Flavor of the Month (79 page)

“Of course.” Mai had smiled. “Like you just threw on your clothes and took no trouble, when you have really vorked on yourself for hours. That is the trick. The study of naturalness. But, my dear, haven’t you already gotten this part?”

“Yes, but…”

“But maybe there is another part you are auditioning for? Is that it?”

Jahne just laughed. “What do you think? Slacks or a skirt? Slacks look more casual, but I can show more leg with a skirt.”

“Vere are you lunching?”

“Over at the Getty Museum.”

Mai made a face. “Vell, he is maybe cultured, but has bad taste in food.” She regarded Jahne for a moment. “I think maybe a low-cut tank top vith a matching long jacket. Quvilted silk for the jacket. Lined. Blue lining. Black jacket, and the blouse in the blue of the linink.”

“Really? But I’d feel too dressed up in a jacket.”

“Not if you vore it with jeans,” Mai told her. “Perfect, no?”

“Perfect, yes. But could you get it done in time?”

“Ven is this lunch?”

“Tomorrow,” Jahne admitted guiltily.

Mai had laughed. “Who am I to hold up progress? But I’ll have to leave right now to shop for fabric.”

“Yes, of course.”

Sometimes Jahne wondered if Mai tried so hard to please her because she had saved Mai’s job when Lila had gone ballistic and tried to fire her. Or because Mai needed the extra income. Or because Jahne had secured her a job on the
Birth of a Star
project. Or because Jahne was the star. Would Mai pretend to like me if she didn’t really? Jahne wondered. But Mai never seemed to show any special fondness for Sharleen, or, of course, for Lila. Yet they could be helpful to her career.

I have to believe she really does like me, and if it means another movie job for her, or some money on the side, or someone to stand up for her when Lila goes nuts or Bob is abusive, so what? Isn’t that what friends are for? Jahne asked herself. I have to be sure not to ask for too much, and not to take her for granted or underpay her.

Still, it made Jahne a little uncomfortable to think that the woman she was closest to was paid to be with her. She pushed the thought from her mind. Instead, she tried to imagine the quilted silk jacket. She’d be gorgeous in it. Sam, always sensitive to such things, would be impressed.

Everything in Los Angeles was different from New York. Even the museums, Jahne thought with a laugh.

The Getty was located just off the Pacific Coast Highway. And, believe it or not, you had to call ahead to make a reservation. Not to see the collection, but to park your car! So-o-o L.A.! She laughed to herself.

Of course, she hadn’t known that until the parking-garage attendant asked her for her reservation number. She thought he was joking. But then he explained how the museum had been built by J. Paul Getty in a residential neighborhood, and the neighbors in Brentwood, Pacific Palisades, Los Flores, and Topanga had enough muscle to ensure that no one would park on
their
streets.

Luckily, the guard recognized her and made an exception. “We always keep a few spots for celebrities, Miss Moore,” he told her confidentially. She hated to take advantage, but she was so pumped up for her lunch with Sam that she simply thanked the guard and parked.

A narrow staircase led up to a wide garden carved out of the cliff face. And there, in a perfect Hollywood style, was a
faux
Pompeian villa, complete with not only Doric but Ionic
and
Corinthian columns. Typical Hollywood: If one was good, why not have all three? Authenticity be damned. Blazing bright wall murals, complete with more columns, this time
trompe l’oeil
, lined the porches of the two colonnades which enclosed the Peristyle Garden, the center of which sported a gigantic turquoise pool. Jahne put on her sunglasses to avoid squinting at the bright reflection. She wandered down the South Porch, gliding over the inlaid-marble floor. The Tea House was in the West Garden, and before she went to it she stopped in the ladies’ to check herself out and calm herself down.

She was alone there. She smiled at her reflection. Mai’s jacket fit like a supple skin, and the blouse showed just the right amount of cleavage. She took out the pink Flanders Cosmetics lipstick that she wore and carefully reapplied it. She had spent fifty minutes on her eye makeup: carefully lining her lids with a subtle blue-black and then building layer upon layer of matching mascara. She wore matching contact lenses and only a smudge of eye shadow, buried in the crease at the outer edges of her eyes. But it did the job. When she took off her sunglasses, her eyes looked enormous. She knew she was beautiful, and, smiling at herself, she felt confident. If Sam came on to her at lunch, she could handle it. And she was certain that he would be mesmerized.

