Flavor of the Month (47 page)

And that, my dear, was the trick. She’d gotten out of independent producing and into a studio, working with other people’s money—money she didn’t have to raise. And she had the formula. Be very smart, be brave, work your balls off, and never let the motherfuckers tell you no.

Now she looked at the journalist sitting across the coffee table from her. They came in three varieties: overly ambitious ass-kissers who wanted a job as a
quid pro quo
for good press; normally ambitious ass-kissers who simply wanted access and to get to do another story again someday; and, lastly, the bitter ass-kissers, who would grill you and misquote you just to get a byline, a few bucks, and some mindless spleen vented.

All Hollywood called her the Iron Maiden. The real joke was that half of them also called her a nympho, while the other half called her a dyke. Which doubled her chances of getting laid, but
that
was
never
a problem. Certainly not now that she had so much power.

The reporter, a rumpled-looking kid in his late twenties, shambled in and nervously took his seat. She made an attempt at a smile, asked the girl to bring them some coffee, and looked at him attentively. They began with the usual half-assed questions: was it hard to be a woman in this business, what accomplishment was she proudest of, what trends did she see? She answered, her mind going over her afternoon. She wanted to freshen up before lunch, when she was meeting Sam Shields. It looked like
Jack and Jill
would work, and she was considering signing him up for another movie.

She was also considering him for a more personal job: her consort. She was sick of the pathetic men she’d been seeing: the ones outside the Industry bored her, the ones inside took advantage. But Sam Shields had amused her. He had a detachment that attracted her, a stupid East Coast snobbery that she found naïve and old-fashioned. Plus, he was a man who actually liked women, and there were few enough heterosexual men who loved females around.

Maybe Sam did not love them exactly—what man ever
really
loves a woman?—but he liked those things about women that women like about themselves. Softness, gentleness, complimentary colors. Femininity. Femaleness. April had enjoyed their brief affair. Of course, then Sam had gone after Crystal Plenum, like…like every man had gone after Crystal. And, as usual, Crystal had reciprocated. April expected it, knew Crystal had fucked every director she’d ever worked with. And April didn’t really give a shit. Hey, whatever was good for the project.

But now the picture was over, and, as she knew so well, so was the love affair. Crystal would be reconciling with her husband/manager and then moving on to her next affair. And Sam would be ready for something new. April decided that something would be her. He looked right, he might be the new, hot
auteur
, and they would make a good team. Maybe even a marriage. Because, at forty-four, it was time.

April decided to give the kid with the pencil another three minutes. Then it was off to lunch with Sam at The Grill. “Any more questions?” she asked him brightly, pulling out her dark-red lipstick to freshen her immaculate makeup.

“Well, actually, I read recently that, before you fired your last secretary, you spent a month calling her ‘Bitch’ instead of her name. Is that true?”

April stopped, her hand with the lipstick frozen in midair. Hadn’t anyone briefed the little putz that there would be no questions of this nature?

She turned her gray eyes on him coldly. “Get this straight,” she told him. “I
never
called that cunt a bitch.” She stood up. “You can go now,” she said.

The drive to The Grill was taken up with a call to Public Relations to deal with the
L.A. Times
, so she had only a moment or two to prepare herself for Sam. He sat, waiting at the bar, his long body curved into a sulking question mark. Well, Sam was definitely the dark type. It was why she liked him. She was sick of California sunshine and businessmen.

“Postpartum blues?” she asked Sam as she approached the bar. One of the independent producers who had recently pitched her was sitting on the stool next to Sam, and he immediately vacated it for April. She took it without acknowledgment, and waited for Sam’s answer.

“Isn’t that what women get after giving birth to a baby?”

“Yeah, but directors get it, too, after they’ve given birth to their baby.” Sam didn’t answer, just stared sullenly ahead. “If I have to get my own drink, then what the fuck am I sitting here with you for?” she asked sweetly.

Sam tried to shake himself out of his blue mood. “I’m sorry, April. What would you like?”

“To drink?”

Sam looked at her. “Yes. Or whatever.”

