Flavor of the Month (74 page)

“No,” she said, wiping her mouth, tears filling her eyes.

“Well. You weren’t supposed to,” he told her and, shrugging, zippered his fly.

So perhaps Lila would, in the end, reluctantly, coldly, come across. And maybe Michael would really enjoy that most of all. He’d promise her a part in the Ricky Dunn movie and make it clear how the deal stood.

Jahne sat in the big, overstuffed chair in her suite at the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel. She was camped there temporarily until she found a new place to live and had it vetted by La Brecque. It was very luxurious camping. The phone that rang at her elbow was one of six in the two vast rooms: there was another on the desk, one on each of the two bedside tables, and extensions beside the bathtub shower and toilet. Jahne wondered who actually talked to friends or business associates as they washed their armpits or relieved themselves. The bathroom itself was splendid, and larger than her whole New York apartment had been. It was white marble, and in addition to two sinks, the loo, and the deep, almost pool-sized tub, there was a separate steam-and-shower stall with more jets than she could count, a makeup table that looked like something out of a Jean Harlow movie, and a dressing area complete with walk-in closets, three-way mirrors, and a white chaise longue.

“The nominations are in,” Sy announced over the phone, a trace of triumph in his voice.

Jahne remembered that the Emmy nominations, formally known as the awards of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, were being announced this week. “So, how did we do?” she asked. Although by now she had little regard for Industry awards, the cast and crew of
Three for the Road
had worked so hard. It wasn’t what she had hoped it would be, but the show deserved
something
.

“You mean you haven’t heard yet? You got it.”

“
I
got it? Well, I’ll be damned.” Jahne thought back to her days off-Broadway, to
Jack and Jill
and the Obie award she had received for her performance. Her friends at St. Malachy’s had rejoiced, and she had, too. And Sam. Back then, everyone was forecasting a rosy future for her.

“But what about the show? What about the rest of the cast?” she asked again.

“Forget about the show for a minute, Jahne. Forget about the others.
You
have been nominated for an award—an
Emmy
Award. What, six months in television? Do you realize what that does for your career? With your talent
and
an Emmy nomination? Maybe even the award itself? Vaboom, kid. We’ll be flooded with offers.” Jahne winced. She had told Sy about the audition for
Birth
. And the offer. But not that she was determined to do it. He would only try to talk her out of it.

“Sy, I’m grateful for the recognition, I really am. But, you know, ‘you’re only as good as your last, et cetera.’” She laughed. “In a year or two, if I come begging you to get me a part somewhere—and I
might
be begging, you know that, too—I want you to remember this conversation. And when I say, ‘After all, I’ve had an Emmy nomination,’ I don’t want you to tell me, ‘Yeah, but what have you done lately?’ Okay, Sy?”

Now it was Sy’s turn to laugh. “You’re very cynical for such a young woman.”

“I prefer to think that I keep things in perspective.”

“Well, I hope Sharleen keeps it in perspective. She’s been nominated, too.”

“Both of us? No kidding.”

“No kidding. And Lila, too.”

“All
three
of us have been nominated?” Typical. Just in case there weren’t already enough stories about the competition between the three of them. Jesus! Hollywood! This would not lessen tensions on the set.

“Listen, Sy, did you go over the contract for
Birth of a Star?
”

“Listen, yourself: I have three better offers for you.”

“Forget it, Sy. Do you have the contract?”

“Yes.”

“Great. That’s all I care about. Because I’m going to do the film. Don’t say one more word about it. So, are you going to call Sharleen with the good news?”

“Yes.” She could hear his silent fuming.

“Great. I’ll call to congratulate her, too.” But before she could, the phone shrilled again. She lifted it to her ear, and almost dropped it when she heard Sam Shields’ voice.

“Congratulations.”

“Good news travels fast!” She laughed.

“How are you going to celebrate?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How about lunch with your director on Friday?”

“No,” she teased. “I hate eating with Marty.”

He laughed. “Your
film
director. Have you signed the contract?”

“I will by then,” she promised.

“Great! Then we have two things to celebrate! Friday at the Getty Museum? One o’clock?”

