Flavor of the Month (78 page)

Jahne laughed at Sharleen’s observation. She was right. If the people in the Industry took it all so seriously, then why was everyone surprised that the public did? But Jahne wasn’t upset. She had lunch Friday with Sam. She had something to look forward to.

“ ’Member the impersonations Phil Straub used to do? He was so funny. He used to do Marty DiGennaro perfect—better than Marty hisself.” Sharleen laughed at the memory. “Now Phil calls me ‘Miss Smith.’ All the fun’s gone.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, anyhow, I got you, and Dean. And the dogs. So, it can’t be all that bad. ’Cept we can’t go to malls and stuff. ’Member what happened to you?”

Jahne shuddered at the memory. Sharleen seemed really sad. Was something else bothering her? “But maybe, Sharleen, we could go shopping together. We both have security staff now. But no malls,” Jahne laughed.

“Right. ’Cept we’d both have to take them FBI men with us,” Sharleen reminded her. She sighed. “I got all the trouble of bein’ a star but none of the fun.” She thought about her momma showing up, and how it didn’t seem as good as she had dreamed. How could she tell Jahne about that? She couldn’t, she realized.

For a moment, Jahne was filled with sympathy for the girl. “Why don’t we just have fun like stars tomorrow?” Jahne asked. “With bodyguards, in an expensive restaurant, after we shop in expensive stores? Like good little stars should.”

They sat down in the back, though Jahne would have preferred one of the charming window tables that looked onto Melrose. But by now, after the briefings that Gerald La Brecque had put her through, she knew that was only asking for trouble. So the two of them parked their shopping loot on the banquettes and took seats that discreetly faced away from the rest of the restaurant.

Jahne was tired, and hungry, and thirsty. She’d have a beer, despite the calories. “I’ll have a Beck’s,” she told the waiter, a gorgeous blond Adonis. His eyes registered recognition, but then he pulled down the shade of discretion necessary to be cool in L.A.

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, and turned to Sharleen. “And for you, Miss Smith?” he asked.

“I’ll have what she has,” Sharleen told him. She was thrilled with their shopping, and glowed with excitement. “Oh, Jahne, I don’t believe I ever saw such things. How did you find these places? Wasn’t that pink outfit cute? And the leather shop! I loved that purple fringed-leather bikini. And Planet Alice. Wasn’t that stuff wild? I never saw elephant bell bottoms before.”

Jahne, who remembered the seventies disco scene, and had almost been old enough to be part of it, smiled. “Yeah, it’s all updated L.A. versions of Carnaby Street, as if Carnaby Street the first time wasn’t enough. Well, they didn’t have Lycra then. It makes all the difference.”

“But you didn’t buy hardly anything.” Jahne had seen lots of things, but she felt most comfortable when Mai dressed her. In fact, she had an appointment with Mai this afternoon for a fitting.

“Well, mostly I like Donna Karan. Anyway, there’s nothing I need.”

“Jahne Moore, when did shoppin’ have to do with what you
need?
Even when I was dirt poor, I knew
that
. We just used to look over the Sears catalogue and dream on what we
wanted
.”

“Well, I don’t want much. And I feel like all this clothing and makeup is so confusing. It seems like I never have the right things. You need the right dress shoes, the right casual shoes, the right sports shoes. And they have to be the right color for the dress or the skirt or the slacks or the shorts or the gown. And then you need the right sweater or wrap or jacket. And the belt and the purse, and that’s not mentioning jewelry or makeup. Don’t wear salmon lipstick with pink earrings. I don’t know what I’d do without Mai. She’s a pro. God, it gets me confused.”

“You, too?” Sharleen sounded shocked. “But you always look so great.”

“Do I?” Jahne asked, surprised. She knew she owed it to Mai. “I just keep it real simple,” she told Sharleen.

“Well, Lila isn’t simple. She does it every day, and she does it perfectly. How do you think
she
does it?”

“Maybe it’s in her genes.”

“But she don’t hardly wear jeans.”

“No. I mean genetics. Maybe she gets it from her mother. After all, her mom was a movie star, so maybe Theresa O’Donnell taught her some tricks.”

“Did your mom teach you any?”

Jahne winced. “No. She died in a car accident when I was very young.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. My mom left home when I was nine, but I’m so happy for those years and all she taught me.” For a moment, Sharleen paused, and Jahne thought again that Sharleen was upset about something. Well, it must be hard to have a mother run out on you, Jahne thought. Maybe worse than having a mother die.