He rose as he saw her crossing the formal garden. The Tea House itself was casual. She took the chair opposite his, pleased that it was in the shade.

“Quite a venue,” she said.

“Do you know much about art?” he asked.

“Oh, I know my Jan van Huysums from my Jan Vermeers,” she said airily.

“Speaking of van Huysums, they have
two
here.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing them.” She smiled sweetly.

They ordered iced teas and salads. Sam congratulated her again on the Emmy nomination, and they talked desultorily. She had a chance to really look at him.

He hadn’t changed much. If anything, he was a little thinner. His dark hair was pulled back, but the pony tail had been trimmed to a discreet George Washington. He was tanned, though, and his brown hand, lying beside hers on the table, looked beautiful, lean and long and sensitive as ever.

He caught her eye and looked down to the table, too. But he noticed her hand, and picked it up in his own.

“You’re so cold!” he exclaimed.

“So many men have said that,” Jahne intoned, “but I thought with you, with you it would be different.”

He stared at her for a moment, recognizing the dialogue from
Jack and Jill
, and then she laughed, and then he did, too. His teeth, always good, white and strong, looked better than ever against his tan. The sinews in his throat moved as he swallowed the last of his laughter.

“I was blown away by your screen test,” he said. “It was…novel. But more. It was intelligent. And heartfelt.” She felt herself start to blush. She murmured her thanks. “I must have watched it a hundred times. And it was uncanny. You reminded me of someone. I’m not sure. It was so evocative.”

She had to change the subject. “I look forward to playing Judy. So, how’s the script coming?” she asked. She wondered again, for a moment, if Sy could be right. He might be a chauvinist pig, but he did know the business.

Sam stopped smiling, then recovered himself. “Well, it’s coming. It’s a great theme: Does a woman love a man for his success or for who he is? And can a man love himself if he fails?”

“Funny, but I always thought the movie was about envy—Judy loved James and never envied his success. But when
she
succeeds, he envies hers so much that he ceases to love her, if he ever really did.”

“Interesting view,” he said, and he looked at her, this time with a deeper, more quizzical look. “Are you an envious person?” he asked.

“No. Not really.” She was surprised by the question, and by her answer, but she was aware it was the truth. She wondered why. “Maybe it was because I had such low expectations. I never imagined myself a candidate for other people’s success.”

“Really?” he asked. “I’m the opposite. If I read about
any
director’s triumph, my first thought is why
I
didn’t do that or get that or present that.”

“It must make life very uncomfortable for you.” Jahne took a sip of her iced tea, watching him over the rim of her glass. This was going well, very well. She was succeeding in being both seductive and distant—a deadly combination. She smiled. What if he fell in love with her? What if he did, and she could spurn him? She almost giggled.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he said. “That’s the smile that played so well in your screen test.”

Jahne blinked. Was he being personal or professional?

“I was nervous,” she told him.

“Didn’t show,” he said. “April and I were both fascinated. She said…”

Jahne felt her smile slip. There it was again. Was it her imagination, that he and April had more than a working relationship? He went on talking while she wondered. Why had he invited her out? Was it a professional courtesy, a business lunch, or was it more? She tried to focus on what he was saying.

“They’re talking about this as this year’s
Pretty Woman
.”

“Well, I hope not. I mean, that was a film about a prostitute who got lucky. I hope there will be more content than that.”

Sam looked uncomfortable. “You do take yourself seriously.”

“So who are you going to cast opposite me?” she asked him.

“We were thinking of Michael Douglas, but he’s not quite old enough.”

“But he’s such a great actor! I’d love to work with him!”

“What do you think of Newman?”

“Paul Newman?”
She could hardly believe it.

“April thinks he’s maybe too old, but she thinks she can get him interested.”

“Oh, God, that would be wonderful!”

“You think you could play a convincing love scene with him?”

She laughed. “Just try me.”

