Flavor of the Month (53 page)

“Oh, Mai! No one would do that! Bob loves you. You’re fabulous.”

“Fabulous today, unemployed tomorrow.” Mai shrugged. She looked into the three-way mirror before them at Jahne’s reflection. “You like?” she asked.

Jahne looked. Mai
was
miraculous. She had taken apart the jeans that the costume designer had provided and restructured them completely. Before, despite all the diet and surgery, Jahne simply wasn’t as slim as the other two girls. Well, she was shorter and older. Now her stomach was flat as a pancake. “Oh, Mai. They’re fabulous. Really. How did you do it?”

“A few tricks. A Lycra panel in the front, behind the fly. And those side seams. Reinforced that vay, they von’t vrinkle to show a bulge at the saddlebags. But no sittink in these. For these, standink scenes only. And use a slant board to rest in. I am vorking on a pair for the motorcycle shots. For sittink only. They’ll have a bigger seat, but still make your legs longer, thinner-looking.”

“A sitting pair of pants and a standing one? It’s so unfair!” Jahne laughed. “Women at home don’t have you.”

“No, and they vill never understand vy their jeans don’t fit like yours.” Mai smiled. “The magic of Hollywood,” she said, and shrugged as she began to pick up the shears, snippets of cloth, and stray pins from off the floor.

“No, here. Let me do that,” Jahne said, and began to help the old woman. Mai looked at her again.

“You see? This is strange. To be pickink up. Not just for a new star. Many are polite at first. No, but for a natural beauty like you it is very odd. And you took it as a compliment before ven I said you vere pretty. Beautiful girls don’t like to be called that. Just like pretty girls don’t like to be called ‘attractive.’ It is beneath them.” She looked at Jahne appraisingly. “Maybe you vere blind as a child?” she asked. Then she laughed. “Ach, now you see how I could be fired. I think too much, too.” She looked down at her empty glass. “That vas good beer. For me, good beer is better than champagne. Vich is just as vell, since I hafn’t got a champagne purse. You vould like another glass?” she asked Jahne.

Jahne wanted to, but she couldn’t afford the calories, not with tomorrow’s shoot. “I’d better not,” she said reluctantly.

“Some vater, then?” Mai said, as if reading her mind.

“Yes. I’d like that,” Jahne said, and smiled.

“Then sit down. But first, first take off those pants.”

When Jahne got home that evening, exhausted by the ten hours of filming at the dusty San Clemente location, she was so tired she could barely lift her arms to the mailbox at the gate to her drive. There was never much waiting there anyway. No packages from home, no cards from friends. Every now and then, a letter from Dr. Moore or a drawing from Raoul. She hoped the boy liked the roller blades and paint set she’d sent. Well, that was why she stopped now, tired as she was. It might not be much, but it was all that she had for a private life.

That was by her choice, she reminded herself grimly. But she admitted to herself that she missed Neil, her New York friends, the quick meetings in Greek coffee shops, the cheap pasta dinners. Most of all, she still missed Sam. More than anything, she still missed beautiful, brilliant Sam. But she reminded herself, for the hundredth time, how badly all that had ended.

Would all this, too, end badly? she wondered. What if the series didn’t do well? What if it faded quickly once this early fanfare died down? What if it faded
slowly
, and for three seasons she was stuck in television hell—a show that ranked sixty-seven in the Nielsens and was neither popular nor canceled? Would she then be an actress who wasn’t ever going to get choice roles? A Meredith Baxter-Birney—a good actress who graduated from ingenue only to be Michael J. Fox’s mom and, when she was lucky, to have the disease of the week in a minor TV movie? An Elinor Donahue, who outgrew
Father Knows Best
to grow into a brief stint on
The Andy Griffith Show
, then played Felix’s girlfriend on
The Odd Couple
, and finally wound up as Chris Elliott’s mom on
Get a Life
. Had Elinor Donahue wanted a serious acting career? Had she had great expectations?

Sometimes, with her new face, her new body, her new life, Jahne seemed to herself invincible—all this was a bold gamble she’d taken and won. And other times—times like now—it seemed as if it might only be another false promise. Just as
Jack and Jill
and Sam had been. Her stomach tightened with fear. She was too old and too tired to try again.