“Get me a Stoli iced. Then get yourself a real drink instead of beer, for chrissakes, and let’s sit over there, at my table.” April walked away from the bar and Sam followed with the drinks, his now a vodka also.

“So, are you taking me to the premiere?” she asked. She tried to sound casual.

“If I have to go, there’s no one I’d rather go with than you.”

“Of course you have to go. And it’s for a good cause.”

“You mean the kids’ charity it benefits?”

She laughed. “No. I mean International’s stockholders.”

“Just tell me one thing: are you
always
thinking about the business?”

“Let me tell you a couple of things. One of them I already did: Directors get depressed when their movie is finished. It’s natural. Everyone gets depressed when the shoot’s finished. That’s why we have wrap parties, to try to soften the blow.” April took a sip of her drink. “The other thing, Mr. Broadway, is, every director fucks his star, and every star fucks her director. It’s never love, and rarely even respect. It happens because it gives a level to the communication between director and actress that they wouldn’t have without it. Sometimes it shows on the screen. It’s good for the picture.”

Sam grinned and shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, April. I appreciate your loving concern, but how come you’re so worried about me? I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself. If I’m down, I’ll get back up. And one actress doesn’t a love affair make. Don’t have any illusions, April. A good fuck is a good fuck. And when it’s over, it’s over.”

April was surprised by how much she liked this guy. This was almost fun. “So why the doom and gloom?”

Sam paused, sipped his drink, put it down on the table, and looked directly at her. “I have some decisions to make. I have to decide on my next job, whether I’m going to stay out here or go back to New York…I have a lot on my mind.”

“Well, let me give you some more to chew on. How would you like to do another movie for me?”

“You rejected my plays.”

“I didn’t say your
plays
. I said a movie.”

“What movie?”

“Forget about that, and just answer the question. How would you like to work with me again?”

Sam let a grin cross his face. “I’d rather eat broken glass,” he said, still smiling.

“I don’t know how to take that. It means yes if you like eating broken glass, and no if you don’t. So which is it?” She was smiling back at him now.

“I’ve got to give you this, April. You
do
know how to get things done. I’ve never worked with anyone who was so on top of things. Seymore was a shmuck. But getting a decision out of you is a pleasure. Watching you arrive at one is also a pleasure.”

“So I’ll take that as a yes. And I’ve made one of my famous decisions. I want to do a remake of
Birth of a Star
. I managed to snag the rights to it. I’d like you to direct it.”

Sam stopped smiling, looked away, and shook his head. “I don’t do remakes.”

“Did you ever see the original?”

“No,” he admitted, a little sheepishly.

“Good. So for you it won’t be a remake. It’ll be original. Now, will you do it?”

“You have a script?”

“You want to write it?”

“I swore I would never work on someone else’s story.”

“You changed your mind. Hey, it’s a classic. Guy on the way down falls for girl on the way up. Love affair. Disaster. But we set it all modern. Liberated. Nineties.”

“Who for the male lead?”

“Michael McLain.”

“Michael McLain? Jesus Christ, April, the guy is over the hill.”

“Exactly. It’s called typecasting, and a brilliant stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. Plus, he’s cheaper than he used to be, and reliable. I hear there’s trouble on his latest deal, a Ricky Dunn movie that might not happen. After
Akkbar
, if it falls through, he’s got to give this everything he’s got or he’s out of the arena.”

Sam thought for a moment. “Who for the female lead?”

“Suggest someone.”

“Don’t know. But if we’re getting McLain ’cause he’s really on the slide, let’s get someone really on the way up.
Cinéma vérité
.”

“Like who?”

“Maybe Phoebe Van Gelder. Or the girl who was featured in that last Redford thing.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Or how about one of the girls from the Marty DiGennaro thing? They’re getting beaucoup publicity, and I think they’re going to be hot now.”

April looked at him, nodding in thought. Wasn’t one of them the daughter of Theresa O’Donnell? She’d starred in the other
Birth of a Star
. That would be good for lots of press coverage. “I don’t know. Television isn’t the movies.”

“Only movies are the movies. But the casting would be
perfect
. They’re new, they’re fresh, and any one of them would be great juxtaposed against the old harlot Michael McLain.”