“My mom taught me a little poem. ‘I desire to leave Elmira!’” Jahne smiled at the vague memory.

“What’s Elmira?”

“A really dreary town in upstate New York. I grew up there with my grandmother.”

“Well, I guess you listened to your momma, though.” Sharleen turned and surveyed the glitzy restaurant, which was decorated as an Italian spa, complete with
trompe l’oeil
pool on the ceiling and crumbling pillars along one wall. The gaily striped chairs and awnings indoors sparkled, as did all the cerulean-blue china and glassware on the marble table. “This,” Sharleen said, “sure ain’t Elmira.” They both laughed.

When the waiter returned with their drinks, they both ordered salads. After he nodded conspiratorially and left, Sharleen turned to Jahne.

“Kin I ask you a question?”

“You surely can,” Jahne said, and Sharleen giggled.

“Do you worry about how you look? I mean, Lila is so beautiful and all, but seems as like she worries a heap about it.”

Jahne almost laughed out loud.

“Sure, I worry.”

“You do, too?”

Jahne took a deep breath. “Wait a minute? You mean
you
worry, Sharleen? But you’re gorgeous. I mean, I can understand worrying about what you wear, or makeup, or something, but you’re perfect—your skin, your hair, your eyes. Everything. Sharleen, you’re absolutely gorgeous.”

The color rose in Sharleen’s perfect face. “Oh, no. I ain’t—I mean I’m not—nowhere as pretty as you or Lila. I mean, the two of you is about as beautiful as movie stars. I just look nice.”

Jahne stared. Then a wave of a kind of sick horror hit her. Here they were, by luck, by genetics, and by surgery, maybe the three loveliest and most desirable women in the country, perhaps the world, and two of the three, at least, didn’t even believe in their own beauty. For her, of course, there was the contrived nature of her looks. But Sharleen was clearly a natural beauty and had always been, yet she, too, felt imperfect. And, in a moment of almost frightening clarity, Jahne bet that Lila, perhaps the most beautiful of all, was the most insecure. Out of nowhere, tears flooded her eyes.

“What is it?” Sharleen asked, her voice full of concern.

Jahne made a noise, nearly a groan. “Oh, it’s just so very sad. If
you
don’t think
you’re
pretty, and if
I
don’t think
I’m
pretty, how do those poor women in America watching us feel?”

“Pretty bad, I guess. If they care.”

“Oh, Sharleen, every woman cares. They make us care.”

“Jahne, do you feel bad about them makeup ads? All them tricks and mirrors and lights?”

Jahne nodded. She thought of poor Mary Jane Moran. “It doesn’t do what it promises, does it? It doesn’t make any of us beautiful, unless we already are.”

They were silent for a while. Jahne looked over at her companion. She realized how much she really liked her. She’d miss her over the hiatus. “How is the album coming?” she asked kindly.

“Well, everyone thinks I kin sing ’ceptin’ me. I guess it’s okay. At least it’s almost done, and then I’m takin’ a long rest. Me an’ Dean is going to get us a truck and go up to Yellowstone, or maybe Montana. Take the dogs, and the FBI, too, I guess. What about you?”

“I’m thinking of doing that movie.”

“
Workin
’ on your vacation?” Sharleen could hardly believe it. “Mr. Ortis wanted me to do a movie, but I said, ‘Heck no!’ Ain’t you dog tired?”

“Yes, but I really want to do this movie.”

“Boy, with a movie and a TV show, then you’ll
really
be famous.”

Jahne laughed. “I don’t think we could get more famous than this. But if the movie works, maybe I won’t come back to
Three for the Road
.”

Sharleen’s face dropped. “Not really! Oh, Jahne, you wouldn’t just leave me alone with Lila? She’d eat me up.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve got to get tougher than that. Just tell her to fuck off.”

Sharleen blushed and giggled. “Oh, I could
never
do that.”

“Sure you could. Try it now. Practice on me.”

“But it’s not religious.”

“Sharleen, where in the Bible does it say, ‘Thou shalt not use the word “fuck”’?”

Sharleen giggled again. “I don’t know. Nowheres, I guess. It’s just that nice girls didn’t…”

“Sharleen, nice girls were all
doing
it but not
saying
it. So just stop being a girl altogether. Practice now. You’re a woman. Tell Lila to fuck off.”

Sharleen looked at Jahne, thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can.”