God, she was morbid! It came from the unknowns in her life right now, and from being so much alone and tired. Well, she couldn’t control the unknowns, and she was too tired and frightened to make friends at the moment. Her work exhausted her, and “playing” Jahne Moore was a constant drain. She had a correspondence with her surgeon, was pleasantly friendly with the crew on the set, spoke to Mai, but other than that had to marshal her energy to manage to survive her long days.

With a sigh, she pulled out the little door of the mailbox and emptied its contents onto the seat of the newly leased racing-green Mazda Miata. It was the usual, she thought, disappointed. No letter from Dr. Moore. A couple of bills, two catalogues, and some circulars addressed to “Occupant.” But there was also a large cream-colored pasteboard envelope. And it was addressed to her, written in black ink in an Italianate hand. Postmarked L.A. If it was advertising the opening of a new boutique, it was a very expensive one, she thought.

Once through the gates and into the bungalow, she dropped her script, the catalogues, and junk mail onto a chair and opened the big envelope.

April Irons

requests

the very great pleasure

of your company

Tuesday, sunset

Drinks and dinner

Above the address, scrawled in an unfamiliar handwriting, it said, “Love to see you. Bring a friend. April.”

April? April
Irons?
The most powerful woman in Hollywood was sending
her
invitations and signing them herself?
Love
to see you? She, Jahne Moore, was invited by a complete stranger—albeit a famous one—and the stranger would “love to see her”?

Jahne shrugged. Well, this
was
Hollywood, after all, and she
was
living a fairy tale. Hadn’t she just wished she weren’t so alone? Her wish was granted: she had an invitation to the ball. But now that Cinderella knew about the party, where would she find a fairy godmother to supply the gown, the glass slippers, the carriage, and, most important, the prince?

The idea of appearing as Jahne Moore, up-and-coming, young, beautiful actress, in front of all of social Hollywood was more than daunting. She had hated the party at Ara Sagarian’s. But didn’t she need to get out, meet people, build a life? She felt herself break into a sweat. Who would talk to her? What would she talk about? Who would care? And what would she wear? She had to smile at that. Well, she could ask Mai how to dress—maybe even borrow something through Bob at Wardrobe. Or go shopping—shopping with Mai! That was it. And after all, it wouldn’t be Loehmann’s budget dresses, and she was no size sixteen anymore. It could, actually, be fun! But how to behave? And who to bring?

There was Pete, but they’d broken up, and anyway she couldn’t imagine Pete talking to April Irons. How embarrassing. They’d both look stupid. God, she’d hate that.

Well, she’d call Sy Ortis. He’d probably know what to do about “a friend.” And he’d be pleased that she had such an important event to go to. He was always pushing her to “be seen.” Hell, for all she knew, maybe he had set it up.

Jahne ran a bath, poured herself a glass of Beaujolais, and turned down the rheostat (even in the bathroom!) so the lights were low. Ah, the warm water felt delicious! She set the pasteboard invitation on the tile surround propped against a bottle of shampoo, sipped her wine, and stared at it. This was, perhaps, the
real
beginning for her.

“First of all, what do you wanna go to April Irons’ for anyway? She’s a world-class bitch.”

“I want to go. Should I go alone?”

“
Madre di Dios!
Forget it. I’ll set you up with someone
appropriate
.”

“A blind date? I hate blind dates.”

“Jahne. This is Hollywood. Only Stevie Wonder has blind dates. Do you think Michael Jackson and Madonna went to the Oscars together because they were
dating?
I’ll set you up with someone, for business, that can do your career some good. At least someone who won’t humiliate you.”

Jahne sighed. “All right,” she agreed.

Getting the dress was easy. Mai brought three things over; they picked one, and it was a knockout: a long, blue-black silk taffeta that started at her cleavage and then fell in perfect, clinging waves to the floor.

“So, it is beginning for you,” Mai said with satisfaction.

“I’m so frightened I could die,” Jahne admitted. “What if no one talks to me, or if I say something stupid or…”

“Ccht! Cht!” Mai made a clicking noise with her tongue and teeth. “Men vill
alvays
talk to you—vell, for the next ten years or so, anyvay. Und you should vorry about findink somevun who doesn’t talk stupid, not vorry about vat
you
say. You are doomed to be bored a lot more than you vill be borink. See if I am not right.”