“Plus, it doesn’t hurt that they’re gorgeous and very fuckable, right? But can they act?” April laughed. “I’d rather go with a movie neophyte than a TV star.”

“But one of them might be able to make the transition easily.”

“Sure, that’s what they said about Tony Geary.”

“Who?”

“My point. The balding guy from
General Hospital
. Luke of Luke and Laura. Tried the big screen.”

“I never saw him.”

“Neither did anyone else.”

Sam sighed. “Well, there’s a lot of talk about the show and them now. Wouldn’t it be a good thing to check it out?”

“Talk is cheap, especially talk
before
the show is out. But if you’re interested, I could get an advance copy and we could screen it.”

“Come on. No one can even get in there. DiGennaro is a nut about secrecy.”

“I can get it.”

It might even be interesting, she thought. And if it pissed off Marty, it might be worth it. Yes. Yes, it certainly might be.

Sam turned his body toward April, and looked at her. “Do you know everyone and everything?” he asked.

“Everyone and everything worth knowing,” she told him, and slowly licked her blood-red lips.

Lila came back to Robbie’s house from a long day of househunting with a dreadful headache. She climbed into bed and prayed he wouldn’t bother her. She rubbed her forehead and tried to adjust the pillow so that her neck was supported. The Malibu sunlight had made her eyes water and intensified the pain at her temples. But now, at least, she knew her stay here was ending. She’d have the chance to get away from Robbie and his constant prying and badgering. She’d rent the Nadia Negron house—the home of the silent-film star who had played the lead in the very first
Birth of a Star
. It was more than a coincidence—she was destined to live there.

Because she needed a place of her own. Marty DiGennaro and
3/4
were only a stepping-stone to the larger career she wanted. It was nerve-racking not knowing if the show was any good or not. If it came out and flopped, she knew that the Puppet Mistress would do a victory dance. And that Ara would dump her. Even Robbie would be disappointed in her.

Well, if she had her own place, she could have more privacy, more control. And maybe, just maybe, she could bear to let Marty DiGennaro touch her, if that was what he wanted. But first she had to make sure he wanted her badly. Really, really badly. And she knew how to do that.

There was a knock at the door, that annoying whisper of a knock Robbie used when he wasn’t supposed to be knocking at all.

“What is it?” Lila asked, exasperated.

Robbie rolled in, the cordless phone in one hand, his face an exaggerated moue of excitement.

“It’s your director,” he whispered.

Inwardly, Lila smiled. But she only winced before Robbie. “Oh, God. Not again. Why didn’t you say I was out?”

“Because it’s Marty DiGennaro, the biggest director in Hollywood and your boss. That’s why. Can’t you make an effort, for heaven’s sake?”

Angrily, she reached out for the receiver. She wondered what pretext he would use now. A private screening? An extra run-through? Since shooting started, Lila felt that Marty had become more and more insistent on seeing her outside of work. But she had to make sure it was only her that he wanted. Not just any of the three of them.

“What is it?” she asked into the receiver.

“What’s the matter, Lila? You sound ill.”

“I have a headache.”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I’d known.”

“That’s all right. What is it?” she repeated, but she did feel a little better.

“I wanted to know if you could have dinner with me. But not if you don’t feel well.”

“Call Jahne or the dumb one. You could eat with them.”

“Oh, come on. Are you really sick? Would you like me to bring over anything? Advil or chicken soup?”

“No thanks, Marty, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. But I hope you feel better soon.”

“I doubt it,” she told him.

But by the time she’d hung up and Robbie left her, Lila found her headache had gone away.

The uncharitable in Hollywood would call Michael McLain a pimp, but they would do so quietly. He was too powerful and well connected to insult to his aging, pretty-boy face. If you asked for Laura Richie’s opinion—and why shouldn’t you?—I would agree, but I would add that he was a dual career pimp. Like Sy Ortis, Michael McLain had decided to try and keep the bodega. As a young actor, he had foreseen that the tides of stardom did not flow predictably. If he could have a fallback position, something that kept him in the public eye for those times when his current movie did not, he would be far better positioned to weather the storm
.