the mirror.

“You look exactly like Jill,” Sam told her.

“I look
old
,” she retorted.

“You look perfect. You’re tired. You’re lonely. Your life isn’t working. That’s how you look.”

“We should use a wig.” She tugged at the dark roots of her blond hair. “It’s so thin. I knew I shouldn’t do this with my hair.”

“Crystal, no wig. This is really perfect.” He put a hand on either side of her face and forced her to look away from the mirror, away from herself, and at him. “This is really perfect. You’re going to wow them all. You’re going to give the performance of a lifetime.”

“Really?” Sometimes, when she looked at him this way, asking a question, he could see the child there, the little girl who had always been so pretty, who counted on being pretty. Who felt she had nothing but pretty to give.

“Really,” he told her, and tried not to think of the half-hour that had been wasted.

When Crystal had seen the first dailies, there had been a crisis that lasted two days: she had cried so hard that night and the next day that they couldn’t shoot anything then, or even the following day, until the swelling around her eyes and nose had gone down. “God, I look so old. I look so awful,” she kept moaning.

“You look like a normal middle-aged woman,” Sam had told her, but she had cried harder.

“I’m
not
middle-aged!” she almost screamed.

“No, but Jill
is
,” he reminded her.

“I can’t do this!” she had cried. “This shit works for Farrah Fawcett, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my career playing beaten women in made-for-TV movies. Oh, God!”

So he calmed her, he loved her, and then he made a new rule: no one saw the dailies except Seymore, Sam, and the cinematographer. He closed the set. He watched the budget. And he made love to Crystal twice a night. It was a vigorous schedule, but he managed to do it.

And, despite all the pressure, all the problems, all his fear, he felt that, at last, he was in the center of things. That here, now, he was converting his vision into something that millions, not just hundreds, would share. And that this vision would last as long as celluloid. In a small way, he was becoming immortal.

New York seemed long ago and far away. He still became uncomfortable when he thought of his promise to return. But the idea of a ragtag bunch of actors in a basement no longer had any appeal. He’d put off returning calls to Chuck until the calls had almost stopped coming. They would feel betrayed, they would say he had sold out, but they were losers who had never gotten a shot at this. If they had, they, too, would grab it.