Sy sat at his desk, his feet up on the credenza. More trouble. Jahne Moore troubled him. And Jahne Moore and April Irons were double trouble. Sy would not say he hated women: not women like his mother or his wife, who knew their place. Sy only hated
pushy
women. Like Jahne. And April herself. So, what if
he
escorted Jahne Moore to April’s dinner party? That would piss Miss Irons off. It would start any relationship between them on the wrong foot. And he could keep an eye on both of them—excellent plan. Sy smiled and put down his inhaler.

But perhaps he could go one better. He still had to get Michael McLain to agree to let Ricky’s name be billed alone over the title. The bet he had made with Michael was stupid. He’d regretted it immediately. Then Michael had informed him he’d already bedded Sharleen.
Putana
. Clients were nothing but trouble. But now maybe he could kill two birds with one rock. He would let Michael McLain take Jahne. That woman was not so easy as Sharleen. And after Michael struck out, he, Sy, could negotiate the Ricky Dunn deal.

Sy lifted up the phone and smiled.

Jahne was nervous, but, even so, she couldn’t help taking in the scene before her. “I’m here, and I’ll never forget this,” she told herself. She was on the threshold, looking in. Michael McLain stood beside her, his arm locked around hers. The house was perfect—totally elegant in its simplicity, a big English Tudor. The huge double front doors opened into a reception gallery that was big enough to hold an L.A. Rams game, Jahne thought to herself. The sunken living room was an expanse of ivory upholstery and dark wood antiques, and candles—hundreds of them—illuminated the room. Beyond it, the dining room was inviting, the table draped with gleaming ivory linen napery and tall candelabra. Ivory orchids in moss-covered pots were everywhere. Some plants were six feet high. There was enough room for a hundred people, Jahne thought. But this party was intimate, with only a dozen guests.

Two waiters, balancing silver trays that reflected the candle glow onto the cut-crystal glasses, passed among them, delivering an astonishing array of hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Jahne stepped down the three steps into the living room and was greeted by a dark, painfully thin woman in an ivory satin dress—April Irons, Jahne was sure. “Jahne, I’m so glad you could come,” April said, extending her hand. Jahne smiled, thanked her, and turned to introduce Michael McLain.

“Mike. Nice to see you. Didn’t take you long to find new talent,” April said. Michael smiled.

“If you don’t mind, we’re going to go in to dinner right away. I have a film to screen afterward that I think you’ll like. Is that okay?” April asked.

“Of course,” Michael said, and turned to Jahne. “All right?” he asked.

“Wonderful,” Jahne agreed, and the three of them crossed the polished floor to the dining room. Michael helped her into her seat. April began to make introductions. Not that the guests needed them. All were world-famous. Jahne almost had to pinch herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.

Then she saw him.

He had arrived late, took the three steps down to the living room in one bound of his long legs, and moved easily, graceful as ever, to the single empty seat.

Jahne didn’t drop her glass, or her jaw. But she stared. She stared at Sam,
her
Sam, drinking him in. And it was as if there had been no time, no pain, no operations, no new name, no new career, no triumph at the Melrose, no Marty DiGennaro, no television show. It was as if time had stood still.

And she wanted him as badly as ever.

“Remember when Pinocchio goes to Stromboli, and Stromboli convinces him to be an actor? And Pinocchio performs a little bit, and Stromboli puts him in a cage? Well, that’s a lot like what it’s like. You want to do this, and you’re completely fascinated by the dream. And you get there. And suddenly you’re in a cage.”

—
BETTE MIDLER

“There are photographers who sit in their cars outside my house all day long who frighten me.”

—
JULIA ROBERTS

Haven’t we all wondered what it would be like to take our place among the stars? Not just as an observer, the way I, Laura Richie, have, but actually as one of them. Not to be tolerated, as a reporter is, or condescended to as a fan, but to be welcomed as an equal
.

What does it feel like to sit down to dinner with a dozen of the most famous and most beautiful and most talented people in the world? What is it like to have Elizabeth Taylor—never “Liz”—call you by your first name, to have Cher ask you to pass the butter, to have Warren Beatty smile at you and ask about your work as if he’s really interested? Before, Jahne was on the fringe. Tonight she was at the epicenter
.