“Try it.”

Sharleen pursed her lovely, soft pink lips. She took a deep breath through her perfect nose. “Okay.” She paused. “Eff you.”

“Oh, come on! That was pathetic. Tell the nasty piece of work to fuck off.”

“All right,” she paused. “Lila, you just…” Her voice was sweet as ever.

“Come
on
. Be angry. She’s so awful to you. And to me. And the crew. And she makes Marty be mean, too. Come
on
, Sharleen. Don’t be such a little wimp!”

“Oh, fuck off!” Sharleen burst out.

The people at the next table turned to look at them. Sharleen’s face grew rosy, and she covered her cheeks with her hands.

“Bravo!” Jahne told her. “You’ve broken the ‘eff’ barrier. Now you can live in Hollywood.”

After lunch with Sharleen, Jahne dismissed La Brecque’s guard and drove over to Mai’s apartment on Cahuenga to discuss an outfit for tomorrow. It was easy to slip in—there was no gated security, just a pleasant but shabby U-shaped two-story stucco apartment building with dark-green shutters. She knocked at Mai’s door.

Mai was wearing all white—as she almost always did. White, or the same silver-gray as her hair. Today she had on a sweatshirt made of some kind of stretch terrycloth, with a strip of it wrapping up her head in an impromptu turban. Her face lit as she greeted Jahne.

“So, you are vell? You look so.”

“Yes,” Jahne said, and realized she was. It seemed that, perhaps, at last, the loneliness was lifting. She’d enjoyed her lunch with Sharleen, and she had a feeling that she’d enjoy this time with Mai. She was making friends. And she had her lunch with Sam to look forward to.

“Sit down,” Mai said, indicating a chair. Jahne, who’d been here before, wondered at the apartment. It was only three big rooms, but all three were immaculate, and painted white from floor to ceiling. All the furniture—not that there was much—was slipcovered in white cotton. There was a lot of sunlight filtered through the green-black shutters, and, other than one large fern in a white tub, no decor at all: nothing hung on the walls, no knick-knacks on the table. But somehow, with the sunshine and shadow, with the cleanliness and the whiteness, the rooms seemed filled, not empty.

“This place is so…original, Mai. Like you.”

Mai shrugged, and took two glasses out of a cabinet. “Ven you are young, you are original. Ven old, you are only veird. But this suits me. I love color and paintings and
objects
. But now I look at them in museums. It is a relief to have so little to care for.” She poured half a beer into one glass and was about to fill the second.

“None for me,” Jahne reminded her. “I have to lose weight, not gain it.”

Mai sighed and brought out a bottle of spring water. “For tvelve years, I ate the same dinner every night: a small steak and a salad vith no dressing. Think of all those meals I missed! If you vant diet help, call Nikki Haskell. She is Liz Taylor’s guru.” She looked up at Jahne. “So, is it vorth it, being famous?”

Jahne sat on the sofa and put down the glass of water. “Not if this is all there is,” she told Mai.

“Vat more do you vant? You are famous und vill be very rich, und you are young and healthy.”

“I never wanted fame, and the money wasn’t the main thing. I wanted, I still want, to make films—to be in good films and do good work in them. To build up a body of work, something I can be proud of.”

Mai shrugged. “You may be too famous for that now,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Jahne asked. She felt a moment of panic, a flutter against her rib cage.

“A famous and beautiful voman becomes a…a special kind of force. You cannot do normal things. You do not have normal friends. You are a target of many. You are loved by strangers, but you sometimes have no friends. And often, just as you adjust to being a goddess, you are finished, or they are finished with you. Think of how many are chosen and burn bright, but only burn out: so many new girls, so many girls of the moment, so many. But think of how few
vimmen
have lasting careers. Can you name five, even? Five who have built up a body of vork?”

“Yes. Of course. Susan Sarandon.”

Mai nodded. “Who else?”

“Meryl Streep.”

“Of course. But vat has she done lately? Und who else?”

“There
are
women who have done it.”

“Yes. But, as hard as it is to become famous, it is a hundred times harder to stay so. To stay ‘hot.’ Use this time vell, Jahne. It may not last for long.”

Jahne had asked Mai for help in dressing for her lunch date with Sam. “I want to be casual, but also look really good.” She giggled. She’d finally signed the contract for
Birth
and, despite Sy Ortis, she felt as if she were five years old and on her way to a birthday party. “You understand, Mai. Understated devastation.”