“I’d like to!” he said, and smiled. Jahne felt the heat. He
was
interested in her. “I tell you the one reservation I have,” he confided. “I don’t see Judy as a beautiful woman. I felt maybe you couldn’t be convincing as a plain girl.”

She began to laugh. And, for a frightening moment, it seemed as if she might not be able to stop. “I’ll research it,” she said at last.

“Great. Glad I entertained you.” Then he looked down at his watch, which, she noticed, was a gold Rolex. “This has all been great,” he told her, “but I’ve got a script to write. Can I walk you to your car?”

She declined. She needed a few moments alone. “No, I’d like to take a look at the collection.”

“Oh, yeah. The van Huysums.” He grinned at her. “Maybe you want to drop by my office this evening. Run a few lines.” He looked at her.

“No.” She smiled. “I think there’s been enough lines thrown out already.”

He laughed, leaned over to her, and gave her hand a squeeze. “Forgive me,” he said. “I can’t help myself.” Then he picked up her hand, kissed the palm, and strode away.

It took her a moment to control her voice. “Good luck with the script,” she called.

After he’d left her, she sat for a few moments alone. The lunch had been interesting, to say the least. But was Sam simply being a professional flirt? Could she keep her cool if only this much attention from him excited her so?

She freshened her lipstick, then wandered over to the galleries. She picked up a brochure and found there were indeed two van Huysums. “What the hell,” she murmured to herself, and went in search of them.

They were magnificent: one a floral still life and the other a bounty of fruit. Both were in the jewel colors of a thousand Persian carpets. She knew it had taken years for the artist to paint each one, applying layer after layer of transparent pigment, building the depth of color and shading before her. Years and years to create beauty almost everlasting. And for close to four hundred years, art lovers had admired the flowers and fruit at their ripest moment of perfection. She stared at the visual feast, but her mind was on other things.

After the hard years in New York, after the surgery, after the fiasco with Pete and the nasty affair with Michael McLain, after taking this job more than anything to get to work with Sam, it seemed that Sam and April were still a “we.” And that Sam was as flirtatious as ever. But he probably had no interest in her, except as a co-worker. Well, she told herself, it’s just as well.

Her life was no longer empty and gray, she reminded herself. It was a colorful abundance, like the van Huysum paintings. But, like them, it was unrealistic, chaotic, and perhaps even wasteful. All that fruit, about to rot, all those out-of-season cut flowers, about to wilt. Wasn’t she like that? A perfect bloom that would go unsavored until she wilted?

Hooray for Hollywood, she murmured again, and walked down to the garage to get her car.

Nothing was easy, Sharleen told herself. She had to get up, out from their warm bed, while it was still dark, so she forced herself up and began to gather her clothes to creep into the bathroom to get ready. She was so tired, it was hard not to resent Dean, lying there asleep, looking so angelic and so at peace.

Well, I’m not at peace, and that’s for danged sure, Sharleen told herself, and patted Clover, who raised her head off the bed, but then snorted and turned over. All the dogs slept on the bed. So did the cat, and Dean. It was only she, Sharleen, who couldn’t sleep. She had too many worries—worries that started up just as she closed her eyes for sleep and then continued all night.

She was still afraid, still dreaming about her daddy’s death, and about the police comin’ to look for her and Dean. She was worried about rememberin’ her lines, about not makin’ a fool of herself or gettin’ fired. She was worried about the stupid record album, lookin’ like a fool when it came out. She was worried most, maybe, about her momma. She hadn’t yet told Dean a word about her. The funny thing was, she’d prayed and prayed to get to be with her stepmomma again, to help share the good luck and part of the burden of Dean, to be reunited, protected, comforted.

Well, be careful what you pray for, or you just might git it, she told herself again, and looked grimly into the mirror. She looked awful. The sleepless nights sure were showing in her face, and she already knew that the camera was merciless. Talking to Jahne would have been a comfort, and she was tempted to tell her everything, but she was too ashamed. Sharleen almost cried, but that would make her face worse. Instead, she filled the sink with icy water and, taking a deep breath, submerged her face in it.

It was terrible. Like dying by drowning in a freezing lake. But it would bring down the swelling under her eyes, reduce the puffiness, restore a little natural color to her paleness. She counted—fast—to fifty, then came up for air.