Back in New York, Sam often made dates to meet in the museum cafeterias. Inexpensive and usually beautiful, although the food was rarely artful. The more things change, the more they remain the same, she thought. “One o’clock,” she agreed, and held the phone to her ear long after he had hung up.

Sharleen hung up her phone and turned to Dean.

“What’s the matter, Sharleen? You look like something’s wrong.”

Dean was watching
The Andy Griffith Show
, the episode where Aunt Bee enters her pickles in the contest. Sharleen knew he’d seen it a thousand times, that he knew that Andy and Opie hated her pickles and had replaced them with store-bought, and that, when Aunt Bee won the contest, they’d have to tell her. Dean knew all that, too, but he was watching as if for the first time. Sharleen sighed.

She sat in the armchair across from Dean and flicked her fingers in a motion for him to switch off the VCR. The room became suddenly quiet. “No, nothing’s wrong, Dean. In fact, everything’s right. I just got an acting nomination. An Emmy nomination.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, waiting for her to continue.

“I wish Momma could know about this,” Sharleen said. “She’d be real pleased, I think.”

Dean nodded, then whistled, and Cara, Crimson, and Clover came over and sat down. “Sharleen won a prize,” he said, and made a clapping noise. The three dogs began to tap their front paws together, like applause. A new trick. Sharleen smiled. Dean always had a way to cheer her up.

“It’s not a prize yet. But Sy says this could help me get my next job.”

“Your
next
job? I thought you said we have so much money now that you’ll never have to work again?”

Sharleen thought for a moment. “Not how Mr. Ortis explains it. There’s taxes and fees and all kinds of stuff. Anyway, let’s say I
did
want another job after this, Sy says the nomination would help.”

“What’s a nomination?”

Sharleen tried to sort it out for herself while she explained it to Dean. “All the people in the television business write in to say who they think is the best actress on TV. From those, some people are picked to be nominated for the award. ‘Nominated’ means ‘considered.’ Then they take another vote for only those people, and the one that wins that vote gets the award.”

“So you got an award, Sharleen?” She could see Dean struggling to understand. How could he, when
she
didn’t understand so well?

“No, I’m one of the people that got picked for the semifinals, like…you know, like in football.”

“Does that mean that you got to go to playoffs?”

“No, honey. There’s nothing more I can do to get the award. The committee is going to vote on past performance.”

“Seems silly to judge people like they’re judging Aunt Bee’s pickles,” Dean said. “People ain’t pickles. But, hey, if there’s nothing more you can do, why do you look so worried?”

And Sharleen agreed, and didn’t know why.

“Who am I up against?” Lila snapped into the phone to Ara. When he didn’t answer right away, she asked again, “Who, Ara? Tell me.”

“Lila, that’s not really important right now, is it? After all,
you’ve
been nominated for an Emmy,” Ara said.

“It’s only a nomination, Ara.” What was it her mother used to say about nominations? They were like the last ten seconds in a game, the score tied. But only the final score mattered.

Ara didn’t try to stifle the sigh that he now released. “Sharleen Smith and Jahne Moore.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Ara. Those two bimbos? Those nobodies? They’re just supporting players. Dummies. Candy and Skinny. I’m competing with them?” Lila was screaming now.

“Don’t be what we Armenians would call an
‘ashek.’
A jackass. There is no competition, Lila,” Ara said gently. “You can see how it would be a very difficult decision for the Academy to pick one of you out of the three, considering the distribution of the three characters throughout the script.”

“I can see no such fucking thing, Ara. I’ve busted my ass to be an actress. It hasn’t been easy getting work, being the daughter of a star. I’ve had to work twice as hard as anyone else to get where I got. Those two bitches pop up out of nowhere and get made overnight. It just isn’t fair, Ara. And what about
Birth of a Star?
Still no word?”

“I hear that it’s deep in development hell, Lila. New trouble with the script. You gave a good audition. Now there is nothing more about the Emmys or
Birth
that you can do.”

Lila slammed down the phone.

She bit the skin on her knuckle. There’s got to be something I can do.
Something
. For the first time in her new house, Lila felt lonely. She had no one to tell about the nomination, no one to plot with, no one to praise her or admire her.

Lila let her gaze move beyond the glass doors of her house to the ocean beyond. What had she said the day she decided to buy this house? When she’d found it was Nadia Negron’s house. It’s going to bring me luck? Where’s my luck now, Nadia?

Nadia had won one of the first Oscars for her performance in
Birth of a Star
. Lila had read up on her since she bought this house. But there was something about the award. The other nominees died? No, there was scandal. Gigantic, humongous scandal. It destroyed the other nominees, and ensured Nadia her Oscar.

Now
Lila remembered. Nadia Negron had been behind the scandal-mongering, it had been rumored for years. And Lila believed it. Nadia Negron had been powerful. She didn’t just sit and wait. Maybe Nadia could help me. Maybe she would help me.

“I’m going to try to contact Nadia,” she said aloud, as she walked upstairs.

Michael McLain literally dragged his feet down the hallway of the Château Martine, doing no good to the seventeen-hundred-dollar Tony Lama hand-painted snakeskin boots he was wearing, for this preliminary meeting with Sy, Lila Kyle, and that little prick Ricky Dunn. No other agent, no lawyers. A family get-together.

He was late, and he didn’t give a fuck. After all,
he
was the one who had already paid his dues. When this little twenty-three-year-old dickhead manages to stay on top of the slippery pile called Hollywood for twenty years, then he’ll deserve respect. Michael had decided to do the fuckin’ movie—after all, he hadn’t stayed on top this long by being stupid—but the kid would simply have to give him top billing. Like Newman and Cruise in
The Color of Money
. It was a sign of deference, of respect, and it had done good box office. So he’d do the movie, and Sy would get him top billing. And if playing the mentor instead of the hero made him look old, he’d fix that by having the character he played get the girl. Lila Kyle was wild for the part.

Sy had seen the video of Jahne and the faked Lila photo, and he had been forced to set this meeting up to go over the deal, to allow them all to meet face to face. But already Michael was annoyed. Why the fuck was it held here, instead of Sy’s office, or the production company? The Martine gave him the willies. It was the West Coast equivalent of New York’s Hotel Chelsea: where the hip went to die of overdoses. It was expensive, exclusive, and seedy, and it made Michael very uncomfortable.

He had driven over himself, left the Testarossa with the valet, who looked as if he would immediately fence it off to some East Hollywood chop shop, and now Michael stood outside of Room 711. A lucky number. He straightened himself to his full height, sucked in his gut, and knocked.

Sy opened the door. Weird, but if Sy wanted to play hostess that was up to him.

“Michael!” Sy said, as if he were surprised and deeply pleased to see him. Michael didn’t answer, just kept his gut in and entered.

The room was as shabby as the valet and hallway had been. Limp blue drapes hung a good four inches above the floor; the carpet was blue tweed, one of those speckled jobs erroneously touted not to show the dirt. It did, along with the cigarette burns on the side of the bureaus, the cheap glass ashtrays on the coffee table, and the sofa that looked as if it were covered in Herculon. Other than the sordid furnishings, the room was empty.

“Where the fuck is the little son-of-a-bitch? And where’s Lila?”

“Michael, he called. There was a problem. Something about some looping that wasn’t on target. He’ll be here any minute.”

“He’s late?
He’s
late for the meeting
he
set up?” Michael knew he himself was late by almost twenty minutes. That meant the little fuck was going to be half an hour late, or more. “Did he think I was sitting here with my dick in my hands, just praying for his arrival? Did you tell him
I
was late, too?”

Just then Lila Kyle walked out of the bathroom. Oh, great, now she was witness to his humiliation. Fuck! Michael grimaced. Ortis sighed. “Michael, please. This is no way to begin a picture. He’ll be here any minute. Just…”

Lila smiled at him. “Don’t you want to talk to
me?
” she asked.

“Not unless you’re looking for top billing,” Michael cooed.

“Top billing? I’d be happy to be in
anything
with you,” she said. Christ, he didn’t know when she was worse: when she was doing her fake worship act or exposing her real piranha personality. Well, he wasn’t there to get her a part
or
make more points for Sy Ortis.

“Michael, this meeting is very important,” Sy said. “Lila wants to meet Ricky, he wants to meet you, and all of us need to talk about a few things. We still have to straighten out the billing…”